Es Dhammo Sanantano #82

Seven things about Gautam Buddha.
First, Gautam Buddha is not a philosopher, he is a seer.
A philosopher is one who thinks; a seer is one who sees. Thinking never yields vision. Thinking cannot be of the unknown. What is not yet known—how shall we think of it? Thought only circulates within the known; thought rolls in the dust of the known. Truth is the unknown—unknown as light is to the blind. Let a blind man think a thousand thoughts, knock his head a thousand times—what will he come to know of light by thinking? The eye needs treatment. The eye must open. Until the blind man becomes a seer, nothing of essence will be in his hand.
So keep the first thing in mind about Buddha: his emphasis is on becoming a seer. He himself is a seer, and he does not want people to be entangled in the dilemmas of philosophy.
Because of philosophical debate, millions never attain vision. When free opinions about light are available, who will undergo the costly treatment of the eyes? If theories can be had cheap, who will search for truth? If everything is available free, on loan, who will pass through the pain of the eye’s treatment? And the treatment is arduous; and in treatment there is pain.
Buddha again and again has said: I am a physician. Remember this when you try to understand his sutras. Buddha is not propounding any doctrine. He is not inaugurating a philosophy. He is simply calling those who are blind yet thirsty to see light within. And when people came to Buddha, he did not hand them words; he pointed to meditation. Because it is meditation that opens the eye—the inner eye opens through meditation.
By thoughts you can pile layer upon layer; even if the eyes are open they will be closed again. Under the burden of thought man loses vision. The deeper the biases of thought become, the more impossible seeing is. Then you begin to see only what your view allows; you do not see what is. If you are to see what is, you must be free of all views.
Keep this paradox well in mind: to attain vision, one must be free of all visions. He who has no viewpoint, no philosophy, alone becomes capable of seeing the truth.
Second, Gautam Buddha is not traditional, he is original. He does not beat any well-worn track or established line. He does not say: the rishis of the past have said so, therefore accept it. He does not say: it is written in the Veda, therefore accept it. He does not say: I say so, therefore accept it. He says: until you know for yourself, do not accept. Borrowed reverence is worth two pennies. Do not believe—search. Pour your life into inquiry; do not squander a drop of energy in mere believing. Otherwise you will hang yourself on belief. People have gone astray by believing and believing.
So Buddha appeals neither to tradition, nor to the Veda, nor does he say, what I say must be right. He says only this much: thus have I seen. There is no need to believe it. Accept it merely as a hypothesis—that is enough.
Hypothesis means: as-if. If I say to you: come inside—the lamp is lit in the house. I am not asking you to believe that a lamp is lit; no belief is required. No reverence is required. Come with me and see the lamp burning. Whether you believe or not, the lamp burns. Whether you come believing or unbelieving, the lamp will go on burning. Your disbelief will not extinguish it; your belief will not ignite it.
Hence Buddha says: accept only my invitation. The lamp is lit in this house; come within. And this house is yours—the house of your own innermost being. Come within and see the lamp burning. See—and then believe.
And remember: once seen there remains no need to believe. We do not believe what we see; we only believe what we do not see. You do not believe in stones and mountains, you believe in God. You do not believe in the sun, moon and stars—they are. You believe in heaven, liberation, hell. What is visible requires no belief; its reality is manifest.
So Buddha says: you need not trust my word; it suffices that you accept my invitation. This is sufficient. Science calls this a hypothesis. A scientist says: heat water to a hundred degrees and it turns into steam. No need to believe it; you have a stove, there is water and fire—put the pot on and test it. For the purposes of testing we adopt a proposition—this is a hypothesis. We have not yet accepted it as truth; a man simply says, perhaps it is true, perhaps not—let us experiment. Experiment alone will prove whether it is so.
Thus Buddha is not traditional; he is original. Thought has traditions; vision is original. Thought belongs to the past; vision happens in the present. Thought is borrowed; vision is one’s own.
Third, Gautam Buddha is not scholastic. He is no pundit—he is a scientist. For the first time Buddha gave religion a scientific status. For the first time Buddha enthroned religion on the seat of science. Until then religion was superstition. Buddha granted it great dignity. He declared: superstition is unnecessary—religion is the supreme truth of life. Esa dhammo sanantano—this dharma is eternal and deathless. The moment you open your eyes you will see it.
Therefore Buddha did not say: believe for fear of hell; nor did he say: believe out of greed for heaven. He did not state: God will torture you if you do not believe, and God will reward you if you do. No—Buddha never uttered such vain things.
He spoke the essence. He said: this dharma is your very nature. It is flowing within you—day and night it flows. To find it you need not raise your eyes to the sky; you only need a little search within. This is what you are; this is your destiny; this is your nature. Not for a single moment have you lost it—only forgetfulness has occurred.
So Buddha established the science of how to climb the steps of consciousness—how man moves from stupor to non-stupor, how unconsciousness breaks and awareness is kindled. And those who went within with him had to admit without exception: Buddha speaks rightly.
This was an unprecedented revolution; never before had it happened. Buddha is a milestone in the history of humanity. There have been many saints; milestones are very few. Mahavira is not a milestone—for he said what twenty-three Tirthankaras had already said. Krishna is not a milestone—for he said what the Upanishads and the Vedas have always declared. Buddha is a milestone—as is Lao Tzu. Once in millions of saints, one becomes a milestone. A milestone means: after him humanity is never the same. All is changed, all is transfigured. Buddha opened a new vision, a new dimension, a new sky.
With Buddha, religion ceased to be superstition and became inward search. With Buddha, religion took a great leap forward. No longer did only the theist have entry; even the atheist was welcome. Do not believe in God? No harm—Buddha never says belief is necessary. Believe in nothing at all? Still no worry. There is nothing to believe. Without believing anything at all, you can go within. To go within, what need is there to believe in anything? You need not believe in God, nor in Atman, nor in heaven and hell. Even the atheist will not deny that the within is there. Atheists have never said there is no within. The within is. The atheist may say: this within is not eternal. Buddha says: drop the worry; first know it as it is, and if, in that very knowing, the eternal is revealed, there will be no question of believing—you will have known.
Buddha accomplished the great work of making atheists religious. Thus those who were drawn to him were the highly intelligent. Ordinarily, people gathered around saints and sadhus are dull—numb, comatose, dead. Buddha attracted humanity’s most refined possibilities. Around Buddha the very cream of consciousness gathered—people who could not accept religion in any other way; who possessed blazing reason. Therefore, though Buddha is not a philosopher, the greatest philosophers of this land gathered around him. Behind a single person—Buddha—more philosophy arose than behind any other single figure in human history. And the thinkers who arose around him are of such caliber that matching them anywhere on earth is difficult.
