Es Dhammo Sanantano #92

First scene--
Once, there was a famine in Vaishali, and a plague had spread. People were dying like dogs. The dance of death was in a wild frenzy. Such a terrifying face of death people had never seen, nor even heard of. Every remedy was tried, and every remedy failed. Seeing no other way, the Licchavi king went to Rajagriha and brought the Blessed One to Vaishali. In the presence of the Blessed One the naked dance of death slowly quieted—over death only Amrita can triumph. Then rain fell as well, the dried trees turned green again; flowers that had not bloomed for years bloomed again, fruits began to come. People were overjoyed.
And when the Blessed One took leave of Vaishali, the people celebrated a festival; their hearts were brimming with gratitude and grace. A monk then asked the Blessed One—How did this miracle happen? The Blessed One said—Monks, it is not of today. The seed is ancient, the tree has indeed grown today. In a former time I was a Brahmin named Shankha, and I used to worship the chaityas—the shrines—of every awakened one. And whatever has happened now has ripened from that worship. What was done then was little, very little, yet its fruit has been so great. Seeds are always small. But the trees that arise from them are capable of touching the sky. A little renunciation, even a small renunciation, brings the great bliss. A little worship, a little meditation, becomes revolution in life. And all the miracles of life are miracles of meditation. Then he uttered these gathas—

“If by renouncing a little pleasure one perceives the gain of abundant bliss,
let the wise renounce the lesser pleasure for the sake of the greater.”

“He who seeks his own happiness by causing the suffering of others—
bound in enmity and the circle of enmity—never becomes free from enmity.”

First, let us rightly understand this little tale, for in the tale lie the very life-breath of the sutras.

The human mind is such that it remembers God only in sorrow. When there is happiness, God is forgotten. And this is our misfortune. For when you remember in sorrow—even if by that remembrance you were to meet God—your growth cannot go very far. At the most, you will be freed from sorrow. If you remember in happiness, you will be freed from happiness and will enter the great bliss. When you remember in sorrow, the result of remembrance can only be that sorrow falls away and happiness comes. But happiness is no destination. Happiness is not the goal of life. Those who are happy—are they truly happy? The unhappy, of course, are unhappy; but even the so-called happy are not happy. Therefore, even if happiness is attained, not much is attained.

He who remembers in happiness becomes free of happiness; he steps into the great bliss—into that joy which is eternal, which abides forever. True happiness is that which remains forever. Keep this definition well-knotted in your heart: happiness is that which endures. That which comes and goes is only another form of misery. It will come, for a while there will be the illusion that joy has happened; it will depart—and you will fall into a deeper pit, be hurled into deeper sorrow.

The momentary is an appearance, not the real. The real does not pass away, cannot pass away. That which is, is forever and will remain forever. That which is not sometimes seems to be, and sometimes vanishes. Like seeing a lake of water shimmering in the far-off desert. If it is, then when you reach it, it will still be there; if you drink from it, it will still be there; even when you go far away, it will still be there. But if it is a mirage—if it only appears because of your thirst—then the nearer you come, the more it will recede. And when you reach the exact spot where the lake had seemed to be, suddenly you find nothing but heaps of sand. Your thirst had dreamt a dream.

Thirst creates dreams. If you have fasted by day, at night you will dream of eating. Hunger creates the dream. If your sexuality is unsatisfied, you will dream of sexual fulfillment. Hunger creates the dream. The poor dream of wealth. The rich dream of freedom. That which we do not have, we dream of. And if our hunger swells so much, if our thirst becomes so intense that our whole mind is covered by it, then we do not only see dreams with closed eyes, we begin to dream with open eyes—this is the mirage. Then your dream has grown so powerful that you falsify the truth and impose your dream upon it.

All of us have this experience—even if we have not understood it—that we see what is not, because we want it to be; and we deny what is, because we do not want it to be. Thus we live a false life. Even if for a moment the dream seems true, it makes no difference. The dream will break. Where is happiness in dreams? Happiness is in the eternal.

Hence Buddha says—es dhammo sanantano. That which abides forever is Dharma. The nature of Sanatana Dharma is the eternal.

There was a famine in Vaishali. The Blessed One was staying nearby in Rajagriha, but until people were afflicted, they did not invite him.

These tales are symbolic tales. Such is precisely our condition. When everything runs smoothly, who goes to the temple, who performs worship, who remembers the Lord? When you are winning, you forget the Supreme; when you begin to lose, then you look for saints and satsang. When melancholy seizes your life, when nothing you do succeeds, then you seek some support, then you chant “Ram-Ram,” then you take up the mala, then you sit to meditate. And remember: to meditate in sorrow is very difficult. Sorrow is a great hindrance, a great obstruction. To meditate in happiness is simple, but in happiness no one meditates.

If, on the wave of happiness, you join meditation—when the mind is filled with joy, fresh, young—if you consecrate such a moment of exuberance to meditation, what would not be completed in years can be completed in moments.

Therefore my essential teaching is this: when a moment of happiness comes, do not miss it. Dedicate that very moment to meditation. Remember God then. That remembrance will go very deep. It will touch your innermost core. It will be established in the depth of your life-breath. You will become a temple.

When your eyes are full of tears and you call upon God, the doors are blocked. When your lips are full of laughter, call then. Then the doors are open. Leaning on that laughter, the remembrance of the Beloved will succeed in transforming even your Atman. Remember in happiness. Those who remember in sorrow receive relief; the memory of the Lord brings relief, certainly. But those who remember in happiness are liberated. Keep this in mind.

There was famine in Vaishali; a great pestilence spread; people began to die dogs’ deaths; then they panicked. The dance of death—never before seen, never heard of. Not even described in history. Every remedy tried…

Remember, man tries every other remedy first—God is the last remedy. And that which you keep as the last is in truth the first. But you put him at the tail of the queue. You try everything else first. When none of your remedies win, then you turn towards God—exhausted, defeated—thinking, perhaps; nowhere else it happens, perhaps it might happen here. This is not faith. The man of faith turns first towards God. This is unfaith. You first go in the direction where your faith already is.

Suppose you fall ill. You will not go first to a homeopath; you will go first to an allopath—that is where your faith lies. If allopathy does not succeed, then you go to Ayurveda—there your faith is shaky, an old conditioning. If that too fails, perhaps you go to a homeopath. If even that fails, then perhaps you go to nature-cure. And when all ‘pathies’ are defeated, perhaps you remember God. You say, now there is no support, now I am supportless. You remember in the end? To remember in the end shows you have no faith. Otherwise you would have remembered God first. You give the first chance to that in which you have faith. We have pushed God to the last.

