Es Dhammo Sanantano #81

Sutra-context — First scene:

The Blessed One was dwelling in Jeta’s Grove. A young man came from a nearby village and took initiation into sannyas. He condemned everyone. If there was a reason, he would not miss it; if there was none, he would still condemn. If no cause was at hand, he would hunt for one; if none could be found, he would manufacture one. If someone did not give alms, he would condemn; and if someone did give, he would say—Ah, is this what you call giving! If you wish to learn to give, learn it from my family. He would be forever praising his own family. The entire work of his life was to condemn the whole world and to praise his own family—his caste, his order, his lineage—lavishing extreme adulation upon them. There was no end to his ego. Perhaps it was for this very reason that he became a sannyasin.

Once, when some bhikkhus went to his village, they found that just as he condemned others without cause, in the same way he praised his family without cause. In truth, his family had no standing at all. He came from a lineage given to very lowly tendencies.

The bhikkhus told the Blessed One of this. The Blessed One said, It is the inferiority-complex that claims superiority. Those who are truly superior do not even know that they are superior. That is the inevitable mark of true superiority. And this bhikkhu not only behaves so now, he behaved so before as well—he has behaved so in other births too. Birth after birth he has wasted his life in this way. With the energy he has squandered in condemning others and praising himself, with that very energy he could have long since become worthy of Nirvana. With that much power, who knows how many times he could have attained to godliness. Bhikkhus, learn from this. Condemning others harms not the other, but only oneself. It is merely stabbing your own chest under the pretext of others. Have compassion on yourself and save yourself from your own misfortune, for man is his own enemy and his own friend.

The young man, in great anger, asked, If someone gives no alms, what attitude should we hold? If someone abuses us, what attitude should we hold? And if someone gives to others and not to us, what attitude should we hold? That day he did not even address the Blessed One as “Blessed One.” How shallow are the devotions of men!

Against this background, the Blessed One spoke today’s first two verses:

“People give according to their faith and devotion. One who cannot bear seeing others’ food and drink—such a one, by day or by night, will never attain Samadhi.”

“One whose such mental tendency is uprooted, cut off at the root, wholly removed—only he, by day or by night, attains Samadhi.”

Dadāti ve yathāsaddhaṁ yathāpasādanaṁ jano.
Tattha yo maṅku bhavati paresaṁ pānabhojane.
Na so divā vā rattiṁ vā samādhiṁ adhigacchati..

Yassa ca taṁ samucchinnaṁ mūlaghacchaṁ samūhataṁ.
So ve divā vā rattiṁ vā samādhiṁ adhigacchati..

First understand this background clearly. The story is small, simple—yet profoundly psychological.

A young man took initiation with the Buddha. And the story says that perhaps he did so because he was intensely egotistical.

This is worth grasping first. People hoard wealth for ego, and they renounce for ego. At first they strut, proclaiming how much they possess; later they strut, proclaiming how much they have left behind. What they have, they multiply many times in the telling. What they have renounced, they multiply many times in the telling. But in every case man worships his ego alone. I am something special; I am unique, incomparable; I am different, not like others; I am extraordinary, not ordinary—man remains engaged in this endeavor. Sometimes by earning wealth, sometimes by running a great shop, sometimes by attaining a high post, sometimes by kicking everyone aside—but behind all this the fundamental base is one: I am no ordinary man.

Man is greatly afraid of being ordinary. Consider it: the very feeling that I am ordinary weighs upon the chest like a stone. And the notion that I am extraordinary, unique—at once it gives you wings.

But if you are extraordinary, then everything is extraordinary: leaves, flowers, stones, moon and stars—all is extraordinary. And if all is extraordinary, then what difference remains between ordinary and extraordinary? Those who have known have said: there is neither ordinary nor extraordinary. Existence is one—so who shall be ordinary and who extraordinary?

So either say, all are ordinary—that too is true; or say, all are extraordinary—that too is true; but to make one ordinary and another extraordinary is the mistake. Divide into categories, and a mistake is made; draw classes, and a mistake is made; create varnas, and a mistake is made. To say Brahmin and Shudra is a mistake; to say high and low is a mistake; to say auspicious and inauspicious is a mistake. Wherever there is division and duality, there is the world.

One man says, See how intelligent I am; another says, See how much wealth I have; another says, See my merit, how many virtues I have accrued—what difference is there between these? None at all. As long as a man says, See, I am special—there is no difference.

In this world, the one who is willing to be ordinary—he alone is extraordinary. The one who is willing to say, I am utterly ordinary—his extraordinariness is assured. Why? Because everyone entertains the thought of being extraordinary; hence the feeling of being extraordinary is the most ordinary feeling of all. If you were to ask a dog, a horse, the animals and birds—if they could speak, they too would say, What are you? Merely human! Extraordinary—we are! Ask a stone—if the stone could speak, it would say, You are merely human: here today, gone tomorrow. We remain forever—we are extraordinary. Each will find some reason on which to declare extraordinariness. In the declaration of extraordinariness there is ego. In the feeling of being ordinary, ego is dissolved.