How did this happen? Buddha attracted great atheists. To call a theist into a temple is no art; to call the atheist is something. Buddha is a scientist, therefore even the atheist became eager; he cannot dismiss science. Buddha said: you have doubt? Good—we shall make a ladder out of doubt. What better blessing than doubt! We shall turn the stones of doubt into steps. Inquiry arises out of doubt—so do not throw doubt away.
Understand this: the vaster a man’s vision, the more he is inclined to utilize everything. Only people of petty vision are given to cutting off. The petty mind will say: doubt is not needed, only faith is needed—cut off doubt. But doubt is a living limb of yours; if you amputate it, you will be crippled. Doubt needs transformation, not destruction. The very doubt must become trust—there must be a process for that.
Some say: cut off lust. By cutting, you will be crippled. Something must happen whereby lust becomes the longing for Ram—where the downward energy turns upward, where you become urdhvaretas. A way must be found so that your pebbles and stones are transmuted into diamonds; so that the mud of your life becomes a lotus.
Buddha gave that alchemy.
Fourth, Gautam Buddha is not airy, not abstract—he is supremely practical. He took the highest leap, yet he never left the earth. His roots remained sunk in the ground. He did not only flap his wings in the sky.
There is an ancient tale. When Brahma created the world and all things, he also created Reality and Dream. The quarrel began at once. The quarrel between reality and dream is ancient—the first day it began. Reality said, I am superior; Dream said, I am superior—what is there in you! The quarrel went so far that the two went to Brahma to decide who is more important. Brahma laughed and said: let it be proven by experiment. Whoever among you can keep his feet implanted on the earth and at the same time touch the sky—that one is superior.
Both set to work. Dream touched the sky instantly—no delay at all—but his feet never reached the earth. He hung in the sky. His hands touched the heavens, but his feet did not touch the ground—Dream has no feet. Reality, like a tree, planted his feet firmly in the earth, but like a stump, his hands never reached the sky.
Brahma said: Do you understand? Dream alone gets stuck in the sky; Reality alone wanders on the earth. Something is needed that marries Dream and Reality.
Buddha is not airy. But this does not mean he did not touch the sky; he touched the sky on the foundation of Reality.
Understand this difference.
Buddha kept his feet on the ground; he did not forget reality even for a moment. He laid foundations in the real; the edifice arose, the temple rose high; golden finials crowned the temple. But the finials rest on stones hidden in the earth, on foundations buried in the ground. Buddha built a temple that has both foundation and spire.
Many there are whom we call atheists—they remain stuck to the ground. They are like stumps—stumps of reality. Marxists or Charvakas—they are the stumps of reality. They plant their feet firmly in the earth, but they have no aspiration within to soar to the sky, no capacity to rise. And since they cut off dream altogether and declare there is no ideal, the lotus cannot bloom in their life; there is no way left for the lotus. What is denied insistently cannot be born.
On the other side are the doctrinaires—abstract, airy thinkers. They keep fluttering only in the sky; they never rest their feet on the ground. They live in ideals; reality never meets them. Sky-flowers bloom in their eyes—not real blossoms.
Buddha is not a dreamer; he is utterly pragmatic. Yet he is not a Charvaka. His practicality holds within itself the supreme ideal—but he says, the beginning must be with feet on the ground. The more firmly your feet are rooted in the earth, the more easily will you be able to touch the sky. But the journey must begin with the feet standing on the ground.
Therefore when someone comes to Buddha and asks about God, he says: do not ask vain questions. Many imagined Buddha to be atheistic because he would not answer questions about God. This is not true. Buddha says: first plant your feet in the ground; first enter meditation; first spread roots in inner consciousness; first know what you are; then this will follow on its own. It happens by itself. When the roots have gripped the earth well, the tree begins to rise skyward. One day blossoms bloom in the sky upon the uplifted tree; spring arrives—but it comes of itself. The real matter is the root.
Thus Buddha is profoundly a realist, but his reality includes the ideal—ideal integrated into the real.
Fifth, Gautam Buddha is not a legalist—he is human. The legalist is like Manu: doctrine is important, not man. In Manu it seems man exists for doctrine; man may be sacrificed for doctrine, but doctrine must not be altered.
Buddha is supremely human, a humanist. He says: the proper use of doctrine is to be ready in the service of man. Doctrine is for man, not man for doctrine. Therefore in Buddha’s utterances there are many contradictions—because he values the person before him so highly, so ultimately, that if he feels a particular doctrine will not suit this man, he changes the doctrine. If he senses that a slight change in formulation will benefit this person, he does not hesitate at all. Essentially his attention is on the person—on man. Man is the supreme value, the ultimate—man is the measure. Everything must be tested against man.
Hence Buddha could not accept the caste system; he could not accept the ashram system either—because these are dead formulas. Buddha said: a Brahmin is one who knows Brahman. Being born in a Brahmin’s house does not make one a Brahmin. And a Shudra is one who does not know Brahman. Being born in a Shudra’s house does not make one a Shudra. Thus many Brahmins became Shudras in Buddha’s account, and many Shudras became Brahmins. All was turned upside down. The entire scripture of Manu Buddha uprooted.
Hindus have not forgotten their resentment against Buddha even now. The caste system Buddha shattered terribly. It was no accident that Dr. Ambedkar, after two-and-a-half millennia, invited the Shudras again to become Buddhists. There is a reason. Ambedkar considered many possibilities: first he thought to become Christian—since Hindus had oppressed, become Christian; then to become Muslim—but it did not fit, for similar disturbances exist there; if not in the name of caste, then as Shia and Sunni.
At last Ambedkar’s eye fell upon Buddha, and then it made sense to him: for the Shudra there is no way except with Buddha—for only he is willing to change even his doctrines for the sake of the downtrodden—no one else is willing. In Buddha’s life doctrine has no ultimate value—man has the ultimate value.
It is no accident that Ambedkar became a Buddhist. After twenty-five centuries, the movement of the oppressed towards the path of Buddhahood is significant; it tells us something about Buddha.
