Es Dhammo Sanantano #80

The principle is simple and clear. You can give only what you have. You can give food for the body. The enlightened ones can give what they have: food for the soul. What you give is almost nothing; what the enlightened give is everything. The wise will make this bargain at once. It is a very inexpensive bargain.

When people offered food to Buddha, to Mahavira, after the meal they would speak a few words of teaching. You gave a little, and in return they gave you infinitely more. What is the worth of what you gave? How much value does it have? What they gave is priceless. Those two lines could become light on someone’s dark path. Those two lines could bloom as flowers in a heart that had turned into a dry desert. Those two lines could give birth to songs where song had ceased to arise. Such small teachings have transformed people’s lives from the roots.

Moreover, the meal is symbolic. Food is proof of love. Understand this. When a child is born, he receives love and nourishment together from the mother: from the same breast he receives love, from the same breast he receives food. Therefore food and love have a deep connection, a deep association. That is why when you love someone you invite them home for a meal; when a woman loves you she becomes eager to cook for you. It is an indicator, a message, a symbol of love.

If you invite the Buddha to your home for a meal, it is a symbol of your love. You offer what you have—it is almost nothing, it has no real value; but your love has immense value. And wherever love is, reward follows. Wherever love is given, love returns a thousandfold. That is an eternal law of life. Whatever you give will come back to you a thousandfold: hurl abuse and a thousand abuses will return; give love and love will return a thousandfold. Whether or not this eternal law works elsewhere, in the company of the enlightened it certainly works. You gave food, you invited the Buddha into your home… and you will be astonished to know that even on the day when the meal he ate brought his life to an end, he did not forget to give a discourse.

His last meal was poisoned. The man who had invited him was very poor—so poor he could not even buy fresh vegetables from the market. In Bihar poor people dry wild mushrooms, then soak them and cook them as a vegetable. These mushrooms—the kukurmutta—sprout on their own, anywhere: on wood, on filth, anywhere. That is why they are called kukurmutta; they sprout where dogs urinate. The poor collect them, dry them, and manage to make meals from them through the year. Sometimes such mushrooms are poisonous if they grow in toxic soil or near some poison.

This poor man invited the Buddha. He had nothing else; he had prepared only a curry of mushrooms. Buddha tasted it—it was bitter. It was clear it was poisonous. But the man was sitting there fanning him, tears of joy flowing from his eyes; he had nothing else to offer, and to tell him, “Your food is poisoned,” would have shattered his heart. So Buddha quietly, without a word, ate the poisonous food. As soon as he ate, the poison began to spread; yet that day, that last day, he did not forget to give a discourse. And do you know what he said?

He gathered his monks and the villagers and said, “Listen: there are two supremely blessed persons in the world—the mother who feeds a Buddha for the first time, and the one who feeds a Buddha for the last time. The man sitting before you is most blessed. He has earned such merit you cannot even imagine it.”

Later, when the physician came and said it had been poisoned food and survival was unlikely, the monks learned what had happened. Ananda said to Buddha, “How could you say such a thing—that he is supremely blessed? He gave you poison! Granted it was unintentional, but the consequence of his foolishness is grave.”

Buddha said, “It is precisely for that reason that I spoke so—otherwise after I died you would have gone mad and killed him. Worship him, because the one from whom a Buddha accepts his last meal is as blessed as the one from whom he accepts his first. These two meals—the first and the last. Worship him, Ananda. He gave out of love. Poison given with love is nectar; and nectar given without love is poison. Even if death comes through love, the doors to the great Life open; and if life goes on without love, only ashes come into your hands. See his love; what happened is secondary.”

“And anyway, who has come here to live forever? One day one dies. Death was certain, it was bound to happen. This man has no fault; he is merely an instrument. And look—I am old as well,” Buddha said. “It is good that I take my leave now; to drag this body further would only become harder.”

Even on the last day, before dying, in gratitude for the food that had been given, he spoke a discourse.

The principle is simple and plain. You invite the Buddha with such love and feed him; if he pours all his love into you, there is nothing to be surprised about. And their love has only one meaning: that the sleeping be awakened, that a lamp be lit in the darkness, that where there is the stench of countless births a little fragrance of the soul may spread. That is the meaning of a discourse.

Understand also the meaning of upadesha. A discourse does not mean a command. Buddha does not say, “Do this.” He only says, “By doing this or that, this is what happened to me.” He does not say, “You too must do it; do it and you will gain merit, don’t do it and you are a sinner and will rot in hell.” Buddha gives no commandments.

In the Bible there are the Ten Commandments—ten orders. They are not discourses; they are commands. Where there is command, the shadow of politics appears. And where there is command, there is a declaration of ownership over the other: “You must do this; you have to do it; if you do it, fine—if you do not, there is danger.”

The enlightened give discourses. There is a difference between upadesha and aadesha. In aadesha there is command; in upadesha there is gentle persuasion. In upadesha there is only coaxing, only the sharing that “by doing this something happened to me; if you too wish to do it, you can—you are the master of yourself.” If you are miserable, it is because you are doing something that creates misery. Here is the key with which the door of my temple of bliss opened. If you wish to open it, at least you will not be able to say that no one ever told you the key.

And upadesha also means that which is received by sitting very close. Upadesha means to sit near, to be intimate. It means that your inner “country”—your inner space—comes into communion with the other’s. When the inner skies become so close that their boundaries fall, there is upadesha. Desa means space, place; upa means near. When the inner skies of two persons come so near that their boundaries dissolve, there is upadesha.

So a discourse is possible only for a disciple—for one who has bowed down and come so close that he no longer considers himself separate. One who has come so near that even if you do not speak he will hear; to the one who can hear your silence, upadesha can be given.