And the wonder is this: the moment you become ordinary, you become extraordinary. For the inner climate of ordinariness is a most extraordinary climate. Once in a while a Buddha, a Krishna, a Christ attains to that state.

The story says that perhaps the young man took sannyas out of ego.

If one takes sannyas out of ego, sannyas is wasted. If one takes sannyas out of awakening to ego, then sannyas finds its fulfillment. If one takes sannyas seeing that ego is futile, brings suffering, is hell—and awakening by dropping ego—then it is sannyas. Otherwise, if one withdraws from the world and becomes a sannyasin, but the ego remains intact, the old disease remains, only the name has changed. Inside all the old rubbish remains; only a coat of paint is applied on top. This lie cannot stand. It carries little meaning; it will be exposed.

Thus the young man became a sannyasin, but the old habit did not leave him—the habit of considering himself special. And if one is to consider oneself special, then it becomes necessary to prove that others are nothing. Condemning others is necessary. Like a shadow of ego, the condemnation of others trails along. One must proclaim daily that others are nothing.

So the young man devoted himself to condemnation. And now he could do it more conveniently, for he was a sannyasin.

Go to temples, to ashrams, listen to your so-called saints and sannyasins—how they condemn! They condemn precisely those things you are eager to enjoy. And perhaps they influence you for this very reason—that they condemn those very things in which your taste lies. You know your taste lies there. Theirs too lies there, otherwise their condemnation would have vanished long ago. When some saint or sannyasin explains that wealth is only dust—know well that he still sees wealth as wealth. For he never explains that dust is dust. He says, wealth is dust!

When a saint says, What is there in a woman’s body? Bones, flesh and marrow, filth and urine, nothing else—when he explains this to you, know that he is still attracted by the form of woman. He is not explaining to you—he is trying to explain to himself under the pretext of you. When he condemns worldly life, he is essentially saying, Look how pure we sannyasins are, how virtuous! How saintly, how simple! And look at your sin, your hell! He places himself above; he places you below.

In truth, when the light of saintliness dawns in someone’s life, he does not place you below. He says: You too are God, you too are Atman, you too are exactly where I am. I have come to know; you have not yet known—this is the only difference. Is this such a difference? You have a thousand rupees in your pocket; I have a thousand in mine. I came to know and slipped my hand into my pocket; you have not. Is that such a great difference? The thousand lie in your pocket too—whenever you put your hand in, they will be available. Even if you do not, they are still there.

There can be a difference in knowing—not in being. There can be a difference in awareness—not in existence. In you is exactly what is in a Buddha, exactly what is in Krishna—not a grain less; in you is exactly what is in me—not a grain less. You simply have never untied your knot to see it. You have never explored within. It is only a difference of exploring; the day you explore, it will be there.

It is not that you are sinners. How can Paramatma be a sinner! It is not that you are hellish—how can Paramatma be hellish! You are in the supreme state already—but you do not turn back to look at yourself. Your eyes wander outward. Eyes wandering outward remain unfamiliar with the inner treasure—that is all the difference. If even a saint cannot see that the difference is next to nothing, that it is nothing, then who will see it?

Someone asked the Buddha: When you attained enlightenment, then what happened? The Buddha said: Then one thing happened—the very day I attained enlightenment, the whole world attained enlightenment for me. From that day I saw no one as ignorant.

The Buddha’s whole life passed in explaining to people: You are not ignorant. You insist, We are ignorant. And the entire effort of the Buddhas is to explain that you are not; to break your delusion. You are the master; you have imagined yourself a slave. You are vast; you have tied yourself to the small. Raise your eyes to the sky—all the sky is yours; yet you keep your eyes fixed in the dust. That does not mean the sky ceases to be yours—your eyes are entangled in the small. But the eye has the capacity to contain the sky as well. However entangled in the small, the day you raise your eyes, the whole sky will be reflected in them.

The Buddha said: The day I attained enlightenment, the whole world attained enlightenment. Not only men—leave men aside—animals, birds, trees, all became self-realized. When the enlightened one looks into his treasure, in that very instant it is seen—everyone is carrying the same treasure; within everyone that lamp shines; within everyone the light is lit. It is a strange condition—that people do not see their own light and go on running in search of light; they keep running in search of wealth, while the wealth lies within—wealth such that even if you expend it, it does not deplete; pour it out and you cannot empty it; throw it away and it grows. Such wealth lies within.

The enlightened one does not turn you from sinner into virtuous. He shows you yourself—because you have not looked at yourself; he gives you the knack, the learning to look within.

That youth remained engaged in condemning all. If there was a reason, he surely would not miss it—that is obvious: one who is bent on condemning will not miss a reason when it exists. If there was none, he would manufacture it. One who is not bent on condemning will not manufacture reasons, and even when there is a reason, he will be compassionate. He will say: It is your choice; live as you wish—who am I? Who am I to interfere? Who am I to obstruct, to call something good or bad? It is your life; you are the master of your life; live it as you choose. There will be no condemnation.

A woman was brought to Jesus. The village was against her because she had committed adultery; and in the old Bible it is written that a woman who commits adultery should be stoned to death. Jesus was sitting on the riverbank, upon the sand. The whole village gathered and said, Ask him—he speaks much of wisdom; and we will also see whether he is for the old religion or against it. They asked, What do you say? The old prophets have said: the woman who lapses into adultery should be stoned to death. What do you say? For Jesus would often say: The old prophets said thus, but I say unto you… So now, what do you say?

