Es Dhammo Sanantano #9

I wander searching, O Iqbal, for my own self;
I myself am the traveler, I myself the destination.

What is the search for? Not for someone else—only for oneself. Whom is one to attain? Not someone outside, but the one within. What we are seeking is our very nature. That’s why the journey is not a foot-journey, it is a soul-journey. The journey is not toward someone else; it is toward oneself. What is already attained—one has only to awaken to it. The treasure need not be found; only the eyes need to open.

I wander searching, O Iqbal, for my own self;
I myself am the traveler, I myself the destination.

You are the traveler; you are the journey; you are the goal and the destination. Therefore it is possible to arrive without going anywhere. Sitting just where you are, you can arrive. Without so much as a twitch, you can arrive.

Those who searched outside got lost. The journey went wrong with the very first step. Those who thought it was outside, missed from the outset. There is nowhere to go; you have to come to yourself. There is nothing to seek; you have to awaken within. Whoever understands this is freed from the net of so-called religion.

And remember, it isn’t hard to be free of irreligion; it is hard to be free of religion. Irreligion is like darkness—light a lamp and it vanishes on its own. But so-called religion is like boulders lying on the path; they do not move away just because a lamp is lit. And the subtle net of so-called religion sits around everyone. You’ll find it hard to locate a person who is not Hindu, not Muslim, not Christian, not Jain, not Buddhist, not Sikh. Everyone carries some net or other. A pure man is hard to find.

Only a pure man can come to himself. What you have taken to be religion is only an extension of your marketplace. What you have taken as a temple is a shop trading in the name of God.

Some days ago I read a story. In a certain village there was a colossal miser—a Jew, or say a Marwari. He had never given a single coin in charity. Even beggars avoided his house. If some new beggar went toward his door, people knew he was new. Anyone with even a little sense would never go to beg at his door. He had never given; he might even snatch something from a beggar. Giving was not his habit.

One day he arrived at the door of the village’s religious leader, a Jewish rabbi. He said, “Today you must offer a prayer for me.” The rabbi thought, “Now that he’s come for prayer, here’s a chance to get some donation.” But the miserly Jew had thought it through. The rabbi asked, “What prayer?” The miser said, “My wife has fallen ill—pray that she die.” The rabbi said, “What will you donate?” The miser said, “Had I asked for life, then asking for a donation would be reasonable. But I’m asking for death—should I pay for that too? Have some shame—he who is asking for death feels no shame!—at least a little consideration, a little compassion.”

The rabbi saw the matter wasn’t going to be so easy. He said, “Whatever it is—life or death—we will only pray when there is some donation.” The man said, “Alright, I’ll give one rupee.” The rabbi pressed him hard; the man said, “I’ll give two rupees.” Seeing it wasn’t going anywhere, the rabbi said, “Listen! One cannot pray for death. There is no mention in the scriptures of praying for someone’s death. People pray to God for life, not for death. Forgive me, I cannot do this.”

The miser said, “Enough of these legalities. I can give five rupees.” The rabbi said, “No, this cannot be. One can only pray for life. But I’ll teach you a trick—because in law there’s always a loophole. The scriptures say: if a man vows a donation to the temple and does not pay it within three months, his wife dies—as punishment. So you announce a donation; there’ll be no need to pay. Your wife will die within three months.” The miser said, “If there is no need to pay, then...” “Then,” said the rabbi, “pledge one lakh.” “If I don’t have to pay!” “If you don’t have to pay,” said the rabbi, “then why one lakh—why not ten lakhs? Say ten lakhs!” The miser shrank back a little—imagining giving is painful even in imagination. He said, “Ten lakhs would be too much.” The rabbi insisted, “If you don’t have to give, what difference between one lakh and ten?” Reluctantly he agreed and went home.

The wife did not die; she was ill, she recovered. He was astonished. Three months passed; he returned. “Your rule didn’t work,” he said. The rabbi replied, “Look, the scripture says—as punishment. But you want your wife to die: for you it would not be punishment, but reward. So the prayer was ineffective. If you truly want your wife to die, then buy some jewels, some beautiful saris; present them to her. Let her become so full of love for you—and you for her—that your very life-breath pleads, ‘No, don’t kill her now, O God, don’t kill her!’ Then she will die; then it will count as punishment. Otherwise, the rule...”

This appealed to him. But he said, “I’ve never bought jewels.” The rabbi said, “What’s the harm? She will die anyway—then you can sell them. Perhaps you’ll even make a profit; prices rise every day.”

