Es Dhammo Sanantano #86

Man is very complex. Even when the hour of change arrives, he changes on the surface—and protects himself from the change within.

Kabir has said: the mind remains un-dyed, the yogi dyes only his robe.

To dye the cloth is easy. The real matter is to dye the mind. If the color on your clothes is the news that your heart has been dyed—good, auspicious. But if the color on your clothes is a device to avoid coloring the mind, it is very dangerous. Better to have remained as you were; at least there would have been no deception. When the hour of prayer comes, man goes off to the temple. He performs an outer prayer—the inner heart does not melt. Better not to have prayed. Then at least the pain would remain that prayer has not happened. Now, the prayer has been done and yet prayer has not happened—such is the complexity.

The last deception the mind plays upon man is precisely this: it convinces you—now what more is there to do? Worship has been done, prayer has been done, you have been to the temple, the robes are dyed; you were worldly, now you are a sannyasin—what remains to be done! From outer differences nothing happens. However much you dye the circumference—until the center is dyed there is no revolution. Your real face remains exactly as it was; you simply put on masks. This complexity of man has been born, little by little, from deceiving others. When you deceive others and become very skillful at it, one day you deceive yourself too.

Hence the scriptures have said: do not deceive others. Because the final outcome of deceiving others is only one—you will deceive yourself. You will become so proficient in dishonesty that finally the pit you dug for others will become your own grave. This is exactly what is happening. You speak lies to others and hide the truth. One day you will find—you have lied to yourself and hidden the truth from yourself. You have become so accomplished at lying, you are lying to your own self and cannot catch it. Your dishonesty has become so skillful, so artistic, that now even you will not be able to catch how and when you deceived yourself.

Today’s sutras are in this very context. First, understand the context. Sutra—context—

The sun set; one more day passed. Night began to descend, the first stars of evening emerged in the sky. The monastery is quiet, a cool breeze is blowing. The Blessed One is staying at Jetavana. Along with him, five hundred bhikshus are also staying.

These five hundred bhikshus are sitting in the hall of seats, talking, gossiping. Strange—how their conversation is just like that of ordinary people. Hearing their talk it is difficult to decide whether they are worldly or sannyasins. The subjects of their discussion are not the subjects of the inner journey—as if they are still engaged in the outer journey.

The Blessed One sits silently, listening to their talk. He is astonished—and filled with compassion. Amazed—and suffused with great pity for them too. They are perhaps so engrossed in their chatter that they have forgotten the Blessed One. How easy it is to forget the Buddha, how difficult to remember! Even if the Buddha is present nearby, forgetting is easy. Even if the Buddha sits in front of you, forgetting is easy. The bhikshus are so absorbed in their talking that they do not even remember that the Buddha is sitting close by, listening. He has slipped from their awareness.

Someone is saying: the road to such-and-such village is very beautiful; the road to such-and-such village is very bad. On such-and-such road there are pebbles, stones, thorns. Such-and-such road is very clean. Such-and-such road has shady trees, and clear lakes; and such-and-such road is very dry and barren—may God save us from it.

They are bhikshus; they have to wander, to travel different roads, to go from village to village—so the talk is going on: which paths are fit to take, which are not.

And someone is saying: the king of such-and-such city is wonderful, very charitable. The merchant of that city is also a true merchant—a shreshthi indeed.

The word seth came from shreshtha. Only that wealthy one who was charitable was called shreshtha—seṭh.

So the bhikshus are saying—the king is wonderful, and the city’s chief merchant, the nagarashreshthi, is truly noble. And the king of such-and-such city is a miser, his city’s merchant is also a miser, his people are misers—never set foot there by mistake. They have probably never even heard the name of this Dharma. In that city don’t hope for alms. If even your begging bowl is not stolen there, count yourself fortunate. If you come out of that village with your robes intact, count it great grace of the Lord. Those who give in charity seem no longer to exist. And all the scriptures have said that charity is the root of Dharma.

And another is saying—if you wish to see beautiful women and men, go to this or that kingdom. In the rest of the places there are only inferior, ugly men and women—a mere crowd, a jam, a bustle.

The Buddha heard all this. He was startled—and he smiled. He called those bhikshus near and said—Bhikshus, do you not hesitate to talk of outer roads? Being bhikshus you still talk of outer paths! Think of the inner path, bhikshus! Time is short and much remains to be done. On these very outer roads you have wandered for births upon births—are you not yet tired? Do you still want to roam more? What beauty is there in outer paths! What shade can be there on outer paths! What lakes on outer paths! Beauty is on the Arya-marga. Beauty is on the inner path. Shade is there, the lake is there. If you must seek refuge, seek it there. There alone thirst will be quenched, there alone the fever will disappear, there hunger will end—not elsewhere. A bhikshu should remain only on the Arya-marga, for that is the path of the cessation of dukkha.

And then he spoke these verses.

First, let this story soak deep into the heart, part by part; then the verses will be understood.

The sun has set; one more day has passed.

If a sannyasin is truly a sannyasin, then death has come nearer—he should become more alert. One more day has slipped from the hand, and as yet nothing decisive has happened—no meditation has happened, no Samadhi has settled, the lamp of compassion has not yet been lit. One more day is gone. And who knows whether morning will come or not—this very night may be the last. If one is truly in sannyas, these hours are not to be wasted in futile talk.

The sun has set—just so, one day we too shall set. With every setting sun we are setting. With every evening we are a little less. Here the days are passing, and there the energy of our life is being spent. Drop by drop, one day life will be exhausted. The worldly may think futile thoughts—it is understandable; but the sannyasin! For the sannyasin only one thing is important: death is—and I have not yet known life. Before a sannyasin stands only one question, one challenge—death is approaching and I have not yet become acquainted with life. What is life? Even now I am not capable of answering. Who am I? No direct seeing has yet happened. These hours, the passing hours, are not to be wasted.

The sun has set. One more day has passed!

Night has begun to descend—just so, one day death will descend. The night that descends every day finally brings the news of the coming death. The darkness begins to gather—just so, one day the great darkness will fall. You came; you went—and nothing happened in your life! As you came, so you went. Empty-handed you came, empty-handed you left. The trash you gathered will all be left behind.

So there will be a difference between the worldly man and the sannyasin—in every way there will be a difference. Standing at the same place, looking at the same setting sun, the sannyasin will see something else, the worldly something else.

