Es Dhammo Sanantano #88

Aphorism-context; first part—

The Blessed One was abiding in Jeta Grove. In his deshna there was a constant invitation to meditation. Morning, noon, evening—he would explain only one thing: meditation, meditation, meditation. Like the ocean—sip it from anywhere and it is salty—so too the taste of the Buddhas is one: meditation. Meditation means—thoughtless consciousness. Five hundred bhikshus heard the Blessed One’s call and became eager for meditation. The Blessed One sent them to dwell in the forest. Solitude is the prelude to meditation. Unoccupiedness is its doorway. The nearness of nature is of incomparable help in meditation.

Those five hundred bhikshus tried hard, but nothing came of it. They returned to the Blessed One to understand the sutras of meditation again. The Blessed One said to them—A seed needs the right soil, a suitable season, sunlight, fresh winds, rain—only then does it sprout. So it is with meditation. Without the right context meditation is not born.

Before we enter the sutras, the more deeply we understand this small context, the more useful it will be.

The Blessed One was abiding in Jeta Grove.

Vihar is a technical term among Buddhists. The province of Bihar got its name because the Buddha ‘vihared’ there. Vihar means: dwelling while not dwelling. Like a lotus ‘dwelling’ in a lake—there in the lake, yet the lake’s water does not touch it. To be and yet not be—that is vihar. The Buddha gave immense value to the notion of vihar. It is the supreme state of Samadhi.

One is the worldly man: he lives in the world. Not like the lotus in water, but stuck in the mud—living in the mud, entangled in it like a worm. One day the worldly man becomes frightened—he will. No one has ever found any essence in this mud. In the mud one’s hands find only mud; the stench only increases. No one has ever known joy in it. Yes, the mud gives many promises of joy, but never once has it fulfilled a promise.

So the more intelligent a man is, the sooner he will become alert. The dullard will go on repeating. But even a dullard becomes alert someday—if not this life, then another; years later, births later. The only difference between the intelligent and the unintelligent is of time. But one day or another it does dawn that there is no essence in this mud. If essence is to be sought, seek elsewhere.

Then another danger arises—the danger of running away from the world. Abandon the world, become a fugitive. In neither state do you become a lotus. If you remain entangled in the mud you do not become a lotus; and if you run away, leaving the lake behind—you still do not become a lotus.

To vihar means: do not leave the lake, and yet leave it; leave it inwardly. Outwardly, wherever you are, no harm; but within, be free. To live in the world and yet have the world not live within you—that is vihar. You have heard the word often, but perhaps never paid attention to it. In the Buddha-stories it comes again and again—‘the Buddha was viharing here, the Buddha was viharing there.’ Almost all the stories begin with where the Blessed One was abiding.

Contemplate this word deeply. Sometimes you too can have the taste of it. Sitting quietly at home, suddenly you may find that the house is not within you. Then you will know the flavor of vihar. You are sitting next to your wife and, startled, you see—wife? husband? What wife, what husband? What mine, what yours? For a moment two strangers have met on a road; soon they will part. Earlier there was no knowing, later there will be no trace. For a little while there is companionship—river-boat conjunction—it will break soon. There is no inevitability in it, no necessity; it is accidental, a mere coincidence. If such a remembrance arises while sitting beside your wife, you will find that you sit close—perhaps your hand is in her hand—yet a vast distance opens, you are elsewhere, she elsewhere, and between you both, the expanse of infinite sky. Then there will be a taste of vihar.

These are not words whose meanings you can look up in a dictionary. These are words whose meanings must be sought in the lexicon of life. These words are very alive. They are not merely words, they are states of consciousness. You sit down to eat, you are eating, and if awareness happens—even for a moment—you will see: the food is going into the body; it cannot go into you! How could it go into you? You are consciousness—how can food go into consciousness? Food goes into the body; food is the body’s need, not yours. It enters the body, it sustains the body; you stand aside and see. If such a realization occurs while eating, that is vihar. You have abided, and in that very moment you have come near Buddhahood. To be in the world and yet not be of it—to be lotus-like. Such is this wondrous, unique word. It means: pass through water, but let not water touch you.

A Zen master would often tell his disciples: Pass through water, and let not water touch you. The disciples—as disciples are—thought, ‘This is impossible.’ They waited for a chance to see the master crossing a river. The chance came. On a pilgrimage a river had to be crossed. All the disciples watched intently—would water touch the master’s feet or not?

Of course water will touch. Feet are feet, water is water; water does not leave its law for anyone. The water touched. The disciples surrounded the master: ‘You always say pass through water and let not water touch you. We have tried—water touches us. So we thought it does not happen for us. But you too are touched by water!’ The master laughed: ‘Where? Water does not touch me. And the one it touches—that is not me.’

Who knows whether the disciples understood or not!

When you eat, the one who is eating—that is not you. When you put on clothes, the one who wears them, the one on whom they are put—that is not you. When you become rich, you have not become rich; when you become poor, you have not become poor. When you are given a post, you have not sat on the post. You are forever the witness. You are only the seer. You never become the doer. You never even become the enjoyer. You stand far away and simply see. You have never left that witnessing stratum. Not for a single moment have you slipped from there. That is your godliness. The one to whom vihar has come—he has become a Bhagwan.

‘The Blessed One was abiding in Jeta Grove. In his deshna there was a constant invitation to meditation.’

Deshna means: to say, to explain, to coax—but not to command. Deshna means: to persuade—but not to control. Deshna means: if someone moves in the fragrance of what you say, good—but offer no lure, mention no penalty. Because those who move because of greed will not really move; those who move because of fear will not move either.

If you have not stolen only because you fear hell, do not think yourself non-thief; you are a thief. You may not have stolen, yet the thief remains. If the fear of hell were not there you would surely steal. If today you come to know there is no hell, you will do it today. If you do merit for the sake of heaven, you have not done it. If you give charity in greed for heaven, you have not given. What has charity to do with greed? Charity is the very opposite of greed. You gave only so that you may get.

The pundits and priests tell people: ‘Give one here, get a hundred thousand there.’ Is this charity? It is a delicious bargain! A strange lottery—nowhere here can you get such a deal: you give one and receive a hundred thousand. And it is guaranteed! So you give one coin, a hundred thousand coins will come; you give one rupee, a hundred thousand rupees will come. This is charity born of greed. How can charity come out of greed!

