Es Dhammo Sanantano #37

The world is a marketplace; everything is available there—except yourself. Everything can be found there except that which is worth finding. That by which, once attained, all desire to attain disappears—you will not find that there. Much is found there, everything is found there, but whatever is found there only goes on increasing the hunger to find more. A kind of water is found there such that the thirst never lessens, the burning is never cooled, fulfillment never comes; as if it were not water at all, but the world itself keeps falling like ghee into the fire of thirst.

And the human mind is such as if a small child has come into the bazaar, into the fair—and at every stall he halts to buy, and for every little thing he begins to cry, to writhe, to get restless. And even if this child were to buy up all the things, and by evening, as the shops close, return home with a pile of toys—still, they are only toys; they have no value. They create hope—great hope—but the hope is never fulfilled. After two or four days the child finds that for the very toys over which he had halted, for which he had cried so much, suffered so much—he himself has thrown them aside into the corners, he himself has tossed them out.

But the mind is a repetition. You go on doing the same again and again, yet no awakening comes. And if it were one child, that would be one thing, but within you there is a great childish crowd of desires. Who knows how many desires each sense has? Layer upon layer each sense is desire alone. Whole lifetimes pass, nothing comes into your hands. And there is not even enough understanding to see that there was never anything there where we were searching.

When this begins to be seen, when one starts to pass by the stalls with indifference, when slowly a longing arises within to search for oneself; when the thought occurs: When I have not yet found myself, then what will I do by finding anything else?—when this understanding dawns: before gaining everything, it is necessary to gain oneself; then there will be the foundation, then the ground will be laid. Only then can the mansion of life be raised. Without finding oneself, we build on sand. If it collapses again and again, whose fault is it?

Today’s sutras of Buddha are about the running of the senses, the longing for the vain desires of the mind; and how the far shore of those desires is crossed.

Youth, beauty, wiles, pledges, promises, laughter, songs— Honeyed lips, shy glances, arms like marble— Here, everything is for sale, O buyers— Tell me, what will you buy? Full biceps, knotted bodies, broad iron chests— Wailing bellies, weeping honor, trembling sighs— Here, everything is for sale, O buyers— Tell me, what will you buy?

Everything is being sold—save only you. Everything is arrayed in the shops—save only you. Everything is available in the market—only you cannot be found there. You alone cannot be found anywhere outside. You alone are outside the marketplace. You alone are not a commodity; otherwise all things are in the market; otherwise everything is economics. You alone are not a part of economics.

Therefore Marx—the founder of communism—did not accept you; he said man has no soul. For that which cannot be sold in the market lies outside his understanding. Objects can be understood; the soul cannot be understood. For only that whose price can be fixed can be grasped! What price has the soul?

Marx gave a very precise view on all the aspects of life, but the whole vision was confounded, because the foundation went wrong. Only one thing he denied—the Atman. He had to deny the Atman. He is a pure economist. There is no place for the soul there.

Beyond meaning stands dharma. Beyond the market are you. Where the race of objects ends, there begins the search for one’s own.

And so long as you go on asking for objects—even if you go and ask for them of God in the temple—you are still asking of the market. Even if you ask for them in heaven, not upon this earth, it makes no difference. What difference does it make where the markets are—on earth or in Indra’s city? A market is a market.

Until a very fundamental idea has dawned upon you that the knower to be known is I, the worthy to be attained is I, the one to be sought is I; after that, all else can be sought. Let at least my address be known with precision—who am I? From where am I? What am I? Let me find the master; then ownership can be found too. Let the emperor be recognized a little; then the empire can be found as well.

And the wonder is this: the one who found himself, in that very finding finds all, all searching comes to completion.

Mahavira has said: By finding the One, all is found. By knowing the One, all is known.

But we keep avoiding this One. There is a reason; the reason is quite entangled. The reason is arduous, puzzling, like a riddle. The reason is that this One is already given to us, therefore we do not try to attain it. The endeavor naturally arises only for that which is not already in our possession. The eye sees that which we do not have. The gaze goes afar, it misses what is near.

And you are so near to yourself that there is no distance between you and you. You are you; already given—and hence you keep missing. This strange accident has occurred: the fish asking, ‘Where is the ocean?’ This accident has occurred that man forgets news of himself, it becomes sheer oblivion that ‘I also am’; it has happened because, first, you are already given.

Second: you are present. Your very nature is you. It is so close, so near that seeing requires a space, a gap. If the eye comes too close to a thing, it cannot see; a little distance is needed.

Mulla Nasruddin went to court as a witness. Someone had fired a shot and killed someone. The judge asked, ‘How far were you?’ He said, ‘About two miles or so.’ The judge said, ‘Two miles! From how far can you see?’ He said, ‘I cannot say exactly—yet the moon and stars are visible to me. You do the math. I can see the moon and stars!’

In truth, for seeing, distance is needed. As things come nearer and nearer, they begin to blur. A woman passing on the road is seen; one’s own wife is not seen. What belongs to another is seen; what belongs to oneself is not seen. The house you live in is not seen; the house the neighbor lives in is seen—distance is required.

Now this is the great difficulty: how can there be distance between you and you? There is no way to create a distance between you and yourself. Therefore, slowly we go on forgetting that which we are. We have not lost ourselves; we have only forgotten.

Therefore religion is not an art of attaining, it is only the art of remembering. Never was it lost; it has only been forgotten. The memory has slipped, the remembrance is lost. You are not lost—only the memory is lost.

What must be done to attain that which is already attained?

To attain what is already given, in truth, nothing has to be done; it is enough if, for a while, the race for what has not been gained comes to a stop. Positively, there is nothing to do to attain it—it is already given. Only that which you are doing with your back turned toward it, so as to forget it—if that stops, you will be face-to-face. If turning away stops, you will be turned toward it.

Hence all the awakened ones tell you to be free of the race of the senses and of desires. Not because there is some inherent evil in the senses and desires; there is nothing there—dream it is; neither evil nor good; there is nothing there at all—just fantasy, mirage.

But you have been taught very wrong things. You have been told that the senses are bad, therefore be free of them. There is nothing bad in the senses—only deception, mirage at most. It appears there is a lake in the distance—there is not. In that seen lake there is no defect; it is only a web of illusion. Therefore those who have known have called it maya.

Maya means: that which seems to be, but is not. Now, that which is not at all—what defect can it have? For defect to be, being is necessary.