The people of Vaishali were no different from us; they were exactly like us. Do not worry whether this event happened or not. The people of Vaishali were like us. That is why people remember God in old age, not in youth. Then everything seems to go well. The boat seems to sail. The other shore seems not too far. There is strength in the legs; there is trust in one’s ego—we will do it. There is courage to fight alone. Slowly the legs weaken, the boat begins to crack, the other shore seems to recede, drowning midstream seems certain; trust in oneself fades, all one’s devices fail—then man remembers God. Then he thinks, perhaps!

But remember, the one who gives God the last chance will always keep a “perhaps” within. To give the last chance means you do not trust the divine.

Those people of Vaishali—famine spread, plague spread, all remedies were tried, there was medical arrangement—but nothing worked, people were dying like dogs… This phrase “like dogs” appeals to me as very exact.

Gurdjieff used to say again and again to his disciples: whoever has not meditated will die a dog’s death. Someone asked him—what does it mean to die a dog’s death? Gurdjieff said, it means to have lived in vain and to have died in vain. To be kicked and driven away from place to place; wherever one goes, to be shooed off; to live on scraps thrown on the road; to sit and sleep on garbage; to come thus and go thus; to gain nothing in life and to see nothing in death—a dog’s death!

We think sometimes someone dies a dog’s death. The truth is reversed: sometimes someone dies whose death is not a dog’s death. Most die dog’s deaths. In a thousand, one may die whose death you would not call a dog’s death. He who has lived, who has known, who has experienced awake, who has recognized life, who has caught the ray of life and lifted his eyes toward the source—he who has become meditative—only he does not die a dog’s death.

Then we become terribly restless—if a plague spreads and people die, we become restless. We never attend to one thing—that all must die, plague or no plague. In this world, a full hundred percent die. Did you ever notice? Not ninety-nine percent, not ninety-eight percent. Not that fewer die in America and more in India. Here a hundred percent die—the number of children born equals the number of people who die. The plague is always already spread. What else does “plague” mean but that there is no remedy for anyone? Where no medicine will work. Ordinary disease is where medicine works; we call that illness. Plague is where no medicine works, where our devices break and death wins in the end. This plague is spread—spread since always. We stand on a cremation ground on this earth. Here nothing is going to happen except death—sooner or later. Only a little difference in time.

The people of Vaishali had never seen that all die, that all must die. Had they seen it, they would have brought the Blessed One earlier—“give us some sutras of life, some steps to climb, that we too may know—what is Amrita?” But they did not go—because the plague had not come.

Man has arranged in such a way that death does not appear. That which is most essential is hidden; trivia are displayed. Buying a car—you think so much about it, lose sleep, devour the catalogues; buying a house—you investigate so much; going to a cinema—you pore over the paper—what to see, where to go; but for life you do not think even so much! You do not see that life is slipping out of your hands and death is drawing nearer each day. Death stands at the door; when it will take you, no one can say. We have so falsified death that it defies counting!

I have a book—Until You Die. A publisher in England—Shelton Press—wrote to me wanting to publish it. Their letter startled me. They wrote—the book is remarkable, we want to publish it in England, but we cannot keep the title. Until You Die—people will not buy it seeing only the title. People fear death so much. Who will buy a book whose cover says—Until You Die! We must change the title, they wrote.

It is telling. We do not even speak of death. Someone dies and we say, “his body has departed.” We hide. Someone has died and we say, “he has become heavenly”—even though he may have gone to hell! Out of a hundred, ninety-nine must be going to hell; seeing the lives around, perhaps only rarely is someone heavenly. But here whoever dies—wherever he dies—even if you die in Delhi—you become “late and heavenly”! Just died, and already heavenly! “Beloved of God!” “The Lord has taken him!” We hesitate even to use the plain word death. Why?

The word death creates restlessness. Inside it is the news—and the tune—of our own death. It reminds us—I too must die. “Body’s departure” carries no such tune. “Late and heavenly” creates no such feeling—“someday we too will be late and heavenly; no matter, heaven will be ours.” Death states the matter too clearly; “heavenly” disguises it—poison concealed in sugar.

Look at our cremation grounds—everywhere in the world—any race, any religion, any nation—the cremation ground is built outside the village. And yet death stands in the midst of life. Where your bazaar is—on MG Road—there the cremation ground should be, right in the middle. So that every time you go to the market—to buy vegetables, or cloth, or to the cinema—every time you have a face-to-face with death; every time you see a pyre burning. Every time you see another bier arrive. The cremation ground should be in the middle of the market, because death stands in the middle of life. We push it outside—far beyond the village where we need not go. Or sometimes, going with a bier, we go reluctantly, and run away quickly. You will be taken exactly where you run away from. As you have carried others there, others will carry you—exactly so.

When I was small—as in all homes—if someone died, my mother would quickly call me inside and bolt the door. “Come inside! Come inside!” I asked, “What is the matter?” She said, “Come inside—no matter.” My curiosity grew, naturally—what is the matter? Whenever a band would play and a function pass by, I would be pulled inside, the door shut—death must not be shown to children. Such a dangerous thing—what if they become despondent! But her closing that door worked wonders for me; she would close one door, I would slip out of another. Slowly, whoever died in the village, I began to go along to the cremation ground. Then, whoever died, I no longer cared who—what difference does it make? I kept going. At every death, I went. And slowly it came to me: why is the cremation ground hidden outside the village, walled off on all sides so that it may not be seen?

In a municipal committee there was a plan to build a high wall around the cremation ground; all were for it. One eccentric stood up and said—what is the point? Those buried or burnt there cannot come out; and those outside do not wish to go in on their own—so what is the need of a wall?

But the wall has another purpose—to keep those outside from seeing the truth of life. The truth of life is death. Life is a plague—because life kills everyone. There is no cure.

Have you ever thought—there is a cure for life? There is a cure for TB; there will be a cure for cancer if not yet. But is there any cure for life? And life kills all—a full hundred percent. Whoever is born will die. There is no cure for life. Life is a plague.

But the people of Vaishali did not know—just as you do not, just as no one knows—that we are born in the very midst of plague. We are born of the union of two mortal beings. We are born in the shadow of death; we grow in that shadow; and one day, we return to the world of death—the dust falls back into dust. We are living in the plague. He to whom this is revealed—revolution begins in his life.

Famine struck in Vaishali—then they remembered; plague spread—then they remembered; all remedies were tried—all failed—then they remembered. Then they persuaded their king—go now, the Blessed One is in Rajagriha, invite him to come. Perhaps… perhaps his presence will change things.

Remember, even if you invite the Blessed One with a “perhaps,” things do change. Even if you remember accidentally, by coincidence, transformation happens. If you have trust, the transformation is very deep; even if you remember filled with doubt, your doubt will be shaken and consequences will follow. Your doubt becomes a barrier, but it cannot stop it entirely—something happens. The whole ocean could have been yours had there been trust; now perhaps not the whole ocean, but a little spring may still burst forth. Breaking through your doubt, God bursts forth. Therefore, if you cannot invite with faith, no worry—invite even with “perhaps,” but invite. If you cannot invite in happiness, no worry—invite even in sorrow, but invite. Today, invited in sorrow; tomorrow perhaps, you will invite in happiness too.