Charity arises when the heart is without greed. And from fear morality does not arise. Morality arises only when the heart is established in fearlessness.

So the Buddha gives neither fear nor greed. Deshna means simply a statement of fact: such it is. That’s all—say it scientifically.

Understand this rightly. If a scientist says to you, ‘Fire burns,’ he is not instructing you, ‘Do not touch fire.’ He says, ‘As you please. Touch it if you want. Fire burns.’ He is also not saying, ‘If you do not touch fire, great merit will accrue to you.’ He is simply saying, if you do not touch, you will be saved from being burned; if you touch, you will be burned. If you want to be burned, touch; if you do not, do not touch. But when he says ‘fire burns’ he is only giving you information. He is saying this is the property of fire. Do or do not—no command is intended for you.

Deshna means: instruction without command. Only the presentation of fact.

Thus the Buddha gave a constant deshna for meditation. Morning, noon, evening—only one point he explained: meditation, meditation, meditation.

I have heard of another Zen fakir. A university professor went to meet him. The professor said, ‘There is no need to explain much to me; I am an educated man, familiar with the shastras. I have specialized in Buddhist scriptures; I am well versed. So even if you speak briefly, I will understand. No need for long discourses—give me the essence. Say in brief what you have realized. I am not a fool that you should have to explain. Just make an indication; I will understand. For the intelligent, a hint suffices.’

The fakir sat silent—said nothing. Not a word. After a while of silence the professor asked, ‘Will you not say something?’ The fakir said, ‘I have said. Silence is the essence. You did not understand; you missed. You are under the illusion that you are intelligent. I remained silent—what more can I say? This is the essence of the whole experience. I remained quiet. If you had eyes you would have seen this flaming stillness, this lamp burning within. I stayed silent; you yourself had said not to speak much. In words there will be too much. I said only as much as was needed—I was merely present. But you missed.’

The professor said, ‘All right, you are right; my understanding is not so deep. Use a word or two; say it again.’ He did not speak. Sitting on the sand, with a finger he wrote upon it—‘Meditation.’ The professor said, ‘Even this will not do; say a little more. Why do you not speak? Why write on sand?’ The fakir said, ‘If I speak, the silence here will be disturbed. I can utter the word ‘meditation’, but the meditative state that is here will be disturbed. Writing does not disturb, so I wrote upon the sand.’ The professor said, ‘Say a little more—this is not enough.’ So he wrote again—‘Meditation’. When the professor pressed further he wrote a third time—‘Meditation’. The professor grew frantic: ‘Are you in your senses? You keep repeating the same word!’

The Zen fakir laughed: ‘All the Buddhas have repeated only one word, their whole lives—no matter how many words they used, they were repeating one word: meditation, meditation, meditation. Language changed, style changed, stories changed, context changed—but one thing was said—meditation, meditation, meditation.’

Morning, noon, evening—they explained only one thing: meditation. As the ocean, sipped anywhere, is salty, so the taste of the Buddhas is one—meditation.

Taste the Buddhas from any side—the taste is of meditation. Then whether the Buddha is Mahavira, or Mohammed, or Krishna, or Christ—it makes no difference. Wherever Buddhahood happens, from there only one news comes, one invitation, one call—meditation.

The Buddha often said: as the ocean, sipped anywhere, is salty—taste from this shore or that; in day or night; sip by a palm or drink by the cup—the ocean is salty. Likewise, listen to the awakened in the day or night; come from this corner or that; ask this question or that; ask this Buddha or that Buddha—whoever has awakened, their taste is one—meditation.

Naturally, the taste of the awakened will be one—awakening. And the taste of the asleep is one—sleep. The sleeping may be very different, but their sleep is the same, their stupor the same.

If you all sleep here tonight—so long as you are awake, there may be some differences; once asleep, all difference disappears. One and the same sleep descends upon all. If someone were to inspect each face—he would find only one taste: of sleep. However he investigates—women will be sleeping, men sleeping; children sleeping, old people sleeping; the healthy sleeping, the ill sleeping; the ugly and the beautiful sleeping; the poor and the rich sleeping; the worldly and the sannyasin sleeping—but the sleep is alike. The taste of sleep is one: unconsciousness.

So too happens in the supreme awakening. Whoever awakens—their taste is one. Certainly their words differ—Krishna spoke in Sanskrit, the Buddha in Pali, Mahavira in Prakrit, Jesus in Aramaic, Mohammed in Arabic; languages differ, cups of different colors and shapes from different lands and times—but the taste is one. And the one who recognizes this taste—he alone is religious. Then he is no longer a Hindu, nor a Mohammedan, nor a Christian—he is simply religious. And to be religious is the ultimate freedom. Then, from wherever the news comes, he recognizes that the message is of the Divine.

Meditation means—thoughtless consciousness.

Thoughtless consciousness. Consider this: two things—first, thoughtless—contentless—no object remains in consciousness. Nothing remains about which you are thinking—no thought remains. As if a lamp is lit, but around the lamp nothing exists for its light to fall upon. Such a state of consciousness—where nothing is around for consciousness to fall upon—nothing remains to be conscious of; only consciousness remains, pure consciousness remains.

So first: thoughts quiet, zeroed, gone. Clouds have drifted from the sky; the bare sky remains.

And second: this sky is awake, full of consciousness. Such often happens in sleep—deep sleep—thoughts go, dreams too go; but along with them, you too go. Therefore Patanjali has said Sushupti is very close to meditation, with a slight difference. That small difference is immense. Patanjali says Sushupti and Samadhi are alike—save for a small distinction. In Sushupti there is sleep; in Samadhi, awakening—that much difference; otherwise both are alike, because in both there are no thoughts. Sushupti is thoughtless; Samadhi is thoughtless. But in Samadhi the inner one is awake.

Think of giving a man chloroform, placing him on a stretcher, taking him around this garden. Surely his nostrils would be acquainted with the fragrance of flowers, but he has no awareness. Cool breezes touch his face, coolness flows around him—but he knows not. Birds sing—but he knows not; beautiful flowers bloom—but he knows not. You take him around the garden; when he comes to, he will not be able to say where he went. He did go to the garden—but he cannot say a thing. He was not conscious; he went to the garden, but not in awareness.

