Es Dhammo Sanantano #98

Sutra-reference. The story is this—

Day by day the Blessed One’s impact went on increasing. And those who were truly lovers of dharma rejoiced beyond measure. The lotus-buds of their hearts opened in the rays of the Blessed One. The birds of their minds were becoming ready to fly with the Blessed One into the infinite. But such people, unfortunately, were only a few. The many felt the presence of the Blessed One stabbing their very life-breath like a spear. His growing influence filled them with the poison of anger. His words seemed to them destructive. It appeared to them that this Gautam was bent upon demolishing religion.

And in their accusation there was a little truth too.

For the teachings of Gautam Buddha were indeed in opposition to what they understood as religion—blind belief. Gautam spoke of a wholly different dharma. Gautam spoke of pure dharma. He was not a traditionalist. He belonged to no sect, he was no worshiper of scriptures, nor of conventions and superstitions. Gautam’s dharma did not depend on the past. His dharma was not borrowed; it was grounded in self-experience. Gautam himself was his scripture. His dharma was not status-quoist; it was radical to the very roots. Religion can only be revolutionary. Gautam’s trust was not in society but in the individual. And Gautam’s foundation-stone was man—not some God in the sky, not any goddess or deity. Gautam conferred supreme dignity upon man, and through man, upon consciousness.

Because of all this, the rigid, the outdated—those engaged in all kinds of exploitation in the name of religion, the pundits, priests and so-called religious masters—entered into a race to defame Gautam by any means. They enticed a beautiful parivrajika with a great sum of money to spread calumny about the Buddha. That beautiful woman joined their conspiracy. Each evening she would go toward Jetavana, remain with the groups of wandering nuns, and at dawn enter the city. And when the people of Shravasti asked, Where are you coming from? she would say, I am coming from Jetavana after spending the whole night enjoying sexual play with the shraman Gautam.

Thus the defamation of the Blessed One began to spread. But the Blessed One remained silent—simply silent. The monks came again and again and told him everything, but he would only smile and remain silent. Gradually this one rumor became the talk of the whole town. People savored it, spread it, embellished it. And the numbers of those coming to the Blessed One began to fall day by day. From thousands, to mere hundreds, and then to so few that they could be counted on the fingers. And the Blessed One smiled and said—Look, what a unique work this beautiful parivrajika has done: all the rubbish has burned, the gold has remained.

Seeing the unshakable peace of the Blessed One, those so-called religious teachers hired thugs, had the beautiful woman killed, and hid her corpse in a heap of flowers right there in Jetavana. The Blessed One’s peace had begun, little by little, to awaken remorse in her for her misdeed. The Blessed One had not uttered a single word to her, nor had he in any way forbidden her coming and going. Her own inner voice had begun to gnaw her. Therefore her murder became necessary. There was fear that she might proclaim the truth. And, further, this murder would also serve to deepen the conspiracy.

After killing her, those religious leaders spread the news in the city that it seemed Gautam, out of fear of his own sin, had had the woman murdered. They went to the king and said, O King, we do not see the parivrajika Sundari; something is fishy. She used to spend nights with the shraman Gautam at Jetavana itself.

The king sent soldiers to search for the woman at Jetavana; there her corpse was found. The religious leaders then said to the king—Behold, O Majesty, this great sin! To hide his sin, Gautam did not shrink even from this heinous crime. And they went about every lane of the city engaged in slander of Gautam. Even the alms-round of the Blessed One’s monks became difficult. Now only the very daring could go to the Blessed One.

And what did the Blessed One say about all this!

The Blessed One said—Bhikshus, untruth is untruth; do not be anxious. Truth is sufficient to protect itself. Truth has its own ways of revealing itself—unique ways. You only keep peace, keep patience. Meditate and endure all. This endurance is sadhana. Do not lose trust; let your trust pass through even this fire. This is a rare opportunity—for it is in such moments that the touchstone is applied. Trust will emerge more refined, more radiant. Truth always triumphs.

And that is exactly what happened. Before a week had passed, the thugs who had killed the woman, drunk with wine in a tavern, blurted everything out. Truth revealed itself thus. The so-called religious leaders were utterly disgraced, and the fame of the Blessed One multiplied a thousandfold. But remember—the Blessed One said nothing—nothing at all. He let truth speak for itself. In the end he said only this to his monks: Always beware of untruth. It has never won, it can never win. Es dhammo sanantano.

And then he spoke these gathas.

Before entering the gathas, a few things about this story—

First, whether this story actually happened with Gautam Buddha or not is of little consequence. For this is the kind of story that has happened again and again with all Buddhas. The story is unique. In it is hidden the whole disease of the human mind.

Whenever Buddhahood manifests anywhere, troubles begin. The first reason for trouble is precisely this: the traditions that become fixed in the name of religion, the beliefs that become rigid in people’s minds in the name of religion—those very beliefs prove to be the enemies of religion. Whenever a new religion is born, the real confrontation of religion is not with irreligion—irreligion has no power to confront religion—but with false religion, dead religion. The living religion is confronted by the dead religion. The struggle is not between religion and irreligion; the struggle has always been between religion and what goes on in the name of religion.

Buddhas have not been opposed by atheists; they have been opposed by so-called theists. Their opponents have not been those who do not believe in God, but those who believe in a false God. Their opponents are those who have no experience of God, but cling to a concept of God. Their opponents are those engaged in all kinds of exploitation in the name of religion—pundits, priests, religious leaders. The opposition to Buddhas comes from the hypocrisy that runs under the label of religion.

This is a matter worth deep contemplation.

Religion is opposed by religion itself. Just as real coins are not opposed by pebbles, but by counterfeit coins. The clash with the genuine coin is not with non-coins, but with fake coins. The counterfeit fears the real. If the real coin appears in the marketplace, the circulation of the counterfeit becomes difficult. If people come to know the real coin, who will then bother with the fake? The fake must prevent the real from becoming evident, otherwise its imitation will be exposed. The counterfeit fears truth. The actor fears truth—he who is acting, who is engaged in pretense.

Therefore whether it is Buddha, or Krishna, or Christ, whenever anyone has attained Buddhahood, a strange phenomenon occurs—the temples, mosques, gurudwaras all turn against him. These temples, mosques, gurudwaras may fight among themselves as much as they like, but when a Buddha appears, they stand together to fight him.

In India there were many sects at the time of Buddha’s birth—and they were much opposed to one another. But with the advent of Buddha it was as if they forgot their mutual enmities and turned together against him. Now they all felt threatened by one and the same person. By any means the truth of Buddha must not be understood by people. For if Buddha’s truth is understood, their shop is finished—their business collapses. The understanding of Buddha’s truth becomes a question of their very life and death. Their whole trade will be destroyed.

So this story is not new. It happened with Gautam Buddha, and it has happened with all Buddhas. Therefore I call it a unique story. It is not merely historical, it is archetypal. It has happened before, it is happening today, and it will happen tomorrow. The fortunate day has not yet come when we are ready, naturally, to welcome truth. And the hope that such a day will ever come is also a futile hope.

And the net has many complications. When this clash occurred with Buddha, religious leaders fought him. Then, hearing what Buddha said, a new net of religious leaders arose. Do not think that if today another Buddha appears, the followers of the earlier Buddha will support him. No—they too will be just as ready to fight him. The followers of Buddhas past go on fighting Buddhas present. Because as soon as a Buddha departs from this world, the gang of pundits and priests gathers around his words too. There also a temple will be built, there too a scripture will be codified, there too positions and prestige will be set up, politics will begin there as well. When sometime again a Buddha comes, this net will fight him. Even if the same Buddha returns, he will have to fight his own devotees. This is our misfortune.

We have been worshipers of untruth for such a long, long time that as soon as we drop one untruth, we clutch another. This one has not yet slipped from our hands when that one is already grasped. Our habit of grasping untruth is so ingrained that even if by mistake truth comes into our hands, by coming into our hands it becomes untruth. Our vessels have become so poisoned that even if amrit is poured into them, it turns poisonous. We have worked a miracle with our hands! Real coins, upon coming into our hands, become false.

In Buddha’s time the Vedas had already become false in people’s hands—not that the Vedas are false, but people had falsified them. Buddha gave truth again, but in people’s hands it became false. Those who revered the rishis of the Upanishads opposed Buddha. Those who revered Buddha opposed Shankaracharya. Today if someone stands up in truth, the followers of Shankaracharya are ready to oppose him.

