Es Dhammo Sanantano #42

There is a small story by Oscar Wilde. A man died. In life he did everything one longs to do. High rank, great wealth, beautiful women—whatever human desires dream, he fulfilled them all and died.

He was presented before the court of the Divine. Naturally, the Divine was annoyed. He said, You have committed many sins. Do you have any answer for your deeds? The man said, I did what I wanted to do—and I am answerable to no one. The Divine was a little taken aback. He said, You committed violence, you murdered, you shed blood? The man said, Certainly. You took lives for money? You committed adultery, rape? The man said, Certainly. Yet there was not a wrinkle on the man’s face. No feeling of guilt, no trace of worry. The Divine began to feel uneasy. Many criminals had come—but this was a man of a different cut. The Divine said, You know, your constant ‘yes, certainly’ will force me to send you to hell! The man said, You cannot send me—because wherever I was, I was already in hell. Where will you send me now? I have known nothing but hell; where else can you send me that could be hell?

Now sweat glistened on the Divine’s brow. He could think of nothing. All the decisions taken so far, the long eternal precedents—none were of use. No file seemed relevant. Flustered, he said, Then I will send you to heaven. The man said, That too you will not be able to do. The Divine said, Who on earth are you then? Who is above me, who can prevent me from sending you to heaven! The man said, I am—because I cannot even conceive of bliss, and I am so adept at turning every joy into sorrow. You will not be able to send me to heaven. Even if you send me, I will make it hell. I have not even dreamt of happiness; I cannot even imagine it. How will you send me to heaven?

And they say, the case is still stuck there. The Divine is pondering—where to send this man? He cannot send him to hell, for he has always lived there. He cannot send him to heaven—for there is no way to send him there.

Try to understand this story carefully. It is not the story of someone else—it is everyone’s story. You can only be sent where you are willing to go. And if the capacity even to dream of happiness has been lost in your life, no one can grant you any heaven. Heaven is not a donation. Heaven is not attained by someone’s grace. It must be earned.

Even happiness has to be learned. The taste of happiness must be learned. And if you do not know the taste, then happiness may be lying on your platter and you will not be able to taste it; you will not be able to turn it into your blood, flesh, marrow; it will not flow in the stream of your blood; it will not become the life-juice of your being.

And sorrow has become your way of life. Whatever falls into your hands, you turn into suffering.

Those who see far and deep, if you ask them—ask the awakened—they will say: happiness and sorrow do not truly exist as things. You are. The same event becomes happiness in one person’s hands, the same event becomes sorrow in another’s. Someone turns the same happening into misfortune; someone else turns it into good fortune. The whole thing depends upon you. You are the ultimate decider. Even the Divine cannot send you to heaven or hell. Wherever you wish to be, there you are—and there you will remain. Your freedom is final. You are your own master.

Buddha lays the deepest emphasis on this: you are your own master—there is no other master. Therefore Buddha did not speak of God. He said, Why even bring it up! When man is ultimately the decider himself, then let God be set aside. To bring God in can increase confusion—the confusion that, well, if I make a mistake, He will forgive; if I go astray, He will put me back on the path. Such beliefs can make it convenient to go on committing mistakes. Behind the screen of God, you might stop making efforts to transform yourself.

So Buddha gave no screen at all. Buddha said, There is no need of any cover—for even if God is, ultimately He can do nothing contrary to you. Even if He is, He can do nothing. And when you yourself are the doer, the decider, then beware lest the word ‘God’ become a basis to hide your own dishonesties, your deceits. Remove it.

Therefore all the emphasis of Buddha is on you—on man. Buddha’s religion is man-centered; in it, God has no place. This does not mean that in Buddha’s religion Brahman does not manifest. It does—but it manifests through man. Brahman is not sitting far away in the sky upon some throne. It is a fragrance that rises out of the heart of man—and pervades the farthest skies.

In other religions God descends—Hindus say, an avatar. Buddha’s Brahman does not descend; it does not come from above to below. It ascends upward. It moves from below to above. It is like flame, not like rain. Rain falls from above to below. Light a fire—the flames leap upward.

So Buddha says: wherever the lamp of consciousness is lit, there Brahman begins to reveal itself. When you are utterly aflame—when all the rubbish within you is burned—when you become pure gold, a single, pure flame of life-consciousness, of bodhi, of light—you are Brahman.

What you are now—you are because of yourself. What you were till yesterday—you were because of yourself. What you will be tomorrow—you will be because of yourself. Take this to heart. It is fundamental. With Buddha, there is no way to evade. Hide-and-seek will not do. Buddha has caught man exactly where, for centuries, he has been deceiving himself. Buddha has left no nook to hide. Therefore the realization of Buddha is self-realization. To understand Buddha is to understand oneself. With Buddha, worship will not do, prayer will not do; with Buddha, the begging bowl will not do; with Buddha, only self-revolution—transformation—the audacity to change yourself!

The first sutra is—

He who is reverent, and who always serves the trees—four things increase in him: life, complexion, happiness, and strength.

Each word must be understood—because when Buddha uses words, they are not as others have used them. The words are the same, but Buddha has grafted entirely new meanings upon them.

He who is reverent.

Buddha left no one to bow down to. There is no God. There are no feet before which the head must be placed. Yet he accepted the art of bowing. Hence the matter becomes subtle. With gross feet present, bowing is easy. Once you believe that there is a God—there are feet—you bow. If there are feet, bowing becomes simple.

