Es Dhammo Sanantano #96

First scene—

The Blessed One was moving about in Vaishali. In his presence, they would say, dry trees turned green again. And the life-veenas that had fallen silent, in them music awoke. Springs that had ceased to flow, began to flow once more. Deserts turned into oases. But to see this, eyes are needed. Subtle eyes are needed, inner vision is needed. With the eyes of the skin this does not appear. And this music is not such that it can be heard by ears on the outside. This is the supreme festival, the supreme enjoyment; this is the state of Paramatma. Only Samadhi can hear this tone. Only Samadhi can see this celebration.

So those who could see were exultant. Those who could hear were becoming intoxicated. And for those who were exultant and intoxicated, heaven opened new doors each day. But not all are so fortunate. There were some for whom nothing could be seen, nothing could be heard. They had come empty and remained empty. They had arrived, and yet had not arrived. Among such unfortunate ones there was one—Vajjiputta, the monk.

It was the night of the full moon of Ashwin. Vaishali was drowned in revelry; waves of music and dance from the city reached Mahavana, the Blessed One’s place of dwelling. That monk could not hear the Blessed One’s music; he had not yet seen the light arising from the Blessed One’s innermost being. But the lamps lit in the capital were visible to him, and the revelry there, and the waves of sound reaching him, were audible. Hearing the drums and trumpets, the monk became deeply depressed. He felt, “I have wasted my life as a monk. Happiness is in the world. Look, how people are enjoying! The capital is celebrating; what am I doing here, this idiot? Taking sannyas, I have entangled myself in what confusion!”

At such a juncture the devil—Mara—never misses his chance. So Mara goaded him well, painted lush dream-gardens, raised alluring dreams—and the monk began to think, “Tomorrow morning, that’s it—enough now; tomorrow morning I will run away, leaving this renunciation. The world alone is true. Here I am futilely entangled, writhing. What am I doing here! What is there here!”

But before he could run away, the Blessed One called him. In the morning, as he was making preparations to flee, the Blessed One’s message came. He was startled. This was the first time the Blessed One had called him. He was also afraid; doubts arose in his mind. But he thought, “I have spoken to no one; apart from me, no one knows I am running away. Perhaps I have been called for some other reason.”

Then, when the Blessed One spoke the entire story of his mind, he could not believe it. Every single thing he had thought, every single dream he had seen, each stimulation Mara had given him, and his decision that he would run away today—the Blessed One told him all. That day his eyes opened. That day he knew whose presence he was in. For years he had been near the Buddha, but only that day did it become satsang. Only that day did he find the Master. From that day there was no more sadness. From that day the celebration began. From that day the notes of the Buddha’s veena became audible to him. From that day the world became false, and renunciation true.

It was to this Vajjiputta monk that the Blessed One spoke these verses—

Duppabbajjaṁ durabhiramaṁ durāvāsā gharā dukkhā.
Dukkho samānasamvāso dukkhanupatito addhagū.
Tasmā na ca addhagū siyā na ca dukkhānupatito siyā.

Saddho sīlena sampanno yasobhogasamappito.
Yaṁ yaṁ padesaṁ bhajati tattha tattha eva pūjito.

“It is difficult to delight in a wrong ordination. In a house unfit for dwelling, dwelling is suffering. To live with those unequal or antagonistic is suffering. Therefore, become not a traveler on the path of the world, and become not one who follows after suffering.”

“A man endowed with faith and virtue, and free of craving for fame and enjoyment—wherever he goes, there and there he is revered.”

Before we descend into the verses, understand this sweet story well. Let this scene be engraved upon your heart so that it does not fade; it will be of great use. Many are in such a state. Many here too are in such a state. Always, many are in such a state.

First thing: even while being near a person like Gautama the Buddha, there is no inevitability that you will be able to see him. Even if the sun has risen, there is no inevitability that you will see the light. You may be blind. Or, if not blind, you may have eyes, yet be standing with eyes closed. Then the light will not be seen by you. The light is, but to see the light your eyes must be open.

Even by the Buddhas people miss Buddhas. Even by the Jinas people miss the Jinas. Living by Krishna and Christ, people have not recognized them. And when they do not recognize, their spontaneous conclusion is: there can be no God, no Buddha, otherwise why would they not be visible to us who have eyes? Then they conclude that those who say they see must be mad. Since they themselves do not see, it becomes hard to accept that others see. If others see and I do not, the ego is hurt.

Therefore the blind attempt to invalidate those with eyes. And those with eyes are few, very few; the blind are many, a crowd of the blind. The eye’d ones are one here, one there—naturally, the majority sides with the blind.

If you would see Buddhas, do not listen to the majority, do not listen to the crowd, or you will never see. There is no democratic arrangement for seeing Buddhas—no vote is taken as to how many believe that this man is a Buddha or not. Sometimes it happens that a Buddha passes through and no one sees. If an entire town is blind, none will see. And the one who does see becomes so alone that he fears to say, “I have seen a Buddha, I have seen God, my bond with the Divine has been forged.”

The Blessed One was moving about in Vaishali. In his presence, say the scriptures, dry trees became green again.

These are symbols. Do not take them as facts. If man cannot see, how will trees see! Man is so blind—man, who has become so developed, whose consciousness is the most developed on this earth—even he does not see, how will trees see! Do not take it as a fact. But there is a message in the symbol: trees are simple. Not as developed as man, but not as complicated as man either. With development, complexity arrives. With development comes reasoning, comes doubt. With development comes lack of reverence. With development comes ego. Development is a double-edged sword. On one side your understanding grows; on the other, your capacity for non-understanding grows equally. The two grow together.

So a human being can be as wise as he can be foolish. Trees cannot be very wise; hence they cannot be very foolish either. Among trees you will find neither a genius tree nor a stupid tree; trees are all alike. Among humans you will see great genius and great blindness.

The symbol is: trees are simple, undeveloped, yet simple. Like small children. Trees are still neither Hindu nor Muslim. They still have no reliance on Quran or Veda. They have not read books, have not become pundits. Trees are not scholars; they are innocent, natural.

So the symbol is: the one who is simple understands the Buddhas. One as guileless as the trees will understand, and even one as learned as humans may miss. Simplicity is the way to see the Buddha. Simplicity makes it easy.

The scriptures say that springs which had ceased to flow began to flow again.

Buddhahood means one whose life-energy has come into its perfect flow, whose life-energy is no longer blocked, but flowing. And the one who flows gives rise to a sensitivity to flow in others. With a dancing man one also feels like dancing. With one who laughs, laughter bursts. With one who weeps, sadness comes. The Buddha is a flow. A river’s flow. Now his current no longer admits any obstruction, accepts no rock. No partialities remain in him, no dams. Now supreme freedom is his life’s condition. As a river flows with perfect freedom, so is the Buddha’s state of consciousness.