The king went, brought the Blessed One from Rajagriha. The Blessed One did not say even once—Now you have come! You have come too late. And I have said it again and again: I kept telling you that life is sorrow and life is death and all is fleeting and all is passing—you never listened! You did not listen to me, but you listened to the plague.

Sometimes it happens—the highest call we do not hear; the lowest call we do, because we are low. Our language is the language of the low. If Buddha calls to us from the heights, we may not hear; a bankruptcy arrives and we understand. The wife dies and we understand. We lose at gambling and we understand. And Buddha calls and calls—and we do not understand. Our world is of worms and insects, crawling on the ground. We do not fly in the sky; the language of the sky is not within our grasp.

But Buddha did not refuse. He said—Come, no matter by what pretext you remembered me. Let the plague carry this message—that now the Blessed One is needed—let that too be used.

In the presence of the Blessed One the naked dance of death slowly quieted.

Whether it happened outwardly or not—do not worry. These matters are inner. If it happened outwardly, fine; if not, fine. But in the presence of the Blessed One, the dance of death does quiet. Invite the Blessed One into the Vaishali of your heart; the moment he enters here, you will find death stepping out. This is the meaning.

Even the Buddhist scriptures do not write such a meaning; they take it as a factual event. I do not take it as a fact; it is far too important—essential, not factual. It is full of essence, but do not take it as a mere fact; otherwise futile debates arise—How could this happen? How could a plague vanish? And how would it vanish, when Buddha himself had to die one day? This body goes, whether it is Buddha’s or anyone’s. Even the body of one as lovely as Buddha goes.

So that death vanished from Vaishali in Buddha’s presence—this does not seem likely outwardly; but on a deeper plane it is true. Whenever a person invokes the Blessed One into the heart, death retreats. For the first time, the sense of Amrita begins to arise. In the presence of the Blessed One, for the first time there resound within you the tones of the Eternal. Es dhammo sanantano. A new dimension of vision opens.

We have taken ourselves to be the body, and so we have become subject to death. We have forgotten that we are not the body—though we are in the body. We do not remember that we are not the earthen lamp. In the earthen lamp the conscious flame is lit—that we are. Within you the awakening, the awareness, the consciousness—that you are. The body is the temple; your deity resides within. And the deity is not the temple. When the deity departs, the temple becomes rubbish—this is also true. But while the deity remains, the temple is a temple. As your inner vision changes, as you remember your witnesshood, so does Amrita begin to enter.

I take it thus—essentially. I am not anxious about facts. I am no historian. Facts have little value for me. I always press facts into the service of essence.

“In the presence of the Blessed One the naked dance of death slowly quieted.”

So it must. So it does. The moment remembrance begins—“I am Atman, I am Paramatman; a divine flame burns within me”—the talk of the body is over. You are no longer the one born of your mother and father. The identification is broken. You become the one who has always been; you were before your parents were; your body will fall to dust, and you will remain. With a touch of this remembrance, everything changes.

“Over death only Amrita can triumph.”

And in the presence of one to whom Amrita is attained, this happens easily. Hence satsang has immense value. Plagues rage in all cities; all cities are Vaishali. You too are no small thing—you are a vast city. Each person is a whole city.

The word we have—Purusha—is very precious. Purusha is made from pur—city. Purusha means: you are a whole city, and within your city is the hidden, indwelling master—the Purusha.

Ask the scientists: in one body there are at least seven crores of living organisms. Seven crores! Bombay is a small city. Consider—fourteen times Bombay. In one body—seven crores of organisms. Seven crores of lives. Amidst them all, you dwell. You are indeed a city. Vaishali must have been smaller. And in this city death will soon come, the plague will come—the steps are already upon you. In the meanwhile, if anywhere, by any grace, you find the company of the divine—of someone within whom the event has happened—then his presence will begin to lift you out of your abyss—just his presence.

Satsang means: the guru does nothing—there is nothing here to be done, nothing can be done—but his presence, just his presence, his waves begin to awaken you from sleep. You have seen it—someone dances and your feet begin to tap; someone laughs and laughter arises in you; someone is sad and a heaviness grows in you. Ten people are sitting sad; you came cheerful—sit with them, you become sad. You were sad; you come among ten who are laughing and gossiping—you forget your sadness, you too begin to laugh. In the satsang of an awakened one, what has happened within him begins to ripple within you. We are not separate; we are knit together. Our fibers are interwoven. If you keep company with anyone, you begin to become like him.

Therefore do not seek the company of those smaller than you—though we often do—because with those smaller there is a pleasure: we feel big. There is a taste—a feeding of the ego. People seek the company of those smaller than themselves. With the greater there is difficulty.

You have heard—the camel, when it reached the Himalayas, was greatly pained. It did not even look toward the Himalayas; it turned and went back to its desert. Near the Himalayas the camel suffers, for there it first realizes—“I am nothing.” The desert suits the camel—where it is everything, the tallest thing.

This is how it goes—this is a fundamental tendency of mind—we seek the smaller. This happens every day, in all directions. Politicians gather minor henchmen. Only over those smaller can the ego be enthroned; there is no other way.

Satsang means seeking the greater. It is going against the process of the mind; it is an ascent; it breaks the rule of the mind. For if you seek the smaller, your ego strengthens; if you seek the greater, your ego dissolves. If you seek the greater, his far-going rays will carry you far; the light that has happened within him will tingle the sleeping light within you. His shock will awaken you—just his presence.

Satsang is a unique word; in no other language is there such a word, because nowhere else has this been explored as it has been in this land. Satsang means just this—simply to be with one who has found the Truth. Just to be near, to sit—even in silence is enough—to be in his company; to let fall the walls between him and you; to make no defenses; to open your heart—“now let what will happen, happen”—to let his waves enter; to let his melody resonate—slowly you will dive. He has found Amrita; the first tastes of Amrita will begin to visit you; a window will open.

“Over death only Amrita can triumph.” Then the rains fell; leaves returned to trees; flowers blossomed where they had ceased to; where life had dried, new shoots sprouted.

There is a life outside, and a life within. When the rain of satsang falls, flowers begin to appear in the inner life. Those are the real flowers, for they endure; not the flowers that bloom in the morning and fade by evening; when they bloom, they bloom—then they do not wither.

Understand this tale on both planes.

People were overjoyed. And when the Blessed One took leave of Vaishali, the people celebrated. Their hearts overflowed with gratitude and grace. And then a monk asked the Blessed One—how did this miracle happen? People’s sorrow has dissolved; people are at peace; people’s fixation on death is gone; the plague has left; leaves have returned to dried trees; those who never knew the juice of life now have the current of life flowing—how did such a miracle happen?