Bring the same man awake—the garden is the same, birds the same, their humming the same, fragrance the same, the breezes the same—but now the man is awake.

In Sushupti we go daily into that garden whose name is Paramatma—but we go unconscious—in chloroformed condition. Every day we reach close to him. That is why when you do not sleep well some night, a great restlessness is felt. That day, the connection with God did not happen. Unconscious though it be, yet in deep sleep you return home—energy is regained, life is renewed, freshness comes. The day deep sleep happens, in the morning you find yourself fresh, a new life. The day deep sleep does not come, you are tired in the morning—connection to the source did not happen.

Even in Sushupti a connection occurs—but it is an unconscious connection. In Samadhi the connection is conscious—you enter the Divine awake, you return awake. And if you go awake and return awake—then where is there any returning! Then you are established there. Coming and going continues—and you remain there, at the very center of your innermost being.

Thoughtless consciousness is what meditation means.

The five hundred bhikshus, hearing the Blessed One’s call, became ready for meditation. The Blessed One sent them to the forest. Solitude is the prelude to meditation.

In the primary stages of meditation solitude helps deeply. Solitude does not only mean you are physically alone. It means there is no crowd within you. If you drop the outer crowd, some help is gained—but only some. Do not depend on it wholly. For one can sit in a jungle and keep thinking of others. One can sit in a mountain cave and still think of home, of shop—thinking knows no restraint by place. So the crowd can remain inside. Let there be no crowd outside, no crowd inside. The presence of the other is crowd—whether in fact, or in thought. The absence of the other is solitude.

If in the market, amidst a crowd, you can attain solitude—nothing is more beautiful. If that is hard in the beginning, then sometimes take time to go to the mountains, to the forests—spend some days in the year alone, where you forget utterly that there is any other at all. Where only you remain. Where there is no one to talk to, no one to think about, where the other does not define your boundary—there you will become boundless.

Solitude is the prelude to meditation.

A preliminary role. In the beginning it helps all. But those who become obsessed with solitude have not used the prelude; it becomes a noose for them. Some go to the forest and then fear to return.

Go into solitude, yes—but solitude is not the goal. It is only a preliminary. You have to return here. The test will be here. If, having gone into solitude, you felt good and you stayed there because it felt good, and you began to fear that if you go back into the crowd your meditation will be broken—then your meditation was never there. That which breaks upon entering a crowd is not meditation.

Meditation means: you have become so strong that even in the crowd no difference happens. Crowd or no crowd—now no crowd can arise within you; you have awakened that much.

Yes, in the beginning it can be useful. When we plant a sapling, at first we put a fence around it. It is still weak, tender; a small thing can break it—strong wind may come, an animal may stray, a child may pull it out. Soon the plant will grow big—over the fence—then we remove the fence. Now there is no harm; its roots have spread, it stands on its own feet, now it will compete with the sky, contend with great winds. Let come what may—no difference. So it is with meditation. At first its fibers are delicate—then solitude is useful.

Therefore the Buddha sent them to solitude, to the forest: go to the jungle. Unoccupiedness is the doorway of meditation.

And in the forest it is easier to become unoccupied—there is nothing to do. In the crowd, there is a thousand things to do—doing and doing, from morning to evening—one is submerged in it. A flood of doing—no chance to taste not-doing even a little. And the doers have so covered our minds that if you sit idle, people will say, ‘Lazy!’ If you sit idle they say, ‘Do not sit idle—an idle mind is the devil’s workshop.’ If you sit with eyes closed, people will say, ‘What laziness—do something! Be industrious!’ When you sit with eyes closed you even look to see—Is anyone watching?—Otherwise people will think, ‘What is he up to?’

There is so much opposition to not-doing, so much against sitting silently, that if a man sits, he bolts the doors and windows, sits hiding so none may see. Because people say, ‘If you are doing something—good; if you are doing nothing—then what are you doing! Why waste time?’ You hear people say, ‘Time is money.’ These people are mad. ‘Squeeze time, accomplish something—add a little more wealth, climb one more rung, enlarge your safe, build a bigger house—do something!’ A little time is in hand; death will come—all will be left behind—but they do not remember this. They say, ‘Use time well.’

A great frenzy for doing. But the supreme truth of life is attained in not-doing. Not by karma, but in the state of non-doer. In a still and empty state. By doing, the world is obtained; by not-doing, God is obtained. By all our doings, nothing but dust gathers in our hands. Gold rains when you come to the state of not-doing.

So he sent them into solitude so they might become unoccupied—unoccupied. The petty routines of life fall away. Hours stand empty. One can sit beneath silent trees. One can hear the song of birds. One can hear the roar of waterfalls. The murmur of the brook. The soughing of winds through trees. One can watch the moon and stars of the sky.

The nearness of nature is of incomparable help.

Man has made a world—opposed to nature. Cement roads, cement houses—cement jungles. In them there is no news that God is. In the great cities God is almost dead. Because the news of God comes from where things grow. A plant grows and gives news: life is. A house does not grow; it remains as it is. A cement road does not grow; it remains as it is—dead.

What is the sign of life? Growth. To be in growth is the sign of life. We have built a dead world—machines do not grow, houses do not grow, cement roads do not grow—everything dead. Everything static. We are living in this stagnancy; we too have become stagnant. As those with whom we live, we become.

Psychologists say: the man who works with machines slowly becomes a machine. It is natural. Our actions slowly become our habits. They encircle us. The iron-and-cement world man has built is dangerous. There you find man’s signatures, but no news of God.

To seek God, for a glimpse of God, it is useful to go near nature. There everything still dances, is still alive. Trees still grow, flowers still bloom.

In the cities you hardly see the sky. In the metropolis you cannot tell if stars and moon rise or not. In the metropolis the Sun still comes or goes—when does he come, when go—none knows. Our eyes are closed to whatever is supreme and beautiful in life. We run with eyes fixed—from home to office, office to home. Running from one building to another. Crowds all around—only men and men; madness everywhere; disturbances everywhere; riots and conflicts everywhere; and all around the false, artificial world made by man. In such falsity, if God seems dead or gives no hint, what is surprising?