For this state the symbol is that springs that had dried up began to flow again in the Buddha’s presence. In them too the dream to flow awoke. They had forgotten flowing; even the memory had gone that we are made to flow. Seeing the Buddha’s flow, their sleeping souls awoke.

Do not take this as a fact. There are no facts in these tales. There is truth in them, not facts. They have nothing to do with fact. Their pointers are towards the essential principles of life.

Such is the condition of man. All streams within have ceased. Neither love flows, nor compassion flows, nor karuna flows, nor bodh flows, nor Samadhi flows—nothing flows. You have become a blocked pond, stagnating. Your life is not a flow. You are too bound. This bound state the Buddha called “householder.” And the one who began to flow—the Buddha called him “sannyasin.”

So the symbol is lovely: dry springs began to flow. Those whose life-stream had dried up, who had forgotten the lesson of flowing, who had forgotten the very language of flow, who had been imprisoned in small puddles—even in them a lion’s roar arose. Seeing the Buddha’s flow, they too remembered—long forgotten—remembered the manner of their own being. In the Buddha’s flow the dance they saw made them feel—“If only we too could flow like this! We too can flow like this. If one man can flow, why not we?” Their sleeping souls were challenged; they too began to flow.

And those whose life-veena lay untouched…

Those whose strings had never known a finger’s music—whose strings must have gathered dust, the veena never wiped, never invoked, never adorned, and the music sleeping within never awakened, never called forth—their veena’s strings began to tremble. Near the Buddha’s sounding veena, this was natural.

Deserts were turning into oases. In consciousnesses new flowers began to bloom. Consciousnesses grew green. A shower of meditation began, the greenery of Samadhi spread, rivers of love began to flow, the music of Paramatma began to arise.

But to see this, eyes are needed. Not all saw. Perhaps you too were present. At some time or other you must have been. So many Buddhas have happened on this Earth, and you have always been here; it is impossible that at no time did your path not cross the Buddhas’ path. Impossible that you did not walk even a little while on the same path with them. Such a coincidence must have come. Infinite has been the number of Buddhas through infinite time. You too are here since beginningless time, a citizen of this very city. It cannot be accepted that your path was never crossed by a Buddha. But you did not recognize. You must have gone on absorbed in your own tune—your shopkeeping, your market, your wealth, your children, your family—drowned in your worries. The Buddha must have passed close by; you did not raise your eyes. Inside you is so much noise, such a tumult, that the Buddha, plucking his ektara, would have passed by and you did not hear.

You are so absorbed in yourself that you do not see what is happening all around. On which trees flowers have blossomed, which birds have sung, which sun has risen, with which moon and stars is the sky filled tonight—you have no leisure. You are so busy with trifles that you miss the vast.

Remember, the trivial can make you miss the vast. A tiny straw in the eye and the Himalaya standing before you becomes invisible. A mere straw in the eye and the eye closes; the Himalaya disappears. The Himalaya is so vast, yet hides behind a tiny straw.

Such small, paltry things fill our eyes; because of them, men as vast as the Himalaya pass by us unrecognized. And if ever someone recognizes, we think—he is mad, mesmerized, deranged; not in his senses, he has lost his reason. We think—we are rational people, we can think, we will not be deceived so easily by anyone’s delusion.

To see this, eyes are needed. To see Buddhahood, eyes are needed—inner, subtle vision. There is a gross vision which sees the gross. With the gross, only the gross is seen. When you look at someone, you do not see the soul; you see the body. Eyes of skin can see the skin of the body. Ears of skin can hear the sounds rising from lips of skin.

But within this body someone is hidden. This lamp is not empty; within it a flame is burning. To see that flame, these eyes are not enough. And there is the word that is born from the lips, and there is a Word that resounds endlessly within—Omkar, the supreme Nada—that is not heard by the ears. Only the subtle can see the subtle; the mathematics is straightforward.

So if you go to see Buddhas with the same eyes with which you have seen everything all your life, these eyes will be of no use. These eyes must be set aside; new eyes must be sought. For you are not going to see the body in the Buddha. Bodies many have. You are not going merely to hear words; words resound everywhere. If you go to the Buddha to see word and body, you have not gone to the Buddha at all. You go to the Buddha to see the wordless. To grasp the formless. To catch a glimpse of the Nirakar. For that, a little capacity to grasp the formless must be born in you; the inner eye must open a little.

Without meditation, the Buddha cannot be recognized. By thought the Buddha cannot be known—only by meditation. By thought the world is known; by meditation, Paramatma. By meditation, God is recognized.

To see this, subtle vision is needed—inner vision. With eyes of skin this does not appear. And this music is not such that it can be heard by ears on the outside.

It plays on a most subtle plane. It plays day and night. At every moment it plays. But when you become as quiet within as the silence in which the Buddha’s music plays, then the tuning will happen. Become a little like the Buddha and tuning will happen. Dye a little in the Buddha’s color and tuning will happen. Without becoming in some measure like the Buddha, a relation with the Buddha does not arise. Even a little—just a drop—Buddhas may be the vast ocean; become a drop of that ocean, even that will do. A small drop can meet the ocean.

You have seen—let a tiny drop slip into the sea, instantly it meets. Not even a moment is required. But bring a big rock and cast it into the sea—big though it is, it does not meet. The drop is small, yet it meets; even a big rock does not. Take a big intellect to the Buddha—there will be no tuning. Take a small meditation, and the tuning will be. For meditation by its very nature is of the same quality as the Buddha. And thought has no relation to the Buddha. The Buddha is without-thought; a tiny drop of without-thought is required.

If you would recognize men of enlightenment, descend into meditation. Let the taste of meditation come upon your eyes; then all will be well. Then what was not visible till yesterday will suddenly be seen. As if lightning strikes; as if a lamp is lit in darkness. And you will be astonished: the thing was so near, and I was here all this while, and still I did not see!

This is the supreme festival, the supreme enjoyment; this is the state of Paramatma.

The Buddha’s state is not of this world. It is of something outside this world. If you too go a little outside, recognition will be.

So those who could see were exultant.

Naturally. Those who could see the Buddha were exultant; because in the Buddha’s presence one thing became established: we too can become this. If not today, then tomorrow; if not tomorrow, the day after. It may take a while, but self-trust has been seated. Those who had seen and recognized the Buddha—the Buddha was an ocean—but now even the drop could hope that it too could be the ocean. The Buddha was a great vast tree, but now the seed too could dream of becoming a tree. The Buddha’s tree had flowered, the Buddha stood adorned—but now the seed too could think: it will take time, effort will be needed, but it matters not. If not today, tomorrow I too will stand with my branches spread into the sky. I too will dance in the winds. I too will speak with moon and stars. My flowers too will open. Seeing the Buddha, those who became blissful—within them the first germination of Buddhahood began; the first sprout appeared; they became pregnant.