Buddha broke the caste system and he broke the ashram system too. He gave sannyas to the young. Hindus were upset—renunciation was for the last stage, near death. If one survived that long, then after seventy-five one should renounce. Earlier people did not even reach seventy-five; and if they did, no energy remained. So the Hindu renunciation is a kind of dead renunciation—to be done at the last hour; it has no deep connection with life.
Buddha gave sannyas to the youth—to children—and said: the rule of Manu is not valuable; walking the line for the line’s sake leads nowhere. If a person’s heart is aflame in youth to seek God, to seek truth, to seek the real, there is no need to stop because of Manu’s rule. Let him listen to his own longing; let him go with it. Each person must listen to his own longing; each must live by it. In one sense Buddha made doctrines secondary and man primary.
So he is not doctrinaire; he is not legalistic. His emphasis is not legal; it is human. Law is not so valuable—man is valuable. We make laws only to serve man; man does not exist to serve law. Therefore, when needed, laws may be changed; when they help man, good; when they harm, they may be broken. Whatever harms man must be broken. No law is eternal—laws exist for utility.
Sixth, Gautam Buddha is not a moralist of rules; he is a sage of awareness.
If you ask Buddha: what is good and what is bad? Buddha does not answer by listing acts. He does not say: this act is bad and that act is good. He says: that which is done with awareness is good; that which is done in unawareness is bad.
Keep this distinction in mind. Buddha does not claim any act is good in all situations, or any act is bad in all situations. Sometimes something may be merit (punya), and sometimes the very same thing may be sin (pap). There are differing circumstances. Sin and merit are not labels glued upon actions once and for all. What you did in the morning may be merit; if you repeat it in the evening it might be sin—different circumstances.
Then what eternal basis shall we have for decision? Buddha gives a new basis: awareness. Note it well: whatever a man can do in awareness—only that is merit. And whatever can only be done in stupor—only that is sin. You ask: is anger sin or merit? Buddha says: if you can be angry with awareness, it is merit; if you can be angry only in unconsciousness, it is sin.
Understand the difference. That means, not every anger is sin, nor every anger merit. Sometimes when a mother becomes angry with her child, it need not be sin—perhaps it is merit; perhaps without that anger the child would go astray. Buddha’s insistence is: let it be done consciously.
I have heard a Zen story. A samurai’s master was killed. In Japan it is ordained: if one’s master is slain, the disciple must take revenge; until he kills the killer he must not rest. These samurai are fearsome warriors. The disciple dropped everything and pursued the murderer.
After two years, tracking him into a forest and a cave, he caught him. He drew his dagger to plunge into his chest. At that very moment the man spat in the samurai’s face. The samurai slipped the dagger back into its sheath and walked out of the cave.
The man cried: Brother, what happened? For two years you chased me; with great difficulty you have found me—I have been fleeing from jungle to jungle. What happened today that you sheathed your dagger?
He said: anger arose in me. You spat—I became angry. My master’s teaching was: even if you must kill, do not do so in unconsciousness. There is no sin even in killing when the act is without unconsciousness. But when you spat, for two years I had preserved awareness—the killing would have been a mere matter of order, of vow: you had slain my master; I was slaying you—no personal involvement. But when you spat, I forgot my master; a feeling arose: kill this man—he spat on me! I intruded; ego intruded; unconsciousness intruded. So I am leaving. When this unconsciousness passes, I shall reconsider. But nothing can be done in stupor.
Buddha has said: what you do in stupor is sin; what you do in awareness is merit. This is a new ordering of sin and merit. And in it the person has absolute freedom—no one else can decide what is sin, what is merit. You must decide. Buddha accords ultimate dignity to the individual.
Seventh, Gautam Buddha is not a partisan of the unnatural—he is a master of the natural. He says: do not be attracted merely because something is difficult—for in difficulty the ego has its hidden attachment.
Have you observed? The more difficult a thing is, the more eager people are to do it—because in the difficult the ego finds juice, a kick: I will do it and show them. If you climb a small hill in Poona, nobody cares; but if you climb Everest, that is something! Climb the Poona hill and plant your flag—who will bother? Neither newspapers will print it, nor will anyone come to take your photo. You may wonder: why so much noise about Hillary and Tenzing? What did they do—just planted a flag on a mountain; I too planted a flag. But your hill is small; anyone can climb it. Where anyone can go, the ego finds no gratification.
Buddha says: the ego is often eager for the difficult and the arduous. Thus what is simple and easy, near at hand, is missed; we chase far-off stars.
See—man has reached the moon; he has not yet reached himself. Have you pondered it? Reaching the moon is a wondrous triumph of technology, of mathematics, of science. Yet the same man has not succeeded in small things—he has not yet made a fountain pen that does not leak—and he reached the moon! Even a small matter; we have not found a cure for the common cold—and we reached the moon! Who is eager to make a pen that never leaks? What is in it? A small thing—no challenge to the ego.
Fountain pens will go on leaking; little hope is seen that they will not. And colds will remain; there seems no deliverance. Physicians are interested in cancer, not in colds—the big thing challenges the ego. Man has not reached his own within—the nearest of all—and he reached the moon. He will reach Mars, and one day other stars; only one place he will never reach—himself.
Therefore Buddha is not an advocate of the arduous. He says: pay attention to the natural. Live the simple and the easy. The easy is the true sadhana—remember this. Buddha made life’s regimen most simple. Live like a child—simple. To be a sadhu does not mean becoming hard and complicated: standing on your head, only standing and never sitting; starving yourself; long fasts; lying on a bed of thorns; standing in the sun; standing in the cold; standing naked. Buddha says: all this is the race of the ego. Life is easy; life is simple. Truth too will be easy and simple. Be natural; do not be ensnared by the fascinations of the ego.
Keep these seven things in mind, and now today’s sutras—
First scene:
Sravasti, the famous capital of those days. Some bhikshus were returning to the Blessed One after begging for alms when suddenly clouds gathered and it began to rain. To shelter from water they entered the courthouse before them. What they saw there they could not comprehend. One judge was biased; another was deaf—not that his ears did not work, but he had already assumed something, so he would not hear—thus he was deaf. Another, though eyes were open, was blind. Some had accepted bribes. One judge was dozing while plaintiff and defendant spoke; one was under the pressure of wealth, another under position, another under caste and lineage, another under religion. And they saw that truth was being made false and false being made true. No one had any concern with justice. And where there is not even justice, how can there be compassion?
Those bhikshus returned and told this to the Blessed One. The Blessed One said: So it is, bhikshus! What should not be, is what is happening—that is the very name of the world.
