Es Dhammo Sanantano #75

Once Bhagwan went to Kapilvastu. Among his disciples there was an Elder, Aniruddha. His sister Rohini lived there. All her family came to meet Elder Aniruddha, but Rohini did not come. Aniruddha was worried. He had his sister called. When she came, she came with her face covered. Elder Aniruddha was deeply concerned. He asked her, You did not come earlier; and now that you have come, you have come with your face veiled—what is the reason? Rohini said, My face has been suddenly disfigured. Blisters have broken out all over. I am afflicted with a skin disease. That is why I did not come—out of shame. Since you called me, I have come—but with my face covered. This face is no longer fit to be seen.

Elder Aniruddha said to her, Forget this worry. Bhagwan has arrived, his ten thousand bhikkhus are in the town; a large building has to be constructed for their stay—go, devote yourself to building that residence.

Rohini did not even have that much money. But she sold all her jewels, all her ornaments, and immersed herself in having the residence built for the bhikkhus. The work of building was such that she forgot her illness—and a wondrous thing happened: while the residence was being built, ninety-nine percent of the disease vanished on its own. Yet she still did not come for the darshan of Bhagwan.

Then Bhagwan called her and asked, Why have you not come? She said, Bhante, a skin disease appeared on my body; out of shame I did not come. Now, through Elder Aniruddha’s remedy, ninety-nine percent has been cured, but one percent is still left. How can I show you this ugly face? So I kept avoiding. Since you called, I have come—please forgive me.

Bhagwan asked again, Do you know for what reason this happened? No, Bhante, she replied. Bhagwan said, Rohini, because of your anger. This is the fruit of intense anger. And that is why—see!—through karuna it has begun to depart by itself. And anger is the result of ahankar. You had great pride in your beauty. It is because of the blow dealt to that ahankar that anger would arise. In building the residence for the bhikkhus you forgot yourself. Your ego-sense was forgotten. You became so absorbed in this act of karuna that the ahankar had no place left to stand, no corner left to hide. Therefore see, the disease has moved away on its own. But it has not gone completely, because your ahankar has fallen away, yes—but not with awareness. That is why one percent remains. You did show karuna, but it was not karuna done knowingly; you did it in a kind of swoon—because your brother said so. It did not arise spontaneously from within you. Hence one percent remains. Wake up! The karuna you are doing now—do it with awareness! And the ahankar which for the time being you have forgotten in the midst of work—drop it knowingly! And it is said that even as she listened to this, the whole disease of Rohini disappeared. Then Bhagwan spoke these gathas.

The first four gathas today were spoken to Rohini.

First let us rightly understand this story. It is extraordinary. The psychology contained in it is deep. What the mind-scientists are discovering now—all those sutras are present here.

First point: modern psychology says that the human mind is the cause behind ninety percent of illnesses. In the foundation of ninety percent of diseases is the mind. Therefore diseases change with treatment; they do not actually get cured. One disease appears—you take treatment—drugs suppress that disease—and from another side the disease begins to flow. Because the mind is the same, the mind has not changed; there has been no healing of the mind.

Imagine if Rohini had fallen into the hands of some doctor—it is fortunate she fell into the hands of a physician like Buddha—but had she gone to an ordinary doctor, what would he have done? He would have treated her skin. The disease was not in the skin; the skin only showed the result. The disease was in the mind. The disease of the mind had erupted as blisters upon the skin.

So some physician might have cured the blisters on her face; he might even have done plastic surgery and replaced the facial skin entirely—then the disease would have manifested from some other door. The hands might have developed eczema, or the legs might have become paralyzed, or the eyes gone blind, or the ears deaf—the disease would have found another door. The disease does not end; it looks for a door. In truth, what we call disease is not the disease itself; it is a symptom. The ordinary physician fights the symptom; the great physician fights the root.

Modern psychology says that until a person’s mind is changed, there is no real freedom from any illness.

Hence you too must have seen: once you get caught in the circle of illness, there seems no way out. Somehow, before you escape one illness, another takes up residence; before you can be free of the second, a third settles in. It seems there is a queue of diseases; you deal with one, another grabs hold. While you were healthy, you were simply healthy. Therefore people say, illness never comes alone. The sayings run: illness does not come alone—it brings a company of other illnesses. Sorrow never comes alone—it brings a crowd.