One night it happened. Buddha had given his discourse. After his discourse he would say every day: now go, and complete the night’s last work. But that day, by chance, others besides the bhikshus had also come to listen. A thief had come, and a prostitute had come. What Buddha meant by “now complete the night’s last work” was: descend into meditation. Because Buddha would say: who knows whether morning will come or not? Let death find you in meditation. Let sleep find you in meditation—because sleep is a small death. Every night we taste death. In the same way, one day you will be absorbed in death as you get lost in sleep every day.

And you have noticed—in sleep your outer world is left lying there; you remember neither that you are poor nor that you are rich; not that you are educated or uneducated; not that you are a knower or a pundit; not that you are child, youth, or old; man or woman; not beauty, not ugliness—nothing at all is remembered. You do not even remember your own name, your address. All that is outside is left aside in sleep—then what to say of death! Every night, sleep comes carrying the news of death—bringing the experience of small deaths.

So Buddha would say: before you sleep at night—before you die every night—descend into meditation. Who knows whether morning will be or not! Let death find you in meditation. Then life will be transformed. Then there will be no rebirth.

Because this had to be said every day, he made it into a symbol: Bhikshus, now go and do the night’s last work.

The bhikshus rose and went to meditate. The thief was startled; he said—night has advanced sufficiently; they speak rightly—I should go and get to my work. Theft was his work. And the prostitute thought—Buddha speaks well; how did they know that prostitution is my work and night has come; I too must get to my work!

A single sentence Buddha spoke: night has come, sleep is approaching, now go and do your last work. Those who were to meditate went to meditate; those who were to steal went to steal; those who were to go to prostitution went to prostitution; the prostitute opened her shop, the thief set out on his business. One word—but meanings became many.

The sun sets. The eyes bring the same news, but the inner consciousness interprets differently.

I have heard—two men were standing by a lake. It was the night of a full moon; the moon had risen above, the moon was shimmering in the lake. One man was a poet, the other a ragpicker. The ragpicker peered intently into the lake and said—ah! It looks like a shoe is lying there, and a tin can as well. The poet smacked his head: the moon lies in this lake, you cannot see the moon! The sky has descended into this lake, you cannot see the sky. You see a shoe and a tin can!

A ragpicker—how will he see the moon? The moon is seen by one who has the consciousness to see the moon; who has a little capacity for poetry, who has some sense of beauty in the heart. A ragpicker cannot see the moon. There is a Tibetan saying: even if a pickpocket goes to a saint, his eyes are on the saint’s pocket—even if the pocket is empty—his eyes do not fall on the saint. We see what we are. We see in the manner in which we are.

The sun has set.

Buddha wished that this extraordinary hour—the hour of the sun setting—should be used by his sannyasins, his bhikshus, to sit silently and watch the current in which their lives are setting. You will be surprised to know that in this country we have always called prayer sandhya—twilight. Why?

Sandhya is the moment of prayer. One day has passed; a night has arrived. One more day has gone—of crowd and clamour, of turmoil, of doing—and a small death stands at the door. Between the two—pray. Sandhya means the moments between day and night. Let these moments become prayer. Thus, slowly, in this land sandhya itself became synonymous with prayer.

Likewise the morning. Night has passed, one death has passed, and you rise; again the world of bustle will begin. This short span between night and day—this sandhya, this little interval, this junction—sandhya is formed from sandhi—use this interval, this junction between the two.

And its meaning is very precious. When your consciousness descends from waking into sleep, or comes from sleep into waking, just as the gears change in a car, exactly such an event happens. For a moment, when you change gears, as you shift from one gear into another, for a moment the car is in no gear—it passes through neutral. Exactly so, when the day has passed and the consciousness of the day is settling, and the consciousness of night is rising—then for a moment you are neither awake nor asleep. For a moment there is a small junction; in that junction you are not within the body. In that junction you are in your own nature.

Alas—if you could watch that junction with awareness, the sandhya is fulfilled. If you could recognize that junction rightly, you would be free. Every day this moment comes, and every day we miss it. For births upon births this moment comes, and we miss it. Our mastery at missing is unparalleled.

The sun has set; one more day passed. Night has begun to descend, the first stars have appeared. The monastery is quiet.

When evening comes, even the birds fall silent; the trees begin to prepare for sleep. Man has fallen below even birds and trees. The birds have folded their wings, huddled in their nests. The preparations for night have begun. The trees have loosened their leaves, the flowers have closed; arrangements for death are being made. But man goes on. If he is worldly—fine, forgive it. But even the sannyasin goes on—engaged in futile talk. These moments were quiet, a cool breeze was flowing—this occasion should have been used.

Call up that hour within your eyes. Let that scene form within. Live in that scene for a while—only then will these sutras come alive, the verses will be resurrected. Then you will hear them as if you were present there. That is what I want—that you again be present at that place. Dusk; the first stars begin to appear, night descends, a cool wind blows, animals and birds have fallen still, the trees have closed their eyes and begun the preparations for sleep. And these bhikshus—and the presence of the Blessed One—yet they do not descend into evening, they do not descend into prayer. They were worldly—they had merely donned the robes of a bhikshu; they wore ochre garments; they had left their shopkeeping, but only on the surface—within, the shops were open.

The mind remains un-dyed, the yogi dyes only the robe.

The robes had been dyed; the mind had not. Whom are you deceiving? You are deceiving yourself.

The Blessed One is staying in Jetavana. Five hundred bhikshus are sitting in the hall, talking.

First of all, bhikshus should be silent. As far as possible—silent; as much as possible—silent. The more hours pass in silence, the more auspicious. First—bhikshus should not talk unless it becomes unavoidable. Bhikshus should be sparing of speech. Telegraphic—only as many words as are absolutely necessary; not more than that.

You go to send a telegram—you think so much! Because you can send only ten words. You cut and trim; you drop all useless words, you make ten words. But when you sit to write a letter, then you do not worry; you write ten pages. And you must have noticed a curious thing: the impact of a ten-word wire is never the impact of a ten-page letter. What is the matter? In useless words even the meaningful ones get lost. Cut off the useless and the meaningful gains a luminosity, a depth, an intensity.

