Es Dhammo Sanantano #103

A bud... So tiny. Only yesterday the season had celebrated love, the body steeped in fragrance— today, helpless, deceived, it has withered. A bud...

One dawn, one dusk— such a little life. The petals—so close, so true—have fallen; the eyes are sad, the beauty seared. A bud...

On a clothesline of dust dreams still hang, all of them mud-stained, their colors dim, age spent. A bud...

Such is life: now it is, now it is not—evanescent. The one who understands this transience steps into religion. The one who does not understand it wanders on—like an ox hitched to a mill, trudging in circles. This is what Buddha meant by: esa dhammo sanantano—this is the eternal law.

Life changes moment to moment; to see this is the supreme law. Yet we do not see it. A veil lies over our eyes that does not let us see. Each day we witness death happening all around, yet the thought never settles in the heart that I too will die. Each day we watch yellowed leaves falling, yet the mind keeps saying, “I shall remain forever green.” We see youth turning into old age, health crumbling into sickness; we see someone returning to dust—but the mind keeps its little hope alive: this happens to others; it has not happened to me, nor will it. I am the exception.

Whoever thinks himself the exception will never be free of the world. Whoever understands that the rule is eternal, that there are no exceptions...

What is green will yellow and fall. Whoever is born will die. Whoever is young today will be weary tomorrow, will grow old. Here everything forms and dissolves. There is a ceaseless flow. Nothing here is still. To hope that anything be still even for a moment is the great delusion. And from the very craving for stillness all suffering is born.

Suffering begins in the desire that what cannot be should be. For it will not be—and you will be miserable.

You are young, and you desire to make youth permanent: “May I be forever young!” It will not be; it has never been; it cannot be. It is against the law. You are longing for the impossible. The longing will break—fulfilled it cannot be, break it must; then there will be gloom, then you will be lost in a deep darkness. It will feel as though you have been defeated. Only the desire was defeated, not you. But you had identified yourself with the desire; hence, it feels as if you were defeated. And still you learn nothing! Again and again you will try to seize the fleeting.

You want to make a water-bubble stand still! The flower that blossomed in your garden—let it blossom forever; just so; let the same fragrance rise forever. Tomorrow’s morning the flower will fall. Its petals will be scattered in the dust, and you will weep. Your tears will not be held back. But you yourself are the cause of your weeping. You desired wrongly; you desired the impossible; you desired what never happens. Hence, the sorrow.

If only you could see what happens, and desire only what happens—then desire has died. Desire means: to want the opposite of what is. To want what is not. To accept what is, to be in harmony with it—that is the death of desire.

Youth grows old; you accept it. Life culminates in death; you embrace it. Pleasure turns into pain; day fades into night; you do not resist at all. You say: what happens, happens. As it happens, so it will be. Where then is craving?

Craving is always the craving for the opposite. Buddha called this yearning for the opposite—tanha, thirst.

You fall in love; now you think: may this love remain forever. Nothing here remains forever. Now you say: let me bind this love; let me shut all doors, all windows—so that this gust of love does not slip out! I will slap on handcuffs and fetters—on love. I will pile lock upon lock—let this love not leave! It came with such difficulty. How much I called—and then it came!

Remember: it did not come because you called, and it will not stay because you try to hold it. It comes of itself, and goes of itself.

Can you, by effort, love someone? Suppose someone orders you: love this person—can you do it? When it comes, it comes. You are helpless.

What you have no control over in its coming—how will you stop it in its going? What did not come through your hands will not stop in your hands when it goes. It is a gust of wind—come and gone. To understand this truth is to understand religion. For in the very understanding of this truth thirst falls away, demand disappears. You accept what happens. What does not happen—does not happen. You accept that too. Then, as it is, so it is—there is contentment. In this contentment is freedom from craving.

It is necessary to understand craving correctly, for the entire net is of craving.

You are not bound by the world; you are bound by craving. Do not abuse the world. You are bound by craving; understand craving. Do not abuse craving either. Abuse produces no understanding; condemnation brings no awareness. Enter it! With open eyes, look at craving. How many times you have lost! Always you have lost! There has never been victory—no one’s. And when it seems you are winning, even then be alert: it is not you who is winning. Therefore, when defeat comes to you, it will not really be yours either.

Here life goes by its own law. Sometimes, by coincidence, you fall in step with the law. While you are in step, it feels good. Whenever you fall out of step, suffering and pain arise; the thorn pricks.

You can be in step with the law always—then there is great bliss; then there is joy. To be always in step with the law means: whatever happens, I will not want otherwise. However it is, I will not desire even a hair’s-breadth otherwise. If there is pain, I will accept pain. If there is pleasure, I will accept pleasure. I will remove myself from the middle. I will let what happens, happen. I will become empty. I will not interfere. I will not obstruct. I will not raise demands. I will not carry expectations. I will step aside, as if I were not. If a gust of wind comes—fine. If it does not—fine. If a sunbeam arrives—fine. If it does not—fine. Light comes, darkness comes; days of joy and days of hardship come; whatever comes, let it come—I am not. In such a state of being, where then is sorrow? Where is gloom? Buddha called this state nirvana. Become empty, become void. If you do not come in between, there is nirvana. Nirvana is the great bliss.

All these sutras are on craving. Before we enter the sutras, let us go into the circumstances in which they were spoken.

First scene:

Bhagwan Gautam Buddha was dwelling in Jetavana in Shravasti. The boatmen of Kevatta village, settled at the city gates of Shravasti, cast their nets in the Achiravati River and caught a wondrous fish with a golden hue.

Wondrous was the fish. Its color was golden, as if made of gold. Its body shone like gold, yet from its mouth issued a terrible stench.

The boatmen brought this marvel to the King of Shravasti. They had never caught such a fish. Never had they seen such a beautiful form in any fish—like one descended from heaven. And with it there was attached a misfortune: a horrifying stench came out of its mouth; they had never encountered such a stench—like hell filled within. Outside, a golden body; inside, as if hell itself!

The king too was astonished. He had neither heard nor seen such a thing. Not even the Puranas tell of such a fish.

Buddha was staying in the village. The king had the fish placed in a trough and took it to Bhagwan. He thought: let us ask him; perhaps we’ll find a key.

At that moment the fish opened its mouth, and the whole of Jetavana was filled with stench. The grove in which Buddha was staying—under whose trees—was flooded with the stench. So terrible was its odor.

