Es Dhammo Sanantano #90

Sutra-context—

The Buddha was staying outside the city of Shravasti. Nearby, on the riverbank, a young merchant too had halted. He had five hundred carts laden with precious fabrics and other luxury goods. He was making a fine profit by selling his wares in Shravasti. The Buddha was camped right beside him—and yet he had not paid any attention at all.

Surely he must have seen. Thousands of bhikkhus were residing there; how could he not see? But his mind had no affinity with them. One who is on a journey toward wealth does not turn toward meditation. One still filled with ambition does not really see a sannyasin. One upon whose mind the clouds of the world have gathered cannot perceive the light of Nirvana. He must have remained covered by his own clouds.

The Buddha stayed close by, but he did not notice.

Or, if on occasion his attention did wander there, then even so he must have thought: they are mad. He must have thought: what has happened to all these people? He must have thought: how people get entangled in such pointless matters. And surely he offered his mind a thousand arguments—only I am sensible, only I am healthy, only I am logical.

One day, walking by the river, he was weaving large imaginations about the future. He thought: if the business goes on like this, within a year I shall be a man of lakhs—a millionaire. Then I will marry. And many images of beautiful women began to whirl in his eyes. And I will build a palace—one for spring, one for winter, one for each season; I will do this, I will do that. And while he was lost in the full Shekhchilli-like daydream, relishing the laddus of fancy, the Buddha saw him and he laughed.

The Buddha sat beneath a tree; beside him sat the bhikkhu Ananda. Seeing the Blessed One laugh without any visible cause—no one had said anything, nothing had occurred—Ananda was astonished. He asked: Lord! You laugh! I said nothing, you said nothing, nothing happened here—why do you laugh without cause? For what reason? At what do you laugh? The Buddha said: Ananda, do you see that young merchant there, on the distant riverbank? Seeing the waves of imagination in his mind, I laughed. He is making long-term plans, but his remaining lifespan is only a week. Death is knocking at the door—but because of the clamour of his desires, he hears nothing. His unconsciousness brings me laughter…and compassion.

With the Buddha’s leave, Ananda went to the youth and warned him of the imminent death. The moment death was mentioned he began to tremble. He had been standing; frightened, he sat down. It was still morning; a cool breeze was blowing; all was quiet—and yet beads of sweat appeared upon his brow. He forgot the beautiful women; he forgot the marble palaces; he forgot winter and spring; he forgot everything.

When death stands before you—if the remembrance of death even flashes once—life is drained of its breath; this whole life becomes meaningless. Life has meaning only until you have not seen death, until you have not contemplated death, until the awareness of death has not dawned—only until then does this game of life persist. Only until then do you inflate these dreams; you set afloat paper boats; you build palaces of paper. But the moment the remembrance of death arrives, everything collapses.

His dreams were great; he was still young; his desires were immense—his urge to expand his world was large. All of it was levelled to the ground; all became ruins. Buildings that had never even been built became ruins. And the beautiful women he had never met disappeared. They were no more than rainbows floating on the mind. Death swooped once—and all became futile.

The youth sat down and began to weep. Ananda said to him: Young man, rise; with death, the matter does not end. Come to the feet of the Buddha. Beyond death there is still something.

Life does not end with death. Real life begins only after death. And blessed are those to whom death becomes visible while yet alive—for then that other life begins this very moment. Sannyas means nothing else. While living, the recognition of death happens; it is seen face to face. While living it becomes clear that one must die, that death comes. What difference does it make whether it comes after seven days, seven years, or seventy years? Death is—if this arrow pierces the heart, the world becomes futile and sannyas becomes meaningful.

Ananda steadied him and said: Do not give up, do not tire. Nothing real is wiped out by death. Only the false perishes in death. Only illusions dissolve in death. Death erases only dreams—not truth. Do not be afraid—rise.

The youth came to the feet of the Buddha.

When death stands before you, there is no path except the Buddha. Had there been no death, perhaps no one would ever have gone to the feet of the awakened ones. Had there been no death there would have been no temples, no mosques, no gurdwaras. Had there been no death, there would have been no religion. Because there is death, the thought of religion arises. Death awakens; death warns. Death functions as the alarm—otherwise your coma would continue.

Imagine a time where there is no death. Who then would pray? Who would meditate? And for what? Death is extraordinary. Do not think of death as inauspicious; remember, the auspicious is hidden in death. If you rightly understand death, a total revolution will occur in your life. Death is not the enemy. If anything, life is the enemy; death is the friend—because death wakes you, life lulls you to sleep. In life you go on sleep-walking; death comes and shakes you like a tempest. All the dust—of thought, of desire—gets shaken off. You stand startled, and must reconsider—rethink—lay down the foundations afresh; foundations of another kind of life that death cannot erase. The name of that life is moksha—freedom—one which death cannot undo.

This is the sole meaning of samsara and Nirvana. Samsara is that life which death snatches away; Nirvana is that life which death cannot take. Samsara is that life which, if not today then tomorrow, will slip from your hands; the time invested in making it was wasted, the days and nights spent on it were wasted. There is also a life where death is powerless, where death has no entry—this is the life of Nirvana.

Now, with death at the door, what else could the youth do? He went to the feet of the Buddha. Till now he had been near, yet thousands of leagues away.

They were staying on the same riverbank; yet we may be side by side and still remain apart—each in his own world. It makes no difference that you sit near me. Even if our bodies touch, it makes no difference. Proximity—mere physical proximity—is not closeness. You can be thousands of miles away. You may have your own world, I mine. We live in our separate worlds. Here, as many people as there are—so many worlds. Each one is encircled by his own world. And one’s own world is so vast—where is the opportunity to see another’s world?

