Es Dhammo Sanantano #94

Gautam Buddha’s entire teaching, his whole deshna, can be gathered into one small word. That small word is—Smriti. In Pali it is called—Sati. And later, in the medieval bhakti streams, the same came to be called—Surati.
Smriti does not mean memory. Smriti means—awareness, wakefulness. To do something while awake. To be wakeful, to be watchful. To act with remembrance. You walk on the road—you can walk in such a way that there is not the slightest awareness of walking—that is how one ordinarily walks. Walking is mechanical. The body has learned to walk. You go to the office, you return home, the body remembers the way. Where to turn left—you turn left; where to turn right—you turn right; your house arrives—you knock on the door. For all this there is no need to keep Smriti. All this happens mechanically. It does not appear that there is any need to do it consciously.
Ninety-nine percent of our whole life is filled with this very unconsciousness. This very unconsciousness is our bondage. Precisely because of this unconsciousness, a very large portion of our consciousness remains drowned in darkness. Like a rock sunk in water with only a tiny fragment showing above, while the great slab is hidden below. So our great mind is hidden in the dark, and only a small fragment has surfaced. The part we call our mind is a very small portion. And the part we do not even recognize—yet it is our own mind—is a very large portion. Freud calls that the unconscious mind.
Buddha says: until that unconscious mind is made conscious, until gradually every limb of that unconscious is suffused with light, you cannot be free. When the lamp of awareness is fully lit within you—illuming all your nooks and corners—so that not even a single fragment remains pressed under darkness, you will arise utterly illumined. Buddha has called this state Samadhi. Samadhi is not the name of torpor. Samadhi is not the name of falling unconscious. Any Samadhi that leads into unconsciousness, Buddha has called jad-samadhi—dull trance. He has called it stupidity. If you fall into a swoon in the name of Samadhi, Buddha does not call that Samadhi.
Therefore Buddha’s vision appeals greatly to modern psychology. Modern psychology too would call that dull trance hysteria. It is unconsciousness. The little awareness you had—you lost even that. Even that will give a certain peace, because for that span you were unconscious—there was no anxiety for that while; everything vanished for that while. An hour later when you come to, you will feel there was great peace—but of the same kind as in deep sleep. Yet deep sleep is not Samadhi.
Between Samadhi and deep sleep there is a slight similarity. The similarity is that in deep sleep everything becomes quiet, and in Samadhi also everything becomes quiet. But in deep sleep the quietude is due to the extinction of awareness, while in Samadhi the quietude is due to awareness being fully awake.
Understand it this way: in human life, tension and restlessness will remain so long as a portion of man is conscious and a portion unconscious. Then one runs in two opposite directions—conscious and unconscious. The unconscious pulls to its side, the conscious pulls to its side. In this tug-of-war anxiety is born; anguish is born. Follow the conscious—the unconscious gets offended; follow the unconscious—the conscious gets offended. Obey the unconscious—the conscious takes revenge; obey the conscious—the unconscious takes revenge.
Imagine a beautiful woman is walking by and your mind is lured, you become lustful—this is arising from the unconscious. This is the animal part of you. This is the news of that world where there were no ethics, no rules. It is the kind of consciousness animals have—whatever seemed pleasant, however it seemed pleasant—there was no responsibility. The unconscious says: possess this woman. The conscious says: no. There is morality, there is decorum, there is discipline; you are married, you have children.
If you obey the conscious, the unconscious retaliates. The unconscious becomes hurt, writhes, is perturbed. You become melancholy. Hence husbands look melancholy, wives look melancholy. The unconscious takes revenge. Somehow you press it down, sit upon its chest, saying: no, this is not right; this is not to be done, therefore we shall not do it; this is not duty, therefore we shall not do it. But within, the wave has risen, within the lust has awakened—you will sit pressing it down. You are sitting upon a snake. But the snake is alive within—and it will squirm. It will harass you in dreams. At night when you fall asleep—rarely does anyone dream of his own wife! It is the women of others who appear in dreams. Rarely does anyone dream of her own husband!
In India the definition of Sati was precisely this—that a woman to whom, even in dreams, no one other than her husband appears in remembrance—we call her Sati. It was a very unique definition. The point is of great value. The touchstone is in dreams. If during waking there are no such thoughts—that is no great matter. Because in waking we sit guarded. We walk by the conscious, we push the unconscious back, keep it in the dark. The real touchstone is when even in sleep nothing of the other arises.
How will you suppress in sleep? In sleep you are not there; you have gone to sleep, you are unconscious; the suppressor is absent, the fighter is absent. In sleep the unconscious will play openly. In the day you wanted to murder, you could not—at night in sleep you will murder. In the day you wanted to steal, you could not—there was morality, there was religion; there was hell and heaven; there were saints—you stopped—there was reputation. But at night in sleep there are no saints, no scriptures, no heaven, no hell—the unconscious is entirely free. And this unconscious will sometimes shove into the conscious also—if it finds the chance it will push.
Therefore, all over the world we have arranged that man should not get the opportunity to be immoral. Only then does he remain moral. Suppose this woman who attracted you meets you in a jungle—not on the Poona road—in a jungle where for miles there is no one; only the two of you are alone—then to restrain oneself will be difficult. In the settlement, in the midst of society—there was the question of reputation. There was the question of the police. Now there is no such question. Suppose not a jungle—you both are shipwrecked and reach an island—where there is no one; and none will ever come; neither will your wife come to know, nor will society come to know—now no one is going to come—then—you will obey the unconscious. Then you will not care for the conscious.
Hence law, police and state are concerned to ensure that opportunities be as few as possible. In the West, since women started working in offices and factories, the family began to disintegrate; because more opportunities arose for men and women to come close. In the East, the danger is less, because the woman has no opportunity. The woman is confined to the home; she has no chance to come into contact with anyone. The whole society is of men; women are confined.
But by snatching away the opportunity the unconscious does not change; only repression happens. And that which has been repressed sits inside, smouldering. Any day, at any moment, in some weakness, it will erupt.
Therefore people go mad. To go mad means only this—too much was suppressed in the unconscious, it took revenge against the conscious. One day it broke all the boundaries, all decorum; it escaped uprooting all rules; it took license. Madness is the retaliation of the unconscious.
If you obey the conscious, the unconscious retaliates. If you obey the unconscious, you fall into trouble—you may have to go to jail, be beaten, lose your reputation, your wife may be angry, your children may be ruined. Following the conscious brings great trouble; following the unconscious brings even greater trouble. Hence there is punishment. Punishment is devised so that you must choose between two pains. Then we choose the lesser pain. The lesser pain is to obey the conscious and deny the unconscious. This is the lesser pain.