The king bowed three times at the feet of Bhagwan and asked: Bhante! Why is its body like gold, yet its mouth emits stench? What is this duality? From a golden body, fragrance should arise! And if a stench had to arise, then the body should not have been of gold. What kind of marvel is this! Please say something.

Bhagwan gazed upon the fish with great compassion and remained silent for a long time—like one lost in another world. Then he said: Maharaj! This fish is no ordinary fish. Behind it lies a long history. In the time of Kashyapa Buddha it was a great scholar-monk named Kapila. He was keeper of the Tripitaka; knowledgeable; skilled in logic, a sharp debater; his memory was deep. And equally arrogant. His ego was as keen as the edge of a sword. In his pride he deceived Bhagwan Kashyapa; he betrayed his master. He not only left him, he engaged himself in opposing him.

For the many days he had sat at the feet of a buddha and walked in his shadow, the fruit is this gold-like complexion. His body became golden—outwardly he had been with the buddha—but he missed in the soul. Outwardly he became beautiful, inwardly he remained ugly. Outwardly he stayed with the awakened one, inwardly he nursed opposition. So he became beautiful outside, and remained deformed within. Outside gold; within nothing but stench. Outside is the result of the buddha’s shadow; within he is as he is. Because of that inner ugliness, a terrible stench issues from his mouth.

With this very mouth he opposed Lord Kashyapa. And knowing full well it was wrong, still he opposed. That stench bears witness to that treachery and cunning and pride.

The king could not believe this story. How could he! It seemed fanciful. Where was the proof? Where the witness? He said: Have this fish say it—then I will believe!

Bhagwan smiled, and now he looked upon the king with compassion—just as he had looked upon the fish. And he said to the fish: Remember! Recall what is forgotten! Are you Kapila? Are you the monk, the great pundit? Who sat at the feet of Kashyapa Buddha? Who moved in his shadow?

The fish said: Yes, Bhante! I am Kapila. Tears filled its eyes—deep remorse, deep sorrow. And then an extraordinary event occurred. With tears in its eyes, before the Buddha, the fish died on the spot. In the moment of death its mouth was open, yet the stench had vanished.

While alive, it stank; after death, it should have stunk even more! After death even those stink who did not stink before. But this was unique. The fish died—mouth open, eyes brimming with tears. Repentance... and that repentance bathed it, washed it, purified it. In that moment of repentance its ego melted.

Once it had stood before another buddha with ego; today before another buddha it sought forgiveness. Those tears turned to virtue. The fish died—no more beautiful moment could be found to die!

A hush fell. All the monks had gathered to see the fish. Then that terrible stench! Those far away, who did not even know, came running: what is happening? How did such a stench arise? They saw the king. They heard these wondrous words of the Buddha. And then they saw the fish speak! And not only that—they saw the fish die and transform! Death became like samadhi. They also witnessed a miracle: alive it was full of stench; in dying, the stench departed! Not only that—once the old stench had been slowly carried off by the breeze, from the dead fish a fragrance began to arise. Jetavana, which had been filled with stench, was now filled with an unprecedented fragrance. The monks recognized it well—what sort of fragrance it was. It was the fragrance of buddhahood—like that from the Buddha.

The fish died fulfilled. In a single moment a revolution occurred. When revolution happens, it happens in a moment. It is a matter of awakening.

Silence fell. For a long time no one spoke. People were shaken to the core. Gooseflesh rose upon them. Then, seeing the state of mind of those present, Bhagwan spoke these verses.

Before we enter the verses, let each word of this tale sink into your heart. Understand it.

Bhagwan Gautam Buddha was dwelling in Jetavana, Shravasti.

Gautam was his given name, from his parents. Buddhahood was his attainment—because he woke up from sleep. Darkness turned into light. The stupor went; awareness came. The lamp was lit within. Hence we call him Buddha. And whoever awakens becomes Bhagwan.

In the Buddha tradition, Bhagwan does not mean what it means in Hindu, Islamic, or Christian traditions. There, Bhagwan means the creator of the universe. In the Buddha tradition, Bhagwan means the one who has known himself. For in this tradition there is no one who created this world. It was never created. It is uncreated. It has been forever. And this seems the more consistent view.

You see it: the world moves in a circle. You plant a seed; it becomes a tree. The tree bears seeds again. Plant the seeds, they become trees. Again trees bear seeds. You cannot imagine a time when this circle was not. You cannot think that suddenly there were seeds—without trees there can be no seeds. Nor can you think that suddenly there were trees!

Creation would mean: God made either seeds or trees. He must begin somewhere! But trees cannot be without seeds; seeds cannot be without trees. This circle cannot be broken!

Children cannot be without parents. And those parents are someone’s children too. The circle cannot be broken. This lineage is eternal, sanatan. Buddha called it the stream of continuity. This current has always been; no one ever made it.

Hence, the concept of a creator has no place in the Buddha’s vision. The idea of a God sitting in the sky is childish. It is man’s imagination. No one sits in the sky. There is no maker, no controller.

Then how does this vastness go on? The question arises: how does the vastness go on when there is no caretaker, no maker, no controller? Such complex processes go on in such peace—and with such lawfulness!

This lawfulness Buddha called dharma. He called it the supreme law—esa dhammo sanantano. That is why Buddha’s word appeals to scientists.

Today, in the West, Buddha’s influence grows day by day, because it harmonizes with science. Science too says: there are laws. Everything runs by law. There is gravity in the earth, so fruit falls downward. Water’s law is to flow downwards, so from the mountains it runs into rivers and reaches the sea. Everything runs by law. There is law, not a lawgiver.

Which means: the absolute is not a person but a principle. Whoever awakens becomes one with that law. How? Because he does not desire the opposite of the law.

The sleeping man desires what is against the law. He is like someone who squeezes sand and thinks oil will come! The awakened man is like this: he presses sesame and finds oil. He does not squeeze sand. He knows: oil does not come from sand. And if he squeezes sand and oil does not come, he is not unhappy. What is against the law will not be. Then, pray as you will, perform rituals, sacrifices—what is against the law will not happen.

In Buddha-dharma there is no place for miracle. Miracles do not occur. What passes for miracle is all trickery. Nothing ever happens against the law. What happens is according to the law.

So the place God holds in Hindu, Christian, and Islamic traditions is held by law—dhamma, dharma—in the traditions of Buddha, Mahavira, and Lao Tzu. What Lao Tzu called Tao, Buddha called Dharma.