That appealed to him. He went, bought jewels, bought costly saris—things he had never brought home. The wife was amazed: “Such a transformation? Surely it is the grace of the rabbi. He went to the temple, that’s why.” For the first time she looked at him with love. She began to love him so much that for the first time the miser felt, “What an extraordinary woman this is! I was foolish to pray for her death.” Then he grew afraid. Now he thought, “What if she dies?” The three months were nearing their end—and the wife fell ill. Panicked, he ran to the rabbi. “Now this is trouble! The rule seems to be working; my wife has fallen ill. How to save her?” The rabbi said, “Pay the ten lakhs you pledged. There is no other way now.”

The places you call temples are only bigger shops alongside your own. The same rules of trade operate there too. Your religious leaders are no different from you. How could they be different? If they were not like you, how could they be your religious leaders? To be your gurus, they have to be like you—your arithmetic, your accounting, the business of your mind. Your temple is like you. Remember, your temple is yours, not God’s. You built it. And the idol you installed is your own image. What do you know of any image of God? Before whatever idol you bow, you bow before your own projections.

There is no need to make an image of God, because He is embodied in you. There is no question of bowing outside; learn the art of bowing within. Remember, there is no question of bowing before anyone. Just learn the art of bowing; let bowing become your nature. The day you bow within, you will find yourself standing before a temple. The day your inner stiffness breaks, ego falls, you will find this conscious temple was always within. I was searching in clay temples, calling out in houses built by men, and what I sought was forever inside me.

I wander searching, O Iqbal, for my own self;
I myself am the traveler, I myself the destination.

You are the God and you are the devotee. You are the worship, the priest, and the worshiped. Until this remembrance returns, you will keep wandering. That is why Buddha speaks neither of God nor of prayer—Buddha speaks only of meditation: of heedfulness.

“Do not remain in heedlessness. Do not sing the praises of sensuality. The man who is free of heedlessness and absorbed in meditation attains abundant bliss.”

Each word is worth understanding.

“Do not remain in heedlessness.”

The way you live is a life of heedlessness—of stupor. It is a life of trance. Now and then you also wake up and feel you are living in vain. It is hard to find a person who has not sometimes glimpsed, “What a futile life I am living!” Some morning you wake and feel—what is the essence in all this? Each day I rise, I run; the market, the rush, the scramble; I earn, at dusk I sleep, then again in the morning I rise.

Morning comes, evening falls,
and life is spent just like that.

But for what? What is the purpose of all this? One day, while running like this, I will collapse by the wayside; dust will merge with dust. What will be the result of this journey? You are not the first. The dust on which you tread—who knows how many have been absorbed into it. The path you call a road—how many cremation grounds has it not become!

Look a little carefully all around you and you will see—

Extinguished fires here, broken tent-ropes there—
who knows how many caravans have passed this station?

Look carefully all around you.

Extinguished fires here, broken tent-ropes there...
How many ruins lie about. Somewhere a fire lies dead—as if someone baked bread here not long ago. Things lie broken, scattered. Someone has passed through.

Who knows how many caravans have passed this station...
How many people, how many travelers passed here—and were lost. No trace of them can be found. So too will you be lost. This realization grips everyone sooner or later.

But you deny it; you pull yourself together. What does this “pulling together” mean? You don’t allow yourself to truly gather yourself. Whenever such a moment arrives, you slip back into your old routines—rush to your shop, switch on the radio, open the newspaper, or start chatting with someone. Panic arises: these moments could be dangerous. Because in these very moments dispassion is born; in these very moments sannyas is born. You entangle yourself so that these dangerous insights don’t appear. You immerse yourself in some lie. Even if truth comes to awaken you, you turn over and slip into a new sleep.

It is hard to find a man who has never seen that what he is doing is futile. Yet still a man keeps doing what he sees is futile. In moments of illumination, in some state of luminous consciousness, when everything appears futile—how is it that you drop back, again and again, into darkness?

Buddha calls this heedlessness. Heedlessness means: you know, and yet you live against what you know. You know if you put your hand in the fire it will burn, and still you put it in again and again. The old wounds have not even healed, and again you thrust your hand in. Surely you cannot be in your senses—you are unconscious, living in a deep trance.

“Do not remain in heedlessness.”

When those rare moments of light come in your life, support them, cooperate with them. Make them dense. Invoke them. Pray for them. Welcome them. Guard them within. Treasure them. There is no greater wealth. If you cooperate, welcome, accept, and own them, those moments will grow. Their growth is what meditation is.