Those who do not rejoice on seeing a Buddha do not know—they are committing suicide. There are those who, on seeing a Buddha, become miserable, anxious, troubled, depressed; those who are filled with jealousy and envy. The one who, seeing a Buddha, is filled with jealousy and envy; who becomes sad and violent; who, on seeing a Buddha, sets about refuting him; who labors to prove that there are no Buddhas, that all this is deception—he does not know what he is doing. He is cutting his own roots with his own hands. By refuting the Buddha, you will not refute the Buddha, but the possibility of Buddhahood in your future will become faint.

What harm will your refutation do to the Buddha! Nothing of the Buddha will be gained or lost. But you will throw your own future into darkness. If Buddhahood does not exist, how will you ever become a Buddha? You will deny your own faith—the seed that could have been born you will not allow to sprout. This is your abortion. You have shattered your future. You remain hung to your past.

Those who, on seeing a Buddha, are exultant—their past ends, and the future begins. In their lives, the possibility of the new arrives. Possibility opens a door. Growth can now be.

So if you cannot be exultant seeing Buddhas, at least do not be miserable. Blessed are you if you can rejoice; if you can dance with them, drown in their song, you are blessed! If this cannot be, at least do not be sad. Do not be angry, do not become aggressive. For opposing Buddhas is suicide by your own hand, and nothing else. Whenever you have opposed any godliness, you have decided that you are not ready to be God. You have decided, “I will remain as I am; I have no aspiration to go beyond.”

With the one who is ahead of you—go forward. Do not deny; dance with him. In that very dance you will move.

So those who could see were exultant. Those who could hear were becoming intoxicated. And for those who were exultant and intoxicated, heaven was opening each day new doors and new mysteries.

This journey is such that it never ends. The more you advance, the more it advances. The more you open, the more possibilities of new mysteries arise. The mystery has no end. The spiritual journey has a beginning, but no end. It is a journey of the Infinite—so it is an infinite journey.

But not all are so fortunate, the tale says. Man is also unfortunate. Many there were who did not hear the Buddha; many who, having heard, did not accept; and many who heard, accepted, came to the Buddha and were initiated, took sannyas—and still could not come to the Buddha.

Perhaps they took initiation for a wrong reason. Perhaps they took sannyas for a wrong reason. Man’s error is so deep that he is in the world for the wrong reasons, and then some day even if he takes sannyas, he does so for the wrong reasons. Sannyas taken for wrong reasons does not work.

There was such a monk—Vajjiputta. He came empty and remained empty; for years he lived near the Buddha. He listened, and he even did what the Buddha said—but all on the surface. Somewhere, in the foundation itself, the mistake had happened; somewhere, in the root, the miss had occurred. He had come—and yet had not arrived. Others said, “He is Bhagwan,” so he accepted—but the realization that the Buddha is Bhagwan was not his own. It did not arise from within. Perhaps he had been initiated out of greed. Perhaps he thought that there might be happiness in sannyas.

Perhaps sannyas was a strategy. There was no realization; there was greed. Happiness in sannyas was not something he had seen. He had not seen that the Buddha, too, is blissful; he had only heard that the Buddha speaks of bliss. Hearing the Buddha speak of bliss, the desire for bliss must have arisen—“I too will attain bliss.” Perhaps the Buddha speaks rightly. He must have been miserable, as all are, and in that misery hearing the Buddha’s talk of bliss, greed would have been stirred, desire, ambition. And from that ambition he took initiation.

He who is initiated out of ambition—his initiation is diseased from the root. If sannyas arises out of understanding, only then is it right. Ambition is unawareness. Ambition itself is the world. You run in the world, thinking—if wealth is obtained, there will be happiness; if position is obtained, there will be happiness. Then, defeated and tired—neither position nor wealth brings happiness, only misery grows—then one day you hear a man of enlightenment say: “Leave all this, and there will be happiness,” and you think: “Let me try this too.” Life is going anyway; half of it has been wasted chasing position and wealth; a little remains—perhaps this man is right; let me give him a chance. But you have not seen bliss in this man.

Keep this distinction in mind. There have always been two kinds of sannyasins. One—out of greed. And the other—who saw the Buddha with full eyes, recognized, breathed his fragrance, heard his music, and within whom faith was born that yes, here is bliss; that in this man bliss is dancing. Those to whom this realization occurred—out of that realization they took sannyas. He who becomes a sannyasin out of realization—his direct relationship with the Buddha is forged. He who becomes a sannyasin out of ambition has no relation to the Buddha; he is still in his old world. He has changed his garments, altered the outer structure of life; left house and hearth, wife and children; taken a begging bowl—but all this is drama. And in a few days, the thought will arise within him: “So much time has passed—still I have not received happiness.” And by drama happiness is not obtained; it cannot be obtained.

In a few days he will be alarmed. He will fear: “Had I remained in the world, at least there was something. Perhaps if I had worked a little more, wealth would have come, happiness would have been. If I had reached high position, there would have been happiness. Leaving all this, I have fallen into a mess. I belong neither to home nor to the beyond. I have become like the washerman’s donkey.” He left the world, and here nothing is obtained.

A Jain muni once told me—he was seventy. A simple man—he must have been brave to tell me this. Not too brave, because when he spoke to me, he asked the others sitting there to leave—his own disciples. I said, “Let them stay; it will benefit them too.” He said, “No, please have them leave.” When they left, he told me, “I have to tell a sorrowful thing; I could not say it before them. The sorrow is this—fifty years have passed since I took the monastic vow when I was twenty, but I have not found happiness. To whom can I say this? To the lay followers I cannot; to them I keep saying there is great bliss; I tell them, ‘Why do you remain in sorrow? Leave the world!’ Though I preach this, inside I am afraid—what am I telling them? I too have not found happiness. I also worry—am I not leading them on a wrong path? For what I have not found, how will they find? I confess to you—I have not found happiness. I came seeking happiness; it was for this search I came.”

That day I told him the story of Vajjiputta. I said, “Listen. You took sannyas for the wrong reasons. You took sannyas out of greed. Your sannyas is but another form of the world. This is not sannyas at all. Not fifty years—even five hundred years, sit—it will do nothing. Bury a pebble in the earth and sit even five hundred years—no sprout will come. The seed must be buried. How long you have sat has little to do with it. Seasons will come and go—spring will arrive and pass, the rains will come and pass—but sprouting does not happen from a pebble. From greed bliss never flows.”

Now understand this.

Do not think there is sorrow in the world—there is sorrow in greed. It is because of greed that there is sorrow in the world. If, while living in the world, greed drops, there is no sorrow even there. Keep it clear—there is no sorrow in the world; there is sorrow in greed. There have been those who, living in the world, have attained supreme bliss.