Understand this structure: the past opposes the present; the dead opposes the living; the rotten opposes the newly blossomed flower. And those whose minds are not free from the past can never understand Buddhas. Whose mind is free from the past? Very rarely! There are only a few, countable on the fingers, who have the courage to put aside their past and become ready to welcome the new ray of the sun. To not graft their beliefs and concepts upon this new ray. To drop all their prejudices in favor of the sun’s new ray, to become naked—unclothed—and receive it. Only such a few can be transformed.

So the story is not new.

For another reason as well this story is ancient. Whenever one wants to defame Buddhas, two devices are always employed in some form—either defame them as being involved with money, or defame them as being involved with sex. Woman and gold—the two devices. Very old, very rotten devices. Just these two.

Why? It reveals something about the human mind. The human mind is caught in two things—woman and gold. Man is eager only for these two. And these two are what man has always repressed within himself. The repression regarding money is not so enormous, but the repression regarding sex is immense.

Hence, if you spread propaganda that Buddha has any kind of involvement with sex, you will not fail to damage his reputation—you will succeed. For people’s hearts are filled with frustration, with such repression regarding sex, that they readily believe this must be so. This must be true; it cannot be false. They know themselves, they know the burning stream of sexuality within, they know the hidden volcano.

They think, Whatever is hidden inside me, how could it not be inside a Buddha? All the distinctions are only on the surface; inside, Buddha is just a man like me. And when passion flames so fiercely in me, it must flame in Buddha too.

So as soon as the news reaches them that Buddha has some relation with a woman, they no longer think, they no longer inquire. They accept it instantly. They welcome it, for it is nothing but their own inside story. They do not take it as a rumor; they had been waiting for the rumor—the news had to come someday. How many can you deceive? How many days can you deceive? From somewhere the fact will be exposed. Now it is exposed! They were sitting, ready, eyes fixed, waiting, with carpets laid out for the rumor to arrive.

Thus, as soon as the rumor arrives, their hearts are delighted. They pat themselves on the back. They say, I always said so; I always knew it would be so—finally caught! Then they do not go to inquire, they do not investigate.

Look into your own mind. Keep this in your awareness: if someone tells you that a certain person has attained God-realization, you do not believe. You say, Oh, such things don’t really happen! They are written in stories, in the Puranas. If they ever did happen, it must have been long ago. Who attains God? And in this Kaliyug—certainly not! Perhaps in the golden age they happened. Today—no, impossible!

Thus people have always said. In Buddha’s time they said the same—Now where! It used to happen in the Satya Yuga, not now! In Krishna’s time, the same—It used to happen before, not now!

When was this ‘before’? There has never been a time when people did not say this. ‘It used to happen before, not now’—this is just a device for postponement. ‘Not now’ is a strategy for self-protection.

If someone says a certain person has attained saintliness, a thousand doubts arise in you. And if someone says a certain saint has fallen—watch your logic—saint you never accepted him to be, but fallen you readily accept. First thing: if he was not a saint, how did he fall? You accept him as a saint only when his fall is proven. Then you say, See, that saint has fallen.

Note the irony. Before his fall you never accepted him as a saint. But the day the fall is proven, you say, See, the saint has fallen! Oh, how the great man has fallen! You had never called him a great man before, you call him great only when his fall is certain.

You call someone a great man only after you have first pulled him down. Before that you do not call him great. Now you can call him great—there is no danger; now he lies in the dust, in a state worse than yours. Now you need not fear him. He has fallen behind you. At least you are not that bad. You live with your wife, with your children, you remain within your limits. That fellow has become worse than you. But if you want to make him utterly bad, you must first call him a saint—otherwise how will he fall? If he was bad from the beginning, then there is no fall. So you say, Yes, earlier he was a saint, now he is corrupted.

And whenever the idea of corruption arises in your mind, it is associated in some manner with sexuality. Why is your notion of corruption tied to sexuality alone? When you call someone immoral, only one thought arises in you: immoral means he must be involved in some sexual misdeed. That he lies does not come to mind; that he breaks his word does not occur to you; that he is dishonest does not occur; that he smuggles, that he robs, that he murders—none of these come to mind. The moment you hear someone is immoral, you understand immediately he has illicit relations with a woman.

Your entire morality has become centered on sexuality. And your entire notion of immorality has only one meaning: a person is involved in some antisocial, unlawful sexual relations.

So petty a morality! So narrow a morality! Your morality is excessively sex-obsessed. And the reason is this: because for centuries you have repressed sexuality in your mind, it has become the most important thing. Whatever you repress becomes important. What you push down repeatedly will repeatedly try to surface. What you repress will take revenge. What you deny within yourself you will begin to project onto others.

Take note of this psychological process.

You begin to see in the other exactly that which you have repressed in yourself. If you have repressed the lust for money, you will see the lust for money thick and strong in others. You must see it somewhere—you cannot hold it inside—so you place it upon someone else. If you have repressed sexuality, you will place sexuality upon another.

I have heard: there was a Sufi fakir, Bayazid. One night another fakir became his guest. He began to condemn women greatly—women are the gates of hell, just as your monks have always said: woman is the door to hell. Once, Bayazid listened; twice, he listened. The third time he said, Brother, why are you so excited about this door? Do you wish to go to hell? Since you have come, you have not spoken of God even once! Why are your eyes fixed on this door? And there is no woman here either—just you and I. Where is the door? Why does this door obsess you? You must have repressed woman deeply within, and that woman is taking revenge.

Be wary of those saints in your scriptures who have written that woman is the door to hell. Such people neither understood woman nor themselves. And since these scriptures were written by men, woman becomes the door to hell. Had women written them? Then man would have been the door to hell. For how can a woman go to hell through her own door! One always needs the other as the door. Do women go to hell or not?

Once a great monk was my guest. He said, Women are the doors to hell. I said to him, Then you must also think that all women will have reached heaven—since they cannot go to hell. Men are the doors to heaven, and women the doors to hell—this becomes very expensive indeed! All men in hell, all women in heaven. Through what door do women go to hell? Tell me that, O Mahatma—through what door do women go to hell? He became a little restless, and said, That is not written anywhere—who thinks about women!

Women have been abused. But the abuse is not really directed at women; it is anger against one’s own repressed desire, because that desire keeps jostling within. Then it becomes necessary to project it onto the other—thus one feels a little relieved. This is what psychologists call projection. What you repress within, you begin to see outside. To the thief, everyone looks a thief. Even if a pickpocket goes to a great saint, he guards his own pocket—Who can trust saints? It is Kaliyug; what saints! They may cut my pocket!

Whatever is repressed within, you want to spread it on some screen—to be relieved. Sexual desire is the most repressed thing. The day sexuality is accepted in a healthy, natural way, Buddhas will find protection from such slanders. These stories do not arise because of Buddhas; they arise because of the denial and hostility in people’s minds toward sexuality. These stories are not about Buddhas; they are about you. You cannot believe that someone can go beyond sexuality. How can you believe it? You do not succeed—and you will never succeed so long as you fight. The day you drop fighting and accept sexuality naturally, you too will begin to go beyond. For sexuality is a very strange kind of desire.

Keep this in mind.

Hunger is a desire—without food you cannot live; you will begin to die. So no matter how much we might hope a Buddha will not eat, still he will eat. If not twice a day, at least once. If not something delicious, then plain. He will not use kheer and cream; he will eat coarse bread—but he will eat something. Without food he cannot live even a moment. He will drink water. If not at night, then by day—but water he must drink. He will breathe—these are unavoidable.

Sexual desire is not such an unavoidable desire. Your life does not depend on it. You will not die without sexuality. It is true, without sexuality your children will not be born. But without food, without water, without breath—you will die.

So sexuality is not indispensable for your life. It can be dropped. One can be free of it. But only those will be free who have first accepted it, then understood it, meditated upon it, penetrated its inner mechanism—why does it arise?

Have you noticed when your mind fills with sexual desire? You will be surprised—when you are most anxious, then sexuality rises strongest. When you are at ease, cheerful, it does not rise. When you are peaceful, blissful, it does not rise—you forget it. But when you are disturbed, restless, then it fills you. Often it is so.

Western psychologists say that husbands and wives usually learn this secret. Therefore, before lovemaking they quarrel—become angry, abuse each other, create a fuss—after which descending into sexuality becomes easier.

It is strange. Husbands and wives often fight. Their fighting creates agitation and unease. In agitation, sexuality is born. When the mind is full of calm and ease, sexuality does not arise. Sexuality is a kind of fever; and relief comes from sexuality. Relief comes when the fever has arisen. Sexuality weakens your body; energy is depleted, and then the fever subsides; the inner boiling reduces; you fall asleep peacefully.