Meditation means an awakened consciousness. Heedlessness means a sleeping consciousness. That is why Buddha and Mahavira use the word “heedfulness” for meditation.

“Do not remain in heedlessness.”

You have remained long enough. And you find a thousand excuses to remain. You say, “For now the children are growing.” You say, “These are days of ambition—let me earn a little more.” You say, “I am still young; religion and renunciation—these are for old age.”

I gave sannyas to a young man. His old father came—seventy or seventy-five. He said, “What injustice is this? You give renunciation to the young? The scriptures say renunciation is to be taken at the end.” I said, “Let it be. I’ll withdraw your son’s sannyas—if you are ready to take it. You are seventy-five. When will the time come?” The man smiled. “You’re right,” he said, “but there are many other tasks; many entanglements.” I said, “I can withdraw the son’s sannyas—if you are ready to take it. You yourself proposed it.”

But the man was only arguing to save the son from sannyas. For himself that argument had no force. When people are young they say, “We are young.” When old, they say, “Now we are old.”

When the boat was sound and whole, who longed for the shore?
Now, in a broken boat like this, who would dare long for the shore?

When the boat was young and sturdy—who cared for the shore? One wanted to wrestle with storms.

When the boat was sound and whole, who longed for the shore?
Now in such a wrecked boat...

Now old age has come, the boat is worn.

Now in such a broken boat, who longs for the shore?

A heedless mind keeps seeking ways to sleep. When young, you say, “I am young.” When old, you say, “Now I am old, what can be done?” Children are children—how to renounce? The young are young—life still lies ahead. The old are old—nothing remains. You seek arguments for heedlessness.

The argument that supports heedlessness, scriptures call sophistry; the argument that awakens you, scriptures call true reasoning. The reasoning that keeps you drowned in sleep is suicidal, it is poison—you will die beneath it, as many have died. Use reason to awaken yourself. As you make a little path toward awakening, you will find more moments of awakening arrive. The more eager you grow for awakening, the more you expect and wait for it, the more those moments come. What you truly desire, comes.

Buddha says something unique: choose your desires with great discretion—because desires get fulfilled. What you desire comes sooner or later. Choose with awareness.

If you ask for wealth, wealth will come—one day it will. If you ask for position, it will come—one day it will. A man is drawn, slowly, toward what he desires. Where there is desire, effort begins; where there is effort, attainment follows. So ask mindfully. Because what you ask, you receive. Think before you ask—or you will repent, you will weep. So many days went in asking, so many in collecting—and when it came, nothing came. If only you had asked for something else.

“Do not remain in heedlessness.”

The whole life you call life is a deep sleep in which you do much, but nothing happens; you walk far, but arrive nowhere. In it you only die—you do not live.

“Do not sing the praises of sensuality.”

Do not sing the praises of lust. Because the more you sing, the more you are influenced by your own singing. Man falls into self-hypnosis. Have you noticed—the thing you praise begins to permeate your mind. Your own praise hypnotizes you.

Buddha and Mahavira both said, “Do not listen to tales of lust.” But that is exactly what people watch and hear. Whether film or radio, book or novel or poem—people read and listen to tales of lust. And when lust grips them strongly they panic. Then they say, “It’s very difficult—how to get free?” You impose it yourself, irrigate it yourself, nurture it yourself; and when it grows strong and entangles your whole life, you cry out, “How to get rid of it?”

Lust is, in truth, nothing but hypnosis. Whatsoever you allow to hypnotize you—meaning, whatsoever suggestions you keep giving yourself—that thing becomes flavorful. The juice is poured by you. It is not in things; you pour it. That is why each culture, each civilization gets enamored of different things; wherever it chooses to see beauty and sensuality, there it appears. Thousands of cultures have been on the earth, and they have seen beauty in different things. Where they wanted to see beauty, it appeared.

Buddha says, “Do not sing the praises of sensuality.”

Stop. Think. Because whatever you praise, you will be unconsciously drawn toward. A man is influenced by his own words. Have you noticed—walking alone through a dark alley, afraid, you begin to hum a tune or whistle. Of what use is whistling? It’s your own whistle—it changes nothing; yet hearing your own whistle, courage rises, as if you are not alone. You hum a song; the warmth of your own song spreads through the body; it feels as if you are not alone.