In the great song of Ashtavakra you see: Janaka lived in the world; Ashtavakra too lived in the world, and attained supreme bliss. Krishna lived in the world and attained supreme bliss. Mohammed did not take sannyas—he lived in the world and attained supreme bliss. Nanak and Kabir, Dadu and Raidas attained supreme bliss. There is no sorrow in the world—sorrow is in greed. Which means—greed is the world. When greed goes, the world goes.

What happens is—you leave the world and keep the greed. You save the poison; you save the essential—the inner poison. You throw away the bottle. Throwing away the bottle does not help. The bottle was not poison. Poison you keep—greed. Taking sannyas out of greed—then not fifty years but fifty lifetimes, remain a renunciate—nothing will happen. Again and again you will return to the world.

Let there be realization that greed is sorrow. And the simplest way to such realization is: give yourself the opportunity of a man of enlightenment. Sit silently near such a man. Do satsang. See that in that man there is no greed and yet there is a rain of supreme bliss. Let this realization become clear in you. Once that ray descends, sannyas will arise. Then whether you live in the world or outside it, wherever you live, happiness will follow you like a shadow. The companionship with greed must be broken. The entire conspiracy is of greed.

So Vajjiputta came empty and remained empty. He had come, and yet he had not arrived. Outwardly present, walking behind the Buddha—but if the Buddha has not yet appeared to you, how will you walk behind him? You can walk behind one who is visible. Like a blind man groping in the dark. Before him a lamp stood lit—but if your eyes are closed, the lamp is unseen. From that lit lamp, your unlit lamp could have been lit. But to light the unlit lamp, you must come close—very close—so close that the flame of the lit lamp can leap and ride upon the wick of the unlit. This proximity is called satsang. For this proximity, for centuries people have lived near the enlightened ones—as near as possible, as intimate as possible.

Then came the night of Ashwin Purnima. On that night Vaishali celebrated a great festival. It was a day of revelry. People were intoxicated, people danced, courtesans came out adorned, the whole city was steeped in indulgence. That day even the poor wore good clothes. It was a night of enjoyment.

Vaishali was drowned in revelry. Waves of music and dance from the city reached Mahavana, the Blessed One’s abode.

Mahavana was outside Vaishali—outside the city, across the river. Waves of the city’s celebration. Lamps were lit in the city; it was Diwali there. Youths and maidens came out adorned; everywhere there was dance, everywhere merriment—as if that night there was no sorrow in the world.

Vajjiputta could not hear the Buddha’s waves of sound—but the waves from Vaishali he heard. The Buddha’s bliss did not appear to him—but these unhappy people in the city, who, drunk, were dancing—people unhappy their whole lives—unhappy all year, and then one day in the year somehow convincing themselves that there is joy—in them, he saw joy. Where there was not even a trace of joy. Nor was he unfamiliar with that world. He had come from that same world. He must have joined such celebrations, seen the dances at those doors. He too must have drunk, drowned in revelry—he forgot all that, that if happiness was there, why would he have come here? Now again the mind was being lured.

Hearing the drums and trumpets, the monk became deeply depressed. He felt, “As a monk I am wasting my life.”

Many times you too will feel this. While meditating you will think—what am I doing? So much time is being wasted. I could have listened to the radio; gone to a movie; a circus is in town; I could have played cards; I could have chatted with friends—what am I doing! Meditating! Praying! Even after taking sannyas, many times this thought will come—what am I doing! What substance is in this!

The mind wants again and again to return to the world. Why? Because the mind’s life is with greed. Without greed, the mind is like a fish without the ocean. Throw a fish on the sand—the fish writhes for the ocean. So the mind writhes for greed; because only in greed does the mind live. Without greed the mind dies.

“I took sannyas and fell into what confusion,” Vajjiputta began to think. Such an opportunity Mara—the devil—does not miss.

The devil is the mind’s very name. The mind began to tempt him mightily, to entice him—gave many lures, painted many gardens—that there are such pleasures in the world! The pleasure of woman, of wine, of dance, of food, of garments, of palaces—pleasure upon pleasure. What are you doing here, fool, sitting with a begging bowl! These others are fools, and you too have become a fool with them. Look how few are with the Buddha—count them on your fingers. And look how many are in the world! All these cannot be fools; only these few are clever? Into what mess have you fallen? Into whose words have you become entangled? People spoke rightly—beware of the Buddha’s words, do not get hypnotized. You did not listen. Had you listened, it would have been good. Even now nothing is spoiled; life remains. It is not yet too late—run away even now.

At last he decided, staying awake through the night: “Tomorrow morning I will run away. I will become worldly again.”

Everyone’s mind repeatedly tries to run away from sannyas and become worldly. Sannyas is the death of the mind! Sannyas is the death of the ego! So the ego and mind will explain to you—be alert, be watchful.

But before he could run away, the Blessed One called him.

This is the meaning of the true Master—that he does not let you run; that when you begin to flee, he stops you. This is the Master’s very purpose. This is why man seeks a Master. In your own power, it is not possible; left to yourself, you will run. Unless someone stops you, you will not be able to stay. Unless someone holds your hand, you will not be able to remain.

The Buddha had never called him, but if he did not call now, it would be too late. If he runs, he runs. He will fall again into the same mire, the same mud. The opportunity to become a lotus was about to come—and he is preparing to fall again into the mud. The Buddha must have observed Vajjiputta often, thinking—truly, he has not yet become a sannyasin. They would have waited—if not today, tomorrow, if not tomorrow, the day after. But if he runs, all possibilities end. He is eager for suicide. Now there can be no delay. So the Buddha called him.

He was very frightened. But he thought, “I have told no one my mind.”

But what is the meaning of a true Master? Only this—that what arises within the disciple, it is conveyed to the Master—whether the disciple says it or not. Often, the disciple says something, and does not say what is truly within. Often we say polite, false things. He says something; he wants to say something else; something else is within. But the Master does not bother with what you say; he sees what is.

The disciple even tries to deceive the Master. This too is natural, forgivable. Because the one who is deceiving himself—how will he spare the Master? Deception is his very skill, the very gist of his life—how will he refrain? He deceives the Master as well. But the Master is a mirror; what rises within you arises in him. The clouds that swirl in you cast their shadows in him. The dreams that rise in you—he catches their fragrance, he hears their footfall.

He thought, “I have said nothing to anyone. Perhaps there is some other reason.” But the Buddha told the whole tale—laid bare the secrets of his mind, spoke all in detail. Every shade and nuance that had arisen in his mind, and what the mind, what the devil had explained to him—the Buddha told him all. That day his eyes opened. That day he understood whose presence he was in.