Jesus said: The old prophets said that if someone throws a brick at you, throw a stone at him; if someone blinds one of your eyes, blind the other of his. But I say unto you: if someone slaps your cheek, offer the other also; if someone snatches your coat, give him your shirt too; if someone asks you to carry a load for one mile, walk two miles with him. I say this unto you.

They said, Now what do you say? The old prophets say: stone her to death. They had devised a trap for Jesus. If he said, The old prophets are wrong, they would be angry—So you alone are a prophet! All until now were fools! Or, if Jesus said, The old prophets are right, they would say, What of your doctrine of love then, of turning the other cheek? You call for stoning—call for killing? In either case, Jesus would be caught. The village was eager; the rabbi, the religious teacher, stood in front, to ask this youth, What does he say?

Jesus paused a moment and said, Pick up stones. It was the river edge—stones lay there in heaps. People picked up stones. Jesus said, Now I say: let the one who has never committed adultery—or never even thought of adultery—cast the first stone. Those elders standing in front slowly slipped back into the crowd. The rabbi too merged into the people. Slowly the crowd thinned, and Jesus and the woman were left alone.

The woman fell at his feet. She said, You have given me life; you have saved me; else today they would have killed me. But I have sinned. I denied it to them, but how can I deny it to you? I have sinned. Now whatever punishment you give me, I accept.

Jesus said, Who am I to punish you? This is a matter between you and your God; who am I to come in between? If you feel it is sin, then do not do it again. And if you feel it is not sin, then it is your will—if it does not feel like sin to you, then certainly do it. As for judgment, it will be between your God and you; who am I in between?

A revolution happened in the woman’s life—because this man did not condemn. He said, Who am I! He gave no pronouncement at all—not even that it is a sin. He said, If it feels like sin to you, leave it.

When it feels like sin to you, it drops by itself; you do not even need to leave it. Who leaves anything at another’s bidding! Do not condemn—do not judge. We are not masters of another. His freedom is supreme, his dignity is supreme. To raise even a single word of condemnation against him is merely to declare one’s own inferiority.

But that youth—if there was a reason, he would not miss it; if not, he would inflate one; if none, he would manufacture one. If someone did not give alms, he would condemn: See the miser, see the wretch, he will die a sinner, rot in hell, sit upon this heap of money as a snake when he dies—and he would condemn. And if someone gave alms, he would say, Ah, is this giving! If you want to learn giving, learn it from my family. What is this—fistfuls! And if someone gave to another, then he would condemn all the more. Even if given to him he would not restrain condemnation; if given to another, how much more he would condemn!

Along with this, his other work was to praise his family, his caste, his order.

Take heed: when you praise your nation, your caste, your order, your religion, your lineage—what are you truly doing? By a roundabout way you are praising yourself. When you say, India is blessed, what are you saying? You are saying: I am Indian. If you had been born in China, you would never say, India is blessed. You would say, China is blessed. Wherever you were born—that land would be blessed. This is not praise of the country; it is a cunning device of self-praise. It is self-praise.

You say, The Hindu lineage is blessed. Ask a Jain. He says, The Jain lineage is blessed. Ask a Buddhist. He says, The Buddhist lineage is blessed. It is a mere accident that you were born in a Jain home—hence the Jain lineage became blessed. A mere accident that you were born in a Hindu home—hence the Hindu lineage became blessed. These are venomous assertions. But you repeat them as if you had never reflected on them at all.

The strange thing is that those who preach egolessness are themselves caught in these very notions. Go ask a Jain muni—he will say, To be born in a Jain family comes from great merits. Others are hardly human! They are humans in name only. To be born in a Jain family comes from merits accrued over many births. And this very man preaches egolessness daily; abandon ego—while at a deep level he nourishes ego.

Ask a Brahmin—he says, To be a Brahmin is no ordinary thing! It is extraordinary! Ask a man—he says, To be male is a blessing, to be female is misfortune. The scriptures write that first of all it is very rare to be born human; then to be a man is very rare; then to be a Brahmin rarer still; and to be born in this land of India—the land of Dharma where the stream of Dharma has flowed always—this is rarer still! The rest are mlechchhas. But this is the notion of everyone. And do not think it belongs only to great nations; the smallest nation holds the same notion.

This notion belongs to man’s ego. There are three hundred religions in the world, and the adherents of all of them hold the same notion. And how many countries are there in the world! And all hold the same notion. And now even women have begun proclaiming—and rightly so, for enough is enough—that to be a woman is blessed; what is there in being a man!

In the East, scriptures were written by the old; so the old say, Respect the elders—because the elders wrote the scriptures. In the West, the young are writing books; they say, Don’t trust anyone over thirty.

I was reading a most amusing incident yesterday. Jerry Rubin, who raised this slogan in America—Don’t trust anyone over thirty; after thirty a man becomes dishonest—forgot that one day he too would be over thirty. When he said it, he was twenty-six—he must have forgotten in his heat and fury.