You have filled your life with your own suggestions. You are trapped in them, buried beneath them.

Your suggestion is your world. Your self-hypnosis is your world. When Buddha or Shankara say the world is maya, do not think they speak of trees and the moon and stars. They speak of the world you have erected around you, painted with your dreams, colored by your mind. This world of trees and stars is very real—but you don’t know it. You only see what you want to see; you only see what you desire.

The whole of humanity is going mad singing the praises of sensuality. Ninety-nine percent of your poets sing lust. Your novelists write scriptures of lust. Your filmmakers make films of lust. Everything circles around lust. If even a car is to be sold, a naked or beautiful woman must stand beside it. The car doesn’t sell; the woman sells. To sell toothpaste, there must be a woman’s smiling teeth; those teeth sell. From the smallest item to the largest—the whole marketplace sells lust.

Then you want to find Rama—you land in difficulty. You create your own swamp and then get stuck in it.

Buddha says, “Do not sing the praises of sensuality.”

Because that praise will lull you; it will become a lullaby and you will drown in heedlessness. If you must sing praises, sing of nirvana—speak of liberation. If you must sing, sing of truth, not of dreams.

But who comes to hear truth? Who wishes to listen to the praise of truth? Even to the ear, truth sounds bitter—because it shatters your dreams. Truth feels like an enemy.

That is why we throw stones at Buddhas, crucify Jesus, give hemlock to Socrates. We cannot tolerate such people; they are dangerous. We are sleeping sweetly, deep in slumber, drifting in lovely dreams—and these fools come and try to awaken us: “Wake up, morning has come.”

Like on a cold night when you told someone to wake you at dawn—though you said it yourself—when he wakes you, a resentment arises: “This wretch has come.” You asked for it. If even on an ordinary cold night rising in the morning is so hard—people fling the alarm clock against the wall. What fault is the alarm’s? You set it yourself and kept it by your bed! Then imagine—after births and births of slumber, by rare good fortune you meet a Buddha—of course it feels like misfortune: “What trouble is this now? We were enjoying the dream—let us turn over once more, sleep a little more!”

Remember, even if you simply keep listening to the words of awakened ones, slowly the web of untruth around you begins to loosen. A single ray of truth suffices to break even the deepest darkness. A small ray—and the darkness of lifetimes shatters.

“Do not remain in heedlessness. Do not sing the praises of sensuality. The man free of heedlessness and absorbed in meditation attains abundant bliss.”

There is only one bliss—and that is delighting in oneself. There is only one joy—not the joy of indulging in another.

The essence of lust is the hope of happiness in another. The essence of meditation is the search for happiness in oneself. These are the only two journeys: either you seek the other or you seek yourself. He who seeks the other doesn’t find himself; he who seeks himself finds he has no need to seek the other. He who has found himself has found all.

There was a Sufi, Bahauddin. He was renowned; his words were deep, his presence unique. People came from far lands to him. But not all for the right reasons—for the reason lies within you.

One man became his disciple just to learn how to become as influential as Bahauddin. Bahauddin saw him and said, “You have come to the right place for the wrong reason.” The man asked, “Meaning?” Bahauddin said, “You have not come to change yourself—you have come to polish yourself. You have not come to meditate; your curiosity is still about the other. You want to influence people. That is the very opposite of meditation. Think it over.” The man felt the truth of it—he had come to learn how to be revered as a master.

“The desire to be a guru is lust,” said Bahauddin. Your eye is on “How will others respect me, worship me?” The meditator is concerned with “How can I become myself?” Whether anyone worships or throws stones does not even occur to him. Let others bother about that. The meditator dives within.

The man understood—and now felt awkward to appear before Bahauddin. He began to spy from a distance, thinking, “Surely there must be some trick by which this man influences so many.”

One day Bahauddin took a diamond from his pocket and said, “This diamond is as precious as truth is precious—and it is miraculous.” The man thought, “So this is it! By this diamond he wields such influence.” At night he hid himself; when all slept, he slipped in, stole the diamond from Bahauddin’s robe, and fled.

He tried hard, holding the diamond in his hand, but nobody was impressed. He sat with it—no one worshiped. He was distressed—what is the matter? The diamond is the same.

Years passed. One day Bahauddin came to his door and said, “Enough now—return the diamond.” The man said, “I have tried to create influence by its power—no one is influenced. What is the secret?”