They were overjoyed. Much more could have happened; but if you call in sorrow, this much is all that can happen. Much more could have been—if they had called in happiness. When they were sorrowful, they brought the Blessed One; when they were happy, they did not wish to hold him back. They should have held him then, said—“Where are you going now? Now we will not let you go.” From whom, in sorrow, so much was received—had they kept him in happiness too, everything would have been received. But they must have thought—“the matter is complete; why hold?” The moment happiness comes, we forget again; we take leave again. We say—when needed again, we will remember again. We use even the Blessed One. And this use of the Blessed One is very petty—like using a sword to kill an ant. To kill an ant—what need of a sword?

If from the presence of the Blessed One only sorrow is removed, then you have used a sword to kill an ant. The ant could have been killed without a sword.

Here is my view. That is why I am an advocate of science. I say—this work can be done by science; for this there is no need of religion. Disease can be removed by science; poverty can be removed by science; imbalance and neurosis can be removed by science; the physical and mental afflictions can be removed by science—there is no need of religion. Religion is needed when science has done its work; you are happy in every way; now the great bliss is needed. Therefore I support science. I accept—science has its work.

People come to me saying—the boy does not get a job, the wife is ill, the daughter cannot find a husband—please do something. I say—these are matters you can arrange; you will arrange them; something will happen; do not come to me for these. Is there nothing greater to be sought? No journey toward the vast?

The villagers were happy—superbly happy. They had received a very small thing, only the beginning of the journey; but they did not stop the Buddha.

Someone among the monks must have asked along the way—how did this miracle happen? The Blessed One said—Monks, it is not of today.

Buddha is very scientific; he links each thing into a chain. Science means the law of cause and effect. If there is a tree, there must have been a seed. If there was a seed, there was a tree before it. If there was a tree, then before that a seed. One thing arises from another; everything is interconnected; the web of cause and effect is spread. Nothing here is without cause; everything is with cause. Buddha insisted much on this. The doctrine of causality is karma-vada.

So whenever someone asked Buddha anything, he at once spoke of the chain. Do not take any act atomically; no act is complete in itself. Its connection lies somewhere behind, and somewhere ahead.

Buddha said—It is not of today. The seed is very old; the tree indeed has come today.

Whenever his disciples asked about themselves, he took them into their past lives. He searched deeply—where this connection must have begun, how this event must have started. Only by beginning from the seed can the tree be understood. Understand the cause rightly, and the effect can be understood. Understand the subtle, and the gross can be understood. For all the processes of the gross are hidden in the subtle.

“The tree has indeed come today,” said Buddha. “In a former time I was a Brahmin named Shankha, and I used to worship the chaityas of every Buddha-purusha.”

Every awakened one! I kept no account of who was Jain, who Hindu, who mine, who another’s, who shramana, who Brahmin—no such concern. Whoever had awakened, I worshipped them all. All the temples in the village—I offered flowers at them all. Such was my impartial worship. It was not some great deed. But, said Buddha, the seed of that impartial worship remained in me; from that the miracle has come. That worship performed without bias, without guile—without seeing mine and thine—that very seed blossomed and reached this place where I am available to Amrita. And those who come into communion with me, who invite me by any cause whatsoever, they too begin to glimpse Amrita; death begins to depart from their lives.

“I used to worship the chaityas of every awakened one. And whatever has happened has ripened from that. What was done then was small—very small—but such a great fruit came. Seeds are small. But from the small seed a tree rises to race the sky. A little renunciation—even a small renunciation—brings the great bliss.”

I did not even renounce anything great in that life—only this: I abandoned the distinction of mine and thine. I gave unconditional reverence to all awakened ones.

Understand—this is the mark of a religious person. Do not take it as small—though Buddha calls it “little,” it is not small. You pass by a mosque as if there were no mosque. You pass by a gurudwara as if no gurudwara existed. If you are Muslim, the Hindu temple does not appear to you. If you are Hindu, the Jain temple does not appear. Is this the mark of a religious man? This is politics—being bound by group and sect and ideology and doctrine.

To a religious person, wherever lamps are lit—the lamps of whomever they may be—they are all the lamps of the Supreme. Then it makes no difference if Nanak’s lamp burns in the gurudwara—he will bow there too. If Rama’s lamp burns in Rama’s temple—there too he will bow. If Krishna’s lamp burns—there too. If Mohammed’s lamp burns—there too. The religious person has learned one thing: whenever, wherever, a lamp is lit, it is God’s lamp that is lit.

Extinguished lamps belong to the world; lit lamps belong to the Lord. Among the extinguished there are distinctions; among the lit there is none. Extinguished—one kind, another kind. Clay may differ—one of china, one of iron, of gold, of silver. Naturally, between a clay lamp and a silver lamp there is a great difference. But when the flame is lit, is the flame of silver or gold or clay? The flame is only flame. He who sees the flame sees the one light in all lit lamps. The same sun has descended; the same ray has entered.

Buddha calls this small—but I would not. Because even this smallness is rare. People go to “their own” temple, their own guru, their own scripture. Another’s temple is no temple. To go to another’s temple is sin. There are scriptures in this land…

In the Jain scriptures it is written—and in Hindu scriptures too—that if a mad elephant meets you on the road and you are on the verge of death, and nearby there is a Hindu shrine—the Jains say—it is better to die under the elephant’s foot than to take shelter in a Hindu shrine. The Hindu scriptures say precisely the same—better to be crushed under the elephant’s foot than to seek refuge in a Jain temple. If you are passing by a Jain temple and a Jain guru is expounding, put your fingers in your ears—do not listen.

Are these the marks of the religious? Then what will be the marks of the irreligious?

Buddha says—there was no other special thing in me. When I was the Brahmin Shankha in some birth, my only specialty—call it small, a seed—was that I bowed to all Buddha-purushas; I went to all chaityas and prayed, worshipped. I kept no partiality. From that non-dual vision, the seed spread.

He who sees the non-dual will one day attain the non-dual. He who keeps accounts of clay lamps will remain entangled with lamps. He who has seen the flame will one day become flame. You become that which you see. Your seeing becomes the creating of your life.

Buddha says—today’s miracle has a very small seed.

Now, understand. I said this tale has two planes. On one plane is Buddha’s coming to plague-ridden Vaishali. The second is: the monks asking Buddha. Buddha wastes no occasion; he gives his monks a message about the right attitude. If ever you want to attain Amrita—want to be victorious over death, to truly become Jina—make no distinctions. All awakened ones have attained the same truth—plant this seed as deep as you can within. From this, some day a tree will arise, flowers will bloom. At the right time, the spring will arrive in your life. Then not only will spring come within you, but wherever you pass the breeze of spring will blow; those with whom you stand will have a light arise within them; those whose hands you take will begin to be freed from life; those who take refuge in you—you will become a boat for them.

“If by renouncing a little pleasure one perceives the gain of abundant bliss, let the wise renounce the lesser pleasure for the sake of the greater.”