Dharma also means: that which holds; that upon which all rests. But dharma is a principle, not a person. Dharma is not a man seated on a throne. Dharma pervades every particle of nature. Dharma’s shadow is everywhere.

Then the meaning of Bhagwan changes. Bhagwan is no longer “the maker”—for there is none. Buddha is called Bhagwan because he has known; he has awakened; he has become attuned to the law.

In opposition to the law there is suffering; in harmony with it is joy. This is profoundly scientific. Walk carefully on the road, and the earth does not throw you down, does not break your leg, does not cause a fracture. If you do not walk carefully—if you walk drunkenly, stagger, keep your eyes shut—you will fall. When you fall and break a bone, do not be angry; do not abuse gravity. Gravity was not out to break your leg. You broke your own leg through your own error. You broke your leg through your own unconsciousness.

Gravity is not your enemy. The earth has no desire to break your leg. If you had walked carefully, the earth would not have broken your leg.

You have seen the acrobat walk a rope. Even on a rope, if he is careful, the earth does not break his leg. Many walk on the ground and break their legs! It is a matter of walking with awareness.

Buddha said: the law is neither for anyone nor against anyone. It is impartial. It depends on you. If you move against it, you will suffer. Move against the law, and you will manufacture hell. Move with the law, and you will create heaven. And the day there is not even a hair’s gap between you and the law—when you become one with it, single-toned—that day you attain godliness. That day you are Bhagwan.

Every person can become Bhagwan. This is the glory of Buddha-dharma—that each person has the opportunity to be divine.

In Hinduism, Rama can be God; Krishna can be God; Parashurama can be God. Ten avatars have already come and gone—after that there is no provision. Hinduism is not democratic.

Islam offers even less. Not even ten can be God. Muhammad is not God either—he is only the messenger, the prophet. Islam is even less democratic. God is a despot.

Christianity keeps a little room, but not much. Jesus is God. But he is the only begotten son. No second son of God! Then whose sons are all these? Are all these orphans? Jesus alone has a father, and the rest are fatherless? This is undemocratic.

Buddha’s vision is profoundly democratic. Buddha says: everyone can be Bhagwan. Within each one the seed of godhood is hidden. So it is not that there is only one God. As many as there are souls in this world, so many gods can be. To be divine is your essential birthright. Walk rightly and you will arrive. Do not walk rightly and you will miss.

Therefore, Gautam Buddha is called Bhagwan. He became one with the law. He became one with dharma. Now he has no desires, no cravings. Now he flows with the river. He does not even swim. There is nowhere to go. Wherever the river takes him, there he goes. If it takes him nowhere—fine. If it takes him somewhere—fine. If it drowns him midstream—that is the shore. This supreme suchness is called godliness.

Bhagwan Gautam Buddha was dwelling in Jetavana, Shravasti. At the city gate the boatmen of Kevatta village cast their nets in the Achiravati and caught a wondrous golden fish.

Understand the process of these small story motifs. These little words carry value.

In the Achiravati River... achir—nonlasting; the river is not enduring; it is transient.

In the Achiravati, the boatmen cast a net and caught a golden fish.

Just so, we are all boatmen, and in the Achiravati—the ever-changing stream of the world—we have cast our nets and hung our lines. Each is sitting to catch his fish! One the fish of position, one of wealth, one of status, one of fame—different names for the fish, but on the bank of the Achiravati all are boatmen. All have their lines cast, their nets spread—may a fish be caught!

The boatmen cast the net in the Achiravati and caught a wondrous fish of golden hue.

And here, sometimes, a golden fish does get caught. But behind every golden fish lies a terrible stench. Wealth is obtained too—do not think it is not. But behind wealth there is a horrible stink.

In Nanak’s life it is recorded: a rich man named Dunichand invited Nanak for a meal. Nanak tried to explain, tried to avoid, but Dunichand insisted. He would not relent. He was the city’s seth. It was a matter of prestige. Who dares refuse his invitation!

Many people were present. In their presence he touched Nanak’s feet and pleaded: tomorrow please dine at my house. And if Nanak declined—Dunichand would be hurt. He had put his prestige on the line. He said: whatever you want to donate, I will. Nanak said: it is not a matter of donation. If you take me along, you will be unhappy. If you will not accept it—fine, I will come. They went.

When Dunichand served the food, Nanak lifted the rotis in his hand and squeezed them tight. Drops of blood fell from the rotis!

Hundreds had gathered to watch. First, Nanak had refused so much. He would not agree. Then he went. He had also told Dunichand: if you take me you will regret it. Do not take me.

Hundreds saw the drops of blood fall from the rotis. They asked: what is this? How did this happen? Nanak said: this is why I did not wish to come. There is great stench behind Dunichand’s wealth. This wealth is gained from exploitation. In each rupee of this money is human blood. That is why I did not wish to come.

Here, sometimes, a golden fish gets caught, but you will always find trouble behind it. Here, sometimes, status is also gained. A person spends his life; on the bank of the Achiravati he sits with his nets spread! Sometimes the fish is indeed caught—and then the second thing becomes apparent: the fish gets caught; it looks like gold—but inside? Inside there is nothing but stink, filth and excreta.

What did people gain upon reaching the highest positions? What did people gain after hoarding great wealth? Ask Alexander. Ask the big tycoons.

The more wealth grows, the more one’s inner poverty is exposed. The higher the seat, the more one’s inner pettiness is revealed. On the surface gold; within, hell constructed.

The boatmen cast the net in the Achiravati and caught a wondrous golden fish. Its body was like gold and from its mouth issued a terrible stench!

A golden body is often found. You know this too. You fall in love with a beautiful woman—her body is like gold. But the closer you come to know her, the more you discover: a stench comes from the mouth. You love a handsome man. From afar, all is fine—drums sound sweet from a distance. As you come near, quarrels increase. The closer you know, the more you see that from afar were roses; up close the bush is full of thorns.

Here the most beautiful bodies can be found, but where are the beautiful souls? And until a beautiful soul is found, where is contentment? What contentment?

But do not start thinking this only of others—that others have golden bodies and no beautiful souls. Look at yourself as well. It is the same with you. On the surface, you seem good—polish and costume; manners; whitewash. Inside? All the illnesses stand there. On the surface smiles; inside wounds. On the surface a gentleman; within a wild beast. Ram on the lips, a knife under the arm!

If you look through your own life-experience you will find—it is so. Where is innocence within? Where is the inner gold? Where is one whose inside and outside are one? Where the same tune plays within and without; the same music; the same fragrance?