Though near, he had not understood till then. For the first time the Buddha’s compassion became manifest—the Buddha’s vision, the Buddha’s concern for him, the Buddha’s love for him. Till then, perhaps many times he had thought—the Buddha cares for others; no one cares for me. Years have passed; do they even remember me? Never have I been called; no attention given to me. So great is the crowd of disciples—why would they remember Vajjiputta! He would have been angry. He would have thought many times—what is there in staying where no one cares for you! At home, at least the mother cared, the father cared; the children would have cared when I grew old—here no one seems to care, and the Buddha is aloof, far, very far. For the first time he felt—that even in aloofness there is compassion. The one who is far—concern arises in him for those who wander.

Surely the Buddha has been freed from his own sorrow, but the day someone is freed from his own sorrow, that very day the sorrow of all becomes visible to him. He has no concern for himself, but the day concern for oneself ends, that day the concern of the whole world begins to gnaw. On his own side, he has arrived at the goal; but arriving at the goal, a great responsibility is born—that those behind, wandering and groping, be shown the way.

A story is told of the Buddha: when he died and the gates of heaven opened for him, he stood at the door, with his back to it. The doorkeeper said, “Lord, please enter. We have prepared to welcome you. Once in many births, in infinite ages, a Buddha arrives. All heaven is adorned; the apsaras are ready to dance; the devas are eager with instruments; arrangements have been made to shower flowers. All heaven is adorned—please enter. Why do you stand turned away?” The Buddha said, “How can I enter yet! There are so many others. If I enter, what of them? I will wait—I will stand here at this gate; from here my voice will reach the others. If I have entered, then there is no way for my voice to reach. I will wait for eternity. When all have entered heaven, I will count them—when all have entered, I will enter last.”

This story is sweet, a unique story, a story of great compassion.

That day Vajjiputta felt—aloofness in the Buddha is not emptiness of compassion; there are waves of great compassion. That day his eyes opened. That day he knew whose presence he was in. Though with him for years, that day it became satsang.

Satsang happens the day the Master’s glory is revealed. The day the Master’s gravity, his gravitation, becomes manifest. The day the Master’s compassion is seen. That day the Buddha’s image appeared to him. He would have had a glimpse in the darkness—seen the Buddha’s luminous form. That day the Buddha’s outer lamp became less important; a connection was formed with the inner flame. That day satsang happened. That day the Buddha’s body was no longer of value—the Buddha’s inner being, the formless within, the wordless.

Only in love does satsang happen. That day he received proof of the Buddha’s love towards him. In that love of the Buddha, love must have arisen in him too—love calling to love; love placing its hand in love’s hand. From that day the dance began, from that day the celebration began. From that day there was no sadness; from that day a unique rain of joy began.

To this Vajjiputta the Blessed One spoke these verses—

“It is difficult to delight in a wrong ordination.”

Wrong ordination means sannyas taken out of greed.

“It is suffering to dwell in an unfit house.”

This house of greed you have built—it was never fit for dwelling. You changed the name of the house—wrote ‘sannyas’ in place of ‘world’—but the wrong house remained wrong, you remained in it. Bring down this house of greed.

“To live with those unequal, antagonistic, is suffering. Therefore do not become a traveler on the path of the world, and do not be one who follows suffering.”

Abandon greed. Because of greed you built the wrong house; because of greed you formed wrong relationships. Because of greed you connect with the unequal and antagonistic. Because of greed enmity is born. Because of greed the so-called friendships arise. Because of greed attachment forms, hatred forms; because of greed, contempt comes, violence comes—out of greed spreads all this. Then you must live with them—contempt, violence, envy, jealousy, intoxication, ego—and living with these is suffering. One, the house of greed—and these companions!

“Therefore do not become a traveler of the path of the world.”

The meaning of “world” is greed. Do not walk on the path of greed.

“Be endowed with faith and sila.”

No one has ever reached happiness through doubt. Through faith people reach happiness.

“Endowed with faith and sila…”

And sila means—the conduct that remains when greed is abandoned. Conduct out of greed is kusilata—wrong conduct. Conduct free of greed is sila; its beauty is unique.

Now think! If you sit to meditate out of greed, that meditation is not sila. This is the Buddha’s unique exposition. The Buddha says: sit in meditation for the joy of it. Sit to savor meditation itself. There is no greed; nothing else is to be attained. The whole joy is in meditating; there is no goal outside meditation, no expectation of fruit. Meditation is its own fruit.

People come to me and say, “If we meditate, what will we get? What benefit will there be?” They do not understand that meditation has nothing to do with benefit—benefit belongs to greed. Benefit is greed’s son. Meditation has nothing to do with greed, nothing to do with benefit. Meditation is that state of mind in which you do not ask for anything, do not desire anything; you wish to go nowhere, to become nothing. Meditation is supreme contentment. Where is benefit? Why bring in disease? With benefit there is tension. Then there is worry—was it less, was it more? Then there is ego, or dejection. Uproar begins. “Let there be more, more”—the race for “more” begins. The race for more is the mind. Then the wheel of the world begins to turn.

So the Buddha says, “Endowed with faith and sila, free of the craving for fame and enjoyment.”

“To enjoy something, to obtain something, to become something”—the aspiration for fame—“to become something—president, prime minister, wealthy man, greatly renowned—to become something,” fame; and “to enjoy something,” pleasure—upon these two aspirations, on these two legs, the entire world runs. Fame and enjoyment.

There is a story in China: an emperor stood on his palace with his minister; on the sea thousands of boats were sailing, thousands of ships. The emperor said to his vizier—he was old—“Behold, thousands of ships sail the sea.” The vizier looked and said, “No, Majesty, only two ships are sailing.” The emperor said, “Two? Are your eyes well? Has age spoiled your sight?” He replied, “Two ships only—the ship of fame and the ship of enjoyment. The rest sail because of these two. If these boats were divided, they would fall into two lines: some sail for fame, some sail for wealth.”

There are only two ambitions in the world—one for wealth, the other for position. Two politics—one the politics of position, one the politics of wealth.

“He who is free of these two,” says the Buddha, “wherever he goes, everywhere he is revered.”

This is unique: he who is free of the feeling for fame—is recognized with fame. He who has no desire for fame—fame comes to him. And he who has no thought for enjoyment—supreme enjoyment becomes available to him. Upon him, enjoyment rains.

Second scene—

The Blessed One’s lay disciple Anathapindika’s daughter, Chulasubhadra, was married to the son of the wealthy Uggata of Ugranagara. Uggata was a man of wrong view. He honored charlatans. His reverence was not for Dharma but for miracles. So street magicians, conjurers, tricksters were greatly respected in his house. When these varieties of impostors came, he would tell Chulasubhadra to also bow to them. That right-viewed young woman hesitated to go to these so-called sadhus, saints, and mahatmas, and would avoid it somehow.