Buddha says: there are no feet here at all. There is no one before whom you must bow—but do not forget the art of bowing. Thus the matter becomes delicate and fine. Only a deep understanding can grasp it. A gross mind can also grasp that these feet are worthy to touch—because something can be got from them. Then bowing becomes a business.

People go to the temple and bow at the feet of God, for they desire something. That which can be got—from these feet, from their prasad. This is not bowing; this is a bargain. You are trying to use God. This is not prayer. Do not call it prayer. This is making even God a means.

Have you ever prayed without asking for anything? If not, then you have not prayed. The path of devotion says: pray, but do not ask—otherwise the prayer will be fractured. Buddha takes it a step further: Pray, but do not ask—and there is no one to ask from anyway. If you ask, you are merely talking to yourself in an empty sky. Asking will only announce your ignorance. But reverence, the art of bowing, humility, the feeling of surrender—these are invaluable.

Buddha shifted the emphasis away from God—onto you. Reverence is for you to do; gratitude is for you to offer; the feeling of grace is for you to nourish. Whether there is anyone there to receive it or not—your salutation is yours to offer. Whether there is anyone worthy of bowing or not—do not get into this useless anxiety. Because the bowing itself is the boon. In the very act of bowing, you have attained.

No one gives; bowing itself brings. In bowing, you receive. Bowing is the receiving. Therefore the matter is entirely inner—yours, subjective. When stiff, you lose; when bowed, you gain. Through stiffness—loss; through bowing—gain. No one snatched, no one gave. Thus Buddha removed God. He did not demolish the temple—he removed God from it.

Understand this a little.

He kept the temple. Even God’s presence had been a hindrance—for the temple could never be completely empty. Because of God’s presence, even when you bowed, self-interest came in. Because of God’s presence, you bowed sometimes more than you truly wanted—while sometimes you overdid it. Deception crept in. God’s presence would never allow you to be utterly alone. You could not be wholly yourself.

Have you ever noticed? The presence of another never allows you to be alone. You bathe in your bathroom; suddenly you get the idea that someone is peeping through the keyhole—everything changes in a moment. A moment ago you were making faces before the mirror—childhood had returned, you were happy, humming a tune. People ask you to hum; you say, My throat won’t cooperate. In the bath you forget—everyone starts humming. A man who does not hum in the bath is hard to find—there, all become singers. You do things such that, if you caught yourself doing them, you would blush. But if someone is peeping through the keyhole—everything changes. You are no longer the same person. Presence has made you false.

Buddha says: the presence of God will not let you be true—He needs not peep through a keyhole; He is present everywhere. You bathe—He stands there. Whatever you do—you cannot escape Him. He won’t give you space; He surrounds you on all sides. You will become bound.

Buddha has said: becoming free from God is the first step of moksha. Only then will your naturalness manifest; only then will you be spontaneous. There is none—only you: the decider, the controller, the master.

Do not mistake this for license—for along with this comes supreme responsibility. For then, whatever happens to you—you alone are responsible. If you got sorrow—you must have sown it. If hell came—you must have sent the invitation. If darkness surrounds—you must have created it, decorated it. You asked for it in some moment of ignorance—now it has come. There may be a time-gap between asking and arrival—but without your asking, nothing comes. The crop you reap is the crop of seeds you have sown.

It is not licentiousness—it is freedom. But freedom is supreme responsibility. Now you can pile your burden on no one else. One who believes in God can put his load down—he says, You gave it. You made me do it—what can I do? He has the convenience to place his bundle upon God’s shoulders. With Buddha, this device does not exist. The bundle is yours; the shoulder too is yours. If you are to put it down, you must put it down as you put it up. As you sowed, so must you reap. Each seed must be burned—only then will the light of liberation dawn within.

He who is reverent.

Therefore Buddha says: no one is really worthy of being bowed to—and yet, remain reverent. It will be difficult, but if you understand… it is very subtle—not like a flower, but like fragrance. A flower you can grasp and hold in your fist. The talks of those who believe in God are like flowers—beautiful, graspable. Buddha’s words are like fragrance freed from the flower; now you cannot hold them in your fist. Now the matter is most subtle; all boundaries have vanished; it is vast.

He who is reverent—

Buddha calls this the first step of the Buddha-character. Whoever came to Buddha for initiation would say: Buddham sharanam gacchami. Sangham sharanam gacchami. Dhammam sharanam gacchami. Someone asked Buddha: You say no one is worthy of reverence—then whom do they come to and say, I go to the refuge of the Buddha? Buddha said: Buddha means the one who has known there is no ‘I’. They go to the refuge of emptiness. I am only an excuse. Even when I am not, this lesson will continue. My being or not being makes no difference. Whether I was or I was not, it matters not. They do not go to the refuge of a Buddha-person; they go to the refuge of Buddhahood—of bodhi, of awareness, of awakening, of remembrance. I am just a pretext.

As when fragrance arises and you find it difficult—whom to bow to—then bow to the flower. The fragrance is now freed. Even if the flower goes, the fragrance will pervade this sky. Buddhas come and go—yet the fragrance of the Buddhas remains forever. For those who have the capacity to see, to experience, the Buddhas never die. And for those whose eyes are blind and ears are deaf—even if the embodied statue of Buddha stands before them—they see nothing.

He who is reverent, who always serves the trees—

Trees! Here is one who speaks of being free of God—and then says, serve the trees! For Buddha, the tree is a symbol—of life, of growth, of greenness, of freshness, of flow.