Buddha said—remember this little arithmetic: sometimes it happens that today we feel, “there is much pleasure in this,” and we also see that if we renounce this today, tomorrow infinite joy may be; but because that will be tomorrow, we clutch today’s small pleasure and let go of the infinite tomorrow. Therefore, we remain impoverished. Suppose you have a handful of grain; if you eat it today, there will be a little pleasure. But if you sow it—perhaps you must wait a few months—there will be a great harvest. Perhaps food for a whole year.

Who is wise? He who leaves the little and labors for the vast; who keeps attention on the ultimate arithmetic of life—what will be the final fruit of what I am doing? Not only today’s question—what will be the ultimate consequence?

Naturally, when Buddha was the Brahmin Shankha, there must have been some trouble. If he went to Jain temples, Hindus—he was a Brahmin—must have objected. If he went to Hindu temples, the Jains must have objected—“you come to us—why go there?” Perhaps the village considered him mad.

Imagine, you start bowing at all temples and mosques—people will think your mind is deranged. The deranged will think that you are deranged. There must have been trouble. Reputation must have been lost. They must have thought him insane.

But Buddha says—that was a small renunciation. What does it matter that people thought me mad! What if they thought me sane! It made no difference. But the consequence—immense.

When Ganga is born, she is born drop by drop. From Gomukh, dripping—the Ganga at Gangotri can be held in your palm. Day by day she grows. When she falls into the sea, you cannot believe it is the same Ganga that fell from Gomukh. The one that dripped drop by drop, which you could hold in your palm—is this the same Ganga? Unrecognizable.

The seed is small; the tree becomes vast. The wise leave the small for the great; do not clutch the petty; keep attention on the immense.

“He who seeks his own happiness by causing the suffering of others—bound in enmity and the circle of enmity—never becomes free from enmity.”

Buddha said—we all desire happiness, but in desiring happiness keep in mind—first, the formula: renounce the small for the great; and second—desire happiness, but not happiness that depends on another’s suffering. Happiness built upon another’s suffering will, in the end, lead you into suffering—into great suffering.

The sufferings we are reaping in life—we created them when we sought pleasures that required us to inflict pain on others. Pits dug for others—one day we fall in ourselves.

I was once staying in a village. That night, an odd incident happened—I never forgot it. Small village—only one train arrives and one departs; the station bustles twice a day. The incoming train arrives at noon; the departing train leaves at two in the night. Few staff—one station master, a porter, a clerk or two. Not many passengers either.

That night, a man came in the evening to catch the night train. He kept looking into his bag again and again. The station master grew suspicious—he must be carrying much money. He was clutching his bag, not letting it leave his hands even for a moment. He looked well-to-do. The train was at two. An evil thought arose. He called the porter and said—if by two he nods off even for a moment—after eight at night the village is utterly silent, the village is two miles away—finish him.

The porter took an axe and lurked about, waiting for him to sleep. But the man remained awake and awake. The porter dozed. When the porter nodded, the wealthy man, sitting on a bench, grew drowsy and got up to stroll the platform with his bag. Meanwhile the station master came and lay on the bench the man had vacated. The porter’s eyes opened—he saw, “He has slept!” He came and severed the neck. The station master died. Morning came; the village heard the news. I could not forget it. He made the arrangement; he died himself.

In life, it is almost always so. The pains you give to others return. The joys you give to others return. Sorrow returns a thousandfold; joy returns a thousandfold.

Therefore Buddha says—remember the second formula: if possible, give joy; if you cannot give joy, at least do not give pain. Do not cause suffering to others. Build your happiness so that it depends only on you—not on another’s suffering.

See the difference.

One man finds his happiness in hoarding wealth. Certainly, he will snatch the wealth of many. From where will wealth come without snatching? Wealth is not abundant; it is scarce. It does not lie ready everywhere. People are many; wealth is less. He must take from others to amass. He will not be able to be rich without giving pain. And the happiness to be gained—it is worth two cowries. The pain given—the consequences across time—will be terrible.

Another finds his happiness in meditation. This is the beauty of meditation as against money. When you meditate, you do not steal anyone’s meditation. Your meditation deepens; another’s is not stolen.

So Buddha would say—if you must choose between meditation and money, choose meditation; it is non-competitive; there is no rivalry. Your bliss will grow. And strangely—your joy, as it grows, will become a capacity to give joy to others.

We share what we are. The unhappy gives unhappiness; the happy gives happiness—he cannot but give. When a flower blooms, fragrance must float on the winds. As your meditation condenses, a perfume will rise around you. Give joy—and joy returns. Seek such happiness as is not based upon another’s pain—this is Buddha’s essential teaching.

And then—even if a little joy is gained today, it may need to be left for tomorrow’s great bliss—leave it. If the little is gained, take it; if it must be left for the great, let it go; but keep one attention—the total expanse of life. Things are interconnected. Keep attention on the final result. Seek such joy as is your own, for which another need not be made unhappy.

Now if a man wants to be a politician, he must make others unhappy. Indira and Morarji cannot both be happy together—there is no way. One or the other must be unhappy.

So Buddha says—do not go in such a direction where you cannot be happy without making someone else unhappy. There are a thousand other ways to be blissful.

A man plays the flute—no one is affected; he can sit in solitude and play. A man dances—he can dance in solitude. A man meditates—he can meditate in solitude; it has nothing to do with anyone.

Seek such happiness as is private. There are many such joys. In truth, those alone are joys. How will you be happy by making another unhappy? How can you be? The whole time an ache will remain within—“I have hurt someone; the return will come, a reaction will occur; will the other forgive?”

Buddha says—a vicious circle arises. You hurt another; the other becomes eager to hurt you. There is no end to this chain.

For the great bliss, leave the little; for the big, leave the small; for the eternal, leave the momentary. And seek such joy as is your own—for which you need not depend on another. Then you are free. This is the foundation of the liberated life.

Second formula, Second scene--
The pathways of the mind are very subtle. By leaving the world, the mind is not left. The mind is the root of the world; the world is not the root of the mind. To leave the world is like plucking flowers and leaves; the roots are not destroyed thereby. Yes, if the roots are uprooted, the tree of the world dries of itself. Mind is the root of the world; hence freedom from mind is the true sannyas.

Once, when the Blessed One was staying in the Jatyavan monastery, some monks occupied themselves with making their alms-bowls beautiful, or embroidering vines and flowers on their robes, or crafting various kinds of sandals and inlaying them—busy with such things. They had no time for meditation and contemplation. And even if time was there, they had as if forgotten meditation altogether.