Then he uttered these two gathas—
‘If one decides on dharma (justice) without deliberation, he is no dharmastha (judge).’
‘The wise man who, weighing both benefit and harm—justice and injustice—judges with reflection, with dharma and with equanimity, protected by dharma, intelligent—he alone is called a judge.’
The gathas are straight and clear, yet deep. Often the straight and simple truths are the deepest. Complex truths are spoken only to cover shallowness. In the simple there is a depth unmatched. Buddha’s words are simple; to understand them no great scholarship is needed—unless one is determined not to understand, understanding will happen.
Before the sutra, understand this little story. Such stories are full of essence.
Sravasti—the capital then, a great capital. From time immemorial capitals are the abode of madmen. Capital means: where thieves and cheats, rogues and rascals of all kinds gather; where the clever and crafty, the four-twenty, congregate. All sorts of troublemakers gather there of their own accord.
In English the word for capital is ‘capital’—a fine word. It comes from caput—head. Per capita. Capital from caput—meaning, where there are heads upon heads. That is to say: where the mad are amassed; where there is no heart; where the heart has dried up; where nothing happens from the heart; where everything runs by mathematics, by logic, by the skull; where no flowers of compassion bloom. Intellect is hard; in mathematics there is no mercy. Mathematics is poisonous. Where everything runs on logic alone, we become diametrically opposed to the Divine—for the stream of the Divine flows through feeling; its waves arise in the heart.
So Sravasti was the capital. Many times Buddhists have been asked: why did Buddha go to Sravasti so often? He must have gone because of those madmen. A physician goes where the sick are more; there he is more needed.
Sravasti: some bhikshus had gone for alms and were returning to the Blessed One.
Buddha created a revolution in sannyas. Before Buddha the sannyasin was called swami—lord. Swami is a sweet word; it means one who is master of himself. But give the sweetest word to the unconscious and they will distort it. Swamis began to think they were masters of others. The name was given to denote mastery of oneself; they began to assume mastery over others.
The Hindu swami still understands it so: everyone else’s job is to touch his feet. The Jain muni too: everyone else must serve. Self-mastery was forgotten; mastery over others—possession and superiority—grew thick.
Buddha changed the word; he coined a new one—bhikshu. The exact opposite. Where swami is one extremity, bhikshu is the other. Buddha said: no—this word has become dangerous. Its meanings were right, but in wrong hands even a right word turns wrong; in the wrong vessel even amrit turns poison.
So Buddha chose bhikshu. He said: remember—do not think yourself more than a beggar; live by begging, so that every day you remember there is no room for ego. What room for ego in a beggar? He who eats by asking: if someone gives, take; if one does not, move on. And at more doors the report will be the same: go ahead.
Buddha’s bhikshus did not come from ordinary homes. Many were Kshatriyas, from royal houses; many were princes—he made them beggars. And he said: this will remind you at every step—this is your sadhana. Door to door you will go; door to door you will be pushed away. Some will give two rotis, some not. To him who gives—give thanks; to him who does not—also give thanks. For you have no demand that anyone must give; you are no swami that you can be angry if not given. Giving is no one’s duty. If someone gives out of love—good; thank him. If someone does not—thank him too.
The word bhikshu has a beauty—but it too decayed. Whatever word falls into man’s hands, he spoils it. Understand this. Bhikshu was as lovely as swami. But what happened? The resolve to dissolve ego was forgotten; the bhikshu became exploiter—dependent on others. People became bhikshus to avoid working; no labor needed, exploitation made easy. A big group began to live upon society—leeches upon society. Swami decayed; bhikshu decayed too.
Therefore we must keep changing. New words must be coined—or old words given new meanings. I have again begun to use swami, because the Buddhist bhikshu became dependent. In those days the world was affluent; no problem. A village could easily support ten or fifty bhikshus. Those were times when one earned and twenty ate; no difficulty. One more went begging—no problem. Now the world is different—today twenty earn and even then all are not fed. Then one earned and twenty were fed. Giving was easy; now it is hard. Now bhikshus are a burden.
Hence I have birthed a new understanding of swami. Become a swami, but not like the Hindu swami—and do not depend on anyone. Remain as you are: if you keep a shop, let the shop continue; if you work in an office, let that continue; if you labor, let that continue. Your economic burden must not fall on society.
Even as a swami you can become dependent on those you rule; then you must cater to them—they hold your chair. If they get upset, the chair falls. So you must comply. The bhikshu too becomes dependent: on those who feed him. You cannot go against them. Thus Buddha’s great revolution was neutralized by bhikshus. A dependent man cannot be revolutionary. Only the self-reliant can be. If you depend on others, revolution dies.
Thus I restore the word swami, for it is precious—the lordship of oneself. And this time a swami must depend on no one—self-reliant. In that sense also he must remain his own master; in that sense too he must not lose his mastery.
So Buddha’s bhikshus have returned from alms. Daily they went—for them it was sadhana, meditation, an essential part of meditation. Go begging each day and watch how the mind is hurt by small things. If someone gives, you are pleased; if someone does not, you are angry. If someone gives delicious food, you shower thanks and deliver a long discourse; if someone does not, your discourse is short; even the thanks is half-hearted. To the house that gave good food you return; to the house that did not, you do not return; to the house that refused, you do not knock again.
Buddha made all this a process of awareness. Do not choose; what happens today, happens. Who knows tomorrow? He who refused today may give tomorrow; he who gave today may refuse tomorrow. So make no decisions based on today. Go new each day; do not let yesterday’s idea obstruct. And watch: when someone puts halwa and puri in your bowl, special gratitude arises; when someone puts dry bread, no special gratitude arises. Even the word ‘thanks’ is then formal. Watch all this; be alert—and slowly a moment comes when all becomes equal. If someone gives good—good; if someone gives poor—good; if none gives—good; if someone gives—good. In every condition your inner scales remain unshaken.
So the bhikshus, doing this meditation, returning from the village, were caught in rain.
They took shelter in a nearby building—the capital’s great courthouse. What they saw they were amazed by. One judge dozing while litigants argue! How will he decide? Perhaps he had decided beforehand. He is not even caring to listen. Or he will decide in his sleep. He does not even feel that men’s lives are at stake—and he is napping. Perhaps late into the night he played cards, or drank, or visited a prostitute—and he now sits to decide people’s lives!
They saw: in another, bias is clear—judgment is done beforehand; hearing is a formality. Perhaps he has taken a bribe, perhaps there is some relation, some nepotism.