Sex does not go by suppression of sex; it goes by the peace that arises through meditation. When one begins to live in proper repose—no tension, no worry, no restlessness—when life is like a light flower, when feet do not touch the ground, when one floats in the breeze, when every moment one is steeped in rasa—rasa vai sah—as Patanjali told his disciple Chaitra yesterday: one who is always juiceful, full of rasa, will not descend into sexuality. For descending into sex he will only find that energy is depleted and his rasa is lost.

When you begin to live in a joy greater than the joy sex gives, sex disappears. As long as the juice sex gives is more than what you live in, desire will remain.

Understand this—it is for your work. Through these stories I want to say something to you. I am not so interested in Buddha as I am in you. For I am talking to you. Buddha is the pretext.

Until your consciousness begins to taste a joy higher than sexual joy, you will not be free of sexuality. And those who fight sex fall into a worse state. Their minds become more agitated, they fall even lower. Therefore thoughts of sex float in their minds all the time. Humankind has repressed sex so much—therefore it cannot be free of sex. And therefore the rumors relate to sex.

As for money, it could not be said of Buddha—he had had immense wealth and had renounced it. That could not be made a cause for slander. One thing remained—to make sexuality the cause of his defamation. They could not confront Buddha’s truth directly; it was too intense, too clear, risen like the sun. Those religious leaders had no courage to raise their eyes before it. They could not even come near it. They could only stab from behind. In darkness, a dagger. And what easier device is there? In a world of people repressed with sex, it is enough to spread the word: A beautiful woman goes to Buddha at night and engages him in sexual play. That is enough.

This beautiful parivrajika must have been enticing many in the village. She was beautiful, and a bhikshuni, a disciple of Buddha. Seeing this bhikshuni asking alms in the village, who knows how many felt their minds waver.

Keep this in mind too: a nun entices more than an ordinary woman; the ordinary woman is not too difficult to obtain, but a nun is very difficult. And whatever is difficult to attain becomes more juicy. The more unattainable, the more juice there is. That which is easily gotten loses juice. Where is the challenge to the ego then?

This beautiful nun would move through the village seeking alms. Seeing her beautiful body, her lovely form, many minds would have wavered. Then suddenly the news came in the village that this beauty has physical relations with Buddha—many would have believed it. Those who had desired physical relation with her, who had dreamt of it, they would all have believed—Yes, the thing is certain; we too were swayed. They would have thought in their hearts—we too were affected. And they would have taken revenge too. Now here was a fine opportunity to take revenge upon Buddha.

Why do we want revenge upon Buddhas?

Because Buddhas cause us great hurt. Among the blind, a man with eyes hurts the blind—because of him, they are seen as blind. Among the sick, the healthy man hurts the sick—for by comparison, their sickness shows up. Where there is dense darkness and all are groping, a person whose inner lamp is lit provokes great anger in us. It is an insult to us. The lamp burns not in us, but in someone else—that becomes a cause for envy.

Thus it is not without cause that we crucified Jesus. We had to. He became unbearable. There was a limit to our tolerance. Then this man began to roam about causing us pain. Whenever we saw him, we were disturbed. He began to negate us. Standing before him, we felt poor and mean. We felt petty, worthless. Life should be like that. And our life crawls like worms! Life should be like that. This man tormented us greatly. He wounded us too much. He would not let us sleep in peace. Crucifying him became necessary.

We gave poison to Socrates because he wandered about awakening people. Sleeping people do not want to awaken. They are not merely sleeping—they are dreaming sweet dreams. If you awaken them, their dreams are broken. And they know nothing but dreams. Dreams are their only truth.

Thus, when you awaken them, they feel you are their enemy. You break their dreams. They were so happily immersed—building palaces, beautiful queens, sons, a great kingdom—where are you dragging them? Into this waking where there is nothing: a beggar, a hut, a homely wife, a troublesome son. They were sleeping happily; do not awaken them.

We have been angry with Buddhas. We have taken our revenge in many ways. What are our means of revenge? Precisely these—to prove them to be like us. If it is proven they are just like us, the matter is finished. Then there is no obstacle left.

The Blessed One’s impact was increasing day by day.

Nothing needs to be done to increase this impact. No desire to increase it arises in the one in whom Buddhahood has awakened. This impact spreads by itself—like the sun rises and light spreads; like the flower opens and fragrance diffuses. There is no effort to create this influence. A Buddha does not try to influence. His mere presence, his awakening, his consciousness begins to draw many. He becomes a magnet. People are drawn as iron filings are drawn. His presence becomes hypnotic. Those who have tasted him cannot forget; they long to taste more.

The Blessed One’s impact increased each day. The lovers of dharma rejoiced.

They rejoiced because in the presence of the Blessed One they had proof that dharma is true. That what the Vedas say, what the Upanishads say, is not mere saying, not mere discourse—here living religion had manifested. Those truly devoted to dharma danced, they were ecstatic. They said, We are blessed! We had heard in the scriptures—now we have seen with our eyes. We had heard—now we have experienced.

What a difference! To have heard of the sun, and to see the sun rise—what a difference. To have seen pictures of the Himalayas, and then to see the Himalayas—what a difference! In a picture there is neither that freshness, nor that coolness; in a picture there are no winds, no light; where in a picture are the heights of the Himalayas? Where are those depths? Where are the birds that sing there? Where are the flowers that bloom and fill the valleys with fragrance? A picture is a picture. What had been seen in pictures now stood before the eyes.

The Vedas are pictures, the Upanishads are pictures. After thousands of years a person becomes a Buddha. The lovers of dharma did not feel he was against the Vedas. They felt Buddha was the witness to the Vedas. Until now the Vedas had no witness—now in Buddha the witness was found. What had been a matter of argument now became a way of experience. Here stands a person! And what has happened within him can happen within us too.

The flowers of their hearts opened in the rays of the Blessed One. The birds of their minds grew eager to fly with him into the infinite.

One who loves dharma is exhilarated in the presence of a Buddha. For this he has waited across births—that there be someone who is a proof. The devotee of dharma does not want intellectual proofs; he wants living, existential proof. Someone in whose very breeze there is Buddhahood. In whose presence we can feel: God is. One whose presence tells us the world does not end with matter—there are hidden mysteries here, deep mysteries concealed. There is a way to search. One whose presence becomes a call to adventure—who challenges us: Come, walk with me! As I have wings, so do you. You never flew; hence you do not remember your wings. You were born with wings. Flutter— you too can fly. What has been given to me is your treasure too.

But such people were, alas, only a few.

They were few then, they were few before that, they are few now. The misfortune is that so many are religious, but not lovers of religion. Many go to temples, mosques, gurudwaras, churches—but where are the lovers of dharma? All this is hollow formality—social politeness. It is a social arrangement that people go to church on Sunday, go to the gurudwara, read the Japji, read the Gita, chant the Namokar Mantra, turn the rosary. But from the heart neither the rosary is turned nor the Japji recited; from the heart neither do they go to the temple nor call upon God. Had they called from the heart, they would have found. Not finding is sufficient proof that you have only been playing games—doing it as a ritual, as a duty. It is not your way of life. You are not ready to stake anything upon it. You want God for free. If he comes by turning a rosary—well and good; if not, no matter.

Sometimes perhaps you even fear: what if I turn the rosary too much—what if I actually find! For then trouble will begin. If God is found, then what will you do? If God is found, you cannot remain as you are. You will be colored in his color. You will have to learn a different language from A B C. You will have to create a different structure of life—build a different temple. None wish to take that much trouble. We recite, we read, we worship—and rely on the hope that nothing will come of it.

Very few are truly in search of truth. And to the seeker, it comes. What is truly sought surely comes. In this world you receive what you truly want. If you do not receive, understand only one thing: you never truly wanted. If the longing is deep, results happen. If the thirst is deep, thirst itself becomes fulfillment.

But many were such that the presence of the Blessed One pricked them like a spear in their very breath.

Their business was in danger, their arrangement was in danger; their scholarship, their priesthood was in danger. In the presence of the Blessed One they began to appear ignorant. When the Blessed One was not present, they were the wise—people came to them, asked them, took counsel. In the presence of the Buddha, the pundit paled.

Whenever someone attains Buddhahood, the one most hurt is the pundit. For Buddhahood is real knowledge, and punditry is false knowledge—fake, borrowed, stale, cobbled together, leftovers. Therefore when a man of Buddhahood stands present, the pundit is most disturbed; his greatest difficulty begins.