Therefore all moral systems arrange for heavy punishments. You will rot in hell for thousands of years; you will be roasted over live coals; you will be thrown into cauldrons of burning oil; and for how long you will have to suffer pain—for a small thing, that you looked at another woman with lust, that the desire to steal another’s wealth arose. The courts are there, the laws are there—they are all ready that if you obey the unconscious, they will punish you. They are all in the service of the conscious.
This is man’s condition. In this condition, in every way there is conflict. Whatever you do—you will suffer. In this condition happiness cannot be. Then there are only two ways to be happy. One way is—make the conscious also unconscious so that within you there is a sameness—this is what man does by drinking alcohol. Or LSD, or marijuana, or ganja, or bhang—this is what man does by intoxicants. The meaning of intoxication is only this—that conscious mind which you have—drown it in intoxication; then all becomes unconscious—a dark night spreads.
Therefore if someone commits a crime in intoxication, even the court gives him a lighter sentence. The court says—his conscious was not in its senses. If a drunkard abuses you, you are not as angry as you would be if the same man abuses you without drinking. If a drunkard pushes you, you say—he is drunk. If a non-drunk pushes—the same man—you are ready to fight. What difference do you make between the drunk and the non-drunk? If in court it is decided that the man had drunk and therefore committed murder, then he will get a much lighter punishment. If it is decided in court that the man is insane and therefore committed murder, then the punishment will be light—there will be no punishment. Because his conscious was not there—whom to punish? It was a total dark night, he had become entirely like an animal.
In intoxication the same thing is happening that happens in Samadhi—but in the opposite direction. In Samadhi we make the unconscious conscious and become of one taste. And in alcohol we make the conscious unconscious and become of one taste. In oneness there is happiness.
Tie this knot—there is happiness in oneness. When you become one, you are happy; so long as you are two, you are miserable. The inner conflict creates misery. There is friction. When within you become utterly one—harmonious, a single rhythm—no conflict within—advandva, beyond-duality—you are free of conflict, advaita—there alone is happiness.
Therefore all meditators have opposed alcohol. Understand why they opposed it.
All meditators have opposed alcohol—not because there is something inherently evil in alcohol—but because the alcoholic will never become a meditator; for he has chosen a substitute for meditation. In meditation also there is oneness; in alcohol also there is oneness. The one who starts getting oneness by drinking—has found a cheap oneness. Go, buy a bottle and drink—so cheaply available.
Meditation will come after years of effort; for meditation a great price must be paid; for meditation there will have to be great struggle—it will grow inch by inch, drop by drop. It is not obtained so cheap—it is a costly affair, a long pilgrimage; whether you will reach or not is uncertain; it is an uphill climb. Alcohol is downhill—like pushing a rock from the mountain; just one shove is enough. Then it will keep rolling down by itself, right up to the trench and gully; it will not stop until it reaches the ditch; after the shove there is no further effort. But if you have to roll the rock up the mountain—an upward journey—then pushing once will not do—you will have to keep pushing until the peak is reached. And if you make even a small mistake, the rock will tumble down. There is the possibility of falling for the meditator; there is no possibility of falling for the drunk. Do you see! Therefore you have heard a word—yogabhraṣṭa. Have you heard a word—bhogabhraṣṭa? There is no possibility of a sensualist becoming ‘corrupted’ by his sensuality. He is already in the pit—there is no lower to fall. Only a yogi falls; a bhogi never falls. The bhogi is already fallen, lying at the last place—what more last place can there be? Only the yogi falls. Only the yogi falls. To be a bhogi, being a yogabhraṣṭa is better. At least you had climbed—this much is known. You fell—no matter; you had walked, you had risen, you had made an effort; a crusade had arisen; a journey, a challenge had been accepted—fall a thousand times, but keep rising and walking.
Meditators have opposed alcohol because alcohol is the complement. It creates the illusion of meditation cheaply. You will find a meditator bathed in a wine-like ecstasy, and in a drunkard you will find a faint fragrance of meditation—rasa-mugdha—the only difference is: the drunk is unconscious; the meditator is conscious. The drunk has lost his Smriti; the meditator has awakened his Smriti fully. Man is in between; man is in conflict. Man is half unconscious, half conscious. The drunk is wholly unconscious; the meditator is wholly conscious.
Buddha says: if you have any method of ‘meditation’ by which you become unconscious, then that meditation is like alcohol—dull—beware of it! Do not fall into that deception! Practice such meditation by which your awareness awakens. The process of that awakening is—Smriti. Mindfulness. Become so alert that within you no opposition remains. One light, an unbroken light, spreads.
Today’s sutras are sutras of this unbroken light. Before the sutras—context. A little story—
The Blessed One was moving in Rajagriha. At that time this incident took place in Rajagriha. In that great city two little boys always played together. There was great friendship between them. They played many kinds of games. The wonder was—one always won and the other always lost. And the further wonder was—the one who always won was in every way weaker than the one who lost. The loser tried every device, yet he could never win. Whatever the game, his defeat was certain. He studied every way of the winner’s play—he needed to know why the other won every time—what was the secret? He practiced in solitude too—but the victory did not come. One thing he certainly observed—the winner was extraordinarily quiet. And there was no fever to win in him. There was no insistence—‘I must win.’ He played—without insistence. There was no hankering for the fruit. And he always seemed centered—as if he was settled in himself. And he always appeared deep—not shallow, not petty. As if within him a flame burned unwavering. Around him there was a gracious aura. Therefore, though being defeated again and again, the loser did not become his enemy—the friendship remained. Even when he won, the winner never swelled with ego. As if it were no special matter. The play was complete in itself—whether he won or lost did not matter to him. But—he always won.
The loser also saw that, before beginning each game, he would close his eyes and become absolutely silent for a moment—as if the whole world had stopped. His lips certainly muttered something—as if he was praying, or reciting a mantra, or remembering something.
Finally the loser asked his friend his secret: what do you do? He asked—before the game begins, into what realm do you slip? The winner said: I remember the Blessed One. I recite Namo Buddhassa. Therefore I win. I do not win—God wins.
From that day the loser too began to recite Namo Buddhassa. Although it was a mere practice at first, even then slowly he began to taste it. It was parrot-like repetition, yet the mind began to be affected. If not deep, then not deep—but on the surface the result became evident. He began to be a little quiet. A little unruliness lessened. A little shallowness diminished. The pain of defeat decreased, the longing to win decreased. The feeling slowly began to arise—that to play is sufficient. In this remembrance of the Blessed One he began unknowingly to take dips—slowly. He had begun for the result—to win in the game—but gradually he forgot the result and began to enjoy the remembrance itself. First he used to remember only at the beginning of the game; then, whenever he found solitude, he would sit and recite—Namo Buddhassa, Namo Buddhassa, Namo Buddhassa. Then the game became secondary and the recitation became primary. Then, whenever time remained after recitation, only then he played. Even at night if he awoke, lying in bed he would recite Namo Buddhassa. He did not know much of what the secret was, but the taste began to come. A sugar crystal began to melt in his mouth.