Then he turned thirty-two. In America, a movement gathered behind him—the Yippies. The Yippies shook America, declaring that all people over thirty are dishonest. Then came a day when he too passed thirty.

One day he came out of the hotel where he was staying and saw that someone had set fire to his car. He was astonished—who did this? When he approached, he found a placard that read: Jerry Rubin, you are now over thirty—you are no longer our leader. Those whom he had raised in movement turned against him, because he crossed thirty. Then he realized—just now I was reading in his book—then I realized that one day I too would be over thirty and would be caught in the same trouble.

In the West, young men are writing books—so no respect for the old. In the East, the old wrote books—so no respect for the young. If one day children begin writing books, there will be no respect even for the youth. Men wrote books—so women were insulted. Women write books—and men are insulted. In how many ways man continues the worship of his ego.

We praise whatever we are. Awaken from this. These are subtle supports of ego. Do not mistakenly claim that to be a Hindu is some great merit, or that to be a Christian is some great merit. Merit will be on the day you become a nothing. Before that there is no merit. Then you will have no country, no caste, no lineage, no sense of male or female—merit will be then. Blessedness will be the day when no disease remains upon you, no identifications remain; when you cannot say: I am Hindu, I am Muslim, I am Christian, I am Jain—only then will you be blessed. Before that, all blessedness is false.

Perhaps that youth became a sannyasin for this very reason—so that he could say, Look, I am a sannyasin! The whole world is sinful. This is the joy of sannyas—that it grants you the easy convenience of condemning the whole world. Just by becoming a sannyasin you sit atop the peak. One moment earlier you were in the street; the next moment you are enthroned upon the summit.

You see, when initiations are given there is so much noise, processions, great festival—that some gentleman is taking initiation. What is there to celebrate! When I give sannyas I do not allow even a ripple—what is there to make a stir about! Celebration is only the worship of ego. Celebration means you have richly nourished the initiate’s ego—now he will strut.

See: a Jain muni does not fold his hands to greet another—he cannot. He says, A muni and offer namaskar! To householders, to shravakas, to the non-sannyasin—should a muni bow! A muni may only give blessings; he cannot bow. This is the limit! And these very people talk of egolessness, and they cannot even fold their hands in namaskar. They see in the other only a householder; they do not see the indwelling God. These are all new forms, new fashions of ego.

So the youth became a sannyasin—the story is sweet; perhaps he took sannyas so his ego might sprout a new wing, a new color.

Once, some bhikkhus went to his village and discovered that he condemned others without cause and praised his clan without cause. There was nothing in his clan—nothing special. They were ordinary folk—worse than ordinary. He came from a very lowly family—with very lowly tendencies.

The bhikkhus told this to the Blessed One.

A statement the Buddha made twenty-five hundred years ago would make Freud and Jung envious! Adler would be perturbed if it were brought to his notice. For the fundamental basis of Adler’s psychology is the inferiority complex. He says: the more inferior people are, the more they claim superiority.

Had he known this Buddha-story, he might not have fancied that he had discovered something unique. If you go deep into the old scriptures you will be amazed—perhaps nothing remains to be discovered as unique. And so it should be. From time immemorial man has been thinking; all angles have been seen, all layers turned over, all doors opened.

But even here the play of ego continues. Every age says: What we have discovered, no one discovered before. And every man says: What I know, none knows. I am original. For centuries man has been thinking. For thousands of years contemplation has continued. What could be left for you to be original about!

Like the disciples of Krishnamurti who say that what Krishnamurti says is original—they have not read Ashtavakra. Otherwise they would be astonished. Not a single statement of Krishnamurti goes beyond the statements of Ashtavakra. Well, Krishnamurti does not read scriptures—he insists he will not read the old; all right, he may be forgiven. But his disciples, who make the claim, they should at least look around a little before declaring originality.

There is not a single statement man can make today that has not been made before. It may be that time has piled much dust, distance has grown, we have forgotten. But whatever is today was yesterday too, and will be tomorrow. Our folly is like that of a rose that blossoms today and announces: never has such a flower blossomed on earth. Or the sun, rising today, declares: never has such a sun risen before. Or the night, studded with stars, proclaims: never has there been such a starry night.

What is happening today has always been happening. Today is not unique. There is nothing new under the sun. Yes, often things are discovered and then lost—forgotten in the flow of time. They are rediscovered again. Hence every discovery is a rediscovery. No discovery is new.

The Buddha said, It is the inferiority-complex that claims superiority.

Adler’s entire psychology is contained in this one line. Look into the personalities of people and you will find—wherever there is an inferiority-complex, there the claim to superiority arises.

The thief tries to prove he is not a thief. He tries hard—because he trembles inside, I am a thief. I must prove otherwise; if I cannot, I shall be caught. If the thief remains silent, he fears his silence may become the proof of his theft.

The liar tries to prove he speaks truth. Those who swear oaths—know that they are liars. Otherwise they would not swear. With every statement an oath—By God! By your life! The man who swears oaths is a liar, for he feels truth is not enough on its own. He thinks, Add the crutch of an oath; in itself it has no weight; with the crutch perhaps the lie will walk. One who speaks truth will not swear. An oath means—you know it is a lie, and now you are whitewashing it, trying somehow to furnish it with proofs of truth.

