Es Dhammo Sanantano #85

I am not a scripture yet. I am still alive. You are fortunate that you are not near a scripture.
When Buddha spoke, the Dhammapada was not a scripture; it was a master. The Dhammapada then had breath in it; life was moving, the heart was beating, blood was flowing—it was alive. When Krishna spoke to Arjuna, the Gita was humming, dancing. It was not scripture then; scripture is made after the master has gone. A scripture is a line left on the sands of time. The snake has passed; the track remains on the sand.
I am not a scripture yet. So there is nothing odd in what I am saying. I too will become a scripture—once I am gone, I will be a scripture. Then it will not become a boat. Scripture drowns; it does not ferry across. How can the dead rescue the living? How can what is dead redeem the living? Scripture becomes a load; the head grows heavy. From scripture you will gain scholarship, not wisdom. You will start to know much and yet know nothing. You will appear to know and remain utterly ignorant. Ignorance will put on the garments of knowledge, but it will not be dissolved.
And when ignorance puts on the garments of knowledge, it becomes even more dangerous. It is as if illness has put on the clothes of health. Then the illness is not detected. Then you do not search for medicine. Why would you go to a physician? You think you already know.
Therefore pundits do not come to Buddha. They do not come to me either. Why should a pundit come? The scholar thinks he already knows.
So scholarship does not become a boat; it becomes a stone around the neck. Because of it a person sinks; he does not cross. Scripture cannot ferry you—how would it? Sheets of paper, stains of ink—how will they carry you across? Far more valuable is this vast scripture of life. The green leaves of trees are far more alive. The birds’ songs, the blossoming flowers are far more alive. Listen to these, and perhaps something will be understood. Hold a dead book to your ear—no voice will come from there. And whatever you read in a dead book is your own. The scripture is not giving it to you; you are putting it into the scripture. You will only read yourself. How can you read more than you are? What you already know, that is what you will pull out of a scripture. And the scripture is so helpless it can neither speak nor stop you. It cannot even say, “Do not commit such excess.”
The master becomes a boat, not the scripture. When words arise out of a living emptiness, and you hear them, they will certainly take you across—when the words throb, are alive, when within the words the lamp of awareness is lit. The scripture is an earthen lamp; the flame has departed. Buddha has departed; the earthen lamp lies there. Keep worshipping it for lifetimes, your eyes will not open—there is no flame in it. Only a flame lights a flame. When someone’s flame is lit and you go near him, your flame can also be lit. It can be lit only by going near—what else is there to do!
When you bring an unlit lamp near a lit lamp—bring it close—there comes a moment when the two wicks come very near and, with one leap, the flame from the lit lamp descends into the unlit one. And the joy is that nothing is lost from the lit lamp. It continues to burn as it was; its flame does not lessen. Light a thousand unlit lamps from one lit lamp—the lit lamp remains as it is; its flame does not diminish in the least.
By sharing, knowledge does not diminish; by sharing, life does not diminish; by sharing, love does not diminish. And what is the art? Only this much: that the unlit lamp does not create hurdles or block the way; that the unlit lamp does not say, “I will stay far away.” The unlit lamp says, “I am ready to come close.” And what is discipleship? The art of coming close, the courage. Sitting by the master is satsang. Just sitting, it happens.
You are right in saying, “The seed has sprouted by listening, by seeing, by reading.”
By reading alone it would not happen. When you listen to me, see me, drink me in, then even while reading you will not inject your own self into it. You have acquired my taste. Then while reading you will put into it what you have seen in me, found in me, heard from me, touched in me. Then you will not be able to misuse my words. But the essential thing is not the words; the essential thing is my presence. By reading my books alone you will not be able to make a boat. No one ever has.
But you may ask: if the Dhammapada is no longer a boat, if the Gita is no longer a boat, if Ashtavakra’s utterances are no longer boats, then why do I speak on them? Understand the secret of my speaking on them. When I speak on the Dhammapada, the Dhammapada becomes alive again. Then the Dhammapada is not merely Dhammapada; its words become wrapped in my emptiness. When I speak on the Gita, Krishna gets an opportunity to live with me for a little while.
That is why it has always been so through the centuries. The Buddhas of the past are spoken on again and again so that their voice may become alive again and not be lost.
When I am gone, my words will remain as scripture. Then you will get no support from them. Yes, there is one way you can get support—that some other enlightened one speaks on them. Then they will become alive again. By the touch of Buddhahood words come alive. And only in life is there any deliverance, any liberation. Only in life is there hope.
Understand it like this: a flower blooms on the tree—then it is one thing. The same flower you pluck, this rose you pluck, and press it in your Gita or in your Bible. Years later you will see, the flower is still there—dried; now no fragrance rises from it; now it neither grows nor diminishes. The dried flower pressed in the Gita or the Bible has become a scripture. When it was on the tree, it was alive.
What I am speaking now are flowers growing on my tree. When I am gone, they will become flowers pressed in your Gita and Bible. Then they will be dead. They will look somewhat like the living flower—merely an appearance. There will be neither fragrance in them nor life nor the capacity to grow.
Keep in mind: the mark of life is this—there is the capacity to grow. Now the Dhammapada cannot grow on its own. Yes, it can walk with me, because I am alive. If a scripture walks with a living man, the scripture also becomes alive. Legs sprout in it, wings sprout in it.
You may be deceived by a dried flower; you might say this is a rose. But apart from man, nothing else will be deceived.
It happened: into Emperor Solomon’s court came a young woman. She was the Empress of Ethiopia. She had heard that Solomon was the wisest man in the world. In India too we say of someone who shows great cunning, “You’ve become quite a Suleman!” It is Solomon’s story. Thousands of years have passed, but Solomon’s wisdom has become a proverb all over the world.
She wanted to test him. The queen of Ethiopia was in love with him. But she wanted to know whether he truly was wise, that wise. Do you know what she did? In one hand she brought a real flower, and in the other a fake flower—one paper rose and one real rose. The paper rose had been made by the greatest artists. It was very hard to decide. Standing a little away from the throne she said, “I will accept you as wise if you tell me which hand holds the real rose and which the fake.” And the fake rose was so beautiful and so lifelike that Solomon became a little concerned. He said, “I will certainly tell you.” He told his courtiers to open all the doors and windows.
There was a garden outside. All the doors and windows were opened. The Empress asked, “Why are you doing this?” Solomon said, “A little more light, so that I can see properly.” But light did not help. Something else did. Two bees entered the room from the garden. They both went and sat on the real rose. Solomon said, “This is the real rose.” The courtiers were astonished, the Empress too. She asked, “How did you know?”
He said, “I did not know. A man can be deceived—but how will you deceive bees? The two bees that sat on the real rose brought the news. That is why I had the doors and windows opened. I knew light would be of little use—you are a great Empress, your court has great artists. And since you have come making this a test, the rose would have been made so beautiful and in such a way that I too would not have been able to recognize it. No, this is not my wisdom; it is the bees’ wisdom, which I made use of.”
Only man is deceived; no one else in this world is deceived.
They say that when Buddha attained enlightenment, out-of-season flowers bloomed around the tree under which he sat. The tree he sat beneath was drying up; green leaves sprouted on it.
Now take the Dhammapada and place it under that tree—the tree will not be deceived. By placing the Dhammapada there, new leaves will not grow. Place the Dhammapada under a tree on which flowers have ceased to come—flowers will not come. You cannot deceive trees; only man is deceived. Man bows his head at the feet of the Dhammapada; he worships the Gita, the Koran, the Bible. Books have become very important.
There are several reasons. First, books are very accessible and cheap. And you become the owner of the book; the book cannot become your owner. Out of the book you derive whatever meaning you want; interpret as you wish. Take what suits you; leave what does not. How will a book change you? You change the book.
Sadguru means one whom you cannot change. Only he can change you. If you change him, how will he change you?
So be alert: avoid those sadhus and mahatmas who are run by you. You say, “Drink filtered water,” and they drink filtered water. You say, “Do not travel at night,” and they do not travel—and they fear you. Beware of those saints who follow your dictates; they will not be able to change you.
If you want transformation, seek someone who does not listen to you at all—who listens to his own inner tune, who lives in his own way. Then perhaps you may reach a true master. That is why I say continually: a true master is, at his core, a rebel; he is not traditional—he cannot be. Traditional are those mahatmas who are worse off than you, who follow your lead.
Some Jain monks have sent word to me: “We want to come to meet you, but the lay followers do not allow us.” The lay followers do not allow it! This is the limit of saintliness! The lay followers say, “Do not go there,” because they threaten them that if you go there, then we will have nothing further to do with you—the matter ends; friendship over! This worship and ritual that goes on will stop. And the arrangement we make for your food and clothing—that ends.
So this has become a kind of employment. In that case even servants are better—at least they can go where they wish. Even a householder is better, for the crowd does not put so much pressure; if he wants to go somewhere, he can. No, they cannot come here; they read books in secret; they listen to tapes secretly. They send me messages: “Send it by the hand of such-and-such gentleman; we will listen to it in solitude, but let no one know. The lay followers do not like it.”
Who is a lay follower? And if the one who listens to you is the one controlling you, if your listener has become your master, then think a little—how will you change him? You do not even have the strength to live in your own way.
So from those mahatmas who are your followers there will be no revolution in your life. Seek the one where there is rebellion, where life dances in its own ecstasy, who is living in his own way. Yes, there will be many obstacles. Only the courageous go to such a person; the crowd does not. Only those go who enjoy walking on the razor’s edge, who have a little zest, a little audacity in life, whose life is an adventure, and who want to accept life’s challenge.
Here with me you will not see a crowd. The crowd cannot come here. Only those can come who have decided that in this very life something has to be done, something has to happen. That when death comes this time, it should not find us as it found us every time before. This time, something new—some flame burning within. Even a single drop of nectar will do, but this time we must squeeze nectar from life.
It has happened to you because I am not a scripture yet. You are blessed that you are not near a scripture.