Then small things create revolution. These Buddha stories we are reading are small things—sometimes two words, sometimes four. These little sayings have given people the taste of nirvana.

You may be puzzled: “We listen, yet we do not taste nirvana; we read the Dhammapada and nothing happens to us. And yet in the Dhammapada there are stories: a dying man heard two words of the Buddha and became a sotapanna, or an anagami—he will never return to the world again. How could this happen? Just two little words!” It depends on the way of listening.

For you the Dhammapada is a book—you read it as you read other books. Its words are words to you, like any other words. But the person in whose life a revolution occurred heard it as upadesha; he sat near, nearer and nearer to the Buddha, and was dyed in his color. Then the words were only a pretext. He had opened all the doors of his heart and allowed the Buddha to enter within.

The Buddha has nothing else to give. What he has to give is love—love that connects you to the eternal; a gust of wind that sweeps away the dust of lifetimes, that makes your mirror clear—so clear that the reflection of truth begins to appear in it.

If you learn the art of being near the Master, revolution is certain.

Two things—ego and hope. One is the ego that keeps him going. Because the ego says, break if you must but do not bend; be wiped out if you must but do not stop. One is the ego that keeps him going. Whatever happens, the ego says, just keep on going. Keep fighting, keep struggling. If only defeat is written in your fate, then too, be defeated only while fighting. Do not accept defeat. Ego does not allow defeat to be accepted—and for that very reason we are utterly defeated.

The one who accepts defeat—his victory has begun. Do they not say, “To the defeated, the Name of Hari”? The one who has embraced defeat—God starts descending into his life. In the world there is no such thing as victory; there is only defeat. Victory cannot be; victory is not the nature of the world. Those small victories that you seem to see are nothing but preparations for greater defeats. They are like a gambler going to gamble—now and then he wins. That win is only a lure for a bigger loss.

I was reading about a man. He received ten thousand dollars in a bequest. He thought, “Let me play once and multiply these dollars as much as I can; then the bother of working all life will be finished.” He took his wife and went to the casino. He lost everything; only two dollars were left. He had saved even those because he would need to pay the taxi fare back to the hotel.

He came out and said to his wife, “Listen, today let’s walk. Let me stake these two as well. Otherwise one thought will keep nagging me—that who knows, if I had bet these two, perhaps I would have won!” The wife said, “You go; I’m leaving.”

The man went back in. He put two dollars on the line—and won. And he kept winning. By midnight he had a hundred thousand dollars—ten thousand was long surpassed. Then he thought, “Now let me place the last bet.” He staked that hundred thousand as well—had he won, it would have become two million—but he lost.

At midnight he walked back to the hotel, knocked on the door. The wife asked, “What happened?” He said, “Those two dollars—I lost them. Those two dollars—I lost them.” He thought there was no point in talking about the hundred thousand. “Then where were you so long?” she asked. He said, “Don’t ask! Don’t reopen that grief! Just know this much—that the two dollars, those too I lost.”

The world is like the game of gambling. Sometimes there is victory—it is not that it never happens; it happens—but every victory is employed in the service of some greater defeat. Every victory is in the service of a larger loss. Sometimes there is pleasure here—not that there is none—but every pleasure is a servant of a greater pain. Every pleasure will deliver you to a larger sorrow. Pleasure deludes. Pleasure says, “Happiness is possible; don’t be afraid, don’t run.” So hope remains: it happened today, maybe it will happen again tomorrow, the day after.

So one is hope that drives you, the other is ego that drives you.

Even the shelterless will keep walking,
but how far?
We cannot say.
How far?
We cannot say.
Again those honeyed drops will fall,
night and day will be thrilled,
again the lush lord of seasons
will fill the earth with flowers and fruits—
but you will no longer remove our sorrow,
nor make the mind-blossom thrill.
We will grow even in ruin,
but how far?
We cannot say.
Again the same scales will be arranged,
anklets will ring in raga,
again, on the awakened heart-strings,
the seven notes will ripen in song—
but you will no longer resound,
nor be adorned as verses again and again.
We will melt even into silence,
but how far?
We cannot say.
Again the same lamps will be lit,
fairs of light will be held,
again the lovely valleys
will be filled with golden rays—
but you will no longer awaken,
nor color life as light.
We will burn even as smoke,
but how far?
We cannot say.

Many times man comes very close to awakening. Someone dear to you dies. In that moment you are very close to Buddhahood. When you are in the sorrow of death, Buddhahood is very near. If you grasp the thread, a leap can happen.

But you do not grasp the thread; you falsify the sorrow. You explain yourself away, you persuade yourself. You mount again upon the dreams of fresh hopes. Sorrow shakes you, but even that shaking you absorb. You bind up consolations, you think, “Soon all will be well again; spring will return; flowers will bloom again.”

It is true too that the one who has departed will not return to you again—but life does not end with that. There are other people, other loved ones, and those who are not dear today can become dear tomorrow. “What has happened—forget it, let it go,” hope says—“leave it; much can still happen; look to the future; don’t get stuck in the past.” And ego says, “Will you accept defeat so soon? Are you so weak?”

The egoist looks upon the religious person with great pity. His pity is precisely this: “The poor fellow accepted defeat. He renounced! So he dropped the struggle. He surrendered! He laid down his arms!” The egoist cannot even conceive why anyone would surrender. The egoist says, “Keep fighting till your last breath.” He takes life to be in the fighting. Whereas in fighting there is no life—only pain. Life is in being one with this Vastness. In fighting we become divided, separate, broken. In fighting we become an island, isolated. In fighting, a tiny fragment stands against the Vast. To fight is to try to flow against the current.