If in this century God is the least present, the sole reason is that man is too present. He has arranged everything around him. He has driven God away from every side. God has been exiled, thrown far away—to live somewhere in the Himalayas, in the mountains, in the forests.

The Buddha would send his bhikshus into the forests. And in those days man was not as strong as now; cities not as corrupted as today; yet the Buddha sent them. He too had glimpsed That sitting by trees and rivers. So he sent them.

The nearness of nature is of incomparable help.

Your temples do not give as much news of God—nor your mosques, nor your gurudwaras—as a tree does. Aliveness, growth, expansion.

Do you see a tree? It is marvelous. It hides a deep world within. It too has dreams—to touch the sky. It too has ambition. It too struggles for life and survives. Some prana is hidden within it, some atma.

Do you watch animals and birds closely? Do you look into their eyes? Nature has always been an extraordinary means of bringing one close to meditation.

Those five hundred bhikshus worked hard.

They went to the forest—worked hard—but no result. They must have gone to the forest, but not gone to it. They must have reached near the trees and waterfalls, but remained surrounded by their own minds. They remained entangled in the mind of man. They did not understand. Merely going to the forest does not do. One must be sensitive to the forest. To go to the forest means leaving man and man’s civilization behind. If you take that civilization in your mind—that is what is called samskara—if you take those samskaras with you, you will sit there encircled by them. Outwardly it will appear you have come to the forest; inwardly, you have neither come nor gone. You are where you were.

They worked hard—but no result.

Perhaps, listening to the Buddha, they fell into greed. They must have heard the glory of meditation, the praise of meditation, the incomparable bliss of meditation—the Buddha’s words on Sachchidananda stirred greed. A desire arose: ‘May such Samadhi be ours too.’ They went—but without understanding. They went without understanding in what circumstances meditation arises, in what state of mind it arises. So they worked hard—what will head-banging do! If meditation could happen by banging one’s head, it would be easy. Understanding is needed. Without it, head-banging increases entanglement. With understanding, the sutras are very simple, natural.

And what would they have done in head-banging? Fought with thoughts. To bang the head means clearly: they fought with thoughts. The Buddha said, thoughtless consciousness—so they must have tried to push thoughts away, to battle them. But if you fight with thoughts, you will never remove them. Thoughts are never removed by fighting; they increase, and keep increasing.

Try fighting a thought; it will pursue you. The more you push it, the more it will stick to you—skipping alongside, before and behind; you push it—it will not go. Your very effort to remove it gives it strength.

No, no one becomes free of thoughts by fighting thoughts; one becomes free by becoming a witness to thoughts. And how is there any head-banging in becoming a witness! There is no banging in witnessing. In witnessing, one simply sits quietly within; thoughts come, go—he watches. He neither thinks in favor nor against. He does not say they are bad nor that they are good. No evaluation, no judgment—let them come, let them go—indifferent, detached. Neither attachment nor aversion. If you come, all right; if you do not, all right. He neither invites, nor pushes away.

In such a state of mind—where thoughts are neither invited nor repelled—slowly, slowly thoughts disappear. Silence descends.

And when silence descends, the one sitting in witnessing does not become crazy—shouting, ‘Got it! got it!’—because that would be a thought. The moment you say, ‘I got it,’ you have missed. Your foot slips at the last step—about to reach the final threshold and you fall into a pit.

Till the last moment the mind will pursue you if you give it the slightest chance. You said, ‘I have attained, I have found, Ah—this is it’—those words are enough; you have missed; a barrier has arisen.

So you have only to be awake towards thought—and when thought goes, do not grasp the void either. When the void comes, remain indifferent to the void as well—listen well: this will happen in your life someday, it must happen—when the void comes, do not be suddenly elated; otherwise mind has again played a trick, entered from the back door. It was standing just outside, waiting for a chance to sneak in.

If the void comes, watch the void in the same neutral way you watched thoughts. Say: ‘All right—if you come, all right; if you go, all right. I have nothing to do even with you.’ If peace comes, watch peace the same way—do not relish it. Then peace will deepen; the void will become dense; and slowly the thought will get so tired, so lifeless, that it has no life left to return. This state is called meditation.

They worked hard—but nothing came of it.

By head-banging there is no result. You can become deranged, but not liberated. This is not stubbornness, not fight, not war—here understanding works.

They returned to the Blessed One to understand the sutras of meditation again. The Blessed One said: a seed needs the right soil, a suitable season, sunlight, fresh winds, rain—only then it sprouts. So it is with meditation. Without the right context meditation is not born.

Then he spoke these sutras to the five hundred bhikshus. These sutras are of incomparable value—

‘Sabbe sankhara anicca’ti yada pannaya passati.
Atha nibbindati dukkhe, esa maggo visuddhiya.
Sabbe sankhara dukkha’ti yada pannaya passati.
Atha nibbindati dukkhe, esa maggo visuddhiya.
Sabbe dhamma anatta’ti yada pannaya passati.
Atha nibbindati dukkhe, esa maggo visuddhiya.’

This is the path of purification—esa maggo visuddhiya—and three things are said. These three are the very foundations of the Buddha-dharma. On these three stands his whole temple.

First—
Sabbe sankhara anicca’ti.

All formations are impermanent. Whatever is in this world is momentary. Nothing here is stable. This is the first sutra, the first cornerstone.

‘Sabbe sankhara anicca’ti yada pannaya passati.’

One who has seen with prajna—with wisdom—that all is momentary—then he will grasp nothing. Then there is nothing left to grasp. Where all is like bubbles of water—what is there to hold? When the world itself is a water-bubble, then your thoughts are shadows of bubbles—understand, not even bubbles—the photograph of a bubble.

Sabbe sankhara anicca’ti.

All is impermanent. Sink deep into this feeling. The Buddha said—this is the first prelude. Through it, the seed gets the right soil: if all is impermanent, what is there to hold? If the world is impermanent, what to say of thoughts—thoughts are only the shadows of the world. The shadow of a shadow. There is nothing to grasp there.