One who has placed her head at the Buddha’s feet—after that, it is difficult to place one’s head at just anyone’s feet. This is no wonder. One who has known the Kohinoor—then pebbles and stones cannot entice her.

But her behavior began to trouble her father-in-law, troubled her husband, troubled her mother-in-law. The entire family was caught in the net of hypocrisy. Their ego was hurt. It became deeply offensive to them that their “mahatmas” were impostors. This became beyond their tolerance.

One day he exploded in anger and said to Subhadra, “You always disrespect our sadhus—so call your Buddha and your sadhus. We too will see them! Let’s see what miracles they have! Let’s see what powers of siddhi they have!”

Hearing such words from her father-in-law, she bowed toward Jetavana and, with eyes full of tears of joy, said, “Bhante, please accept tomorrow’s meal for five hundred bhikkhus with me. You haven’t forgotten me, have you? My voice still reaches you, doesn’t it? I am Chulasubhadra!” And then she tossed three handfuls of jasmine flowers toward the sky. The flowers fell to the ground right there. Her father-in-law and the whole family laughed heartily at this madness. For Jetavana was miles away, where the Buddha was staying. If even the flowers do not go, what message will go! But Chulasubhadra immersed herself in preparations to welcome the Blessed One.

Now change the scene—let us go to Jetavana—

The Blessed One was speaking—early morning, perhaps—suddenly, mid-sentence, he paused; he did not speak; he stopped. And he said, “Bhikkhus, can you smell the fragrance of jasmine?” And he lifted his eyes toward Ugranagara. Immediately Anathapindika stood up and said, “Bhante, please accept tomorrow’s meal at my house.” The Blessed One said, “Householder, I am invited tomorrow by your daughter Chulasubhadra. With the fragrance of jasmine she has just now sent her invitation.” Anathapindika said in astonishment, “Bhante, Chulasubhadra is miles away—how can she have invited you! I do not see her here.” The Blessed One laughed and said, “Householder, even while far, the virtuous stand luminous like one standing before you. I am at this very moment standing before Subhadra. Faith is a great bridge; it is able to join all distances of time and space. Indeed, in the dimension of faith, time and space do not exist. The faithless are far even while near, and the faithful are near even while far.” And then he spoke these verses—

Dūre santo pakāsenti himavanto’va pabbata.
Asantettha na dissanti rattikhittā yathāsarā.

Ekāsanaṁ ekaseyyaṁ eko caramatandito.
Ekodamamattānaṁ vanaṁt’e ramato siyā.

“Sants, even when far, shine like the Himalaya, like the mountains; and the unholy, even when near, are not seen—like arrows shot into the night.”

“Be one who keeps one seat, one bed; who wanders alone, without sloth. Subdue yourself, and alone delight in the forest.”

First, understand this sweet story.

Anathapindika was among the Blessed One’s special lay disciples. His real name is forgotten. The Buddha called him Anathapindika because he was greatly charitable—he gave to orphans. Because he gave to orphans, he was Anathapindika. Jetavana was his land which he gifted to the Buddha. He had a daughter, Chulasubhadra. From childhood she had grown in the Buddha’s shadow. The Buddha often stayed in Jetavana. In many stories I have told you, it appears again and again: the Buddha was residing in Jetavana. Jetavana was the grove given by Anathapindika to the Buddha.

She was small when she began to look towards the Buddha. She was fortunate—blessed. For to those who get the company of the enlightened from childhood—there is nothing greater. Children’s hearts are simple; impressions fall quickly, and deep. The longer it is delayed, the harder it becomes. Complexity grows. In adulthood a thousand things become obstacles. For a child there is no obstacle—children, in one sense, are closest to the Buddha. Give them an opportunity and their veena resounds quickly. Give them an opportunity and meditation settles quickly. It is a matter of opportunity.

Chulasubhadra was fortunate. Anathapindika was a mad devotee of the Buddha—he roamed after the Buddha like one possessed. Wherever the Buddha went, he went. And often the Buddha resided in his grove. So from childhood Chulasubhadra grew on the Buddha’s words; with her milk, she drank remembrance of the Buddha.

Then she was married. Where she was married—to the son of Uggata, of Ugranagara—there was no faith in the Buddha. He had never even seen the Buddha. His reverence was for miracles. Jugglers, magicians, street-performers—if they showed gross things—his reverence was for that. In his house such impostors lined up. Naturally he would tell Chulasubhadra—our guru has come, touch his feet.

Chulasubhadra would be in difficulty—she did not wish to refuse, and one who has touched the Buddha’s feet—it becomes difficult to bow at anyone else’s feet. One who has seen the Buddha—no other face pleases the mind. One who has had even a little companionship with the Buddha—having found the Kohinoor, no amount of praise of pebbles will seduce her eyes.

She would smile secretly within, would not say much—lower her veil—someone pulls a talisman from the air, someone drops ash—mere jugglers. In their lives there is neither the ray of Buddhahood, nor peace, nor joy, nor Samadhi.

But slowly this began to offend the father-in-law. It often offends. If someone does not accept your guru, it hurts—because your ego is tied to your guru. If your guru is right, then you are right. If your guru is wrong, then you are wrong. For a few days the father-in-law bore it; then slowly he said, “This is getting too much—she never comes to touch anyone’s feet. She never bows to anyone else.” She would avoid, make excuses, get busy with some work—slip this way and that—go to the neighbor’s.

One day the father-in-law exploded. In anger he said to Subhadra, “You always disrespect our sadhus.”

She had not disrespected sadhus at all—but where is a sadhu! She was only refusing to bow to the unholy.

“So call your Buddha,” said the father-in-law, “and your sadhus. We too will see them. You always talk about them. Let us see what miracles they have! What siddhis and ridhis!”

Still his eyes were on miracles and siddhis. He would not be able to recognize the Buddha with such eyes. If this vision remains, recognizing the Buddha is impossible. This is wrong vision. So the sutra says—he was of wrong view. Right view seeks the truth of life. Wrong view does not seek life’s truth; it seeks how to become more powerful in life.

What is the meaning of riddhi-siddhi? It means the same worldly disease continues: previously you collected wealth; now you collect powers. Earlier too you were eager to influence people; now too you are eager to influence. Earlier you wanted strength in your hands; now the same search continues. Right view seeks peace; wrong view seeks power.

Understand the difference: if you seek power, you are of wrong view. If you seek peace, you are of right view. And the wonder is—he who seeks peace receives power unasked. He who seeks power—he gets neither peace, nor true power; only the illusion of power. In the name of power—trickery.

This is not only today; it has always been. You will see big crowds around tricksters. For trivial things, crowds gather. Someone’s hand drops ash—and hundreds of thousands will gather. What happens from falling ash!