Surrender means to flow with the current. “To the defeated, the Name of Hari.” You accept: “I cannot win.” Because this “I” as such can never win; this very feeling of “I” can never win. This “I” is born defeated. The “I” is untrue; how can the untrue win? The not-I wins. But not-I means accepting defeat totally. Therefore in defeat there is no defeat—there is victory; and in victory there is defeat. As long as you go on winning, you will go on losing. The day you accept defeat—what defeat then? You have already won. Here, those who bent down attained; those who stiffened were deprived.

You ask, “What keeps one going?”

One is hope: what did not happen today may happen tomorrow. Perhaps! Why not—others have had it; why should I not?

Neither has it happened to others, nor will it happen to you. To whom has it happened? Who has ever truly won in this world?

When Alexander died, he said, “Let my hands hang outside the bier.” His ministers asked, “Are you in your right mind? This has never been done. There is no such tradition that hands hang outside the bier—what does it mean? What do you want?” Alexander said, “I want people to see that I too am going empty-handed—defeated.” And only one bier ever went forth on this earth with hands hanging outside—Alexander’s. In truth, all biers should be like that, so people can see that the hands are going empty.

The interesting thing is that when a child comes, he comes with clenched fists. When you die, even what you had brought is plundered; the hands become even emptier—the hands go absolutely open. Perhaps a child even brings something—the fragrance of that other world, some joy of that world, a sense of wonder!

Have you noticed—no child is ugly. Then where do all these beautiful children disappear? Where does this beauty vanish? Later it is rare that anyone is beautiful; most become ugly. That beauty belongs to that other realm, it is the shadow of the other world. It is reflected in the child’s stainless mirror, on the pure mind; dust has not yet settled. That is why children are beautiful, saintly, endearing. Slowly the dust settles and all is lost. Slowly the dust settles, the ego stiffens. And all our institutions—from schools to universities—teach only the ego, they rouse ambition. Become something; do something and show it.

The result of this teaching to become and to do is that the whole world is caught in quarrel and struggle. Everyone is squeezing another’s throat, everyone’s hands are in someone else’s pockets, everyone is trying to snatch from one another. There can be no friendship here, because those whom you call friends are your competitors too. Friendship here is in name only; all are enemies. Who is a friend here? How can anyone be a friend here?

Buddha has said: friendship is possible only with one with whom you have no relationship of competition. Maitri is possible only with one who has dropped ambition. Therefore Buddha said that only the awakened ones can be friends. They have no ambition; nothing to take from you, nothing to give to you. No struggle with you—their struggle has ceased. They have thrown away their weapons and accepted the current. Now they do not flow toward the glacier-source; they are going toward the ocean. Wherever the current takes them, that is their destination. In such defeat alone is victory.

Why? Because such a defeated person becomes one with the Whole.

Let me put it this way: as long as you are, there is defeat. The moment you disappear and only the Divine is—then there is victory and only victory.

That notion is mistaken. It isn’t true. It looks that way, but it isn’t so. Almost all the world’s traditions of sannyas have not accorded eternal importance to mendicancy and non-householderhood. Not in the least.

If you understand the Hindu tradition in its essence, it never instructed the rishis and sages to be non-householders. And the rishis—Vashishtha, Vishwamitra, all the seers of the Upanishads—were householders. They may have lived in forests, but they had wives, children, families. The Upanishads were not written by homeless beggars. They were written by renounced men, yes—but renounced householders.

So the Hindu tradition, fundamentally, is not in favor of dropping everything and running away. The Jewish tradition too is not for running away. The Jewish rabbi, their religious teacher, lives in the family. He has a wife, children, a home.

There are two great traditions in the world—Jewish and Hindu. The very sources of both are not in favor of the non-householder sannyasin. Three great religions—Judaism, Islam, and Christianity—arise from the Jewish tradition. And three others—Hinduism, Jainism, and Buddhism—arise from the Hindu tradition. Both sources affirm the householder, not the non-householder. They affirm the grihastha. So neither Judaism nor Islam nor Christianity—Christians too do not rely on mendicancy.

Then where did non-householder renunciation arise? It came from the Jains and the Buddhists. And by following them, Shankaracharya introduced non-householder sannyas into the Hindu fold. Later, when Islam came to India and encountered such non-householder sannyasins, its influence was felt there too, and the Sufi fakir appeared.

But the majority of traditions are not in favor of non-householder renunciation. Yet the influence spread—the Jains and Buddhists did influence people. That too has a reason worth understanding.

If a Jain monk and a Hindu sage both stand before you, you’ll be impressed by the Jain. Even if you are a Hindu, you’ll be impressed by the Jain, not by the Hindu sage. Why? Because the Hindu sage seems just like you. What impresses is the opposite, what is visibly different from you. The Hindu sage has a wife, children, a home. You’ll think, what’s the difference between him and me? He looks like us. Whether enlightenment has happened to him or not, how can we know? Enlightenment is inner; externally there’s no accounting for it. But that something has happened to the Jain monk, you can calculate from the outside: he stands naked, he’s left home and possessions—something has happened to him!

And the indulgent mind is deeply impressed by renunciation. Understand this: only the indulgent are impressed by renunciation. Because what you cling to, this person has dropped—that’s where the impact lies. You are crazy after money, counting your rupees, and this man has kicked it away. You say, it’s a miracle! He is worthy of reverence. In your mind arises the wish: if only I too could gather such courage to kick it all away! Even if you cannot, at least you can touch his feet—at least you can say, you have done what we dream of.

You are infatuated with women; lust surrounds you. And you see someone who has left the whole web, standing apart under a vow of celibacy—you are impressed. Because every lustful person sometime or other feels that lust is a bondage.