If you meet such a one, do not leave his company. Such a man is like the philosopher’s stone. Even iron can become gold with him. But do not keep only your body near him, or you will become gold only on the surface. Keep your soul near him as well. Do not bow only your head at his feet; bow your soul too.

Whenever you meet someone whose inside and outside are one; in whom the same om-sound resounds within and without; in whom there is only bliss—flowers of samadhi blossoming—then do not go to him merely with your body. Go with your soul. Otherwise you will suffer the fate of that fish.

This is what is happening. You do go to satsangs; sometimes you go to temple and mosque and gurudwara. Sometimes you keep the company of sadhus. But on the surface. Within, you keep yourself safe. You will repent badly. For satsang must be from within. Whether the body is near or not will do. The soul must be near. To sit with someone soul-to-soul is discipleship.

That fish’s color was like gold, yet from its mouth issued a terrible stench.

This story is yours. This story is everyone’s. Do not ever think, even by mistake: fine, these are stories; from ancient lore. These stories are yours. They are psychological. They are tales of the human mind.

The boatmen showed it to the king. The king had it placed in a trough and took it to Bhagwan. At that time the fish opened its mouth.

Consider this a little: the boatmen did not understand—understandable. They had never seen gold—how could they understand? But the king lived in gold. Even he could not see that this is his own tale! On the surface he was gold, like the fish; and within him too was stench! He found it a marvel.

Forgive the boatmen. They can be forgiven. They had never seen gold; never seen a golden fish even in dreams. The king lived in a world of gold. He should have had sense! But who looks at himself? Our eyes never turn upon us. We do not look at ourselves.

In China there was an old custom: when a prisoner was hanged, before the hanging they put a mirror in his hand so he could see his face.

A strange custom! A man is dying, and you give him a mirror! It was part of an ancient tradition. The tradition said: this man has never seen his face all his life—let him see it at the moment of death.

No one looks at his own face. We are entangled with others—condemning others, criticizing others. Who is dirty, who is evil, who is sinful—time passes in this. Where is the leisure to look into the mirror at our own face!

Even the king did not understand! The matter was so plain; where is the puzzle? Where is the mystery? He should have seen: outwardly I am gold as this fish is; inwardly I reek as this fish does. It should have dawned on him! It did not.

People live in this world like the blind. They have no clue about themselves. Eyes frozen from looking at others have lost their mobility; they see only outward. The art of turning inward is lost. Paralysis has set into your eyes. They can look only one way. There is no suppleness; that sometimes they might turn and look within.

Even the king did not understand—so he took it to Buddha.

Boatman or emperor, poor or rich, losers or winners—everyone must go to Buddha; only there can the veils of mystery be lifted.

Here the poor sleep, so do the rich. The subjects sleep, so do the kings. Here all are blind leading the blind!

Kabir said: “The blind push the blind; both fall in the well.” Here the blind are leaders, and the blind are followers. The blind guide the blind! No wonder all have fallen into the well.

This king cannot be forgiven. But in his going to Buddha is a clue: eventually all must go to a buddha; only then will life’s secret open. One must hold the feet of an awakened one. Take the hand of a buddha, and life’s tangles will unravel; problems will transform into solutions. Then the path appears.

As soon as the fish was placed before Buddha, it opened its mouth.

Why did the fish open its mouth on seeing Buddha? It remembered. It was struck dumb. Its mouth remained open. Ah! Again?

Once it had known a buddha. It had known—and missed. It had known—and not known. That pain was haunting it. By whose grace it had become gold from outside—by that grace its inside too could have become gold.

But people often repent when repentance has no use left. “What’s the point of repenting now, when the birds have eaten the seed?”

It must have sobbed, sobbed its heart out. Suddenly, seeing again…

Remember: however different the faces and forms of awakened ones, their feel is one; their inner light one. Lamps may differ; the clay lamp can be molded in many ways, but the light that burns in the lamp has one taste, one quality, one law.

This fish had once been with a buddha. Buddhas without number have been. Remember: Gautam Buddha often told stories of the buddhas before him. Buddhas without number. Kashyapa Buddha had been thousands of years before Buddha. The memory of that Kashyapa must have been stirred—on seeing the lamp again burning. The same fragrance; the same presence; the same beauty; the same grace; the same rain of joy. The fish’s mouth must have fallen open.

When one is dumbstruck, one’s mouth remains open. The fish must have frozen. Never had it imagined that it would again behold such a being.

Lose a buddha once, and lifetimes pass. Buddhas are rare. Even if they are, still your reaching them is unlikely—because you go where your desires lead.

You rush to the politician—because you desire position. Let a leader come to your village, you all gather—sometimes to welcome, sometimes to throw shoes. But gather you do. You cannot restrain yourselves. Your life-energy is tied there!

If a buddha comes to the village, you perhaps will not go. For what have you to do with buddhas! They are not your desire. You do not want to drop craving; you want to fulfill it. You will avoid buddhas. If you meet a buddha in the lane, you will slip away through a side alley. You will avoid.

People avoid. They seek a thousand excuses. They weave nets of argument. Why? They fear that if they go near a buddha and something is heard—and understood—then what will become of the nets of vested self-interest they have cast on the bank of the Achiravati to catch fish! And they have been sitting for years, trying to catch a fish. It has not yet been caught. If they listen to the buddha now—who says: drop the nets; this river is achir, nonlasting; even if you catch here, it is as good as not catching; these are bubbles of water; this is all maya—then, not now! Do not say such things. Do not even hear such things. First let me catch the fish; then we will see. Once the fish is in my hand, I will listen if I must. But first let the fish be caught!

So no one goes to the awakened. People go where their cravings may be fed. Near a buddha one must be freed of craving. And the paradox: only the one free of craving is truly satisfied; the one filled with craving burns in dissatisfaction.

You have heard of flames in hell—that hell is nowhere else. It is the hell of your cravings—you are already burning in it. Do not fall into the delusion that after death you will go to hell. You are in hell. To be in hell means: your mind is filled with the fire of desire.

Who knows how many births have passed; how many rounds this soul has taken; how many miseries suffered; how much pain endured. Who knows after how many upheavals it became the golden fish in this Achiravati. It could not have imagined. As a man you did not find a buddha; as a fish, how would you find one!

But that being-near a buddha once—the breath you took in a buddha’s presence—that great merit can, again and again, bring about a chance meeting with a buddha.