Bahauddin said, “Until you become a diamond, the diamond in your hand will turn into a stone. If you become a diamond, even the stone in your hand becomes a diamond. How long will you fuss over outer things? There is nothing in this diamond. Return it now. That day I saw you hiding, so I brought out the diamond—to get rid of you. When you stole it at night, I was awake—does a yogi sleep? That’s how I know where it is. You have experimented long enough—now give it back. And now understand: turn your gaze from the outside to the inside. I’ve not come to ask for the diamond—I’ve come to call you: let intelligence dawn!”

Life has only two ways: the outer diamond, or the inner diamond. Only two paths: either you go on begging with your bowl outstretched, or you become a king—look within.

“Do not remain in heedlessness. Do not sing the praises of sensuality. The man free of heedlessness and absorbed in meditation attains abundant bliss.”

What is this search for meditation?

It is the search for the source that is utterly your own nature—what cannot be separated from you. You can cut off my hand; it is not my nature, because I will remain without it. You can pluck out my eye; it is not my nature—I will remain without eyes. Yogis have even stopped their breath and yet remained; so breath is not nature. Whatever can be set apart from you is not your nature. What cannot be separated from you—that you are. To seek this root is meditation: to grasp that which no one can take from me—what cannot be stolen, cut, burned, erased.

I set out alone toward the destination, but
people kept joining—and a caravan emerged.

Each person, when he set out, set out alone. Each began like a thin stream at Gangotri—of pure nature. Each began only as meditation. Then people kept joining, and a caravan formed: the senses joined, the body joined, desires joined, lust joined, the world joined.

Find again that with which you began—your root. Zen masters tell their disciples: seek your original face—the face you had before your parents were born. Seek that primordial which has always been yours; it was never found on any path. All else is clothing you gathered around you, layer upon layer. Strip off the layers and find that which you essentially are—your nature.

Meditation is like peeling an onion. Peel after peel—and more peels. Then comes a moment when all peels are gone and emptiness remains in your hands. That emptiness is your nature.

Hence people called Buddha a nihilist—because he said that emptiness is your nature; that emptiness is meditation. In meditation even the remembrance of God should not remain—because that too is a layer, an impurity, for it too can be dropped. Meditation is the search to drop whatever can be dropped. Save only that which remains even if you try to drop it.

The moment one reaches that original nature, a boundless rain of bliss descends. Kabir said, “I am dancing and the nectar is pouring.” In that moment of emptiness, everything is gained—all that you sought and all that you never sought, all you conceived and what you could not conceive—everything. Nothing remains lacking. Contentment becomes available only then. Before that, all contentment is just persuading the mind.

To persuade the mind is one thing: “Alright, be content—people say happiness lies in contentment.” I tell you: happiness is contentment. What happiness can there be in contentment? The one who says, “I am content in my poverty,” knows his poverty—there is pain there. Lacking the courage to run the race to be rich, he has settled for contentment. This contentment is compulsion; it is not happiness. It may save you from many sorrows, but it will not give joy. It may save you the troubles of the journey, but not the bliss of the goal.

I tell you: happiness is contentment. And happiness comes only to the one who has known himself. To know oneself is happiness. To delight in oneself is great joy. To settle into oneself is heaven. All else is suffering. Whatever else you attain, you will not be satisfied. Attain that, and satisfaction happens.

“When the wise man removes heedlessness with heedfulness, he climbs the palace of wisdom and, himself without grief and composed, looks upon the grieving world as one standing on a mountain looks upon those on the plain below.”

Each word is precious.

“When the wise man removes heedlessness with heedfulness.”

There is no other way to remove darkness. How will you remove it? Light a lamp. You need no swords to fight darkness; guns and bombs will not work; no brawn is needed. Even Muhammad Ali, made to fight darkness, would lose—darkness will not. Because darkness is not—how will you fight it? To fight, there must be something. Darkness is absence. Don’t start pushing at darkness. Many are doing exactly this. One fights anger, one lust, one greed, one attachment. These are people fighting darkness. Buddhas do not recommend it.

Buddha says, “When the wise man removes heedlessness with heedfulness.”

There is only one way to remove darkness: light the lamp. When the wise, the knower, removes the darkness of heedlessness with the lamp of heedfulness—breaks the stupor with awareness. There is no other way.

Therefore do not fight anger. Put the same energy into attaining meditation—meditation will happen, and anger will melt on its own. The energy people put into fighting darkness is wasted. Darkness laughs at you, mocks you—because your fight is foolish. Never fight the negative. Do not fight the world; strive for truth. Do not fight sleep; work for wakefulness. Sleep goes on its own.