What is the reason? The reason is neither sorrow nor disease. The reason is that we never touch the root.

Imagine a tree whose roots have become diseased, and the leaves begin to come out distorted—never fully blooming, never fully opening—the greenness is gone. You may keep cutting the leaves, or applying ointment to the leaves, or spraying water upon them—even rosewater will do little. Unless the root is made sound to the very core, nothing will happen.

The root of man is in his mind. The very word manushya (human) is made from man (mind). Manushya means one who is shaped in the mind, embedded in the mind. The Urdu word aadmi is not so significant; it has no deeper meaning—whatever meaning it has is shallow. Adam means earth, dust. One who is made of clay is called aadmi—because God first made man of clay and then breathed life into him; so his name became Adam. Then Adam’s children were called aadmi. Aadmi—made of earth—means man is body.

Our insight goes deeper than that. We say manushya. The English man too is a derivation of the Sanskrit man—this too is meaningful. We say manushya. We say: man is not clay—man is mind, man is thought, man is his psychology. Just as Christianity, Islam and Judaism consider Adam the first man—we do not. Because being Adam is the outer garment of man; it is not the real matter. The real is the subtle that is hidden within.

Manushya means one whose roots are embedded in the mind. But modern research is coming close to this truth. Modern inquiry has begun to accept that man does not end with the body. He neither begins with the body nor ends with it. The body is the house in which someone abides. And then we do not even say that man ends with mind—we say: he is rooted in the mind, but he is beyond mind as well. Therefore man, in truth, is Atman.

Now take these three words correctly—Atman, mind, body. Mind is in between the two. If you join mind to the body, you become worldly (samsari); and if you join mind to the Atman, you become a sannyasi. The entire game is the joining of mind. The Atman is within you; the body is with you; in between wavers the mind. Therefore the mind forever wavers—unsteady, vacillating—taking waves in the middle. If your mind begins to move as the shadow of the body, you are worldly; if your mind moves as the shadow of the Atman, you are a sannyasi. There is no other difference. If the mind listens to what is below itself, you are worldly; if the mind looks upward, you are a sannyasi.

The notion of sannyas arose in this land because we understood that the mind can function in two ways. Mind is neutral. It has no view of its own. Mind does not say, Do this. It depends on you. If you choose to hitch the mind to the body, it will remain a slave of the body. Mind is an amazing slave—none so obedient. Put it in the service of the Atman, and it will serve the Atman. Put it into greed, and it will become greed. Put it into karuna, and it will become karuna.

The whole art of dharma is just this: how to turn the mind away from going downward and set it on the ascent. And remember: the same stairs that go down go up as well—the stairs are the same. It can happen that two people are exactly alike, in the same place, and yet one is a sannyasi and one is worldly.

Imagine you are climbing the stairs of some house. One man is coming down from above; you are going up. There are thirty steps. On the fifteenth step you meet—there you are going upward, he is coming downward. On the fifteenth step you both stand; you stand in the same place, yet you are not alike—for one is going down and one is going up. Both will look exactly the same; there will be no apparent difference, because the step is the fifteenth, the place the same. And yet, in depth, there is a difference—one going up, one coming down. The difference is of direction, of orientation.

When the mind is body-oriented, there is the world; and when the mind turns Atman-oriented, God-oriented (Ram-oriented), there is sannyas. So sometimes it may appear that the worldly man and the sannyasi look exactly alike, standing on the same stair; yet if their directions are different, if their eyes gaze toward different horizons, they are different—fundamentally different.

Modern psychology says: until we make the mind healthy, many bodily illnesses cannot be cured at all. Therefore in the West a new kind of therapy is emerging—psychosomatic—body and mind must be treated together; and more important than the body is the treatment of the mind. If illness is in the mind and only its shadow falls upon the body, you can keep wiping and erasing the shadow—nothing will happen. If it leaves the mind, the body becomes healthy at once.