For five hundred years after Buddha’s death, no image of Buddha was made—because Buddha had said, What need? The tree under which I became enlightened—worship that. Thus the worship of the Bodhi-tree arose. For five hundred years, temples of Buddha were made—inside them they placed only the symbol of the Bodhi-tree. It was enough. The tree is the symbol of life.

Buddha said: rather than bowing to the feet of God—for bowing to such a glorious event is easy, and by bowing at such feet you too become glorious—have you noticed, even in bowing to God, the ego may relish it? We are not bowing at the feet of some ordinary one—we are bowing at the feet of God! These are the feet of Rama, these of Krishna—and we, the bowing ones, are not small either! But to bow at the feet of trees? It becomes oddly foolish. Buddha is saying: if you must bow, bow at the feet of the small. If you must bow, bow where even in bowing the ego finds no foothold.

By bowing at a tree’s roots, what ego can arise? People will laugh! They will say, What are you doing? They may mock—but where then will you shelter the ego? The ego longs for supports. The ego looks toward the sky. To bow at the feet of trees means to bow at the feet of the earth—where the tree’s roots are. Bow to the root, not to the flower. God is the final flower.

If we look carefully at life—the tree is life’s first glimmer, God the last. In the tree life first became dynamic; God is the final ascent. Do not bow to the last; bow to the first. For a journey begins with the first step, not the last. Forget the destination; it is of no concern—care for the first step.

The tree is a symbol of great beauty—of peace, silence, freshness, newness—does not carry the burden of the past; each moment it is new—of shade, coolness, rest; it goes on giving—of charity; even if you throw stones at it, it still gives fruit.

Therefore Buddha said an apparently foolish thing: He who is reverent and serves the trees—four things increase in him.

These four are to be understood.

Life, complexion, happiness, and strength.

They do not seem like great things. Do they befit Buddha’s lips? Even if life increases—so what? If complexion increases—so what? Not a shudra but a brahmin—what difference? Happiness—all that is worldly. And strength—power only nourishes ego.

No—Buddha must be understood. Later sutras will clarify.

Buddha says: life has to do not with length of time, but with depth. Whether you live a hundred years is not the point—even if you live a single moment in meditation, enough. Life has increased—the taste of the immortal has touched you. You may live a hundred years, yet you live only in dream—that is not real life, only the illusion of life. Like one who dreams at night and lives a thousand years—in the morning the hands are empty. Will he say, I had a long life last night? Whether long or short—spent in dream—what difference does it make?

What Buddha calls life is this: if even a single moment is lived in awareness, it is eternal. Through meditation, the door opens beyond time. What we call life is the length of time; what Buddha calls life is the leap into the Eternal. There, there is no time. One goes beneath time—deeper than time. As there are waves upon the ocean’s breast—you dive beneath, you go under the waves. So too are the waves of time upon the chest of the Eternal—dive beneath, go deep. There—real life is. There the Buddhas live.

By complexion Buddha does not mean the ordinary Hindu varna system. He says: a brahmin is one who knows Brahman; a shudra is one who lives taking the body to be all. Buddha says: all are born shudra; only once in a while does someone become a brahmin. Even one born in a brahmin’s house is born a shudra. But one born in a shudra’s house—if he attains self-knowledge, becomes a brahmin.

Buddha’s varna is the varna of self-revolution.

Buddha says: one who has learned reverence, who has learned to bow, who has placed the flowers of trust at life’s root—the Eternal descends into his life. In the wake of the Eternal, shudratva dissolves—like darkness dissolving before light. Such a man attains brahminhood, for he attains Brahman. The Eternal is Brahman.

And then happiness. What you have called happiness is in name only; behind it sorrow lurks. On the surface ‘happiness’ is written; inside, sorrow is hidden. Buddha calls that happiness which is happiness in the beginning, in the middle, and in the end—whichever way you taste it, it is bliss. Turn it this way or that—it is bliss. Whatever you do with it—it remains bliss.

In Japan there was a great sannyasin devotee of Buddha—Bodhidharma. His image is worshiped. In Japan he is called Daruma. You must have seen Daruma dolls: their specialty is that however you throw them, they always sit cross-legged again. Their crossed legs are weighted—filled with lead. Throw them upside down, roll them any which way—no device can stop them; Daruma always settles, sitting like a Buddha.

This is what Buddha calls happiness. Do what you will—straight or upside down, from here or there—taste it, it will be bliss. That which is bliss in the beginning, in the middle, in the end.

What you have called happiness appears pleasant at first—but little has it appeared, the poison spreads; before the taste arrives, bitterness begins. The hand has barely reached, and thorns are already pricking. This is not happiness. It is like putting dough on a hook to catch a fish. No one sits with a fishing rod to feed the fish dough! The hook is hidden in the dough. The fish will not eat the hook; she will eat the dough. But the one who sits with the rod has his eye on the hook.

In what you have called happiness, hooks are hidden—you will be caught by the hook. You will go in hope of dough. Even after a thousand experiences we do not learn. Wherever happiness appears, we run again. Again, seeing some dough, the fish swims—forgetting all experience.

It happened so before, but hope is wondrous. There is no stronger wine than hope. Hope says, Who knows, this time it may not be like before—only dough this time. Once it was a hook, a thousand times a hook—but the thousand-and-first time, perhaps, no hook. Yes, much sorrow has been found—this does not prove that sorrow will be in the future too. Let me try once more. And hope lives on this ‘once more.’ You commit the same mistakes again and again; you go on circling the same wheel, and hope goes on deluding you.