Now this is purely accidental: the fishermen caught the fish; they took it to the king. The king did not understand; they brought it to the Buddha.

A fish and a buddha—how will they ever meet? Buddhas do not fish. Fish do not seek buddhas. Where will the meeting happen? But it did.

The seed that was sown—even if incomplete—is bearing fruit even today! If you have sat by the side of an awakened one and inhaled even a little of his breath, that air will accompany you through births. Wonderfully, unknowingly, accidentally it will accompany you.

The fish, on seeing the Buddha, opened its mouth—and the whole of Jetavana filled with stench. The king bowed three times and asked: Bhante, why is its body golden while its mouth gives off stench?

There is a process of going to a Buddha and of asking him something. You cannot ask a buddha like a knower. If you ask like a knower, the buddha will not answer. You must ask with a bow, then the answer can be given. Stretch out your begging-bowl, then the answer can be given. Hence, bowing three times. Why three? Wouldn’t once do?

You are not reliable. Bow once—and not at all; you might stand stiff. Maybe the second time a little more. Perhaps the third time you can truly bow. Lest there be a mistake, three times. For only when you bow does a buddha answer. When your bowing becomes visible, palpable, only then does he answer. For to the one who already knows, what is there to answer?

To the one who asks with the innocence of not-knowing—who says: I am ignorant; shower me with knowledge. I am in darkness; bring your light…

But to the one who asks with arrogance—“The light is with me. Fine, let us compare notes. Let’s see, do you also have light? I already know the answer; I ask merely to see if ours match; if what you say matches what I know, your answer is right; if not, it is wrong”—to such people the awakened do not answer. Why speak in vain!

In this land there is an ancient custom: whoever goes to the guru goes bowed; only then does he receive anything. Bow. Bow—and you will return filled. Stay stiff—and you will return empty.

He asked: Bhante! Bhagwan! Why is its body like gold and yet its mouth emits stench?

Bhante is a lovingly shortened form of Bhagwan. In deep love, one says Bhante. Bhagwan is a big word. As “you” becomes “thou” in love, so Bhagwan becomes Bhante.

Filled with tender love, with great humility, the king asked.

Bhagwan looked upon the fish with great compassion, long and deeply—descending into its past. Layer by layer he must have opened the net of its old memories.

Nothing is ever lost; you carry your entire past within. You may not know it—but the one who holds the lamp can see within you. He can enter your unconscious layers. He can see: where were you before? What were you? What did you do? How did you come here? Which seeds did you sow? Which actions did you perform? What is your past condition? For you are your past. You are what you did, what you have been.

Thus the Buddha looked long, in great compassion. Compassion—because in the company of a great one like Kashyapa this poor fish, this poor being, this poor soul, missed! How was such an amazing presence missed? Hence the great compassion in his heart.

After a long silence he said: Maharaj, this is no ordinary fish; behind it lies a long history.

Behind each one lies a long history. No one here is new. You all are ancient travelers. You have walked this road for ages. It is not that you started out in the world today. You are very ancient—ancient as the world itself. From the beginning you have been walking. In countless forms and ways: sometimes as trees, sometimes animals, sometimes birds, sometimes humans—and roaming—unconscious. You have no definite knowledge. You do not know where you come from, how you came, who you are. But in the light of the awakened, all layers reveal their secrets.

A buddha’s attention enters you like an X-ray. What is unseen becomes seen.

Buddha said: In the time of Kashyapa Buddha, this was a great scholar-monk named Kapila.

Understand the word “reign.” In the Buddhist and Jain traditions, the reign of kings is not called reign. What reign do your kings, emperors, presidents, prime ministers have? They are triflers. Reign belongs to buddhas—because from them true governance is born. A unique governance. Nothing is imposed from above; it arises from within you. A discipline emerges from your own inner being. No one forces you: be like this. No one beats you, no one punishes, no one rewards. No courts, no policemen. The reign of the awakened arises in you.

Sit near the awakened and slowly you are dyed in their color. Slowly you find your conduct has changed—without your doing anything. Quietly it changes. Like morning arriving—and the sleeping birds awaken; the trees awaken. Sit near the awakened and sleeping souls begin to awaken. That is the real reign.

Hence the name shasta—one whose very presence births governance. He need not even say: do this; do not drink; do not gamble. Sit near him and gambling drops, drink drops. If it drops just by sitting, then it has meaning. If it drops because you were told, the thing is empty. Buddhas do not hand you governance; in their presence governance is born—spontaneously it flowers.

So Buddha said: In the reign of Kashyapa Buddha, this was a great scholar-monk named Kapila.

A great pundit. He had taken sannyas. He was the keeper of the Tripitaka—the supreme knower of the scriptures. The three baskets were on his tongue; he was learned. Just as Hindus have four Vedas, Buddhists have three Pitakas. Learned; very learned. A man of logic, sharp intellect. But equally proud.

This often happens: knowledge does not cut the ego; it feeds it. Knowledge strengthens the ego, sits upon the chest. Then there is a miss. The medicine turns to poison. The remedy becomes an enemy. Medicine becomes the disease.

Knowledge should cut the ego. If through knowledge your “I” starts growing stiff; if you feel: I know; who knows as I know? Who can compare with me? I am unique, unmatched! If these feelings rise—then know: there is a miss. Quickly become alert. Otherwise one day in the Achiravati you will have a golden body and a soul filled with filth—and a terrible stench will arise.

In his pride, he betrayed Lord Kashyapa.

This often happens. Goshalak betrayed Mahavira. He was Mahavira’s disciple, but a great pundit—very learned. Naturally, slowly he began to feel: What does Mahavira know! I too know all. What they know, I know. Then what lack is in me? Why am I not a tirthankara? I will found my own path. He did—and went astray, and led many astray.

So too there was Buddha’s cousin, Devadatta. From a royal house, a cousin of the Buddha. Of an equally noble family. They had played together since childhood. Educated, cultured. Then the conceit arose: Why should I not be Buddha? He left the Buddha and went aside. He even tried to kill the Buddha—if the Buddha were removed, I would be the sole buddha—none could compete with me.

It happened with Jesus too. Judas—Jesus’ most learned disciple—sold him for thirty pieces of silver and got him crucified. He alone was educated; the rest were unlettered: some fisherman, some farmer, some gardener, some woodcutter. Of the twelve, eleven were simple, uneducated. Only one was educated—a scholar. He betrayed.