The first astonishing meaning of this story is that this Rohini must have been extremely ahankari. When ahankar appears in a woman, it is of form (rupa); in a man, it is of name (nama). There are only two egos—name and form. That is why we have summed up the whole world of maya as nama-rupa. Rupa means the body; nama means the subtle mind. If the human being is a man, his attachment is to name—status, position, prestige, wealth, knowledge, renunciation—somewhere the name. The woman’s insistence is upon form—beauty.

Mulla Nasruddin said to me, I have found a job—in a beauty parlor. In a shop of cosmetics. I had seen him many times standing outside that shop, so I asked, You only stand outside—what job did you get? You just stand there! He said, That is my job. I asked, What is your work? He said, The work is very simple—so subtle though. Still, tell me—what is your work? Whenever I see women coming for cosmetics, when they go in, my work is to show indifference—to not even glance, as if I don’t see who goes and who comes. And when they return all groomed and coiffed, my work is to whistle. That is my job, my employment. The shop is doing roaring business because of it. For women it becomes clear: when I went in, this man did not even look; now that I have set my hair and all, he whistles—the very same man! So surely I have returned more beautiful.

A woman’s whole attraction is in form. Therefore a woman does not worry much about name. She does not do those works by which name is earned—writing big books, sculpting statues, painting, composing epics, winning renown in the world. Nothing to do with it. A woman’s entire endeavor is for beauty.

Rohini must have been a beautiful woman. Being a woman, she must have had a hold upon beauty. And wherever there is ahankar—whether of form or of name—there, anger is. For anger means the hurt dealt to the ego. You think you are very learned; someone says, What knowledge do you have?—the blow lands. You think you are very virtuous; someone says, Virtuous? You are a thief, a cheat! You think you are a sadhu; someone says, You are not; you think yourself beautiful, someone says, You are ugly—the blow falls. When your self-image is hit, anger arises. Whoever supports your image draws your attachment.

That is why you are so delighted by praise. If someone says, Yes—who is as beautiful as you!—you are overjoyed. All your petals open; you feel happy. Someone has flattered your ego, coaxed it, pleased it.

Say to the ugliest woman that she is beautiful—she will not deny it. In fact she will say, You are the first true connoisseur; no one had recognized me until now. I already knew—only a connoisseur was needed. If there had been a connoisseur of diamonds, he would have recognized me. Say to the stupidest man, You are intelligent—very intelligent—he will not say, Please, do not flatter me at random; I am a fool. He will not say it. Say to the most deranged, There is no one as aware and serene as you—he will accept it too.

What accords with ahankar—we accept. Whoever fills the ego—we call him friend—even if in truth he is a foe. Because he is taking you to the place from where you will tumble badly. He is raising you to a place from which the fall is certain. No one can stay steady upon the peak of ego. That place is narrow; it cannot support you—you will fall. And as much as your ego was fed today—tomorrow you will demand more, and more, and more. How long can this continue? A moment will come when you will fall by your own excess; you will be badly hurt.

Whoever climbs higher upon the peak of ego takes the risk of falling into an equally deep abyss. Today or tomorrow the fall is coming. And you will be shocked that those who praised you become outspoken in condemnation. They will take revenge. When they praised you earlier, even then it was unwillingly; they had to—there was some purpose, some benefit to be had from you. They will take revenge. No one praises out of pure praise—there is some purpose; he wants to exploit you. When his work is done, he will repay. He who delighted you lavishly will hurl abuses at you. Then your heart will be even more hurt. It will seem your own have turned strangers; friends have become foes. The world’s sayings declare: the one you do good to is the one who does you harm.

You did no real good. He praised you; in return for that praise you did something—that was not good; it was only a bargain. And the one who praised you had to bend before you; he will never be able to forgive you for it. He will repay whenever occasion arises, at the right time.

So Rohini had the vanity of form. Because of that vanity, she must have been struck by many slights; she would become angry. If slights wound you, take note—being wounded means that within you the sore of ego is very deep; even the smallest thing rankles. If there is a desire for honor in your mind, and a wish to avoid insult, you are nourishing ahankar.