A bhikshu should be sparing of speech. He should weigh each word. He should pour his urgency, his very life, into each word. A bhikshu does not speak unnecessarily. He will not utter a single word unnecessarily, not even put an unnecessary comma. Only as much as is utterly necessary—and he will stop that very moment.

First thing—these bhikshus are sitting in the hall, five hundred bhikshus, talking. They must have created a marketplace! When five hundred people talk—it becomes a bazaar! They have lived in the bazaar up to now. They have become bhikshus, but the bazaar does not leave them. The bazaar has come along with them; it has sat down in their heart.

Running away from the outside accomplishes nothing until there is transformation within. You can run to the Himalayas—what will you do? Sitting in a Himalayan cave you will still think of your shop. You will think the same thoughts you have always thought. Therefore the real question is not of going anywhere. The real question is the transformation of vision within; the change of consciousness; a renewal of awareness.

They are talking—that itself does not befit them. And then, in the presence of Buddha! If they were alone, if the Buddha were not present and they talked—then too it might pass, it would be forgivable. After all, they are human. Even if they are bhikshus, what then? Man is man after all. He wishes to talk, to say his joys and sorrows. But in the presence of the Buddha! Where the Buddha is present an extraordinary grace is showering—you will deprive yourself of that grace by your babble. There the Buddha is showering, and you are engaged in something else!

In the presence of the Buddha all work should come to a halt. All occupations of your mind should cease. Your heart should be open only to the Buddha. In the presence of the Buddha it should be as with the sunflower—have you seen it? Wherever the sun is, it turns in that direction. The disciple should become like the sunflower toward the master.

But they have turned their backs. They have forgotten—even the remembrance has faded; they are so absorbed in their talk. The talk has become more important; the Buddha has become less. In the smoke of their chatter, the light of the Buddha has disappeared. They have raised so much smoke—so many clouds—that they no longer remember in whose presence they sit, where they sit. A sannyasin must remain mindful—otherwise what kind of sannyas is this!

Strange—that their conversation is just like that of ordinary folk. Hearing their talk it is difficult to decide whether they are worldly or sannyasins.

The same futile talk. In which village the people are beautiful, and in which they are not. And where alms are given, where not. And on which road there are shady trees, and where not. The same gossip of the common crowd; the same tale of pleasure and pain, the same complaining that goes on everywhere.

The subjects of their talk are not the subjects of the inner journey.

First—speech should not be at all; and if it must be, the target of speech should be the inner journey. Ask each other—Bhikshu, how goes your meditation? Ask—are your asravas ebbing or not? Ask—has non-violence begun to take birth or not? Say of yourself—“I try a lot, but I miss; thoughts interfere; peace is broken; I cannot sit in one-pointedness; the mind skitters here and there, like mercury—the more I grasp it, the more it scatters.” If it were something of the inner, if it were to give each other a little help in the inner journey—it would be understandable. Then it would be clear they are travelers of the inner path.

But the subjects of their talk are not of the inner journey. It actually seems their outer journey still continues. For whatever is going on in your mind—that is your journey. Where you sit does not matter; whether you are in a temple or a mosque does not matter; whether with Krishna, with Christ, with Buddha, or with Mahavira—none of that matters. Whatever is going on within you, that alone is your path. What are you thinking within…

You sit here, but what is going on within—that is where you are. Your being here is then only very gross—whether you are or are not makes little difference. What goes on within—that is your state; keep an eye on that. There the outer journey must cease. Extroversion must stop.

The Blessed One sits silent, listening to their talk. He is astonished!

Astonished that I am present here to give, but they are not ready to receive! Astonished that I am raining upon them, but their pitchers are turned upside down! That I am pouring fullness into them, but their pitchers are full of holes—everything is leaking away. That I awaken them day after day—and day after day they fall asleep. If they are not alert to my very presence, how will they be alert to anything else!

Astonished—and full of compassion as well.

There is pity too—that poor fellows, though renounced, have not become sannyasins. Though renounced, they have remained worldly. So compassion rises—there is karuna, not condemnation. In a true master’s heart there is never condemnation. Even when you err, there is compassion in his heart. Even when you oppose him, he prays for you. Even when you take up enmity with him, his grace toward you does not change.

They are probably so absorbed in their talk that they have forgotten the Buddha. How easy to forget, how difficult to remember the Buddha!

People say they want to know God. They say—where is God? They say—show us God, grant us darshan. But even if God were standing before you, you would not have darshan—your eyes are closed. Even if God shouted into your ears, you would not hear—your ears are closed. There is such noise inside you! Will you listen to your own noise—or to the voice of God? His voice is very soft. God does not shout—he whispers. There is no aggression in his voice. It is like a very faint note—a zero-note; like a wave of music. Unless you become silent you will not catch that wave. When you become silent, then you will. And becoming silent you will be astonished—“Where were we searching? He has surrounded us on all sides. Other than him nothing is.”

But that is a very far-off matter—that you might someday see God in a tree. You do not see him in Buddha, not in Krishna, not in Kabir, not in Nanak—that would be far off indeed—how will you see him in stone?

See how strange man is—he installs stone idols in temples. If someone living and present does not appear to you, how will he appear in a stone idol? God walking and laughing and breathing does not appear—how will he appear in a stone? Only in the very end can he appear in a stone—when he has appeared everywhere else. The stone idol cannot be the beginning of the journey; it may be the end.

Someone is saying—the road to such-and-such village is very beautiful, and such-and-such road is very bad—don’t ever go there. That road has pebbles, thorns; no shade there, no lake. Such-and-such road is very clean; there are shady trees, pure lakes.

Buddha listens; he is startled. He must be thinking—I thought they would begin to speak of the inner path; they are still thinking of outer paths!

From dry roads nothing is gained, nor from shady roads. All outer roads mislead—none brings you home. And from lakes outside, has anyone’s thirst ever been quenched—the thirst of life? The more you drink, the more the thirst increases. And from trees outside, has anyone found shade? Until one sits in the shade of one’s innermost, there is no shade. Until then it is all deception. Outside there is only illusion, maya; outside are only devices to cut and forget time; there is no attainment outside. Out there there is only loss upon loss. If you wish to lose—go out; if you wish to find—come in.