It is the inferiority-complex that claims superiority.

See in the world—if you read the lives of great politicians you will be amazed. In them there was some inferiority wound, and hence they ran toward positions.

Napoleon’s height was short—five feet two inches. Psychologists say: that was the cause. He was always restless that his height was too little. He wished to show the world how tall he was! He wished to say: Do not measure me by my body—what is there in the body! See my real height—see it from my throne. He had the world’s largest throne built so that, seated upon it, he could show. He wanted to conquer the whole world to prove how tall he was.

One day he wanted to adjust a clock—hung a little high on the wall—and his hand could not reach. His bodyguard said, Wait, sir, I am taller than you; I will fix it. Napoleon said, Silence! Never use such words by mistake. Taller than me? Longer than me, not taller. He immediately corrected him. There is a difference between length and height. Longer than me you may be—but higher? How could you be higher! My bodyguard—higher than me!

Napoleon tried to prove.

They say Lenin, when he sat, had very short legs—the upper body was fine but the legs short; his feet dangled from the chair and didn’t touch the ground. He was much pained by this; he hid his legs while sitting. And psychologists say that this weakness of legs was his drive—to plant his feet so firmly that no one could uproot him.

If you search, you will find it in others—and in yourself as well. You will find in yourself what it is that is making you restless. What keeps pricking like a wound? Because of that you run. One whose wounds have all healed—his craving for position, his ambition, disappears. From his life politics must be dissolved—indeed it will dissolve.

Politics means the race of those afflicted with inferiority-complexes. Politics means derangement—a kind of madness.

The chase for wealth is also a kind of madness. Ambition is the essence of madness. The formula of madness is ambition—to become something. Why? Are you not? To become something—why? Are you not complete, sufficient as you are?

Vincent van Gogh—the great painter of the West—was very ugly. And psychologists say that because of his ugliness he became a worshiper of beauty, and painted very beautiful pictures—the most beautiful. He wanted to prove through his paintings: forget my face, look at the beauty in my hand. His face was ugly. The ugly man becomes interested in beauty.

Have you ever seen a very beautiful woman paint? A beautiful woman write poetry?

I was once a guest in a village. There a women’s poet-conference was being held—an All-India women’s poet-conference! My friend said, Come along; women poets from all over the country are gathering. I said, You go—just tell me one thing when you return: are any among them beautiful? He said, Why raise such a question? I said, You go and then report to me.

He came back at midnight—I had gone to sleep—and woke me: I cannot hold this till morning; you have startled me. There was not a single beautiful one among them. But why did you ask? I said, Because a beautiful woman does not do such things; beauty is enough. Unbeautiful women do such things—become social workers, poets, painters—because there is lack of beauty; something pricks. That which pricks must be filled somehow. Doing something, it can be filled. Creating something else, the deficiency is compensated.

Psychologists say that whatever has been created in the world has been created by men; women have done little of note. And the reason they give is worth hearing and understanding.

They say: women give birth to children—that is such a great creativity—to be a mother—what else remains to be created! What will a statue matter compared to creating a living statue? What is a painting compared to bringing forth a living picture, a living face—living eyes, a moving, breathing child! What beauty exceeds this! A woman is satisfied by giving birth to a child.

Man is very restless. Before women he feels somewhat helpless; he cannot give birth to anything. So he compensates—he will make statues, paint pictures, write poems, compose epics—by doing something he becomes creative, only so that he may compete with woman, to say, I too have created something. And gradually he created so many things that women began to feel restless: I am doing nothing, nothing is happening through me; the man has created so much!

You will be surprised—those works in which women ought to have done research, even there men have done it. Even cookbooks are written by men, not women. And the great chefs of the great hotels of the world are men, not women.

Why? The woman is content; the man is discontent. Something is pricking; something is missing—some empty space. So he tries to fill it by doing. But by doing it is never filled—how will a lack be filled? A lack dissolves only by accepting it.

Hence until one enters the religious dimension, the inferiority does not vanish. He may try a thousand devices; he may collect wealth, position, prestige—the lack does not disappear.

So the Buddha said, It is the inferiority-complex that claims superiority. Those who are truly superior do not even know they are superior. That is the inescapable mark of superiority.

If a saint knows: I am a saint, I am a saint—then it is a wound, not a reality.

Have you noticed—does one ever become aware of health? One becomes aware of illness. When there is a headache you are aware of the head; when there is no headache, are you aware of the head? If there is no pain at all, you will not feel the head at all. If a thorn pricks the foot, you are aware of the foot; if not, you are not aware. You become aware of the body when you are ill.

Hence Ayurveda’s definition of health is very significant. Allopathy has no such definition. If you ask allopathy what health is, it says, Absence of disease. This is a very negative definition—defining health via illness! The absence of illness! But Ayurveda says: Health means the body is not felt—vidheha-bhava prevails. This is significant—when the body is not felt, that is health. Because the body is felt in illness. One who is precisely healthy becomes bodiless. Hence we called Janaka “Videha.” If you are perfectly healthy, you will not feel the body at all—whether the body is or not, you will not feel that you are the body. The head is felt because of headache; the foot because of a thorn.