That is why no husband is happy with his wife, no wife with her husband. They cannot be. We are never happy with that upon which we have to depend; our slavery is hidden there. The husband knows his bondage in the wife: without her I cannot manage. She goes to her mother’s for four days and I’m in a fix. What will happen to me without her? Naturally resentment arises, because I am in this bondage.

Hence your many scriptures contain crude and indecent statements about women. Those who wrote them must have been filled with excessive attachment to women. It’s simple arithmetic. They had a powerful attraction, hence the anger.

So your sadhus and sannyasins are strongly against two things: woman and gold. Because these two pull. Either wealth, or beauty. So they keep warning: beware of woman and gold! They are afraid—and you are afraid too. It appeals to you: yes, these are the two sources of trouble. Money, wife, and land—these three bring the disturbances.

Then one day, someone just like you suddenly leaves everything. You are shocked, astonished. You say, if you are a man, be like this! In your heart the longing remains: someday I too may do this; even if I can’t now, at least I can worship this man’s feet.

So when Jain and Buddhist sannyasins arose, the Hindu sannyasin paled at once. He lost prestige. People began to say, what kind of sannyasin are you? In what sense are you a renunciate?

You will be surprised: the Hindu sage, the Upanishadic rishi, was a householder just like you. Something happened within, but that was inner. And the inner can only be recognized by those in whom it has happened. Outwardly he was like you. Sometimes he was even better off than you, because kings and emperors came to his feet, sending wealth and grain; he was in a better condition than you. Sons of the great families came to study with him, and with them came wealth.

The gurukuls were prosperous. Wealth rained there. So you would see: these are people like us, they only talk lofty things—where is the loftiness in their lives? Their talk you may not understand, but their life you do. Even a blind man can see that.

When Buddhist and Jain mendicants stood up—bhikshus, sannyasins—non-householders who left everything, naturally they made an impact. Suppose a Hindu sage stands with a wife and children; a Shvetambara monk stands apart in white, no wife, no children, alone; and a Digambara monk stands naked, no cloth at all. Toward which of the three will your respect rise highest? Naturally toward the Digambara. That’s why Digambaras don’t accept that there is anything significant in the Shvetambara monk—what is there? You still wear clothes! You even use woolens if it’s cold. Look at the Digambara: he doesn’t use clothes at all. Cold or heat, he remains naked. He lives naked. So the Digambara will impress you most. Second, the Shvetambara. Third, the Hindu.

Thus the prestige of the Hindu sadhu-sannyasin fell abruptly under Buddhist and Jain influence. Hindu dharma began to fade. Therefore Shankaracharya imitated. He introduced into Hinduism a new tradition of sannyas modeled exactly on Jain and Buddhist lines: a Hindu sannyasin also standing after renouncing all.

When Muslims came into contact with Hindus, Jains, and Buddhists, they too felt: this is the real sannyas; if you are a renunciate, be like this.

Understand: the indulgent mind is deeply impressed by renunciation. It is your indulgent mind that gets impressed—whether there is anything in the renunciate or not. Because merely standing naked changes nothing. And people are great lovers of struggle. It’s another form of conflict. A man stands naked in the cold—you are impressed. Why? Because he too is engaged in a kind of struggle. He defies winter. He is fighting. It’s another strategy of the ego. You struggle in the world; he struggles in sannyas. But the fight continues.

A man sits at ease, wrapped in a shawl, quietly—that won’t impress you; where is the struggle? You too can sit quietly in a shawl. A man sits peacefully under a roof—that won’t impress you. A man stands in the sun—that will. A man stands on his feet—no impression. A man stands on his head in the marketplace—a crowd gathers. Upside-down people impress greatly.

That is why the Jains and Buddhists made such an impact. I am not saying there is nothing in Jain and Buddhist sannyas; I am only explaining the reason for their influence. What happened to them is the same that happened to Hindu rishis and sages—because it has nothing to do with whether you are in the home or outside it. It can happen anywhere. God has not placed conditions: I will only happen here. If you wear clothes I will not happen; without clothes I will. If your wife is present I won’t happen; if she isn’t I will. The Divine is unconditionally available.

Therefore it happened to those in the family too—like King Janaka, an emperor. And it also happened to those who left everything and went to the forest. Because God is as much in the marketplace as in the forest. God is everywhere; there is nothing apart from him. So there are no conditions for attaining him.

This is a matter of joy: if someone finds delight in being naked, let him be naked. But don’t call nakedness renunciation—call it joy. Say: this person enjoys being naked, it makes him happy. There is a kind of joy in nakedness. Clothes are a sort of bondage, a hindrance.

If you have ever gone alone to a riverbank and undressed, with the sun warming you, the wind touching you, there arises a sense of freedom. That is why wherever culture develops, nakedness begins to increase—nudist clubs, free beaches for nude bathing. It grows, because there is a certain thrill in nakedness. You become like a small child again—when there was not even the covering of clothes, when nothing was hidden; all was open, simple, guileless.

So I do not call nakedness renunciation; I call it joy. It’s another mode of enjoyment. The more stuff you have in the house, the less your freedom—because the more possessions, the more worry. The fewer the possessions, the greater the freedom. One who has only what’s needed has greater freedom. So I don’t call it renunciation; I call it intelligence. It is wisdom. Calling it renunciation creates trouble. Calling it renunciation impresses the indulgent. I call it supreme enjoyment. It is wiser than you: why gather hassles? Why live in so many entanglements? If you can live without them, wonderful. If you cannot, then fine, too.

Therefore, I don’t say to Janaka: “Leave and go.” Nor do I say to Mahavira: “Don’t leave.” I say: it is Mahavira’s joy to leave and delight nakedly—that is his way. Let him enjoy. No one should bind him. And it is Janaka’s joy that the palace does not hinder him; then why should he go? In the palace too he attains the supreme state. Fine—let it be attained there.