And someone is saying—the king of such-and-such city is very noble; the city’s chief merchant is truly noble. The reason? That they give in charity. And the speaker is also saying—there are other cities too—don’t go there by mistake; their king is a great miser, a great niggard; their merchant is miserly; not only that—the subjects too are misers—as the king, so the people. If you return from there with your begging bowl safe, that is much; there is the danger even your robes will be stolen.

I have heard—Mulla Nasruddin once became the qazi of a village. The very first case arrived. A man had been robbed outside the village. The man came running and said—Your honor, I was robbed outside your village—everything stolen. My bundle was taken; in my bundle there was money—that was taken. Even my horse was snatched; not only that—my coat and shirt, my dhoti were stripped—many robbers I have seen, but is this a robbery! He was wearing only his underwear.

Mulla looked at his underwear and said—They did not take your underwear? He said—No. Mulla said—Then they must have been from some other village. In this village whatever we do, we do it fully. Go to some other village and file your case. This cannot be a case of my village.

So the bhikshus were saying—there are such villages where if you can return with your things safe… Not that they have much; a bhikshu had only three robes and a begging bowl—that was his wealth.

But note the strange fact: whether capital is little or much, attachment does not differ. He who has a palace fears lest the palace be lost; he who has a loincloth fears lest the loincloth be lost. As far as the fear of losing is concerned, both fears are equal—there is not the slightest difference. If you have a lakh of rupees, you are just as afraid; if you have one rupee, you are just as afraid. If that one rupee is lost, your entire wealth is gone; if a lakh is lost, his entire wealth is gone—the fear is equal.

Therefore be careful—do not think that you have left a palace and live in a hut, so your attachment to possessions has diminished. Nothing changes. The attachment that was to the palace will transfer to the hut. If you abandon the safe and keep a loincloth in your hand, the attachment that was to the safe will transfer to the loincloth. It does not matter how many things you have. Possessions are not related to the number of things—possession is a state of feeling. Freedom from possession comes from understanding—that nothing here is mine; at best I can use it, then all will be left behind. Freedom from possession does not come by throwing away objects.

These bhikshus have left everything. Among them were people from very great families. Because Buddha himself was a king’s son, those of royal families were intrigued—naturally. Buddha’s connections were with royal families, friendships with princes; he had studied and grown up with princes; his contact was with the country’s most eminent classes, the most affluent. So when Buddha renounced, the sons and daughters of the country’s highest class moved with Buddha—naturally. With Raidas no king would become a sannyasin. With Raidas, the cobblers only would become sannyasins—naturally.

When Buddha took sannyas, a wave spread. Those connected with Buddha also went along. People came from big houses, leaving all—who knows how much wealth, how many positions they left—but now they began to quarrel over a single robe. They began to guard that single robe. At night they would feel their robe to be sure no one had stolen it. They clung to their begging bowl as if it were an empire. Man is astonishing. It makes no difference how big your courtyard is—small or large—you cling equally. Therefore do not worry about large or small courtyards; change the consciousness.

Then that bhikshu was saying—those who give in charity do not remain now. Where are the old days? That golden age is no more when people knew how to give! And all the scriptures have said giving is the root of Dharma.

This too is a point to be understood. The scriptures have said that Dharma is synonymous with dana—surely; but people have taken a strange meaning. You too see this: a beggar stands at the door and says—charity is the root of religion; greed is the father of sin; give, because giving is the root of Dharma. If you give—you are religious. If you do not—you are irreligious.

I have heard—in a village there was a great miser. He had never given anything to anyone. A temple was being built; people thought—let us try once more, a last attempt—after this we will never go to his house again. He never gave to anyone; still one more try must be made. One last effort!

They went. They extolled the glory of charity. The miser appeared a little touched, a little pleased, a little thrilled—because the miser was showing interest. There was a hint in his eyes. They felt that perhaps today what has never happened will happen. Seeing the miser moved, they said—Now speak, how much will you donate? You appear eager. We are fortunate! The miser said—Donate? No, no—I will go with you. Your talk has aroused my interest; I too will beg now. Why do any other futile work! If donation is such a great thing, why remain in shopkeeping? I too will beg for donations.

Charity was called the root of Dharma not for beggars. The matter has turned upside down. It was said so that those who have, become willing to give—not so that those who do not have become ready to grab. There is a joy in giving—surely dana is Dharma because giving is religious; whatever you have—give. But the beggars made it their scripture.

The reason so many beggars have arisen in this country is just this. They said—you must give, because dana is Dharma. If you do not give, you are a sinner—you will rot in hell. You see—if you do not give to a beggar, he curses you; he keeps sending you to hell. He is utterly certain you will fall into hell. He had given you a chance to donate.

The matter has turned upside down. With religion this has happened often—one thing is said; something else happens; the opposite happens. It was said that the giver should give; the taker has become eager to take. This is the perverse outcome.

These bhikshus are very keen—where charity is found, there are noble people; where charity is not, ignoble. But see their vision—your eyes still value wealth. Those who give are noble; those who do not are ignoble. On this measure you seem to have left wealth, but you have not yet left valuing it.

You see this too—if some wealthy man comes to a saint’s discourse, the discourse itself stops in the middle. He says—Welcome, sethji! Come, sit!

When I was small, any mahatma who came to my village I would go to listen. Seeing this I was amazed: in one thing all mahatmas agreed—that the village’s big seths never came on time; big men never come on time. When everyone had arrived, the mahatma had begun to speak—after all, it was their temple; the mahatma stayed there, ate their food—the mahatma had started speaking—then they would come; after fifteen minutes, twenty minutes, the mahatma would immediately stop and say—Come, sethji, come!

Once I went to listen in their temple. The discourse on Brahman was proceeding. Suddenly the seth arrived in the middle. The mahatma said—Come, sethji, come, sit! I stood up and said—I do not understand; it seems someone greater than Brahman has arrived. The talk was on Brahman—who is this sethji! And what is the point of his entering in the middle? And what need have you to see who has entered? If he comes late, he will sit. But calling him forward and making him sit, stopping speech—this I don’t understand. What kind of discourse on Brahman is this!

But this is how it goes. Those whom you call mahatmas—their attention is also on wealth. Where there is money there is value; where there is none, there is no value.

These bhikshus are also thinking of charity. Those who give are noble—those who give to them are noble; those who do not give are ignoble. This cannot be a criterion. And from this criterion only one thing is known—that their minds are still entangled in wealth.