Till now, even while staying near the Buddha, he was thousands of leagues away. He never came in the morning to listen; he never sat in the evening to listen; he never came close; not even out of curiosity—leave aside inquiry or longing. But at least curiosity—‘What is happening here?’ Yet the one whose mind is entangled in desire does not wish to waste even a single moment—fulfil the desire first; in that time a little more money can be made, a little more goods can be sold, a little more will fill the strongbox—do not waste time.

Those whose minds are thick with desire, when they see someone meditating, say: what madness! Why waste time? Time is money. Make money from time—they say ‘time is money.’ For them there is only one god: wealth. The more wealth you accumulate, the more meaningful life seems.

This youth must have passed again and again by the mango grove where the Buddha stayed—the unique lamp was lit there—but he could not see the light. If the eyes are blind, what difference does it make if the sun rises? He was thousands of leagues away. But today, suddenly, death erased the distance.

So remember, sometimes blessings come in the form of curses. Do not reject a curse outright. Who knows—the boon may be hidden within the curse. It was death drawing close that erased the distance between the Buddha and this youth. Perhaps by his own efforts he could never have bridged that gap—no ray of hope is visible. He would have lived as he was living, and ended as he would have ended. Death created a unique revolution; it broke all his old nets. Seven days! Only seven days! In seven days neither palaces are built nor beauties found. There is no point. For just seven days, who will take up such hassles!

Man lives under the illusion ‘I shall remain forever.’ It is under this illusion of permanence that we do everything. We live in the world as though we are not going anywhere—fighting for inches of land, for grains of wealth and position. We are halting in a wayside inn—and settle as if it were our own home; as if this were our permanent residence.

Till now the youth was thousands of leagues away. Until now he had looked—and yet not seen—the Buddha. Death snatched away the sleep of the eyes; then the Buddha’s truth became manifest to him. For the first time sannyas appeared meaningful. As if an eye were given to one who was blind, as if ears were given to one who was deaf—he became capable of hearing and seeing for the first time. As if lightning flashed suddenly in the dark—everything became clear. Like the edge of a sword, the old world was cut off and fell away—and a deep resolve arose to create a new world, to seek the nectar.

If there is death, then nectar must be sought; another way of living must be found; another style is needed. If this house is not a home but a caravanserai, then one must set out in search of one’s own home. And only seven days remain—there is no time to waste.

The awareness of death becomes a doorway to religion. The stream of that youth’s consciousness suddenly changed. The direction became altogether different. He had been rushing toward wealth, rank, prestige; suddenly the Ganges took a turn. It no longer flowed that way. It chose a new bed.

The Buddha said to him—Beloved, the wise should not be entangled in dreams of the future.

This is the very mark of the wise—that he is not entangled in future dreams. One who gets entangled in dreams of the future—we call him a fool. Fool means one who makes plans about that which is not—about what does not yet exist. Wise means one who lives in what is. Unwise means one who only weaves dreams about what is not. The unwise lives in dreams; the wise lives in truth. Truth is. And truth has no future; truth is only the present—it is here and now. Truth has no past either.

It is not that truth once was and is no more; nor that truth will someday be and is not now. Truth simply is. This is what ‘eternal’ means. Truth is eternal. Esā dhammo sanantano. Dharma is eternal—Sanatana. The present is truth. In truth there is only one time—the present. The future is in dream—in the head. And the past is in memory. Most people live either in the past or in the future. Rarely does anyone awaken in the present moment that is.

So the Buddha said: the wise should not be entangled in the dreams of the future nor be submerged in the memories of the past. What is gone is gone—let it go. And what has not yet come has not come—do not drag it in through dreaming. What is—wake to it intensely. Waking to what is is what we call meditation. If even for a single moment you awaken without thought, then what is will be realized, will be encountered. And what is—that alone is God.

Thoughts are either of the past or the future—have you ever noticed? Observe your thoughts: either a thought arises from the past—someone once insulted you, or respected you; there was a wound once; someone once humiliated you; or some pleasant incident occurred—or it arises from the future: that the same respect that came in the past should come again, and more; that the pleasures tasted in the past should arrive enlarged; that the mistakes made in the past should not be made again; that the sorrows of the past should never repeat—such planning for the future.

What is ‘planning for the future’? You are simply trying to repeat your past. You want to re-enact it—more cleverly, better decorated, in new clothes; to reduce the thorns, to increase the flowers—but it is your old past, dressed up. You are applying new cosmetics to the corpse of the past—and you call that the future.

Thoughts are either of the past or the future; thought never is in the present. In the present thought cannot exist. Mark this unique fact—for here lies the key to all meditation, to Samadhi. In the present, thought does not occur. Whenever you are in the present, no wave of thought can arise—or, if a wave of thought is there, you are not in the present. If, in this very moment, not a single thought arises within you—you are wordless, silent, empty within—then you are in the present.

A mere taste of the present fills one with supreme bliss. And whenever you catch a glimpse of joy, it is because you have somehow slipped into the present. By what cause you came into the present is secondary. Sometimes you become present unawares—and joy happens.

This is the whole meaning of dhyana, of yoga—that you deliberately learn to arrange to be present. You catch yourself and bring yourself back to the present. The mind runs to the past or to the future. The mind is a runaway; it never stays here—always somewhere else. You keep bringing it back. You teach it to sit here. You teach the mind: make your seat here. Stay. Go nowhere.

Slowly, slowly, the mind also acquires the taste of the present. That very taste becomes the death of the mind—for in the present the mind is not. And one who is beyond mind—that one is wise. One who is beneath the mind—that one is not.

So the Buddha said: the wise should not be entangled in dreams of the future. In the future there is nothing except death.