People are of different types; there are no carbon copies in this world. Understand this. There is a Sufi story:

Two fakirs lived together. They had an ongoing dispute. One believed in keeping money on hand: “You must keep some money; needs arise at odd times.” Not wrong. The other said: “Keeping money is a hassle. You can’t even sleep well; you keep thinking, someone might steal it! And when you have money you fear spending it—save it, save it. All useless worry. And God provides for the birds and the plants; will he not care for us?”

The first fakir replied: “That’s lack of trust. You have no faith in God. If you trust him—he who has cared till today will care tomorrow. Look at me! You are not the only one living; I live too, without money.”

One day they returned from a journey, lost their way in a forest, and reached a riverbank. This side was dangerous; spending the night there was risky. The boatman demanded a rupee. “I am heading home; I’m tired from all day. If you want to cross now, it’s one rupee.” Otherwise he ferried people for two paise. The one who kept money said: “Well, what now? Cross or not?” The one against money only smiled; he said nothing.

They got in the boat; the man with money gave the rupee; they crossed. Then he said: “Admit today that you lost!” The other said, “No.” “This is the limit! Had I not had a rupee, we would have died here—wild animals, danger everywhere. Because I had money, we crossed.” The other said: “We did not cross because money existed; we crossed because you could give it away. Because you could let it go. Had you clung to it, we would have died on this side.” The dispute remained.

Both positions have meaning, both have depth. In America people think money brings freedom. There is truth in that. Money brings a kind of freedom. Without money there is a kind of dependence. You want to live in a big house—no money, you can’t; that’s dependence. You want to buy a big car—no money, you can’t; dependence. You want to dine in a hotel today—pockets empty, you can’t; dependence. So the American argument has substance. It’s that second fakir’s argument: keep money, it gives strength, freedom. There is a strong hold in America on this: money brings freedom.

But Mahavira and Buddha are not wrong either. They say money brings worry. And America provides ample proof. By forty, the man with money—either he has ulcers, or the brain starts breaking down, or heart attacks begin; something goes wrong. In America they even say: if you reach forty and haven’t had a heart attack, your life has gone to waste—you’re a failure. A successful man has one by forty-forty-two—he must! “Successful” means so much tension that the heart weakens. What kind of success is that!

Beggars don’t get such things—that’s true. Not at forty-two—even at eighty they don’t. They don’t know these diseases. In our country we even called tuberculosis a “royal disease.” It used to afflict only kings. Then kings disappeared—everyone became a king—so now everyone gets it.

Success brings a trouble: it brings anxiety. So there is force in Mahavira’s and Buddha’s view too. Both arguments are right.

My sense is: the two arguments apply to different people. However much wealth you give Janaka, he will not get ulcers—certain. Nor a heart attack—certain. If wealth is an obstacle for you, bring it and give it to me; you can test! But Mahavira will be troubled, Buddha will be troubled, Shankara will be troubled. If it troubles you, then drop it. If it becomes trouble, money is no longer money, it is death.

There are two kinds of people. One, for whom objects create hindrance—let them drop them. Two, for whom objects create no hindrance—who can use them simply, without obstruction—let them use them happily.

Hinduism, Judaism, Christianity, Islam are not in favor of the non-householder sannyasin; they are in favor of the householder sannyasin. Jains, Buddhists, and Hindus who follow Shankara are in favor of the non-householder sannyasin. I am in favor of both. I am against none. I hold: go whichever way feels right to you. Do what harmonizes with your being, what attunes to your inner scale.

But the question as asked is not right: “What is the reason that all the world’s sannyas-traditions have given eternal importance to mendicancy and being a non-householder?”

No. Perennially there are two ancient traditions, Jewish and Hindu. Both have given no value to the non-householder. They valued the householder sannyasin. And in my view, most people cannot be non-householders—organizationally they cannot. For if many become non-householders, the non-householder depends on the householder!

So if the number of Jains never grew much, it’s no surprise. It cannot. How can their number be large? Suppose in India twenty crores become Jain monks—what will you do? There remains only one remedy: kill the monks. As now you control birth, you would have to control monks—put nooses on their necks—hang them! Because if twenty crores out of forty crores beg, who will give alms?

It is happening. In Thailand there are forty million people; five million are Buddhist monks. One in eight. The government is making rules: monks will have to work. They must. They should. Otherwise this one person becomes too expensive. And the number increases daily.

So administratively the non-householder sannyasin is not suitable. A few becoming non-householders is fine—we can support them. Just as a few become poets—fine. A few become sannyasins—fine. They add fragrance to society. Yes, once in a while a Mahavira stands naked—perfectly okay. Society does not lose by this; its dignity increases. But if twenty crores stand naked, society itself will be lost—leave aside dignity.

Therefore the Hindu and Jewish positions are clearer, more practical: sannyas should flower within the simplicity of life. No special extra structures should be needed. Let a person, sitting at home, at shop, working, slowly become sannyast. By the time death comes, let him be in a state to drop life easily.

In the future too, the Jain and Buddhist traditions have no great future. The future will not be able to support them. The Jewish and Hindu traditions can be supported, in any circumstances.

Even so, I would say: some people will always be blissful after dropping everything; give them that opportunity too. But don’t spread the deep teaching that without dropping, no one reaches God—because that causes great mischief. Those for whom dropping brings no joy also drop out of greed for God.

Look at the statue of Mahavira: how radiant! How healthy! How serene! Now line up living Jain monks: utterly sad, tired, dull, their life-energy depleted. It does not look as if they have attained any joy, any beauty, any “ah!” They cannot attain “ah!” either. They do not eat fully...