And another was saying—if you want to see beautiful women and men, go to those states.

All the teaching is only this—that man is not the body. Now to think in terms of beauty and ugliness of the body is very ordinary. What is within man is formless, arupa, nirguna. We have come in search of that. But the eyes are still stuck on skin. Who is beautiful? Who is ugly? You are still lost in dreams. Still nothing has changed; the world is continuing as it was—quite as it was.

The Buddha heard all this. Naturally he was startled. He called those bhikshus near and said—Bhikshus, do you not feel ashamed to talk of outer paths?

No shame? No hesitation? No sense of modesty? Think a little—what are you saying—and for what? Because whatever is said has a reason inside. Nothing is said without reason. If you speak of beautiful men and women, it means the lust for form is still within you. If you say generous givers are noble, the desire for wealth is still within. If you speak of shady trees, clean roads, and lakes along the way, the insistence on comfort is still in you. And for the sake of not giving value to comfort, beauty, and wealth you took sannyas—that you will no longer value these. Now you must search for a greater value, the ultimate value. Turn your back to these; turn toward your own home.

Think of the inner path, bhikshus!

If you must think, if you must discuss—discuss the inner path; give each other help. Whosoever has gone ahead, speak of how far so that others may go that far; whosoever is stuck, speak of your stuckness—perhaps someone can give a hand. Discuss, so that you become companions. Going alone is difficult—this is why Buddha created the sangha—for where you cannot go alone, go together.

Sometimes it happens—going alone is difficult; support of others is needed. Some mistake is happening to you; it is not happening to another—he can steady you. If you begin to slip, someone can take your hand. If you fall, two friends can lift you. This is why there is the sangha of bhikshus—so that you become companions on the inner journey.

Here, the reverse is happening. You are talking of the outer journey—and with such relish! And you have no hesitation, no modesty, no shame—you are talking as though you are doing nothing wrong at all!

Think of the inner path, bhikshus! Time is short and much remains to be done.

There is not much time; who can say when the lamp will go out, when a gust of wind will come and you will depart. This life is like a wave—now it is; now it is not. Therefore not a single moment is to be lost—not a single moment to be wasted. Dedicate all available time to the inner journey.

On these very outer paths you have wandered birth after birth—are you not yet tired?

So much have you walked on these roads; so much beauty you have seen; so many women and men you have seen; so much wealth and status you have seen—are you not yet tired? Are these still your dreams? And you have left them—having left them, you still keep thinking of them?

I have heard—a young man came to a Sufi fakir, seeking sannyas. Entering the hut he bowed and said—Master, accept me. I have left everything and come. The fakir said—do not lie! The youth was startled. The fakir said—look behind you, you have brought the whole crowd with you. The youth actually turned and looked—no one was there. The fakir said—not there—within. Then the youth closed his eyes and saw—indeed, they were all standing there: friends, loved ones, wife, children—those he had left at the village gate, those who had come to see him off—they were all lined up. With the body he had come; with the mind he was still stuck there. The master spoke rightly—this crowd you must leave behind too. This crowd will not do here. Come alone.

This is the meaning of sannyas—one who has tasted joy in being alone; who is tired of the crowd; who is bored of the futile; who is sated with the world. Having seen it all, from all sides, having turned it over and over and found nothing—empty—he who comes seeing the emptiness of the world, will he speak such things? Such talk is then no longer possible. These talks are very telling.

So Buddha says—On these same roads you have wandered birth after birth—are you not yet tired? Do you still want to wander more?

Because as you think, so you will wander. First the thought arises; then it becomes act. Remember—no act arises suddenly. First the seed of thought is sown; then the seed grows roots; then the sprout—then the act. Now you are thinking in relation to wealth—today or tomorrow you will run after wealth. Now you are thinking of beautiful men and women—how long will you resist? If this thought deepens, it will turn into act.

Therefore if you wish to be free of acts, be free of thoughts. All thoughts finally become acts. And acts are very hard to change; it is very easy to drop a thought, because thought is small.

Consider—how tiny the seed of a banyan is. If a banyan seed lies in your courtyard, how difficult is it to sweep it away? With a sweep of the broom it is gone. But if the banyan is born—then sweeping will do nothing. Then major arrangements will be needed—cranes, or woodcutters; it will have to be felled. And these trees of action that grow within—their roots spread into your very life-breath; they cover your consciousness from all sides. To uproot them is like tearing yourself apart—very painful.

Therefore Buddha says—Do you still wish to wander? These thoughts are symptomatic; they bring the news that the desire to wander remains. It seems, bhikshus, you entered sannyas unripe. You were not ready. Your mind is still stuck there. It seems you were caught in some enthusiasm; you heard my words and were impressed; you left, but the matter did not sink in; maturity has not yet come.

Do you still want to wander? What beauty is there in outer paths! What shade in outer paths! What lakes on outer paths!

All Buddha’s endeavor—throughout his life—for forty-two years after Bodhi he explained tirelessly—only this one effort—that somehow people may come within; that somehow they may have the vision of themselves. One message, given in a thousand ways; one thing said in thousands of ways; the essence is only this—come within. Therefore he missed no opportunity. Whatever the occasion, he turned it into a doorway.

This was an occasion. The bhikshus were talking—he turned it into an occasion. This itself became a device.

He said—What beauty in outer paths!

All outer paths are thorny. The bhikshus were saying something else—Buddha used it. He said—What beauty in outer paths! All outer paths are ugly—for they take you, finally, to hell, to suffering. That which leads to suffering—how can it be beautiful?

And what shade in outer paths!

Buddha says—I have only found people burning on outer paths. What shade? What kinds of talk are you speaking! On outer paths I have found people wandering, drenched in sweat, burning, wrapped in flames, in pain, in anxiety and anguish.

What shade on outer paths! And what lakes on outer paths!

Have you seen anyone ever fulfilled? Have you seen anyone’s thirst quenched? The thirst of Alexander is not quenched—he who has everything. The thirst of emperors is not quenched—who have everything. Buddha is saying—mine did not quench, though I had everything. I was not crazy to leave it—having seen, I left; it does not quench.

On outer paths there are no lakes. On outer paths, the more you strive to quench thirst, the more it is like pouring ghee into fire—the thirst flares even more.