Those who crucified Jesus were the Jewish pundits and priests. Those who contrived a thousand conspiracies against Buddha were pundits and priests. The greatest enemy of religion upon this earth is the pundit and the priest. In the temples, God is not being worshiped, for worship lies in the hands of pundits and priests, and the pundit-priest has always been in the hands of the devil. He has never been a companion of God. He has always been God’s enemy. He uses God’s name—exploits it—it is a fine trade.

These people felt that Gautam was bent upon destroying religion. And in one sense, there was a little truth in it.

That which they called religion—certainly Gautam was keen to destroy it, for it was not religion at all. Religion must be born anew every day. As soon as it becomes old, it rots and dies. Religion must be lived every day, just as you breathe. The breath that has gone is gone—you need a new one. That is the meaning of ‘Es dhammo sanantano’—this is the eternal law: each moment dharma must be lived, each moment one must descend into it—fresh, utterly fresh. The moment you store it stale, your hands are filled with ash—the ember has gone out. Ember exists only in the present. Buddha was like an ember; the pundits were like ash—no wonder they were vexed.

Buddha was not a traditionalist, not a worshiper of scriptures, not a worshiper of conventions and superstitions.

Why would he be? One who has seen life’s truth with his own eyes—why should he walk along others’ ready-made lines? He who has his own eyes—why should he ask anyone for the way? And he who has eyes—why grope with a stick in his hand? Lines are for those who have no eyes. Only those ask who do not know themselves. For the one whose inner lamp is lit—others will ask him!

So Buddha was not asking the Vedas or the Upanishads; he was asking no one. He was ready to give. And yet those who understand, even a little, will immediately see that Buddha is giving exactly what the Vedas gave. How could it be otherwise!

Perhaps the language changed—language changes. Symbols changed. The Vedic rishis spoke in Sanskrit, Buddha spoke in Pali. The Vedic rishis used one kind of philosophic frame; Buddha used another. The fingers were different—yet the pointing was to the same moon. But to the pundit-priest it seemed that religion would be destroyed.

Gautam’s religion is not status-quoist. Gautam stands for revolution.

Gautam stands for transformation. He says, Your inner lamp must be lit; a great metamorphosis must happen. Do nothing that keeps your flame extinguished. Do everything that helps your flame arise. Make every effort to become alive. Your own eyes are needed, your own ears, your own throbbing heart, your own feet—and the courage to reach on your own strength.

Gautam laid the foundation-stone upon man.

And religions lay it upon God, or some goddess, some deity. Gautam laid it upon man—upon you.

Chandidas has a famous saying: Sabār upar mānush satya, tāhār upar nāhi—Above all is the truth of man; beyond that there is no truth. This saying is surely influenced by Buddha. Buddha was the first to say: Sabār upar mānush satya—above all is the truth of man. He gave supreme dignity to man. And said: Man does not need to bow; he needs to awaken. Man does not need to believe in any other; he needs to know himself.

He who knows himself attains Buddhahood. Buddha gave a very new definition of God. He did not say God is the creator of the world. Buddha said, No one has created this world, nor is there a creator. He gave God a new meaning: God means the fortunate one. The one who has known himself—he is Bhagavan, the blessed one. Man, by awakening, becomes God. Atman, awakened and ablaze, becomes Paramatman. Within you hides the seed of the divine—the seed is Atman. You are asleep; therefore the seed has not broken open. Awaken—and the seed will break. He gave the key to awakening: meditation.

Therefore Buddha did not speak of prayer. He did not speak of worship. He gave only one straightforward key: meditation. Meditation means—break sleep, break dreaming, and awaken. As you awaken, the divine quality arises within you. The day you are fully awake, that day you are God. No one had ever given such majesty to man.

Sabār upar mānush satya, tāhār upar nāhi.

Because of all this, the outdated, rigid ones—those engaged in all kinds of exploitation in the name of religion—were greatly tormented. They did not know how to argue with Gautam. They were not capable. If Gautam had been a pundit, argument would have been easy. Standing before Gautam, their arguments and dialectics appeared small and petty. They had no strength—impotent logic. So only a stab from behind was possible. The device they discovered—

They tempted a beautiful parivrajika with a large sum of money to spread infamy about the Buddha.

Now this parivrajika was a disciple of Buddha. Remember—one may be a disciple and still be far away. A disciple can even sell his master. The one who sold Christ—Judas—was Christ’s disciple. One among the twelve. And he sold him very cheap—thirty coins. Thirty pieces of silver.

This parivrajika must have been tempted by money, by position, by prestige—and she wavered. One who succumbs to greed is worldly—whether robed as a renunciate or not. She had become a nun, but perhaps even that was out of greed. And thus, out of greed, she fell again.

She joined the conspiracy. Each evening she went to Jetavana, stayed among the parivrajakas, and at dawn entered the city. And when the people of Shravasti asked—these people would be none other than the pundits and priests—who else stands on the streets to ask? They stood asking, Where are you coming from? She would say, From Jetavana—after spending the night making the shraman Gautam revel in sex. Thus the defamation of the Blessed One spread. But the Blessed One remained simply silent. Perhaps no one has ever given such honor to truth.

Understand the difference. Mahatma Gandhi popularized a word in this country: satyagraha—to insist upon truth. This story is exactly the opposite.

Buddha says, Do not insist upon truth. Truth arises out of non-insistence. Truth does not happen by declaring it. In fact, insistence belongs to untruth. When we strive intensely to prove something true, we are only admitting that we fear if we do not gather strong proofs, our point may be lost. With truth there is no cause for fear. Therefore truth needs no insistence.

No word could be more wrong than satyagraha! Truth has no insistence. Truth is silence. Truth is so powerful it needs no arrangements for protection.

So the Buddha remained simply silent—did not say a word. Not even that this beautiful woman is lying. Not even that a conspiracy is afoot. Nothing. He did not speak a word against her. He did not call her, did not advise or warn her. He left the beautiful woman to herself.

Understand this unique process. Had it been Mahatma Gandhi, he would have fasted. He would have said, I will die—I will undertake a fast unto death—now declare the truth. Let the woman speak truth, otherwise I will fast unto death. Buddha did not utter a single word. Far from a fast unto death, he did not even call her. He did not even question her.

Understand this unique process—this is the non-insistence of truth. Such trust in truth! Such unshakable faith that if truth is, it will win—today or tomorrow. It will win inevitably. There is no need to say anything.

And he also trusted that within the woman too is the Atman—it will prick her. How long will it not prick? A day must have passed, two, three—the rumor must have thickened, the smoke spread. She must have thought the Buddha would call, would question, would scold. It is not that he did not scold—there are many stories where he calls a disciple and scolds him hard—for the disciple’s good. But this was about his own good—so he said nothing. When the disciple errs and harms himself, Buddha does everything. But in this matter he did nothing—remained utterly silent.

Silence too has an effect. Silence releases a rare energy. Sometimes the answer that comes by remaining silent does not come by speaking. Sometimes by not fighting one wins; by fighting one loses. Buddha remained silent.

Slowly the matter became the talk of the whole town. For months people spoke of nothing else. One story grew bigger—going from mouth to mouth people added to it. People are so creative! They add, they enlarge, they improve, they polish, they decorate. When a story spreads, thousands of artists participate! But the Blessed One remained silent.

Consequences began to appear. The numbers coming to the Blessed One decreased day by day. From thousands to hundreds, and then to a handful. Then the Blessed One smiled and said—See, the unique work of the beautiful parivrajika; all trash has burned, pure gold remains.

The woman too must have heard that the Blessed One smiles and says, See, the unique work of the beautiful woman—great compassion from her! Her heart must have been hurt more and more; she must have been unable to sleep; tossing, turning, pierced by this thorn—What am I doing?

Seeing the Blessed One’s peace unshaken, the religious leaders hired thugs and had her killed, and hid her body within Jetavana in a heap of flowers.

His peace had begun to make her repent slowly of her misdeed. The religious leaders must have noticed that she no longer took delight in the game; she no longer came to the town; if asked, she answered without enthusiasm. She looked sad, restless; a battle had begun in her heart. They must have seen the danger. She had to be removed. Her living had become risky.

They had her killed. Hid her corpse in Jetavana. Spread the news in the city that to hide his sin Gautam must have had her murdered.

In the name of religion such things have always happened. Even today they happen. And when done in the name of religion, people are easily deceived. For we do not expect such things of religious leaders—hence we believe them quickly. But this is an old story. It has always been so. Those whose trade is at stake will do anything to protect themselves. Then right and wrong do not matter.