Buddha calls happiness that which arises from the experience of the Eternal—from Brahman.

And strength. When you become utterly formless, strength flows through you. When you become a hollow bamboo, the stream of the Infinite begins to flow through you. Then you are only a doorway. Strength cannot be yours—what strength can the fragment have? Only the Whole has strength. What strength can a drop have? The ocean alone has strength. When the drop loses itself in the ocean—becomes one with the Vast—it becomes strong.

Buddha says: so long as you cling to yourself, you will remain weak. The moment you let go—you are strong. This strength is not our ordinary strength of status, prestige, sword, wealth, safe—this is the strength of shunya. It is attained by disappearing.

Jesus has said: those who save themselves will be lost; those who lose themselves, only they are saved. It is this strength that is being spoken of.

A life that deserves the name of life—where is it?

Yes, for the sake of saying, we say, Yes, we live.

We go on saying so, Yes, we live—but where is the life that deserves the name? Nowhere is it to be seen. Even while alive, we are as if dead—no strength, no bliss, no brahminhood, no glimpse of the Eternal. Death encircles us on all sides—and you call this life? Moment by moment you throw it away—and call this growth? Each happiness turns into sorrow, each hope of heaven transforms into hell—and yet you go on saying this is life.

A life that deserves the name of life—where is it?

Yes, for the sake of saying, we say, Yes, we live.

Whom are you deceiving? The day you understand that this deception is self-deception—on that day revolt begins. And remember—the very energy that creates hell can create heaven; the very energy that brings darkness can bring light. They are not different. Only your way of seeing needs to change.

Where hatred makes its home,

where there is the unquenchable thirst for power,

where there is no trust in man—

in that very heart, in that very heart—

there, there itself,

lies the center of the world’s restlessness.

From that very center within you, rises the unquenchable thirst for power—and you run to acquire wealth, status; from that very center, when understanding dawns, you run not for position, but for the Supreme Position. Then you do not seek the wealth outside, but the treasure within. Then you no longer spend time on that life which today or tomorrow ends in a grave; you search for that amrit which has no end.

But man goes on postponing. It is not that such remembrances do not come to you—no, I have not seen anyone so foolish. But you say, Tomorrow.

I will do it tomorrow—this was my only disease;

The days have passed—alas! what came into my hands?

You say, Tomorrow—the thing appeals; people come to me and say, The words appeal—but the time has not yet come.

When will the time come? Have you made arrangements? Beware, lest death come first! Do you have any hold over time? Can you stall death for a while—let my time come first, then you come?

If you cannot postpone death, then please, postpone nothing else. You keep postponing life—but you will not be able to postpone death. Whom are you deceiving? But tomorrow appears so close—now it is coming, now it is coming—and it never comes. Tomorrow seems so near—that by the time we fall asleep, it will be here. But has it ever come? Till today? What is today was also ‘tomorrow’ yesterday. You left it for today yesterday; today you will leave it for tomorrow—and so you will keep leaving. Revolution dies by such self-deception.

Rather than living a hundred years without virtue and without collectedness, the one day of a virtuous and meditative person is better.

Without virtue and uncollected—such a one will be, for anyone unvirtuous will be uncollected within. People come to me and ask: There is great restlessness in the mind—any remedy? I ask them: First consider—why restlessness? For restlessness is not the cause—it is the effect. Restlessness is not the seed—it is the fruit. Find the seed. You must be wanting to do something that produces restlessness. You must be doing something that results in restlessness. You want to go on doing that—and also be free of restlessness. Impossible.

Like a man running fast—his chest begins to heave. He says, Give me a technique that the chest may not heave—but I want to keep running. In fact, he asks that his chest not heave so that he can run better.

Politicians come to me. They say, The mind is very restless—sleep does not come. I say: that a politician still sleeps is the miracle! That you do not sleep is natural. Now either leave politics, or let sleep go. Often they agree to drop sleep. They say, Only a little distance remains; we are almost there—junior minister already, becoming minister; or minister already—now chief minister is in sight; now just a few more days. We have gone astray so far—just a few more days.

But has anyone ever gone astray knowingly? Such a man is doubly deceiving—saying, I even understand this is all error, but still I do it for my pleasure. Who ever puts his hand in fire out of pleasure? The moment one understands, one stops.

Rather than living a hundred years in misconduct and distraction…

Where is the living in that? Where the mind is full of tensions, where there is no peace—where the flute of peace has never sounded—where there is no cool inner shade to rest—nowhere to lay your head for a moment—no place of refuge—then even if you live a hundred years, it is as if one lived a hundred years with a hundred-and-ten degrees of fever. Is that living? Better to die—at least there will be rest. This is only torment, hell. Life has nothing to do with the length of time; it has to do with the depth of peace. This Buddha calls life.

…better is one day of a virtuous and meditative person.

Whom does Buddha call virtuous? Shila—character—has been much corrupted. In the name of virtue and character, people have been taught false hypocrisies. Often it happens—when something very important exists, fraud hides behind it.

All the supremely wise have sung of shila—naturally, the coin of shila began to circulate. Society, its custodians—priests—also minted counterfeit coins. When shila was so greatly praised and all awakened ones spoke of it, naturally fakes began to circulate. Counterfeits only circulate where the real coin has value. You have not seen counterfeits of counterfeits; only the real is counterfeited. A medicine that does not sell—who will make its fake? The very existence of counterfeit is a compliment to the authentic.