A friend wrote to me: his wife believes in Sathya Sai Baba…and he believes in me. He wrote: a miracle has happened—ash falls from Sai Baba’s photo. So his wife said—perhaps after some dispute—“Let ash fall from your God’s photo, then I will believe.” The husband’s ego would have been pricked. So he too must have put up my photo. A letter came to me: “Surprisingly, next day ash fell from your photo too. What do you say?”

I wrote to him: “It is not only Sai Baba’s photo from which your wife is making ash fall; she is making it fall from my photo too. Be careful of your wife! I have no hand in this.”

The wife must have taken pity on the husband—thinking the matter will worsen—so at night she sprinkled ash on my photo too. As she had sprinkled on Sai Baba’s. Wives are compassionate. She must have thought, “Now save the husband’s honor.” But the husband is astonished by this miracle.

Our intellects are small, petty. This pleases them—that ash fell. Even if it fell—what then? It has no value; a two-penny thing. But our minds are two-penny. They relish such paltry matters.

So the father-in-law asked, “Let us see what miracles they have. What siddhis and ridhis!”

Now the Buddha has no ridhis and siddhis. A Buddha means one who has gone beyond riddhi-siddhi. Buddhahood is the final thing. In Buddhahood there are no miracles—because Buddhahood itself is the great miracle.

Someone asked the Zen master Bokushu, “What is your miracle?” He said, “When I am hungry, I eat. When sleep comes, I sleep. When sleep ends, I get up. This is my miracle.” They said, “Is this any miracle!”

But Bokushu spoke rightly: everything has become simple, childlike. When hungry—eat. When sleepy—sleep. Everything is simple. He was saying a most unique thing. The enlightened are simple.

Chulasubhadra, hearing her father-in-law, bowed toward Jetavana, and with eyes full of tears of joy, said, “Bhante, please accept tomorrow’s meal for five hundred bhikkhus with me. You haven’t forgotten me, have you? My voice still reaches you, doesn’t it!” And then she tossed three handfuls of jasmine flowers toward the sky. The flowers fell there. The father-in-law and the family laughed—“When the flowers fell, how will the message reach!”

They must have thought—if the flowers fly along the sky’s path, they will carry the message to the Buddha. If this had happened, they themselves would have run to the Buddha’s feet. But Chulasubhadra took not the slightest notice of their laughter. She plunged into preparation: tomorrow the Blessed One will come, five hundred bhikkhus will come. Such is faith. For her, the matter ended with the request—now what remained? She immersed herself in preparation—she must have run like one possessed, to cook for five hundred monks, to cook for the Blessed One—he would come for the first time.

Now change the scene—let us go to Jetavana. The Blessed One was speaking. Suddenly, midstream, he stopped and said, “Bhikkhus, do you smell jasmine?”

Perhaps no one else smelled it—perhaps only the Buddha—for the story says nothing of anyone else saying, “Yes, we smell it.”

And he lifted his eyes toward Ugranagara. Immediately Anathapindika stood and said—Chulasubhadra’s father; that was her town—“Bhante, please accept tomorrow’s meal at my house.” The Buddha said, “Forgive me, householder, I have already accepted an invitation. I have accepted your daughter Chulasubhadra’s invitation. Tomorrow I must go there. With the fragrance of jasmine she has just now invited me. Can you not smell it? How the fragrance of jasmine has filled everything!”

Perhaps even he could not perceive the fragrance. Anathapindika said in astonishment, “Bhante, Chulasubhadra is miles away. How has she invited you?” The Blessed One said, “Householder, the virtuous, even while far, appear as if standing before you. I am standing now before Subhadra. Faith is a great bridge; it joins all distances of time and space. Indeed, in the dimension of faith, time and space have no existence. The faithless are far even while near, and the faithful near even while far.”

See—just now we read the story of Vajjiputta: he was near yet far. Now we read Subhadra’s story—far yet near.

Then he spoke these sutras.

Before the sutra, let me place three points in this story as I have made some differences.

First, the tale says Uggata was a Jina’s lay disciple—that he was Mahavira’s devotee. I set that aside. For Mahavira is as far beyond miracles as the Buddha. Neither did the Buddha perform miracles nor Mahavira. If any miracles happened, they happened—but were not performed by anyone.

Those who wrote the story—disciples always have disputes. The disciples of the Buddha and the disciples of Mahavira fought at crossroads; there were heavy disputes; they slandered each other. What is the understanding of disciples! The story too is written by disciples; it is full of unawareness. Therefore I set aside that Subhadra’s father-in-law was a devotee of Mahavira.

Had he been Mahavira’s devotee, he could not have been a devotee of impostors. It is one or the other: either he was a devotee of impostors, or a devotee of Mahavira. I had two choices: either keep Mahavira and drop the impostors—then the story loses all meaning; for he who has recognized Mahavira has recognized the Buddha too. Within, the two are identical. Outwardly their form and color may differ, but the matter is of the inner. Within, the taste of Mahavira and the Buddha is exactly the same—not even a grain of difference.

So if I removed the impostors and kept “devotee of Mahavira,” the entire story would be ruined. Therefore I removed the “devotee of Mahavira.”

Second, the story says Chulasubhadra threw three handfuls of flowers; they vanished into the sky, reached like arrows to the Buddha, formed a canopy over him, hung suspended in air. I set that aside. Why? Gross miracles are meaningless. I have kept only this—that the fragrance of flowers reached. The subtle reached; the gross falls. The subtle has an infinite journey. Miracles happen in the subtle, not in the gross. Her appeal reached; her thirst reached; her call reached; her faith’s fragrance reached. But that the flowers themselves reached—this unscientific talk I do not wish to say.

But devotees compete in hyperbole. They wish to prove that the Buddha was even more miraculous than the charlatans. The tricksters who came—small-time miracle-mongers; the Buddha the great miracle-worker. “See—even the flowers reached! And leave aside the Buddha—see the miracle of his devotee Chulasubhadra! Not the Buddha—see the Buddha’s devotee’s miracle!”

So the tale is engaged in winning and losing miracles. That does not appeal to me. I exclude it.

The world too will not accept it. The world has moved ahead; childish talk holds little meaning. From the scriptures much must be cut away. Whatever appears unscientific must be discarded. Keep the poetry—yes—but do not go against science. Poetry may go above science, not against it. Let it be a companion to science, not its opponent.

So I preserve poetry; I cut away un-science. If I say the flowers went—it goes against science. But that fragrance went—this is poetry. Let us give this much license to poetry. For if even this dies, all mystery dies in life. “The fragrance went” only means: no gross thing went; the subtle went. It is a symbol. Thus I let the flowers fall. The Buddhists may be angry; the Buddha will be pleased.