An extraordinary statement: in the future, apart from death, there is nothing else. The present is—life is in the present. Life is in the present; in the future, only death will be. Tomorrow is only death—nothing else.

Have you noticed, in our language we use ‘kal’ both for yesterday and for tomorrow. ‘Kal’ and ‘kaal’ arise from the same root. ‘Kaal’ is the name of death; ‘kal’ is the name of the future. And another wonder: we call the day gone by ‘kal’ and the day to come ‘kal’ as well. The day gone by has died; the day coming is already dead. What has passed was death; what is coming is death; between the two—like standing upon the edge of a sword—stands the present, stands life. Hence the path of God has been called the razor’s edge. To live upon a fine, subtle line between two abysses.

Notice also that ‘kaal’ is the word for death and for time. Languages are not made haphazardly; they carry the distilled experience of a culture. In the languages of the world you will not find time and death bearing one and the same name. Only in this land is there one word for both. Why? Again and again the seers of this land experienced that time is death; so they gave both one name—so that we remember. The present is not a part of time. The present is life.

Another thing: we commonly think time is divided into three parts—past, present, future. This is false. Time is divided into two—past and future. The present is not a part of time; the present belongs to the eternal. The eternal peeks through the present. The present is not the portion of time. Therefore, one who settles in the present settles into the eternal; he attains the experience of the eternal. Settling into the present is what we call Samadhi. The solution is found. The tumult of thought is gone; the problems born of thought disappear; the entanglements vanish.

Thus the Buddha said: the wise should not be entangled in dreams of the future. In the future there is nothing but death. Neither beautiful women will save you, nor wealth, nor position, nor your marble palaces. At the time of death only Samadhi is victorious. By conquering death through Samadhi one must attain the nectar.

Only one thing conquers time—Samadhi. Only one thing conquers time—the experience beyond time, a ray from outside time. Time is sleep. A ray of awakening, a ray of awareness, conquers time. And one who has conquered time has conquered death—for the two are one. They are synonyms. The sum of time is death; time is the manner in which death arrives.

From the day you were born, you have been dying—though you call it life. From the day you were born, you have done nothing but die. One thing has been happening continuously—you are dying. One day passes—you died one day. One year passes—you died one year. You celebrate birthdays—do not call them birthdays; call them death-days. Birth recedes; death comes near. One more year dies—and you call it your birthday! You have died one more year. Now your life is a little less. A part of you has died. You are not as alive as you were one year ago. The moment the child leaves the mother’s womb, he begins to die. It may take seventy years for death to arrive; it comes slowly—but time is the vehicle of death. Know that time is the chariot of death; riding upon time, death comes.

Time serves death. So long as you live in time, you will remain under death’s dominion; death will possess you.

Samadhi means going beyond time. Therefore all the scriptures of the world say one thing: Samadhi is to go beyond time. A state of consciousness where time utterly disappears—where the clock does not tick; there is no day or night; nothing comes, nothing goes; nothing moves, no vibration—everything is still.

A disciple asked Jesus, one day before his death: what will be the special feature of your kingdom of heaven? And Jesus’ answer is astonishing. The disciple could not have imagined it. He must have expected Jesus to say: there will be great bliss, joy, fountains of wine, beautiful apsaras, wish-fulfilling trees; sit beneath them and enjoy. That is how men ask. But Jesus said something wondrous: there shall be time no longer. There shall be no time. Is that even an answer? The disciple must have been taken aback: no time? For this we should labour so much? What is so special about ‘no time’?

But all awakened ones have said one thing: Samadhi is timeless—beyond time. Jesus’ answer is a hundred percent exact: there shall be no time. And where there is no time, there is God. Where there is no time, there is bliss—Sat-Chit-Ananda. Where there is no time, there is no ego. Where there is no time, there is no sorrow—because there is no death. The shadow of death is sorrow. Where there is no time, there is no vibration, no anxiety—complete peace. No storms of worry blow there. There is the ultimate silence. By saying ‘there shall be no time’ Jesus defined the essential mark of Samadhi.

Therefore the Buddha said: if death is to be conquered, there is no way other than Samadhi.

The youth remained at the Buddha’s feet. He did not even turn back to look at those five hundred carts laden with goods standing on the riverbank.

What a revolution! Only a day ago those carts were everything; the goods loaded upon them were everything; at night he could not sleep—worry clung to him: a thief might steal, a servant might deceive; he would rise again and again in the night to check, to circle the wagons. Those who have—how can they sleep? Those who do not have may perhaps sleep in peace; those who have cannot sleep. Many times at night he would clutch his quilt, then go and see: has something been stolen, has some trouble occurred? All night he calculated: how to sell tomorrow, where to sell. His whole world was in those carts.

Today, all is changed. When change comes, it comes like this. His whole gait changed; the way of life changed. Until now he had not looked at the Buddha; now that he looked at the Buddha, he did not look at the carts. His servants came, his employees, his accountant. They said: Master, what has happened to you? Return—time to go to the market; customers are waiting; these are days of business; what are you doing here? He laughed. He said: you go. You worry. Forget me—consider me dead. Consider that I am no more. Do as you wish; divide it among yourselves. I have no insistence anymore.

News must have spread among the servants: the master seems to have gone mad—seems to have been hypnotized by this Buddha. In whose spell has he fallen! They must have felt anxious, and they must have tried every manner of persuasion. But when death stands at the door, no worldly argument appeals. If I am to die in seven days, then in seven days these carts will anyway be lying here; what will become of the goods loaded upon them seven days later? Let it happen now.