There is nothing wrong in the senses. If you abandon the senses seeing defect in them, you will never be able to abandon them. For if you proceed by assuming a defect, it means you have accepted the senses as real. If you flee the market out of fear, the memory of the market will keep haunting you; then even the mountains will not be able to free you from markets. Even the Himalayas do not have such power. Wherever you go, the market will go along with you. And remember, markets of imagination seem even more honey-sweet, more delicious, more intoxicating.

Indeed, all markets are of imagination. The outer markets themselves are of imagination. When you close your eyes and see those imagined markets, thousands more colors join them, a thousand fragrances arrive.

Hence a delightful incident happens daily, but you don’t notice: what you do not yet have appears very beautiful; as it comes into your hand it is no longer so beautiful. For the palace you yearned for over years—when it is built, suddenly you stand there exhausted. Now what to do? The car for which you ran madly—when it is parked in the porch, you too stand there tired; now what to do? The beauty that was glimpsed, the hope of pleasure that was kindled—on coming into the hand begins to evaporate. The mirage appears only from afar; as you come near it vanishes.

So the first sutra: remember that distance is necessary to see; what is near is forgotten.

The second sutra: as things come near, it is revealed what is true and what is false! Only from nearness is the decision of truth and untruth made. What is false begins to dissolve as it comes near. What is true begins to grow as it comes near.

Emerson has said: The great man is he who grows even greater as you come near. From afar, thousands seem great; the matter is of coming near. If, upon coming near, he begins to shrink, know that his greatness was a mirage. If, upon coming near, he becomes yet greater—as you draw close, his summit rises so high your eyes cannot reach—when you stand absolutely close to him and he rises far beyond your sight, into the infinite sky—then know he is a great one.

Only on coming near does truth become known.

There is nothing wrong in the senses; the senses are ways of dreaming. The whole mind is a mechanism for dreaming; an arrangement supremely skillful for dream-seeing. And it’s not that you do not know this; you do, but you do not want to know it. You are afraid lest this understanding settle deep within.

O counselors! You explain to me in vain— I understand well, yet my heart is helpless.

Even if someone explains, you say: I understand, don’t waste effort explaining to me—but I am helpless, helpless from the heart.

This is false. The one who understands, steps out.

People come to me and say: I know anger is futile, yet it happens. I say to them: then know that you have not yet known. For it never happens thus. What is known becomes life. What, though known, does not become life—was not known at all. There too you are deceiving yourself. The mind has deluded you there as well.

I understand well, yet my heart is helpless— O counselors! You explain to me in vain.

You also understand that you understand; this becomes a trick to avoid understanding. You also accept that you have known; between this acceptance and knowing you erected a wall. It’s true many moments to know had come; this is true. But you kept missing those moments. Because of those moments, you harbor the illusion that you have known, accepted.

How many times you were angry, how many times filled with lust, how many times hatred seized you, how many times violence arose in your heart—so many opportunities came; they were opportunities to know, you did not know. Had you known, their coming would have ceased. You did not know, you did not awaken—for when the revolution begins, it does not halt.

To turn knowledge into life, no act has to be done.

This is the definition of knowledge: that which of itself becomes action. That so-called knowledge which does not become action, which has to be made to become action, is not knowledge; it has been borrowed from someone. It is not your understanding, not your vision; it must be someone else’s vision.

Buddha’s first sutra is: ‘Like a horse well-trained by its charioteer, the one whose senses have become serene—such an ego-less, anāsrava man is longed for even by the gods.’

Understand each word carefully, for many wrong interpretations have clung to them; and almost all such wrong interpretations have become so ancient that knowingly or unknowingly, we all are caught by them.

‘Like a horse well-trained by the charioteer.’

If you ask Buddhist monks, they will say: as a charioteer subdues a horse, as he puts a bit and bridle on it, as he compels it with the whip, so the person who has subdued his senses—whipped them, bound them with reins like a charioteer, given them a thousand kinds of torments so that the senses bow down, who has done tapas—thus they will interpret. The mistake begins.

Look once more at a charioteer training a horse. If the charioteer is skilled, he only shows the whip, he does not strike. If he strikes, he is no charioteer. If he is more skilled, he will only keep the whip near, he will not even show it. The one who shows it is still on the way to skill. If he is yet more skillful, he will only spread the rumor of a whip, he will not even keep one.

A true charioteer loves the horse, befriends it, pats it, bathes it, enters into friendship with it, creates an inner dialogue between horse and himself, tries to understand the horse’s language, tries to make the horse understand his language.

In Germany there was a very famous horse. Its name was Hans. No other horse in the world ever became so famous; it died only a few years ago. That horse became renowned throughout the world. People came from far and wide to see it. Because that horse had begun to display a marvelous miracle: it would solve arithmetic problems. Ask it, ‘What is two plus two?’ and it would strike its hoof four times.

For a long time this continued. But a scientist worked with it for about three years and finally caught what the matter was. The horse was not intelligent; the horse knew nothing of numbers and arithmetic. But between the charioteer and the horse an inner dialogue had arisen. The charioteer stood nearby. The horse only knew this much: when the charioteer bent his head, it should stop tapping; nothing more did it know. But it deceived even the greatest scholars of the world.

That bending of the head was so subtle that the scientist too took three years to catch that this man gives the slightest tilt of the head and the horse stops tapping. Until he tilts, the horse keeps tapping. The charioteer did the calculation, the charioteer signaled, the horse merely caught the signal. It solved big arithmetic problems. It always gave the correct answer.

And even this scientist would not have caught it, but once the charioteer made an error in arithmetic; therefore the horse erred. Because of the mistake, the charioteer got a little flustered, because the horse was getting into trouble. From that came the clue that certainly the charioteer does something, the horse merely follows.

The skilled charioteer creates love with the horse. The horse’s language must be known, if you are to truly master the horse. The one who mounts the horse by beating and abusing it is no charioteer—he has only mounted through violence.

Now this is what I want to tell you: there are two ways people can seem to be mounted over their senses. One, by forcing—by whipping, by tormenting helpless senses, by treating innocent senses with violence, by starving the body, keeping vigil, fasting, hunger-strike, by a thousand kinds of tortures—standing in the sun, lying on thorns—by acts of violence against the senses, they appear to have brought the senses under control. The senses do not truly come under control; they only become dull, inert, corpse-like.

Therefore in your renouncers you will not see the exuberance of life that should be present. The exuberance you see even in the indulger—you will not see even that much in your renouncer. Even in the indulger, sometimes there is a hint of dance; even that does not appear in your renouncer.