News of this reached the Blessed One. He strongly rebuked those monks. In rebuking them he was very stern—that too is a form of compassion. The work of a guru is just this: to warn, and warn again, and warn yet again. He said to those monks—For what have you come, and what are you doing! You came to sing the Lord’s name and got busy carding cotton! Was it for this that you accepted the bhikshu life? To make beautiful sandals? To embroider vines on robes? Then what was wrong with the world? Understand the snares of the mind, O monks! Understand the subtle play of the mind, O monks! Do not forget the goal even for a moment. Sleeping or waking, rising or sitting—keep awareness, O monks! Only then, in due season, will you reap the harvest of Nirvana. If meditation is not sown, the harvest of Nirvana will not come to hand. Then you will repent. And when birds have pecked the field clean, what use is repentance! Now is the time, do something now. And then he spoke these gathas—

“He leaves undone what ought to be done, and does what ought not to be done—
for the unrestrained and heedless, the inflows only grow.”

“But those in whom body-based mindfulness is well established, who do not do the unfit and never fail in what is fit—
for the mindful and the clearly knowing, the inflows come to an end.”

This happens continually. You change the outer forms, but the inner tendency does not change. Changing the outer is easy; the real work is to change the inner. This does not mean do not change the outer. Change the outer so that it may support the change of the inner. But never think that changing the outer will automatically change the inner.

Those monks—before sannyas they must have worn fine clothes, costly shoes, walked with swagger on the roads, sprinkled perfume on their garments; tried to be charming and beautiful. They took sannyas, but the old effort continued in a new way. Now there is nothing else in their possession—an alms-bowl—so they chisel it and make it beautiful, set stones in it. They have wooden sandals—so they busy themselves making them beautiful. Only three robes remain—yet on them they can embroider—make them beautiful. The old mind still follows.

It makes no difference whether you wear gold and silver ornaments, or in the forest make ornaments of leaves and wear them; the mind that craves ornament is the same.

“May I appear attractive”—why does this desire arise? So that someone may find me attractive; someone be drawn; someone be attached to me; someone consider me desirable, worthy of being had. Its meaning is plain—you are trying to get someone; to entangle someone in you.

In the world, it is understandable—you dress up to walk the road; but if a bhikshu dresses up, the matter has gone wrong. Wrong—because being a bhikshu meant—no more setting traps of attachment. Enough. I have seen—it brings nothing but sorrow. Now I will not scheme so that anyone becomes attached to me. I will not try to be seen. I will pass in such a way as if I had not passed at all. No one should see me; no one should feel curious about me. I will live quietly, as if I am not. He who longs to live so quietly—that is the sannyasin. “Let another grasp me, let another see value in me, let another be curious about me, let another be fascinated by me”—behind this there is lust, so that I may enjoy another.

People are filled with contraries. Women sit at home like ghosts; when they go out, they adorn themselves greatly—then they become young again. Ninety percent of beauty is cosmetics; perhaps ten percent is natural. And that ten percent needs no ninety percent. The ninety is needed to cover up where even ten is not there; to compensate. The ugly adorns more. The ugly woman delights more in ornaments. The unfulfilled must be compensated—where beauty does not suffice, something else is used. The face is not beautiful—change the hairstyle. The nose is not very beautiful—wear a diamond nose-ring. Then the nose will not be seen; the diamond will sparkle. And behind the diamond, the nose becomes beautiful. As women step out, they dress up—and men do the same—and if someone then jostles a woman, or throws a pebble, or sings a film song, she is offended. Yet the whole arrangement was made for precisely this. I call this the contradictory state of mind.

I was once a university teacher. One day, sitting in the principal’s room, a young woman came to complain—someone had thrown a pebble at her. The principal asked me—“What shall we do? This is a daily nuisance!” I looked at the girl and asked—“How big was the pebble?” She said, “Just a little.” I said, “That he only threw a little is the wonder—you deserved a boulder! Why have you come so decorated? Is there a beauty contest here? Why so tight clothes, so many ornaments, hair styled so? Are you here to study or in some market?”

Then I asked—“Tell me one more thing. Suppose you come so decorated someday and no one throws a pebble—would you feel hurt or pleased?” First she was startled, then thoughtful; then she said, “Perhaps you are right. I have seen—those girls at whom pebbles are thrown show that they are hurt; those at whom no pebbles are thrown are very hurt, greatly hurt—that no one even throws a pebble; no one even writes a letter. Those to whom letters are written complain; and those to whom letters are not written complain.” The mind is very contradictory.

But in the world—fine. The world is a contradiction. There we want one thing and display another. If you look into your mind, you will be surprised how subtle nets you have woven. You step out in such a way that everyone becomes sexually aroused; and if someone does, you become angry. You planned for success, and when success comes, you are perturbed. And you had left home making many arrangements for this very success. If no one notices you, you return sad—“What is the matter? Are people not curious about me?”

Another’s curiosity feeds the ego. It pleases you when others are curious—you feel valuable. Those who have no value within create a false value this way—others are curious, so I must be valuable. If so many lift their eyes toward me, there must be something. You yourself have no trust in your beauty—there is none—you collect opinions of others. But in the world—fine. The world is a madhouse.

Buddha would not have said anything to the worldly. But after sannyas, these monks were busy with many arrangements—polishing sandals, embroidering robes. The alms-bowl! What is man like? The alms-bowl signifies—“I have taken the last place; I no longer wish to be first.” It is the symbol—“I have become last, a beggar; I have no attraction for becoming emperor; I withdraw from competition.” The alms-bowl is a notice of the renunciation of competition—“I am poor and lowly; two pieces of bread are enough.” But he embellishes the alms-bowl, crafts it finely. The fuss continues there too.

I once attended a gathering of Terapanthi Jain monks—there the more beautiful the alms-bowl, the more crafted—the greater the monk. They labor much; their bowls are beautiful—enchantingly so.

But what is the point of making the bowl so beautiful? Man is such—that within he remains the same; wherever he goes, he seeks something to support his inner. The mind weaves new webs.

So Buddha called them and scolded them. We are surprised to hear that Buddha scolded—and not only scolded, he was very stern. This sternness is compassion. A guru must be stern often, very stern. Our sleep is so deep that unless he cries out, we may not hear. Unless he shakes us, we may not awaken. Our dreams are sweet and we are immersed.

Buddha said—Monks, why have you come, and what are you doing?

You have no time for meditation—no time at all; you have forgotten you came for meditation. The basic goal of sannyas is meditation. From meditation, sannyas flows; from sannyas, more meditation should flow; then more sannyas, then more meditation—meditation and sannyas should increase each other—then your movement happens. Meditation and sannyas are two wings by which one reaches the Supreme. But if meditation is forgotten, sannyas has no value.

Understand the snares of the mind, O monks, said Buddha. Sleeping and waking, rising and sitting—keep awareness; otherwise you will repent. There is still time—do something now.

Then he said the formula—“He does what is not to be done, and leaves undone what is to be done….”

You are carving your alms-bowl! Inlaying your sandals! Are you aware of what you are doing? All this time is wasted. The sandals will remain here; the bowl will remain here. Palaces remain; cottages remain; all remains here. Earn something that can go with you beyond death. Only that is fit to be done which can go beyond death.