The meaning of Buddhahood is quite simple. It means an awakened consciousness. It means awareness. It means one who has stood up—who is no longer asleep, whose stupor has broken.

Like a man who, drunk, fell on the road at night and lay in a gutter dreaming, and in the morning his eyes open; he stands up and starts walking toward home. Such is the meaning of Buddhahood. For lifetimes we have drunk so many kinds of intoxicants—of wealth, position, prestige, ego—and lie unconscious. We are fallen in dirty gutters, dreaming. The day we wake up, stand up, remember where we have fallen and start toward home—that is Buddhahood. Buddhahood means: the one who woke up, who stood up, who began to walk toward his own home.

Buddhahood has nothing to do with Gautam Buddha—it is not his name. Jesus is as much a buddha as Buddha. Mohammed is as much a buddha as Buddha. Kabir and Nanak are as much buddhas as Buddha. Meera, Sahajo, and Daya are as much buddhas as Buddha. Buddhahood is related to no person; it is the name of the radiant state of consciousness.

Understand this little story—
Once a brahmin named Drona came to Bhagwan Buddha and asked the Tathagata, “Are you a deva?” The Blessed One said, “No, I am not a deva.” He asked, “Are you a gandharva?” Buddha said, “No, not a gandharva.” “Are you a yaksha?” “No, I am not a yaksha either.” “Then are you a man?” And Buddha said, “No, I am not even a man.” The brahmin was astonished. He asked, “Pardon my boldness—then are you an animal or a bird?” Buddha said, “No.” He said, “You force me to ask—are you a stone or a mountain? A plant?” Buddha said, “No.” Then he said, “Then tell me yourself—who are you? What are you?”