Think: is what you fight actually there or not? If it is, a fight is possible. If it is not, how will you fight? And what is not will appear very powerful. Fight darkness—it appears powerful. You flail and kick; nothing happens to it. You jump and shout—you tire, darkness does not. Bind it in a bundle—the bundle gets thrown, darkness remains. It will seem, logically, that darkness is powerful. It is not powerful; it is not. It is your mistake. Light a small lamp. Put the energy you spent fighting darkness into creating light.

That is why I say: do not fight the world, seek truth. Do not run from household life; awaken sannyas. Concern yourself with the positive; do not worry about negation.

“When the wise man removes heedlessness with heedfulness...”

This is the only way—therefore Buddha calls him wise. He is the knower who lights the lamp. He who fights darkness is a great fool.

“Then he climbs the palace of wisdom...”

Understand this. This is a profound key to Buddhist contemplation and meditation. Buddha says: first one must break heedlessness, break the darkness. That happens by bringing in light—by awakening heedfulness. But when heedfulness comes for the first time, it is such a vast event that one is drowned in it. When meditation happens for the first time, one is lost in it.

Those who are meditating here know this by experience. When meditation happens for the first time, people come and say, “Something happened—we don’t know what. Thoughts stopped—but there was no self-awareness either. Was it sleep or meditation? An interval came in between—nothing remained for some moments. Did we fall asleep, or did we awaken? We don’t know; no memory forms of that moment.” Meditation is so great an event that the mechanism of memory stands stunned and silent; it doesn’t function.

There is a sweet story about the Sufi Bayazid. One day he was speaking. Nearby hung a clock with chimes. As he spoke, the clock began to strike. He said, “Stop.” The clock fell silent and he continued. People were amazed. When he finished, the clock struck the remaining hours it had left off. People asked, “What happened?” Bayazid said, “When the inner time stops, why should the clock continue?”

Whether it happened or not is secondary; the point is significant. When the inner clock stops, what of the outer? When meditation descends, the stream of time halts. When meditation descends, the sense of space disappears. Where you are, when you are, who you are—everything stops. The memory mechanism is astonished, startled, and freezes.

The period of meditation comes and goes. When you return to your world of trance and thought and the clock starts striking again, you wonder, “What happened? Did I fall asleep?” But there is memory of sleep. Last night you slept; in the morning you say, “Such deep sleep!” Or, “Sleep was shallow; dreams were many; there was no rest; I tossed and turned; sleep came in fragments.” Of sleep, a memory forms. Of meditation, no memory forms.

The first time meditation happens it feels as if everything is lost: “What happened? Where was I? Where did I go?” The reason is: when darkness goes and light arrives for the first time, the eyes close from the glare. The first experience of light is almost like darkness. Coming out of a dark room into the sun, your eyes shut. And one who has lived for lifetimes in the dark cave—when he sees the sun of meditation for the first time, naturally the eyes close and everything halts.

So Buddha says: heedlessness is dispelled by heedfulness. And when one rises beyond heedfulness, then prajna—wisdom. When one goes beyond meditation, beyond samadhi. This is Buddha’s profound discovery. To speak of going beyond samadhi—not even Patanjali has done so. And Buddha is right—I too bear witness.

Patanjali speaks up to samadhi. It isn’t that he didn’t know beyond—but perhaps he saw no need to speak of it. The one who reaches samadhi takes the next step on his own; speaking of it is futile. But Buddha is the first to explicitly mention beyond samadhi. It is such an unknown realm—no geography or atlas exists. Buddhas have given a few hints, little by little.

This is one of Buddha’s deepest hints. There is a state beyond samadhi. The use of samadhi is only this: that the mind dissolves. We sought light to remove darkness. We are not to cling to light either. We must go beyond light too. Beyond the world—and beyond the renunciation that is its opposite. The ultimate sannyasin is he whose sannyas has also been dissolved. The supreme meditator is he whose meditation has been left behind, who has gone beyond meditation. He left the world and dreams and did not cling to wakefulness either—let that go too. The duality is gone; non-duality arrives.

“When the wise man removes heedlessness with heedfulness, then he climbs the palace of wisdom...”

Only then does the ascent to the peak of prajna begin.

“...himself without grief and composed...”