When the remembrance of death becomes precise, revolution enters life. Death is a great revolutionary event. We usually do not remember death. Even if we go to an astrologer, we do not go to ask when we will die—we go to ask whether death is anywhere near. If it is a little far, we are relieved. We show our palm hoping for long life. Our prayers are for long life—so that we can remain a little longer submerged in these carts and goods and palaces and wealth. So that we can take a few more dips in this mud.

No—the youth said: you go; do not come back. It is over. I am not the man who used to be your master. That man is dead. One who must die is as good as dead. This is another man.

He sat at the Buddha’s feet all day. When the Buddha slept at night, he still sat at their feet.

One whose death is approaching—where does he have time to lose? Drink as much Buddhahood as you can—so much the better. When death has sent the message, where is the leisure to sleep? Sleep will be possible enough after seven days—now one must wake. During the day he listened to the Buddha; during the night he pondered the Buddha.

The youth remained at the Buddha’s feet; and after seven days, when he died, he died having attained srotapatti-phala.

Srotapatti-phala means: one who has entered the stream of meditation. One who has stepped into the current of dhyana—into the very source of life. The root source of life is meditation. We have come from meditation, and into meditation we must return. We are born out of Samadhi, we are a wave of Samadhi; into Samadhi we must dissolve. From the ocean we have arisen; into that same ocean we must merge again. This recognition is called srotapatti: that I am only a wave; I have no separate existence; I am one with the ocean. And from that ocean whence I came, into that very ocean I must return. Therefore I should not get entangled in useless anxieties. I should not carry worries—if I am not, then where is the worry? There is no separate ‘I’ to worry. This vast play is going on—the great existence is revolving; I am only a ripple. Then what is there to worry about?

Worry arises only when I think myself separate—isolated: responsibility upon me; if I do this, I win; if I do not, that will fail; if I do this, I will be honoured; if I do that, I will be dishonoured. Success here, failure there. A thousand worries. What success—what failure! One who has realized oneness with the vast whole is called a srotapanna.

The youth died after attaining the fruit of srotapatti. Blessed he was!

Those who enter the stream of meditation before death—there is no greater blessedness. Why? Because those who know meditation before death, they do not die. Only the body dies; only the ego dies; the mind dies—but they do not. Those who do not know meditation before death, they die—because they have remained identified with the body. When the body dies, they believe ‘I have died.’ They are identified with the mind—when the mind begins to scatter like dry leaves falling from a tree, they scream ‘I am going.’ Their pain becomes so intense that they fall unconscious.

People die unconscious. Seeing the body departing, seeing the mind dissolving—their awareness is lost. The pain of this breaking is so intense—so attached they had been; this they called life; seeing life go, they faint. People die unconscious; thus the priceless experience of dying is missed.

If only one could die in awareness, one would know: that which abides within you never dies. The body dies, the mind dies—you do not die. You are eternal; you have always been. You belong to that which is ever. There can be no death for you—no way.

Having attained srotapatti-phala, this youth died. The scriptures say: blessed was he! If the stream of meditation is found before death—what greater benediction! Unfortunate are those who live and never know meditation. Unfortunate are those who never attain srotapatti. They amass wealth, they build kingdoms—and inside they die beggars. When death comes they faint with pain; they cannot look death in the face. One who has seen death has seen the essence of life—for in the state called death, life’s utter meaningfulness shines.

Understand it thus: like stars glitter in the dark night—they do not glitter by day. Look into the sky by day—you do not see them. The stars are there; they have not gone anywhere—do not think the stars depart by day and return by night. They are present—but the background is not. To see light, the background of darkness is needed. That is why we write with white chalk upon a blackboard—so that it may be seen. We do not write upon a white wall; if we do, it will not be visible.

In life, life is not apparent; when the dark night of death encircles you from all sides, the star of life shines. Blessed are those who die alert. For against death’s blackboard, life emerges clearly—its ray becomes utterly evident. Clearly it is seen: the body is mortal, the mind is mortal—but not I. Yet in this ‘I’ now there is no ‘I-ness’ left; no asmitā, no atta. Therefore the Buddha called this state anatta—no-self. Not even the feeling ‘I am’ remains—only being is. And being is so pure that no line can be drawn upon it—no boundary, no definition—the indefinable.

The scriptures say: if one who lost his way in the morning returns home by evening, he is not called lost. This one returned home seven days before. He came late—very late—but even if one comes late, one has come. He returned—late, yes; wandering, yes—but returned. He came before time ran out.

The youth’s death became a seeing—a direct encounter. He made use even of death—while most cannot make use even of life. Unconscious, even life is barren; alert, even death is not barren. And all this transpired in merely seven days.

So do not think it happens only after years of effort. Nor think it will happen in seven days. It has nothing to do with time. It is a question of urgency, of intensity. If there is urgency, it can happen in a single moment; if there is no urgency, it will not happen in lifetimes.

People come and ask me: how many days will it take for meditation to happen? I tell them: it depends on you—not on meditation. Meditation is not some inert commodity that will happen in so many days. Meditation depends on your urgency. I always tell them Aesop’s fable.

Aesop was going along a road—he had become old. A youth came along and joined him. The youth asked: how far is the town? How long will it take me to reach? Aesop behaved as if he had not heard—as if deaf. The youth shouted—thinking the old man must be hard of hearing. He cried: did you not hear, sir? I am asking how far the town is, and how long it will take us to reach. Still Aesop did not respond. Seeing this great deafness, the youth strode ahead. Barely fifty steps had he gone when Aesop called out: stop, brother! About an hour. The youth said: suddenly you return to life! Where had you gone? Twice I asked—shouting! Aesop replied: until I see your gait, how could I answer? How long it will take you to reach depends on your pace. Now I have seen—your stride is swift—you will reach in an hour. As for me—it will take three hours; I am old. It is not a matter of time—it is a matter of urgency.