The Buddhas spoke of shila—but their meaning is entirely different. And when the custodians of temples and mosques speak of character, their meaning is entirely other. They use the same word, but behind them lie different meanings.

Buddha calls that shila—the order of living that arises from your inner meditation. Therefore he uses together: virtuous and meditative—lest there be a slip. That shila which is soaked in your meditation; in which there is the fragrance of meditation; in which meditation has the scent; the shila that from one side is shila, from the other meditation—the two sides of the same coin—on one side virtue, on the other meditation—only that is meaningful. Otherwise, character becomes deception, hypocrisy.

Character can be formed in two ways: imposed from the outside, or emerging from within. People say, Such a character is needed—and they thrust it upon you. That is false. Even if you do it, you will do it grudgingly. You will do it without wanting. Doing it will be pain; not doing it will also be pain. You will be torn. If it is not your own insight, then even doing it you will regret—for your mind wanted something else. You longed to drink—and go to the tavern—but your feet could not go; the mosque came in the way, the temple stood in the way, the priest stood in the way; you could not gather the courage to go to the tavern; you turned back, went to the mosque for namaz. One had to do something—time had to be filled with something—mind had to be engaged somewhere—so you prayed, read scriptures—but all will be false, superficial, paper-thin. Within, the mind will keep dreaming of the tavern. If you do not go, you will regret not doing what you wished. That repression will surround you; your life will become a burden.

And if you go, then even sitting in the tavern you will not find joy—for the thorn of guilt will prick: What have I done? Evil! Leaving the temple, I came to the tavern—did not listen to the priest, the sage, the wise. Whatever you do, a false character brings sorrow. Whether you act for or against—false character knows no joy.

Then what kind of character knows joy? That which arises from your own within, your own understanding, your own insight.

Do only what the Brahman of your own heart bids you;

pay no heed to another’s words.

If people make faces—do not look;

if hands clap—lend no ear.

Character is a revolutionary thing. But it has turned upside down. In society, you will often find that those considered ‘men of character’ are the impotent, the weak. They did not have courage—wanted to go to the tavern, but the temple stood in the way, prestige was at stake—could not muster the courage. Wanted to go to the prostitute, but the Ramayana stood in the way, propriety stood in the way. Wanted to go somewhere—arrived elsewhere—because of weakness.

Look carefully at those you think ‘men of character’—often their character is only their cowardice. I have seen it in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred: those you call virtuous are cowardly. They lacked the courage to be unvirtuous—so they put on the robe of virtue. They say, We never wanted to be unvirtuous—but inside, the same worm bites. Often people come to me and say: the unvirtuous—dishonest, deceitful—are flourishing; and we, who do as the scriptures say, see no hope, no success.

Will a truly virtuous man say such a thing? Surely this ‘virtuous’ man wants to achieve through virtue what the unvirtuous have achieved through vice—but wants to keep his virtue safe. He wants to go to the brothel, sitting in a procession, garlanded—reach there with honor. Thus he envies those who, bruised and battered, have reached. He too wanted to reach—the goal was the same; he could not muster courage.

The weak cannot be virtuous. One who cannot even be unvirtuous—how will he be virtuous? Let me repeat: one who could not gather the courage even to be unvirtuous—how will he have the courage to be virtuous? Is virtue something inferior to vice? Virtue is great energy.

Do only what the Brahman of your own heart bids you;

pay no heed to another’s words.

If people make faces—do not look;

if hands clap—lend no ear.

Then through struggle, friction, trial and error, falling and rising, wandering and returning to the path—a refinement comes within you. You are cooked by experience. Whatever you do—do it consciously, alertly. Whatever you do—do it while observing, watching. That is the meaning of meditation.

Then no one will be able to mislead you. Today or tomorrow, the fragrance of that shila will arise within you which no one has imposed—you have earned it; it is your wealth; you are its master. It is the expansion of your own inner insight into your outer life; it will surround you like an aura.

Man’s ornament is not victory—

only the brightness of character is.

But the brightness of character does not mean another’s definition. It has nothing to do with what others call ‘bright’. Bright character means: found in the light of meditation—found by one’s own awareness. Then the world may call you immoral. Many times it has happened—the world called immoral those who were truly virtuous. And those whom the world praised as virtuous—where did they disappear, into dust—no one knows.

Jesus was called immoral. Will you find anyone more truly virtuous than Jesus? Yet they called him immoral—not only called, their courts judged him immoral and crucified him.

Socrates was given poison—because the court decided he was immoral. Among the charges: not only is he himself immoral, he incites others to immorality. The same charge is brought upon me. But those who brought charges—where are they now? No one remembers their names. The character of Socrates grows brighter by the day. As man’s understanding has increased, it is realized that what he said went against society’s notions—but not against life’s inner condition.

Society is immoral. Therefore whenever a truly virtuous person is born among you, society feels obstructed. Society wants such virtue as will not disturb its immorality—virtue only on the surface—so that no trouble comes to the arrangements, the structure. Society does not want deep character. It wants you to talk of truth, nonviolence, love—preach—but never attempt to become real—otherwise the whole society will stand against you.

A father says to his son: Speak the truth. Then a guest stands at the door—and the father says, Tell him I am not at home. The son says, Shall I speak the truth? Then trouble begins. This son will seem an enemy when he asks, Shall I speak the truth? And if the son goes out and says, Father is inside—and he has told me to say he is not at home—then you will understand what truth is…!