Scientists now say: if you skip even breakfast for a day, your intellectual capacity that day drops by thirty-five percent. There is scientific proof: your intellectual capacity depends on the fullness of your nutrition. How nutritious is your food? Your brain does not run on the soul—it is part of the body. It runs only if the body’s juices flow.

So if the Jain monk’s brilliance fades, becomes weak—if he becomes talentless, a little dull—no wonder. It must be so. It’s scientific. Fasting, one meal a day—and that too not very nutritious, because nutrition frightens them. Nutritious food helps build seminal energy; the celibate fears that as semen builds, desire will rise. So he eats so that semen does not build. But is that celibacy? It is not. And when seminal energy does not build, life loses its luster. These are frightened people. Don’t call them sannyasins.

So let me be clear: if someone finds joy in dropping, and no sadness comes, fine—by all means drop. We would like some people in the world who live after dropping all. They are dear people. There should be a place for them, respect for them, care for them. But if someone drops only because he believes that without dropping God will not be found, then trouble has begun. Then he will be sad, depleted, poor in spirit. His talent will die; dust will gather on him.

Once a Jain monk was brought to me. His devotees said: “Great ascetic! You will be delighted at the very sight—his body like gold.” I said: “Bring him. I’m curious about golden bodies.” They brought him. I said: “You call this a golden body? It’s not even fit to be called brass. He is simply sick, yellowed. You are calling a yellow leaf a golden body! You are killing him—by repeating ‘golden body’ you are taking his life. When people call it golden, he strains to make it more golden. You don’t let him eat, sleep, sit, rest. All your respect is for the pain-lover.”

Remember: when you respect someone, think. Might your respect be causing something wrong in his life? If you honor someone for fasting, think: he may keep fasting to earn your respect. Then you have starved him. The responsibility is yours. You are violent. If you honor someone because he only stands...

In one village I visited there was a man called Khadeshwari Baba. He had been standing for ten years—crutches under his arms, hands tied above, legs swollen like elephant legs. Crowds thronged, offering money and flowers. He hung there like an animal in a butcher’s shop. His whole body diseased—ten years without sitting, lying, sleeping. At night he clutched a rope, disciples supporting him, he dozed somehow. His legs are so swollen he can no longer bend them, can’t sit. And people worship him.

No one in those worshipers thinks: you are all sinners. You are responsible; you have ruined this man. And of what use is this? What’s the point of being “Lord of Standing”? Did he write a song, paint a picture, carve a statue, discover a truth? What has he done? They say: he has only been standing for ten years. Let life be a little creative. What is the value of only standing? Trees stand. Mountains stand. I ask, what has he done? They say: there is nothing to be done—Maharaj just stands.

And you worship him for standing! Think a little before you confer honor. Respect can be dangerous—it feeds the ego. And when the ego is fed, a man is ready to do anything. Fill someone’s ego and he’ll agree to anything.

Therefore, I hold: some people do become blissful by leaving; they should leave and be blissful. Some truly attain the supreme grace in the forest; they should go to the forest.

But these will be a few people—ones and twos, once in a while. And it’s good that they exist. But this should not become the standard notion of sannyas. On a large scale, the many can become sannyast only when sannyas descends into the ease of life—going to the shop, doing work, raising children, caring for husband or wife—in the density of ordinary life, sannyas descends.

That is why I have given sannyas a new form—new only because the old was lost; otherwise it is very ancient. What I call a sannyasin... Hindus come to me and say: “What kind of sannyas is this?” I tell them: “You have gone mad! You have completely forgotten your rishis and sages. They were in the home. Read the Upanishadic stories.”

Janaka once organized a great debate and placed a thousand cows at the palace gate. Their horns were plated with gold and studded with jewels. He announced: whoever wins the debate shall take these thousand cows. Yajnavalkya arrived with his students from the gurukul. By noon the cows stood sweating in the sun. Yajnavalkya said to his students: “Sons, drive the cows to the ashram; I will settle the debate.” Even Janaka was a bit alarmed—such confidence! To be so sure of victory!! Someone said: “Master, at least first win the debate.” He said: “Forget it, the cows are suffering in the heat!” He had already ordered his students, and they drove the cows away. He won the debate later.

Now a man who drives away a thousand cows with horns plated in gold and set with jewels—this is a simple man. Not a renunciate in the ordinary sense. He is not a sensualist—that’s certain—but he is not a renunciate either. He is in another state: the state of witnessing. He is only a seer, a mere witness.

This appealed to Janaka, for he himself abided in witnessing.

So there are two ways: either run away, or become a witness. Either run, or wake up. My emphasis is on waking. I agree that some may keep running away; unusual flowers should keep blooming. But for the sake of a few rare flowers the whole garden cannot be ruined. Let roses bloom, fine; let marigolds bloom, fine; champa too, fine—let all kinds of flowers bloom. On this earth, all kinds of possibilities should become actual. Religion opens the doors of all kinds of possibilities. A religion that opens one door and closes all others cannot be for the good of all. It cannot benefit everyone.

First, if I am always before your eyes, it is impossible that you are not always before mine. The truth is, you can keep me always before your eyes only when I have begun to keep you always before mine. You can remember me only because I am remembering you.
But very often it will seem to you that perhaps I have forgotten you—because I have my own ways of remembering you, and they are not on the gross, outer plane. In fact, on the gross level I remind you that I remember you only as long as I see that the subtle work has not yet begun. As soon as the subtle work starts, there is no longer any need to remember on the outer level. When your meeting with me begins within, then outward meeting or not meeting becomes secondary—so it should.