Then between anger and ahankar she developed the skin disease. The face became disfigured. Psychologists say that skin diseases are ninety-nine percent mental. All diseases are ninety percent mental, but skin diseases are ninety-nine percent. Because the skin is extremely sensitive. And the skin is our largest sense organ.

The ear is small. If you wish to hit the ear you must aim exactly. The eye is small. To hit the eye you must be precise. The tongue is small too. But the skin covers your whole body; it is your largest sense organ. The sense of touch is the largest sense. It can be hurt very easily—there is no need to aim.

Therefore the mind’s hurts fall upon the eyes too, the ears too, the tongue as well—but in small measures. But the spread of the skin is great; because of that spread, the skin receives the greatest blows of the mind. And no skin disease is cured by any external treatment; it is cured by mental treatment.

The skin is worthy of deep consideration in another sense as well: your other senses are particular forms of the skin itself. What is the ear? A specialized form of the skin. And what is the eye? The eye too is a specialized form of the skin. The skin has made one part adept at seeing—that became the eye. And the skin has made another part adept at tasting—that became your tongue. And another part became specialized for fragrance—your nose. These are experts, specialties of the skin; but all are the play of the skin.

When the child is first conceived and grows in the mother’s womb, first the skin appears. Then gradually the eye emerges within the skin; then within the skin the ear takes shape; within the skin the genitals develop; within the skin the tongue, the nose—everything emerges. But first of all there is skin. So the skin is fundamental. And hence touch is immensely significant.

That is why when we fall in love with someone, we at once want to touch—hold hands, put arm in arm, embrace. When we fall in love, we long to touch. And from those we do not love, we avoid touch.

Psychologists have researched this much and found that people from whom we want to avoid keep a certain distance from us. Even in a crowded train, you will find each person holding himself tight within, not wanting to touch the other. And if you accidentally touch one whom you do not love, you ask forgiveness at once. Why? To touch means you have crossed his boundary line—which should not be done. You trespassed—entered another’s house without permission. If you touch someone you do not love, you immediately ask forgiveness: Pardon me, it was a mistake, not intentional. And if some male or female stands brushing against you in the train and does not even apologize—and shows the attitude as if standing close out of great love—you become extremely annoyed, extremely angry; you cannot tolerate it.

Therefore even when people stand crowded in a train or bus, they stand in such a way that even if the bodies touch, their minds do not touch; they hold themselves in. At least they display that they are not touching; if the body is touching, it is compulsion—we are not touching. And we keep a boundary.

Have you observed? When you are standing talking to someone, you always test—up to a certain distance you can tolerate him; if he comes closer than that, you step back. There will be a threshold—say twelve inches—up to twelve inches if the person comes near, you feel no concern, no restlessness. Let him come within twelve inches—and if he is your son, it is fine; if your wife, fine; if your husband, fine; but those with whom you have no deep relation—if they come within twelve or ten inches, you step back at once. There is a hidden boundary there for you. An unknown field of the skin where its waves spread—within those waves if anyone enters, we do not like it; it seems ill-mannered.

The sense of touch is the largest, enveloping our whole body. Upon this sense the effects of the mind are the most.

Have you noticed: if even an old man falls in love with a young woman, a new glow comes upon his skin. A kind of youth descends upon his face—as if ten years have dropped off. In the West, people are living longer; one reason is that even into old age people fall in love—so they keep pushing old age back, because the skin keeps becoming young again and again. In the Eastern lands people’s lifespan is shorter, because once you fall in love with someone, then you become fixed; the matter ends; then in your life there is no further means of renewing the skin through love.

Look closely at a person in whose life there is no love—you will find a kind of dust upon his face, a sort of sadness. And one whose life has love—you will suddenly find a swiftness, a freshness—as if he has just bathed—a movement, dynamism, a luminosity.

Around the great ones we have drawn an aura. Whether it is a statue of Buddha, or of Krishna, or of Rama—we draw an aura. That aura has meaning. It says: now the radiance of their skin is not being interrupted by the mind; the mind is not obstructing it. Their aura is as it should be. Around them is a circle of light. If in ordinary love a glow appears upon a person’s face, then in the love of the Divine it must appear all the more. If in ordinary love one becomes youthful, then in the love of the Divine one should remain ever young.