He was a small child—perhaps therefore it happened with such simplicity. The older we become, the more distorted we become. He was simple—life had not yet gathered trash—his slate was still clean.
Blessed are those children who turn toward meditation in childhood! Because the longer it is delayed, the harder it becomes. The more it is delayed, the more obstacles arise. Later, one must remove many hindrances before meditation settles. But in childhood—it can settle just like that. By a hint. Because a child is, in a certain sense, already meditative. The world has not yet been created. No great ambition has arisen. There was only a small ambition—to win in play—no great ambition—to be President, to be Prime Minister, to be wealthy—no infatuation for position-prestige. He must have played gilli-danda—‘let me win’—that small ambition, with a little remembrance, would have broken. The mind had cast a small net—a little Smriti cut it.
An open sky began to appear to him. Slowly his dreams were lost, and by day too a silent stream began to flow within him as he sat or rose.
One day his father took the cart with him to the forest and, loading it with wood, started homeward. On the way, near the cremation-ground, he unyoked the oxen to rest a while—it was midday and they were tired. But their oxen went off with others into Rajagriha—while they slept, the oxen entered the city. The father left the son there by the cart, told him to keep watch, and went into the city to search for the oxen. He found the oxen—but only when the sun had set, and the city gates had been closed. He could not come out of the city. The son remained outside the city; the father was shut inside. Dark night—the father was greatly distressed. A small son lying by a cremation-ground—what would he go through! The father wept and cried much, but there was no way—the gates were closed—closed they remained.
And who would listen to a woodcutter! And what value is the woodcutter’s son! He must have butted heads with the gatekeepers, shouted, wept—they said: ‘Now nothing can be done—the matter is finished.’
Dark night—night of new moon—and that small boy alone in the cremation-ground. But the boy felt no fear. Far from fear—he felt great delight. He had never had such solitude. He was a poor man’s son—there must have been a small home, all living in one room—and there would be children, the mother, the father, the father’s brothers, the wives of the father’s brothers, an old grandmother, a grandfather—who knows what crowding—he had never had such solitude. That new-moon night, the sky filled with stars, that silence of the cremation-ground—where there is not a single person for far distances—the city gates shut, the whole city asleep—this was a unique occasion; he had never known such silence and stillness. He sat and recited Namo Buddhassa.
Namo Buddhassa, Namo Buddhassa, Namo Buddhassa—he did not know when midnight passed. The string joined, the music settled, the veena began to sing—the first glimpse of meditation arrived.
Peace he had received, taste also had begun—but till now it had been drop by drop. Today he plunged. Today he drowned—there was a flood.
Saying Namo Buddhassa, Namo Buddhassa, Namo Buddhassa, he slid under the cart and fell asleep.
This was not ordinary sleep; it was sleep and yet there was wakefulness—this was Samadhi. What he knew that night—for that the whole world longs. What that woodcutter’s son recognized that night—without recognizing that, no one has ever been contented, no one has ever been happy. Bliss showered. His mind became intoxicated with joy. The body slept and within someone remained awake—everything was light, only light—like a thousand suns rising at once. As if life were illumined from all sides. There was no darkness in any corner.
He entered another realm altogether—he was no longer a dweller of this world. An event that could have been a curse for someone else—became a benediction for him.
The silence of the cremation-ground could have become death for a small child—but for that child it became the experience of nectar. Everything depends on us. The same opportunity can lead into death, the same into immortality. The same opportunity can become grace, the same a curse. Everything depends on us. There is nothing in the ‘opportunity’ itself—everything depends on how we bring the flow of awareness to the opportunity.
There was a cremation-ground—but it did not even occur to him. He did not think for a moment—‘This is a cremation-ground.’ He thought: ‘What an occasion—blessed my fortune. Father has not come, oxen have not returned, the stillness is unique, the gates are shut—let me live this moment fully with God.’ Saying Namo Buddhassa, saying and saying, he must have become one with Buddha. Whom we remember—with whom we become one.
That sleep was extraordinary.
For this sleep there is a special word in Yoga—Yogatandra. A man is asleep and yet not asleep. Therefore Krishna has said: when all sleep, then the yogi is awake. It means just this. ‘Yā niśā sarvabhūtānām, tasyām jāgarti sanyamī’—when all have slept, what is night for all—that too is wakefulness for the restrained one.
That night the small child became established in Yoga, he became yogārūḍha. And it happened unawares; it happened unplanned. Not even by desiring did it happen—there was no such scheme. Often it is so—that those who set plans do not reach, because desire enters into planning. Often it happens uncontrived.
Here I see this every day. Those who come here to meditate with great planning and ambition—it does not happen to them. Those who come just so—by coincidence—thinking, ‘Let’s do it, let’s see, perhaps something may happen’—it happens to them.
And the first time it happens to someone, it happens easily. The second time it is difficult. Because the second time desire enters. The first time there was no experience—how to be greedy! Even if one had heard the word ‘meditation’, its meaning did not come into one’s grasp—what is it, how is it? When the first time meditation descends and a ray dazzles you—such nectar is received that then all desire begins to run in that very direction.
The desire that sought big houses, big cars, a beautiful woman, a powerful husband, wealth and status—that desire gathers from all sides and runs toward meditation. For what was not found by wealth is found by meditation. What was not found by status is found by meditation. What was not found by any intercourse is found by meditation. Then the streams of desire all collect into a single current and rush toward meditation. But meditation does not happen through desire. Meditation happens in a state of desirelessness. When you will want—you will miss.
So you will be surprised—this small child did not even want—how did this event happen! This is meaningful. It happens thus—it happens unasked. In this world, whatever is supreme, it is not obtained by asking. By asking, we become beggars. It is received unasked. ‘Unasked, pearls are received; asked, not even lime.’ He had not asked. An occasion had come—dark night, the stars twinkling in the sky, the stillness, the silent sound, the cremation-ground—he simply sat! No special reason, no goal in front—he had not read scriptures, had not listened to scriptures, had not heard the words of saints—there was no cause for greed, he was not eager to attain any moksha, to see God, he did not want any nirvana. But there was this opportunity of stillness—and slowly he had nothing left except Namo Buddhassa—what else to do! Father had not come, oxen had not returned, no way to go home, the gates were shut—what else to do! For many days, whenever he found the chance, whenever he found solitude, he would recite Namo Buddhassa—so he began to say Namo Buddhassa. He began to sway.