A renouncer should have been dancing. The one who has attained the supreme bliss of life, the one who has found the truth of life—his very fragrance should have changed; flowers should blossom all around him. In whose life the divine has peeped—what gloom do you see about his life? What deadness do you see? As if a graveyard surrounds him. As if he sits ringed with corpses—he sits ringed by his own corpse; he sits dead by his own corpse. The senses have been killed, mastery has not happened. Paramatman has not been found; the world has been lost.

Let me repeat: the loss of the world is not the finding of God—though the finding of God necessarily implies the world is lost. The world has been lost, the world has been renounced, force has been applied—but the divine has not peeped through the window of the heart. Otherwise, like sunrise, some inner light would be visible in him. Every word of his would be a song; in his rising and sitting there would be a breeze from another realm, news of another world. His personality would sing, as if a drunkenness had descended. As if, without drinking, he had drunk the whole tavern. An intoxication whose depth cannot be gauged; such a ecstasy for which no way of explanation can be found; a non-logical joy whose cause is not visible outside; which wells up from within and overflows. In such a personality you would find springs cascading. But you do not see that anywhere.

Sometimes it is visible in some Buddha, in some Mahavira—but not in those who follow them. Somewhere a mistake is happening. The mistake is that what the Buddhas have said has been grievously misinterpreted. It has been misinterpreted because we did what was easy to do. This is very easy. What can be easier than to rain whips upon the horse? It gives great satisfaction.

People are vicious. First they are vicious toward others; then it takes no time to turn the same viciousness upon themselves. The method is already learned—only a slight change of direction is needed. Violence toward others stops; it begins toward oneself.

In your temples, in your mosques, in your gurudwaras, you are worshipping who knows what kinds of violent people. Look a little closely: what are they doing? What you have done to others, they are doing to themselves. You are angry with others; they are angry with themselves.

Your anger is noticed, because why would another tolerate it? Their anger is not noticed, because there is no other there—only themselves. If one torments oneself, who is there to complain to? What grievance can be filed? If one torments oneself, to whom can one go? And when on the basis of this torment worship is received, flowers are laid at one’s feet, heads bow down—then the ego gets a great taste.

Ego is the very formula of violence.

You become violent toward others where your ego is hurt. Understand this. You become violent toward others only when your ego is wounded. The man who is violent toward himself—his ego begins to relish and swell. People give worship, give reverence, give respect. Have you ever thought…

A Jain muni came to meet me. He must have heard some of my words, read some books; they had struck him. He seemed a thoughtful man. He said, ‘I want to leave this. It has dawned on me that till now I have only been tormenting myself. Now a difficulty has arisen—ever since your words began to make sense, a new restlessness has started: What am I doing? I want to give this up.’

So I said, ‘Whom is there to ask? You did not ask me when you took it up; why ask me when you leave it?’

He said, ‘I must ask, because I am fifty; those who now bow at my feet would not be willing to give me even a job washing dishes in their homes. I have no other skill; only this one skill—to torment myself, to fast, to take vows, to follow rules. This is my only skill. This is the basis of my worship and reverence. If I drop it, those who now bow their heads at my feet—who are ready to give up everything for me—would not even give me the job of washing dishes. Hence I must ask.’

That day it occurred to me: have you ever thought that if these you worship were to stop tormenting themselves, would you find anything worship-worthy in them? Is there any creativity in their life? Any glimpse of the Creator in their life? Could they compose beautiful songs, sculpt statues, paint pictures, invent something, be physicians, be teachers—what could they be? There is nothing else in their life.

Then it began to be visible to me; when I started to look closely, it seemed that those in life who cannot succeed in any way, who cannot stand in the competition of life anywhere, who are devoid of all talent—those are the ones who become your sannyasins. Anyone can do at least this. Does self-torment require any talent? Even the most foolish can do it.

In fact, only the foolish can do it; the one with a little intelligence—how will he do it? Will he not see that what is wrong to do to another, how could it be right to do to oneself?

Jesus has a famous saying: Do unto others as you would that they do unto you.

With it I want to add another: Do unto yourself only that which you deem right to do unto others. That which is improper even to do to another is surely improper to do to oneself. Do not turn violence into self-violence. And often violence becomes self-violence very easily.

Therefore the meanings given to this sutra are fundamentally wrong. In those meanings there is the feeling: as someone who beats and forces a horse brings it under control, so you too should beat yourself into control.

This is not possible; this is impossible. You will have to understand the senses, the body—you will have to understand the language of the body. You dwell in the body. You have to live in the body. You have to use the body—not only for indulgence, you have to use the body for meditation too.

Do not kill this horse. Do not do this: stop feeding it so that it becomes so weak and wretched that wherever you point it must go—because its very energy is gone, no strength is left in it.

Let this body be powerful; for upon the waves of this very body the journey has to be made. This body not only brings you into the world—this very body takes you into the divine. Through this body his doors will open. This body is a temple.

Therefore I interpret this sutra thus: a skillful charioteer makes friends with the horse, establishes deep friendship, extends the hand of love. Slowly… And who does not understand the hand of love? Horses too understand. Who does not understand the hand of love? To understand the hand of love, no cleverness is needed—only a beating heart is enough. Even the body understands the hand of love.

Have you ever noticed? The body may not understand the language of physiology, but it understands the language of love. If someone places a hand upon your hand with love—do you take time to understand?

Sometimes a mother even slaps her child; the slap is the same, but within the hand is the energy of love. Then some other person slaps—the slap is the same; physics would not find any difference; the same event has occurred in both cases—yet the interpretation within the child’s heart is very different. Toward the mother he does not fill with anger, perhaps he fills with even deeper gratitude. She struck—out of love alone. The other struck—not out of love. The energy of the hand changes. The warmth of the hand changes.

The body too understands language. Have you noticed? Sitting near some person, suddenly a blossoming begins to move within you, to spread its fragrance. Sitting near another, you suddenly feel wretched. Something within you begins to shrink. Near one person it is as if the morning comes close; near another it is as if the morning moves far away. Near one, flowers begin to open; near another, all wither.

The body has a language. The body’s language must be understood. The one who has begun to understand the language of the body—he is the charioteer. Do not fight with the body—that is sheer madness. To enter into conflict with that which can be your mount, which can take you on a journey far and wide—is utter ignorance.

‘Like a horse well-trained by its charioteer.’