They went to the king of Shravasti and said, Something is fishy, O King! Either Gautam has killed her or hidden her—Sundari is not seen for days. And you must already know she used to spend the nights at Jetavana with Gautam.

The king sent soldiers; the corpse was found. The religious leaders said—O King, behold this heinous sin! To hide his sin, this Gautam was ready to commit a greater sin.

Now the limit was crossed. Now the story became a complete thriller—a sexual crime and a murder. This is all a detective story needs. Complete suspense! They created full sensation. And there was Gautam Buddha—weaponless, sitting silent! Even now he did not speak. He remained silent.

For the monks even begging became difficult. Not only alms—even stepping out in the village became hard. Wherever they went, people said, See, there go the disciples of that murderer! Of that lecher! Who would give alms? Who will get entangled? For whoever gives alms will also fall in the eyes of the town. Doors closed. Perhaps for two or four days Buddha had no food. He had no other means. Yet there were a few daring people who still came. Such hours are the hours of the touchstone.

The Blessed One said to his monks only this—Untruth is untruth, do not worry. Truth is capable of defending itself.

There is no need of satyagraha. Truth, even without insistence, wins. It must win. The victory of truth is inevitable—only time may be needed. The defeat of untruth is inevitable—though for a short while untruth may sit upon the throne and enjoy. But that revelry is brief. Do not worry. Do only this: keep peace, keep patience, keep meditation. Endure all. Let trust not be lost. Let trust pass through this fire as well. This is a rare occasion—the touchstone is applied only on such occasions. After this, the trust that emerges will shine with light.

And so it happened. The thugs had taken money and killed Sundari. Sins do not remain hidden; they speak. One night they drank too much wine in a tavern—and said everything. The whole matter was exposed: that we committed the murder, who ordered it, why it was done, and that Gautam is innocent.

Yet the Blessed One still said nothing. He remained silent. He let truth speak on its own. In the end, he said only this to his monks: Always beware of untruth. It has never won, nor can it ever win. Es dhammo sanantano. This is the eternal law.

And then he spoke these gathas—

Before entering the gathas, a few things regarding this story—

First, this story happened with Gautam or not is of little value. For it is a story that has always happened with all Buddhas. It is unique—within it lies the whole malady of the human mind.

Whenever Buddhahood manifests, obstacles begin. The first obstacle is that traditions become ossified in the name of religion; beliefs become fixed in people’s minds in the name of religion—and those very beliefs are the enemies of religion. When a new religion is born, its real collision is not with irreligion—irreligion has no power to collide with religion—but with false religion, dead religion. The struggle is not between religion and irreligion; it is always between religion and the so-called religion running in its name.

Buddhas were not opposed by atheists; they were opposed by so-called theists. Not by those who do not believe in God, but by those who believe in a false God. By those who have no experience of God, but cling to the concept. By those who exploit in the name of religion—pundits, priests, religious leaders. The opposition to Buddhas comes from the hypocrisy that marches under religion’s name.

Think deeply upon this.

Religion is opposed by religion itself. As real coins are not opposed by pebbles—only by counterfeit coins. The clash with the real coin is not with non-coins, but with fakes. The fake fears the real. If the real coin appears in the marketplace, the fake stops circulating. If people come to know the real coin, who will ask for the fake? Hence the real must be prevented from becoming evident; otherwise the imitation will be exposed. The actor fears truth, the hypocrite fears truth.

So whether Buddha, Krishna or Christ—whenever anyone has attained Buddhahood, it is astonishing that all temples, all mosques, all gurudwaras turn against him. These temples, mosques, gurudwaras may fight among themselves, but to fight a Buddha they all unite.

There were many sects in India when Buddha was born. They opposed each other greatly. But with Buddha’s advent, their opposition turned upon him, their mutual enmities subsided. Now there was danger from one source alone. By any means, people must not understand the truth of Buddha. For to understand him would be the end of their shops, their livelihood. To understand Buddha’s truth became a question of their life and death. Their whole business would collapse.

Thus the story is not new. It happened with Gautam Buddha, and it has happened with all Buddhas. Therefore I call it a unique story. Not historical—mythic in the deepest sense. It has happened before, it happens today, it will happen tomorrow. The blessed day has not yet come when we are spontaneously ready to welcome truth. And to hope for such a day too is wishful thinking.

And the net of complications is many. As with Buddha, the religious leaders fought him. Then, hearing what Buddha said, new religious leaders wove their net around his words. Today if a Buddha is born, do not imagine that Buddha’s followers will support him; no—they too will be as ready to fight him. The followers of Buddhas past fight Buddhas present. For as soon as a Buddha departs, the gang of pundits and priests encircle his words. There too a temple will arise, there too a scripture will be codified, there too positions and prestige will be established, there too politics will run. When again a Buddha comes, this net will fight him. Even if Buddha himself returns, he will have to fight his own devotees. This is unfortunate.

We have been such ancient worshipers of untruth that the moment we drop one untruth, we grasp another. Before this is let go, that is held. Our habit of grasping untruth is so ingrained that even if truth sometimes comes into our hands by mistake, by coming into our hands it turns false. Our vessels have become so poisoned that even amrit poured into them becomes poison. We have worked a miracle! Real coins, upon coming into our hands, become false.

The Veda had become false in people’s hands in Buddha’s time—not that the Veda is false, people falsified it. Buddha again gave truth, but in people’s hands it turned false. The followers of the Upanishads opposed Buddha. The followers of Buddha opposed Shankaracharya. Today if someone stands in truth, the followers of Shankaracharya are ready to oppose him.

Understand this arrangement. The past opposes the present; the dead opposes the living; the rotten opposes the freshly blossomed. And those whose minds are not free of the past never understand Buddhas. Whose mind is free? Very rare. Only a few, countable on the fingers, have the courage to put aside their past and be ready to welcome the new ray of the sun; to not plant their beliefs upon it, not plant their prejudices upon it; to drop all bias in favor of this ray, become nude, and receive it. Only such few can be transformed.

So this story is not new.

For a second reason too the story is ancient. Whenever one wants to defame Buddhas, two devices are used—either defame them as connected with wealth or with sex. Woman and gold—the two devices. Very old, very rotten. Only these two.

Why? It reveals the human mind. Man is besieged by two—woman and gold. Man is interested in only two things—this is where his juice lies. And these two are what he has repressed most. Of money the repression is not so great; of sex it is enormous.

Hence, if you broadcast that Buddha has some sexual relation, you will not fail to damage his standing—you will succeed. For people’s hearts are full of frustration, laden with repression regarding sex. They believe—this must be so, it must be true, it cannot be a lie—for they know themselves, they know the burning current in them, the hidden volcano.

They think, What is hidden in me—how can it not be in Buddha? All differences are on the surface; inside, Buddha is a man like me. When desire burns in me like this, it must burn in him.

Thus, the moment they hear—Buddha has some relation with a woman—they no longer think, no longer investigate. They accept it instantly—for it was their own inner tale. They were not treating it as rumor; they were waiting for rumor—the news had to arrive. How many can you deceive? How many days can you deceive? The secret will leak from somewhere. Now it has leaked! They were waiting, ready, eyes fixed—awaiting the rumor.

As soon as rumor arrives, their hearts rejoice. They pat themselves. I always said so! I already knew it! Finally discovered! Then they do not investigate.

Watch your own mind too. Keep this in mind: if someone brings news that a certain person has attained God-realization, you do not believe. You say, Nonsense! Such things happen in stories, in Puranas. If they ever happened, earlier they might have—but in Kaliyug, certainly not!

Thus they always said. In Buddha’s time too—Now where! It happened in the golden age, not now! In Krishna’s time too—Before, yes; now, no!

When was this ‘before’? There has never been a time when people did not say, ‘Before it happened; now it doesn’t.’ It is a device for postponement. ‘Now it cannot happen’ is our defensive arrangement.

If someone says a person has attained saintliness, a thousand doubts arise in you. If someone says a saint has become corrupt—watch your mind! You never accepted him as a saint, but you accept that he is corrupt. First, if he was not a saint, how did he become corrupt? You call him saint only when corruption is proven. Then you say, See, the saint has fallen.

Observe the fun. Before his fall you never called him saint. But the day corruption is proven—you say, See, the saint has fallen; oh, how the great has fallen! You had never called him a great man before—now you call him great when corruption is certain.

You call someone great only after first pulling him down. Before that you do not call him great. Now you can—there is no fear; he lies in the dust, worse off than you. Now you need not fear him. He is behind you. At least you are not that bad. You stay with your wife and children; you remain within limits. He became worse than you. But to make him utterly bad you must first call him a saint—otherwise how did he fall? If he was bad from the beginning, there is no fall. So you say, Yes, earlier he was a saint—now he is corrupt.