The father did not want truth to be spoken—he only wanted to teach his sons to speak truth. Who speaks it? These are things to teach—social formalities. Do not begin to speak the truth—go on talking about it; it helps in telling lies. Let one hand preach truth—let the other pick pockets.

To be dishonest, one needs a little smoke of honesty. If you become openly dishonest, you cannot practice dishonesty—how will you? If you tell everyone, I lie—you have become truthful; how then will you lie? If you say, I am a thief—and then try to steal—how will you? Then your journey toward non-stealing has begun.

If you must steal—beat the drum that theft is a sin—so loudly that no one can suspect you could steal. Those you steal from will not be able to believe that you could.

Thus, if the thief is clever, he teaches non-stealing; if the liar is clever, he spreads the scripture of truth. On that borrowed support, the lie goes on. The lie has no legs of its own; it borrows the legs of truth. Dishonesty has no strength of its own; it borrows the soul of honesty. Adharma cannot walk by itself—it is lame; it has to sit upon the shoulders of dharma. That is why if you look deep into temples, you will find religion on the surface and irreligion hidden within. Hypocrisy lives only by declaring, I am not hypocrisy. Let the propaganda of ‘truth’ continue. Centuries of propaganda make the lie look like truth.

Character means: not blind imitation of beliefs imposed by others—but following the path tested by your own eyes.

Where the path of the arm is one, and the path of thought another—

there the true form of that divided life never opens.

If your hand does one thing, your mind another—you will remain in doubt, and your true form will never unfold. What you do—let it be what your inner mind also says. What you say—let it be what you do. Let there be a consonance within—this consonance is shila.

Therefore Buddha says: without virtue and uncollected.

One who drops shila will lose his inner evenness, poise, harmony, music, coordination. With shila, collected, samadhisth—within, all becomes quiet, even, right. And rather than living a hundred years in restlessness, the one moment of a virtuous and knowing person is better.

Rather than living a hundred years in laziness and without effort, one day of a firmly industrious person is better.

Lazy and unenterprising…

What is laziness? Life is given—but we will not use it. Morning has come—but we won’t rise. Morning means—rise! Dawn—night is gone, birds have awakened; those whom you call animals in contempt—they too have risen; trees have opened their eyes; flowers are out in search of the sun—life rises everywhere—you lie there! You say, God, why did you not kill me? You might as well have killed me. I am not willing to rise. What difference is there between you and one lying in a grave?

Laziness means you are losing life’s opportunity. Where energy should flow, dance—you sit inert, dull, corpse-like. Where waves of love should arise—you sit gloomy, dust-covered. Where the mirror of your mind should shine, reflecting life—you lie in a corner, rejecting yourself with your own hands.

Laziness means life calls—and you lose; life invites—and you don’t hear; life knocks from a thousand directions—Rise!—you are so dull that you absorb the knocks, become accustomed, lie where you are.

Rather than living a hundred years lazy and unenterprising…

What is the profit then? Laziness is a slow suicide—if you must die, then die at once. What is this slow dying? This dying inch by inch? If you must live—live in a blaze!

Rosa Luxemburg, a thoughtful woman of the West, said: If you must live—burn the torch from both ends.

If you must live! If you do not, as you wish, do not light the torch at all—and if others set it on fire, keep emitting smoke. Look closely at your torches—only smoke pours out; flame is nowhere seen.

But wherever there is smoke, flame is hidden. Gather courage! Seek! Smoke gives news of fire. Will you go on raising only smoke all your life? Then—if you found no bliss, no joy, no juice—whom will you complain to?

Rather than living a hundred years lazy and unenterprising, one day of a firmly industrious person is better.

Better to live a single moment like a Buddha than to live a thousand years like the foolish. One moment of blazing awareness reveals all. One moment of flaming bodhi opens the whole existence—unveils all secrets—lifts all veils—removes all coverings. All that must be attained can be had in a moment—your urgency is needed.

Much remains, much remains, much remains—

let us not forget; let us not sing our own praises.

The house whose walls the ocean’s waves rush to kiss—

come, let us seek acquaintance with that house’s lord.

Do not sit thinking: much remains, much remains—what hurry? Do not adorn laziness with such thoughts.

The house whose walls the ocean’s waves rush to kiss—

look closely at the waves of the sea—how towering, how impatient, how thirsty! What a rush! What competition!

The house whose walls the ocean’s waves rush to kiss—

come, let us seek acquaintance with that house’s lord.

And you have received the chance to be human. You can be acquainted not only with the house, but with the householder. The waves will touch the shore and return—the king of the shore will remain unknown. The waves will touch the walls and return—yet they are so eager! You could have known the householder—but only if the waves of your consciousness had risen. A wild surge is needed—urgency is needed.

Why live so faintly, flickering, flickering? Let the torch blaze from both ends—that is what Buddha calls life. Then a revolution occurs in your life—length ends, depth begins. Then you no longer move from one wave to another—you plunge from a wave straight into the depth of the ocean.

Rather than living a hundred years without seeing the arising and passing, a single day seeing arising and passing is better.

You do not even know where you come from, where you go, who you are—and yet you say with what face: I live! What greater unconsciousness can there be? What deeper sleep? What is the difference between sleep and waking? You don’t know where you come from, where you go; you don’t know why, what, for what. How do you drift as a piece of wood in the river—with no destination, no direction, no awareness—at the mercy of waves? Circumstances drive you here and there. You are an accident. To rise above accident is sadhana.