The scholar always betrays—because he soon, sooner or later, grows stiff: I too know. Although the scholar knows nothing—his words are borrowed. He has no personal experience. The buddha speaks, and the pundit also speaks the same words. Both may use the same sounds; and it might even be that the pundit uses words better—more polished, more logical.

But the buddha has his own experience. What he says springs from his realization. The pundit has none; what he says springs from study and contemplation of scripture. What he holds is borrowed. Borrowed knowledge breeds conceit. One in whom self-knowing arises—his conceit dissolves. In the fire of self-knowledge all ego is ash.

He was a great pundit. Proud. In the stiffness of knowing, he betrayed his master Kashyapa. He left him and engaged in opposition. For the many days he kept satsang with a buddha, sat at his feet, walked in his shadow—he gained a golden complexion.

Unknowingly, even unwillingly, at least his body became golden. Sometimes, unknowingly, when you are near the philosopher’s stone—even if the iron arrives by accident—it becomes gold.

Thus, his body became golden. If only his ego had not been there, his soul too would have become golden. Ego erected a hard wall around his soul. The influence of the buddha, the grace of Kashyapa, could not enter within. The ego’s wall kept it outside. He stiffened within. He thought within: I know all this too; what is new here? I know it all. There is nothing special. Fine, I will listen. But there is nothing here beyond me. Such conceit—he remained deprived. In that conceit he missed.

So he became beautiful outside, deformed within. Because of that inner deformity, a terrible stench issues from his mouth. And also because with this very mouth he betrayed one who had done nothing but shower compassion upon him. This mouth that should have sung his praise—sang his blame. Hence too.

And he knew that what he was saying and doing was wrong. But the ego does not let the voice of conscience be heard.

You too often know what is wrong, and still do it.

Saint Augustine has a famous prayer: O Lord! From enemies I can defend myself; but save me from myself. Enemies I can handle. But who will save me from me? Do save me—that is my prayer. For I do what I should not do; and I never do what I should. And I know what is wrong and what is right.

He knew; knowing fully well, he acted cunningly—betrayed. In pride he missed. Coming near the lamp, he drifted back into darkness. Hence the stench within.

The king did not believe the tale. You too would not. If you came to me and I said, “In your previous birth you were this.” Not of a fish—even if I told you your own—you would not believe. Of the fish you surely would not—“What proof?” Understand this.

Even when Buddha speaks, the king does not believe. Perhaps he bowed three times, and bowing brought a little bowing into him; but as Buddha spoke at length, the stiffness returned. Ego grew strong again. Even after bowing thrice, it returns!

Ego returns again and again. Doubt returns again and again.

The king did not believe. He said: Have the fish say it—then I will accept it.

Consider this: there is no faith in the words of the Buddha; but if the fish speaks—you will believe! Such is man’s foolishness. The Buddha speaks—we do not trust; if a fish speaks—then we will trust! We trust the trivial. We trust the vain.

Bhagwan laughed. Laughed at such foolishness: I say it—you do not trust. If the fish says it—you will!

He laughed and looked at the king with compassion; just as he had looked at the fish. Why? He must have felt: this one too, though sitting near, will someday fall into the Achiravati. He will gain a golden body, and his mouth will stink. Therefore, with compassion, with moist eyes, he looked upon the king. Even after hearing so much, he cannot understand! He is still tangled in whether the story is true or not. It has no value. The secret is clear: when you come to a buddha, come whole—whole-heartedly. That is the secret. He is not whole here. He says: I do not believe you. Have the fish say it—then I will!

Buddha feels pity: he too is walking toward the fish’s path; he too will fall. He too will gain a golden body and a stinking soul. The story will repeat.

Such is man’s foolishness—he repeats and repeats. The same miss. The same pit again and again.

Then Bhagwan said to the fish: Remember! Recall what is forgotten! Are you Kapila? The fish said: Yes, Bhante! I am Kapila.

Now do not get stuck in: do fish speak? Do not get tangled in: this is fabricated. The story was fine till now; now all is spoiled. I cannot believe.

These tales are psychological pointers. They are awakening-stories. Whether such a thing happened is of no consequence. They are symbols. The substance behind them—catch that. As with stories told to children.

Have you read Aesop’s fables? Or the Panchatantra? Animals speak—freely. In Aesop, animals speak; in Panchatantra, animals speak. These are children’s stories, written for children. But the point of the story is something else. The moral appears at the end. If you grasp that, you grasp the story.

To the awakened, you are not more than children. These stories are crafted for you, so you may understand. They are a mode of saying, a way to present a truth. They are awakening episodes—boddha-prasangs. They are not history. Keep this in mind. If you treat them as history, you will miss. You will be deprived of their essence. They are signals—in the form of story, narrative, event. What Buddha had to say, he said. Had he said it without a story, you might not have understood. In this way, it is quickly grasped.

“Yes, Bhante,” said the fish, “I am Kapila.” Tears filled its eyes. Deep remorse—tears fell from its eyes. And in that unique moment, having spoken thus, it died.

Its mouth was open—but no stench arose. And as the old stench drifted away on the breeze, a unique fragrance spread there.

The fish died repenting before the Buddha. It had betrayed one buddha; what does it matter. It sought forgiveness from another. It did not even utter the word “forgive”—but with its heart it asked.

The king missed; the fish attained. Such an upside-down world! The king still sits watching. The story says nothing of him. Perhaps he was wondering: how did they make it speak? Is there trickery? Is Buddha a ventriloquist?

You have seen ventriloquists? I have a sannyasin—Sarvesh. He can make a statue speak; a doll speak. He himself speaks—without moving his lips. His lips closed—and he makes the doll speak.

The king may have thought: Is this Gautam Buddha a ventriloquist? He made the fish speak! Some trickery? Some fraud? Is there a tape recorder hidden? A gramophone hidden? So it seems the fish is speaking while only its mouth moves!

The king missed; the fish did not. The arrogant miss. The fish had borne enough pain. It had missed a buddha once; this time it would not. And in a single moment the revolution happened. Fragrance spread. As if a flower had blossomed—its soul blossomed and flew away; left the body; reached the Supreme.

A hush fell. For a long time no one spoke. What can one say in such moments! People stood stunned, speechless—shaken.

“Samvega” is a significant word—profoundly moved, shaken awake. People saw their own story. Those who were wise, those monks who truly had a little awareness, were moved; they saw their own tale; saw their own fraud, their own dishonesty. Among them would have been many with the conceit of learning. Perhaps their conceit fell.