And all this transpired in merely seven days.

Urgency—not time. Understanding—not time. Practice—not time. That incomparable event sometimes happens in a single instant; sometimes it does not happen even in many lives. It depends wholly on the person—on you. How much thirst, how much effort—it all depends upon thirst and effort. How much of your life you stake.

The youth must have staked all. There was no point in saving anything; what is the point of saving when after seven days life will slip away? He must have risked his all. Even when we risk, we risk with great miserliness. Even when we meditate, we do it lukewarm. Even when we pray, we do it just somehow. We do not place our very breath in it. We do not take it as if our whole life depends upon it. Our feeling lacks intensity. We ‘do’ it—as if a duty, done and over.

I have heard: a wealthy man had no interest in religion; his wife did. She would say again and again: come to the temple sometimes; attend satsang sometimes. He would say: we will—we will; there is plenty of time, what is the hurry? The wife listened and kept quiet—her eyes wet. For in satsang she heard daily: where is time? Where is it ‘plenty’? It is going—always going—where is it lying around? Each moment slips empty from the hand.

Drop by drop the ocean empties; this little life—how soon it will be spent, who knows? You will not even notice and it will be gone. You will sit as you are sitting—and it will be gone. The day death arrives at the door, everyone starts—because no one had thought it would come now. Whenever death arrives, it seems ‘untimely’; not yet.

The wife wept—but… Then the husband fell ill. He said: quickly call the physician; I need medicine; I am very anxious. The wife said: let it be; there is plenty of time—we will call him. He said: do you hear or not? Call him now! She replied: what is the hurry? If religion is for ‘sometime,’ why medicine ‘now’? For I hear in satsang that religion is the medicine—the real treatment. If the doctor must be called now, should not the Master be called now? You decide. If life seems to be slipping from your hands, the doctor is needed now—but when life’s all slips away, still you say: religion not now! Medicine now—but not religion now!

Such are our calculations. And even when we ‘do’ something in the name of religion, we do it with the attitude: perhaps it may help sometime—so do it. Who knows if God exists—remember Him anyway! But one who remembers with a ‘who knows’ can never remember. For that remembrance is dead, impotent—‘if God is, perhaps.’

I know a well-known atheist. He has written many books. Sometimes he would come to me and say: whatever it may be, no one can convince me that God is. No argument proves it. No logic makes sense.

Then suddenly he fell ill—heart attack. His son sent me word that father is very sick—he is remembering you. I ran. Entering the room, I saw his lips moving—‘Ram, Ram…’ Seeing him mutter ‘Ram, Ram’ I was shocked. I shook his head: what are you doing? Spoiling everything at the time of death? This ‘Ram, Ram’! He said: who knows—He might exist; at least now I should do it; who knows! I said: this will be useless. Even now you know He is not—but perhaps!

What begins with ‘perhaps’—who stakes his all upon it? One puts one’s life only upon that which is rooted as certainty in one’s very being. And one who risks, receives. If you miss, remember: you miss because you do not risk.

People come and say: we do meditate, but it does not happen. As if the fault is meditation’s—that they apply it, but it does not ‘stick’! As if meditation is at fault, not they.

If it does not happen, the matter is simple: you are not putting yourself into it. This has not yet become so important that you stake all. It has not yet become a life-and-death question. It is not your mumuḳṣā. Perhaps out of curiosity you think—maybe something happens, let us see; maybe some peace comes, maybe some joy—if we get that, we will proceed further. But one who goes with such thinking never receives.

In this youth, the revolution happened because death stood seven days away. There was nothing left to lose, nothing to gain. He staked everything—his all, one hundred percent—he must have boiled. From that boiling, one vaporizes.

It was to this youth that the Buddha spoke these gathas. Try to understand them. Understand them as if they are addressed to you—for death comes to all. And understand that the plans this youth made—these you also make. Do not regard him as other than you—he is your symbol. This is exactly what you are doing. Perhaps there are no bullock carts, no goods loaded on carts—but there are storerooms filled. Perhaps you are not camped upon a riverbank—but you are camped upon the bank of time. Perhaps the same women are not whirling in your mind as in his—but other beauties are. Perhaps you do not seek exactly the same palace he imagined—but you too want to build palaces. It makes no difference.

This story is your story. Understand it as if you yourself are that youth. And I tell you: you are that youth. Do not think that because you have grown old you cannot be a youth. It makes no difference; desire is forever young. Desire never grows old. If it grows old, Buddhahood draws near. Desire remains young—even in the very old.

I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin was passing through a village. Seeing a courtesan emerge, he whistled. She said: have you no shame? Your hair has turned white. Mulla quickly lifted his cap and showed his hair—black! She was astonished: yesterday I saw white—have you dyed them? What good is dyeing? Mulla said: do not look at the hair—the heart is still black. What does it matter that the hair turned white? The heart is still black.

Desire is forever young.

Mulla sits on his verandah and calls to his servant: Fazlu, bring my teeth—quick! The servant brings the false teeth and asks: why so fast? You are not eating or drinking. Mulla says: no—there goes a beautiful woman; I want to whistle. Now there are no real teeth; these teeth are false—but the whistle is real.

Nothing becomes old by man becoming old. Desire remains youthful. A skeleton remains—and yet desire is young. Death stands at the door—and desire remains young. Hence the tale says: a youth. Whether he was young or not is not the question. The story says only this: he was young—and drowning in desires.

This is your tale: your very desires; your dreams of the future—‘I will do this, I will do that.’ Until one becomes a sannyasin, one remains a Shekhchilli. Shekhchilli means one who blows bubbles upon water—and thinks he is building a world. Even when the bubbles burst, he learns nothing from the experience.