Like a snake sways upon hearing the been—if someone recites a mantra without any craving—your inner awareness begins to sway. A unique orchestration of dance happens. Even if the body does not move, within a dance arises.
Swaying, swaying, he lay down and slept under the cart. He slept and yet he was awake. The most significant experience in this world is precisely this—to sleep and yet to be awake. Right now the condition is the reverse—to wake and yet to sleep. You seem awake—and yet there is a very deep sleep; the eyes are open, and within there is sleep. The opposite event also happens. Right now you are doing a headstand, standing on your head—awake and asleep. The day you stand on your feet—that is the meaning of Buddhahood—standing on your feet. Man is standing upside down. The one who stands straight—that one is a Buddha. He sleeps too—and yet he is awake.
A night that could have been a curse—became a blessing. And that mantra which had come merely by coincidence—on that night it became natural.
It was a matter of coincidence that the other boy used to win, and this boy too wanted to win—who does not want to win! Even old people are not free from the feeling of winning—then from children what can we expect! Old people cannot be forgiven—for their whole life has passed and they have still not learned even this much—that there is no substance in winning; no one loses in losing, no one wins in winning—here loss and gain are equal; because death erases all alike. The loser falls into the dust, the winner falls into the dust.
He was a small child; we can forgive him—he wanted to win. He had tried all devices, he had examined in every way—what is the art of the winner! Why does he win again and again! Why do I lose again and again? He was stronger than the winner—therefore it was surprising—where is the source of his strength! Because in the body I am stronger—by the mathematics, I should win. But life is strange—here nothing happens by the calculation of mathematics. Here life does not proceed by arithmetic. Here sometimes the weak win and the strong lose.
You see—a stream of water falls from the mountain onto a rock. When the stream first falls on the rock, the rock must think—‘Hey crazy one, trying to break me!’ And the water is so soft, so feminine, and the rock so masculine, so hard—yet one day the rock breaks. It becomes sand and is carried away! The sand on the shores of the seas, the sand on the river banks—those were once great rocks in the mountains. All sand is made of rock. And rocks break by the subtle stream of water, the soft stream. The soft stream ultimately wins. But there must be some secret in the stream—some secret of winning. Not everything in this world moves by gross mathematics. There is a subtle mathematics too.
So the boy must have tried all outward means. How he plays—he practiced in solitude—but even so he lost again and again. He did not want to ask him, for what to ask the secret of his victory! He would silently observe. When no means remained, he asked. One thing remained un-understood—that before beginning each game the boy would close his eyes, his lips would mutter something, then an extraordinary peace would appear on his face, a glow would shine. Only this one secret remained. Everything else had been done—it did not work.
Finally he asked: brother, tell me. What do you do? What remembrance? What mantra? It was a coincidence that the boy recited Namo Buddhassa. That was his strength. You have heard the saying—‘The strength of the weak is Ram.’ The weak one becomes strong if Ram is with him. And the strong one becomes weak if Ram is not with him. Here all strength is the strength of the Divine. Here the one who relies on his own strength will be defeated. The one who leaves it to the Divine—he wins. As long as you rely on your own strength—you will weep, be troubled, be broken—as long as you are a rock, you will suffer becoming sand—fragment by fragment you will be in pain.
The day you take support of the strength of Ram, the day you say, ‘I am not—I am only Thine’—this is exactly the meaning of remembrance, of God-remembering, of name-remembrance. That boy said, ‘I do not win—God wins. I remember Him, then I play—then it is up to Him.’ I become an instrument. As Krishna said to Arjuna in the Gita—‘Be merely a nimitta, an instrument. Let the Divine do what He wants to do; do not become an obstacle in between.’ As Kabir said—‘I am a bamboo flute. The songs are not mine—the songs are the Divine’s. When it is His will, I sing—I am just a bamboo flute. Only a passage for His coming. The songs do not carry my stamp, they are not my possession—the songs are His, I am only the doorway—merely an instrument.’
So that boy said—‘I do not win! There is no secret in it. I remember the Divine, then I engage in play—then He knows.’
But there is great strength in this. Because the moment your ego melts—you become powerful, you become vast. The moment the ego melts, you become the water-stream; as long as the ego remains, you are the rock. And there is only one way to melt the ego—that somehow you place your hand into the hand of God. By what pretext you do it—it does not matter. Let your hand be in the hand of the Divine. Become merely a nimitta.
It was only a coincidence that the boy said, ‘I remember God, I remember Buddha—Namo Buddhassa.’ The youth, eager to win, started copying this.
Bear in mind—sometimes even from wrong reasons people reach the right place. Sometimes coincidence too leads to truth. Sometimes what you begin may not be very deep—but by beginning, the first step of the journey is taken.
People come to me and say—‘We want to take sannyas, but what will dyeing clothes do?’ I say, ‘Leave the worry—dye the clothes at least, dye something.’ They say, ‘Kabir says—“If the mind is not dyed, what use dyeing the robe!”’ I say, ‘He is right—the mind will also be dyed. Have the courage to dye the clothes! The one who is afraid even of dyeing his clothes—how will his mind be dyed? Kabir is right. But remember—Kabir said it to yogis. Kabir said it to those who had already dyed their robes and whose minds were still not dyed. He said—“O yogi, you did not dye your mind, you dyed only your garment! What will that do? Now dye the mind.” You have not even dyed your clothes yet; you are not yet a yogi—Kabir’s saying is not for you. To those who have dyed their clothes, I too say—“If the mind is not dyed—what use dyeing the robe!” But I will not say that to you. To you I say—first become a yogi, at least dye the robe. Once the robe is dyed—at least have that much courage! And you say—what will the outer robe do!’
There is a link between outer and inner. Coincidence and truth are also linked. What is outside is not entirely outside—it too is only the extension of the inner. You do eat food, don’t you! You take it from outside—and it reaches within. You do not say—‘Why take external food? What will the outer water do? The thirst is inside—what will outer water do?’ You don’t say such things. Do you? The inner thirst is quenched by the outer water, the inner hunger by the outer food. For inner love you seek a lover outside—and you never say—‘The thirst for love is inside—what will an outer lover do?’
There is not much difference between outer and inner. The fruit hanging on the tree is very far and outside—when you chew and digest it, it becomes inner. It becomes your blood, your flesh and marrow. Today what is your flesh and marrow—tomorrow you will die, your grave will be made, your flesh and marrow will mix into the soil, and from that soil again a tree will grow, and fruit will appear on the tree—your flesh and marrow will again become fruit. The outside and the inside are not separate—they are united, linked.