Well-trained means: calmed in the charioteer’s love. In the charioteer’s love, in his understanding, in his kindness the horse becomes well-trained, bends, accepts. Because one thing becomes clear to the horse: that the charioteer loves the horse even more than the horse loves itself. Let one thing be understood by the horse: that what I may do, mistakes might be made; what the charioteer will do, mistakes will not be made. The charioteer is wiser than I am—enough. The horse then quietly follows behind.

Like a small child who grasps his father’s hand and walks along. He knows: I may stray, father will not stray. He knows more, he has seen more of life, recognized more of the ways. Once the hand is taken, the matter is forgotten. Then the child walks in merriment. The father may worry and be concerned lest he stray—but the son now has no concern. He does a thousand other things, but does not worry about straying.

The day a relationship of friendship is formed between your body and you, the day you become skillful in understanding the language of the body and in making it understand your language—that day the body begins to follow you; that day the senses cease running here and there, they come along behind you. As the shepherd is followed by his flock, so the multitude of your senses comes behind you. And it is a great bliss when your senses follow you.

Right now it is otherwise; each sense is running in a different direction. Now you chase one, then another, then a third. Your whole life is nothing but hustle and bustle. In the end you will find that there was much running around—and nothing in hand. In the end you will find you ended where you started.

People came, sat, then rose and went away— I kept looking for a place; in your assembly I remained behind.

Busy just finding a seat—where to stand, where to sit—you chased one sense, then another, then a third. In this entanglement, this irony, you remained.

People came, sat, then rose and went away— A Buddha comes—he comes, he sits, he rises; he takes the very essence of life, the very quintessence—and moves on upon the further journey. And you!

I kept looking for a place; in your assembly I remained behind— When, at the time of death, life slips from your hands, do not let it be that this is all that remains in your mind—

People came, sat, then rose and went away— This is what will remain, if you keep running after the senses.

My words will seem a little difficult. I tell you: do not run after the senses. I also tell you: do not bring the senses behind you by beating and abusing them. Because the person who has driven the senses behind him by beating—he may look good, as if the senses are following him, but it is not true. He will remain occupied with the senses. For all the time he will have to keep watch over that which he has beaten into submission—lest it bolt.

Look closely at your sadhus and sannyasins; they are more frightened than you! Trembling, fearful. Lest some sense break ranks; lest some desire dart here or there.

Where there is so much trembling of life, so much fear—can the divine enter there? Buddha has said, Mahavira has said, fearlessness is the door for his coming. Then can he come into so much fear?

No—he comes when you walk along singing in merriment. You play your flute and the senses follow behind.

The symbol of Krishna points in this direction. People have made great mistakes and wrong meanings. Krishna’s flute and the gopis dancing around him—the imagination of rasa means just this. The senses are the gopis, and when the flute of the Atman begins to sound, they dance all around. The rasa begins.

They say Krishna had sixteen thousand gopis—sixteen thousand desires. It is only a symbolic number. It means thousands upon thousands—many desires—sixteen thousand. But if the inner flute begins to play, if Krishna appears within, then all the gopis are born; all those sixteen thousand begin to dance around you.

Around all supreme persons the rasa forms. And where the rasa does not form, know that somewhere a mistake has been made. I tell you: not only around Krishna do the gopis dance—I have seen them dance around Buddha too; I still see it. This will always be so; it must be so. There is no other way. When the soul sings songs of ecstasy, the senses, drenched, begin to dance.

The senses mislead you only so long as you are empty and devoid of bliss. Hence the senses are able to tempt you. Because the little pleasures they promise you still appear to you as pleasure. When you are filled within with bliss, when you can shower that much bliss upon them—then where will the senses go? The market falls away.

And when the senses, satisfied, follow behind you, accompany you dancing—then life becomes life; the journey becomes a pilgrimage; the caravan moves toward the divine.

‘Like a horse well-trained by its charioteer, whose senses have become serene.’

The senses become serene only when they receive so much as they never even imagined; there is no other way. You are trying to force serenity. You are just like a mother who, by threatening, makes her child sit in a corner with a stick: ‘Sit there in the corner—do not move.’ You see? He sits suppressing himself, his face red, tears flowing, not moving. But look within—storms are boiling.

So it is with your sadhus and sannyasins; they sit from fear of heaven and hell—someone stands before them with a stick, they cannot move—but look within them a little; they even fear to look within, nothing has been calmed. Because peace is the shadow of bliss.

Peace means: contentment. Peace means: what was to be gained has been gained; what was thought of has been gained; even more than was desired has been gained; even what could not have been dreamed of has been gained.

Who peeked through the lattice of my dreams? On the lake of sleep who spread these lotuses?

The instant a ray of bliss descends, lotuses upon lotuses spread. You become blissful, peace condenses all around you. The mark of the blissful is peace. Do not desire peace directly; peace is a result.

People come to me; they say, we want to be peaceful. I say, first be ecstatic. They say, we have nothing to do with ecstasy—we want peace. I say to them, first dance. They say, what are you saying? We have come to be peaceful. How can I make them understand that peace is not a direct goal.

Peace means: fulfillment, saturation, contentment. Peace means: such deep fulfillment that now not a single ripple of craving rises.

As when you are hungry—how will you be peaceful, tell me? When hunger burns in the belly—how will you be peaceful? When thirst has come and the throat burns, and all around there is desert—how will you be peaceful?

But when the throat receives water, when hunger is appeased, a contentment envelops. So too, when the inner hunger is appeased, when the inner discontent disappears, when bliss showers—then peace comes.

Buddha certainly has peace, because within something has begun to dance. Buddha’s followers missed the point; they thought one has to be peaceful.

Remember: a result cannot be made into a goal; a result is a result.

Consider: when water is heated to a hundred degrees, as a result steam is born of itself. If you set about making steam directly and forget that without water reaching a hundred degrees steam cannot be made, you will get into trouble—great difficulty. How will steam be made? Steam is a result. Provide the cause; the result happens by itself.

When the hundred degrees of bliss are reached, when there is an oh of ecstasy—then peace happens. Understand what unrest is. Unrest is that nowhere is there fulfillment. Unrest is that wherever you go, hunger does not fade, thirst does not quench. Unrest is that whatever you do, no fruit comes into the hand—therefore unrest.

If in such a state you become peaceful, there will be great difficulty; you will be deprived of the search. It is the great compassion of the divine that he does not let you be peaceful. You will be peaceful only when the goal arrives. You will be peaceful only when bliss is found.