Beauty is on the Arya-marga.

Buddha calls the inner path the Arya-marga. Arya means noble. The noble go within; the ignoble go without. Arya-marga means—those who have intelligence go within; the unintelligent go outside. Naturally, only the unintelligent will go outside, because nothing is obtained outside except wandering and wandering—attainment is within.

Think thus: a man goes on gathering pebbles and stones—you will call him a fool. A honeybee sits on pebbles and stones thinking it will find honey—you will call it mad. Honey is on flowers. Just so—bliss is within. That flower is within you where the honey of your life is stored. When your bumblebee flies inward, hums within, and sits on the inner lotus—then you will be filled with nectar; then the stream of rasa will flow.

So the intelligent goes within; the unintelligent goes without. Therefore Buddha calls the inner journey the Arya-marga—the path of the noble. Here Arya has nothing to do with Aryan race; here Arya is used in the sense of noble.

There is shade on the Arya-marga; there are lakes there—seek refuge there. There thirst will be quenched—nowhere else. A bhikshu should engage only in the Arya-marga, for there alone is the cessation of dukkha—there is the path of the cessation of dukkha.

All of Buddha’s teaching is how dukkha may be ended. In this connection understand one thing before we enter the sutras.

Vedanta speaks of ananda; the Upanishads sing the song of ananda; the Vedas sing of joy. But Buddha does not speak of ananda; Buddha speaks of the cessation of dukkha. This is very precious. Buddha says—there is no need to talk of ananda. Just stop those arrangements that create dukkha—ananda is already there. Ananda is your very nature. You were born with ananda. Ananda is—there is no need to obtain it; then why talk of it! If only dukkha is not there, ananda manifests—it is already there.

Therefore Buddha’s entire path is the path of negation—of no. Just remove those few things by which dukkha arises—and suddenly you will find that ananda was present; it was not visible because of the presence of dukkha. With the going of dukkha you will have darshan of ananda everywhere; the current of joy will begin to flow on every side.

Why does Buddha not speak directly of ananda? He says—man is foolish. When you speak of ananda—Brahman is ananda, sat–chit–ananda—man thinks: let us make efforts to obtain ananda. He never tries to remove dukkha; he begins to strive for ananda. And without removing dukkha, ananda is not obtained. So he forgets dukkha; he does not even speak of it; he continues on the paths of dukkha—and begins to lust for ananda—how to obtain joy? The causes remain—the disease remains—and he begins to desire health.

You go to the physician—does the physician speak of your health? He asks—what is the disease? He treats the disease. There is no treatment of health. Health does not come within the physician’s grasp. When the diseases are removed, health arises in you. Health cannot be brought; only disease can be removed. Therefore there is diagnosis for disease and treatment for disease.

So Buddha says—I am a physician. His grasp is very scientific. He says—these are the diseases; they must be removed; this is the medicine. Remove the disease—health will blossom; joy will manifest. Think thus: a spring of water is there, but a rock blocks its path. Remove the rock—the spring will flow. Do not remove the rock and sit in worship and prayer for the spring to flow—it will not flow.

Often it happens that you sit on the very rock and pray: O Lord, let the spring flow. And you sit on the very rock. Remove the rock—the spring will flow by itself—without any prayer.

Therefore Buddha never called prayer a path. He said—only meditation. The rock of thought is removed by meditation; the disease of thought is cured by the medicine of meditation. Thought is cut by meditation. You become thoughtless—and instantly the stream flows. The rasa will flow—there is no need to speak of it. Speaking is dangerous. The moment one speaks, desire arises in man. And the danger is—because of desire man cannot attain ananda. Joy is in desirelessness. If someone’s mind becomes desirous of joy, it becomes an obstacle. There can be no desire for Moksha—for all desires are worldly. Even the desire for Moksha is worldly—desire itself is the world.

Hence Buddha does not speak of Moksha. His way is scientific—he says—dukkha-nirodha. Ask no more than this. Do this much; then come again. Let this happen—then ask. One whose this much happens does not ask—he is immersed in joy—in measureless joy; then nothing remains to ask or say.

Now the sutra—

Magganatthangiko settho, saccanam caturo pada.
Virago settho dhammanam, dvipadananca cakkhuma.

‘Of paths, the Eightfold Path is best. Of truths, the four steps (the Four Arya-satyas) are best. Of dharmas, dispassion is best. And of bipeds—of men—the one with eyes (the Buddha) is best.’

A very lovely sutra.

Magganatthangiko settho.

There are many paths to come within, but Buddha says—the Ashtangik Marga is the best. You are talking of outer roads—which road is good—O fools, the Eightfold Path is the best. Of the many ways to come within, the path of eight limbs is best. The eight limbs are these—

Samyak-drishti, the first limb. Samyak-drishti means freedom from all viewpoints; freedom from prejudice. Let the eyes be empty—no emotion, no thought; no doctrine, no scripture; no creed. An open, impartial eye—innocent—like a mirror, empty—then truth will be seen. How can truth be missed? If the mirror is covered with dust, with a tint, a color—then truth will not appear as it is. Samyak-drishti means the absence of all views. When all views fall away—the Hindu view, the Mohammedan view, the Christian view—when all views are dropped and one stands without any view, naked, freed from all viewpoints—then truth is known. This is the first limb.

Second limb—Samyak-sankalpa. Not obstinacy, not arrogance, not stubbornness. Many people become sannyasins out of stubbornness, arrogance, pride. You will often find stubborn people among sannyasins. You know the story of Durvasa! A stubborn person can do anything—if nothing else, he will become a sannyasin.

Buddha says—that is not right resolve; it is a subtle form of ego. Samyak-sankalpa. Truly right resolve means—not sannyas due to stubbornness, but due to understanding, bodh; sannyas out of awareness, out of maturity. Having tested life from all sides, with ripeness. Resolve must be there, but not a stubborn resolve; not insistence; a resolve without insistence.

Understand the difference. A young man came to me and said—I will take sannyas no matter what. I asked—what is the matter? Why do you want sannyas? He said—my father is against it. Do you understand? Because the father is against it, he wants to take it. He says—I will take it. I explained—if your father were not against it, would you take it? He said—then I will think.