Therefore do not create devices to deceive the mind—‘What will the outside do!’ And this is only a device. The inner—who knows whether you will dye it or not; the outer can be seen. You are frightened of the outer—people will say seeing ochre robes, ‘Ah, you have gone mad!’ There is such fear of people, such concern for opinion! You do not say simply, ‘I fear people—I am a coward.’ You look for Kabir as an excuse—Kabir said, what use dyeing the outer robe! I also say—what use—but I said that to those who had dyed. To you I will say—first dye the robe—at least become a yogi. And for doing this even you need to be told—such is your cowardice.
It was an outer incident—began purely by coincidence. The child had no search for meditation, nor any quest for God. In play he learned it. In play he staked a move. He began chanting Namo Buddhassa. It was repetition—parrot-like—nothing of great value. But repeating, repeating—one thing began to happen: even by repeating, on the surface, a certain peace would arise. The agitation diminished. Thoughts became a little thin. Even the longing to win became thin. He still played—but another kind of joy began. He began to play for the sake of play. Earlier he played to win.
The one who plays to win—his defeat is certain. Because he is taut; he is troubled. His mind is not in the play; his eyes are fixed ahead—in the future—on the result—‘Let me win quickly.’ The one who is immersed only in the playing—he has no worry for the fruit. He is wholly involved in the play. From his total involvement—victory comes. And by longing for victory one cannot be totally involved—so defeat happens.
You see—ordinarily, people talk so well, gossip so easily. Put someone on a stage—and immediately he is tongue-tied, his hands and feet tremble. What happens upon the stage? What obstacle arises? They were fine—always talking; in fact, it was difficult to make them quiet—they bored people with their chatter—why suddenly did their speech stop?
For the first time—seeing people sitting in front—a thought gripped them: ‘Today I must speak in a way that impresses people.’ That’s all—the obstacle has arisen. Today the process of speaking is not whole, the attention is in the goal. ‘People should be impressed!’ These eyes watching must accept, ‘Yes—there is someone who can speak! A speaker!’—just this created the hindrance.
Standing on the stage, the actor begins to tremble, hands and feet wobble, sweat streams. Why? For the first time he is not in the act—his desire has raced beyond the act. A great actor is one to whom it never occurs what effect will arise on people. And a great orator is one to whom it does not even occur what people will think of him. A great player is one who is so utterly immersed in play—samagrabhāvena. From this comes victory.
Slowly, this boy too began to be free of worry. He began to taste the play. Another kind of joy arose. Another kind of contentment began to be found. The fulfillment became intrinsic to the play. Ras arose in the very kṛidā. Play ceased to be work. For the first time play became play.
Hence in this land we say—God did not ‘make’ the creation—we do not say so—we say He played the play of creation—Leela. What is the difference between work and play?
In the West there is Christianity, Judaism, Islam—they all say—God ‘made’ the world. As work. He made it in six days—then He got tired. No one ever gets tired from play—remember—therefore Hindus have no provision of a holiday for God. He was tired in six days; on the seventh He rested. Hence Christians celebrate Sunday. If God took a day off—what of man! God got tired ‘making’, so He rested. He must have gotten up late, read the newspaper late, called for tea in bed, scolded his wife, listened to the radio lying in bed, or watched TV—whatever he did—slept till noon. Tired—work tires.
In this land our view is—this world is God’s Leela; He has not tired—He has not taken a holiday till now. The idea of holiday is not in Indian Puranas—that God takes a holiday. Holiday means—He gets tired. From play, no one ever gets tired.
The truth is—when you get tired from work—you remove your tiredness in play. You return from the office and play cards, or badminton. Tired for six days, on the seventh you go play golf. You remove tiredness by play. One does not get tired by play—by play one is rejuvenated.
Our vision is that life should not be work, it should be play. This is the difference. Work has a goal, play has no goal. In play there is no hankering for the fruit; work has hankering for fruit.
You sit in the office and work—you get tired; the same work you do at home on Sunday—you are not tired. Your work—then it is play. You open the car and begin to clean—you are not tired; you keep doing it the whole day. In the office even moving a file from here to there—you get tired. Where work arises—there is tiredness. Because work implies goal.
For the first time the boy’s play became play. Now another joy began—there was no worry for victory.
By coincidence this event happened. Saying Namo Buddhassa had begun just playfully. But that night coincidence became natural. That night the mantra descended into his life-breath. That day the mantra did not remain on the surface; that day he did not have to utter the mantra; that day utterance began to rise from within. This is what we have called Pranava—when the mantra begins to arise by itself.
That stillness, that night—just imagine that night. If it were you—something else would arise—fear would seize you. Fear rises from your navel, and all your life-energy begins to tremble. If the night were cold, even then sweat would appear. Ghosts and spirits would be seen. The cremation-ground is no ordinary place! Dark night, a small child! But having received this coincidence, this auspicious opportunity—the mantra that had till now somehow run on the surface—today for the first time it took a dip. A unique profit of the occasion happened. A humming began to rise from his heart. Now it is not right to say—he recited Namo Buddhassa—now it is right to say—Namo Buddhassa happened. Amidst that unparalleled occasion this incident occurred. Meditation became natural.
In the night some spirits came there to the cremation-ground. A cremation-ground! They were delighted. They wanted to eat that boy. Having found this prey unawares, they became exceedingly happy and began to dance around him.
And the boy was in that state—‘Yā niśā sarvabhūtānām, tasyām jāgarti sanyamī’. He was asleep and yet awake.
Seeing the ghosts dance, he sat up. The ghosts were dancing—he became absorbed in his inner dance too and began again to say Namo Buddhassa, Namo Buddhassa.
As soon as the boy’s eyes opened, he saw the ghosts dancing—and he became absorbed in his inner dance. That day the ghosts could not frighten him. The day meditation happens, even death cannot frighten—ghosts are symbols of death. The day meditation happens—then nothing can frighten. For the meditator there is no fear. He must have felt great joy. He must have thought—‘So they too have become meditative—or what is the matter? Are they also chanting Namo Buddhassa—or what is the matter?’ They would not even have appeared to him as ghosts.
And when he began to utter Namo Buddhassa, the ghosts grew afraid.
Where nectar is present—death is frightened. Where meditation is present—Yama’s messengers are frightened. They became very afraid.
Looking attentively they saw—this was no ordinary child—around him there was a halo of light, an aura. They devoted themselves to his service. They ran to the royal palace and brought the emperor’s golden plate and royal food. They fed that small child and worshiped him well. Then they massaged his feet. The whole night they protected him, they stood guard.