In that instant, many were saved from falling into the Achiravati. Many were saved from the accident of being gold outside and stench within.

There must also have been some who said: No, these are all stories. I am not a stiff-necked egoist. My knowledge is true. That fellow Kapila missed, but my knowledge is true—not from books; it is mine. Perhaps such people missed again.

But all were spellbound, profoundly moved. Gooseflesh rose. Such a unique event occurred. Then the Buddha, seeing the state of minds present, spoke these verses:

Manujassa pamattacharino tanha baddhati maluva viya. So palavati hurahuram phalam iccham va vanasmin vanaro.

“When a man, intoxicated with ego, acts heedlessly, his craving grows like the maluva creeper.”

Have you seen the maluva vine? It spreads over trees without its own roots; it has no roots of its own. Such is craving. It has no root, yet it spreads; from one life to another; from one tree to another—exploiting the trees and spreading. No roots of its own.

Craving is a parasitic vine. It exploits you. It sucks one life dry, then another, then countless lives—spreading on. And it has no roots.

Craving is the exploiter. It has made you mean, made you poor, filled you with suffering, created your hells.

“When a man, intoxicated with ego, acts heedlessly, his craving grows like the maluva creeper. He roams through births like a monkey in the forest, leaping from tree to tree for the sake of fruit.”

Your wandering is like a monkey’s—leaping from this tree to that; from this life-form to that, you keep jumping. You have no destination, no direction, no plan, no discipline. You are like a monkey.

A man filled with craving is like a monkey. And craving is the maluva vine. Beware of it. Uproot the vine of craving. And this monkey-play—one desire to the next—today a bigger house; tomorrow more money; the day after a new spouse; then this, then that. You keep leaping. Your whole life is wasted thus.

Yam esa sahati jammi tanha loke visattika. Soka tassa pava ddhanti abhivattam va viranam.

“This vile, poisonous craving—when it overwhelms someone—his sorrows grow like virana-grass in the rains.”

In the rains, grass sprouts everywhere; weeds spread. So in the life of one seized by craving, weeds spread. His life expands with the trivial. The petty is all there is. No roses bloom—only weeds.

Yo cetam sahati jammin tanham loke duraccayam. Soka tamha papatanti udabindu va pokkhara.

“But he who conquers this hard-to-quit, vile craving—his sorrows fall away like drops of water rolling off a lotus.”

Nothing special needs to be done. He who sees craving rightly—its net, its stupor, its ego—who awakens to it—in his life craving melts, and his sorrows melt too—like water drops slipping off a lotus, falling effortlessly.

Understand the difference. People think: to end craving, one must do something. If you do something else, a new craving will be born. People say: to end craving I must do—but then what will you do?

First, you will have to create a new craving: to attain moksha, liberation, freedom from the cycle of birth and death. Create a new craving: I must attain moksha; I will attain it. And to attain it, I must cut craving—so I will cut craving.

But craving may be cut, yet a new craving has been erected; nothing has changed. New weeds will grow. Before, they grew in the name of wealth; now in the name of religion. Before, they grew in the name of body; now in the name of soul. But grow they will. You will remain filled with straw; the lamp will not be lit within.

So what does Buddha say? Do not crave even for moksha; that too is craving. Do not yearn even for liberation; that too is yearning. Then what to do? Understand worldly craving; wake up; be aware. See how craving runs you; how it makes you leap like a monkey; how it makes you stupid. See it clearly; recognize it entirely. In that very understanding craving begins to melt—like drops sliding off the lotus.

Soka tamha papatanti udabindu va pokkhara.

Tam vo vadami bhaddam vo yavantettha samagata. Tanhaya mulam khanatha usiradho va viranam. Ma vo nalam va soto va maro bhanji punappunam.

“Therefore I tell you, all you who have gathered here, for your well-being: dig out the root of craving as men dig up the roots of vetiver-grass for fragrance. Dig out craving by the root.

“Do it, lest Mara—the tempter—break you again and again, as a flood breaks reed and cane.”

The root of craving is unconsciousness. The root of craving is living with eyes closed. The root of craving is unawareness. Dig out this root. Remove unconsciousness. Awaken in meditation. Rise, sit with awareness. Do whatever you do—do it with awareness.

When anger arises, Buddha does not say: suppress anger. He says: do anger with awareness. And you will be amazed—has anyone ever managed angry awareness?

Stay awake and do your anger. When anger seizes you, shake yourself awake; do anger mindfully—and you will find: as awareness rises, anger falls. They cannot coexist.

When lust arises, do not suppress it. No wise one ever says suppress. Whoever says suppress knows nothing—he is a great ignoramus. He is blind and will blind others.

Buddha says: when sex arises, meditate. Watch: what is arising, why is it arising? What came of it before? You have fallen into it many times—what did you gain? Analyze. Understand. Simply understand. As your understanding deepens, the smoke of lust clears.

“Dig out the root of craving. Otherwise the flood will break you again and again like reed in a torrent.”

Buddha says: this devil of craving will break you again and again—throw you down again and again; torment you again and again.

Second scene:

Bhagwan was dwelling in Veluvana. One day, going out for alms, he paused on the way upon seeing a sow, then smiled to himself and walked on.

Upon seeing a sow... Ananda, the elder, who always stayed with him like a shadow—his attendant—saw that Buddha paused upon seeing a sow, thought something, smiled, and moved ahead. Ananda could not restrain his curiosity. He asked Bhagwan why he had paused, thought, and smiled.

The Shasta said: Ananda, this sow was once a hen in the reign of Kakusandha Buddha.

An ancient buddha—Kakusandha. In his reign she was a hen. Hearing Bhagwan Kakusandha’s discourses and living near his monastery, she had developed affection for him. Whenever he spoke, she came near. Even if she could not understand, she listened. Who can understand? Still she listened—her heart moved, she became absorbed.

She was only a hen. Not much possibility of thinking—humans hardly manage it! But she was simple, guileless. His fragrance touched even this ignorant hen.

Whenever Bhagwan spoke, she was nearby. She had grown fond of satsang.

Such things happen. At Maharshi Raman’s ashram there was a cow who always came. This is recent. When he spoke, the cow surely arrived—put her head through the window and listened. As long as he spoke, she listened steadily; as soon as he stopped, she left—came daily. No devotee was as regular as that cow! When the cow died, Raman Maharshi bid her farewell with the same honor as a human—he had a samadhi built for her.