We take such relish in thoughts because we think thoughts are valuable. And we think thoughts are valuable because we think through thoughts we will achieve in the world—become something; gain wealth, status, beauty. But if the whole world is impermanent—here today, gone tomorrow…

Consider: you sit by a river on a rock. The current flows, a heap of sand lies near. If you sign your name upon water you cannot—no sooner done than it is erased. So you will not sign on water. Will you write on sand? More lasting than water—but one gust of wind and it is gone. No, you will not relish writing on sand. You will do it on rock. You will carve your name. But rock too perishes, sooner or later. Know that the sand was once rock; and the rock will become sand. And the irony is—what made the rock sand? Water. If rock is defeated by water, how will it be stronger than water? You hesitate to sign on water, but you sign on rock—and you do not know that water breaks rock.

All we wish to accomplish in life—are signatures upon water. Even on rock—they too go, do not remain. How many have lived on this earth—how many! Scientists say: beneath where you sit at least ten corpses are buried. This whole earth is a cremation ground. So many were born; where cities are today, cremation grounds once were; where cremation grounds are today, cities once were. Many times it has changed. This earth has become a cremation ground. Innumerable were born and lost. Do you know their names, their whereabouts? Who were they? What? Their ambitions were like yours; they spun big dreams; they lived in rainbows; they too wished to leave a name. What remains? You too will vanish as they did.

And then think—even if someone’s name remains—say Alexander’s—what is the essence? What is there in a name? If the name remains, what is the benefit? What joy to Alexander from a lingering name? Alexander did not remain; if the picture remains on the wall, what is its value? To whom? For what?

The Buddha says: if you wish to truly go deep into meditation, first make this deep—let this first feeling become your very air:

Sabbe sankhara anicca’ti.

All formations are impermanent. All—without condition, without exception—momentary. Now, there is nothing worth grasping in it. Sit within as a witness. In the inner world of thoughts you will see—there is nothing worth grasping. Let bad thoughts come and go; let good thoughts come and go; let them come, let them go; do not be troubled, do not be anxious. Then you will be amazed: this feeling of impermanence becomes the base upon which the roots of meditation strengthen. Meditation arises in the climate of impermanence.

Hence all the wise have emphasized the impermanence of the world. The Buddha’s emphasis is extreme. He took it to the last logic. He did not merely say the world is impermanent—he said, you are impermanent too. Many have said the world is impermanent; but they told you, ‘You—you will remain. The Atman will remain.’ The Buddha said: nothing remains here. Neither outer nor inner—nothing remains.

Try to understand. Here, remaining is not. Here, all is flow. All flows—world flows—you flow. Amidst this flow there is no station, no shelter. Realize this with prajna—

‘Sabbe sankhara anicca’ti yada pannaya passati.’

If this vision happens, this knowing, meditation will set in.

‘Then he becomes disenchanted with all suffering—this is the path of purification.’

Atha nibbindati dukkhe, esa maggo visuddhiya.

The Buddha says: this is the path of purification. Meditation is purification.

Esa maggo visuddhiya.

The first sutra, the first step on this path of becoming pure: all formations are impermanent. Second sutra—

Sabbe sankhara dukkha’ti.

These formations are of the nature of suffering. This whole world is of the nature of suffering. If you keep even a small hope that perhaps somewhere a little happiness is hidden, on that very hope meditation will be delayed.

If you think, ‘These thoughts have come—let me choose one that is good, auspicious, helpful, beneficial. Perhaps it will be profitable; let me drop the rest, ninety-nine; I will hold to one’—the Buddha says: at the back of that one the other ninety-nine will line up. If you open the door for one, all will enter. If you wish to close the door, close it wholly. Make no partiality here. If you feel, ‘Perhaps I will get a little happiness,’—you will be stuck.

No—there is no happiness here at all. The Buddha’s emphasis is deep—

Sabbe sankhara dukkha’ti.

This whole world is of the nature of suffering. Only suffering, everywhere. Do not hope here. The day hope turns into hopelessness, the shoot of meditation starts. The shoot is not sprouting because your hopes sit like a rock upon the seed.

‘When a man sees with prajna that the whole world is suffering, then he becomes disenchanted with all suffering.’

Strange indeed—he says: the day you see all is suffering, from that day freedom from suffering begins. Why? Because suffering binds you by coming as happiness. You grasp happiness—no one grasps suffering. You grasp flowers; thorns prick you—that is another matter. Every thorn advertises itself as a flower. Every thorn proclaims itself as a flower—‘Come near, see how beautiful’—from afar all thorns look like flowers.

The closer you come, the more difficult. When you are so close that there is no way to step back—then the thorn pierces your heart. But then it is too late.

And man’s stupidity is such that when one thorn pricks he says, ‘One thorn deceived me; not all flowers can be false. This thorn was false; we will search elsewhere.’ He falls into the illusion of other thorns. Such illusions go on without end—no limit. Man learns nothing from experience.

The Buddha says: knowing that the whole world is suffering, just by knowing, one becomes free of suffering. Wherever you see happiness, know that there suffering is hiding, waiting.

‘This is the path of purification.’

Atha nibbindati dukkhe, esa maggo visuddhiya.

And the third sutra—

Sabbe dhamma anatta’ti yada pannaya passati.
Atha nibbindati dukkhe, esa maggo visuddhiya.

‘All dharmas (the five skandhas) are non-self—when a man sees with prajna, then he becomes disenchanted with all suffering; this is the path of purification.’

This is the Buddha’s unique statement. For the first time in human history it was said so. Before him there were enlightened ones, but none spoke this way. It is a revolutionary sutra.

The Buddha says: neither in things is there any self, nor in you is there any self. By self is meant some eternal, stable essence—there is none, anywhere. All is non-eternal. All is unstable. Neither in matter is anything stable, nor in you is anything stable. To see this instability perfectly is to understand anatta—there is no self anywhere. If this becomes visible—that there is no self anywhere, all is only skandhas, mere aggregates—then man goes beyond suffering.

These three are the sutras of purification: all is impermanent; all is suffering; nowhere is any self.

Consider—in your meditation if these three come alive, what obstacle can remain? And if an obstacle arises, know there is some deficiency in these three.

So first these three feelings—then meditation. A unique experiment. And through the Buddha, more people became available to meditation than through any other person—neither through Krishna, nor Mahavira, nor Christ, nor Mohammed, nor Zarathustra, nor Lao Tzu. It seems the Buddha placed his finger exactly on the key.