In reply the Tathagata said, “The passions, the desires, the bad deeds, the good deeds whose existence could make me a deva, a gandharva, a yaksha, a man, a plant or a stone—they have ended. Those impulses have vanished by which I used to be cast into some form, shackled into some shape. Therefore, brahmin, know that I am none of these. I have awakened; I am a buddha.”

All those were states of sleep. Some are asleep like plants—look, these ashoka trees standing here are asleep as ashoka trees. This is the only difference between you and them: you are asleep as a human being; they are asleep as ashoka trees. Some are asleep like rocks and mountains. Some are asleep as women, some as men. These are all states of sleep. All conditions are conditions of sleep. Buddhahood is not a state; it is the name for waking from all states. One who woke and knew, “I am formless, without shape; I have no form, no shape, no body.”

Buddha rightly said: I am not a deva, not a gandharva, not a yaksha, not a human, not an animal, not a plant, not a stone—I am a buddha.

Buddhahood is everyone’s possibility, because whoever is asleep can wake up. This is hidden in sleep itself. You are asleep; in that very fact is hidden the possibility that, if you wish, you can wake. One who can sleep—why can he not wake? A little effort will be needed. A little endeavor will be required.

Another little story—
One night, when all of Kashi was asleep, there was a young man, Yash; he was awake. He was sunk in great anxiety. He was wealthy, prosperous—and he had the anxieties of the wealthy and prosperous. The worry grew so much that he thought of suicide. Troubled, restless, afflicted, he could not sleep. In his sorrow he rose and went outside the city; he thought, “Today I should end myself. What is the point? The same repetition, the same daily anxiety, the same daily misery, and nothing is ever gained, nothing comes to hand. Day after day suffer—better to end it. To go on circling for seventy or eighty years like an ox yoked to an oil-press, what purpose is there?”

Outside the city, at the boundary, was Buddha’s abode; he was sitting under a tree. It was midnight, the moon had risen. The youth was going to kill himself. Just then, by chance, his eyes fell on Buddha. He had never seen such a peaceful man. For a moment he forgot his anxieties; such an imprint of peace fell upon him that for a moment he forgot that life is suffering. There sat a man like an ocean of bliss; a fragrance of that bliss reached him. For a moment he even forgot he had come to commit suicide.

Can the thought of suicide remain if you come near a buddha? He had come accidentally; he had not come thinking; it was a coincidence that Buddha was there and he was passing by. He was drawn, as iron is drawn by a magnet. As soon as he saw Buddha in the full-moon night and saw this complete man—one moon in the sky and one moon on the earth, putting the sky’s moon to shame—he came, spellbound. As a snake begins to dance on hearing the flute, so the silent state of Buddha must have affected him.

The Tathagata opened his eyes and saw the youth. He came closer. There was magic in those eyes. He said, “Strange! I had set out in search of death, and I never thought I would have a vision of life! My life is filled with great misery. Life is great pain.”

The Tathagata said, “True—life is suffering. But there is another life where suffering has no passage. Look here—look at me, look within me—here there is no sorrow. And if you wish your sorrow to end, then come a little closer to me. Not only with your body—come close with your mind. I will awaken you. I am awake; you too will awaken. And the one who wakes goes beyond suffering.”

There is a life of awakening; its name is Buddhahood. There is no suffering there. All suffering is in stupor. These dreams of suffering that we see in countless forms are all seen in sleep.

Buddhahood means: the smoke around the inner flame is removed. The cloudless sky hidden within you has been surrounded by clouds through lifetimes; those clouds disperse.

It is not difficult, not impossible. It can happen. If it happened to one, it can happen to all. So do not think of Buddhahood as some impossible goal. It is within your hand’s reach, within your grasp. Only, if you will not even lift your hand, that is another matter. This journey can be made. With much less effort than you expend on the journey of the world, this journey can happen. The strength you pour into acquiring wealth—if only you pour that much into meditation, meditation would happen now. And wealth will never truly happen; and even if it does, nothing happens through it. Whether it happens or not, it is the same. However much wealth there is, you will remain poor.

Buddhahood means condensed meditation—thickened meditation. Meditation upon meditation, layer upon layer of meditation. And remember, Buddha was a human being just like you. Whoever has attained was a human being like you. Just recall, fill yourself with this remembrance—remember, Buddha was a human being like you, made of bone, flesh, and marrow. If this flame was lit in him, then this flame is hidden in you too. One day it had not yet been lit in him either; he too was troubled as you are. The day it was lit, that day he knew—it was not far, it was near; it was only a matter of seeking rightly. We have not even asked rightly how we should seek. We are not searching. There is one thing we are not searching for—we are not searching for ourselves.

There was a Sufi fakir, Bayazid. One night he was sitting in his hut and at midnight someone knocked on the door. Absorbed in meditation, he opened his eyes and asked, “Who is it, and what do you want?” The man said, “I have come in search of Bayazid; is Bayazid inside?” There was silence for a little while, and Bayazid said, “Brother, I myself have been searching for Bayazid for thirty years. And this is precisely what I keep asking—what a wonder!—whether Bayazid is within. If I come to know, I will inform you. As of now, I myself do not know whether Bayazid is within or who is within!”

Bayazid spoke truly: for thirty years I have been seeking who I am. I myself do not yet know—so how can I tell you who I am!

There are three kinds of people in the world. First, those who have never sought, who have never asked, “Who am I?” Their number is great. They are the crowd. They do not know themselves, and they go on and on. They harbor a thousand desires and a thousand cravings, and they do not even know who they are. The very foundation of their life has not been laid, and they are busy building the house. If their houses collapse again and again, it is no wonder.

The foundation must be laid first—with the very first step: let me know who I am. By knowing this it will be decided what I should seek, what is in tune with my nature, what will give me fulfillment. As yet I do not even know who I am—so how will I know whether what I seek will fulfill me or not? Will what I am chasing be in harmony with me?