This unrest is auspicious—do not try to erase it; try to understand it. This unrest is a signal. It brings news that you are missing somewhere. It points; it is a thermometer. It says only this much: you are missing somewhere. Somewhere life is going wrong. The thirst is going somewhere and the water you seek is not water. That which you think is found is not water. Thirst is increasing, the fire is increasing, you are becoming more and more restless.

It only gives this news: seek elsewhere; seek in another direction. You have traveled outside—turn within. You have remembered the world so much—come, let us speak of the Beloved—remember the divine. You have searched too much in the other, dug too much in the other, found nothing; no water comes. Come now, let us dig within.

A journey is going vain—hence you are restless. As soon as the journey begins to be meaningful, peace begins immediately to arrive. Only turn in the right direction—at once you will find cool breezes beginning to blow, scented winds beginning to come. The moment you turn toward that direction, peace begins to unfurl its wings.

‘Like a horse well-trained by its charioteer, whose senses have become serene.’

Not made serene, have become serene. If you make them serene, you will miss; if they have become serene, you have attained.

Keep in mind the difference between doing and happening. Doing can be by force—it is by force. Happening is not by force. You need only arrange, only provide the causes, create the situation; one day suddenly it happens. Happening is always grace. Not that it happens because of your doing; it does not happen from your doing—you only prepare the arrangement, you stand with the door open; then the sun rises and enters within. This much you can do: stand with the door open.

Heat the water to a hundred degrees—gather fuel, light the fire. At a hundred degrees the water turns into steam by itself. You do not have to drag water into becoming steam.

Give plants water, sunlight, manure—then you do not have to pull and tug flowers out; they swell forth of themselves. Flowers are not manufactured; they are born. Yes, that they may be born—this arrangement you can make. The gardener does not create flowers; he only prepares the conditions in which they may be born. He adds compost, prepares the soil, waters, and prays. What more can he do? He prays: May the flowers bloom; he longs: may the flowers bloom; he waits: may the flowers bloom. He completes the arrangements; one day flowers blossom. That day the gardener should not say: I made them bloom.

Flowers are always bloomed by the divine. Flowers always blossom from existence; we only do the arranging.

If you ask a great physician, he will say: We give the medicine, we give the patient rest; we do not give health—we only arrange. Health comes of itself. We remove the obstacles from the path of health, but no one can drag health in. We only ensure that no obstacle remains in between, no door stays closed, no rock remains stuck—we remove these; and then we wait.

Therefore the true physician is always prayerful. And the one who is prayerful only he can truly heal. Because health is not merely the absence of disease; when disease disappears, something descends from beyond. Health has no definition; health has no complete explanation. At most we can say: if you are not ill you are ready for health; beyond that, all is in his hands.

‘Whose senses have become serene.’

And remember, Buddha gives a very important indication after this:

‘Like a horse well-trained by its charioteer, whose senses have become serene—such a one, ego-less…’

The one who has made them serene can never be without ego. The ego of having made them serene will catch hold of him: I have quieted the senses. I am renunciate, I am self-victorious, I this, I that. The one who has forced the senses into quiet, who has renounced by force—he keeps accounts within of how many millions he has renounced. Previously he counted what he accumulated; now, having renounced, he still counts; the counting continues. How many fasts undertaken—keeps accounts.

If the divine were to be found in such a way—he would set his account-book before him: look! He would scarcely have gratitude in his mind—more likely complaint: I did so much and you have taken so long? Does not seem just. And the rascals and rogues and cheats—are enjoying themselves.

Old-style sannyasins come to me; they always say this to me: What is this? Injustice is happening. The virtuous are suffering, the unvirtuous are enjoying.

I say to them: if you are virtuous, then you alone would be enjoying; the unvirtuous cannot enjoy. How will the unvirtuous enjoy? If the unvirtuous are enjoying, then you are missing for nothing—become unvirtuous. The meaning of the virtuous is that he enjoys the ultimate joy.

I call the virtuous the supreme indulger. Those whom you call indulgers are great renouncers. They are leaving God and gathering garbage. You call them indulgers? They are leaving the supreme treasure and collecting shards; you call them indulgers? They are leaving Samadhi and clinging to sex; you call them indulgers? These are renouncers, great renouncers; worship them, adore them, prepare platters for their aarti, take out their chariot processions. They have done great renunciation—held tight a cowrie, dropped diamonds; what greater renunciation could there be?

Those whom you call renouncers—if they are truly renouncers—they are supreme indulgers. They dropped the cowrie, found the diamond—where is renunciation in that? Abandoned the worthless, found the worthy—where is renunciation there?

Buddha’s sutra is very important: ‘such a one is ego-less…’

Buddhas speak even a single word only when it carries deep significance. If you practice, the ego will seize you. If you awaken understanding, the ego disappears in that very awakening. Therefore I call understanding the only sadhana.

Understand anger—and anger will go. And behind it, in the empty space, let not the ego remain—‘I am non-angry.’ Consider anger gone only when behind it there remains not even the thought: I am non-angry. Consider greed gone only when the feeling does not remain: I am non-greedy. Consider indulgence gone only when the feeling does not arise within: I am a renouncer. If the opposite feeling arises, the mistake has been made.

Therefore you see arrogance in the faces of your renouncers and sannyasins. Heavy stiffness—they have done something great. Naturally, when anyone does something there is stiffness. What have you done? Nothing. They have done great renunciation; left wealth, home—they have done something. Their stiffness is natural.

Jain munis do not bow to anyone. How can they bow! At most they grant blessings—that too is their great grace. They cannot bow to anyone, cannot fold hands to anyone. Should the renouncer bow to the indulger? Should the renouncer bow to the ordinary? Impossible!

What kind of renunciation is this? Somewhere a mistake happened.

So Buddha says: ‘such a one is ego-less…’

Where renunciation arises out of understanding; where he has understood the horse; the horse has become serene, not made serene—only he is the skillful charioteer.

‘Such an ego-less, anāsrava man is longed for even by the gods.’

Even the gods will feel envious of such a person, will feel competitive—even the gods!

Buddha has said: When someone attains Buddhahood, the gods come to bow their heads at his feet. For however high the gods may be in their pleasures, pleasure too is a bondage. However subtle the enjoyments may be, the net of the senses is present.

So when someone attains such a state where the senses are absolutely serene, where mastery is complete, where man has gone beyond not only sorrow but beyond happiness as well, where bliss showers, where peace condenses, where all kinds of excitation have subsided, where no waves now arise—the mind is wave-less, consciousness becomes as a lake without a ripple—where such a state occurs, the whole existence bows. The whole existence becomes jealous. Who would not want to be such!

