Es Dhammo Sanantano #83

If you ask “when,” you will never be able to take it. Hidden inside “when” is “never.” “When” means you want to postpone, to defer. There is no tomorrow; there is only today. Whatever is to be done, do it now. And if you must postpone, postpone the bad—don’t postpone the good. If you want to be angry, then ask, “When?” If you want to love, don’t ask. If you want to be greedy, then ask, “When?” If you want to give, don’t ask. Do the auspicious instantly.

About the auspicious, remember this: if even a moment passes, you may no longer be on that height of awareness where the auspicious could have happened. You are not always in the state where you can love—only sometimes. Sometimes a window opens, and then you wander off again. Sometimes a star becomes visible, and then darkness returns. So when the star is visible—do it then.

Keep this in mind—this formula can be revolutionary in life: postpone the bad, say, “We’ll do it tomorrow; what’s the hurry?” Do the good now—don’t push it to tomorrow. Who knows whether tomorrow will come or not? Tomorrow is not so reliable. And if the bad doesn’t happen—so much the better; you had postponed it and it got postponed. But if the good doesn’t happen, you will be deprived of life’s wealth.

And sannyas is the deepest matter in life. You ask “when” because you have not yet understood what sannyas means. Sannyas means the art of living in the present—living here and now. Not letting this moment pass without living it—that is sannyas. Not sacrificing this moment for some other moment, not laying it on the altar of another time, but living it totally, integrally, with your whole being. From this moment alone the door to the divine opens.

The divine is neither in the future nor in the past. In the past there is ash, memories, footprints left on the sands of time. In the future there are imaginations, expectations, desires. The divine cannot be in the past—he is not so dead as to be in the past. What passed yesterday does not contain the divine—it slipped away from the divine, it dried up like a leaf fallen from the tree. Don’t go seeking the tree’s sap in a fallen, dry leaf. If the sap were there, the leaf wouldn’t have dried, broken, and fallen. The past means dry leaves that have fallen—life no longer abides in them. They didn’t leave life; life left them. Life has moved on into new leaves. The days that have gone are dead.

Do not seek the divine in the past. Many do. The moment they remember God, they search in the Vedas, the Quran, the Bible. You won’t find him there. You will have to search now, here—lift the veil of this very moment. And some people search in the future: “We’ll seek tomorrow, the day after; when we are old we will seek. Right now there is life, we are young, there is so much else to do. If it ever happens, we’ll see later. There are more pressing matters at the door.”

Even when someone thinks of the divine, he puts him at the end of the queue. But the end of the queue never comes; the divine grows tired standing there. Your queue keeps lengthening. There are a thousand things to do in the world; God comes after the thousand. Those thousand never finish. From one task ten more arise, from ten a hundred—leaf upon leaf, branch upon branch; the worldly tree keeps spreading. And the divine stands where he stands, receding farther and farther away. He is nearer to children; he grows more distant from the old.

Hence all the wise have said: unless you become innocent like a child, you will not be able to attain him.

The divine is not in the future; the future is your desire. How can the temple of the divine be built in the stench of desire? Where is the future except as your longing? The past is that which is no more. The future is that which is not yet. Between the two—between past and future—there is a small doorway called the present. There he is. You must slip through there. The doorway is narrow; without awareness you will miss. Only with utmost wakefulness can you enter.

And you ask, “I want to take sannyas; when should I take it?”
Don’t ask “when” at all. Let me tell you a small story.

In South India there was an extraordinary sannyasin named Sadasiva Swami. He was living in his master’s ashram, young then, not yet a renunciate. He had gone to learn wisdom. Often it happens that you go to learn knowledge and you return having learned sannyas. That is what a master is: you go for one thing, and he hands you something else. People go to get their questions answered, and the master solves them instead. People go to become a little more informed, a little more scholarly, and passing through the alchemy of the master they do not remain what they were; they return new.

Sannyas means just this—rebirth, a new birth. The old dies and suddenly you are new, the chain with the old is broken. Your old name is gone, your old house gone, your old address gone. You begin life again from A, B, C. You understand that the way you have lived so far leads nowhere; let us begin anew. You start building a new house.

Sannyas is not whitewashing the old house; it is not renovation of the old. Sannyas is the foundation of a new house—and you have to start from the foundation. Remember, however much you plaster and prop up an old house, it remains old. You can change the plaster, change the furniture—all the decoration will be new, but the house is old and will remain old. If you want a new house, you must build a new one.

So Sadasiva went—then he was not “Swami,” he was young, in search of knowledge, obsessed with becoming a philosopher. He stayed with the master and learned a lot—everything except the essential. He learned the master’s words. All that the master knew, he memorized. He was deceiving the master and deceiving himself, because the master is not finished in what he says. Listen to what the master says, but try to become what the master is. Do not take the spoken word as everything; that is refuse, leftovers. Recognize the innermost source from which those words arise—then there will be revolution in your life.

He became a great scholar. Sadasiva’s name began to spread. People came to debate with him. One day a very famous pundit, renowned across the land, came—and Sadasiva argued with such force that he shattered the pundit’s arguments. It was a cold morning, yet the pundit broke into a sweat. He had never known such defeat.

But Sadasiva was puzzled: the master was sitting there witnessing it all, neither curious nor impressed. Not once did he signal with his eyes, “Good, well done.”

And when the pundit left defeated, the master said only this: “Young man, when will you conquer your speech? When will you be free of knowledge? When will you be liberated from argument?”

Sadasiva listened. It must have been a most precious moment. He had expected something else—that the master would pat his back, say, “My son, you are now worthy—fit to sit in my seat.” But the master said, “When will you conquer your speech? When will you be free of knowledge? When will you come out of the web of logic? Sadasiva—when?”

He had expected one thing; something else happened. With great longing he had waited—he had defeated a great pundit—he must have craved praise, a reward. But what came was a blow—and it struck home.

Often when the iron is hot, that is the moment to strike. The master has to wait for the right moment. He chose well. The door of Sadasiva’s heart was open for praise; the master did not miss it. He asked, “When, Sadasiva?” Sadasiva looked up into the master’s eyes, and in a single instant he understood.

When there is readiness, understanding happens in an instant. You don’t have to work it out; it is seen, it is a direct seeing. He saw the truth of it: “He’s right. I have spread a net of words for nothing; I know nothing, I have no experience. I argued, I defeated the pundit, but neither he knows nor do I. Tomorrow someone else may come and defeat me. My life has no foundation. I am entangled in verbiage; I have wasted so much time.” Like lightning in the dark, everything was illuminated—clear in a single flash. Not that he went through a chain of reasoning—no. In one instant it was all seen.

He placed his head at the master’s feet and said, “You ask, ‘When?’ The moment to do it is now. Then let it be now!” He said, “You ask, ‘When?’ Give your blessings—it has happened just now.” And from that day Sadasiva fell silent; he did not speak again his whole life. He simply stopped. From that day he became a muni, a silent sage. That day he took sannyas. He bowed at the master’s feet and left his speech there, left his arguments, left his knowledge—left everything. He began to live in an incomparable bliss.