So the first fundamental thing is—Who am I? Most people do not ask; ninety-nine out of a hundred never ask, “Who am I?” The earth is filled with them.

The second are those who have begun to ask, “Who am I?” The second are called sannyasins; the first are householders. One who has never asked “Who am I?” is a householder, worldly. One who has asked “Who am I?” is a renunciate. And one who has known “Who am I?” is a buddha—he has attained Buddhahood.

These are the three states—the state of the worldly person, the state of the renunciate, the state of the buddha. To reach the buddha-state one must pass through the process of sannyas. Sannyas is the bridge connecting the worldly and the buddha.

And becoming a buddha does not mean imitating Buddha. Becoming a buddha means following your own self, engaging in self-inquiry. Do not try to become like Buddha; otherwise you will never become a buddha. Try to become yourself, and you will become a buddha.

Keep this in mind; this mistake happens often. Even when, by good fortune, someone sets out on the search, a snag arises—he falls into imitation: “Let me become a buddha.” Then he thinks, “As Buddha rose, I will rise; as Buddha sat, I will sit; what Buddha wore, I will wear; what Buddha ate, I will eat.” He becomes an imitator, an actor. By imitating the outer behavior of Buddha you will not attain Buddhahood. And when the buddha within you awakens, you will sit in your own way, rise in your own way; it will have nothing to do with Buddha. In the supreme state, each person is unique.

I have heard this incident from the life of the famous Zen master Kuan Zhan. A student came to him for personal guidance. Kuan Zhan asked him under which master he had learned meditation so far. When the student said he had studied under Jaku Shistu at Yogen Monastery, the master said, “Show me what you have learned.” The student replied, “I have learned to sit immovably in siddhasana.” And quickly he folded his legs, closed his eyes, and sat utterly still.

Kuan Zhan laughed heartily and said, “Out! Get out of here! My monastery already has plenty of stone Buddhas. There is no need to increase the crowd.”

Is that something to have learned? He sat exactly like Buddha—perfect posture, eyes closed, spine straight, unmoving. He thought this was some great attainment. It is not.

When Buddhahood happens, it does not happen because of anything external. And when Buddhahood happens, outwardly no two persons are ever the same; no two buddhas are ever the same. Buddha sat cross-legged; when Mahavira became a buddha he was in a strange posture—squatting. Who ever sits squatting to become a buddha! The Jains coined a term for it—godohasana, “the cow-milking posture”—so they would not have to write “squatting,” which sounds odd: What was Mahavira doing squatting—was he relieving himself? What for was he squatting? So they found a nice word: as one sits while milking a cow. Now, was he milking a cow? He milked the Divine in that very moment.

No one knows in what moment, in what condition—getting up, sitting down, or walking—Buddhahood will happen. There is no asana in which Buddhahood happens. Yes, when Buddhahood happens, then all your postures become illumined by the inner light.

So do not fall into imitation. Avoid it. Imitation is a very dangerous gate, and many get entangled there because it looks easy. “Buddha wears such clothes—let me wear them.” What difficulty is there? It is very simple. It gives a hope: “Well then, wearing the same clothes, rising and sitting the same way, sleeping as he sleeps, on the same side he sleeps—perhaps the inner will also happen.” The inner event does not depend on these outward behaviors. You may sleep exactly like Buddha and nothing will change.

There is only one formula for Buddhahood: let awareness be included in your every act. Let every act be filled with the dignity of wakefulness. Do not do anything in unconsciousness—anything. Whatever you do, let there be awareness, a knowing that “I am doing this.” When knowing is present, the wrong stops by itself. When knowing is present, the right happens by itself.

First of all, when a feeling is arising, it is arising now. The feeling that you should go and admit your theft, or your mistake, or your offense—this feeling is arising now. It is not something from the past. The theft may have happened sometime—what use is that now? But this feeling, that I should acknowledge the wrongdoing, is arising right now. This feeling is not past; it is not in the past, it is in the present. The theft was in the past—let the theft go; what is done is done. But this feeling is arising now; do not postpone it. Let this feeling arise; let it be expressed.
There is benefit in the emergence of this feeling. If this feeling is expressed fully, if there is complete acceptance of it, only then will it be possible—“Forget what is past.” Because once we have accepted something, its burden becomes light. Otherwise the burden remains. That is the value of acceptance, of confession.

If you thought ill of someone and you go and say, “Such a feeling arose in my mind; I ask forgiveness,” then you are free. But if you don’t say it—if you think, “I haven’t told anyone; no one knows; what’s the need to say it now?”—then it will keep nagging you. Inside it will keep saying, “Look, such a bad feeling arose in your mind, and you couldn’t even gather the strength to admit it.” It will hang there, incomplete. It will start accompanying you; a layer of it will form.

Christians discovered the remarkable process of confession; that is its value. Every religion has given something special to the world. What Christians have given in a special way is confession. The greatest contribution the Catholic faith has given to humankind is confession—acceptance.

There is a saying in English: “To err is human.” So it’s no surprise if you once committed a theft; it’s not such a big thing. Humans steal. It is human. Sometimes a moment comes—you end up doing it. It is human. The English proverb is good—“To err is human”—but it is incomplete, only half. “To confess is divine”—then it becomes complete. To accept is divine. To make a mistake is human; to accept it is divine. Make a mistake and it becomes a wound; accept it and the wound opens, the pus drains.

Make a mistake and then go about hiding the wound, not letting the sun touch it, not letting fresh air reach it—then it will not heal. The pus will increase and the wound will slowly grow. It will become a festering sore. It could even turn into cancer. Leave it open. Free it. Let the pus drain out. Let the sun fall on it, let fresh air touch it; let the sun’s rays play upon that wound so it can heal. Give it a chance to heal.