These are symbols. The one who attains meditation—even death stands guard over him. The one who attains meditation—even death serves him. Keep this in mind—do not run on the literal. That such ghosts came—do not take it so; do not take such an interpretation. These are symbolic tales. They simply say—this is how it happens. When nectar becomes available within, then death becomes engaged in service. Death is fatal only so long as you are identified with the mortal. So long as you think, ‘I am the body’—death is fatal. The day you know—‘I am not the body, I am not the mind’—that day death is no longer deadly.
They kept guard the whole night, and in the morning, when the sun began to rise, they quickly hid the golden plate among the cart’s wood and fled. At dawn, in the city it spread—that the emperor’s golden plate had been stolen from the palace. The soldiers, searching here and there, not finding it, finally began to search outside the city as well. In that cart the golden plate was found. Taking that boy—thinking, ‘He is the thief’—they presented him before the emperor. And the boy kept reciting Namo Buddhassa all along the way. His ecstasy was a sight to see. A crowd began to follow him in the city. No one had seen such a countenance.
He was a boy of that very village! But now he had become part of another world. His father too walked in the crowd—he too was greatly astonished—‘What has happened to this boy! He does not seem ours. He seems very distant, he seems something else. We have never seen him like this!’ The soldiers had put handcuffs on him—but what handcuffs now! The soldiers were taking him to the palace—but he had not the slightest suspicion—what suspicion now! What fear now! He was absorbed. The soldiers were a little restless and troubled. The crowd swelled. And when he was brought before the emperor, even the emperor was stunned by what he saw—before him… The emperor was Bimbisara—a very famous emperor of that time. He used to go to the Buddha as well. He had heard from the Buddha about meditation. What he had seen in the Buddha, what he had seen in some of the Buddha’s special disciples—the same glimpse—and a very fresh glimpse, as if a spring had just burst, as if a flower had just opened—in this boy.
He asked the boy—‘What has happened? Did you steal this plate?’ The boy told the whole story—what happened. ‘I fell asleep saying Namo Buddhassa—I slept and I was awake. Believe it or not—so it happened. If someone had told me earlier, I too would not have believed that sleeping and waking can be together. But it happened. Some things are such—they can be believed only when they happen. If they do not happen—there is no way to believe.’ He said, ‘You trust me—it happened. Some people came around me and danced. I opened my eyes—seeing them dance, I too was intoxicated. I thought—perhaps they too are chanting Namo Buddhassa—so I began again to recite Namo Buddhassa. Then I do not know what happened to them—they began to massage my feet, brought food, brought a plate, fed me, put me to sleep.
‘They stood by me the whole night and guarded me; in the morning they hid this plate among the wood and ran away. Then your soldiers came—after that, you know the story.’
The emperor took him to the Blessed One. The Blessed One was staying at Rajagriha. The emperor asked the Blessed One—‘Bhante, can Buddhānusmriti be such a protector? By the mere recitation of Namo Buddhassa can what has happened to this small child happen to anyone? And this too—playfully! I have seen people doing tapascharya their whole life, and it does not happen. How can I trust that this small boy has attained it? What do you say? Is this boy’s story true?’
The Blessed One said—‘Yes, Maharaj—Buddhānusmriti is the remembrance of one’s own supreme form. When you say Namo Buddhassa—you are remembering your own ultimate state—your own Bhagavat-svarupa.
‘Buddha does not mean a person. Buddha has nothing to do with Gautam Buddha. Buddhahood is the final state of your own awakening—the luminous state of your own being—the conscious form of your own essence. When you remember—Namo Buddhassa—you are calling your own conscious form. You are calling out within yourself to your own Atman—“Reveal yourself, O you who are hidden within me.” Namo Buddhassa is not a surrender to some Buddha outside—it is a search for the Buddha hidden in your innermost core. And if someone is of a simple heart—it happens quickly.
‘Therefore it happened quickly—this is a small child, a simple heart. Ascetics are not simple hearts. They are very difficult, very hard. And filled with desire, filled with greed. They have set out to meditate, but even in meditation there is a goal behind. He did it without a goal—therefore it happened. He has attained sahaja Samadhi.
‘Namo Buddhassa, or Buddhānusmriti, is the remembrance of one’s own supreme form. It is the call of one’s own depth through the surface. It is the remembrance of the center through the periphery. It is the endeavor to awaken the inner by means of the outer. Other than that—there is no refuge. Other than that—there is no path. That alone becomes protection from death and the attainment of immortality.’ And then he uttered these gathas—
सुप्पबुद्धं पबुज्झंति सदा गोतमसावका।
येसं दिवा च रत्तो च निच्चं बुद्धगता सति।।
सुप्पबुद्धं पबुज्झंति सदा गोतमसावका।
येसं दिवा च रत्तो च निच्चं धम्मगता सति।।
सुप्पबुद्धं पबुज्झंति सदा गोतमसावका।
येसं दिवा च रत्तो च निच्चं संघगता सति।।
‘Those whose Smriti, day and night, remains absorbed in Buddha—Gautama’s disciples sleep and wake always with supreme awakening.’
‘Those whose Smriti, day and night, remains absorbed in Buddha…’
Those who remember Bhagavatta, Buddhahood—their life consecrated to one direction; whose life has a single anushthan—how to awaken; who turn every situation and every means into a means to awaken; who bring every occasion into the work of awakening; who make even the stones of the path into steps—and hold one goal—that they must reach the temple of God—and that temple is within them; they must climb their own steps—make their own body a step, make their own mind a step—and, being wakeful, slowly, slowly awaken the sleeping Buddha within.
‘Those whose Smriti, day and night, remains absorbed in Buddha—Gautama’s disciples sleep and wake with supreme awakening.’
Not merely do they remain awake while waking—they remain awake even while sleeping.
‘Those whose Smriti, day and night, remains absorbed in Dhamma—Gautama’s disciples sleep and wake with supreme awakening.’
‘Those whose Smriti, day and night, remains absorbed in Sangha—Gautama’s disciples sleep and wake with supreme awakening.’
On three things Buddha always laid emphasis—Buddha, Dhamma and Sangha. Buddha means one in whom Dhamma has manifested in its perfect form. If only you can find such a person in whose life you feel Dhamma has become embodied—you are blessed! From whose life you feel—Dharma is not merely a doctrine—it is a living state. Buddha says—the remembrance of the person who has awakened is beneficial. Because until you are near an awakened one—no matter how much you think—you have no basis for awakening; you are baseless. Within you doubt will remain. Who knows whether such a state exists or not! Scriptures say so, but has it ever happened to anyone, or is it a fiction, a myth?