Others thought he had gone mad. “He used to speak so much, explain so much, debate so brilliantly. Among the master’s disciples he was the most sharp and radiant. Has he gone mad? What has happened to the poor fellow?”

Reports reached the master: “What has happened to Sadasiva? It seems he has gone mad.” And the master said, “If only more would go mad like this! Sadasiva has become a muni, not mad. He was mad before, deranged—now he is liberated. Sadasiva has become a sannyasin.”

You ask, “When should I take sannyas?”
If you are to take it—now. If you are not to take it—when. “When” is a screen, a trick. It is a way of thinking—a very cunning device. “When” means you do not want to take it and yet you also want to convince yourself that you do want to. If your house were on fire, would you ask, “When should I go out?” If the house is on fire, you leap out. If a snake rears up on the path, do you ask, “When should I jump past it?” You jump at once.

If the truths of life become visible to you, you won’t ask “when.” What is there in your life for which you should wait for tomorrow? What holds you back? There is nothing so valuable. What do you have in your hands except illusion and illusion? Your fist is empty; you are empty.

“When” is the mind’s old strategy. When the mind wants to put something off, it says, “We’ll do it tomorrow.”

Mark Twain wrote a memoir. He went to church to hear a sermon. After five or seven minutes he was greatly impressed—the preacher was very powerful. Mark Twain thought, “Today I will donate a hundred dollars.” Ten more minutes passed; now he was no longer listening—he was thinking of the hundred dollars. Then he thought, “A hundred is a bit much; fifty will do.” Ten more minutes passed; “Fifty dollars? Not worth fifty—twenty-five will do.” He kept sliding down—and finally came to one dollar. When the sermon was about to end, he had arrived at one dollar.

He writes, “Then I realized—and I got up and ran out of the church, because I was afraid that when the collection plate came around my condition had become such that I might take something out of it and put it in my pocket! I had gone to give a hundred! Out of fear I rushed outside, lest I pick something from the plate.”

You think you’ll take sannyas tomorrow! By tomorrow your worldly habits will be stronger. By tomorrow you will water your chains. Twenty-four more hours will pass—you will have been mad for twenty-four more hours. You will have spread more nets, created more desires, more ambitions, more disturbances. If you cannot be free today, how will you be free tomorrow? The day after will be even harder. It gets harder each day. As it is, it’s already very late.

So I will only say this: whatever you have to do, do it in the moment. Only the present has existence—that alone is. This eternal now—that is the very nature of time.

I have heard an amazing story. There was a wondrous true master named Fachang. His entire teaching was only this: “Now, here.” Just two words. The emperor had invited him to Japan to give discourses. He stood on the platform—the emperor seated, his courtiers present, a great arrangement; Fachang was a famous master. He struck the table loudly and said, “Now, here.” He stepped down and left. The emperor was startled. He asked his ministers, “What is this? What kind of discourse is this—banging the table and saying ‘Now and here’? What does it mean?”
The ministers said, “Your Majesty, that is his whole teaching. In it he has said all that the Buddhas of all times have said.”

If you are to do the auspicious—now and here.

Later, when Fachang was dying—he was on his bed, the end approaching—the disciples had gathered. They thought, “All his life he said ‘now and here.’ Death has come; let’s ask again—perhaps he will say something more.” Someone asked, “Master, explain once more the principle of being aware in the present.” Fachang opened his eyes. Just then a squirrel ran across the thatched roof and chattered—chiin-chiin, kit-kit. Fachang said, “This—this. Nothing else. It is just this, and nothing else.” He smiled, closed his eyes, and died.

The squirrel’s chatter—and he said, “This.” Do you hear the cuckoo? Right now the cuckoo is calling koo-hoo, koo-hoo. She did not plan it a moment earlier, and a moment later she will not preserve a memory of it. She has no blueprint that says, “At eight twenty-five I will sing koo-hoo, koo-hoo.” And having sung, she does not look back: “I sang.” What has happened has happened. To live in nature like this is called sannyas.

Sannyas is not a thing you “take,” not a method, not an institution. Sannyas is awareness—the consciousness to live life moment to moment.

This question is important. It is absolutely fundamental for understanding Buddha’s teaching. Buddha’s whole message is contained in this one small word—Majjhim Nikaya. Majjhim Nikaya means the Middle Way, the path in the middle.
The words are simple, but their implication is very deep; much is contained in them. This is the very revolution Buddha brought into the world—the Middle Way.
Try to understand.

The human mind swings to extremes. The mind is very skilled with extremes. You are mad after wealth, after position—only one tune runs within you: “On to Delhi.” If you are mad after position or wealth, some day it will happen—you will get tired of the race for wealth, the race for position; then you will begin to move in the opposite direction. You will say, “Touching money is sin.” Wherever there is money, you will run away. First you ran after wealth; now wherever there is wealth you run away. First you were crazy for status; now too the craziness is the same—only the direction has changed. Wherever there is position, you will flee. But the state of your consciousness has not changed.
One day you were mad for woman; now, frightened of woman, you are running away, heading for the Himalayas. You want to go where there is no woman. You are still bound to woman—before you faced toward her, now you have turned your back; but what difference does that make? You are not free of woman. You have gone to the opposite, but you are not free. From one extreme you have gone to the other, but you are not free.

That is why it often happens that those who eat a lot end up someday going to Urli Kanchan for treatment. Those who go to Urli Kanchan are the ones who have eaten excessively. Excessive eating—then fasting.
You may have noticed: in very prosperous religions fasting has prestige. For example, among Jains in India fasting has prestige. Among Muslims it does not. The Muslim is so poor—what prestige can fasting have? a fast is going on anyway! When a festive day comes, when Eid comes, then look: he wears new clothes, has halva-puri prepared, sprinkles a little perfume—cheap—where would he bring expensive from? This is the occasion when he changes his clothes; all year he manages with the same clothes. Then Eid comes, then he changes. This is the day he celebrates. So the Muslim’s religion is the religion of the poor. Naturally, fasting has no prestige; celebration has prestige. The Jain’s religion is the religion of the rich. Naturally, eating puris and halva people have had too much—so Paryushan vows, ten days of fasting.
Keep in mind: man goes to the opposite. When India was very rich, the greatest renouncers appeared here—because of excess. When the country became poor, only the stories of renunciation remained; renunciation lost its meaning. For renunciation, wealth is needed.
You can see it happening in America. Sons of rich homes have become hippies. Those to whom everything was available have left it all, wandering in Kabul and Kathmandu. Those who had every facility have left them and gone roaming jungles and villages! What has happened to them? One extreme was there; they have gone to the other. Excess of indulgence leads a person to the excess of renunciation.