And whenever corruption appears in your mind, it is linked to sexuality. Why is your notion of corruption tied to sex? When you call someone immoral, only one thought arises—immoral means involved in sexual misdeeds. That he lies does not occur to you. That he breaks his word does not occur. That he is dishonest does not occur. That he smuggles, that he robs, that he murders—none of it occurs. Say immoral and you understand—some illicit relation.

Your entire morality has become sex-centered. And your entire immorality means only this—someone is involved in antisocial, illegal sexual relations.

Such petty morality! Such narrow morality! Your morality is over-sexed. The reason is clear: for centuries the desire repressed in you becomes the most important. What you repress becomes important. What you repress repeatedly wishes to surface. What you repress will take revenge. What you repress within yourself you will place upon the other.

Be aware of this psychology.

You will see in the other exactly what you repressed in yourself. If you have repressed the greed for money, you will see it intense in others. You must see it somewhere. You cannot keep it within—you will lay it upon someone else. If you have repressed sex, you will project sex onto another.

I heard of the Sufi Bayazid. Another fakir was his guest for the night. He began to condemn women—women are the gates of hell—just as your saints have always said. Once Bayazid heard; twice he heard. The third time he said, Brother, why are you so eager about this door? Do you want to go to hell? Since you arrived you have not spoken of God! Why are your eyes stuck upon this door? And there is not even a woman here—just you and I. Where is the door? Why do you see this door? Why are you so afraid of woman? Surely you have repressed woman within—she is taking revenge.

Be careful of those saints who wrote that woman is the door to hell. They understood neither woman nor themselves. And since the scriptures were written by men, woman became the door to hell. If women had written, man would have been the door to hell. For how can a woman go to hell through her own door? One needs the other as the door. Do women go to hell or not?

A Mahatma once visited me. He said, Women are the doors to hell. I said, Then all women must have reached heaven. They cannot go to hell. Men are the door to heaven and women the door to hell—this becomes very expensive indeed! All men in hell, all women in heaven. Through what door do women go to hell? Tell me, O Mahatma, through what door do women go to hell? He became a little restless and said, Nowhere is it written by what door women go to hell—who thinks about women!

Abuse has been hurled at women. But the abuse is not for women—it is anger toward one’s own repressed desire, because that desire pushes, jostles. Then to project it upon the other becomes necessary—thus one finds some relief. This is projection. What you repress within, you see in another. To a thief, all look like thieves. Even if a pickpocket goes near a saint, he guards his own pocket. Who knows! What saints in Kaliyug! They might cut my pocket!

Whatever is repressed within, you seek a screen to spread it upon—find relief. Sexual desire is the most repressed thing. Until sexuality is accepted simply, healthily, naturally, such stories about Buddhas will continue. They do not arise because of Buddhas; they arise because of the denial, the antagonism toward sex in people’s hearts. The stories are not about Buddhas—they are about you. You cannot accept that someone can be beyond sexuality. How can you accept? You cannot be. And you will never be until you stop fighting. The day you stop fighting and accept sexuality with a simple heart, you too will begin to go beyond—for sex is a very unique desire.

Keep this in mind.

Hunger is a desire—you cannot live without food; you will die without food. So even if we hope that Buddhas will not eat, still they will eat. If not twice, at least once. If not delicious, then bland. They may not use kheer and cream, they may eat coarse fare—but something they must eat. Without food one cannot live a moment. Water they will drink—if not at night, then by day—but drink they must. Breath they must take—these are unavoidable.

Sex is not such an unavoidable desire. Your life does not depend upon it. Without sex, you will not die. Without sex, your children will not be born—true. But without food, water, breath—you will die.

So sex is not indispensable to your life. It can be dropped. One can be free. But free are only those who have first accepted it, then understood it, meditated upon it, comprehended its inner mechanism—why does it arise?

Notice when your mind fills with sexual desire. You will be amazed—when you are worried, it grows strongest. When you are carefree, joyful, it does not. When you are peaceful, blissful, it does not—it is forgotten. When you are disturbed, restless—sex fills you. Often this is so.

Western psychologists say that husbands and wives often learn this secret—thus, before lovemaking, they quarrel, become angry, abuse each other, create fuss—after which descending into sex becomes easier.

Strange! Husbands and wives fight—their fighting creates anxiety and unease. In unease, sexuality is born. In a mind full of calm and ease, sex does not arise. Sex is a fever; relief comes through sex only when the fever stands high. Sex depletes the body; when energy is lessened, the fever falls. The inner boiling subsides; you sleep.

Sex does not go by suppressing sex, but by the peace arising through meditation. When someone begins to live in proper repose—no tension, no worry, no restlessness—life like a light flower, feet not touching the ground, flying in the air, every moment steeped in rasa—rasa vai sah—as Patanjali told his disciple Chaitra yesterday: one who is always full of rasa will not descend into sex. For, descending into sex, he will see only energy depleted and his rasa lost.

As long as the joy received through sex is more than your daily joy, sex will remain. When you begin to live in a joy greater than sexual joy, sex disappears.

Understand this. I am saying it for your work. Through these stories I wish to say something to you. My interest is not as much in Buddha as in you. For I am speaking to you. Buddha is the excuse.

Until your consciousness tastes a joy greater than sex, you cannot be free of sex. Those who fight sex become worse—more agitated, fall lower. Hence their minds are always full of thoughts of sex. Humankind has repressed sex so much—thus it cannot be free of it. Therefore the rumors relate to sex.

As for wealth—they could not say of Buddha, for he had had much and renounced it. That could not be made a cause of defamation. Only one thing remained: sexuality. They could not confront Buddha’s truth directly—it was intense, clear, like the sun. They had no stature to stand with eyes raised before it. They could not even come near. From behind, a stab. In the dark, a stab. And there is no easier device. In a world of people repressed in sex, it is enough to spread the word that a beautiful woman goes to Buddha at night and engages him in sex. That is enough.

This beautiful parivrajika must have enticed many in the village—she was beautiful, and a bhikshuni, a disciple of Buddha. Seeing her go asking alms, who knows how many minds were swayed.

Keep this in mind too: more than an ordinary woman, a nun entices—because the ordinary is not difficult to get; the nun is difficult. And what is difficult to get becomes more juicy. The more unattainable, the more juice. What is easily gotten loses taste. Where is the juice? Where is the challenge to the ego?

This beautiful nun moved in the village, begged alms. Seeing her beautiful body and face, many were swayed. Then came the news that she has physical relations with Buddha. Many believed. Those who had desired, who had dreamed, they all believed that the matter is true—we too had wavered. They thought, I too was affected. They took revenge also. A fine chance to take revenge on Buddha.

Why do we want revenge on Buddha?

Because Buddha hurts us deeply. Among the blind, the one who sees hurts the blind—for because of him they appear blind. Among the sick, the healthy man hurts them—because by comparison their sickness shows. Where there is dense darkness and people grope, one with an inner lamp ignites anger in us. It is an insult. The lamp burns not in us but in another—that becomes jealousy.

So it is not without reason we crucified Jesus. We had to—he became unbearable. There was a limit to bearing. Then he roamed and tormented us. Whenever we saw him, we were disturbed. He negated us. Standing before him, we looked poor and mean. We felt petty, nothing. Life should be like this—and our life crawls like worms! He tormented us. He wounded us. He would not let us sleep. Crucifixion became necessary.

We gave poison to Socrates. He roamed about awakening people. The sleeping do not want to awaken. They are not just sleeping—they are seeing sweet dreams. When you awaken them, their dreams break. And they have known nothing else but dreams. Dreams are their only truth.

So when you awaken them, they feel you are the enemy. You break their dreams. We were so happily immersed—building palaces, beautiful queens, sons, a great kingdom—why drag us into this waking? In waking there is nothing—beggary, a hut, an ugly wife, a troublesome son. We were lying in our sleep, seeing sweet dreams—do not awaken us.

We have been angry with Buddhas. We have taken our revenge in many ways. Our means? To prove them like us. If it is proven they are like us, the matter ends—no obstacle remains.

The Blessed One’s impact grew day by day.

No effort is needed to increase this. The one in whom Buddhahood has happened has no longing to influence. It spreads by itself—like the sun rises, light spreads; the flower blooms, fragrance spreads. A Buddha does not try to influence. His presence, his awakening, his consciousness draw many. He becomes a magnet. People are drawn like iron filings. His presence becomes enchanting. Those who taste him cannot forget—wish to taste more.