In the West, a phrase is becoming popular: the accidental man. Man appears to be an accident. Things happen—they go on happening; something occurs—but why?—a delirium. No cause is seen. A few chance coincidences, something happens, then you are flung aside; then a few coincidences, and something happens. As if there is no inner consonance.

Imagine a rose plant—planted near a jasmine. The jasmine flower bloomed—and the rose plant fell into imitation. Jasmine-like flowers appear on a rose. Now trouble! The jasmine flower will be without fragrance—for fragrance would have been the rose’s. This jasmine-flower will be a weight upon the chest—no flower at all, a stone. For flower means the inner life has blossomed, opened, exulted. The inner destiny remains unfulfilled, half-dead—this has become something else.

Accident means: that which you are meant to be—you do not become; you become something else. As I see people—I find none in the place where they ought to be. People sit in incongruous positions.

A friend returned to England ten days ago—he took sannyas; he is a dentist; for ten years he has been a dentist—and wants to leave; he is troubled—he always had the passion to be a musician. Now musician and dentist! No connection. Have you heard the clatter of teeth—have you heard music?

I asked, Ten years? He said, Spent in thinking only! I am not even able to be a dentist—for the mind doesn’t settle there. I do it all day—but it feels I am wasting time! Life gone, this day gone, one more day gone, death closer. Hands that should have touched the veena, that long to touch it—are busy cleaning people’s teeth.

There is no evil in being a dentist—but let it be your destiny, not an accident. For one whose destiny is dentistry—if he sits with a veena, he will break it. His music will bring not peace but panic. He will destroy people’s tranquility.

Be that which you are meant to be. But how? We do not even know arising—how we are made, how we are—how we fall apart. Until we know our own svabhava, we remain accidents.

Buddha says: rather than living a hundred years without seeing arising and passing, one day seeing arising and passing is better.

One who sees clearly—from where I come, what is my source, where I go, what is my destination—many things become clear. One—this body is born and ends. Is there within me something else which is neither born nor dies? If you look closely into body, you will begin to hear within the note of the Eternal—which has no beginning, no end.

Right now, you have taken the body’s destination as yours—that is the accident. You have taken livelihood as life—that is the accident. Life is something else—not merely earning bread. On bread alone who has ever lived? Bread is necessary—not sufficient. Without it you cannot live—but if you live only by it, living and not living are the same.

We have competed with the gods—but have not learned even to be human;

We desire to measure the world with dwarf’s steps.

What all does man not want to become! And yet he cannot become that which he could.

We have competed with the gods—but have not learned even to be human;

We desire to measure the world with dwarf’s steps.

First become that which you can be. First recognize your destiny. First become that which you are. Your being itself is your fate. Without recognizing it, you may circle hither and thither—but you remain an accident.

From where to where have we progressed in knowledge and art, O cupbearer—

Yet the satisfied man—neither his body is at ease nor his mind.

So much knowledge, so much art, science—but neither the body nor the mind of man is at peace.

From where to where have we progressed in knowledge and art, O cupbearer—

Yet the satisfied man—neither his body is at ease nor his mind.

Somewhere a mistake is being made. There is no tuning with svabhava. Knowledge and art lead on other paths. Man was made to be something else. Within man is something else that will satisfy his thirst—and knowledge and art teach other things. Beware—accident is happening so loudly and so continuously that there is every possibility you too will be deceived.

Often it happens—people fall into imitation. Someone built a new house—till a moment ago you had no need of it, had not dreamt of it, had no idea your present house was inadequate. Another built—and imitation arose; you started. You forgot years will be spent. Is it your need? Do you truly want it? Is it worth spending years? Are you choosing this with thought, understanding, awareness—or only seized by a craze—if the neighbor has it, why not I? You see a car with someone—you become restless.

Remember—one who walks by imitation will live by waves. He will waste his time. Recognize your own need—your inner need—your swabhava: What is beneficial for me? What is my inner longing, my deep urge? What, upon gaining, will make me fulfilled? Do not see what made others happy.

First, you cannot judge whether they are happy—someone has a big house, do not think he is happy. Those with smaller houses think you are happy. Someone has a big car—do not think he is happy. The happiness on faces is for others—it is for display. Faces are marketable—we use them in the marketplace and keep them at home. They are masks.

Secondly, even if the other has become happy—perhaps his swabhava fitted with what he has achieved. Will it fit with yours?

It is essential for a man to recognize his own urge, pure and clear—so that he may be saved from accident. Otherwise I see multitudes—gripped by accident. They go where they were not meant to go. Even if they arrive, they are troubled—for they find, Ah! This is not where I ever wanted to be. I struggled all my life to arrive here—and arriving, I find it was never my destination. Now returning is difficult; there is no time—it is evening; night is falling. They will writhe. Every moment is precious—measure it against your svabhava.

There is a basic reason why people imitate others: following one’s own way does not feel assuring—we don’t know if we’ll be right or wrong. Others have done it—it is proven. Look—Mahavira arrived; look—Buddha arrived—their arrival is authentic. Now we will follow—with support we will arrive.

But the other arrived at his own swabhava—you were to arrive at yours. If you walk behind Buddha, you will reach where Buddha reached—but in tune with his swabhava—while you, even upon arriving, will remain restless. That is why one never arrives through imitation—for each person is unique, original.

Learn from all—but do your own. Have the courage to do. Do not fear mistake. Those who fear mistakes soon become followers. To become a follower means: we do not have the courage to err.