But these three feelings are tough. Carefully, carefully they settle in. They come slowly. Not all at once.

The Buddha would send his bhikshus to the cremation ground. A new bhikshu came, he would send him for three months to sit there in meditation. Corpses would come, be brought, be burned; bones lying, skulls lying; the one alive yesterday is ash today. The bhikshu sits, cultivating three contemplations:

Sabbe sankhara anicca’ti.
Sabbe sankhara dukkha’ti.
Sabbe dhamma anatta’ti.

He contemplates—when a corpse is burning—here all is impermanent; here all is full of suffering; here there is no self anywhere. No self anywhere—meaning, no shelter anywhere. All is futile here. Across this entire futility one has to go—rise above as a witness.

He sits, daily corpses come—morning, evening—always burning; at a cremation ground someone is always burning. Watching the dead burn, watching—watching—so too it becomes visible that one day I too will burn, just so. What to hold? For what to hold? This body’s end is certain. Those I call ‘my dear ones’—they themselves will carry me on their shoulders, they themselves will offer me to the fire; none will sit and wonder: ‘What happens now to my beloved?’ The bhikshu watches. The fire is extinguished; animals come, tear the remaining limbs—carry off a neck, an arm. ‘So it will be with me!’

It is bound to be! Those we call dear—our companionship with them endures only while life endures. When life goes, all love, friendship, relations go. Those who cared for the body with such effort—those very people put it on the pyre. They did not even sit a while! Did not stop a while! There are a thousand jobs in the world.

You see, someone dies—how quickly the bier is tied! The family sits weeping; neighbors quickly tie the bier—one must help. The bier lifted, carried. In two or four days the weeping stops; the world goes on as before.

The bhikshu sits watching, meditating. The Buddha had said: keep remembering—‘Sabbe sankhara anicca’ti, sabbe sankhara dukkha’ti, sabbe dhamma anatta’ti.’ Keep thinking—here nothing is stable, nothing is fixed; nowhere is there any self; nowhere is there any happiness. All is dreamlike—and the dreams too are dreams of suffering. Three months, six months, nine months. The Buddha said, until these three contemplations sink deep, do not return. When these three sink deep, meditation becomes easy.

The Buddha devised a very scientific arrangement for meditation.

This was the first part of the sutra-context. Now the second part—

Having received a new vision from the Blessed One and filled with enthusiasm, the bhikshus again went into the forest. Only one among them remained in Jeta Grove.

Four hundred ninety-nine went this time; earlier five hundred had gone. One stayed back.

He was lazy, and without trust. He had no faith that such a thing as meditation exists!

He thought: ‘Who knows what this Buddha talks about! What meditation!’ Laziness has its own logic. Laziness defends itself. The lazy man will not say, ‘Perhaps meditation happens, but I am lazy.’ He will say, ‘Meditation doesn’t happen. I am ready to do it, but this meditation etc.—all talk; nothing happens.’ The lazy will not say, ‘I cannot seek God because I am lazy’; he will say, ‘God does not exist! If he existed, I would have found him long ago—since he isn’t, what is there to seek?’ Then he pulls the sheet over his face and sleeps. Laziness is very clever at self-defense. It finds arguments. Rather than saying, ‘I lack the capacity to know truth,’ we say, ‘Truth is not.’ Rather than saying, ‘I have not known the nectar of life,’ we say, ‘Nectar is not.’

Friedrich Nietzsche said, ‘God is dead. He is not.’

Often, a man is an atheist because of laziness. Theism appears troublesome. To accept God is to invite a challenge. If you accept God is—now you must search. Who knows how long the search may take! How thorny the path! How many mountain ascents! Who knows how much labor!

The acceptance of God begins to kill your laziness. Rather than kill laziness, it is easier to declare God dead. Killing God is easier, killing laziness is hard. To kill oneself is hard, to kill God is easy. Say it—and it is finished.

Among those who are atheists in this world, many are not atheists; they are merely lazy. Do not think that because you are a theist you are free of laziness. Laziness is astonishing; it finds shelter both in atheism and theism. The theist says, ‘Yes, God is. What more is there to seek? We accept. He made everything; it is his play; he makes us play; when he wants, we will be played. What can man do! When he wills, his grace will rain; then all will happen. If he does not call, who can go? What will our seeking do? When his grace comes, all will happen.’

This too is laziness.

The atheist saves his laziness by saying, ‘There is no God.’ The theist accepts God without seeking, without thought, without accepting the challenge. This acceptance too is laziness. He says, ‘He is. He is in temples, in mosques.’ Sometimes he goes to pray when a festival comes. ‘We accept—we are theists.’ But neither the theist seeks, nor the atheist. Both are dishonest.

A religious man is of another kind. He says, ‘I will seek. I will set out upon the journey—however far truth may be, I will go. What point is there in wasting this life on futile things? I will dedicate it to the search for truth.’ The religious one lives a life of dedication—of search—of inquiry. However lofty the peaks upon which truth sits—I will go. Even if I perish upon the path, better than sitting here purposelessly.

That one bhikshu stayed. He was lazy—and without trust. But in his mind he thought, ‘There is no such state as meditation. Who knows what these Buddhas talk about!’

Every disease defends itself—beware. Every disease gathers strategies so that you may never find medicine.

The bhikshus went into the forest—engaged in effort—and soon, crowned with the experience of meditation, they presented themselves at the feet of the Blessed One. Their very persons had changed. Their faces had changed. A certain beauty and a certain radiance surrounded them. The blind could see it, the deaf could hear it; even the one who does not understand could recognize it—their state was such.

Meditation-radiant, they returned. Those four hundred ninety-nine returned like a new stream of light. Their fragrance had changed. Their masks had fallen. Their falsities had dropped. Their thoughts had been dissolved; they were quiet. They had tasted the void; a wave of the void had arisen. They had returned new—reborn. Their gait was different, their bearing different. Their entire style had changed. Those who knew them before perhaps would not recognize them—‘Are these the same?’ Only color and form remained the same. The difference was like that between an unlit lamp and a lit one. The unlit lamp—of clay, brimming with oil, the wick standing—yet unlit. The lit lamp—the same in one sense—clay, oil, wick—but an unprecedented event has happened: the flame has descended. They returned possessed of their souls.