With astonishment the eyes of the stars gaze at me— To such a height my colt flies.

Such a moment comes to consciousness when it flies at such heights that even the stars stand startled with jealous eyes.

With astonishment the eyes of the stars gaze at me— To such a height my colt flies.

‘Fair-vowed, unshaken like the earth, and like the axle-pin immovable—such a man finds the world like a pool unstained by mud.’

‘Fair-vowed…’

Why did Buddha feel the need to add ‘fair’? Would it not have sufficed to say ‘vowed’? The matter would have been complete: vowed.

But Buddha had to add ‘fair.’ Because vows too become ugly if ego feeds upon them. Ego makes every thing ugly. Vows too have a beauty—but only when vows happen, not when they are made. When the charioteer is not driving the horse by the whip, when the horse moves by understanding the charioteer’s hint, then there is beauty. When the horse walks behind the charioteer; when the charioteer need not even speak and yet the horse follows—such love has arisen between horse and charioteer.

The body follows behind like a shadow. The body is the shadow of the soul. Understand this. Just as a shadow of the body falls—until you know the soul, for you there is the body, and the shadow of the body falls outward. The day you come to know the inner, that day you will find: Ah! There is the soul; the body is the shadow of the soul; the shadow of the soul’s shadow is falling outside. The day you come to know the within, the body begins to follow you like a shadow. One does not have to drive the shadow. You do not use a whip to bring the shadow along; the shadow comes. Until you know yourself, there is the difficulty.

‘Fair-vowed…’

Who is fair-vowed? The one whose vows have arisen from understanding, from prajna; who has known life, seen it, recognized it, understood it, lived it; who has ripened in life; whose fruit ripened and fell—did not break off unripe; in whose life vows have arrived.

You sometimes take vows. You go to a temple and take the vow of brahmacharya. Why do you take vows? If understanding has come, a vow is not needed—you have attained to brahmacharya. If understanding has not come, then your vow is taken to force yourself, so that fear remains that the vow was taken in the temple, in front of society, before a holy man; now how to break it?

Why do you take vows? In my view, wrong people take vows. Right people live in vow; there is no question of taking. Taking means you are creating a conflict within. You say: much anger has happened, now let us go and take an oath—we will not be angry any more.

But why is the oath needed? Is there still the possibility of anger? Do you think tomorrow you will still be angry if you do not take an oath? Then how will tomorrow’s anger stop because of an oath? What has an oath to do with anger? If oaths could stop anger then everyone’s anger could stop. Everyone could take an oath; what is lost in taking an oath?

No—you are playing a game with yourself. Why does anger arise? Whenever the ego is hurt, anger arises. Now you are using that very ego to suppress anger. You say: we will stand before society, before the group, and take a vow that we will not be angry. Now it will be your ego’s stiffness. If you get angry, people will say: Ah! You fall? You are fallen?

A man becomes a sannyasin, a muni; people take out processions, festivals. This is a device. A device that now you must not return—otherwise shoes will rain upon you. Because the procession will be reversed.

Sannyasins come to me; I give it to them quietly. They say: you do not do any celebration for this?

I say: so that you have the convenience of escaping. If you wish to leave tomorrow, no obstacle should arise. I do not want to make your sannyas into an ego. It is your joy. You took it; you may leave it—you can leave it. It is not a vow, not an oath; it is your understanding. If understanding is lost and only the oath remains, what will you do then?

Vinoba made a newly-wed youth and maiden take a vow of brahmacharya. I was a guest at that ashram, so the two came to me. They said: we have fallen into great difficulty; we are in great trouble. To break it is a difficulty—because it feels like it would be a sin, a terrible sin. Not to break it is a difficulty—because for twenty-four hours there is no thought except sex. At night we sleep in two separate rooms. I lock the door on my side and throw the key through the window to the other side, so that at night, in the fever of lust, I may not open the lock and go over. So the key stays with the wife on that side; there is no lock there—she cannot open. The lock remains on my side; there is no key there.

But is this brahmacharya? The vow has become ugly. Do you think peace will come from this brahmacharya? Madness will come. These two will go mad—they already are mad. Ego is obstructing now. They say: we have taken a vow; taken it before all; there was applause. When we stood, we were very pleased that we were doing some great act. Now how to break it? Now ego is the obstacle. Now they cannot sleep the whole night. Now they are restless. They are young—it is natural; it is not their fault; if there is fault, it is Vinoba’s.

Let that which is natural be known through understanding; do not be in haste. Haste in life is very harmful. What is impatience? Trust in Paramatman. As desire has arisen, so too desire passes. Be a witness. Watch, fully watch everything. If there is desire, watch it too; surely it has some use, otherwise it would not be. Nothing is without cause. And only after watching will your inner sense be formed: it is futile; then what question is there of taking an oath?

So in my view, wrong people take oaths; right people do not take them. The right have no need of oaths. The wrong gets entangled.

‘Fair-vowed…’

But if you ask the Buddhist monks, they make a wholly different meaning. They say: those who have taken vows are fair—fair-vowed. They do not make the meaning I am making. They say: those who have taken vows are fair; those without vows are ugly. Fair are the vowed; vowless are ugly.

Now you can decide—choose whichever you wish. I say: fair-vowed is only that one whose vow has come from the understanding of life; not taken, but arrived; descended; become a knowing. Then there is no need to take anything. You will live it—for to live the opposite will become impossible. How will you live what has become futile? But why will you take an oath?

Every morning you clean the garbage from the house and throw it out. Do you go to the temple to take an oath that every day we will clean the house, we will throw out the garbage? If it is garbage, you will throw it out—what else will you do? If you go to take a vow for this, people will laugh. They will say: what is the matter—are you crazy? Garbage has to be thrown—what vow is there?

You take vows only when you say: we will renounce gold. Now understand: if gold has become garbage then no need for vows—then the birth of a fair vow happens. You become fair-vowed. You will remain vowed, but not vow-takers. You will bear vow, but that bearing will be born from the inner. There is no question of any outside, anyone’s presence, anyone’s approval, anyone’s praise. There is no need for any outside certificate—your inner wisdom is certificate enough. Silently you will live your understanding. Slowly a certain beauty will begin to play in your life. Your reed will begin to sing.

‘Fair-vowed, unshaken like the earth.’

Like the earth remains unshaken, steady—so he becomes steady. Nothing whatsoever can agitate him.

‘And like the axle-pin immovable.’