They saw: another listens like a deaf man—eyes open, ears open, but he is elsewhere—in some thought. Perhaps he is in love with a woman and her image plays; or he has plans to make money and his mind schemes. He hears like the deaf.
Another looks like a blind man—eyes open, but he does not see. He is seeing elsewhere; entangled with some distant image.
The bhikshus saw this. If you had gone, you would not have seen—because you belong to the same world in which these courts run. You would find nothing amiss.
Gurdjieff once took his disciples to the forest for three months. He kept them in total silence—uncompromising silence: no speaking, no looking at another, no signaling with eyes or hands—for that too is speaking. If two silent ones met on the path and nodded, the matter is over. Gurdjieff even said: if while walking you step on someone’s foot, do not make any gesture that shows you have done so—do not even slide aside in that manner, for that too is speech. Thirty people in a small bungalow—great difficulty. Four or six to a room—how to sit without even a hint of signal! Unwitting signals happened; Gurdjieff expelled people. In three months only three remained. Whomever he saw make even a subtle expressive gesture, he sent out. But on those three, an extraordinary thing happened.
After three months Gurdjieff took them to the city: Come—I will show you, for the first time you will see what man is. They went to the city. One of them—Ouspensky—has written in his memoirs: for the first time we saw what man is! Before that we had never seen—though we lived among men.
In Tiflis we saw corpses walking. No one seemed alive. No one was in awareness. The dead were talking. Sleeping people were running on the roads. People were talking but not listening to each other; one says something, another answers something else; one speaks of earth, the other fires at the sky. Three months of silence had given such clarity—such a clean mirror—that the heart of others began to reflect, the minds of others began to imprint themselves upon it.
Ouspensky said to his master: let us go back—it is frightening; this is a village of the dead—why have you brought us here? The very village where we had lived—but we had never seen these people, because we were like them; how could we see? Blind among the blind—how to know the blind? Go blind to the blind, then return with healed eyes—then you will see: all are groping, all are stumbling; one falls into a pit, one into a drain, one into a well—all have fallen. Strange state: no one has eyes, yet all are certain that whatever they do is right. You too had the same certainty.
Had you gone to that court you would have seen nothing. But the bhikshus saw.
One judge was under the pressure of wealth; another of position; another of caste and lineage.
This and that—but none was in the state of justice. Only he can be just whose inner scales have balanced. If one’s own scale is not balanced, how will justice happen? Only he who has attained inner symmetry can be just. If within there is no equality—suppose you are a Brahmin and a Brahmin is on trial, unconsciously you will give lesser punishment. Not deliberately; you will not even know. If you are a Hindu and a Hindu is on trial, your tendency will be to give less; the same offense done by a Muslim will incur a little more punishment.
For the same crime one can give a year’s sentence, or a year and a half; for the same crime one can be acquitted. You will find tricks; you will find ways—and not knowingly. Understand, all this happens unconsciously. You will not know; the unconscious will play its game through you. Until a man is in awareness, the unconscious has great power; things happen “naturally.”
Let a beautiful woman stand in court—your mind will naturally lean to give less punishment. Not that you decide so, but if beauty attracts you, your sentence will be less.
The whole world has understood this—therefore in Western countries men were removed from shops and women came in to sell. It is understood women can sell more easily.
Imagine you go to a shoe shop and a beautiful lady with delicate hands helps you try shoes—cleans your feet, slips the shoe on—now the shoe is secondary; her lovely hands, face and fragrance become primary. When she says: It looks beautiful—you find it hard to say, No, it pinches. You say, Yes, very beautiful. When she steps back and looks admiringly at your feet—as though she has never seen such lovely feet—you quickly put your hand in your pocket, pay and leave. Even if she asks twenty-two for a twenty-rupee shoe—you pay. If there were a man there, and ugly at that, the shoe would pinch; you would try twenty-five pairs. If he said twenty-two, you would say, You are charging double—no more than twelve, ten at the most.
Man lives from the unconscious.
So the bhikshus saw rightly: much was happening in the name of justice that was not justice. They saw truth being made false, and false being made truth.
This is the business of courts. The entire profession of advocacy is this: how to make truth appear false and false appear true. His skill lies here. One who calls truth truth and false false cannot be a lawyer. He may be something else—but not a lawyer. Lawyer means: one who has the skill to establish falsehood as truth and truth as falsehood. The more skill, the bigger the lawyer. These big lawyers then become judges. A strange web.
There should be no need for lawyers. As long as lawyers exist, justice cannot exist. Why would justice need lawyers? A man has committed an offense—let him stand; let the victim stand—what need is there for lawyers? As long as the lawyer stands between, the matter will not be clear. He will produce webs and devices; he will twist and turn words; he will give new color and shape; he will so tangle everything that to untangle will be hard.
How can a judge deliver justice unless he has passed through some discipline of meditation? In no law book anywhere does it say that a judge must first meditate. It is not written—what has meditation to do with judges?
A judge must first meditate—must first attain to that state of mind where the unconscious no longer suggests from behind. Otherwise, a powerful man stands in court—hard to resist; a rich man stands—hard to resist; a man of position stands—hard to resist.
You have seen it: just recently in this country those in power earlier—until then things were one way—the courts were with them, judges for them, laws for them. Now all is against them; now a thousand faults are being found. Those faults were committed then—not now. When they happened no one saw; now they are being sought.
How? When power and prestige are with someone, no one seeks his faults. And do not think the faults now being sought are all true; perhaps fifty percent are lies—perhaps more. As before there was the lie of not seeking, now there is the lie of seeking—to please the new rulers.
Do not think those who were silent earlier were dishonest and those who are speaking now are honest. Their speaking contains as much dishonesty as the silence of those others.
The human mind is so tangled. Do not think these are great revolutionaries, who bring all matters out—these are the same dishonest folk. When power changes again, you will see they will change faces—masks are changed. Whose staff—his buffalo. No one has any relation with the buffalo; whose it is does not matter; whose staff! If the staff is not in your hand, even your buffalo is gone. In the village they say: the poor man’s wife is everyone’s sister-in-law. Everyone makes a relationship with her, jokes with her; there is no problem—the poor man’s wife!
Until a man is meditative there can be no justice in his life. In this little story Buddha establishes the foundation-stone of justice.
There no one cared for justice. Where there is no justice, how can there be compassion?