So, for a thought to arise in your mind, Manik Babu, that just now you are not before my eyes, yet for the past twelve years I am continuously before yours—this is natural. But I want to say: you may remember me now and then, and you may also forget—naturally, you have a thousand things to do. I have no other work. For me there is only this: to remember those in whose lives the work through me has begun. I have no other entanglement—no shop, no marketplace, no children, no wife. All my life-energy is available to those who have agreed to walk with me on that journey into the infinite.

That is why you were surprised when I mentioned your name yesterday. But whether I take a name or not, it makes no difference to remembrance. I had to take it only because the thought had arisen in your mind that perhaps I had forgotten you. It is true I had not mentioned your name for three years. So do not take this matter—which seems small—as small. There is a great indication in it for you, and for others as well. The question itself is also important.

At times everything went well—wealth, family, health—and you believed it was by my grace. Then Sanjay Gandhi went under and your five lakhs went under with him—he dragged down others’ as well; he even dragged down his mother. Take this too as having happened by my grace. If when five lakhs come you thank me, but when five lakhs are lost you do not, then the companionship is incomplete. If you take happiness to be by my grace and do not take suffering to be so, the matter remains unfinished; it becomes dishonest.

Remember: in suffering there is a greater possibility than in happiness. Man sleeps in happiness; he wakes in suffering. When a house is built we naturally say it is our master’s grace. When the house burns down, keep the courage to say that too is our master’s grace. Kabir has said: he who lets his own house be burned can walk with us. Whoever is ready to have everything burned to ashes is fit to walk with us.

So it is just as it should be, Manik Babu! There was a fire, things were burned in a conflagration; Sanjay Gandhi went under; the five lakhs were lost; your health has suffered, the heart has grown weak—this too is fine. All this can be turned into a blessing. Just watch it with awareness; do not identify with it.

The house that burned was never truly yours. The heart that has grown weak is not your real heart. The body that is growing old is not you either. And the money that was lost—what of it was ever yours? What belongs to whom? We come with nothing and we go with nothing.

If in the midst of this we can be the witness, if we can look with wakefulness, supreme grace becomes available. And remember, the possibility of waking is greater in suffering. In happiness one goes to sleep. Who wants to wake up during a pleasant dream? When you are dreaming something delightful and someone tries to wake you, you say, “Wait, wait—let the dream be completed!” But if someone wakes you from a painful dream, you are grateful.

Keep this in mind too: we say that in suffering God is remembered. In suffering the truth of this world begins to be seen. In happiness veils fall over the eyes and the false begins to appear true. In suffering the reality is revealed. Of Buddha’s Four Noble Truths, the first—there is suffering—begins to come into experience. Buddha’s words become meaningful: there is suffering, indeed there is.

Now do not identify yourself with this suffering; do not think, “I am the suffering”—and then a fortunate happening will take place. Stand at a distance and keep watching. What is happening is the seen; I am the seer. If we stand as the witness, then nothing can disturb us. Then, even while being in the world, we remain inwardly as far away as it is possible to be: a mind unattached, unstained, unshaken. To be in the world and yet not be in the world happen together. And when both happen together, then know that something has happened; know that my sannyas has borne fruit.

So, Manik Babu, all is as it should be. Take all this as good fortune. In the midst of it all, keep watching with a quiet heart. This too will pass.

There is a Sufi story. An emperor grew old. He told his ministers, “I want a formula that will work in every situation.” The ministers pondered—“a formula that works in every situation!”—but they could not find it. They went to a fakir. The fakir wrote a formula on a slip of paper, sealed it inside a ring, brought it to the emperor and said, “Open this only when no other support remains. When you have done everything you can and nothing else is left, then open it—do not open it too soon. Its meaning will reveal itself only in the last hour of difficulty.”

The emperor wore the ring. Many times curiosity arose, but he had given his word and did not open it. About ten years later the country was attacked; the emperor was defeated and fled on his horse. In the forest the enemy pursued; they came closer and closer; his panic grew. Suddenly he remembered the ring on his hand. The moment had come—but he thought, “Not yet. I can still be saved; I can still do something.” But the moment did come. The road ended; below was a ravine. He could not turn back. The enemy was nearing; the hoofbeats closer and closer. He held out to the last moment. When it seemed only seconds before they would arrive, he opened the ring and took out the paper. There was nothing on it but a small sentence: “This too will pass.”

In a single instant it was like a flash of lightning. His whole life appeared before him—everything had passed; naturally this too would pass. What ever remains? Childhood did not remain, youth did not remain; the father did not remain, the wife did not remain, the sons did not remain—nothing remained. It came and it went; how much Ganga has flowed by! Seeing this picture of life, for a moment he even forgot that the enemy was near. And when he awoke from this tale of life, he suddenly found the hoofbeats were no longer heard; they had turned in another direction.

Seven days later he won again. He returned to his palace. A grand welcome awaited him: gold coins were scattered, flowers showered, lamps were lit throughout the town, the whole town danced in ecstasy, there was celebration. As his procession moved with him mounted on the elephant, for a moment he opened the ring again. “Such happiness!” He read the paper again: “This too will pass.” He put the ring back. Just as he had become detached in the hour of sorrow, so he became detached in the hour of joy.

It is said the emperor attained samadhi without doing anything.

So, Manik Babu, make use of such moments. Whatever happens, happens—and it passes. Only one thing within us never passes: our witnessing consciousness. That alone is the eternal, the timeless, the ever-present. By holding to that one, one reaches the very door of the divine.