When the lamp of meditation is lit, the revolution that occurs in human life—there is no other revolution like it.

They offered a salutation to the Blessed One as never before.

How could they have before! Today for the first time they bowed. Today there was a reason to bow. Until now, it must have been formal. ‘One should bow’—and they bowed. Today there was no ‘should’; even had they wanted not to bow, they could not restrain—the revolution had happened, a taste had come, an experience had been. Today they saw the real form of the Buddha. One can see it only when a little flame arises within you too. Become a little Krishna-like—then Krishna can be understood. Become a little Buddha-like—then the Buddha can be understood. Unless you become somewhat like the Buddha—how will you recognize him?

Meditation gave them a little glimpse of godliness. Today they could recognize the Blessed One. Until now it had been belief. People said he is Bhagwan—so they too said he is Bhagwan. But within, some doubt must have remained. Doubt does not leave so easily. Deep within, some hidden layer must have whispered, ‘Who knows if he is Bhagwan! He seems like other men—who knows! And whatever has happened within him—how will we recognize it!’ Only when your own lamp is lit does recognition arise. Then language is in your hands.

They had returned having learned the Buddha’s language—having learned meditation.

They came and offered a salutation such as never before…

How they must have danced, how a festival of ecstasy must have happened! Today they must have known: how deep is this man’s compassion! Today they must have known: had he not been, we would never have awakened—not for births upon births. To awaken would have been impossible—but this man awakened us. Had he not been, we would have slept on and on—no hope. And he cried out day after day, morning, evening, noon—‘Meditation, meditation, meditation.’ We never listened. And how many millions have not listened. Today they must have felt themselves blessed—and others so unfortunate. Today there was a way to compare; today the scales were in hand—today the matter could be weighed.

…Such a salutation they had never offered. Their hearts were brimming—with ecstasy, gratitude, festival. Their hearts were overflowing with grace. They must have placed their heads at the feet of the Buddha, tears of joy flowing. To speak there was nothing—words are small—they must have offered a silent prayer.

This salutation was not formal.

Today for the first time they became disciples. Today for the first time the Buddha became Guru. Today for the first time the Guru-disciple relationship was formed—a bridge. Today the wires connected—today heart met heart.

In truth, for the first time they knew and recognized the Blessed One.

Unless the Bhagwan within is recognized, how can the Bhagwan without be recognized!

The Blessed One asked after their well-being in sweet, tender words.

Naturally so—they had returned having fulfilled their resolve. Their sadhana had completed an important milestone. The greatest wealth of life had begun to be experienced. Their seeds had sprouted. By labor the difficult had been made simple; the impossible had been made possible.

Truly, nothing is impossible through meditation—and nothing is more impossible than meditation. And the day meditation becomes possible, everything becomes possible. You may earn everything, gather everything, be master of the whole earth—you remain poor, and will die poor. Earn meditation—and if all else is lost, no matter; you become affluent, you become emperor. You have a treasure even death cannot snatch.

So the Blessed One asked after their well-being in sweet words. They had heard the Blessed One. Hearing him, like arrows, they had gone toward the goal of meditation—and, hitting the target, returned.

Naturally, the Guru rejoices in each disciple’s attainment. The same joy returns to the Guru as when his own enlightenment happened. Every time one disciple attains, it is as if his enlightenment returns. As a mother rejoices in her son’s success, as a father rejoices seeing his son grown—these are small comparisons. The relationship between Guru and disciple is infinitely greater than father-son or mother-son—qualitatively different, not merely quantitatively.

Seeing his sons coming like lamps of light—a procession of flames—seeing their flowers bloom—how could the Buddha not be delighted! Supremely delighted—naturally. A victory procession completed, the disciples had returned.

But that one bhikshu who had stayed in Jeta Grove—seeing all this, he burned with envy. Flared up. Jealousy and competition hissed within. He thought, ‘Ah! The Shasta speaks so sweetly to them, and does not even look at me! He asks after their well-being with such sweetness—and never speaks to me. It seems they have attained meditation. No matter—I will attain meditation today and speak to the Blessed One.’ Because of jealousy, envy, competition, ego—he wanted meditation.

He wished to attain meditation out of jealousy. Out of competition. And there are no greater obstacles on the path of meditation. He wanted it today, immediately. He wanted that tomorrow morning he too would come radiant, and the Blessed One would ask after his well-being as he had asked the others.

But the reasons themselves were wrong. In a single instant meditation can happen—but not with wrong motives. On such motives, even in endless births, it will not happen. On such a basis, even if this bhikshu strives for innumerable lives, his lamp will not be lit, his flower will not bloom.

He tried through the night. Sometimes he sat; sometimes he stood—sitting did not work, standing did not work; sleep began to come; anger began to come; jealousy sent up thicker smoke. He tried walking meditation—lest sleep come; before morning he had to accomplish it. As the night passed, sleep pressed harder—he grew more frantic. He was walking in the vihar through the dark night…

The Buddha has prescribed two kinds of meditation: one sitting, one walking. Walking meditation is called Chankraman. If sitting, sleep comes—then do walking meditation. He began to run. Even running, drowsiness came—and before morning it had to be done.

A night of wakefulness, a state of burning jealousy, an ego so hurt, such a strong urge of the ego to prove by morning—not only is my lamp lit, but brighter than others! By dawn he was almost in a state of madness. He fell upon a stone, breaking a bone in his leg. His scream woke all the bhikshus. The Blessed One awoke too. He felt great compassion. He said—‘Bhikshu, this is not the way to become meditative. And by wrong reasons no one ever attains meditation. Wake up—be alert. Meditation can happen, but the seed needs the right soil. If you will place the seed upon stone, there will be no meditation. If you throw the seed where water is unavailable, it will not sprout. You want to sprout meditation upon the rock of ego! Perhaps a seed may sprout upon a stone—but upon the stone of ego, meditation never sprouts. The fundamental condition of meditation is nir-aham-bhav—ego-lessness; anatta-bhav—non-self. And you want to meditate because of jealousy—you have no purpose with meditation itself. Others attained before you—that is your problem. So long as your eyes are on others, you cannot be alone—let alone meditate. The crowd will remain, the other will remain.