And Buddha says: the path is in the middle—do not go to extremes. Otherwise you will keep wandering like the pendulum of a clock from one end to the other. The path is in the middle.
You have seen: when the pendulum of the clock goes from left to right, it is going to the right, but at the same time it is gathering the energy, the momentum, to go left again. You don’t see that from above. It appears to be going to the right—but while going right it is accumulating the energy to go left. Then it will go left. When it goes left it will accumulate the energy to go right.
The mind is very strange, very contradictory. Because of it the clock keeps running; it doesn’t stop. The pendulum keeps swinging from left to right; the clock keeps running. The mind keeps running by swaying between opposites.

Buddha says: stop the pendulum in the middle—neither left nor right—then the clock will stop. Stop it in the middle and mind is gone. Neither indulgence nor renunciation—that is Majjhim Nikaya. Be neither an indulger nor a renouncer. Neither world nor liberation. Do not remain crazy for wealth, and do not grasp the craziness of renouncing wealth. Come to rest in between. You have nothing to do with wealth. You have nothing to do with position. Awaken the witnessing. Watch with awareness whatever is happening. You remain in the middle. The art of abiding in the middle is called Majjhim Nikaya. And the person who remains in the middle becomes free.

Now look and test this in your own life—observe: every day this happens—one extreme to the other. You have overeaten; you start thinking of fasting. Then in fasting you think only of food—what else will you think! The pendulum has gone left; it starts thinking of the right. It goes right; it starts thinking of the left. Fasting brings taste back to food. So fasting and feasting appear to be opposites, but there is collaboration between them, a conspiracy; they are partners; they run the same shop.
There is relish in indulging in woman; then by indulging in woman—or in man—after a while distaste arises. Whatever you indulge in becomes insipid, because indulgence gives nothing in the end. Disappointment arises. Talks of dispassion begin: “Leave everything!” You run away; you sit in the forest; you close your eyes—and the woman is standing there, the man is standing there. The very thing you left behind begins to attract again. New enticing dreams arise. It’s a great joke: the one sitting in the forest is thinking about woman; the one sitting with woman is thinking about the forest.

I once went to Kashmir with some friends from Bombay. The houseboat we stayed in—the boatman would say to me every day, “Baba, show me Bombay!” I said, “What will you do? All these Bombay people are with me!” He said, “What is there here anyway?” He kept saying to me, “What is there here? Sometimes I wonder why people come here at all—what is there here! Just do this much: show me Bombay.” Even as we were leaving, bidding us farewell he said, “Baba, bless me so that I may see Bombay once.”
The one sitting in Kashmir wants to see Bombay. The one sitting in Bombay is going to Kashmir. Whoever is wherever is filled with the longing to go to the opposite. This is the mind’s process. The rich think the poor are having great fun. The one who lives in the city thinks the villagers are in great bliss. Often the poems you see that poets living in cities write about villages—that there is heaven in the villages—yet they live in the city! If it is heaven, who is stopping you? The village poet does not write that it is heaven there; he writes that it is hell. He says, how can electricity come to my village, a cinema be opened; how can a bus run, a train pass; how can airplanes fly; how can a university open? He is trying in every way to make the village into a city.
The one sitting in the city, in pigeon cages, imprisoned on the twenty-fifth floor of some building, sitting there thinks, “Aha! What heaven in the village! Open fields, greenery, clean air, a fresh sun!” He does not remember that there are other things in the village too—monsoon mud and dung-filled paths, filth, scorching heat, a thousand village nuisances, diseases and poverty and mosquitoes—that all. But he doesn’t remember; sitting there he thinks—greenery, lakes, moon and stars! The one sitting in the village thinks of the pleasures of the city—what delights! Sitting under his thatch through which water is dripping, he thinks—what pleasures, how people enjoy themselves in the city’s buildings. It is hot; sweat is dripping from him, and he thinks—what pleasures! In the cities there is electricity and fans are running.
The mind in the village is the same mind as in the city. Attraction remains fixed on the opposite—because what we have not lived, we think perhaps in living that there will be joy.

For years I came into contact with many kinds of sannyasins, monks and ascetics. And I was astonished to find that in all their minds there is a certain melancholy: perhaps worldly people really are enjoying; perhaps they truly are having fun! Inside them there is a fear: we have renounced—and here, after renouncing, nothing was gained; had something been gained, the matter would be finished—nothing was found here, and what there was we left—perhaps those people there are really getting something! For this very reason they keep trying to persuade others every day: you too run away, you too renounce. This preaching of fleeing and renouncing arises very deeply out of envy. Its birth is in jealousy.
You must have heard the story of the man whose nose, for some reason, was cut off. He fell in love with someone’s wife; the husband got angry and cut off his nose. Now a big problem arose.
But the man was clever—logical. He spread news in the village: having one’s nose cut brings great bliss. God’s vision has happened; the nose alone was the obstacle. He said, “This nose was the obstacle; from the day it was cut, from that day I have the vision of God. God is seen everywhere.”
At first people doubted—who has ever heard that cutting the nose brings God’s vision! But when he said it day after day, to everyone who came, and he began to look very blissful too, at last one village fool agreed and said, “Then cut mine too.”
He cut his nose; as soon as it was cut there was much pain, blood flowed, and no God whatsoever was seen. Then the first noseless man said to the second, “Listen: no God is seen—but now yours is cut too. The only sense now is that you also say the same. Otherwise people will think you are a fool. Now loudly spread the news that you do see!” So the guru got a disciple.
Then two or four more fools were found—there is no shortage of fools! Gradually noses in the village began to be cut, and whoever had his cut began to speak of supreme bliss. The matter reached even the emperor. The emperor too became curious: so many people are having the vision of God, and we, being emperor, are empty. At last he said to his viziers, “We will have to go. Arre, only the nose goes—let it go; what does one do with a nose anyway!” The vizier said, “My lord, let me investigate a bit; I suspect something here.” But he said, “You can suspect one man, but dozens have had their noses cut, and whoever’s is cut comes out dancing!”
The emperor went with his vizier. Even then the vizier said, “You wait a moment.” He had one noseless man seized and given a sound beating and said, “Tell the truth: what is the matter?” When he had been beaten enough, he said, “Now the truth: ours got cut; now it will not be joined again—in those days there was no plastic surgery—so the only sense is that whatever the guru says, we say too.”
It often happens—has often happened—that when a person runs away from life—left the wife. Neither by cutting the nose do God’s visions occur, nor by leaving the wife do God’s visions occur! Both statements are equally foolish. Neither has the nose been the obstacle, nor has the wife been the obstacle. And perhaps the nose could even become an obstacle, because it is right next to the eyes; the wife is very far away.
Someone ran away leaving wealth; he thinks wealth was the obstacle, that because of it the meeting with God was not happening. Because of wealth! Wealth is potsherds. Silver and gold are valuable for you; for God they are not valuable. That is human language. Even animals and birds do not care for it! Put the Kohinoor diamond in front of a buffalo—she will not care at all. Hang it around a donkey’s neck—he will not strut. For that, you need a fool like a human being.
So God does not even know what your wealth is; how will it become an obstacle! But the one who has left is seized by a restlessness—he has left, his nose has been cut; now the only sense is that others’ noses also be cut. Therefore very foolish notions keep going for centuries. They become tradition.