Now he knows neither sorrow nor happiness. In non-meditation there is sorrow; in meditation there is happiness. Therefore Buddha says: the heedful, meditative man attains great happiness. But even that happiness is not the ultimate—no finite happiness can be infinite. Only that is infinite which never began, whose beginning never occurred—then there is no end.

So Buddha says, “Having climbed the palace of wisdom, himself without grief and composed, he looks upon the grieving world as one on a mountain looks at those standing on the plain below.”

“Among the heedless, the heedful—among the sleeping, the fully awake—goes far ahead as a swift horse outstrips a sluggish one.”

Do not get caught in the metaphor. Even Buddhas must use words, and words are yours, colored with your meanings. When Buddha uses them, your dust clings.

He says, “Among the heedless, the heedful; among the sleeping, the very awake goes far ahead as a swift horse outstrips a slow one.”

Appamatto pamattesu, suttesu bahu jagaro.

The one much awake among the sleeping, the heedful among the heedless, goes ahead like a fast horse from a slow.

But this example is not exact. The difference between swift and slow horses is quantitative, not qualitative. Between the sleeping and the awake the difference is qualitative, not quantitative. It is not front and behind—it is above and below. The awakened is not a little ahead of you; otherwise you both stand on the same plane—you are ten steps behind, he ten ahead, the road is the same; then the difference is small. You could walk a little faster and catch up.

But between sleep and awakening the difference is not of degree—it is of kind. They are on different planes. That is why Buddha’s first image is right: as one standing on a mountain and the people below in the plain. A difference of two dimensions. Naturally he who is above is also ahead; but he who is ahead is not necessarily above.

Consider: you know a little; a scholar knows more. He is ahead of you—knows nine hundred more facts, has read a thousand scriptures—you have read one. But there is no fundamental difference between you. Then there is the man of wisdom—there the difference is not that he has read more. You are asleep; he is awake. You are in darkness; he in light. The difference is of kind.

Naturally, he who is above is also ahead; thus the man of wisdom is certainly gifted, but the gifted man is not necessarily wise. Those who sought wisdom got talent for free—it is a shadow. Those who sought only talent did not find wisdom.

Even your most talented man—a great scientist, a Nobel laureate—between him and you there is no qualitative difference. On the same line, he may be a fast horse and you slow—but both are horses.

Buddha’s compulsion is the metaphor. He wishes to say: the one who has the art of awakening has unlimited time at his disposal. You always lack time. You are always lamenting time. If told, “Pray, meditate,” you say, “Where is the time?”

I read two lines yesterday—

Who are those who found the leisure to repent?
For us, life is too short even to commit our sins.

So slowly you move—it’s not even walking, you drag yourself. Hence life is too short. He who walks in awareness finds life infinite.

It is surprising: time feels shorter the more you sleep; the more you awaken, the more infinite time becomes. For the awakened, each moment becomes eternity. He sees not only the length of time but its depth. You stand on the shore and see only the surface of the sea; the awakened one dives and sees the depth too. If you go from one moment to the next—A to B to C—you never know infinity. If you dive into the depth of each moment—that depth is bottomless. Then you know infinity. When each moment is infinite, then how many infinities must all moments become!

Hence Mahavira used a word no one else used: anantanant—“infinite infinities.” The Vedas and Upanishads speak of one infinity: God is infinite. Mahavira says: liberation is infinite infinities—because each thing is infinite in two directions: expanse and depth; so in the final reckoning, infinity times infinity.

Great vastness. As awareness grows, vastness grows.

“Among the heedless, the heedful—and among the sleeping, the very awake—goes far ahead like a swift horse outstrips a slow one.”

“The monk who delights in heedfulness, who sees danger in heedlessness, advances like fire, burning up the minor bonds.”

Bonds are not to be dropped; understand this well. They are to be burned. For what is dropped can be tied again. Burn them to ash. The joke is: he who tries to drop them never succeeds; he who awakens finds suddenly they have burned—because the bonds belong to your sleep.

A man sleeps and dreams he is in prison, chains on his hands. He tries a thousand ways in the dream to drop the chains—what use? Even if he slips his chains, he remains in the dream. Even if he escapes the prison in the dream, he remains in the dream. The dream is the real prison. If he wakes, he laughs—there are no bonds; they have burned away; not even ash remains. They burned so completely, no trace is left. Bonds are of unconsciousness. Awareness is freedom.

Thus Buddha says, “The monk who delights in heedfulness...”

One who begins to immerse in awakening, to relish it—

“He is like fire, advancing as he burns up the small bonds.”