The Buddha said to this youth: seven days remain of your life—now decide what you will do.

Naturally you will say: in our life seven days do not remain!

Who knows—even seven may not remain. Or seventy may remain—what difference does it make? There is no difference how many days you will live; one thing is certain—death is to be. In this life nothing is certain except death. Everything else is uncertain. Wealth will come or not; position will come or not; you will win the election or lose—uncertain. But death is certain. For the poor and the rich; for the loser and the winner—death is certain. It is unique that in this life only one thing is utterly certain—and that is death; everything else is uncertain—may be, may not be.

To remind of this certainty, the Buddha says in this story that he told the youth: only seven days remain. Do not hold him to the arithmetic of seven days. He told only this: your death is certain. Stay with the certain—that it is approaching, it is to happen; only seven days are left.

Your death too is certain. Then you will understand these sutras rightly.

‘So long as even a particle of a man’s lust for woman remains, he is bound—like a calf bound to its mother by its thirst for milk.’

In this world, at the root of all cravings is sexual craving. Other desires are secondary. The desire for wealth is secondary—wealth is wanted so that through wealth one may obtain beautiful women or handsome men. Position is desired so that under its cover one may indulge the games of lust. Man even desires heaven so that apsaras, houris, ghilman will be available. If we peer deeply into man’s desires, behind them all we will find sexual craving. It is the basic craving; the rest are branches. Naturally, one who is rich can gather more women. You read in the scriptures the tales—kings with thousands of women. A poor man struggles to maintain even one.

In olden days a man’s wealth was measured by the number of his women—hence the numbers are exaggerated. Krishna is said to have sixteen thousand wives. That number seems excessive—otherwise even Krishna would have gone mad. One woman is enough to drive one mad—sixteen thousand! Think. Keeping track of them would be impossible. After ten or five years one woman’s turn would come again; by then you would have forgotten who she is and from where she appeared. Picture Krishna surrounded by sixteen thousand women—however full an avatar he may be, he would land in the madhouse. Sixteen perhaps—but sixteen thousand!

Why then such numbers? Because in those days there was one measure of wealth—how many women? The more, the wealthier. Wealth was measured in women; woman was a form of wealth. One woman—a man is poor. With some money—ten or five. With more—one or two hundred. Even if he had no relation with them—still it was necessary to collect them. The larger the harem, the larger the empire.

Times change; the basis changes. In America, how many cars a man owns—that is his wealth. If you have a single-car garage, you are poor; with two cars, you are bigger. What car do you drive? Chevrolet—you are poor. Cadillac, Lincoln—you are wealthy. Measures change with the times—but some measure remains. In America, more valued than woman seems the car. If you ask a young man to choose between a beautiful woman and a beautiful car, he will say: the woman we can choose later—first the car. And with the car, choosing the woman becomes easier—what a convenience!

I heard of a young man who brought his beloved home. His father saw the girl and was saddened—she had no grace, no attractive face—utterly homely. When she left, the father said: I thought you had a little wisdom—you would choose properly, think before choosing—what kind of girl have you chosen? The son replied: what else did you expect—with that old Ford model—could I get a better girl?

In America, how expensive a car a young man has determines how beautiful a girl he can get. Perhaps even there, behind the car, lies the choice of the woman. Advertisers know this well. To sell anything, you must place a beautiful woman beside it.

Look—an advertisement for a car has nothing to do with car mechanics; a beautiful woman stands with her hand upon it, radiant. There is an alluring hint: if such a car is yours, such a woman can be. If you want such a woman, you must have such a car. The advertiser says nothing explicit—but he plants a suggestion in the unconscious. Woman’s beauty is used to sell the car. Now, whatever you want to sell—you must use a woman. Cigarettes, liquor—anything. Because deep down, man wants only to buy the woman; he does not truly want to buy anything else. Therefore whatever you want to sell—link it to woman somehow. Woman sells.

This is insulting; women should protest. Such advertisements are indecent—they show woman as a commodity on the market. These ads are not honour; they are insult to womanhood.

But deep down, behind all desires lies sexual desire. Sexual desire is the fundamental craving; other cravings are learned. In some cultures wealth is powerful; in others status. But sexual desire is powerful across all cultures, civilizations, and times.

So the Buddha first says to the youth: so long as even a particle of lust for woman remains, man remains bound—like a milk-seeking calf bound to its mother.

And note something more. The youth is to die in seven days. In life the greatest polarity is between sexual desire and death. Therefore this sutra is full of meaning; laden with significance.

Remember—birth comes from sexual desire. Birth is joined to sex. Now death is happening—the other shore. Sex and death are opposites. If at the time of dying you remain filled with sexual desire, you will not be able to see death at all. You will set up the arrangements for a new birth—because sex begets birth. If at the time of dying a person is still full of sexual desire, his deep longing is: to be born quickly; to be alive again; to do what was not done—again. And thus birth after birth will go on—until the longing for birth is gone. And the longing for birth ends only when even a particle of sex does not remain. Then you can look directly into death. Then you will sow no seeds for a new life. Only then is liberation from the wheel possible.

‘As a man snaps a lotus of autumn with his hand, so cut off love of self. Proceed upon the peace-path to Nirvana taught by the Sugata.’

Like the autumn lotus—lovely, delicate—yet it breaks at a single snap of the fingers; it has no strength. It looks beautiful, but with one jerk it is gone. So, says the Buddha, is the thread of lust in man’s life—delicate, beautiful, dear—but it breaks with a single jolt. One must have courage to give the jolt. And when death stands near, giving that jolt is easy. Death itself is giving the jerk; take death’s support—and this beautiful lotus of lust will wither.