So Buddha says: avoid excess. Extremes are forbidden. Whether the extreme is of indulgence or of renunciation, of life or of death, of world or of liberation—an extreme is an extreme.

Who is free? In Buddha’s definition, free is the one who has taken his stand exactly in the middle—who now has neither the desire for wealth nor the desire to abandon wealth. This is a very revolutionary idea. One who now has neither attachment to the world nor aversion from the world. Neither raga nor vairagya. One who says, “The world in its place; I in mine.” One who has dropped all connections of attachment and aversion.
Remember: attachment is a connection; dispassion is also a connection. A relationship is formed by friendship, and a relationship is formed by enmity. You do not remember only friends; you remember enemies too—they also come into your dreams. And friends may sometimes be forgotten; enemies are never forgotten.
So in this world, neither make friendships nor enmities. In this world, neither say of anything, “Without this I cannot live,” nor say, “With this I cannot live.” This is a great revolution.
In the world of religion Buddha, for the first time, established a fundamental basis of psychology. He explained the nature of mind: the mind sways in extremes—this is the process of mind. If you want to be free of mind, then be free of extremes—and you will be free of mind. Extreme means mind; mind means extreme. And the one who is free of extremes—only that one is free, because that one is free of mind.

There are no fetters in the world at all. What can the world bind! How can it bind! How can the inert bind?

It is as if you grasp a pole, cling to it with all your might, and then shout that the pole has grabbed you. How will the pole grab you! If you want to hold on, I have no objection—hold it as much as you like—but at least don’t lie! Enjoy your grip; it’s your fun, your life. If you enjoy clutching poles, do so. No one need object.

But don’t say the pole has caught you! That’s a clever trick. Then you can say, “What can I do? Even if I let go it won’t release me; the pole has seized me!”

The world is not holding you. When you go, the world won’t weep. When your funeral bier goes out, your house won’t shed tears. The house will not even know when you came and when you left.

I have heard: An elephant was walking in his stately gait across a bridge, and a fly was sitting on him. When the bridge shook under the elephant’s weight, the fly said, “Son, looks like we weigh quite a lot—‘we’!” The elephant was startled: “Who is speaking?” “Don’t you know? I’m riding you, I’m your rider.” The elephant said, “Until you spoke I didn’t even know you were there; even now I can’t see who you are or where you are.”

When you go, will your strongbox cry for you? If money slips from your hand, do you think the money will writhe that those beloved hands are gone?

No. Money doesn’t even know you held it. The house doesn’t know you lived in it and set yourself up as owner. You set yourself up—that’s your mind’s web. The world has never held anyone, nor can it. We are the ones holding on.

This is basic to understand: we hold on. Because if it dawns on us that we are the ones gripping, then to drop or not to drop is our own delight. And I’m not even telling you to drop. I say, knowing that you are the one holding is enough—the matter breaks, finishes. What’s left?

Money is in the fist. Once you understand “I am the one grasping,” then even if the money remains in your fist, it’s no longer “in” your fist. You have recognized the grip is yours. What has money to do with it? From money’s side there is no relationship with me. Money is unrelated. It was before I was, it will be after I am gone—it will lie right here. For a little while I’ve just fallen into the delusion that it is mine. How much “mine” and “yours” we create!

Buddha said that one evening he went walking by a river and saw children building sand houses—sand houses! But the children were greatly into “mine” and “yours.” One said, “Mine is higher than yours.” Another, “What’s in yours!” All were building with sand and water. And sometimes with a child’s nudge someone’s sand house would collapse—sand houses collapse easily; sometimes they fall even without a push. Someone’s shove toppled someone’s house, so the child jumped on his chest: “Don’t you see? Can’t you walk alertly? You destroyed my house, ruined my effort!” Fights broke out.

Buddha stood on the bank watching: what a joke! Sand houses—they will fall. And even on sand houses claimants stand saying, “It’s mine, it’s yours.” They draw lines around their houses: “Don’t cross this boundary. Beware—if anyone enters here, it won’t be good!” And if someone enters, quarrels flare.

Then a maid came and called loudly, “Children, come home; it’s evening, the sun is setting, your mothers are thinking of you.” The children leapt and laughed; they themselves jumped on their own houses and trampled them down. The sand remained; the children danced and went home.

The next day Buddha told his monks: “Monks, there’s a great message in this. As long as they believed, the houses were theirs; if someone else knocked them down, quarrels arose. When the children knew it was time to go home—the evening had come—they themselves jumped and stamped their houses flat and went home laughing. The squabbles ceased; they forgot the whole thing. Those they fought with, they walked back hand in hand, arms around each other’s shoulders.

“Such is life, monks; such is the world. To one who clearly sees that here one must die—that evening is near, can be any time—what taste remains? What bondage remains?”

You ask, “How to be free of the world?”

You are already free of the world. Only your belief—a dream you have taken to be true—is that it is “mine.” Then to strengthen the dream we arrange big ceremonies. You marry a woman—one more dream. Then the priest comes, the band plays, the wedding procession sets out, mantras are chanted, fire is lit, seven circumambulations are taken. All this is arrangement to make the dream look real. Seven rounds are done, circles drawn, everyone celebrates, congratulates. This entire arrangement is our attempt that the dream not feel like a dream, that it become reality; that with so many people’s force it turn real, that by collective hypnosis it be made real. So the groom is seated on a horse and paraded through the village; all to instill the conviction that this is not some small matter.

A friend of mine has been harassed by his wife for years; and she by him. I said, “If both are so miserable, why not separate?” He said, “How can we separate? Seven rounds were taken.” I said, “Bring your wife; I’ll have you take seven reverse rounds—what more! You rode a horse; we’ll seat you backward on the horse and take you around—what more! You want band and drums? We’ll arrange it. A crowd? Plenty. What do you want? For one hypnosis you want another if that will break the first—fine, that too can be done. But what difference does it make!”

What’s needed is awakening. Which wife is yours? Which husband is yours? Which son is yours?

Buddha said to his father, “I certainly came through you, but I am not yours. You were a passage; I passed through you, but you have no ownership.” As one passes on a road, he doesn’t become the road’s! A son passed through a mother’s womb—that was a passage—what of that becomes yours?

But no, the passage stands up claiming, “Mine!” Then the trouble begins. We spin webs of mine-and-yours; we draw boundaries of mine-and-yours. Then we grip them tight; our self-interest gets invested there; our very life-breath gets stuck there. The world binds no one.

You ask, “How to be free of the world?”

What is there in the world!