So this hen must have been. When Bhagwan meditated, she stood very close, sometimes closing her eyes. She could not understand much, but seeing Bhagwan sit so still, she too stood still. Seeing him unmoving, she too became motionless. Seeing him close his eyes, she closed hers. Slowly, she tasted the juice; she absorbed the fragrance. Satsang settled in.

Thus she earned much merit. Because of that merit, in her next birth she was born as a princess named Uvari. In that life, seeing worms in a latrine, she developed the perception called pulavaka-sanjna and attained the first dhyana.

She had been a hen. The result of Kakusandha’s company: she was born a princess. As a princess, one day she saw worms in the latrine; seeing them she had a unique realization—this is our state as well. As worms writhe, so do humans. And worms too think—the worms of the latrine think that they are in high delight; they are settling a world; they too fall in love, marry, have children, establish society. So are we. What difference between us and them?

Such an awakening occurred. The first flower of meditation blossomed in her life. Because of that merit and meditative wealth, she was then born in Brahmaloka—a celestial realm. But in the bliss of heaven she fell unconscious.

This often happens: sorrow awakens; happiness puts to sleep. Beware of happiness. Sorrow is not as big a curse as happiness is—because in sorrow no one can sleep; the pain keeps you awake. In happiness, man falls asleep.

As a hen she had savored the satsang of Kakusandha. Its fruit: she became a princess. As princess, seeing worms in feces, she awakened to the insubstantiality of all; shuddered: perhaps I too have been such a worm—or may be one. In that state, worldly craving weakened; the thirst-to-be weakened; the clinging to life loosened. Because of that meditation she was born in heaven.

But, Buddha said, Ananda, understand: in the bliss of heaven she became unconscious. And now, her meditative wealth having been exhausted, she has been born again on earth—as a pig’s daughter. Seeing this wheel of rebirth I paused, said Buddha. I pondered—and then I smiled at the folly: how stupid! On the verge of awakening, asleep again! Rising—falling!

Even from heaven one falls, because merit is exhausted. From samadhi no one falls; from dhyana one falls. That is the difference. Dhyana is a journey—you can turn back midway. Samadhi is the destination—once reached, there is no return; for in samadhi you are lost—no one remains to return. Until nirvana happens, there is the risk of falling.

So Buddha says: I paused. How did this happen! As a hen she earned such merit, as a goddess she fell, and was born a pig’s daughter! I was startled; then laughter too arose—how human beings are! What stupidity!

Hearing this, Ananda and those other monks who were out on alms with Buddha were greatly moved. Seeing their stirred hearts, the Shasta spoke these verses then and there in the street.

There are moments to speak—only then can certain things be said. As iron is hammered when hot—only then can it be shaped. So Buddha stood in the road and spoke—for by the time they returned to the monastery, the fervor might fade. Who can trust the mind!

Those monks, struck by the event, had become alert, razor-awake. Such a moment of awareness cannot be missed. So Buddha stood in the street and said:

Yathapi mule anupaddave dalhe chinnopi rukkho punareva ruhati. Evampi tanhanusaye anuhate nivattati dukkham idam punappunam.

“Just as, if the root be firm and unharmed, a tree cut down grows again, so long as the root of craving and its tendencies are not destroyed, this wheel of suffering returns again and again.”

Buddha said: Monks, do not keep cutting leaves and branches. Cut craving at the root. If the root remains—even if you cut the whole tree—new shoots will sprout.

This is what happened to that poor sow. As a hen, some branches fell unknowingly. As a princess, in a surge of feeling, meditation blossomed. But since craving was not destroyed at the root, she reached heaven and came back. Shoots sprouted again. Craving seized her again.

Buddha names seven anusaya—latent tendencies: kama (sensuality), bhava-raga (the desire to be—to live forever, to remain, to never end), patigha (aversion), mana (conceit), ditthi (wrong view—failing to see what is as it is; seeing through the lens of your preferences), vicikiccha (doubt), and avijja (ignorance). These seven are the roots on which the tree of craving grows. If the seven are cut, craving is cut—and no new shoots arise.

Yassa chattimsati sota manapassavana bhusa. Vaha vahanti duddithim sankappa raganissita.

“He whose thirty-six streams flow outwards toward pleasant objects—their lust-ridden thoughts carry him away to wrong views.”

In countless forms you flow outward. All your doors are open to the world, sweeping you into wrong seeing.

Here a beautiful woman appears—and you are swept. There a fine car—and you are swept. Here a big house—and you are swept. Here someone’s fine clothes—and you are swept. Walk awake.

Thus Buddha said: these are the thirty-six currents that carry you away; they call you every moment—come out! And the rootless vine grows and grows.

Savanti sabbadhi sota, lata ubbhijja titthati. Tanca disva latam jatam mulam pannaya chindatha.

“These streams run everywhere; the creeper sprouts and stands firm. Seeing this vine arisen, cut it at the root with wisdom.”

Buddha says: these seven roots, the seven anusaya—how will you cut them? With what axe? With the axe of prajna—wisdom.

Prajna means: awareness. It means living each moment wide awake; not doing a single thing in unconsciousness. Walk—awake. Eat—awake. Speak—awake. When anger, greed, delusion come—stay awake.

An extraordinary thing happens: with awakening, your enemies stop coming near—and your friends arrive. With awakening, hatred disappears, love remains. In stupor, love disappears, hatred remains. With awakening, anger ends, compassion remains. In stupor, compassion is lost, anger remains.

Buddha said: when a lamp is lit in a house and the master is awake, thieves do not come. When guards are alert, lamps are burning, light streams from the windows, and the master moves, thieves stay away.

If the master sleeps; the lamp is out; the house is in dense darkness; the guards are drunk—then thieves are invited. You sent the invitation yourself! If thieves come, what can be done! Do not blame the thieves. Do not call them the culprits. You are the culprit.

Such is the state of mind. When the lamp of awareness burns within, when your attention stands guard, when your master is not drunk—not lost in stupor…

And there are many liquors. There is the liquor of ego—drinking it, Kapila the monk, the great pundit, fell—into an abyss; became a fish of terrible stench. Pleasure too is a liquor—drinking it, that princess who reached heaven fell. And how she fell—born as a pig’s daughter. How badly lost!

Stupor topples—because stupor invites the enemy. Awareness delivers—because with awareness only the auspicious remains.

What is done in awareness is virtue; what is done in stupor is sin. Keep this as your touchstone.

That is all for today.