‘As a man snaps the autumn lotus, so cut off love of self.’

Understand: it is because of sexual desire that we are in love with ‘me.’ We are in love with ourselves because we are in love with the other. So long as our love with the other is not fulfilled and transcended, our love of self continues. The whole journey of self-interest is the journey of exploiting the other. The Buddha says: ucchinda sineham attano—uproot this love for the ego, this identification with ‘I.’ Death is near. If before death you uproot the ego and abandon all attachment to yourself, then there will be no more birth. Birth happens because of attachment to the self.

‘Proceed upon the peace-path to Nirvana taught by the Sugata.’

Take step after step. It is a long journey. Sugata is one of the names of the Buddha—each name is significant. ‘Gata’—one who has gone. ‘Sugata’—one who has gone rightly—so rightly that he never returns; one who does not come again to this world is called Sugata. One who goes in such a way that there remains no possibility of returning; who leaves behind no root; who, once gone, is gone. A sweet word—Sugata. One who is Sugata has attained Nirvana.

The Buddha says: proceed upon the peace-path to Nirvana taught by the Sugata.

He says: I have already gone—hence I awaken you. I snapped this lotus of self-delusion in one jerk. It was beautiful—but not strong. When I broke it, death too stood before me—not my death; I had seen someone else die, and a question arose in me: will everyone die? My charioteer said: yes, lord—everyone will die. I asked: will I too die? He said: how can I say it—how can I speak it—but I cannot lie: you too will die. I turned back the chariot that very day from the youth-festival. That night I fled the palace. For if death is certain—then what youth-festival? what revelry?

In the city, all youths had gathered; it was the festival of the year. That night there would be drinking, dancing, singing. And I returned. That very day I became old. That day death happened.

So the Buddha said: I have snapped this lotus—it was very beautiful, but it is not strong. A little courage—and it breaks. And when death stands near—and for you, youth, it stands very near—your own death stands there—snap this attachment to self. Go rightly—so that you never return.

‘Here I shall live during the rains; here I shall live in winter; here I shall live in summer’—the fool so thinks. He does not understand the obstacle that is life’s inescapable interruption.

Fools are those who think: I will build such-and-such a mansion; in spring I will live there; in winter I will live there; I will spend summer here, the rains there. Fools are those who plan to build mansions upon the sands of time. Upon the sands of time, no mansion ever stands; they all fall. And in building them, life is wasted. Life that might have yielded meaning is lost—becomes a mere cipher. People die without attaining the treasure.

And the treasure is one—becoming Sugata. Death stands as antaraya—obstruction—death will not allow any of your plans to be fulfilled.

‘Antaraya’ is an important word—used by both Jains and Buddhists. It means that which stands in between; that which will not let your plan be consummated. Earn wealth—first it will not let you earn; if somehow you earn, it will not let you enjoy. There is no way to obtain happiness by wealth—if you do not get it, sorrow; if you do, sorrow. Death is the greatest obstacle; it stands everywhere. Whatever you do, it will pulverize. Fools are those who do not see the obstacle standing in life.

‘As a rising flood sweeps away a sleeping village, so death carries away a man whose mind is clung to sons, to cattle, to possessions.’

As a whole village sleeps and the river floods—and a great flood carries the entire sleeping village away—so do people asleep in desires and cravings get swept away by the flood of death.

‘As the flood sweeps away a sleeping village, so death carries off the man attached to sons, to wealth, to cattle.’

Awaken! Leave your stupor! When craving drops, stupor drops; the wine of craving keeps you unconscious. You are staggering; you know not where you go, or why. Each day you see death around you—and yet your own death does not come to mind. Whenever a bier passes by, remember—it is your own bier passing.

‘When death comes neither son can protect, nor father, nor relatives. When it comes, even one’s clan cannot save.’

No one will be your companion in death. Son will not help father; wife will not help husband; husband will not help wife. No one is yours in death. And if no one is yours in death—how can anyone be yours at all? It is said: in adversity, friends are known. The real adversity is one—death. There, no friend proves true. So you have recognized all your friends. All this friendship is on the surface—these are matters of convenience. When you die, you will go alone—no one will go with you. No one will say: I shall accompany you—our friendship, our love is old.

The Upanishads say: no one loves another; people love only themselves. Husband loves wife because he loves himself and she provides comfort. If the wife dies, the husband begins to think of another. Why die with the wife? The love was not for the wife—love was for oneself; the wife was a utility.

Here we all use one another. No one is living for you. You are utterly alone. One who understands that he is utterly alone—that there is no companion—because death will take away all companions—then how much value has the togetherness of life? Two people met by chance on the road, walked a while together; then their paths diverged. Death separates everyone—death is a great revealer. It makes things clear as they are. We are alone; this aloneness cannot be removed—neither by love nor friendship; you remain alone. You may try to forget it; but have you not noticed—even sitting with family, sometimes it occurs to you: I am utterly alone. The wife sits beside you—and you are alone. The son plays nearby—and you are alone. Your father sits close—and you are alone. Did it ever arise in your heart: who belongs to whom?

This does not mean the Buddha blames the wife for not accompanying. The wife too is alone. He is not blaming anyone. Do not go home and tell your wife: you do not love me; I am alone. Or tell your son: love me more—for I am alone.

No—however hard they try, you are alone. Aloneness is destiny; it cannot be changed. You can forget it, you can hide it—but there is no escape. It is natural. Death reveals this aloneness.