To go to a Buddha means only this—that seeing a man made of flesh-blood-bone, just like me—in a man just like me—something has happened that is beyond me. Exactly like me in flesh-blood-bone—no difference. If disease comes, he too will fall ill; he was born like me, he will die like me; pleasures and pains occur in him as in me—but yet something has happened within him that has not happened within me. If in a man just like me this lamp can be lit—why not within me? Then a thirst arises—an indomitable thirst. Then a call arises which shakes you. This is the meaning of satsang.
So, remembrance of the Buddha. If a living Buddha is found—that is the Sadguru. The awakened Buddha is the symbol—the embodied avatar—of Dhamma. But even the awakened Buddha we salute only because he is the symbol of Dhamma—for no other reason. When we bow to a lamp—we do not bow for the sake of the lamp, we bow for the flame burning in it. That flame is Dhamma’s. Although without the lamp the flame would not be. Even if it were—it would not be visible to us. Therefore we are grateful to the lamp for helping manifest the flame—but ultimately the bow is for the flame, not the lamp.
So the second salutation is to Dhamma. Dhamma means the ultimate law of life. By which the whole life moves. By whose support the moon and stars are bound. By whose support the seasons turn. By whose support life moves, rises, sits. By whose support we think, we contemplate, we meditate, we reach Samadhi. Whose entire expanse is this—that foundational law is Dhamma. It is eternal—Esa Dhammo Sanantano. It has been from always, it will always be.
The place that Paramatma has in Hindu thought—Buddha gives that place to Dhamma. If one’s Smriti remains continuously absorbed in that—then even in sleep and waking one remains filled with light.
And the third—Smriti be absorbed in Sangha. First—Buddha, in whom the whole Dhamma has manifested. In the middle—Dhamma—which is not yet manifested to us. Which we only infer—seeing the Buddha—but which we have not directly realized. Which has not yet happened within us. Which is not our personal realization. And then—Sangha. Sangha is the group of those who are engaged in the search for that Dhamma. These are three things. Those who are yearning after that Dhamma—that is Sangha. Keep remembrance of them too. Because alone—you may not be able to reach. If you join with those who have set out on the journey to reach—it will be easier to reach.
Gurdjieff used to say—if you are imprisoned in a jail, to escape alone will be difficult. The prison is big, the walls high, the guards strong; there is the jailer, the whole arrangement; to escape alone will be difficult. But if you unite with two hundred prisoners locked in the jail—and two hundred prisoners wish to escape together—the matter will change. Then the single guard at the gate perhaps will be able to do nothing. Perhaps even the jailer will be able to do nothing.
But even then it may be that the jailer calls the militia, the army—an obstacle may arise. So if you two hundred, who are locked inside, unite—and you make contact with someone outside the jail—the work becomes easier. Because that man can find out precisely—which wall is weak, on which wall there is less guard, from which wall the military is far, at what time the watch changes, when the guards sleep at night! You will not be able to find this out—because what happens outside the wall—only he who is outside can know. So if you establish a connection with someone outside the wall…
Further—if the one with whom you connect outside the wall is such a one who himself was once a prisoner in this jail—the benefit is even greater. Because he knows the inside too—where there are doors, where are the gates, where the windows are, how the bars can be cut, which guard can be bribed, which jailer is weak, which jailer gets drunk at night and becomes oblivious!
Buddha means such a person—who was imprisoned in this world—just like you—now he is outside—connect with him. Relation with Sangha—join with those who are still imprisoned inside with you. Unite with them.
People ask me—‘By giving sannyas, why are you creating a band of people in ochre?’
This is Sangha. Alone a person is weak—together he becomes strong. What one cannot do, ten will be able to do; what ten cannot do, a hundred will do; what a hundred cannot do, a thousand will do. As you become organized, your own weaknesses get allied with the strength of your companions—you become stronger. Then a great wave is generated upon which riding becomes easy.
So Buddha said—he who keeps remembrance of Buddha, who keeps remembrance of Sangha, and beyond both—who keeps remembrance of Dhamma. The remembrance of those who have attained; the remembrance of those who have set out; and the remembrance of that which is to be attained and has been attained—these are the three significant remembrances. Buddha called them the Triratna—the Three Refuges. These are the three jewels of Buddha-dharma—Buddham Sharanam Gachhami, Sangham Sharanam Gachhami, Dhammam Sharanam Gachhami.
सुप्पबुद्धं पबुज्झंति सदा गोतमसावका।
येसं दिवा च रत्तो च निच्चं कायगता सति।।
सुप्पबुद्धं पबुज्झंति सदा गोतमसावका।
येसं दिवा च रत्तो च अहिंसाय रतो मनो।।
सुप्पबुद्धं पबुज्झंति सदा गोतमसावका।
येसं दिवा च रत्तो च भावनाय रतो मनो।।
The first three are with respect to what is outside oneself—Buddha, Sangha, Dhamma. The next three are with respect to what is within oneself.
‘Those whose Smriti, day and night, remains absorbed in the remembrance of their body…’
Body-awareness. You rise, you sit, you walk—but you keep attention—what is happening with my body!
‘Those whose Smriti, day and night, remains alert toward the body—Gautama’s disciples sleep and wake with supreme awakening.’
Buddha emphasized this greatly. The body is our first layer. Within it are layers. The body is the first layer. The second layer is of thought. The third layer is of feeling. Three layers—body, mind, heart. Beyond these three dwells the real emperor within us. Beyond these three walls resides Divinity. These three ramparts must be crossed. To cross them—Smriti is needed.
First—kaya-smriti. When you rise—know that you have risen; when you sit—know that you have sat. When you eat—know that you are eating; when you bathe—know that you are bathing. Let not your body remain mechanical. Every process of your body should begin to happen consciously. It is difficult. You will forget again and again.
Try this—when you walk back on the road, try a little—to keep remembering for a while that the body is walking. For two seconds you will remember, then forget; the mind will go elsewhere, it will slip again; a little later you will remember—‘Oh! I began to think something else!’ Then catch and bring the attention back to the body.
After years of effort, kaya-smriti is mastered. And when kaya-smriti is mastered, many things in life end by themselves. For instance, anger will end. Lust will end. Greed will end. Because all these are the unconsciousness of the body. Lust rises from the body’s unconsciousness. When lust rises within you—the body’s unconsciousness dominates you. If, when you walk-sit-stand—even when you move your hand—you move it consciously, knowing—‘This is my hand moving…’
Try this—you will be amazed. This hand I raise—if I raise it consciously, knowing that ‘I am raising the hand’—if I raise it slowly and gently—then you will be amazed that even in the raising of the hand, a great peace is felt within. On this very basis, in China, Tai Chi developed—on the basis of Buddha’s kaya-smriti. Every body action—very, very slowly.