Upon which pin the earth turns—the whole earth goes on turning, but the pin remains still. Like the pin in the hub of a wheel—the whole wheel goes on turning, the cart moves, but the pin remains still. Life goes on, the wheel goes on turning—but within everything remains still.

Now, those whom you call renouncers are such as have renounced the wheel, remaining only the pin. What joy is there in the pin if it is not in the wheel? Is it even a pin if not in the wheel? The journey itself is broken. If the pin does not turn, what meaning is there in its not turning? Let the cart move, the wheel turn—and the pin not turn. If the pin turns, the cart will collapse, fall apart; the wheel will fall off, cannot run.

All turning things run through the support of something not turning. The base of motion is motionlessness. The base of the whole world’s turning is that Paramatman who does not turn. The base of your whole body’s turnings is that consciousness which is still. The base of your mind’s entire wandering is that Atman which never moves—the axle-pin; it needs to be recognized.

There is no need to stop the wheel—let the wheel go on, joyously; you identify yourself with the pin. Then you are in the world and the world is not in you. Then you walk a thousand paths, but no path can distort you. Then however much you travel, travel does not become an obstruction in your life.

Fair-vowed is such a person, who is in the world while the world is not in him—like the lotus.

‘Unshaken like the earth; like the axle-pin immovable.’

You will go on trembling until you have some demand. So long as you have any craving, so long as you want to buy something in the market, you will keep trembling.

Have you noticed—you pass through the same market many times, at different times, in different moods. Sometimes you pass with leisure—then at every window, every door, every shop you stop and take a glance—what’s there! What is being sold! What is happening! Even if you do not want to buy, you pass through the market creating a desire to buy.

Have you noticed—when you pass through the same market after fasting, the shoe-shops no longer show up—only the sweetmeat shops appear. You have changed, the street is the same. Only that appears to you which is your craving; which is your dissatisfaction.

Have you noticed—you pass through the same market and your house has caught fire—you are running. Nothing shows up. The market is the same, the shops are there—but now no shoe-shop appears, no cloth-shop, no sweetshop; nothing appears. Even if someone greets you on the road, you don’t hear. Someone says something—you don’t understand. There is so much noise in the market, and you pass through as if nothing touches you—your house is on fire. This is not a leisure hour! If someone tells you tomorrow, ‘We met on the way,’ you will not recognize him, you will not remember. Not even a line remained.

In the settlement of hope wanders a little hope of union— Like a stranger, it roams about, frightened.

This world of desires—in it the hope to gain something, to meet someone, to enjoy something—like a stranger it wanders, frightened.

Therefore you are so tremulous, so troubled. Within you are trembling all the time. So long as there is desire, there will be trembling. If you would be immovable—and without becoming immovable, being is not like being—then you must understand the nature of desire, which wanders like a stranger, makes you wander like a beggar door to door. Look at this desire with eyes sunk deep. Fix your gaze upon it, look through and through—there you will find nothing at all. You have not yet looked; that is why you are entangled. The moment you see, you will be free.

And until you are free from this, you cannot see that which is hidden within you, which you are. The gaze can be only in one direction—either outside, or inside. Either come inside the house, or be outside—you cannot be both at once.

Like a mirror, O unaware one, open the doors of your chest— See who sits within your clay dwelling.

Who, with what benediction, sits hidden in the temple of your heart.

Like a mirror, O unaware one, open the doors of your chest—

But when will such leisure arise? Your hands are busy knocking upon a thousand other doors. At how many doors are your hands knocking! Where is leisure?

People come to me; I say to them, do a little meditation. They say, where is the time? Where is leisure?

They speak rightly. Where is leisure? Where is time? They say, when we get time, we will do it. I tell them, you will never get it. Because as life begins to slip from your hands, so will you begin to run more and more, more frantically—here and there. And demented… so far nothing has been found.

People came, sat, then rose and went away— I kept looking for a place; in your assembly I remained behind.

So as old age comes near, your madness will increase. You will run, more panicked. Death will come near. Death will knock upon your door; and you will be knocking upon who knows how many million doors.

Death occurs for this very reason: it never finds you at home. The day death finds you at home, death does not happen; that very day you attain the immortal. Death comes—and you do not die. But only if it finds you in your own home.

‘By right knowledge liberated, the pacified arhat’s mind is at peace; his speech is at peace; his action is at peace.’

As soon as bliss fills within, everything becomes peaceful. The mind becomes peaceful, the speech becomes peaceful, the action becomes peaceful.

Understand this. ‘The mind becomes peaceful’—what does it mean? It means: the mind moves only when it is to be used; when it is not to be used, it remains empty, still.

Buddha too will speak—but when he speaks he will use the mind; but when he does not speak, then mind is not there. Just as when you are not walking the legs are sitting, not moving. In truth, when you are not moving them, it is not even proper to call them legs; because legs are those that walk. Only when they walk are they legs. When they are not walking—why call them legs? They are as good as not. Not there—is also not right; because if walking is needed, they can walk. They are at peace.

The mind of the awakened ones is peaceful; this means that if they sit empty, it does not run. Your mind—when you sit empty—it runs even more, runs further. You try a hundred tricks to stop it—it does not stop. The more you try to stop, the more it runs, the more it races, the greater the restlessness. Many want the mind to become peaceful. But until the desires are understood, the mind will not be peaceful.

The mind runs because it says: what are you doing? Talking of making peace—nothing has yet been gained. Nothing has yet been attained—how can we be peaceful? The moment it gets a glimpse, it becomes peaceful.

So I do not say to you: try to quiet the mind. I say: try to get its glimpse. Make your process affirmative. Do not fight the mind—let it run. Neglect it. All right—let it run. You put your effort directly into getting the glimpse. One day the glimpse will be had. In that very moment you will find the mind filled with silence. In that moment, even if you want it to move, it will not. In his presence—call it truth, call it Paramatman, call it nirvana, call it Atman—in his presence the mind becomes utterly silent. Do not get involved in the futile effort to silence the mind; it will never be silenced. It is silenced only when the master arrives.

As in a schoolroom little children are dancing, leaping, raising a ruckus—the teacher enters—silence spreads, hush falls. All sit in their places, pick up their books, begin to read and write, and even act as if no noise at all had been there—as if nothing had happened.

Just invite the emperor within! Let the master arrive a little—everything becomes peaceful.

‘By right knowledge…’

Which knowledge does Buddha call right knowledge? The knowledge that comes from scriptures is false; the knowledge that comes from life is right. The knowledge that comes from living is the only knowledge. That which comes otherwise is a deception of knowledge, a semblance, a borrowing. True knowledge is that which is the distilled essence of life.