Remember: compassion is a higher principle than justice. Justice is human; compassion is divine. Justice is: as Jesus recalled from the old scripture—an eye for an eye. If someone throws a brick at you, throw a stone—that is justice. But that is not compassion.
A man steals fifty rupees from someone’s pocket. Justice is: return the fifty and do two months in jail. This is just. It is fine—and we do not even have this in the world; even this much is not happening. Even here a thousand influences intrude—is he to be punished or rewarded? None knows.
But compassion goes further. Compassion will consider: why did this man have to steal fifty rupees? Was his wife ill? For nothing occurs out of context. He did not snatch fifty rupees for nothing. Was his child dying? Was his wife sick and there was no money for medicine? If the wife is dying and a man steals fifty rupees—is it so great a crime? If we take into account his longing to save his wife, is the theft of fifty rupees so heinous? And he stole from someone who has millions—this too is a part of the context. From him fifty is as nothing—and the wife is saved!
Should he be punished? How much? Should the fifty be taken back from him? Should he be sent to prison for two months? To take back the fifty means the wife will not be saved; to send him to jail for two months means the children will suffer; the wife will remain ill, perhaps die; the children may turn vagabond. After two months, when he returns, he will be in worse condition than before. If then, in that earlier state, he stole fifty—after two months he will be ready to steal a hundred. The court did nothing; it made things worse!
Justice is a small principle. We do not even have justice. Compassion should be; compassion is vast. Compassion means: we consider the context—who has been stolen from, why, in what state? Were the judge in that state—would he not also steal fifty?
There is an old story. A young man said to his master: I want to go into meditation so deep that nothing remains—only Brahman remains. The master said: meditate. He created all the facilities. In comfort he meditated. After some days he began to proclaim the mahavakya of the Upanishads: Aham Brahmasmi! The disciples thought: he has attained. Whenever he spoke he spoke only of Aham Brahmasmi. Sitting silently the chant arose within.
The master called him and said: Fine—now stop eating for twenty-one days. Not even twenty-one—after five or seven days the chant stopped. After two weeks he began to abuse and complain: what ill-manners! You are starving me! By three weeks he was deranged.
The master called and asked: What now—Aham Brahmasmi? He said: Stop this nonsense—Food! Annam Brahma! For these three weeks only one truth remained—food is Brahman. All that Aham Brahmasmi and such—useless talk. The master said: now you understand. It is not so cheap!
Let a judge place himself in the situation of the thief—then compassion will arise.
But compassion is far; even justice is not present. The bhikshus saw: how can justice happen? And, Lord, you say compassion should be—here not even justice is!
Justice is arithmetic—no room for the heart. Compassion belongs to the heart—it is above arithmetic.
The bhikshus returned and told the Blessed One. He said: So it is, bhikshus! What should not be, is. That is the world.
Where what should be, is—that is nirvana—that is the supreme state. Where what should not be, goes on—this is the world. This is a world of stupor, a state drowning in sleep, a dream of sorrow.
Then he uttered the two gathas.
‘He who decides without reflection is no judge.’
First—let there be discrimination, deliberation; first the hush of meditation, the ability to see; vision, the capacity to see impartially—only then is one a dharmastha. First become established in justice within, then you can be a judge without.
‘He who knows benefit and non-benefit—justice and injustice—and who judges with reflection and with equanimity…’
Who knows what is essence and what is non-essence; what is just and what unjust—and who holds equanimity within—only he can judge. For justice, equanimity is the first condition; equanimity is the hallmark of Samadhi.
Perhaps one day humanity will rise to the height where Samadhi is made the prerequisite for being a judge. Until then justice cannot be. Until then, in the name of justice, injustice prevails—the injustice of the powerful is called justice. The strong strike and do not let you cry; if you cry—it is a crime. Let the strong beat you—and smile.
There was an emperor of Germany—Frederick. People feared him. He would beat anyone—always carried a whip—at the smallest thing he would lash out. A strange man; powerful he was. Once in the street he saw someone walking; the man quickly went into a lane. The emperor ran after him: Why did you turn into the lane? You were walking straight! He said, Out of fear of you—the truth slipped out. The emperor said: That is wrong—the people should love the king, not fear him. He flogged him and while flogging cried: Say now—do you love me? The man said, Sir, I do; I have always loved you.
If love can be created by the whip—what kind of love is that? Yet so far, in the name of justice, the justice of the strong runs: if you are weak, your act is injustice; if you are strong, your act is justice.
Justice should be based on equanimity; judges should be only sannyasins—a strange idea perhaps, but true.
‘He who judges with equanimity—he alone, protected by dharma, intelligent—is called a judge.’
Second sutra, second scene:
There was an arahant named Ekudan—a kshinashrava, one whose asravas have been exhausted. He lived alone in the forest. He knew only one discourse—only one, as I do—he would speak it every day. He would deliver the same every day. Naturally, he had no disciple.
How could he? Whoever came would flee—the same discourse word for word each day. He knew nothing else. Still, daily he spoke.
No man stayed by him, but the devas of the forest listened. And when he finished, the forest gods applauded: Sadhu! Sadhu! The whole forest would resound, Sadhu! Sadhu! Thank you! Thank you!
One day two great scholars came, each with five hundred disciples—Tipitaka-masters. Ekudan welcomed them and, happy, said: Revered ones, you have come. I know only one discourse; the poor forest-gods must be tired of hearing it again and again. Today you speak; we too shall listen and the devas will rejoice. Out of kindness they greet even this old man’s single discourse with ‘Sadhu, sadhu,’ but you are knowing ones, masters of the Tripitaka. You have each five hundred disciples; see—this old man has not even one—who would become a disciple for one discourse?
Hearing this, the two great pundits looked at each other with meaningful smiles. Living alone, this Ekudan has gone a bit soft, they thought. Otherwise who would give the same discourse every day! And, what devas! Ah, the poor fellow—old age has filled his mind with fancies; he has slipped from reality.
They then preached in turn—scripturally correct, scholarly, well buttressed by argument. Their disciples applauded: Sadhu! Sadhu! The old Ekudan too was delighted. Only one thing troubled him: the forest-gods said nothing; they were silent. He said to the pundits: What is this? Today the devas are silent—what has happened? They listen daily to my discourse, and their ‘Sadhu, sadhu’ fills the forest. Today such supreme teaching has happened, such knowledge—and they are silent.
Again the pundits laughed at the old man. They said lightly: Please, let us hear your discourse as well. They thought: let us humor him.