‘So long as there is competition, how will solitude be? Solitude happens only when the other is wholly bid farewell—forgotten—nothing to do with anyone. Meditation is such a state in which you have nothing to do with anyone in this world. Neither to be ahead of anyone, nor behind anyone. When you no longer compare yourself with anyone—then meditation can happen.’

Bear in mind: even on the journey of meditation competition catches hold—just as it does in the journey of wealth. Someone builds a big house—you burn, ‘I too must build a bigger house’—whether you need it or not. Someone spends a hundred thousand on marriage—you go mad: ‘We must spend two lakhs on our son’s wedding; it is a matter of honor.’ Even if you go bankrupt—you must spend two lakhs.

I have heard—Mulla Nasruddin’s wife got out of the car and fainted. Mulla came running—fanned her, sprinkled water. On regaining her sense he asked, ‘What happened?’ She said, ‘So much heat!’ Mulla looked at the car and said, ‘Wife, then why didn’t you open the windows?’ She said, ‘How could I! Would I have the whole neighborhood spread the shame that we have a car that is not air-conditioned!’

So she kept the glass windows shut. Let life go—but there should be no shame that Mulla does not have an air-conditioned car!

We live like this. In the world we live so—and in meditation too we begin to live like this. In sannyas too—competition as to who is ahead, who behind—terribly concerned. Then meditation will never bear fruit.

Then the Buddha uttered these gathas—

‘Utthanakalamhi anutthahano yuva bali alasiyam upeto.
Sasanna-sankappa-mano kusito pannaya maggam alaso na vindati.

Yoga ve jayati bhuri, ayoga bhuri sankhayo.
Etam dvedhapatham natva bhavaya vibhavaya ca,
Tathattanam niveseyya yatha bhuri pavaḍḍhati.

Vanam chindatha ma rukkham; vanato jayati bhayam.
Chetva vananca vanathanca nibbana hotha bhikkhavo.’

‘He who does not exert when it is time to exert, who though young and strong is given to laziness, whose mind is unsustained by resolve and is procrastinating—such a lazy man does not find the path of prajna.’

When it was time to exert, you should have exerted. It was the right time—when the five hundred bhikshus went to the forest; had you gone then! A season of meditation had come—the whole forest must have been filled with meditation. As in spring, flowers bloom—these five hundred were meditating; waves of meditation were radiating. Then you did not go, foolish one, when it was the season, when spring had come!

It seldom happens that five hundred people together enter a forest to meditate. The whole air changes—its vibrations change. In that vibration, sometimes even animals and birds attain meditation; sometimes even plants. The impossible could have happened—such a current was there. But you did not go! When you should have exerted, you did not—young you are, strong you are, and yet you are given to laziness—and you seek arguments for laziness!

Then you thought meditation does not happen. You saved yourself, closed yourself. You did not see your lack of resolve. When the moment of resolve had come—and so many were resolving—still within you no shock of resolve arose: ‘So many are going—certainly there is something. I too should go. Let me try once. And the Buddha—surely he does not speak falsely.’

‘And whether you meditate or not—what does the Buddha gain! If he says it, there must be some essence. And he says it daily—morning and evening—the same thing—surely there is something.’ You did not even look at me! You did not look at me. You thought meditation does not happen!

These four hundred ninety-nine were going—you did not trust even their intelligence; you trusted your laziness. A lazy man is not available to meditation. There must be capacity for labor; the strength of resolve is needed.

‘By yoga prajna arises; by ayoga prajna decays. Knowing these two different paths—of rise and of fall—establish yourself in that by which prajna grows.’

Yoga means your energies become yoked, joined—one. The lazy man’s energies are scattered. One part pulls here, another there. With the abandonment of laziness, one’s energies gather—become united, centered, one-pointed.

‘Yoga ve jayati bhuri; ayoga bhuri sankhayo.’

Only by yoga is anything gained—prajna awakens. By ayoga it is lost. The ayogi becomes unintelligent. Intelligence awakens only when your whole life becomes gathered, one, mounted on a single thing—when a single resolve arises within and all desires and passions are offered at the feet of that one resolve. Then yoga is born. From yoga prajna arises. By ayoga, prajna decays. There are only these two paths, says the Buddha. Knowing well the one by which prajna grows—go by that.

And the final sutra—‘Bhikshus, cut down the forest, not the tree. From the forest arises fear. Cut the forest and the undergrowth—be without forest, be nirravan (nir-van).’

A very strange sutra. Understand it.

The Buddha said, ‘Cut down the forest, not the tree.’

We usually cut trees. Someone comes and says, ‘I become angry a lot—how to be free of anger?’ Another: ‘I am very greedy—how to be free of greed?’ Another: ‘I am greatly afflicted by attachment—how to be free of attachment?’ Another: ‘Sexual desire grips me—how to be free of it?’

They are cutting one tree at a time. Even if you cut anger, nothing much will be cut—because once anger is cut you will find the energy that used to go into anger is now flowing into greed. If somehow you handle greed, the energy that went into greed will begin to go into sex. The root remains the same. The whole forest must be cut—cutting one tree will do nothing.

The way to cut the forest is meditation. But people keep grappling with one tree at a time. Someone says, ‘If only anger is gone, everything will be fine.’ Someone says, ‘If only sex is gone, all will be well.’ These are separate trees. All these trees are connected with one thing—and that one thing is the state of un-meditativeness, of ayoga. The one who attains yoga, who attains meditation, cuts the whole forest—together.

‘Bhikshus, cut the forest, not the tree.’

Do not struggle with one disease at a time; confront the root of all diseases together. Otherwise you will keep changing diseases and never be healthy. The root within all diseases is the state of non-meditation—unconsciousness, sleep, negligence, stupefaction.

Cut that stupefaction, the whole forest will be cut. Not only anger, attachment too will go; not only greed, sex too will go. All will go—burn the whole forest down.

‘Bhikshus, cut the forest, not the tree. From the forest arises fear. Having cut forest and undergrowth—be without forest—be nibbana, O bhikshus.’

The day meditation arises within you, all goes—lust, greed, pride, envy. All thoughts go. The entire forest is gone. You become without forest. You become like the empty sky—when clouds have departed: thoughtless consciousness. And thoughtless consciousness is meditation.

Enough for today.