The Blessed One’s impact increased daily. The lovers of dharma rejoiced.

They rejoiced because in his presence they had proof that dharma is true—what the Vedas say, what the Upanishads say, are not mere words—here living dharma had appeared. The true lovers of dharma danced; they were ecstatic: We are blessed! We had heard in scripture—now we have seen. We had heard—now we have experienced.

There is a great difference. To have heard of the sun and to see it rise—great difference. To have seen pictures of the Himalayas and then to see them—great difference. Pictures lack freshness, coolness; no winds, no light; where in pictures are those heights and depths, the birds that sing, the flowers that fill valleys with fragrance! Pictures are pictures. What had been seen in pictures now stood before the eyes.

The Vedas are pictures, the Upanishads are pictures. After thousands of years, if someone becomes a Buddha—the lovers of dharma do not feel he is against the Vedas; they feel he is the witness to the Vedas. Till now the Vedas were without witness; in Buddha they found a witness. What had been argument now became a way to experience. Here stands the person! And what has happened within him can happen within us.

The flowers of their hearts opened in the rays of the Blessed One. The birds of their minds were eager to fly with him into the infinite.

One who loves dharma is exhilarated in a Buddha’s presence. For this he has waited for births—that there be someone who is proof. He does not want intellectual proof—he wants living, existential proof. Someone whose very breeze carries Buddhahood; in whose presence we feel proof that God is. Whose presence tells us the world does not end at matter—there are secrets hidden here. A way to search. One whose presence becomes a call to a great quest; who challenges: Come, walk with me! As I have wings, so do you. You never flew, hence you forgot your wings. You were born with wings. Flutter—you too will fly. What I found is your treasure too.

But such people were unfortunately few.

They were few then, they are few now. The misfortune is that many are religious, but not lovers of religion. Many go to temples, mosques, gurudwaras, churches—but where are the lovers? All this is hollow formality—social etiquette. People go to church on Sunday; to the gurudwara; read the Japji; read the Gita; chant the Namokar Mantra; turn the rosary. But from the heart, neither the rosary is turned nor the Japji recited; from the heart neither the temple is visited, nor God invoked. Had there been heart’s call, He would have been found. Not finding is proof enough that you have only been playing. Doing it as a ritual, as a duty. It is not your style of living. You are not ready to stake anything upon it. You want God free of cost. If he comes by turning the rosary—fine. If not—fine.

Sometimes perhaps you are even afraid: What if I turn it too much—what if I actually find! For then trouble. If God is found, what will you do? You cannot remain as you are. You must be dyed in his color. You must learn a different alphabet. A different structure of life must be created, a different temple built. No one wants that much trouble. We recite, we read, we worship—and rely upon the belief that nothing will come of it.

Very few are truly in search of truth. And the seeker finds. What is truly sought is found. In this world you get what you truly want. If you do not, know only this: you never truly wanted. If the longing is deep, results come. If the thirst is deep, thirst itself becomes attainment.

Many, however, felt the presence of the Blessed One stabbing them like a spear.

Their trade was in danger, their arrangement was in danger; their scholarship, priesthood was in danger. In the presence of the Blessed One they began to feel ignorant. When he was not present, they were the wise—people came, asked, took counsel. In his presence, the pundit paled.

Whenever someone attains Buddhahood, the pundit is most hurt. For Buddhahood is true knowledge, punditry false—fake, borrowed, stale, gathered rubbish, leftovers. So when a Buddha stands present, the pundit is most troubled; his greatest difficulty arises.

Those who crucified Jesus were Jewish pundits and priests. Those who contrived conspiracies against Buddha were all pundits and priests. No greater enemy of religion exists on earth than the pundit and priest. In temples God is not being worshiped—worship lies in the hands of pundit-priests, and they have always been in the devil’s hands. They have never been God’s companions. They are enemies—using God’s name for exploitation. A good business.

They felt that Gautam was bent upon destroying religion. And in that there was a little truth.

For what they called religion—Gautam was surely bent upon destroying it. It was not religion. Religion must be born anew every day. As soon as it is old it rots and dies. Religion must be lived moment to moment, as you breathe. The breath gone is gone—new breath is needed. That is the meaning of Es dhammo sanantano. Dharma must be lived every moment, descended into every moment—fresh, utterly fresh. If stored stale, your hands will be filled with ash—the ember has died. Ember exists in the present. Buddha was an ember. The pundits were ash—no wonder they were troubled.

Buddha was not a traditionalist, nor a worshiper of scripture, nor of conventions and superstitions.

Why would he be? One who has seen truth with his own eyes—why would he walk others’ lines? He who has eyes—why ask the way? He who has light within—others will ask him!

So Buddha was not asking the Vedas or the Upanishads—he asked no one. He was ready to give. And yet, those with even a little understanding will see instantly: Buddha gives what the Vedas gave. How could it be otherwise!

Perhaps the language has changed—language changes; symbols have changed. The Vedic rishis spoke Sanskrit; Buddha spoke Pali. The Vedic rishis used one kind of philosophical framework; Buddha used another. The fingers differed—the pointing was the same. But to the pundit-priest it seemed religion would be destroyed.

Gautam’s religion is not status-quoist. Gautam is for revolution.

He is for transformation. He says: Let your inner flame be lit, a great change must happen. Do nothing that keeps your light extinguished. Do everything that helps it arise. Make every effort to become alive. Your own eyes are needed, your own ears, your own beating heart, your own feet—and the courage to reach on your own strength.

Gautam laid the foundation-stone upon man.

And religions lay it upon God, goddesses, deities. Gautam laid it upon man—upon you.

Chandidas said: Sabār upar mānush satya, tāhār upar nāhi—Above all is the truth of man; beyond that, none. This saying is surely influenced by Buddha. Buddha first declared: Above all is the truth of man. He gave supreme dignity to man. He said: Man need not bow; he needs to awaken. Man need not believe in another; he needs only to know himself.

He who knows himself attains Buddhahood. Buddha gave a new meaning to God: God means the fortunate one—the one who has known himself. Man, awakening, becomes God. Atman, awakening and ablaze, becomes Paramatman. The seed of the divine is hidden within you—the seed is Atman. You sleep; the seed does not break. Awaken—and the seed breaks. He gave the key: meditation.

Therefore Buddha did not speak of prayer or worship. Only one straight key: meditation. Meditation means—break sleep, break dreams, awaken. As you awaken, the divine-state arises within you. The day you are fully awake, you are God. Never before had anyone given such majesty to man.

Sabār upar mānush satya, tāhār upar nāhi.

Because of this, naturally, the outdated, the rigid, those exploiting in the name of religion, were pained. They knew not how to debate Gautam. They were not capable. Had he been a pundit, debate would be easy. In front of Gautam, their arguments appeared small, petty, impotent. So only stabbing from behind was possible. They found a device—

They enticed a beautiful parivrajika with a large sum to spread defamation of the Buddha.

This parivrajika had become a nun, initiated by Buddha. What kind of initiation was this! What kind of renunciation! She did not even feel ashamed. What she began to do—she never even considered. She succumbed to greed.

And do not think she must have been a great sinner. Not at all—she was ordinary. People are like that. If someone offered you money to speak against me, reflect in your mind tomorrow morning: For how much would you agree—just reflect; no one is paying you, you are not taking—just reflect. A thousand? Two thousand? Five thousand? Ten thousand? As the number rises, you will feel the juice arise. Fifty thousand—you will think, fifty is a bit much, difficult. A hundred thousand—you will say—now let it be, now take it. Try and see—how many rupees? No one is offering. You will find that Sundari is hidden within you too. It is ordinary, not special.

Do not dismiss her as a sinner—that is our trick. We say—she must have been a great sinner; to lay such a stain on a man like Buddha! A great, grave sinner.

Do not thus escape. It is the act of the common man. And the common man is hidden in everyone. Values differ—someone is ready for five rupees; Judas was ready for thirty.

But thirty rupees then were much—remember. Not today’s thirty rupees. Solid silver. Today’s thirty are not equal even to one of those days. Then thirty were much. In one rupee of Judas’s time a whole month could pass in comfort and style. Thirty was enough. From the interest of thirty one could live comfortably for life.

So do not think of your thirty. Do not think of the notes in your pocket. Do not say—how could he sell Jesus for thirty! Think—lifetime of rest, no need for job or trade; you go to the hills and rest for life—and only a small lie to tell—will you miss it? If you miss it, you will repent. You will feel you made a mistake.

Reflect. And never quickly label another as sinner and save yourself. We hang labels to escape. Sundari was an ordinary person—like you, like all. She must have been deceived.