The old man went to the seat with great diffidence, and with modesty and hesitation he spoke his brief discourse. When it ended, the forest thundered with ‘Sadhu! Sadhu! Sadhu!’—from tree to tree, from stone to stone—everywhere the devas resounded.
The pundits were astonished. Then the old man was not crazy; the devas are. For in his discourse there is nothing special—a very ordinary talk anyone could give.
Earlier they thought: the old man is mad; there are no devas. Now they thought: devas there are, and the old man is not mad—but the devas are mad. For we spoke with such scholarship and they did not understand; this old man’s same discourse—and they applaud!
The two remained silent; but their disciples told the Blessed One of this marvel. The Blessed One said: Truth is not in scripture; truth is not in words; truth is not in so-called intellectual knowledge—truth is experience. Experience manifests in emptiness, in silence, in inner aloneness. And when such living experience expresses itself, the whole existence can well be delighted—there is no wonder.
Then he spoke this gatha—
‘Not by much speaking does one become a pandit; but he who is at ease (khemi), without enmity (averi), and fearless (abhayo)—he alone is called pandit.’
This is a sweet story. First—this old Ekudan was a kshinashrava. Kshinashrava is a Buddhist technical term: one whose asravas—outflows—have become exhausted. There are four asravas. First, kamasrava: in whom desire no longer arises—no lust, no ambition; who does not think: Let me do this, let me do that; in whom the disease of doing has ended—that is the fall of the first asrava; he now simply is—no mania to become.
See yourself: whenever you sit, the mania to do is there—do this, that; leave a name in history; having come thus, do not go thus; we shall go, but our name will remain; let us carve it on stone—this is kamasrava.
Second, bhavasrava: the craving to be—may I get heaven, moksha, at least a good womb; may I get life—long life, longevity; may I go on being; let me become this or that. Some are obsessed with doing—others with becoming. Those whose bhavasrava has fallen—whose thirst to be has gone, who say: I am as I am—that is enough; whose craving to live is finished—these are kshinashravas.
Third, drishtasrava: the attachment to viewpoints, to scriptures, to doctrines—‘I am Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jain, Buddhist.’ Such attachments cloud intelligence; layers gather on the eye. Looking through one’s own glasses, the world is colored—red glasses, the whole world seems red; they think the world is red. Those whose drishtasrava has fallen are kshinashravas.
Fourth, avidyasrava: ‘I am’—I am a soul—this is avidya. Buddha says a great and unique thing: to assert ‘I am’ is due to ignorance. The Whole is—where am I? There is ocean—where is the separate wave? We are not separate at all—there is only One. This claim of separateness—my boundary, my definition: I this, I that—that claim is avidya.
He whose four asravas have fallen is called kshinashrava.
This old bhikshu Ekudan was such. This is the supreme state—the state of an arahant. ‘Arahant’ means one whose enemies have been destroyed—ari means enemy; whose enemies are slain, these four.
The Jains call the same man Arihanta.
Such a bhikshu lived alone in the forest. He had no expectation of others. If someone came, stayed—fine; if none came—fine. He did not go anywhere. But regularly he spoke every day—even alone.
This too matters. A flower opens alone in the woods—its fragrance will flow whether someone is there to breathe it or not. A lamp is lit in the dark—its light spreads, whether eyes are present or not. Even an empty temple—light will spread. So his discourse flowed—it was like fragrance. It was not delivered ‘to someone’—it happened. Like waterfalls run, flowers bloom, lamps burn, moon and stars move—so this was a natural event.
Do not think it was obligation—‘I must deliver.’ No. Ekudan must have felt: something is overflowing. What is known, flows; what is realized, is shared.
When Mahavira first attained, knowledge poured from him. A sweet tale: no man was there—only devas. They listened and applauded; then there was silence. But devas have this flaw: they can only applaud; they cannot do. In that sense devas are impotent. Therefore India’s seers have said: the gate of liberation is through man, not through the gods. Even devas must become human to be liberated. Devas can talk, thank—but cannot do: for doing, a body is required; they have none.
Think of your mind floating in the sky—that is a deva. Only mind remains—you can think, you can speak; you cannot do. For doing, the instrument of body is needed. Animals cannot do, for they lack mind; devas cannot do, for they lack body. Only man can—since he has both mind and body. Deva is like steam without engine; animal—engine without steam; man alone has both—so movement, transformation become possible.
Mahavira’s speech devas heard; they cried ‘Sadhu!’—then silence. Mahavira had to go to towns to find men. Devas will keep listening and applauding—but nothing else happens.
Ekudan lived in the forest; from him discourse must have flowed. ‘Delivered’ is not right—‘flowed’ is right. The Jains say well: Mahavira’s speech ‘dripped’—not ‘He spoke.’ Speaking involves will; dripping is like a happening.
And his discourse was the same each day. When jasmine blossoms, its own fragrance comes; when the rose blooms, its own perfume arises. You will not say: daily the rose gives the same perfume and jasmine gives the same scent. What happens must happen. There was one essence; that essence resounded. Daily he spoke the same; the forest resounded; devas applauded—‘Sadhu! Beautiful! Excellent! True!’
Then came the two pundits, who knew all Buddha’s words by heart. They thought: the old man has gone mad. Pundits have always thought that the man of Samadhi is mad. The pundit understands words, not silence; doctrines, not Samadhi. They smiled: this old man, living alone, says he preaches alone—to whom? And he says devas applaud—what devas! All fancy. He has gone slightly crazy.
But the old man said: You have come—good. The devas must be bored of my one discourse. You speak; I shall listen and the devas too. They spoke—scripturally correct. But ‘correct’ is not enough. You may repeat Buddha’s words like a machine, but if Buddhahood has not ripened in you, your speech will be impotent.
The devas were silent. No cry rose. The old man, hesitant, spoke; what happened happened—the forest rang with applause.
See the pundit’s delusion. First he thought, The old man is mad. When fact forced change: the devas exist; the old man is not mad—then, The devas are mad! For in the old man’s talk there was nothing; ours, so learned, went over their heads. They did not see—even after such a vast proclamation—that there must be something in the old man’s words which we do not grasp. The depth of a word is not in the word, it is in the experience.
They kept quiet; they did not tell Buddha, lest their ego be hurt; their disciples told him.
Buddha said: Truth is not in scripture, not in words, not in intellectual knowledge; truth is in experience. He who knows Samadhi knows truth. And when the fragrance of Samadhi arises, if the world is stirred into celebration, do not be surprised.