He does not drop them—why should he? Wherever his aware glance falls, bonds burn. Wherever his concentrated gaze lands, bonds fall. Wherever he looks with awareness, the world becomes ash.

In the Himalayas there is a saying: if someone’s wedding is taking place, don’t invite a sannyasin; if a farmer is sowing seeds, look around to be sure no sannyasin is near.

It is a very telling proverb. It means simply this: you are tying bonds. If an awakened man is present, he may burn them. We call marriage a bond; a world is being established; bands play, the shehnai sings; a web of dreams is being woven; two people are about to step into the world—with great dreams. Don’t call a sannyasin. The saying is right—because the awakened carries with him a contagion of awakening. Wherever his gaze falls, bonds fall. These poor people are just now binding themselves—what if a sannyasin’s gaze falls?

This is sweet and of great value. In the presence of an awakened one, his own bonds fall—and those of the courageous who come near him also fall.

There was a Sufi poet, Hafiz. He wrote a song that seems addressed to a beloved. He said, “For the beauty mark on your chin, I feel like giving away Bukhara and Samarkand.” At that time Tamerlane, Timur the Lame, ruled those cities. He was enraged when he heard: “Who is this? I am the owner—who is he to give?”

He had Hafiz brought. “This is absurd,” he said. “First, a mole on a woman’s chin is not worth Bukhara and Samarkand. Second, make sure Bukhara and Samarkand belong to your father before you give them—they are mine. How did you write this without asking me?”

Hafiz laughed at the stupidity. “Listen,” he said, “first, the one whose beauty mark I speak of—Bukhara and Samarkand belong to her. You are creating a fuss in between. Today you are, tomorrow you are not. They belong to the One whose mark it is”—he was speaking of God; Sufis address God as the Beloved—“and second, what does it cost to return what belongs to the Owner? Neither Bukhara nor Samarkand is yours or mine—I know that. I am returning them to the One to whom they belong, and you are obstructing; beware, you will regret it. And look—I am a poor man, but see my heart: I have nothing, yet I have given Bukhara and Samarkand. You have everything—see your miserliness!”

Hearing Hafiz, they say even Tamerlane laughed—he was not a laughing man.

To take what is not yours as yours—that is bondage. And not only bondage, but conflict with others—for the whole world’s quarrel is that everyone claims as “mine” what is not his. The real Owner is silent; Bukhara and Samarkand are His. But this lame man stands in between. Lame—hence “Lang”—and yet he longs to conquer the world. All the lame have such cravings. Even giving God’s things back to God pains him. It was only a manner of speaking, a poetic flourish.

As your awareness grows, you see: nothing is mine, except myself. And in the end you find that even that “myself” is not mine—it is God’s. Then prajna.

Up to samadhi, a sense of “I” remains. Your relations to all else drop, but a relation to yourself remains. In prajna even that relation drops. Therefore Buddha said: the self up to samadhi; beyond it, no-self. Up to samadhi—“you are.” Then comes a moment when even you are not—the drop falls into the ocean.

“The monk who delights in heedfulness advances like fire, burning up the small bonds.”

“The monk who delights in heedfulness, who sees danger in heedlessness—his downfall is not possible. He has come near to nirvana.”

But note the word: near. Buddha chooses each word with care. Heedfulness only brings you near. When even heedfulness drops, then nirvana. Unconsciousness must go—and consciousness too will go. For unconsciousness and consciousness are two sides of the same coin. The other must go—and the self must go. “I” and “you” are two ends of one dialogue.

But the one who delights in heedfulness does not fall. Just as a lamp in hand prevents you from bumping into things. In the dark you bump into chairs, tables, walls; with a lamp, what is there to bump into? The path is seen. The essential thing is not to find the path, but to have a lamp in your hand.

Thus Buddha’s last words on earth—Ananda asked, “What shall we do? You are going. While you were here we did nothing; days and nights we wasted in sleep; we heard you and did not understand; you awakened us and we did not awaken. Now you leave—what will become of us?” Buddha said, “Remember this as a sutra, for I cannot be of use to you: Appa deepo bhava—be a light unto yourself. Only that will be of use.”

Heedfulness means: appa deepo bhava—be your own lamp. Wake up. Live consciously.

This very world is it. He who lives unconsciously lives in maya; he who lives consciously lives in Brahman. The style of living changes—not the place of living. The same trees, the same plants, birds, waterfalls—you will change. And when vision changes, the whole creation changes.

Enough for today.