The moon is spent,
the night remains over;
a handful of autumn’s verses.
Saffron has fragranced,
coming from Madhav,
whoever came was bewitched;
every shadow flared,
each shade blazed.
Moonlight turned to ash,
little by little the sun burned;
the talk is over,
only the memory remains.

What is there in the world!
The talk is over,
only the memory remains.

One day you will suddenly find—everything is over, nothing remains. Like having read a novel—so will this life feel.

Even now, look: you have lived forty or fifty years; look back. What are those forty years now? As if you watched a story on a film screen. What more? A dream remains inside, a memory remains—what else? On the day you die, what will remain in your hands in the name of the world? A small bundle of memories.

There is nothing in this world that can bind. But you are clutching it hard. So don’t ask how to be free of the world. Ask: how do I loosen my grip? These are different questions. Asking the question rightly is the indispensable condition for getting the right answer. Don’t ask, “How to be free of the world?” This is what your so-called traditional ascetics have asked and got into trouble. “How to be free of the world?” So they say: leave the shop, leave the wife, leave the children. First you assumed they were yours; now “leave”! The error was in the assumption—what is there to leave? How will you leave? The wife is not yours—how will you leave her? This claim of “leaving” stands on the same delusion that she was mine.

A friend of mine became a sannyasin—of the old type. Whenever we meet he says, “I kicked away lakhs.” I asked him, “Years have passed—seems the kick didn’t land right; otherwise why does the memory still linger? If the kick landed, finished—why remember?” And there weren’t any lakhs anyway. I told him, “You yourself, in front of me, used to say how much you had. I know exactly how much you had in your post office savings book.” He looked a bit scared; two or three of his disciples were sitting there. “We’ll talk later,” he said. “Not later—now,” I said.

There were no lakhs. He was a homeopathic doctor. Do homeopaths have lakhs? If one had lakhs, would he practice homeopathy! “You used to swat flies in your clinic; I never saw patients—only we friends came to chat. That was it! Tell the exact amount; I know it,” I said. “And you used to say ‘thousands’; now you say ‘lakhs’—‘I kicked away lakhs.’”

First, there were no lakhs. Second, this feeling of “kicking away” means ownership still persists. You still say, “They were mine—lakhs—and see, I left them.” Only what is “mine” can be left. In awakening it is simply seen: nothing is mine—what is there to leave!

Note this distinction. The awakened one neither runs nor renounces. He simply understands: nothing is mine. Then nothing remains to be done; what is there to leave! It is enough to see: wife is not mine, sons are not mine—these are assumptions. Fine. No need to say anything to anyone. No need to declare it. No need to beat your chest and announce. It’s a matter of understanding.

You were adding two and two to make five. Then you met me and I said, “Listen, two and two don’t make five, they make four.” If the point clicks, will you say, “I have renounced my old arithmetic that two and two make five”? You will say, “There was nothing to renounce; it was simply wrong— the foundation was wrong.” Even when you were making two and two five, five was not happening—it was only you thinking so; in reality two and two are four whether you add five or seven or anything. The day you see, two and two are four, it is understood—they were always four; only your delusion dissolved.

Nothing is yours. The day this is understood, the mathematics of life becomes clear—nothing is mine. There is nothing to renounce, nowhere to run. Where will you run? Wherever you go, there is the world. Sit in a cave? There is the world.

I have heard: A man, harassed, fled. Great disturbance in the world—he ran away and sat under a tree in a forest to meditate. A crow dropped its poop on his head! He grew furious: “This is the limit! I left the world because of its nuisance—and here under a tree a crow drops on me! There is no worth in this life.”

He went to the nearby river, thinking, “I should burn my bier here and die.” He gathered wood. A man watching said, “Brother, what are you doing?” “Collecting wood—I’m going to die; life is meaningless. I’ll sit on it and burn myself.” The other said, “Die somewhere else; if you do it here, there’ll be stench in our neighborhood and trouble. Go elsewhere.” He said, “This is too much! They don’t let me live; they won’t let me die.”

Where will you go? Wherever you are, there is the world. The world sprawls everywhere. So it’s not about going anywhere; only awaken within—and then you are free where you are.

You say, “The world’s fetters are very strong.”

There are no fetters—how can they be strong? I have never seen any chain between money and you. Has money put handcuffs on you!

There was a Sufi mystic, Bayazid. Passing a village with his disciples—he had the habit: if any occasion arose, he would stop and instruct them on the spot. He saw a man leading a cow—rope tied to her neck. Bayazid said to the man, “Stop, brother! Let me instruct my disciples.” They encircled the man and the cow. Bayazid asked his disciples, “Tell me: has the cow bound the man, or has the man bound the cow? Who is whose slave? Is the cow tied to the man, or the man tied to the cow? Who is the owner?”

Naturally the disciples said, “Obviously, the man is the owner; he has enslaved the cow.”

Bayazid said, “Watch. I’ll cut the rope.” He cut it in the middle. The cow bolted—and the man ran after her: “What mess is this!” Bayazid said, “Do you see now who is running after whom? If this man were the owner, the cow would come after him. He is not the owner. The cow is the owner; the man is the slave. He suffers from the delusion that he is owner. But the truth is out—the rope was cut. The cow went her way; she will never even look back at this man. By mistake she will not return to him. Now this man runs after her.”

Are you running after wealth—or is wealth running after you? After status—or is status running after you?

The bondage is not strong; your desire is strong. The bondage is not strong; your ignorance is strong. The bondage is not strong; your craving is strong. It is that craving you are bound by.

Thus Buddha said: One who is free of craving is free of the world. You don’t have to be free of the world—you have to be free of craving.

A very important Zen story—

Sao Sin had attained samadhi. He went to his master, Hao Nan. As he bent to touch his feet, the master said, “Stop! Stop! Now you have come into my room.” Sao Sin said, “But if this peace and simplicity is the attainment of truth, then why did you make me do all those useless efforts?” Hao Nan laughed. He said, “So that you get tired and drop effort. There is nothing to get. What you always were—when striving, running, and restlessness cease—that eternal form of yours reveals itself.”

First: the world is not to be left. Second: nothing is to be gained. Only this old habit of running after the world, that bustle, that big smoke of craving you’ve raised—if that smoke settles, suddenly you will find: you were free; you are free.

Freedom is your nature. To be free is your very essence, your own dharma. The world has not bound you, and you don’t have to become free. This is a subtle matter. You are free—but you keep your eyes fixed on the world and not on yourself; hence you miss freedom.

It is a lovely incident: when the disciple attained samadhi and bent to touch the master’s feet, the master said, “Stop! Now you have come into my room; now you are like me. No need to touch feet.” The disciple was amazed—he didn’t know samadhi had happened. He only knew the mind had become quiet, pure, a dense silence had descended—but how to say “samadhi has happened”? He had never known samadhi before; how to recognize it?