Third, the tale says Subhadra’s town was many yojanas away. I changed that too—I said a few miles. For the next day the Buddha must arrive, no? The tale says—the Buddha flew by sky-path with five hundred monks and arrived in an instant. In such nonsense I have no taste. Many yojanas I cut—some miles; they would have walked two, four, five miles in the morning and arrived. They went walking.

I have no great faith in sky-paths. Earthly paths are sweet enough; there is no need of sky-paths. And to take five hundred monks flying—seems crude. That such people fly! Go and come by sky!

But the tale springs from petty minds. They want to show miracles. So it also says—when the Buddha arrived by sky-path with five hundred monks, Subhadra’s father-in-law, her husband, her mother-in-law, and the whole family instantly bowed at his feet. Such a miracle they had never seen. Not only that—the whole town was initiated instantly.

If initiated through miracles, they were not initiated into the Buddha. Therefore I end the tale thus: next day the Blessed One walked miles. Chulasubhadra had invited—this journey had to be made. The path was several miles; he would have tired. But when love calls, one must walk. The Buddha arrived. No miracles occurred—but his arrival is the greatest miracle. His presence, his very being—is the great miracle. His simplicity, his naturalness, his capacity to walk with love, his compassion, his Samadhi.

The Buddha’s simplicity, his Samadhi, touched Subhadra’s father-in-law. Truly, this was what he sought. Even when man goes to miracle-mongers, he goes seeking true gold. Even when man goes to the false, he goes in search of the true—this is my trust. Even if you are entangled in the world, you are entangled for Samadhi. You think—perhaps Samadhi will be found here; perhaps happiness, peace will be found here. You search in the wrong direction, yes; but the goal is not wrong. No one’s goal is wrong.

Here we all seek Paramatma—we have given different names: someone calls his Paramatma “money,” someone calls it “position.” Naturally, Paramatma cannot be contained in money; money is found, and one day we see Paramatma is not found. The error was not in our search, but in the direction.

He would go to miracle-mongers, bring them home—carried by this hidden longing. Unknowingly, unconsciously, this desire churned. And when truth stood before him—faith in falsehood drops. Truth needs no support of siddhis, ridhis, miracles; truth is enough unto itself. Falsehood needs miracles. Without miracles, falsehood cannot stand. Falsehood is lame; it needs the crutches of miracle. Truth has its own legs; it needs no support.

So I end the story thus: the Buddha’s simplicity, his emptiness, the fragrance of his Samadhi, his compassion—on a young woman’s call to walk miles—sweat-drenched, dust-covered—for he did not come by sky-path; he came by earth—he walked barefoot—the Blessed One walking so far for a young woman’s call—such grace—this touched the father-in-law’s heart; by this he was transformed.

The sutras are straightforward.

“Even when far, saints shine like the Himalaya, like mountains.”

If there are eyes, then even far away, saints are seen. Without eyes, even when near, they are not seen. And even far, saints shine like the Himalaya—only the door of faith should open.

“And the unholy, even when near, are not seen—like arrows shot into the night.”

But remember—the unholy are seen by the unholy; saints are seen by saints. As one is, so one sees. Like attracts like.

“Become one who keeps one seat.” Therefore the Buddha said—perhaps Anathapindika asked: “Lord, how can such faith arise as Subhadra has? How may saints appear to me too, from afar, as luminous light, like the Himalaya? The Himalaya is seen from hundreds of miles. I am near you, yet I cling to being near. When I go far you are lost. What happened to my daughter Subhadra? How can this happen in me?”

So the Buddha said—

Ekāsanaṁ ekaseyyaṁ eko caramatandito.
Ekodamamattānaṁ vanaṁte ramato siyā.

“Be one who keeps one seat, one bed, and wanders alone.”

Take delight in solitude—in being alone. Break your taste for crowds, break your taste for the other; sink into yourself. Delight in the self.

“Be without sloth and, having subdued yourself, alone delight in the forest.”

Crush the ego—burn it, annihilate it. Ekodamam attānaṁ—subdue that atta within, the ‘I-sense’; annihilate it completely.

Note the difference: often one who goes into solitude becomes more egotistical. Therefore the Buddha added this. Be a lover of solitude, but do not become a lover of ego. Live alone, but while delighting in solitude, do not begin to think: “I am something special, unique.” Become a sannyasin, but do not acquire the stiffness—“I am a sannyasin.” Meditate, but do not let the ego form—“I have become a meditator.”

“One who keeps one seat.”

Do not move the body too much; sit in one posture. Why? Because when your body moves too much, your mind moves too. All is connected. One-seat means—keep the body still. From the body’s stillness the mind’s stillness is helped.

Just try: when your body becomes utterly still—like a flame that does not flicker, as if no wind touches it—you will suddenly find your mind begins to quiet.

This truth has been known to yogis since always. Hence asana has great value. Asana means—sit at ease, in relaxation, and then remain sitting, steeped in one posture. Let the body become like a statue—then, slowly, the mind comes to a stop. What happens in the body happens in the mind; what happens in the mind happens in the body. It is easier to begin with the body.

Therefore the Buddha says, “Keep one seat—ekāsanaṁ—one bed—ekaseyyaṁ.”

The Buddha says—even in sleep, lie on one side; do not change sides too much. Lie on one side, so that even at night the mind does not move.

“And wander alone.”

Slowly, slowly, take no taste in others. Slowly, slowly, cease living on others. Slowly, slowly, feel yourself sufficient.

And beware—lest this solitude, this one seat, this one bed, this meditation—become a name for laziness. Do not become lazy; else you will doze, not attain Samadhi.

“Subdue yourself.”

The fundamental formula for subduing oneself is—ekodamam attānaṁ—destroy the ego-sense. Do not let the ego grow. Then, says the Buddha, what happened to Subhadra will happen to you. It happens to all. Then saints, wherever they may be, stand before you like the Himalaya. Let the eyes of faith open, let the heart’s doors open—then saints, wherever they are, become available. Those in the body will be seen—and those not even in the body will be seen!

For one whose heart has boundless faith in the Buddha even today—the Buddha is as present as he was then. No difference has arisen. Those who have loved Mahavira—without greed, not by birth—those whose faith is true—for them Mahavira is as true today as ever. Likewise Christ, Nanak, Kabir, Zarathustra, Mohammed. If there is the eye of faith, all distances of time and space fall.

There are only two distances—of time and of space. Today our distance from the Buddha is twenty-five centuries—this is a distance of time. In those days, between the Buddha and Subhadra there were some five or seven miles—this was a distance of space.

But for love and for meditation there is no distance of space or time. In the state of meditation and love, time and space vanish. Then we live in the Eternal; then we live in the Infinite. Then we live in That which never changes; which always is, always was, always will be. Eṣa dhammo sanantano. To know That is to know the Eternal Sanatana Dharma.

Enough for today.