So Krishnapriya asks: “If until yesterday I too have, in some form, stolen in your ashram, and today a strong feeling arises…”
Then if a powerful feeling is arising, fulfill it. It is a good fortune that such a feeling is arising. In that case, even the theft is turned to your benefit. If this strong feeling has arisen and you acknowledge it, the benefit you gain from accepting will be far greater than the mistake of stealing. Stealing was not some enormous sin—remember, it is human. It is hard to find a person who has not, at some time, for some reason, in some way, stolen. But the one who accepted it has made even the theft into a step. He laid the theft down as a step at the temple and climbed over it into the temple. The stone that was an obstacle became a stair.

Accept it. And when a powerful feeling is arising, don’t suppress it; because if you suppress it, that suppressed feeling will surface again and again, and you will remember the theft again and again. And if the memory of the theft keeps returning and repeatedly you feel, “I did wrong, I did wrong,” then meekness will be born, fear will be born, anxiety will be born. You’ll fear that someday you may get caught, someone may come to know, somehow the news may leak out. The openness of your life will be destroyed.

Let life be such that there is nothing to hide in it—then there is a freedom. Then you don’t feel bound; you feel open. As quickly as possible, whatever is worth hiding should be set free—should be said. There will be no loss; only benefit upon benefit.

And only if you free yourself from these wounds will that event happen which your other mind is quoting—“Forget what is past; attend to what lies ahead.” Right now that mind is playing tricks; right now it is saying, “Let it go!” It is quoting a fine line. Haven’t you heard—Satan too quotes scripture. The devil has scripture by heart. This mind is using a very clever strategy. The mind says, “Forget what is past! Why get into a whole hearing now? Whom to tell, what to tell, what’s the use? No one even found out. Why get into trouble with your own hands for no reason!”

If you listen to this mind, it is the same mind that stole. Today it says, “Forget what is past,” because it is nervous that in the force of this powerful feeling you might confess. If you confess, then stealing in the future will become difficult—because acceptance makes a human being divine. And as divinity begins to arise, petty acts become difficult.

This mind is afraid. It says, “Oh, let it go! God himself has said a thousand times—forget what is past; what is gone is gone; the past is past—why worry about it now!”
But has it really passed? If it had passed, it wouldn’t even come to mind. Whether you stole a year ago or ten years ago makes no difference. If it had truly passed, why would the memory keep coming?

It has not passed. It is still stuck in your mind, pricking like a thorn. The thorn may have gone in six months ago, but the thorn is still lodged, and it pricks. And sometimes it happens that the thorn comes out, and yet the pricking remains. The sting must also come out; otherwise even the sting causes pain. Many times you must have noticed—the thorn is out, and still you feel as if the thorn were there, because the sting is still present. The wound remains.

Be very alert with the mind; the mind is very cunning. And sometimes it speaks very fine things—“Forget what is past!” If it had truly passed, the powerful urge to confess would not be arising.

I am always on the side of the predominant feeling. Whatever strong feeling arises, do not suppress it. And when such an auspicious feeling is arising, then certainly do not suppress it. Let it be expressed. This will increase your purity, enhance your clarity, and the likelihood of its recurring will lessen.

Mind itself is politics. All the impulses of the mind are exploitative. All its arrangements are attempts to own others. The mind is filled with the poison of ambition. Mind itself is politics. That is why I say it is impossible for a truly religious person to move toward politics—because a religious person is born only when he rises beyond the mind, rises through meditation, enters the state of no-mind, becomes unman—only then does religion arise.

Politics means: let me seize others; let me become bigger than others; more important than others; push others behind; let others be proved to be nothing and let me become everything; let my rights be greater, my power greater; let my ego be enthroned—on a golden throne.

And remember, where so many people are busy with politics, not everyone can sit on golden thrones. Those who succeed in sitting there become egoistic; those who go on losing and never succeed slowly fill up with an inferiority complex. Some become masters and some become slaves. But if a man becomes a master, he is distorted; if he becomes a slave, he is distorted. Man is beautiful only when he remains simply human. To become someone’s master is politics, and to become someone’s slave is also politics.

So neither desire to become anyone’s master, nor desire to become anyone’s slave. Do not give anyone the chance to make you their master, and do not give anyone the chance to make you their slave.

There are two kinds of politics in the world: the politics of the master and the politics of the slave. The master’s politics is overt; the slave’s politics is covert. So don’t think that just because you are not in office or position, you are outside politics. Not necessary. If you are not in position and prestige, you will play the game of the slave’s politics—from there you will play your tricks.

Understand this. Power is in men’s hands; not in women’s. So women, for centuries, have been playing the part of the slave’s politics. Very skillfully they enslave the man. The trick is subtle. They make the man completely dependent. The master is the man—on the surface, the man is the master. And the man believes he is the master, that things go his way; but inside, the woman maneuvers subtly. She weeps, gets upset, falls ill—so he has to concede. That is the politics of the slave, the politics of the weak.

Both have become corrupted. Leaders are corrupted, followers are corrupted. Masters are corrupted, slaves are corrupted. Politics simply means: I will run the other. How I run him is not important.

I was reading a story—surely true.

Voting for the Lok Sabha was to be on 19 March. The government then was the Congress. On the evening of 18 March, three friends were sitting and talking. Naturally, on the evening of the 18th, what else would they talk about? Politics—what will be the result of the election? One said, “Tomorrow the voting will happen.” The second said, “This time the Janata Party has a big wave.” The third said, “As for us, we will vote for the Congress; after all, we are government servants.”

The voting happened. On the 22nd, after the results were announced, the same three sat talking again. One said, “Now the Janata Party is going to form the government.” The second said, “No one expected Congress to lose so badly and the Janata Party to win this much.” The third—these were the same gentlemen who had said, “After all, we are government servants, so we will vote for the Congress”—now said, “All right then—our vote has worked for the Janata Party.” The two friends were startled. They said, “What are you saying? You were saying you would vote for the Congress.” He said, “Yes indeed—after all, we are government servants.”

Whoever holds the stick owns the buffalo—so we are with him.