You have seen—when there is difficulty in breathing, you notice the breath; otherwise the breath has been going on for years, unnoticed. In the stomach digestion happens—so much work goes on: blood is formed, flesh and marrow are formed—unnoticed. Yes, should a little trouble arise, we notice.

The Buddha says: This is the inescapable sign of superiority—that one does not feel it. A saint is one to whom even his saintliness is not apparent. Truth is attained by him to whom even its attainment is not apparent. It is natural.

This bhikkhu… the Buddha would always say, whenever someone’s question arose, he would also bring into consideration his past lives. This was integral to the Buddha’s way. Whenever he looked at someone, he looked carefully into his chain as well. For the Buddha said: whatever is happening today must have had seeds yesterday, and the day before. The harvest is being reaped today—surely you did not sow the seeds today; they were sown across births. He would say: This bhikkhu not only behaves so today; he behaved so before. This is a habit of births upon births. Behind every habit lies habit.

Behind every habit there are older habits. Behind habit stands a queue of habits. Whatever we are doing today is not happening suddenly today; behind it is a long chain of doings. Hence if you wish to change it today, to leave it—you will not be able to unless you become willing to leave the entire chain after understanding it.

A man smokes cigarettes. We say to him, Quit. He knows it is bad, and he says, I wish to, but it does not leave me. You are not seeing the chain. Behind smoking there will be a chain of many other things. Unless all those things are consciously analyzed, unless this becomes luminous, the cigarette will not leave.

It is like cutting a flower while the tree remains—the flower will come again. Perhaps a larger flower than before, for the tree will respond. Cut a leaf—what will happen by cutting a leaf? In place of one, three leaves will appear. Cut a branch—the tree will take its revenge and produce two branches. After all, it must fight for its existence! Should it consent so easily that someone cuts a branch and it remains quiet and never grows one again—how will it live! It must struggle. It will produce two branches—so that if the cutter returns, he must work twice as hard. Cut two—four will grow.

Hence a gardener who wishes to make a tree dense, prunes. He makes cuttings—for as he cuts, the tree becomes denser. If you want a big flower—on a tree where a hundred flowers bloom—cut ninety-nine, leave one; the sap for the hundred will flow into the one. The tree will reply: What do you think!

If you have a habit, behind it is a chain—roots, leaves, boughs, the whole tree. And the roots are hidden in the womb of the earth. In the same way, man’s roots are hidden in his past births.

Thus the Buddha would always say: It is not only today that he behaves so—how could it be only today! Nothing happens suddenly; nothing is without cause. Behind everything is a chain of causation.

He behaved so before as well. Birth after birth he has wasted himself in this way. With the energy he has spent on condemning others and praising himself, he would long since have become worthy of Nirvana. Bhikkhus, learn from this: condemning others is not harming them but harming yourself.

For the energy you spend in condemning another brings you no benefit—and the energy gone is gone. Use it for something creative. With the time you spend in condemnation, bhajan could happen. With that very energy the sound of Om could resound. For the moments you hurled abuse, japa could have been. And with the energy in the hand that threw the stone, that same energy could have turned the beads of a mala. The energy is the same. There is no difference in the energy.

I was reading an account: a psychologist met a friend who had developed an ulcer. The friend was a politician—now for a politician not to have an ulcer is difficult indeed! The psychologist said, Do this—your opposition to Nixon is the cause of your ulcer—he was anti-Nixon, intent on unseating him—so every night write “Nixon” in big letters on a pillow, paste Nixon’s photo on it, and beat it soundly. When your heart is satisfied, go to sleep. You will get relief; otherwise the turmoil inside keeps churning and that becomes an ulcer.

The politician laughed. He said, Whom are you fooling? I know the pillow is not Nixon. Unless I beat the real Nixon, I cannot be satisfied—let the ulcer remain or go. A pillow is a pillow—whom are you deceiving? The psychologist said, Then start chopping wood.

The matter passed. Four months later, by coincidence, the politician went to the hills with a friend to rest. At the place they stayed there was no electricity, no arrangements. So they had to cut wood—only by cutting wood could they heat the house, boil water, cook food. He cut wood for a month. When he returned and the doctors examined him, they said, A miracle—your ulcers are gone. Then he remembered what his psychologist friend had said: Then start chopping wood.

So how did chopping wood heal the ulcer? The energy is the same. If it churns inside, it becomes an ulcer; if it flows outward, it becomes chopped wood. You have but one energy. With it you hurl abuse; with it you remember the Lord. With it you chase wealth; with it you seek meditation. With it the world is created; with it one attains Nirvana.

Therefore the Buddha said: With such power, had he invested it in his own search, by now he would have attained godliness—become a Buddha.

Learn from this—have compassion on yourself.

The Buddha would always say, Have compassion on yourself. He did not say, Have compassion on others. How will you have compassion on others until you have compassion on yourself! One who is angry with himself will be angry with the whole world. One who has compassion for himself will not be angry with anyone. One who has learned to love himself will learn to love the whole world.