He said, “If this is samadhi, if this is liberation—that I have become like you, that nirvana has happened—why didn’t you say so earlier? Nothing new has happened to me; a little unrest has gone, waves have calmed, but I am the same as before. The lake is no longer rippled; it is silent—but I am the same. Nothing big has happened—only a little cleansing, a little innocence. Is this nirvana? Is this liberation? Then why did you make me do so many practices?” The master laughed: “For that very reason—to tire you out. I made you run so you would sit down.”

The entire science of yoga is only for this: to tire you out. The world didn’t tire you. If you were intelligent, the world would have been enough. If the world didn’t tire you, then Patanjali, Buddha, Mahavira become necessary. If you were even a little intelligent, the world has tired you enough—you would stop, sit down, and say, “Enough—there is nothing here to gain, nothing to seek, nothing to leave.” You would close your eyes. And the moment you close your eyes, you would find you are already seated there—the very one you were searching for is sitting there.

Another Zen story, a branch of Buddha’s teaching. A new monk arrived. The master, Hui Chi, asked, “What is your name, friend?” He said, “Ling Tung.” Ling Tung means “spiritual pervasion” or “the all-pervading Self.” Using that as a base, Hui Chi posed a fine question. He pointed to a lantern: “Do you see this lantern, Ling Tung—the all-pervading Self? Please enter it, since you are all-pervading.”

Zen masters throw such questions. Priceless if understood; otherwise they seem mad. The guest monk answered even more wonderfully: “I am already sitting inside it. I’m already inside it.” The meaning of “all-pervading” is that which is present everywhere—how else can I enter it? I’m already there.

Moksha is your nature; it has already happened. It is already the case. The divine is present within you. God is not to be attained; the world is not to be renounced. Keep this wondrous point in mind. You have always been told: renounce the world and attain God. I tell you: God is not to be attained and the world is not to be renounced—because there is nothing in the world to renounce; it is already dropped. And God is already seated within you—what will you attain! Wake up. Simply wake up. Come to your senses.

On the basis of logic—no. On the plane of logic—no. A synthesis of justice and compassion is not possible according to logic, because they belong to two different planes.

Understand. Justice means: let what is proper happen. Compassion is not included in justice. Justice only means that the appropriate rule be applied. In compassion there is the heart; in justice there is only the intellect. Compassion is the greater thing. Compassion means: let what ought to be happen. It is not about rules; it is something bigger than rules.

Consider: you go to court; you have stolen. The judge looks into his books, flips the pages, searches the law. You stole fifty rupees; he looks up the penalty; the penalty is written in the book; accordingly he sentences you. He keeps his distance; he does not enter into any human relationship with you. He does not think that within you, too, a human heart is beating. He does not think that you have a wife, children; he does not think that perhaps you were hungry, perhaps you stole—perhaps you were compelled to steal; perhaps if the judge were in your situation he would steal; perhaps anyone, in your situation, would steal. He does not think of these things; he does not bring them into consideration. He only sees: you have stolen; for theft, this is the punishment. He gives the decision quite inhumanly, mechanically. So justice is done, but compassion is not. Compassion is a bigger thing.

I have heard of a Chinese fakir who was a judge—before he became a fakir. But the streak of fakirhood must have been there even then. When he became a judge and the first case came before him—the very first case; there was no chance for a second, because the emperor dismissed him at once.

The first case came—a poor man had stolen from a rich man. Not a big theft, two–four hundred rupees perhaps. The law prescribed six months’ imprisonment. He said, “Fine—six months’ sentence for the man who stole, and six months’ sentence for the man from whom it was stolen.” The rich man began to laugh: “Are you in your senses? First I’m robbed, and then I get six months as well! What are you saying—are you in your right mind?” He said, “I am in my right mind. And six months is too little—that much I also know. You should get at least six years.”

The matter reached the emperor. Of course it had to; the rich man raised a great outcry: “What kind of justice is this!” The emperor too was astonished: “What kind of justice is this!” He summoned the fakir and asked, “What kind of justice is this?”

He said, “This is justice. Not exactly right, because even six months is too little. This man has gathered up all the wealth of the village; if there is no theft, what else will happen! This man is more responsible for the theft than the thief. The thief is a second-degree offender; he is the first-degree offender. He has accumulated all the village’s wealth. The whole village is dying of hunger, and everything is with him.”

The emperor said, “What you say is right—but dangerous. That would mean that tomorrow or the day after I myself would be trapped in your court. Take your leave—be gone.”

In this there is compassion. The fakir brought forth an important truth. He thought from the heart.

A coordination between justice and compassion is not possible, because justice belongs to a lower plane and compassion to a higher. But the fulfillment of justice is in compassion. Justice is what is necessary; compassion is what ought to be. Justice is the minimum, the compulsory; compassion is the completion of justice. In compassion justice attains its brightest light.

Understand it this way: from hardness, injustice is born. In hardness is the seed of injustice. A hard person will inevitably be unjust. In hardness is the seed; the fruits of injustice will appear. And within justice, the seed of compassion is hidden. A just person, sooner or later, will become compassionate—must become so; otherwise the seed remained a seed and did not become a tree. Between the seed and the tree there is no coordination, because they belong to different planes: the seed is unexpressed, the tree is expressed. There is a great difference between them.

Someone places a seed before you—and right there stands a gulmohar, a flame tree, laden with flowers. He puts the gulmohar seed before you and asks, “What is the relationship between this seed and that tree?” None is visible. Not a single flower has blossomed in the seed, while the gulmohar is adorned like a bride. And the seed—small, black, nondescript! It does not look like anything could come out of it; it seems like a pebble. But that tree has arisen from it. Between seed and tree there is a journey.

Justice is the seed; compassion is that seed fully sprouting, fully blossoming, fully flowering.

In the world there is injustice; as yet there is not even justice—so to speak of compassion is impossible. The state of the world is one of injustice; for now, if even justice happens, that is much. But when justice begins to happen, instantly we will have to think of compassion. Compassion is the ultimate goal of human life. We must reach there. Until we reach that height, the flowers do not come into our life; the lotuses do not bloom.

In compassion, justice is included. But in justice, compassion is not necessarily included. Justice is the beginning; justice is the remedy for escaping injustice. And when someone is freed from injustice, do not be satisfied with only that.

Understand it like this. A man is ill. That his illness departs is not enough. Health must also arise. Merely the disappearance of disease is not the same as becoming healthy. Health has a positive quality. There is a spring of health that must flow within.

You know this too. Many times you can say, “I am not ill,” but you cannot say, “I am healthy.” Many times you can say, “I am not unhappy,” but you cannot say, “I am blissful.” What is that moment when you say, “I am not unhappy, yet I cannot say I am blissful”?

Sorrow is not there—sorrow should not be there—but that alone is not enough. It is not enough in the world that people are merely not unhappy. That must be so; that condition must be fulfilled. But then there is a greater condition—that they be happy. Happiness is the greater condition. For that, the disappearance of sorrow will become the path.