One is the politics of those who become masters; and one is the politics of those who cannot. One must be free of both. Only the one free of both is a sannyasin. To become anyone’s master is misconduct. Every person is his own master—why should anyone else be anyone’s master? And to become someone’s slave is self-insult. It is not right to so repress and insult one’s own soul.

So neither become anyone’s master nor anyone’s slave. The person who is like this, I call a sannyasin. And to bring about such a state, you will have to slowly go beyond the mind. Otherwise the mind will entangle you somewhere. The mind will drown you in some form of politics or other.

You ask rightly, “As long as the mind is there, will we remain entangled in some kind of politics?”

You will remain entangled—because the mind itself is the politician. As long as the mind has possession of you, this is its language; this is its way of thinking.

Machiavelli has said: either become the master of the other, otherwise the other will become your master. This is the mind’s arithmetic. The mind says: either defeat the other, otherwise the other will defeat you. Either become the victor, or you will be vanquished. Choose whatever you wish. The mind gives no other option—only these two: either get beaten, or beat others.

Both conditions are bad. In both, life is wasted. Machiavelli had no idea of sannyas—not even in imagination. Sannyas means: step outside both. And this stepping outside is not an outer event; it will happen only when you go beyond the mind.

So slip out beyond the mind within; do not listen too much to the mind. The mind says, “You must leave a name! You must make your mark in history! Do something to show!” The mind says, “Just accumulate wealth, accumulate position, show people who you are!” If you listen to this mind, you set out on the journey of ambition. Then it may be that you do not participate in politics in a gross form…

Consider that a man becomes a monk; he does not participate in politics, but then another kind of politics starts. He thinks, “I am superior to the worldly.” That is politics. There is no difference. “I am superior”—that is politics. He has become superior by a trick. Someone becomes superior by winning an election, someone by accumulating wealth, and this man by renunciation. But the game of being superior continues.

To be outside the mind means: I have no ambition now. As I am, I am enough. As I am, I am beautiful. My being is acceptable to me. I am delighted—as God has made me, as I have found myself, I feel blessed. There is no longing to be otherwise, no desire to sit above anyone, and no desire to seat anyone below.

Outside such craving, the state of consciousness is where politics ends. Only for Buddhas does politics end. And when politics ends, the world ends. The world is the extension of politics. When politics ends, the round of birth and death ends.

Life is suffering; that is why Buddha puts so much emphasis on it. He emphasizes it because you are so stupefied that, though you are mired in suffering, you do not see it. Therefore Buddha keeps shouting that life is suffering—birth is suffering, youth is suffering, old age is suffering—everything is suffering. He shouts so much because you are deaf. If one speaks softly, you don’t hear at all; even when he shouts, you still don’t listen.

And look—you are asking it upside down: “Life is suffering—why does Bhagwan Buddha insist so much on it?” It seems you are a bit annoyed too, as if to say, “Why does this man keep shouting that life is suffering! We are enjoying ourselves counting our money, looking after our wife and children, and this man goes on saying, ‘Life is suffering!’ He spoils our fun. We have somehow built a house, and this man says, ‘Life is suffering!’ The house has just been made—at least wait a bit. Let us celebrate, hang the garlands, play the band. We are going to be married and you stand in the road yelling that life is suffering! Oh, let the wedding happen first! What’s the hurry? Old age will come, death will come—we’ll see then.”

That is why Buddha did not say old age is suffering; he began with birth. He said: birth is suffering. He did not say death is suffering; he said: birth itself is suffering—death will of course follow. We think death is suffering—death will come when it comes. Who knows whether it will even come? It always happens to others; it never seems to happen to oneself. And perhaps we’ll escape it somehow, or science might discover some remedy by then, find some medicine. And anyway, when it happens, it happens—such a distant matter neither grips us nor bothers us.

Therefore Buddha says: birth is suffering, youth is suffering. Buddha says: friendship is suffering, love is suffering, relationship is suffering, attachment is suffering. Buddha says: defeat is suffering, victory is suffering—failure is suffering of course, but success is suffering too. Just look at the successful man: when he finally sits on his chair, look at his state! What kind of success is that! Buddha says: all is suffering.

Hearing this must have made you a little uneasy; that’s why you ask: Won’t you let us sit comfortably for a moment! If we forget ourselves for two moments, won’t you let us forget! If we try to drown ourselves a little in the mood, won’t you let us drown! You keep shouting that life is suffering!

You ask, “Is life really only suffering—nothing but suffering, with nothing else in it?” No—there is much more. Precisely for that reason Buddha repeats that life is suffering, so that your eyes may be raised toward that “much more.” Your life is suffering. When Buddha says “life is suffering,” he is not calling his own life suffering—remember. I too say to you: your life is suffering, nothing but suffering. But that does not mean I am condemning life. I am only saying that the way you live is suffering. There is another way that is great bliss. Your life is suffering; my life is not suffering. And only when it becomes visible to you that your life is suffering will you be able to move toward the life I am pointing to—otherwise you will not.

Now understand: great injustice has been done to Buddha. In the West many books have been written on Buddha, and almost all call him a pessimist. “This man is a preacher of suffering; he says everything is suffering. He creates despair.” All that is a misunderstanding, a wrong conception. Buddha speaks of suffering not because he is a pessimist. The mistake lies with the Western interpreters. There have been pessimists in the West, so they assumed this man is also a pessimist. In the West there are those who say, “There is suffering.” Schopenhauer says: “All is suffering.” But he is a pessimist. He says there is no way beyond suffering, no possibility of release from it, no other mode of being except suffering. That is pessimism.

And Schopenhauer is under the illusion that he is influenced by Buddha. He is not influenced by Buddha at all; he is saying the exact opposite of Buddha. He never understood Buddha’s Four Noble Truths. Buddha says: there is suffering. The second noble truth: there are causes of suffering. It is not causeless. If it were causeless, it would be hard to remove. There is suffering—certainly—but there are causes; drop the causes and suffering will disappear. Then the third truth: there are methods to end this suffering. And the fourth declaration: Buddha says, from my own experience I tell you, there is a state in which suffering is utterly extinguished, in which it comes to a complete end.