He is taking sannyas out of stubbornness. Ego has been pricked—father says, don’t. The father is stubborn too. The son is exactly the father’s son—just like him—the fruit of the same tree. The father is stubborn that sannyas must not be taken; the son stubborn that he will take it—that he will taste the joy of defeating his father.

If he takes sannyas, it will be wrong resolve. I said—wait; I will not give you sannyas. Leave this matter—your father is making you a sannyasin!

Another event I tell you. A friend of mine—he loved a young woman; both declared great love—at least they displayed it. Their families were opposed—and they were both stubborn to marry. I said—think a little. Is it not possible that the love you think is so deep is not so deep—only a stubborn quarrel with your families? They said—no, our love is very deep. I tried many times to explain—they were annoyed: why do you raise this again and again? I said—I feel the love you think you have is not that much; it is a family quarrel. After marriage you may be in trouble; because once it is done—the quarrel with the families is finished. No, they insisted—our love is.

They married. After a year they told me—we were in illusion. Neither have I anything to do with the girl; nor she with me. The boy was Brahmin; the girl Parsee. The girl’s family did not want a Brahmin son-in-law; how could the Brahmin family want a Parsee daughter-in-law! It was a great fight. The egos of families and boy and girl were all quarrelsome.

Within a year all the love washed away. When the love washed away, troubles began. The fight that was going on with the families now started between them. They had quarrelsome natures anyway. First they fought with their parents; now there was no matter left—parents had stepped aside; they said—fine; you made the marriage—live apart. The fight that was with parents started between them. Within six years the young man committed suicide. He became a drunkard—and ended in suicide.

Remember—Buddha always told his bhikshus: Samyak-sankalpa—no stubbornness, but resolve out of your own understanding—out of inner enthusiasm.

Third limb—Samyak-vani. Buddha said—speak only what you know; and speak it exactly as you know it—do not speak otherwise even a little. And speak only what is worth speaking—do not speak the insubstantial. Because speaking creates great entanglements. Life gets caught in futile nets. Just watch—how many troubles in your life arise because of speaking. You say something to someone—the quarrel begins—now the trouble starts.

If only you can lessen your speaking, ninety percent of your troubles will lessen. The suits, the quarrels, the head‑breakings in the world are due to wrong speech.

Buddha said—he who wants to know himself, it is good that as few troubles as possible be born in his life.

Fourth—Samyak-karmanta. Do not entangle yourself in useless actions. Do only that by which the essence of life is found. Because energy is limited and time is limited. Most of us go on doing something or other; we do not know how to sit empty. If there is nothing to do we become restless—so we keep ourselves occupied to hide our restlessness.

Who knows what all man goes on doing! If you sit empty in a room—you will do something: open the window; read a newspaper; switch on the radio; if nothing else, smoke a cigarette—something you will do. In being busy we hide our insanity.

Buddha said—this kind of busyness is costly. Slowly become unbusy. Do only what is necessary; do not do what is not necessary. If restlessness arises—watch it with awareness—slowly, slowly the restlessness will subside. And the energy that is saved from futile acts you can turn in a meaningful direction.

Fifth—Samyak-ajiva. Buddha said—to make your living by destroying another’s life is wrong. If someone is a butcher—Buddha said that is unnecessary. Without such violence a man can arrange his food. Do only that by which no harm comes to anyone’s life. For when you harm others, you sow the seed of harm to yourself. Then you will have to reap the harvest.

Sixth—Samyak-vyayama. Buddha said—be neither too lazy nor too active. Be in the middle. Do not become slothful; and do not become overindustrious. For the slothful does nothing; and the overindustrious begins to do what is useless. The middle is needed—Samyak-vyayama. Let the energy of life be always balanced.

And the seventh limb is Samyak-smriti—Samyak-dhyana. Live with awareness. Live remembering. Whatever you do—do it seeing, knowing. If anger arises, even toward anger keep your alert gaze: anger has arisen; anger is catching me; now anger says—hit this man on the head. Watch all this. And you will be surprised—if you become a little careful in watching, the useless will cease to happen by itself, and only the meaningful will happen. Slowly, this smriti will spread over your twenty‑four hours. Waking and sitting, you will walk awake. And a moment comes when, even while the body sleeps, within you the current of wakefulness keeps flowing. A thread of pure light remains lit within.

This is what Krishna says—when all sleep, the yogi remains awake—ya nisha sarva-bhutanam tasyam jagarti sanyami. He remains awake. This does not mean the sanyami never sleeps—goes on walking in the room; sits up all night; suffers the disease of insomnia. It means—sleep happens to the body; within the lamp of consciousness remains lit.

Samyak-smriti means—when your awareness has spread to all twenty‑four hours, when awareness has pervaded your circumference, then wakefulness is present around your periphery.

And then the last stage—the eighth limb—Samyak-samadhi. Even in Samadhi Buddha says—Samyak—right Samadhi. Wrong Samadhi is that which a man attains in unconsciousness.

You have seen it—some yogi is buried in the earth, takes Samadhi for six months. That is not Samadhi. Buddha calls it wrong Samadhi. He is lying in unconsciousness—like a frog that buries itself in the earth and lies there through the hot months—half dead, merely alive by name—then when the rains come, life returns to the frog. So the yogi, by stopping his breath, falls into a swoon. He does not know what he is doing. He will lie for six months. People will be impressed by the miracle; after six months as he rises, people will be filled with wonder, will offer great worship.

But this is not Samadhi. This is a trick with the body and the mind—a plan to become unconscious. By this no one has ever known truth. If it were so, frogs would have attained all truth long ago.

In Siberia there are white bears; they do the same—lie like dead for six months; their breath almost stops. It is a trick of breath; Samadhi has nothing to do with this trick.

Samyak-samadhi means—seated, with full awareness, at one’s own center.

These last two stages are most important. Samyak-smriti upon the circumference—upon the circle of life’s actions—doing, rising, sitting, walking, speaking, meeting—keep awareness. Then slowly this very awareness will come to the center. Then, closing the eyes, within the lamp of awareness remains lit; with that lamp you become one. To enter oneself with awareness is Samyak-samadhi.

This Buddha calls the Arya-Ashtangik Marga—the Noble Eightfold Path.

Buddha says, bhikshus—

Magganatthangiko settho.

If you must speak of the best path—O fools—speak of the Arya-Ashtangik Marga; at least this much I have explained! What roads are you speaking of?