Buddha does not even take her name. He only says: ‘As a kusha-grass, wrongly grasped, cuts the hand, so wrongly grasped, sramanya leads to hell.’

Kuso yathā duggahito hatthamevānukantati;
Sāmaññaṃ dupparāmaṭṭhaṃ nirayāya upakkaddhati.

‘Just as a kusha-grass wrongly held cuts the hand, so wrongly grasped sramanya drags one to hell.’

He says—do not imagine, O monks, that merely taking sannyas is enough. If even sannyas is taken wrongly, you will go to hell. Soft grass—kusa—you have seen. If you pluck even soft grass wrongly, the hand is cut; blood flows. How can soft grass cut the hand? But if you do not know the art, even soft grass cuts. Sannyas, such a gentle and peaceful thing—if grasped wrongly, it will cut; it will lead you to sorrow, drop you into hell.

Remember—even sannyas can be wrong; and sansar can be right. It is a matter of the right man, not sannyas and sansar.

This parivrajika had become a nun. What kind of initiation! What kind of renunciation! She did not feel ashamed. She never thought. She succumbed to greed.

And do not think she was a great sinner—she was ordinary. If someone offers you money to speak against me, reflect how much will make you agree. You will find Sundari within.

Buddha does not even take her name. He only says, ‘As wrongly grasped kusha cuts the hand, wrongly grasped sramanya leads to hell.’

Kayirā ce kayirāthenaṃ, daḷhamenaṃ parakkame;
Sithilo hi paribbājo, bhiyyo ākirati rajaṃ.

‘If you are to do the act of going forth—if you are to take sannyas—then do it well; do it firmly, with strong endeavor. For a loose, lax sramanya only scatters more dust and filth.’

Better a worldly man. At least there is no fraud. Do not take false sannyas, says Buddha, for false sannyas is more dangerous—more dangerous than the worldly.

Understand. If this parivrajika had not been a nun but a prostitute, perhaps the villagers would not have believed so quickly. They would have said, A prostitute—who will trust her words! She is worth two pennies; who will trust her! If she had been a prostitute, perhaps no one would have believed her so easily. But she was a shravika, a parivrajika, a sannyasini—Buddha’s own sannyasini—now how to deny her word! When she says it, it must be true. People believed quickly. She was a prostitute—otherwise how could she have agreed!

What does prostitute mean? The word arises from the same root as vaishya—one who lives by selling, a shopkeeper. Prostitute—one who lives by selling herself, her body. She sold even her soul—spoke a lie against her own soul; a lie against the feet at which she had bowed; a lie against the one she had called Bhagavan. That is selling the soul. A prostitute she was. But outwardly her garments were yellow—the robes of a nun, of a parivrajika; the color and style of a sannyasini—thus it became easier.

Buddha says, ‘A loose, lax sramanya scatters much filth and dust.’

Nagaraṃ yathā paccantaṃ, guttaṃ santarabāhiraṃ;
Evaṃ gopetha attānaṃ, khaṇo vo mā upaccagā;
Khaṇātītā hi socanti, nirayamhi samappitā.

‘As a frontier town is well guarded within and without, so guard yourself—within and without. Do not miss even a single moment, for those who miss the moment fall into hell and then lament.’

Buddha says, Let the sannyasin be like a frontier town.

There are two kinds of towns—frontier towns and those safe in the middle. Have you thought why Punjabis became so strong? Frontier people always become strong—courageous. Those in the middle grow flabby. Naturally so—there is no danger. Every danger first comes to the frontier. Alexander came, Timur came, Nadir came—they came first to the frontier. The Punjabi must take the first blow. So he must remain alert, ready to fight. If he becomes strong and courageous—no wonder.

One who lives in the middle has no quarrels reaching him. He is secure. No danger arrives—so no spine grows.

Buddha says, Let the sannyasin be like a frontier town.

The worldly lives in the middle—fewer dangers. But the sannyasin faces more dangers—for he has decided to confront desires, to rise beyond drives. He aims to cross this world. He has chosen a great adventure. Dangers will be greater. The desires he aims to cross will attack him. Greed torments the worldly not as fiercely as it torments the sannyasin—for greed sees: you are slipping out of my hands; where are you going! Greed will make one last assault.

Sex torments the worldly less than the sannyasin. For sex sees: Where are you going, sir! Leaving me in the middle of the road! I will come too! It will mount a strong assault. Naturally—so old a companion, and suddenly you break and walk away! It will press with all insistence.

Buddha says: ‘As a frontier town is guarded within and without…’

Let the sannyasin be guarded within and without—guarded by meditation, by peace, by patience, by trust.

‘Do not miss even a single moment.’

Do not think, What harm if I miss a moment or two? A single moment is enough. It is in a moment that all mistakes happen. Let there be wakefulness twenty-four hours a day. Buddha says—do not miss even in dreams.

He gave his disciples such methods that even in sleep they remained alert. Suppose in the day you somehow manage— a woman passes, you do not raise your eyes; you keep them lowered; you do not look at pictures of women, do not go to films; you avoid places of attraction; you do not touch money; when someone speaks of position you refuse—Sir, do not speak to me, I am a sannyasin—you somehow saved yourself. But at night, in dreams, when you sleep—who will protect you then? This is outward protection. Now the inner question. In the day the enemy comes from outside—a man offers a diamond: Sir, I have this diamond; please take it. You say, I am a sannyasin; though your mind wavers, yet you say, I am a sannyasin; what will I do with a diamond; take it away and never offer such a thing again—you protected yourself outwardly. But at night, in dreams, the inner assault begins and you are asleep—what will you do then? Buddha said, Keep awareness even in dreams. Remain alert while falling asleep.

His method was: as the monk goes to sleep, let only one remembrance be present: I am awake. I am seeing. I am seeing, and I am recognizing, and recognizing that all this is dream and false. Doing this every night, after perhaps three months, a night comes when you fall asleep and something within remains a little alert; a dream comes, and within, someone whispers: It is a dream—beware!

What you have repeated consciously for three months slowly seeps and reaches the unconscious. And when it reaches the unconscious, the work begins. When someone is protected both within and without, only then is he a sannyasin.

‘Do not miss even a single moment. For those who miss the moment fall into hell and lament.’

Alajjitā ye lajjanti, lajjitā ye na lajjare;
Micchādiṭṭhisamādānā, sattā gacchanti duggatiṃ.

‘Those who are ashamed where there is no cause for shame, and not ashamed where shame is due—taking up wrong views, such beings go to a bad destiny.’

And Buddha says: for what we should be ashamed, we are not ashamed; and for what does not call for shame, we are ashamed.

For example, you are not concerned that you should not lie; you are concerned that no one should know that you lied. Strange! You are not ashamed while lying—that is where shame is due; you are ashamed only when caught.

If you must be ashamed, Buddha says, be ashamed while doing it—then getting caught won’t arise. Be awake at the very point where a wrong act begins.

But people are not ashamed there; they are ashamed only when caught. And even when caught, they try to hide; all kinds of maneuvering; bring lawyers; say, No, we did not do this; if it happened, it happened unknowingly; we did not intend; our attitude was not like this—thousands of arguments. Ashamed where it is not needed.

So he says to the monks: Be ashamed right where the act begins. Be alert there.

Abhaye ca bhayadassino, bhaye ca abhaya-dassino;
Micchādiṭṭhisamādānā, sattā gacchanti duggatiṃ.

‘Those who see fear where there is no fear, and no fear where there is fear—taking up wrong views, such beings go to a bad destiny.’

Fear that which robs you of your life-consciousness. Fear that which destroys your essential wealth. Fear that which makes you low, petty, narrow. And fear nothing else. Do not fear what people say. What people say is their problem.

Do not worry what people think of you. Worry only what you think of you—what your own judgment is. If in your own eyes you are luminous, let the whole world say what it likes—do not worry. Truth will find a way to proclaim itself. If you are not luminous in your own eyes, then even if the world worships you, it is meaningless. Untruth will be exposed today or tomorrow. Untruth is that which is exposed today or tomorrow. And truth is that which will be proclaimed today or tomorrow, established today or tomorrow. Truth has prestige; untruth has disgrace.

This too he said to the monks—without even taking the name of Sundari. He did not touch that matter. The matter came and went.

This is Buddha’s way of solving life’s problems—keep this in mind. This is his trust in truth—his rare faith. Truth will win. Otherwise it has never been otherwise. It cannot be otherwise. Satyam eva jayate.

Es dhammo sanantano.

Enough for today.