And you call Buddha a pessimist? You heard only the first statement and closed the case! You go to a doctor and he says you have TB, and you run away saying, “This man is a pessimist—he has given me TB! I was already troubled and now he’s diagnosed TB. Somehow I was forgetting myself, somehow managing to get by, and now he has created more trouble.”

You didn’t hear the whole thing. He was saying: yes, there is tuberculosis, there are causes of tuberculosis, there are medicines to be free of those causes, and there is a condition of being free of tuberculosis. You didn’t hear the other three truths. Schopenhauer got stuck on the first truth and believed he had understood Buddha.

Similarly, Jean-Paul Sartre in the West says everything is suffering—meaningless, nothing but gloom and anguish, life is sheer torment. So the West feels that Buddha is saying what Schopenhauer and Sartre say.

No—Buddha’s message is entirely different. It is hard to find a greater celebrant of bliss than Buddha. Let me say it: it is difficult to find a greater hedonist than Buddha. Buddha is a hedonist—a lover of bliss. And precisely for that reason he keeps pointing out your suffering: you are wasting time needlessly in misery; bliss is possible. The thing is lying right at hand—just look to this side a little. You are entangled on one side and dragging life into suffering.

Buddha’s loud insistence is out of compassion. He sees that within you a great cloudburst of bliss can happen, and you have become worms of suffering—so he shouts. Buddha is not a pessimist, nor does he want to rob you of life’s happiness—there is no happiness to rob in your present life! Buddha wants to show you the reality of your life so that reality begins to sting you, pierce your chest like an arrow, and one day you too ask: “All right—I see that life is suffering. Now what is the way?” Only when suffering becomes visible will you ask for the remedy.

Therefore Buddha repeats that it is nothing but suffering—because it can be nothing but bliss. The very energy that is becoming suffering can become bliss. What is now melancholy can become celebration. The tears themselves can become songs.

Knowledge cannot be given. Yes, it can be received, but it cannot be given. If you take it, you take it; it cannot be given by me. The river is flowing; if you wish to drink, drink. The river cannot leap up to touch your lips. The river will keep flowing; it depends on you. Bend down, fill your cupped hands, drink as much as you like. There is no lack of giving from my side, but I cannot give it to you; if you choose to take, you can take— I am available here.

You ask, “I am very ignorant; have compassion and give me knowledge.”

And another thing: your notions about ignorance and knowledge must be somewhat mistaken. You probably think there are a few things you don’t know, and if you come to know them your ignorance will vanish. No! Knowing a few things does not dispel ignorance; it only covers it. To destroy ignorance you don’t need to know many things; you need to know just one thing: Who are you? And how am I to tell you who you are?

Who you are you will have to see by going into your innermost core. You are—this itself is the great thing: you are. And you are conscious as well—otherwise who would ask, “I am ignorant, give me knowledge”? You do have awareness. It is slow, it is hazy; there is a light, not very clear, but it is there. It can be clarified. There is gold, mixed with mud; the mud can be removed, the gold can be put into the fire. There is water, impure; it can be filtered, refined. There are clothes, dirty; soap is available—sannyas is the soap—wash them.

But remember: knowledge is not the same as information. Information is not knowledge. It is not that I tell you “God exists, the soul exists,” you hear it, you think you know, and ignorance disappears. If only it were that cheap! If only it were that easy!

In that case you already “know” these things—what more is there to be told? No, ignorance is dispelled by an inner awakening, not by information from outside. External information arrives, ignorance gets covered over; a person becomes a scholar, not a knower. A knower happens through an inner explosion, through the kindling of the inner flame.

And to kindle the inner flame, the state of ignorance is just right. When a pundit comes to me, I first have to make him ignorant. I have to take away his knowledge first. Because ignorance is natural; knowledge is artificial. Ignorance is native to nature; from the natural, a path opens—no path opens from the artificial. How can a path arise out of falsity!

So it is good that you know you are ignorant. My feeling is that you need not even have asked the question; if you already know you are ignorant, the significant half is accomplished. I will not have to strip you of scholarship—half the work is done.

There was a great musician—Wegener. When someone came to learn music from him, he would sometimes charge a normal fee, sometimes double—an odd business! Once two companions came together to study. He asked one for half the fee and the other for double. The one charged double was puzzled. He said, “What sort of justice is this? I have been practicing music for ten years, and you ask me double! And this man is a complete novice—he has never touched music—yet you ask him half! If you took half from me, that would at least be logical.”

Wegener said, “No, you don’t understand my logic. You have learned for ten years; now I will have to make you unlearn that too—first I must do the cleaning. This man is at least clean and blank. Nothing is written on his slate. I charge him half. I ask you double because your slate has so much written on it; until I erase it, nothing new can be written.”

So I say to you: you are blessed that you know you are ignorant. Now don’t hastily hide this ignorance under knowledge, don’t cover it with knowledge. This ignorance is auspicious. Out of this ignorance, a path opens. That path should turn toward meditation, not toward knowledge. Turn toward knowledge and you will miss; turn toward meditation and one day you will come upon knowledge.

This will sound paradoxical—go toward knowledge and knowledge will never happen; go toward meditation and knowledge is certain. And the processes of meditation and knowledge are different. The process of meditation is awareness, wakefulness. The process of knowledge is scripture, doctrine, philosophy. They are different things.

Listen to this little incident—

One morning a new monk reached the monastery of the Master Peng Chi and asked a question. The monk’s name was Ching Shui. He said, “This Ching Shui is very lonely, very ignorant and very poor; this old monk needs some spiritual wealth. Revered sir, have compassion!” The Master looked at him for a moment and then called out loudly, “Bhante, Ching Shui!” Shui said, “Yes, Master!” The Master began to laugh and said, “After cup upon cup of wine, the drinker still says that his lips have not yet been wetted.” He said something marvelous. After cup upon cup of wine, the drinker says his lips are still not wet.