The light is of my elders,

of tradition—

seasoned, pure.

The darkness is mine—

raw, green.

The light is of my elders,

of tradition—

seasoned, pure.

The darkness is mine—

raw, green.

Yet I tell you—your darkness alone will serve you. Others’ borrowed light will not. Borrowed light is worse than your own darkness—for there will be no consonance with your life. Your cap will only fit your own head. Others’ shoes will pinch, or be too loose. The shoe for your foot—you alone must seek, must make. Within, you are so unique that none like you has ever been, nor will be.

Therefore do not ask for borrowed clothes. Have the courage to live—only then will you be saved from accident. Otherwise, accident is almost certain in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred. One in a hundred, by great fortune, escapes—and whoever escapes attains Buddhahood.

Rather than living a hundred years without seeing the Amritpad (Nirvana), one day of seeing the Amritpad is better.

What we call life is momentary—now it is, now gone; like an apparition; like the reflection of the moon in a lake—if the lake quivers a little, the reflection breaks, scatters—silver dissolves. A moment ago it was, now vanished. This world is no more than a dream—momentary.

Do not get too entangled in its illusions—for by the time you settle your illusion, it will have changed. It is unfaithful—do not trust it. You were ready to build your house—but the very ground slips. You prepared the boat—but the river departs. You and this world can never match—for it runs and changes each instant.

One who sees the momentariness of the world—only in his life does the remembrance of Nirvana, the Eternal, begin.

Buds blossom to wither;

The moon rises to hide;

Clouds fill to be emptied;

A lamp lights to grow dim.

Whose youth here is eternal?

O unstable, tiny life!

Day and night, brimming over,

your cup spills, my friend;

The flame keeps waning;

Music keeps falling into silence—

Open your eyes—

this intoxicating life is momentary!

Just squint a little—see, the lamp is running out. Open your eyes—music is ending. Look all around—nothing is fixed; all is changing.

In this changing stream you thought to build a house! Had you built an inn, fine. Night’s rest was fine—but morning you must move on. Pause a while—treat it as a wayside halt—that was wise. But you sit to build a permanent home! You want a lasting house out of transient elements! You will suffer, be deluded, wander—and the supreme Amritpad will not even occur to you.

The bud barely burst—and autumn arrived;

Such was the extent of the spring.

Barely has a flower bloomed—and the fall comes. That is all. Have you seen a man bloom? Does the bud ever truly blossom? Sometimes it does; then we must remember the Buddhas for thousands of years—Buddhas, those whose bud bloomed. Most die as buds.

The bud barely burst—and autumn arrived;

Such was the extent of the spring.

This is the measure—it didn’t even bloom, and death arrived; barely a smile—and tears gathered; the wedding palanquin had not lifted, and the bier was raised. One who sees, recognizes—this is not a place to build a house. Build in the immortal—why build in the mortal? Build in Nirvana—why in samsara? Here nothing will stay—companions, partners—two-day consolations, comforts, pacifiers. Who is whose companion? We meet upon the road, walk a while, then paths diverge—we separate.

Who shares the bad hour’s condition?

At the dying moment, I have seen—even the eyes turn away.

Leave aside others—even your own eyes turn away—they do not stay with you.

Who shares the bad hour’s condition?

At the dying moment—

I have seen the eyes turn away.

Here, all is castles in the air—all is a net of dreams. None is your own. Seek companionship in the Eternal. Buddha’s word is Amritpad—the deathless, that which never dies.

Rather than living a hundred years without seeing the Amritpad, one day seeing it is better.

Rather than living a hundred years without seeing the Uttam Dharma, one day seeing the Uttam Dharma is better.

Uttam Dharma—the supreme dharma—is the name of the process by which the deathless is attained. It is the name of the method by which you move from time toward the Eternal. It is the alchemy by which you are freed from imposed character and come close to your own shila. It is the science by which you are saved from accident and your life gains destination and direction.

There are many religions—Uttam Dharma is one. Religions are Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jain, Buddhist—Uttam Dharma is without qualifier. Uttam Dharma is not in scriptures—it is in oneself. Uttam Dharma is not learned from another’s teaching—it is found by testing upon the touchstone of one’s own life. Religion may be studied—Uttam Dharma is lived. What is in the Vedas, the Koran, the Bible—that is religion. Now what is in the Dhammapada—that too is religion. When within you awakening happens—and you become a witness to the Vedas, Korans, Bibles, Dhammapadas—when…

At present, you read the Vedas and say, Perhaps true—perhaps not—who knows? Even if you try to believe that what Buddha says must be right—it will still be an effort, not trust. Doubt will stand within.

But then a moment comes—of your meditation, your silence—when you too become available to the same truth to which Buddha, Mahavira, the rishis of the Vedas became available—to which Mohammed became available, to which Christ became available. Your eyes too see that very Supreme Truth. You yourself arrive near Gaurishankar. Now it is no hearsay—not wind-blown words. Now it is your own inner vision, your own experience. You have known this coolness, tasted this bliss; this dance has arisen in your life; this fragrance has surrounded you. Now you can say: the Vedas are right—not because they must be right, but because my experience says so. Now you can say: Buddha is right—not because Buddha cannot be wrong, but because now my own Buddhahood says there is no other way—he is right. I am a witness.

Uttam Dharma means: the day you become a witness. And only such a life is life. Buddha says: even a single moment lived in Uttam Dharma—in your own experience, your own light, your own luminosity—is better than living a hundred years.

Enough for today.