The Buddha says: none will save you, none will come; therefore do not place too much reliance upon them—be alone from now. What death will do, do it with your own hands. Then death will have nothing left to snatch. What death will take—offer it yourself. This is the meaning of renunciation. What death will seize—say yourself: it is not mine. If death snatches, it is an insult; if you offer, it is dignity. This is the difference between a worldly man and a sannyasin. The worldly clings; death wrests from him by force. The sannyasin offers.

And then a great difference arises. One who offers—death has no hold on him. One from whom death must snatch—death holds sway over him.

‘Understanding this, the wise and virtuous should immediately set about seeking and cleansing the path that leads to Nirvana.’

The Buddha says: now you are to depart on a long journey; you will be alone. From now, sow the seeds of this understanding—that what is to be sought is Nirvana; what is to be sought is the innermost; what is to be sought is one thing only: freedom from all cravings, from all thirst. Understanding this, the wise and virtuous should set out in search of the path that leads to Nirvana—and immediately begin cleaning within, so that the understanding of that path may deepen.

The path is there—but our minds are not clean; therefore it is not visible.

Khippameva visodhaye—cleanse it quickly. Search; tidy it. Perhaps for births and births, because of craving, the path has broken. Perhaps for births, because of desires, the path has been buried under rubbish. Perhaps for births you have not walked that inner path—so it is overgrown. Clear it.

Meditation is the method of clearing that path. And when the path is cleared, and by the way of meditation you arrive at your innermost center—beyond which there is nothing—then Samadhi. Meditation is the path; Samadhi is the goal.

Seeing death, one should plunge into meditation; only one longing should remain—to attain Samadhi. Stake all upon it. Blessed are those who move toward meditation—who turn in that direction. And as for those who attain Samadhi—what can be said of their fortune!

These sutras have been spoken to you. Each one is for you. This context is your context. Do not get lost in whether such an event happened or not—history does not interest me. Some people waste themselves asking whether truly there was a youth at the river with five hundred bullock carts entangled in lusts; whether it really happened; on what date; how did the Buddha read his thoughts; could it be; could one attain Samadhi in seven days; how can a man so entangled with desire be transformed suddenly.

Many such people ponder history and probability—and they miss. These tales are not history; they are purana. There is a difference. ‘History’ means what happened. ‘Purana’ means what is forever happening. History is that which has passed; purana is that which is ever. This is purana.

In this land we hardly wrote history; we cared little for it. What value is there in whether on such and such a morning, on such and such a date, in such and such a year, with such a person, such an event happened? Shravasti may have been or not; a riverbank may have been or not; whether a youth lodged there or not—it does not matter. We are all camped on the bank of time; the current flows. Upon the sand we plan to build our mansions.

And always there are Buddhas—awakened ones—who warn you, wake you. Always there are those capable of reading your minds. Always there are those who remind you of one thing: death comes, death is coming; it is almost here; do something now. It is already late—but if you do something now, it is not too late.

This is purana. Purana has eternal value; history has little. History happens once; purana happens forever. Purana means: it happened before, it is happening now, it will happen again. What never gets used up—purana. It goes on happening. History happens in time; purana points to the eternal.

The day you understand these sutra-contexts in this spirit, you will find they are given straight to you—they are for you. A treatment for your sickness. This medicine is for you.

Otherwise, people think: the Buddha said it to someone else; he said it twenty-five hundred years ago—now it is no longer relevant. He said it to someone; it was relevant for him.

What the awakened say remains relevant in a deeper sense. Outward circumstances change; inwardly man does not. He is the same—just as sick, just as angry, just as lustful, just as greedy, just as Shekhchilli. No difference. If the Buddha were born today after twenty-five hundred years, he would have no difficulty recognizing you—though he would be puzzled seeing your things. Cars he has not seen; radio and television and electricity—the fan, the fridge—these would startle him. Looking at your house he would be amazed. But looking at you—no surprise at all. You are exactly that youth, camped outside Shravasti with five hundred bullock carts filled with goods—thinking: such palaces I’ll build; such beauties I’ll keep; such and such plans, such desires to fulfil. Let the business run like this for a year—I will be a millionaire. Seeing you, he would not be surprised.

Certainly that youth must have thought: when will I have a thousand carts? Naturally. You will not think of bullock carts—the world of carts has gone. But man? The same. The coins have changed, not the greed. He counted one kind of coins; you count another kind of notes; but the mind that counts has not changed. The mind that hoards has not changed. Man has not changed.

Man changes only by one thing—meditation. He does not change by time. Time goes round and round—man remains the same; only things change. The objects of desire change—but desire does not.

Seeing you, the Buddha would have no difficulty. At once he would recognize his old acquaintances. No difference. Man is just the same.

It is said: under the sun there is nothing new. And also: under the sun everything is new. Both are true. As far as the outer is concerned—everything is new. As far as the inner is concerned—everything is old. Houses have changed, roads have changed, goods have changed—man is the same. Circumstance has changed; mind-state remains the same.

Therefore these messages never grow stale. They can be revived; from them a lamp can be lit again for you. From them you may find your way again.

Seek your way by the support of these sutras. The Sugata has spoken rightly. Only one who has gone rightly can speak rightly. Those still entangled—whatever they say cannot be right. They are sick themselves—their own cure has not happened. Those who have become free of this world—who have floated upon it like a lotus—who cannot return—whose final farewell has arrived—who stand upon the shore of the ocean and are about to enter it—Sugata—and will not return; listen attentively to them. From that, revolution may strike your life. Your life too may become the life of sannyas instead of worldly bondage. And this revolution is inner. Whether you live in house or shop—it makes no difference. If only you see that in this life there is nothing worth gaining—that what is worth gaining lies within. Then set about the inner search—visodhaye.

And this is the path the Buddha declared—esa maggo visuddhiya—this is the path of purification—of cleansing.

Enough for today.