I too say to you: love yourself, have compassion on yourself. You have harmed yourself greatly. And often when you think you are harming others, you are harming yourself. The stones you have thrown at others have pierced your own chest. The arrows you have shot to destroy others, their poison is devouring you. The pits you have dug for others—you have fallen into them. The pits you dig for others in this world end up being your own graves.

Have compassion on yourself, and save yourself from your own unwell-being. Man is his own enemy and his own friend. If you use your energy rightly, you are a friend; if you use it wrongly, you are an enemy.

The youth said angrily, If someone gives no alms, what attitude should we hold?

He must have felt: What nonsense is this! If someone gives no alms, what attitude should we have—as though giving were the other’s duty, as though he must give.

Have you seen—sometimes a beggar stands at your door; if you do not give, he considers you a sinner. If you do not give, he departs as though he has never seen a greater criminal—as if it was his great grace that he begged at your door. That he bestowed a favor upon you. Slowly people even in begging form the notion that they are obliging you.

If someone gives no alms, what attitude should we hold? If someone rebukes us, what attitude should we hold? And if someone gives others but not us, what attitude should we hold? That day he did not even address the Blessed One as Blessed One. How shallow are men’s devotions!

When the guru suits you, he is God; when he goes against you—what God! Such occasions come before me daily. If what I say suits you, you are pleased—not with me, but because something suited your ego. And I will have to say things that do not suit your ego, that should not suit your ego. If by mistake something suits your ego, know it to be a coincidence—that was not the purpose.

There are so many sitting here; something will suit someone. But the purpose is only this—that your ego be turned to ash, be dusted down, shattered in such a way that it cannot rise again—become lifeless. Whenever you are hurt, you grow angry. And in your anger, where is the guru! There is no guru.

That day he did not even say “Blessed One.” How shallow is human devotion!

Against this background the Buddha spoke these verses—

“People give according to their faith and devotion.”

The Buddha said: It is not that one must give to someone. As is their faith, as is their devotion, so do they give. It is not a question of how much they possess and thus how much they should give. Who are you to raise such questions! If someone has millions and gives a penny—you cannot say he is a miser, for he has millions and gives a penny. He has given a penny—this too is not small! You should feel obliged that he gave even a penny. If he had not given, you have no legal right over him. If he gave a penny, it is much.

There is an account in the Buddha’s life: he begged for alms at a door; the door opened and the housewife said, Move on! He moved on. A neighboring Brahmin saw this. The next day he begged at the same door; the woman, now more angry, was taking out the garbage—she threw all the refuse upon the Buddha and said, Have you no sense! No understanding! Yesterday I shooed you away; today you came again—here, take this! The Buddha moved on.

The Brahmin felt pity—though for no real reason, for he was angry with the Buddha. But he felt pity—Poor man! Yet what is this? Yesterday she refused and insulted you, you walked away; the next day she threw garbage—and today you came again? Did you not understand that nothing is to be had here?

The Buddha said, That is what made me think—She did give something—she gave garbage! The first day too she gave—she became angry; that too is a giving. Otherwise what cause is there for anger? There must be some connection. Angry, true—who is angry today may not be angry tomorrow. People change.

The Brahmin was astonished. The woman opened the door and was startled—She said, Bhikkhu, yesterday I threw garbage—did you not understand?

The Buddha said, I understood. Since you labored so much to throw garbage, perhaps some day something else will come. Tears welled in her eyes. That day she brought food.

So the Buddha would say: even if one gives nothing—offer thanks. For we have no right over anyone. If given, give thanks; if not given, give thanks. Bless those who give, bless those who do not—this is the right attitude.

“People give according to their faith and devotion. One who cannot bear seeing others’ food and drink…”

He said to the youth: if others are given, what disturbs you? Someone was given! If you cannot bear seeing another being fed while you are not, another clothed while you are not—then understand this for certain: by day or by night Samadhi will never be available to you. You will never attain contentment; the ray of meditation will never enter your life.

The ray of meditation descends into the lives of those who are content in every way—who say, What is, is auspicious. As it is, it is auspicious. In pleasure and pain, success and failure, loss and gain—those who say, As it is, it is right, it is auspicious—in their lives Samadhi blossoms.

“One whose such mental tendency is uprooted, cut off at the root…”

The tendency of discontent.

“Only he, by day or by night, attains Samadhi.”

This sutra holds a priceless truth. If you wish to attain meditation, prepare the soil of contentment. The crop of meditation grows only in the soil of contentment. Water your life well with contentment, so that discontent is destroyed from the root.

Yassa ca taṁ samucchinnaṁ mūlaghacchaṁ samūhataṁ.
Uproot discontent from the root.

So ve divā vā rattiṁ vā samādhiṁ adhigacchati..
Then Samadhi will not look for day or night—she will come anytime—sometimes now, sometimes then; meditation will begin to take hold. First there will be glimmers, then waves; one day you will find a flood of Samadhi has come—adhigacchati—she will surround you completely from above and drown you.