“He does what is vain, and leaves what is meaningful; for such heedless ones the inflows increase.”

By this, the world only grows bigger—not smaller.

“In whom body-based mindfulness is ever present….”

Keep awareness of the body. Kayagata-sati—the first stage of Buddha’s meditation. It means: this body is not beautiful—no matter what you do, it will not be. All is deception.

Buddha enumerated thirty-two loathsomenesses of the body. Remembering these is called kayagata-sati. First—this body will die. Death is in it. It was born in filth.

Where were you in your mother’s womb? Do you know? Surrounded by urine and feces. In that filth you grew for nine months; from that filth your body was slowly made. Then Buddha says—keep in awareness these parts: hair, body hair, nails, teeth, skin; flesh, sinews, bones, marrow; liver, membranes, spleen, lungs; intestines; the excrement and urine in the belly; bile, phlegm, blood, sweat, fat, saliva, and so on. With these, this body is filled—how can there be beauty in it!

Beauty is only of consciousness. The body is a house of filth. Do not be deceived by the body, says Buddha. Remember: perfume it as you will, its stench does not leave. Clothe it in fine garments—its ugliness remains. Adorn it with gold and jewels—inside, your flesh and marrow remain what they are.

The day the bird of consciousness flies away, no one will buy your body for two paise. People will quickly carry it to the cremation ground. Quickly be done. If it is kept a couple of hours, it will stink. Daily you wash and bathe, then somehow you conceal the smell. But the reek is flowing.

Buddha says—the body is ugly; beauty is of consciousness. If you would know the beauty of consciousness, the path is meditation. If you would assert the beauty of the body—forget meditation. Do not meditate; otherwise the ugliness of the body will be known. You will see—this body is filled with these things—there is nothing else.

Go to a hospital and look at a skeleton hanging; go to a post-mortem—look; it is worth seeing—it will remind you of your state. See a belly cut open—you will understand how much excrement and urine we carry.

Buddha says—keep this awareness. Then slowly the identification with the body breaks; and you begin to search for that which is hidden within, the supremely beautiful. That does not need beautifying; it is beautiful. To know it is to be showered by beauty. The body must be beautified because it is not beautiful; and no matter what you do, it never becomes so—never has, never will.

Third scene--
This is a very unique formula—among Buddha’s most unique. Understand it well.

Dawn. The sun rising in the sky. Birds calling in the mango grove. The Blessed One was walking in Jeta’s grove. Many visiting monks paid homage and sat to one side. Just then, Lavakundhaka Bhaddiya, the elder, took leave of the Blessed One to go away for some time. Seeing him depart, the Blessed One gestured toward him and said—Monks, do you see this fortunate monk? He is going free of sorrow after killing his mother and father.

“Killing his mother and father!” The monks were startled, looked at each other—what has the Blessed One said? “See this fortunate monk—he goes free of sorrow after killing his mother and father!” They could not trust their ears. No sin is greater than the killing of mother and father. What is the Blessed One saying? Something is amiss. Either we misheard, or the Blessed One misspoke. To call the killer of parents fortunate—what kind of teaching is this? Is the Blessed One in his senses?

In great doubt and perplexity they asked—What is the Tathagata saying? Such a statement we have neither seen nor heard. The Blessed One said—not only that, this extraordinary monk has committed other killings too; with great success and skill. In the art of killing, he has no equal. Monks, learn from him. Become like him, and you will cross the sea of sorrow. The monks said—What are you saying! You praise a murderer! And Buddha said—not only that, monks—he has killed even himself. He is a suicide as well. He is greatly fortunate! And then he spoke these sutras—

“Slaying his mother and father, and two warrior kings;
Destroying a realm together with its followers—
Thus free from grief goes the Brahmin.”

“Slaying his mother and father, and two learned kings;
Slaying the fifth, the tiger—
Thus free from grief goes the Brahmin.”

“‘Mother’ means thirst,” says Buddha. The birth of the whole life has arisen from thirst. “‘Mother’ is thirst; ‘father’ is ego; the ‘two warrior kings’ are eternalism and annihilationism”—theism and atheism—“and their attendants”—all scriptural doctrines—“and along with them the entire realm”—the whole inner world of attachments—“having slain them, this Brahmin is free of sin.”

“Slaying the mother and father, the two scholarly kings, and the fifth—the tiger—thus the Brahmin becomes guiltless.”

Let us try to understand.

Buddha calls thirst the mother. Thirst is feminine. Hence women are more thirsting than men. The grip of women on objects, money, house is stronger—more thirsting. Women burn more with jealousy—this one built a bigger house; that one bought a new sari.

Thirst is feminine; ego is masculine. Men suffer when someone else’s ego rises. When their ego is injured, they are disturbed. Let objects be absent—let there be prestige. For prestige, man will leave everything—but he will not leave prestige. “Let there be the sense that I am something”—then he is ready to leave all. He can starve, fast—provided people keep in mind: he is a great ascetic. He can stand naked in sun and frost—provided one thing remains: “this man is remarkable.”

Man’s root is in his ego; woman’s root is in her thirst. The word for thirst is feminine; ego is masculine. Ego is man’s disease; thirst is woman’s disease. From the union of both we are made. You are not purely man; you are not purely woman. Just as your body is born from mother and father—half from the mother, half from the father—so is your mind made of thirst and ego. In women, thirst is more; in men, ego is more—only a difference of degree. Both are great diseases; without slaying both, none becomes free of sorrow.

Therefore Buddha has said something strange—this monk has become free by killing his mother and father; see this fortunate monk! He has no thirst—he is not eager to get anything. He has no ego—no proclamation of “I.” He has become like a void—as if he is not. He has wiped himself away. Therefore Buddha says—not only that—he has committed suicide.

Now mark: if the whole run of our life is made of ego and thirst, then the day ego and thirst end, that day our life also ends—suicide has happened. That is why the awakened ones say—he who leaves thirst and ego will not be born again; he will not return to this world; he has broken the very source of life. He abides in the great life; the sky is his home; Nirvana his destiny.

Not only that, says Buddha—he has slain the two warrior kings as well. This too is unique. Buddha says—astikata and nastikata, theism and atheism—these are the two kings ruling the world. Some sit as theists, some as atheists. Some are ruled by the kingdom of theism, some by atheism. Freedom is needed from both. For that which is cannot be said by “yes” nor by “no.” That which is, is so vast it will not fit into the categories of yes and no.

Therefore when someone asks Buddha—Is there God?—he is silent. Are you a theist? He is silent. An atheist? Silent. For he says—existence is so immense that the categories of yes and no do not contain it. To say yes is to err; to say no is to err. Yes and no—both are contained within it; but no category of the mind can work here.

Thus he is free of all the divisive categories of the mind. He has slain the two warrior kings.