Buddha says to his bhikkhus—walk gently, walk slowly—so that you can cultivate Smriti. Raise each step slowly, knowingly—‘I have raised the left foot; I have raised the right foot.’
If someone enters kaya-smriti for a year or two, he is astonished. People ask—how to drop lust? Lust does not drop directly—because lust is a part of unawareness toward the body. When unawareness of the body breaks, lust drops. And anger drops then too. Aggressive tendencies drop then too—violence drops then too.
So first—Smriti toward the body. Second—
‘Those whose mind, day and night, remains absorbed in Ahimsa—Gautama’s disciples sleep and wake with supreme awakening.’
The second—thought. First—the body; second—the mind. The mind is violent. The mind always thinks of violence—whom shall I snatch from! Whom shall I grab from! Whom shall I teach a lesson! The mind is competition, ambition, the fever of superiority. The mind is aggressive. The mind keeps making plans of attack—how to make the house bigger, how to make the land bigger, how to make the safe bigger. Naturally—you will have to snatch—only then something will become big.
Buddha says—become aware of the violence of the mind. And establish yourself in the feeling of Ahimsa. Here there is nothing to earn, nothing to accumulate, nothing to increase. Here all increase and non-increase become equal. The wealth here is not wealth. The kingdom here is not a kingdom. Become non-aggressive. Violence is aggression; Ahimsa is turning back inward. Return inside, do not go outward. Abide within. Understand the violence of thought well. As the violence of thought becomes understood, and the feeling of non-violence floats within, you will find the second circumference too has broken.
Then the third circumference—
‘Those whose mind, day and night, remains absorbed in Bhavana—Gautama’s disciples sleep and wake with supreme awakening.’
Then the third state of feeling—Bhavana. Buddha has called them Brahmavihara—those feelings in which one lives near to Brahman. Like karuna, sensitivity, empathy, daya. Immerse yourself in those feelings by which you do not become separate from others—but become joined. Immerse yourself in those feelings by which, slowly, peace and bliss thicken within you. Abide in Brahman. Abide in the One—leave the sense of the many. No one is my enemy—all are my friends. Spread maitri-bhava—the feeling of friendship. The bliss I desire—may that come to all. And the suffering I do not desire—may that come to none. Immerse yourself in such feelings.
Slowly, by immersing in feeling, the third step too is crossed. Smriti of the body, Smriti of thought, Smriti of feeling—and then, within, you enter the palace. Entering that palace, you will find the Buddha enthroned. You will meet your Buddha. This Buddha has called—Appa Deepo Bhava! Become a light unto yourself. Then you will become your own lamp.
Because King Bimbisara brought this boy, the Buddha spoke these sutras.
In this story I have made a small change—let me seek forgiveness for it. I had to do it. The small change is—pandits and scholars will have difficulty—the change is this: In the story it is said—it begins thus—that in Rajagriha there were two boys—one was samyak-drishti, the other mithya-drishti. Both played together. Samyak-drishti, while playing, would recite Namo Buddhassa; and mithya-drishti would recite Namo Arihantanam.
The hint is clear. Whoever wrote the story in the scripture is saying—he who remembers the Buddha arrives; he who remembers Mahavira does not. The one who wrote it had a small, sectarian mind. So the one who recited Namo Buddhassa would win—he is called samyak-drishti. And the one who recited Namo Arihantanam—who remembered the Jinas, the Arihants—Mahavira, Nemi, Parshva—he is called mithya-drishti. He would lose.
This much I have changed. I have excised this much. Because I felt that would not fit with Buddha. Because Buddha and Arihant have the same meaning. Buddha means the one who has awakened; Arihant means the one who has conquered his enemies.
Moha is the enemy. Unconsciousness is the enemy. Kama-krodha-lobha-mada-matsara are enemies. How are enemies conquered? By awakening. One of the names of Buddha is Arihant. One of the names of Krishna is Arihant. And I call Christ an Arihant, and Mohammed an Arihant too. Arihant means only this—that one who has no enemies left. In whom all inner enemies have departed. In whom all enemies have melted and become friends. Whose anger has become compassion. Whose lust has become Brahmacharya. Who has transformed his enemies into friends. Who has transmuted poison. Who has passed through that alchemy in which poison becomes nectar.
So I have made this one change. I have separated that part. Because that part seemed sectarian to me. And Buddha can have nothing to do with sectarianism.
The story was not written by Buddha. It must have been written by some follower. The petty mind of followers has created great mischief. There are such stories in Jain scriptures where Buddha is abused. There are such stories in Buddhist scriptures where Jains are abused. These are petty things. Dharma is vast. And whenever I feel that in some scripture, some sutra needs to be changed—I do not hesitate at all. I have no allegiance to scripture. I am not a scripturalist. I grant myself complete freedom. Because my allegiance is to Buddha—not to scripture.
While reading this story, I felt that if Buddha himself read it, he would drop that portion—so I have dropped it. If I am accountable to anyone—it is to Buddha, and to no one else. If in Mahavira’s words I find some that do not seem to be his—that should not be—I drop them. If I feel that such an interpretation should not be made—I change the interpretation. Therefore pandits are angry with me. They say I tamper with the scriptures.
I have no allegiance to scripture. Scriptures are a plaything for me. My allegiance lies far beyond scripture. My allegiance is to experience. My allegiance is within me. What stands the test of my allegiance—what I feel I myself can say—only then will I have Buddha say it. If I too can say it—only then will I have Mahavira say it.
Hence Jains are not pleased with me. They say—I have had Mahavira say such things which he did not say. They do not know that between Mahavira and me there is a gap of twenty-five centuries! If Mahavira returns today—he will say exactly what I am saying. Would twenty-five centuries not make such a difference! Mahavira was not a dull mind. He was not a gramophone record to repeat the same old words.
Buddhists are angry with me. When I was staying in Nagpur, there is a great Buddhist bhikkhu, a great scholar—Anand Kausalyayan—he came to meet me. He said—‘You say some things that are not in the scriptures. In which scripture are they? You have added some things not written anywhere. My life has passed reading scriptures.’
I said to him—‘If they are not written—then they should be written; because someone wrote the scriptures. You add a little more. I am a new edition of Buddha. In editions there is a little difference, isn’t there!’ He became very angry. He said—‘How can anything be added to the scripture!’ I said—‘I will add, I will subtract. Because what seems petty to me—how can I have Buddha say it? That would be unjust. For that Buddha would never forgive me.’
The anger of pandits—I care not a bit—what is made or unmade by their anger! But there must be no injustice done to Buddha. Therefore I have made this one change. Otherwise the story is marvelous. Otherwise the story is very lovely, very indicative. Meditate upon it.
That is all for today.