Second scene:

One day some upasakas came to the feet of the Blessed One to hear the Dharma. They fervently entreated him to speak—We have come from afar. The Buddha remained silent. They entreated again; then he spoke. When they entreated thrice, the Buddha spoke. At their entreaty the Blessed One finally gave them instruction—but they did not listen. They had indeed come from afar, but what has coming from afar to do with listening! Perhaps they were tired from their long travel. Perhaps they had no capacity to listen. Some began to doze while sitting; others began to yawn. Some looked here and there. Those who appeared to be listening were only appearing to listen—their minds were full of a thousand other thoughts. Prejudices, preconceptions, notions—layer upon layer of veils. They heard only what suited them; what did not suit them, they did not hear.

And with men of Truth, one in a hundred of their utterances will suit you. A Buddha is not a pundit. Out of a pundit’s hundred statements, a hundred will suit you—because a pundit says only what suits you. His ambition is to please you. If you want to hear the tale of Rama, he recites the tale of Rama. If you want to hear Satyanarayana, he recites Satyanarayana. He cares nothing for what you need to hear; his attention is on you—whatever pleases you, he says. His eye is on the money you will give him after he finishes the story.

But a man of Truth does not speak by seeing you and what you desire. He speaks what will bring your welfare.

There is a vast difference between the two. Whether Satyanarayana’s tale will bring your welfare or not—what has a pundit to do with that? Whose welfare has it brought! How many have listened to Satyanarayana’s tale! And in the tale of Satyanarayana there is neither Satya nor Narayana—nothing at all. A delightful story indeed!

This pundit has given people the notion that Truth conforms to you. Truth can never conform to you! If it could, you would have found it long ago. You are contrary to Truth—hence Truth has not been found. When Truth comes, it will cut you like a razor’s edge. There will be pain.

So those who were listening were only appearing to listen. They had a thousand notions. They had come to listen according to their own doctrines—to see whether the Buddha’s words confirmed their beliefs. No one was truly listening. Some were present in body, but their minds were elsewhere—in the shop, the market, a thousand affairs.

Even here I see: some friends come and yawn; some doze. Sometimes I am amazed—why come? Some get up midstream and leave. Sometimes I wonder—why so much trouble? Why come so far for nothing? But there is a reason.

People’s entire lives pass in just such yawning. They bring the same life here—where will they bring a new life from? Nodding off, dozing—their life is going thus. In that very life they come here to listen. Where will they bring a fresh life from! Never in their life have they completed anything fully—everything remains incomplete. They get up midway from here too; the strength to sit still and listen through is not there. An hour and a half feels heavy. A thousand obstacles begin to appear. A thousand thoughts arise: I could have gone to the market; I could have earned so much; I could have met so-and-so; met the lawyer; the day after tomorrow is a court case; this, that—a thousand things well up inside. But nothing surprising—this is what goes on in them twenty-four hours. Coming here they cannot suddenly drop it.

Ananda observed this condition.

Ananda, the Buddha’s bhikkhu, saw: first these people entreated three times, the Blessed One kept deferring, then spoke; now none of them is listening.

Ananda was astonished. He said, Blessed One, to whom are you speaking? There is no one here who is listening. The Blessed One said, I am speaking to possibilities. I am speaking to what can be, to those who can be. I speak to the seed. And I speak so that no blame may fall upon me—that I did not speak. As for listeners—that is their affair. Let them listen, if they wish. If not, that too is their wish. How can one make someone listen by force!

The Buddha said, I am speaking to possibilities.

A great disciple of the Buddha, Bodhidharma, went to China and sat for nine years facing a wall. He would not face people. If someone asked him something, he would keep his face to the wall and answer from there. People said, Sir, we have seen many bhikkhus; others too have come from India, but you are unique. Is this any way to sit—that whenever we come, you are facing a wall! Perhaps Bodhidharma had learned this lesson. He said: Precisely because I do not wish to insult you. When I look into your eyes I see a wall. Lest I say something on seeing that, I keep my face to the wall.

He was a fierce man. He said: When a person comes whose eyes I can see and find there is no wall, then I will look at him. Before that, no.

He sat nine years. Then his first disciple came—Hui Ko. Hui Ko stood behind him—stood for twenty-four hours, said nothing. Snow was falling; snow gathered upon his hands and feet; he shivered in the cold—but he stood, and did not speak. Twenty-four hours passed—Bodhidharma sat, facing the wall. At last Bodhidharma had to ask, Sir, what is the matter? Why are you standing? Must I turn to look at you? Hui Ko said, Be quick—or you will repent. And Hui Ko cut off one arm and offered it to him: This is one proof—I can do something. The other proof is my neck.

They say Bodhidharma instantly turned and said, So you have come. I was waiting for you. I was looking at the wall only for you.

I experience this daily. Ananda’s question seems apt—Blessed One, to whom are you speaking! No one here is listening. I too speak to possibilities. I speak to what can be. To those who have already become, there is no need to speak—they will understand even the unspoken; they will extract meanings from silence. Only for those who have not yet become is there the need to shout, to climb upon rooftops and shout. To shake them from all sides—perhaps they will awaken. If one in a hundred awakens, that too is much—for if one awakens, he will awaken another. Thus light births light; thus lamps are lit from lamps—and the tradition of Bodhi continues in the world.