Justice prepares the path for compassion. Through justice the possibility of compassion’s arrival opens. An unjust person can never be compassionate. A just person can be. But do not stop at justice. Do not think the destination has come.

Buddha has said: compassion is the supreme destination. Until compassion begins to flow continuously in life, understand that something is still lacking. Understand that somewhere something is still hard. Understand that somewhere there is still an obstruction.

In the urge to change another person there is a certain harshness. In that urge there is a bit of a tactic, a little politics. On the basis of changing the other, we begin to claim ownership over them.

So, first, trying to change another is not the sign of a good person. That is why I do not call your so-called mahatmas good people. More often than not, your mahatmas are of a vicious nature—they have found little tricks to torment others—small tricks, seemingly innocent points.

Someone chews tobacco, and there are people ready to dispatch him to hell for it. At least show some compassion—or if not, at least some justice! A person chews tobacco and you send him to hell. By that logic the plant itself will have to go to hell! No one goes to hell for chewing tobacco.

And often it happens that you do not chew tobacco and you puff yourself up with pride—“Look, I don’t chew tobacco”—and then perhaps you may go to hell, because arrogance is what leads to hell. The one who chews tobacco walks a little bent, a little apologetic: “Yes, I chew tobacco, what can I do!” He can’t strut too much—he knows he chews tobacco, he smokes cigarettes, he drinks tea, he has a fondness for coffee, sometimes even enjoys a Coca-Cola. So he moves a bit bowed, he becomes a bit humble, “Well, I am an irreligious fellow!” But the one who doesn’t drink Coca-Cola, doesn’t chew tobacco, doesn’t smoke, doesn’t chew betel—his stiff-necked pride!

But look closely—what is there to be proud of? Not chewing betel—this is pride; not chewing tobacco—this is pride. If you had to be proud, at least choose something meaningful! Choose with some thought! Is this a virtue?

The attempt to change another is a conspiracy. Through it you place yourself on top and put the other down. You hunt for tiny things, pick on small pretexts, and start proving the other person inferior.

Now Geeta asks, “My husband has a habit of chewing tobacco—how can he give it up?”

She thinks her husband is committing some great crime. And surely, in her own eyes she must be something higher, a virtuous woman—she doesn’t chew tobacco.

Do you know—Hitler didn’t chew tobacco, didn’t smoke, was a vegetarian, didn’t drink alcohol—he was a strict Jain, so to speak—and what more do you want in a respectable man! Do you think Hitler went to heaven? If Hitler went to heaven, then no good man would want to go there. What was lacking in him? He woke in the pre-dawn brahma-muhurta. In every way he was “upright.” But that uprightness proved very cruel.

So first, don’t try to change another in this way. The very intention is wrong. And when the other is your husband, then a little more compassion is needed. Don’t try to change your husband; husbands, don’t try to change your wives. Where there is a relationship of love, the urge to change becomes a great obstruction to love. Love is a relationship of friendship; this is how enmity begins.

And I see, women are often engaged in this effort. There is a reason—and men are also responsible. Men have suppressed women in every way. Money is not in her hands, position is not in her hands, prestige is not in her hands—she has been made a servant in all ways. Naturally, the woman will take revenge. She finds subtle ways to do so. She has to find delicate tactics. She says, “Don’t smoke. I feel instant disgust when I see it, the smell repels me. Don’t chew tobacco.” She finds tricks for which you cannot even say she is wrong—she isn’t exactly wrong.

The weak always finds a tactic that appears right. Being weak, they must play a kind of politics that looks proper and cannot be easily refused. What will you say? The wife isn’t saying something bad. She says, “Your lungs will be ruined; if you smoke you’ll get TB.” She says it for your own good. The weak will always devise ways to torment you “for your own good.” And she isn’t factually wrong, so you cannot even argue. Husbands begin to enter their homes in fear. The home starts to feel like school for little children—that is how husbands feel about home: a classroom. Lessons are given there—where to take off the shoes, where to put the clothes, don’t smoke, don’t play the radio so loud—thousands of lessons. Slowly the wife becomes a schoolmistress and with her own hands breaks the delicate threads of love.

The threads of love are very fragile. This effort to be a teacher, to play the guru—this becomes fatal. But the wife has had no other means left to establish her ego. In letters she writes, “Beloved, your servant,” and so on. But those are letters—don’t go by letters. In letters people write what is not. In letters they write what should have been but isn’t. Yet she takes her revenge—she will. You have harassed women in every way. You granted women a soul with great reluctance.

I have heard, in the sixth century a great Catholic conference debated whether a woman has a soul or not. It came to a vote—imagine, the existence of a woman’s soul put to a vote!—and women won by one vote; otherwise they would not have been considered to have souls. By a single vote! Is that any victory? Fifty against, fifty-one in favor—so “woman has a soul.” On the basis of one vote!

And the Eastern countries did not even bother that much—they call women stri-dhan—property. Money, wife, land—counted together as possessions.

In China, there used to be no law against a man who killed his own wife. “She is my wife, I killed her—who are you to interfere?” That old rule still lingers in some places.

I lived in Raipur. One midnight I saw a neighbor beating his wife. I went inside and said, “What are you doing?” He said, “Why have you come here? She is my wife!” I said, “She is your wife—if you love her I would have no objection. If you were loving her and I walked in, you could object. But you cracked her skull—she is bleeding!” But his logic was the same old one: “She is my wife. Who are you to speak?” The age-old argument: my wife—I can even kill her!

In China, courts would not try a man for killing his own wife. Conditions have been terrible in this country, too.

Naturally, women have found subtle ways to take revenge. So they catch hold of a man’s weaknesses. Everyone has weaknesses. It is hard to find a person without one—such a person would not be born again; he would be liberated. How would he come back? He wouldn’t smoke, wouldn’t chew tobacco, wouldn’t gamble, wouldn’t play cards, wouldn’t even read the newspaper—he would be gone, liberated! Whoever comes here will have some lack. So it is a very clever tactic. Can you find a husband with no flaw at all?

I have heard, Mulla Nasruddin was in love with a woman. Whenever he met me he said, “An extraordinary woman—she’s a goddess, a goddess! Practically an incarnation of Santoshi Ma!”

“One day,” he said, “she made me quit drinking.” They were not even married yet, and she had made him quit alcohol. A few days later I met him. “What’s the goddess doing now?” He said, “She made me quit meat—extraordinary woman!” Another day: “She made me quit gambling. She’s transforming me—my whole life is being changed.” Another day: “She made me quit cigarettes, even betel.” Then I asked, “Well, all this quitting is going well—when will you marry her?” He said, “Now I won’t marry her. My character has become so much better that I can get a better woman than her.”

Do you get the point?

Now Geeta says, “Make my husband stop chewing tobacco.” Then don’t come back to me! If he drops tobacco and becomes “virtuous,” he may find a better wife!