We are constantly caught in division. Sometimes you say “sorrow,” sometimes you say “joy”—division. Sometimes “I am a man,” sometimes “I am a woman”—division. Wherever there is the division of two, you are under the influence of mind. Duality is mind. And where both are dropped and you fall silent—silence is to go beyond mind; silence is non-duality.

He has slain the two kings. He has slain their attendants—doctrines, scriptures, philosophies—he has set them on fire. Now he neither thinks nor broods—he is settled in the empty no-thought. He has slain the entire nation—he has uprooted his whole inner world.

Understand—your world is not the neighbor’s world. A wife’s world is not the husband’s; the son’s world is not the father’s. There are as many worlds as people. Each lives in his own world—his mind extended—that is his world.

Buddha says—he has burned to ashes his entire inner world. Thus this Brahmin is guiltless.

“Slaying mother and father, two warrior kings, and the fifth—the tiger—the Brahmin becomes guiltless.”

There are five enemies that cut man down—call them the five senses, or five enemies, or five kinds of lust—but five enemies there are that cut man down. He has slain them too…

Such an astonishing meaning of murder! Naturally, the monks were startled when they first heard—“He has become free by killing mother and father.”

They asked—What is the Tathagata saying?

Tathagata means what Sugata means. Sugata—one who has gone well, who appears upon this earth but whose consciousness is no longer here. Tathagata also means—one who has come well and gone well; who came as if he had not come, and went as if he had not gone; whose being and non-being left no trace—like drawing a line upon water—that is how Buddhas arrive. No line remains upon history.

Lines upon history are left by a Hitler, a Genghis Khan, a Tamerlane—not by Buddhas. They do not wreak devastation—how would a line remain? They enter the inner world; in the outer they become slowly zero—how would history carry a line? Buddhas are called Tathagata—they come silently and go silently; no one knows, ear to ear.

The disciples asked—What is the Tathagata saying? How can you say—killing mother and father! To kill one’s parents is the greatest sin.

I would make another meaning which is not in this sutra, but had Buddha been here today, he would have said it. In America a new psychology has grown—Transactional Analysis—very significant. According to it, in each person there are three—your mother, your father, and your child. The little child wants to do a thousand things; a thousand prohibitions arise. He wants to play with fire—mother says “No.” He wants to go out at night—father says “No—sleep.” When he does not want to sleep, the parents say “Sleep”; when he wants to wake early, they won’t let him; when he does not want to wake, they wake him. When he does not want to eat, they feed him; when he wants to eat, they stop him—“enough.” A thousand no’s—the child is prohibited again and again.

That prohibited child in you never dies; he remains within. That is why, if you watch, sometimes the little child leaps out—someone abuses you and the behavior that arises is that of the small child. You may be fifty—but the behavior is such that even a seven-year-old might hesitate. For a small thing you forget your forty-five years and return to childhood. Later you will repent—“How did I do this? What caught me? It does not suit me.” A small thing and you behaved childishly. That child is alive, suppressed. A slight touch and he appears.

You have seen—someone’s house catches fire. I was staying in a village once—there was a fire. I knew the owner for long—very brave. He beat his chest and wept.

I went and said—You are brave—his chest was big; he played Angad in the Ram Leela; I have never seen a broader chest. He thumped his chest—I said, “Listen—such a big chest, and such beating! You play Angad! It is only a house on fire!” He said, “Not wisdom now! Do not tease me. I am ruined!” and began to beat again—“I am finished! I am plundered!” Like a small child—like a child stamping his feet and crying.

Have you noticed—a small child wants anything “now.” At midnight he wants ice cream—now. He cannot conceive of postponement—why tomorrow? Why not now?

You will see this tendency surfacing in your mind. A car passes and you say—“I want it now.” Even if the house must be sold, debts taken, even if you must struggle for life to repay—“now.” America is today the most childish country; thus everything is instant—instant coffee. Everything now. Who will brew it? Ready-made. Food ready—open a tin—that is all that is needed.

Everything now—childishness. But it does not die; it remains within; it returns in adversity. Your maturity is superficial; under it your child remains who never grew. In the ordinary, you manage yourself; but when a little abnormality comes, your maturity proves worthless—no deeper than skin. Scratch it, and the child appears. That child must go; he must die—only then can you truly be mature.

Then your mother and father remain seated within you. They too must die. This has nothing to do with the outer parents. Transactional Analysis says—only he becomes truly adult in whom the voices of the parents have fallen silent. Otherwise, whatever you do, the parents’ voices pursue you.

As a child you did certain things—your parents stopped you. Now you want to do them—inside a voice says “No”—your father. Though now you are free. As a small child you wanted to go out at night—your father stopped you. It was right then. Even now when you go out at night, it feels as if your father forbids; it is not clear—inside, someone restrains. “Do not go; do not do this.” This inner father will never let you grow. Your mother still holds you—does not let go. You need freedom from this.

Suppose you fell in love with a girl and your mother obstructed—perhaps necessarily; you were too young; you could not understand love; you would have been entangled; your studies would have been ruined; your growth stopped. Mother stopped you. She saved you from girls.

Now you are married; your wife is at home; but when you hold her hand, your mother stops you from within—“Beware! Do not get entangled.” So even your wife’s hand you cannot hold with your whole heart. The mother pulls back. This mother must go; otherwise you will never be mature.

If the people of Transactional Analysis could get these sutras of Buddha, they would find great support—killing mother and father! Killing the inner images of parents—not the outer ones. Only then can you be free. The paradox is—on the day you are free within from parents, that day for the first time you will be able to give true respect to the outer parents—before that, never. Reverence will arise. Now you are so possessed by them that you are angry inside; it is difficult to forgive the parents.

Gurdjieff had written on his door—If you have forgiven your parents, then come to me. Strange! To one who seeks truth—“Have you forgiven your parents?” People said—We respect them. He said—Go back. First forgive; respect is not yet, it is hollow. First forgive.

You can forgive only when all the parental net is gone and you are free. One you are bound to—you cannot forgive. Who forgives slavery? Who forgives imprisonment? And how can you respect one who enslaved you?

So if children become disrespectful to parents, it is no wonder. Respect is possible only when you are completely free of them. And this is not about leaving outer parents. Even if you go to the Himalayas, the inner parents will pursue you—they are part of your mind. That mind must change.

These sutras of Buddha are thus very important.

“Slaying mother and father, two warrior kings,
Destroying a realm with its followers, free from grief goes the Brahmin.”

The Brahmin becomes free by killing mother and father, by killing the two kings, killing the king’s attendants, slaying the entire nation—and finally killing himself—he crosses beyond all sorrow.

Nirvana means just this—inviting with your own hands your great death. Nirvana means—the flame of the lamp goes out; so goes out he in whom no “I” remains. This state of no-I is called Nirvana.

Enough for today.