What could be more auspicious than this? When tears flow, it means the tears are saying something.
Tears are not only of sorrow; there are tears of joy as well. And tears do not always bear the proof of gloom; they also bring tidings of celebration. Tears have but one meaning—something we cannot say in words must be said through tears. Tears are a very deep expression.
You ask the meaning of tears?
If the meaning of tears could fit into language,
why would I weep?
I would write poems and stories.
When language becomes helpless,
tears flow from the eyes;
what we cannot say in any mode,
we say through our weeping.

Tears do say something—something that cannot be said in any other mode. They speak what does not fit or bind within words. Words have limits; tears are boundless.

So understand one thing about tears: whenever any feeling in your heart becomes so dense—be it sorrow or joy; peace or turmoil; melancholy or festivity—whenever it becomes so dense that you cannot contain it, that very feeling flows out as tears. Tears unburden.

And do not try to stop them. Sometimes, listening to me, tears of joy will flow. And sometimes, hearing me, the sorrow of your whole life will return; the futility of your whole life will be remembered; as if I have touched an old wound, the pain will begin to flow—then too tears will come. In both cases it is auspicious. Tears are saying only this much: that between you and me a bond of heart has arisen; it is no longer a mere connection of intellect. As long as the bond is of intellect, you are a student; the day it becomes of the heart, that day you are a disciple. As long as the bond is of intellect, I am your teacher; the day it becomes of the heart, I am your master. The day you built a bridge of tears, the day you wrote letters in tears and sent them toward me…

The pain itself has surged—
the songs are not to blame.
Whatever came to me,
I was content with that;
ringed by the boundary of lack,
still there was satisfaction.
But now my patience is restless,
eager to go on strike;
the tears have spilled of themselves—
the eyelids are not to blame.
The songs are not to blame.

From almond eyes, each moment
you yourself sent loving invitations;
knowingly you tangled the edge of your veil—
then why lay blame on me?
Ruby-tinted dreams have read
the language of union-hungry mantras;
the nectar has overflowed on its own—
the lips are not to blame.
The songs are not to blame.

I spoke two words filled with love,
but you spun whole tales from them.
I did not know that the birds
of ill repute would suddenly take flight.
With attraction’s poison-maiden
I unknowingly arranged a marriage—
the fragrance has scattered of itself;
the bees are not to blame.
The songs are not to blame.

The tears have spilled of themselves—
the eyelids are not to blame.
The songs are not to blame.
The pain itself has surged—
the songs are not to blame.

Whatever is of itself is auspicious. Whatever is spontaneous is auspicious. If tears flow, do not stop them. If they do not, do not try to make them flow. Whatever is spontaneous is auspicious; what is forced is inauspicious. If tears come, let them come; do not be embarrassed. There is no social decorum to maintain here! Did not Meera say—“I have lost all concern for public opinion.” If you hold back tears even here, then where will you weep?

And if you block tears, then your smile will be blocked too. For the same door through which tears come, through that door smiles also enter. From where tears arise, songs arise; where melancholy is born, celebration also showers down.

Be light, be natural. Whatever comes, let it come. However it comes, let it come that way. Do not tamper with it at all.

There are two kinds of possibilities. Some people who cannot cry may try to force tears—that will be wrong. If they have not yet arisen from within, wait. And some who can cry feel afraid: “Should I cry or not? What will people say? What will the neighbors think? If the village hears, they’ll think I’m mad! Have I lost my senses? Have I been hypnotized?” People will say all sorts of things. So one holds back.

No—do not hold back. Because whatever work we have gathered here to do can only happen in spontaneity. Here I am singing a song. Here I am trying to touch the strings of your heart. No doctrines are being handed out here; a practice is being done.

Sing something sweet, O Master.
In love-and-dissolution’s sweet horizon
establish the world of my being, O Master.
The ragas are my helplessness,
the note and the bow are yours;
upon these colorful dead fragments
pour the nectar, O Master—
sing something sweet, O Master.

Touch not the burden of culture,
touch not the realms of history,
touch not maya nor Brahman,
touch not joy and sorrow;
do not set the past upon my head—
one song,
one song,
sing something sweet, O Master.

In love-and-dissolution’s sweet horizon
establish the world of my being, O Master.
Let it be a song,
or let it be of the soul—
but not paler than the soul.
Let the letters be of tears,
the tone be your very own;
a garland of dissolution,
a song of dissolution—
one song,
one song,
sing something sweet, O Master.
In love-and-dissolution’s sweet horizon
establish the world of my being, O Master.

Here the effort is that you may hear the song of the Divine. I am persuading you so I may pluck the strings of your heart. All this talk—of the Gita, of the Dhammapada, of the Jina Sutras—are pretexts. Through these pretexts, if somehow the strings of your heart are struck and a resonance arises… Only if you are spontaneous can that resonance arise. I want you to be thrilled, every hair quivering with the call of the Divine, with the longing for truth, with ardent yearning. On that journey, spontaneity is the provision—the meritorious provision. That is the packed meal for the way.

So those whose eyes are capable of tears—do not stop them. From the same eyes from which tears now flow, light will also flow. Tears will clear the path so that light can stream through.

And understand, this happening is not of the intellect—it belongs to the heart. It is of the very being, the core within. Only those who are ready to go mad can attain it. This is the world of the intoxicated. If I can make you drink a little wine here, the work is done. If you stagger a bit as you leave, I have succeeded. If you set your foot in one place and it lands in another—then the thing has happened. On one side if you become unconscious, on the other, awareness awakens. When there is insensibility toward this world, awareness toward the Divine arises. If here you live too much in control—calculating, careful, contained—you will never awaken to God.

Remember, blessed are those who fall asleep here and awaken there.

So drop all concern for public opinion.

Cry! What is there to do! With all your doing you have spoiled everything. It is from doing that karma is born. Don’t do. Now flow in being.
That’s all for today.