Accept him as he is. He is good as he is. If he didn’t chew tobacco, how would he have chosen you? It is precisely as he is that he chose you.

Often you reform the other so much that he turns into a monk. And when he becomes a monk, he leaves! Then you will regret it and pray, “God, somehow make him start on tobacco again—let him stay at home!” Because a man who can drop the habit of tobacco can also drop the habit of his wife. A wife is also a habit—and a husband too. These are all habits.

Be careful—this is not humane. To raise such a question is in poor taste. The person you loved—you loved him as he is, including his habit of chewing tobacco. And note, I am not saying he should keep chewing tobacco. I am saying first of all that it is not for the wife to raise this point—it is unbecoming.

If you truly love your husband, I feel his habit will slowly fall away on its own. There will be no need to say anything. People smoke or chew tobacco for reasons. The one who smokes does so out of tension; the one who chews tobacco does so out of tension. He keeps something to chew—otherwise his worries will chew on him. It is a device.

Ask a psychologist—he will say the smoker is filled with tension. He must do something—there is restlessness. He inhales, exhales—some pranayama happens—the agitation eases a little. At least he “does something.”

You may have noticed: when you are under stress, you smoke more; when there is less stress, you smoke less. Sometimes, when you are happy, you don’t smoke at all—the day passes and you don’t even remember. The more the anxiety, the more you smoke. The day worry grips you, you chew more tobacco. Something to keep in the mouth, so the mind is a little diverted.

So Geeta’s husband chews tobacco—surely there is anxiety. Don’t worry about the tobacco—that is not the root; there is some anxiety. Give him so much love, weave so much dance and music around his life that the anxiety lessens. When anxiety decreases, the tobacco will drop by itself. And even if it doesn’t, it’s only tobacco—he isn’t causing any great harm. It will do. It is nothing to be so agitated about. These are two-penny matters. Don’t put too much weight on two-penny matters. Otherwise, it often happens that over small things the big thing is lost.

I see husbands and wives carry tiny quarrels—and an entire life is ruined by those tiny quarrels. Nothing big at all. If you ask them the cause, they feel embarrassed: “It’s nothing really big…” If it’s not big, how did you keep fighting all your life?

Tobacco is not a very big thing. He is not killing anyone, not gambling, not drinking—no major mischief—he is chewing tobacco. There is anxiety. Pay attention to the anxiety. If a wife has a little understanding she will be concerned that her husband is anxious, and this chewing is only a signal. If you get after him to quit tobacco, he will chew more, because you are increasing his anxiety, not reducing it. Now there is the added trouble—“Quit tobacco!” And that was his one crutch. It is a foolish crutch, not a sign of great intelligence—but let him see that for himself. Let that understanding dawn in him.

Always remember: interfering too much in another’s life is not good conduct. And to interfere in the lives of those you love is absolutely wrong. Give them freedom. Give them the right to be themselves. And if no tension arises between you and your husband over such small matters, then the doors will remain open. Love will grow, deepen. You will both be immersed in joy toward each other—and then perhaps tobacco will be dropped; it should be. And if it isn’t, there is still no cause for distress. Understand my perspective.

Second, I would add: your husband needs to find out what his trouble is—let him ask me. He has a tongue, he has intelligence. Let him ask. Let each person connect with me directly—no intermediaries.

If he feels shy asking, leave it. When his shyness dissolves, he will ask. My being here is for this—that you place your life’s questions before me directly. Perhaps I may offer a suggestion that helps.

And remember, I only give suggestions; I do not give orders. I don’t say, “You must do this.” Nor do I say that if you don’t do it some great catastrophe will occur. Nothing like that will happen. People’s “sins” are so ordinary—leave worry about hell; you are not going there. I hold that the compassion of the divine, of existence, is so vast that your little mischiefs—someone played cards and wagered some money—are not going to land you in hell. You have done nothing especially terrible. The small acts of your life are forgivable.

This does not mean I am telling you to go on doing them. I am only saying: do not take too much anxiety because of them—understand? These are small acts—but they are diminishing the joy in your life.

For example, when anxiety seizes a man and he starts to smoke—smoking will not end the anxiety; it will only make him forget a while. That is not intelligence. If there is anxiety, try to understand it—why is it there? Go into its cause. Find its remedy. There is the possibility of living without anxiety—meditate. The time you spend smoking, if you spend that time in meditation, your life will be transformed. The time you spend chewing tobacco, if you spend it in witnessing, your tensions will dissolve—once and for all. Then there will be no need for these childish devices. That you resort to them shows your level of consciousness is quite low. I do not say you will go to hell—but your level of consciousness is so low that you will live without joy. Joy will not happen in your life.

So I do not say chewing tobacco is a sin. I say chewing tobacco is foolishness—a lack of intelligence, a lack of awareness. I do not talk of sin. With “sin” comes condemnation; with “sin” comes punishment.

All right, Akanksha. It is possible. But on Buddha’s path nothing comes from prayer. On Buddha’s path one has to meditate. The tone of your song is prayerful. You say—
‘With utmost eagerness to sing it,
my heart, restless through ages,
holds a song of dreams—
come, let me sing it upon your eyelids,
come, let me hide in your heart!’

On Buddha’s path no door opens through prayer. Buddha says: through prayer, nothing will happen. Prayer is a hidden form of craving.

Therefore you say—
‘Then may I never need to sing in the world again,
never need to come into the world again’—
this too is desire. Buddha says: so long as there is the desire not to have to come into the world again, you will keep coming. You will have to come. Let this craving go as well. Live without craving; live here, in this very moment—silent, contented, blissful—and you will not return. But do not make “not returning” the goal of life. Because if “not returning” becomes your goal, from it arise anxiety, tension, restlessness: Will I succeed or fail? Will it happen or not? How will it happen, how will it not? Then you are caught again in the wheel; the world has begun again. In the name of liberation too, the world begins. People are not mad only for wealth; they are mad for religion as well.

Buddha’s statement is very clear—like mathematics, like science. Craving leads astray. All craving leads astray. Without exception, every craving misleads; this too is a craving—“may I not have to come into the world again.” This too is craving. Why? Why should there be no coming again? Why this insistence, this stubbornness?

Buddha says: any craving creates the world. Become aware in relation to craving and understand that from every craving arise pain, anxiety, tension, torment. Then live in such a way that there is no craving. Live moment to moment; make no demand beyond the moment. Let each single moment pass; ask nothing more of it. Ask for nothing—just live, in witnessing; be the seer. And you will find that slowly this attitude of witnessing becomes so deep that in this very witnessing you have gone beyond the world. Then there will be no returning.

There is a way to be free of the world while living in the world; a way to be outside while remaining here. As the lotus stands apart in water, so is witnessing.

All of Buddha’s teaching is for wakefulness, consciousness, witnessing. There is no room for prayer there. Meditation and samadhi are the essence of his words.

That is all for today.