That was the discourse: what Ekudan spoke was true; what the pundits spoke was idle chatter.
Remember: until your Samadhi ripens, whatsoever you say is chatter. Pour all energy into the ripening of Samadhi. Stake all on one thing: let the experience occur within. Do not chant ‘God, God’; do not repeat ‘Atman, Atman’; live, know. Let it be that one day you become kshinashrava and the spontaneous utterance of truth arises from you.
Then Buddha said: Much speaking does not make a pandit; he who is at ease, without enmity, fearless; in whom forgiveness and patience abide—
These are the shadows of Samadhi. With Samadhi, infinite patience comes—no fever remains. No craving to make anything happen. Whatever happens, happens rightly; and what happens, happens in its own time. Nothing occurs out of season. When spring comes, flowers bloom; when the season ripens, the tree bends with fruit; all happens in its time. What need for impatience? Everything happens in its season. All is as it should be—that felt knowing is patience. Then a great capacity arises—such a lake of being, no ripples of tension.
And aversion drops—against whom? Here all is the dwelling of One; these are waves of the same One. Against whom enmity? No other remains. Therefore fearlessness. No enmity, no other—what fear? In such a state one is the true pandit.
This is Buddha’s new definition of pandit—not by knowing the Veda, nor by birth in a Brahmin house, but by Samadhi. Pandit in its original sense means ‘one of awakened prajna’—and prajna awakens only in Samadhi.
Third scene:
Lakunthaka Bhaddiya Thera was very short—extremely short. One day thirty bhikshus came from the forest to see the Blessed One in Jeta’s Grove. As they were going to bow to the Master, at that very time Lakunthaka Bhaddiya Thera had bowed and was leaving. When the bhikshus arrived the Blessed One asked: Did you see the thera going out? ‘Bhante, we saw no thera; only a little shramanera was going.’ The Blessed One said: Bhikshus, he is no shramanera; he is a thera. The bhikshus said: Bhante, he is so small—how can he be a thera? The Blessed One said: Bhikshus, from grey hair and from sitting on the elder’s seat one does not become a thera. He who has realized the Aryan truths and has become harmless to the great multitude—he alone is thera. Thera is not related to age or body; it is related to bodh. Bodh is limited neither by time nor space—bodh transcends all limits; bodh is freedom from identification.
Then he uttered these gathas—
‘One does not become a thera because his head has turned grey; only his age has ripened—he is called an old man in vain.’
‘In whom there are truth and dharma, ahimsa, restraint and self-mastery—he, stainless and steadfast, is called thera.’
First understand the word sthavira (thera).
It has two meanings. One—the same as Krishna’s ‘sthitaprajna’ in the Gita: one whose prajna has become steady; within whom there is no restlessness; who is unshaken—like a lamp that burns without flicker. The second: sthavira means mature, elder—ripened by experience; one who has seen life, known and recognized it, and understood its mystery; now illusions do not befall him; dreams do not arise; he lives in reality—mature.
The little story—
Lakunthaka Bhaddiya was very short; anyone would mistake him for a boy. When the bhikshus came to see Buddha, he asked: Lakunthaka Thera has just left; did you meet him on the path? ‘No, Lord—we saw no thera. A shramanera went by.’ Shramanera—candidate monk; not yet a monk—an apprentice. They had seen a little fellow—a boy—at most a shramanera; a thera must be old, with greying hair and age. The Lord said: He is not a shramanera; he is a thera. The bhikshus said: Bhante, he is so small—how can he be a thera at such a young age!
We always assume knowledge is related to age. It is not. With age only ignorance grows thicker. Knowledge can happen any time—do not wait for old age. Often hair ripens in the sun—not out of maturity.
When Buddha was born, a hundred-year-old sage ran from the Himalayas to the palace of Buddha’s father. Seeing him, the king bowed. The sage said: Sitting in Samadhi I saw that a child is born in your house who will be a Buddha—I have come to see him. The father was startled: he is four days old—you have come! Still, bring him, he said. They placed the infant in the sage’s lap. He lay prostrate at the baby’s feet—and tears flowed from his eyes. The king grew concerned: What is this? It is not seemly for you—a world-renowned master, with millions of devotees—to bow at a four-day-old’s feet. Has your mind become unbalanced? Why do you weep? The sage said: I weep because my days are done. When this child becomes a Buddha, I shall not be on this earth. I would have sat at his feet, listened to his voice, swayed in his waves. Blessed are they who will be here when he attains. I am unfortunate—I am leaving. Therefore I have run: if I cannot see the tree, let me bow to the seed—the flower is hidden in the seed too.
Knowledge is not related to age. Buddha said: Bhikshus—by growing old, by sitting in the elder’s seat, one does not become a thera.
This is no title—that once old, one is a thera. It is a state of bodh: you have begun to live life in awareness; the fruit of Samadhi has ripened; prajna is steady—no agitated waves within; the mirror is pure.
He who has realized the Aryan truths—
Buddha spoke of four Aryan truths: First—life is dukkha. Second—there is a way out of dukkha. Third—there is a path, a discipline, to go beyond. Fourth—beyond dukkha is nirvana. These four: there is sorrow; there is a path to end sorrow; there are means to walk it; and beyond the ending there is a state of consciousness. He who has experienced these four truths is a thera.
Who has become ahimsak—
Violence arises so long as there are restless waves within—so long as there is ambition: to become this, to become that; whoever comes in the way must be removed; competition breeds enmity. One who has nothing to become, nothing to be, nothing to attain; who is content with his being; who is contented within; in whom tathata has blossomed—how can he be violent? He has no hostility, no rivalry, no competition—he becomes ahimsak. Ahimsa is freedom from ambition.
Thera is related not to age or body—but to bodh.
In whom the living experience is: I am not body, I am consciousness. This body is my house; I dwell in it. I am not the clay lamp; I am the flame within. He alone is thera.
Bodh is constrained neither by time nor space. Bodh crosses all limits; bodh is freedom from identification.
These three little stories and their small gathas can open many pages of your life. They can become the beginning of a new chapter for you.
Thus we shall consider more sutras of Buddha, and I shall keep the gathas with their stories so that you grasp the full context and situation in which Buddha spoke.
These words are extraordinary—simple, yet very deep. If their blow falls upon your mind, there is no reason why one day you too should not attain Buddhahood.
Buddhahood is everyone’s birthright.
Enough for today.