What happened? Only his name was called—“Bhante, Ching Shui!”—and the monk replied, “Yes, Master!” The Master is saying: you have that much awareness that I asked and you answered, I called and you responded to the sound—you have that much awareness; that is enough. This much awareness only needs to be deepened. You have been drinking the cup of awareness for lifetimes; you have not recognized it rightly.

He said something wonderful. He said, the one who spoke—that itself is the wealth. I called and you heard; you are not deaf—this is the wealth. I called and there was a response; you are not unconscious—this is the wealth. I called and instantly—without a moment’s thought—you signaled your presence; there was no thinking within—that is meditation. If this moment deepens, so far you have drunk cup after cup; then you will drink the whole river, the whole ocean.

You ask, “I am very ignorant; have compassion and give me knowledge.”

To be ignorant is good, auspicious. Ignorant means simple; ignorant means not complex; ignorant means childlike. Good. Do not spoil this ignorance. I am on the side of ignorance. I am not at all on the side of knowledge. I have a great love for ignorance. Ignorance is a very auspicious happening; your mind is not yet encircled.

At this moment, turn toward meditation. Life is calling from all sides; respond. Become more sensitive. When the greenness of the trees calls, let that greenness sink into your eyes with care. When birds call, listen to that call and let your heart sway with it. When a gust of wind comes, don’t let it just pass by; give thanks, sway with it. When you lift your eyes to the sky, hold a feeling of grace toward this vastness. When the moon and stars call to you, listen. From every side the Master is calling—“Bhante, Ching Shui!” The call is coming from all around. The divine is calling from everywhere. Just be a little less deaf, a little less blind—this will be enough.

Slowly, awareness will grow; slowly, it will deepen. And as awareness deepens, you will begin to come closer to knowledge. Knowledge lies within you. You have brought it with you. Your wealth is with you; your kingdom is with you. That is why Jesus says again and again: the kingdom of God is within you.

Exactly so. Sadhana is a dream, and sannyas too. But there are differences between dream and dream.

A thorn gets lodged in your foot; you use another thorn to remove the first. The second is also a thorn—remember that. One thorn is already stuck, so you take it out with another. Don’t imagine the second thorn is not a thorn—otherwise you’ll make a great mistake. And when the first thorn is out, what do you do? You throw away both thorns. You don’t wrap up the second thorn and put it in a safe, you don’t worship it.

The world is a thorn. Sannyas is also a thorn. With one thorn you remove the other. Then both are useless. In the ultimate state, even sannyas is not.

That Brahmin who asked Buddha, “Are you a deva, a gandharva, a human being?” forgot one thing; he should have asked, “Are you a renunciate or a householder?” He would still have said, “I am neither a renunciate nor a householder. I am a Buddha.” Where, in the happening of Buddhahood, are world and sannyas! If the world is the illness, sannyas is the medicine. But when the illness is gone, you throw the medicine bottle into the trash too, don’t you! You don’t keep it carefully. Or donate it to the Lions Club! What will you do with it? It has become useless.

Poison is sometimes countered by poison. Sannyas is just as dreamlike as the world.

Take this little story into your heart—
A man dreamt he had been caught for theft—must be like Krishnapriya: if you don’t acknowledge it, it will come as a dream and you’ll get entangled in it; better to accept while awake—he dreamt he was caught for theft and jailed. He pleaded and begged, appealed to friends, to the magistrate, but nothing worked, nothing happened. He knew he was innocent, yet he could not save himself.

In the midst of his sorrow, with tears in his eyes, a snake bit him. The moment it bit, a cry burst from his mouth—and he woke up. He found he was perfectly fine, peacefully on his own bed. There had been no theft, no magistrate, no jail, no sentence.

He began to laugh. He had never been a prisoner at all. His imprisonment, his pleadings, his prayers to friends, to magistrates, to the jailer—all were dreams. The snake too was a dream, but it was a little different from the other elements. It woke him up. Upon waking, that snake also became unreal. Yet it had the power to awaken. The jail was false, the snake was false, the theft was false, the friends and the magistrate were false, the chains on his hands, he himself lying in prison—false. The snake too was false. But there was a slight difference between false and false, a subtle difference between dream and dream. The snake bit—there were chains on his hands, so he could not prevent it; how could he? It bit, a cry escaped—and the sleep broke.

Understand it like this. Sadhana is as much a dream as the world. But there are differences between dream and dream. If you allow sadhana to “bite,” a cry will arise—and in that very cry awakening happens. Yes, once awake, the snake too is false; upon awakening it becomes just as unreal. First the snake devours the dream of jail, the dream of the magistrate, the dream of the prisoner—and in the end the snake devours itself and dies; it commits suicide.

First sannyas wipes out the world, and then it commits self-annihilation and disappears. Sannyas is not the final word; it is a middle term. It is a bridge. Sannyas is a device, nothing more. And the device is needed only because we are entangled somewhere. If there were no entanglement, there would be no need for a device.

So remember, both are unreal. Therefore, having left household life, do not get entangled in sannyas the way you were entangled in household life. Keep this awareness: one day you must awaken even from this. Keep the remembrance alive—that one day you must be free even of meditation. One day you must be free of chanting and austerities too. A moment must come when only Buddhahood remains; a pure lamp burns, without the slightest smoke; nothing else remains. A flame burning in emptiness—no form or color, no shape, no method. Beyond all categories is the abode of Truth. That Truth is what we call nirvana.

So understand it thus—world, sannyas, nirvana. The illness of the world is to be erased with the medicine of sannyas, so that nirvana may blossom. One illusion is to be erased by another illusion.

That is all for today.