Saccanam caturo pada.

If you must speak of what is true and best—speak of the Four Arya-satyas that I have explained to you again and again: that there is dukkha; that there are causes of dukkha; that there are means to be free of the causes of dukkha; that there is a state free of dukkha—a state of dukkha-nirodha—Nirvana. Speak of these.

Virago settho dhammanam.

If you must speak of the best dharma—speak of virag—what are you doing speaking of raga!

Virago settho dhammanam.

Vairagya is the best dharma. Sing the songs of virag; explain virag to one another; bring virag into each other’s lives. Deepen each other’s understanding so much that wherever the bonds of attachment are, they break—and the freedom of virag is attained.

Dvipadananca cakkhuma.

And this last point is most astonishing. Buddha says—You speak of beautiful men and women? Beauty happens only in one event—

Dvipadananca cakkhuma.

In that, beauty happens—among these two‑legged animals, among men, only he is beautiful who has eyes; who has become one with seeing; who has become chakkhuma—eyeful. All others are blind; only the Buddha is beautiful—the one whose inner eye of meditation has opened. All others are ugly, mere corpses—flesh and bone. Today or tomorrow they will fall into dust and be lost.

Dvipadananca cakkhuma.

Speak of the eyeful. Buddha is saying—I sit here before you with eyes—and you speak of the beauty of the blind!

Esova maggo natthanno dassanassa visuddhiya.

Etam hi tumhe pativajjatha marassetam pamohanam.

‘This is the path; there is no other for the purification of vision. Mount upon it; this alone stupefies Mara.’

Only by this will your demonic mind be vanquished; otherwise not. You are offering great help to your demonic mind by talking of the outside; by this your demonic mind will grow stronger.

Mara is the name given in the Buddha-tradition to the devil. The devil is striking you down—every moment he strikes you down; he is killing you. And this devil is not outside—it is your mind. This mind takes you outside—leads you astray. Beware of this mind.

Esova maggo natthanno dassanassa visuddhiya.

Awakening in this way, slowly there will arise in you the purity of seeing—pure eyes will be yours. With those pure eyes truth is known—lived; then the stream of the rasa of life flows.

Etam hi tumhe patipanna dukkhassantam karissatha.

Akkhato ve maya maggo, annaya sallasamthana.

‘By mounting upon this path you will bring an end to dukkha. Knowing it to be the extraction of the dart of suffering, I have taught you this path.’

Buddha says—I am not a philosopher; I am not a metaphysician; I am a physician. I have taught you this path only so that by it you may attain the cessation of dukkha; your diseases may drop; you may become healthy.

Akkhato ve maya maggo.

Only for this have I taught the path of eight limbs; the Four Arya-satyas; to attain the eyes of Buddhahood—that you may cross beyond dukkha.

Tumheh’ kiccam atappam; akkhataro Tathagata.

Patipanna pamokkhamti jhayino marabandhana.

‘But the effort is to be done by you; the Tathagatas only show the way. Mounting upon this path, the meditation‑given free themselves from the bonds of Mara.’

This is one of the most famous sayings of Buddha—

Tumheh’ kiccam atappam.

The walking is to be done by you. I can only indicate. The going is yours—I can only point to the way. The Buddhas only indicate—what else can they do! The Buddhas cannot give you Nirvana—only indicate toward it. Then the walking must be done by you. No one can give Nirvana to another. It must be sought by oneself—it is self‑search.

Tumheh’ kiccam atappam.

You must walk. And you are talking of outer paths—while you must walk the inner path. And you are discussing the beauty outside—while you must have darshan of the beauty within. Do not sit trusting on me. I will not be able to take you.

Akkhataro Tathagata.

I can only tell you what I have known; how I have known—then the journey is to be yours. Walk you must—on your own feet. See you must—with your own eyes. By my eating, your belly will not be full; by my seeing, your vision will not open. How will you walk by my walking? On this journey of truth each must go by his very own feet. This journey is very solitary—of each alone. Yes, the Buddha can indicate; he can give a map; he can explain—for where he has walked, of those ways he can give you news.

Patipanna pamokkhamti jhayino marabandhana.

If you mount upon this path, upon this inner path—if you can become meditation‑given—you will become free of Mara’s bonds. Then this mind of yours that, like a devil, keeps driving you out—there can be a release from it. But you must walk; you must labor. And this is an upward climb—like a man climbs a mountain. It is laborious. To come down is not so laborious. This is why desire is easy, and Samadhi is difficult.

The same energy goes into desire and into Samadhi—but Samadhi is difficult because it is a journey upward; desire is downward. Push a stone from a mountain—it will slide by itself, fall by itself, rolling into ravines. But with such a small push it will not reach the summit. To take it to the peak—labor will be needed; sweat will flow. Because of this labor, Buddha called his path the path of the Shramana—the laborer.

In India there are two cultures. One is called the Brahmin culture; one is called the Shramana culture. The essential difference is this—Brahmin culture holds that all is obtained by the grace of the Lord. Pray—and if the Lord’s compassion is there, you will obtain. Shramana culture says—there is no Lord who gives; labor and you will obtain. Therefore in Brahmin culture prayer is central; in Shramana culture meditation is central.

Listen—Buddha says—

Patipanna pamokkhamti jhayino marabandhana—

‘Mounting upon this path, the meditation‑given…’

Hindu culture—or Brahmin culture—says—be God‑given; Buddha says—be meditation‑given. Where is God? Do not sit relying on another. No one will come to liberate you. Arise—trust in your own feet; awaken your own strength; your own self‑confidence—Appo Deepo Bhava—be a light unto yourself.

Buddha says—I have told you the essence, given you the indications—now do not think that having heard the indications you have arrived. Do not waste time—time is short. Do not get caught in futile talk; do not get entangled in discussions of outer roads. Because whatever you get entangled in—today or tomorrow you will start walking that road. Discuss the inner path; confer about the inner; understand from one another concerning the inner—someone is two steps ahead; someone two steps behind—speak of the trees that stand upon the inner path; of the lakes made upon the inner path—speak of these.

Buddha made a small incident into the basis of a great and significant teaching. Buddha has turned such small incidents into astonishing occasions. When a man like Buddha touches mud—it turns to gold.

Enough for today.