‘By right knowledge liberated, the pacified arhat’s mind becomes peaceful, his speech becomes peaceful.’

The arhat speaks—the one who has attained the essence—but even in his speaking there is the fragrance of not speaking. He speaks, uses words—but his words arise out of the wordless.

There are two ways to speak: one, your inside is stuffed with many words—you throw them out; this is how ordinarily we speak. Something echoes inside—what to do, it must be let out! So people go on throwing their trash upon each other.

There is also a moment of speaking when there is nothing to say within; when you have known the emptiness; and when you want to explain that very emptiness; when you use words only to explain the empty; when, upon the boat of words, you send the birds of emptiness.

You will know the difference. For the quality of both kinds of words changes. If you listen to the words of a peaceful person, little by little you too will become peaceful through listening. If you sit even silently near a restless person, you will become restless; his restlessness will begin to ripple into you.

‘His speech is peaceful, his action is peaceful.’

He acts. If Buddha lived forty years after attaining Buddhahood, then he must have done something—walked, stood, sat, explained, awakened people, shook them—created a breeze in which some buds might flower, some seeds sprout—yet it is as if not doing. He rises and does not rise. He walks and does not walk. He speaks and does not speak.

Zen mystics say a very delightful thing. They say: This Buddha was never born. They are devotees of Buddha; they worship him in the temple—yet they say this man was never born. They say: Even if he was born, he never spoke. Even if he spoke, he never said anything.

They say it rightly. Because when Buddhas are born, they are not born in Shuddhodana’s house, not from Mahamaya’s womb; Buddhas are born the day the son born of Mahamaya and Shuddhodana dies; the day Gautam Siddhartha dies; the day that ego, that form bound within limits ends. The birth of the Buddha happens in Samadhi. Samadhi means the great death.

So the Zen mystics are right to say that this man was never born. Because this man is such, this event is such, that it happens only in death, not in birth.

Understand this a little.

We have all been born; fortunate are those among us who will attain the death of Samadhi. We will all die—fortunate are those who will enter death consciously. Death will come to all—but for most it will be an accident. If you enter death by your own will—if you erase your being by your own hand, wipe it out; if you remove your ego by your own hand and dare to be nothing—the great death will occur.

The birth of Buddhahood happens in the great death; therefore to say Buddha was born is wrong. There is never birth of a Buddha—there is death, and from that death the appearance. And then to say Buddha said anything is not right. Because the very nature of Buddhahood is unspeaking, silent, empty, peaceful.

The Zen mystics say it rightly. Yet they still worship this man who never happened. They recite his scriptures daily in the temple—of one who never said anything. The value of his words is precisely because he had nothing to say—only emptiness. He used the support of words to launch the birds of emptiness. He bounded the field of words and caused the flowers of emptiness to bloom.

The boundary of words is necessary, because you can only understand words; you cannot understand emptiness.

If I throw emptiness toward you—I am throwing it—it does not fall into your bag. The bag to catch emptiness is not ready. The bag for emptiness means meditation—it is not ready. I throw words; they fall into your bag. The fish of words get caught in your net. The fish of emptiness slip through your net.

But in these fish of words, if you attend, if you search in them, if you peer into these fish of words—then here and there you will also find emptiness caught.

As there is sky even in a courtyard, as there is sky even in a small pot, so there is emptiness in a word. That emptiness alone might be found—this much is the use of words.

Awakened ones, arhats, those who have attained right knowledge—act, but their action is empty of the sense of doer. There, no one is acting.

Buddha has said: I walk—but there is no one walking. I speak—but there is no one speaking. I eat—but there is no one who eats.

This is a bit awkward for logic; it slips beyond understanding. It does not need to be understood. Remember, religion begins where you are ready to be lifted beyond understanding. So long as there is understanding, there will be something else. Where the boundary of understanding comes—that is where the boundary of religion begins.

We thought with intellect we would know something— This is what we knew: that nothing was known.

It is not a matter of understanding, but of awakening. Not a matter of thinking, but of bringing awareness. Therefore there is no veil upon truth because you lack thinking—you are already thinking too much. The veil is because you are thinking too much and your eyes are filled with thoughts; and only thoughtless eyes can see.

Right knowledge means: that knowledge which is not gained by thinking, by reasoning; that knowledge which bursts forth by becoming thoughtless—like a spring, as if a rock has been removed and the hidden spring appears.

Ah! There is no veil that is the meaning of seeing— Other than our own heedlessness there is no door or wall.

There is no veil upon truth. The veil is of our own heedlessness, our own unconsciousness. It is upon our own eyes.

Truth stands naked before you—you stand with eyes closed. Or even if the eyes are open, there are great veils of thoughts, of stupor upon them. Thought itself is a kind of stupor in which you remain lost—a dream seen while awake.

To understand Buddha, understanding will not do; understanding will have to be set aside. You will have to become simple again; to return to childhood again; once more the innocence of children; again a mind empty like a child’s—not a head filled with knowledge; again exuberance, a freshness.

If you can bring your childhood back—Jesus has said: those who are like children alone shall enter the kingdom of my Father—if you can bring your childhood back, then alone will you be able to be capable of understanding the words of the awakened.

There are many commentaries on the Dhammapada—but mostly by pundits, by scholars. In those commentaries the essential is lost. The commentaries cannot open what was already closed; they close it further. In the turmoil of commentaries, the lamp that Buddha lit becomes yet harder to see.

I am not making a commentary. This is not an explanation of Buddha’s words. This is as I see—only my vision I am saying; Buddha is an excuse. As someone hangs a coat upon a peg, I am hanging myself upon Buddha. It has nothing to do with Buddha.

And therefore I say to you—precisely for this reason these words are very close to Buddha. I have not thought them out and then told you; I have known their truth separately. I did not know the truth of the Dhammapada by reading the Dhammapada; I knew the truth, and then I saw it in the Dhammapada. The Dhammapada appeared to me as a witness.

Be simple a little; understanding will not do. Cleverness is great folly. Do not stumble in cleverness. Put the scriptures aside a little; with a little simplicity, with empty eyes—not with the net of logic—look; and right vision is not far.

Where prostrations of centuries remained unsuccessful— At that very place one sigh became the completion of worship.

Where prayers of hundreds of years are in vain—sometimes, there, a small sigh arising from a simple heart becomes the fulfillment of prayer.

Enough for today.