Therefore in our tales there is no mention that Rama became old, or Krishna became old, or Buddha became old. They did become old, but have you ever seen an image of Buddha as old? Have you seen an image of Rama leaning on a stick?

Of course they grew old—there is no question they did not. In relation to Buddha there are clear references: he lived to eighty. Krishna too to eighty, eighty-two. But we have made no picture of their old age, because we wanted to preserve one thing: that within them something happened by which, in a certain sense, they remained youthful. Therefore we have no story of an old Krishna, no story of an old Buddha, no story of an old Mahavira. They all grew old—because it is the law of the body. The hair of all of them must also have turned white—but have you seen an image in which Buddha’s hair is white? No—because we did not accept old age. We said: it cannot be. If it happened, it was happening on the body—but their aura remained ever young. We paid attention only to that aura. They were eternally youthful. Upon their skin old age made no furrow. Their mind was joined to such an eternal life that old age does not enter there.

Have you heard of angels ever growing old? Or the apsaras of heaven becoming old? No—they all remain young. There is no old age there. The meaning is simple: there is a happening when the mind joins to the Atman. So long as the mind is joined to the body, all that happens in the body will happen. But the moment the mind joins to the Atman, whatever happens in the body will continue, but in the mind nothing will happen. And when nothing happens in the mind—our stories speak from that depth.

This Rohini became afflicted with a skin disease. She must have been proud, vain. Her brother is a great bhikkhu of Buddha—Aniruddha had five hundred disciples; he was among the important ones—he had come to the village; the whole village came for his darshan; the whole family went—Rohini did not go. Aniruddha must have thought, What has happened to my sister? Why did she not come? He must have sent word. When she came, she came veiled—must have drawn a big veil. He asked, A veil before me? A veil before your brother! A veil before a bhikkhu! What is this? Has your mind gone off? Then she told the whole tale: I am afflicted with a skin disease; my appearance is distorted; blisters upon my face; the skin has become ugly—and I do not want to show you this face. I am greatly ashamed.

This too is ahankar. Even shame is the shadow of the ego. What is shame? What is, is—so be it! Shame means: what should have been is not; what I wanted is not; what is, I do not want, I cannot accept, I cannot own. In shame is inherent the rejection of fact—and the dream, the imagination—what should have been—is not.

So she said, I feel great shame.

You generally think that a shy person is virtuous. He too is egotistic. A sadhu has no shame. That is why Meera said, All the world’s shyness I have lost. For the supreme sadhu, what place is there for social shame? Shame means the current of ego is still running within.

In the East we say: our women are very shy. We have counted shame as a virtue. Western women do not have such shame; so we think: shameless! They have no shame.

But understand: shame means ego. Eastern women are more egoistic. They have deep pride in their chastity, beauty, character, fidelity. In this sense the Western woman is straightforward—she has no shame. With ego comes shame; it is the ornamentation of ego; gold plating upon the ego.

So we praise that so-and-so is so modest. We call a bad man shameless; a good man we call shameful, one with shame. Then what is Meera saying? All social shame I have lost? Lost all shame?

A true man is neither shameless nor ashamed. A true man is simply true. In him there is no shame, and he is not shameless. To become shameless is also not needed—that too is only another shape of shame. He is breaking shame; so he becomes shameless. But one who has no shame in the first place—what will he break? If there is a reed, a flute can be made; if there is no reed, how will a flute be? There is a state of consciousness beyond shame.

So Rohini came even to her brother with a veil over her face. One does feel shame before others; with much ego, one feels shame even before one’s own—proportionate to ahankar, shame increases. She came to her brother! And not an ordinary brother—one of Buddha’s great disciples, a Siddha of attainment. He asked, What is the reason? She said, I have a skin disease. Then he said nothing more regarding that. He said, Do one thing: so many bhikkhus have come to the village—serve them. A large residence has to be made. Where will these ten thousand bhikkhus stay? The rains are near; arrangements must be made for their dwelling—roofs must be put up.

She did not have money. But her brother had never before asked anything of her! She must have been a proud woman. She sold all her ornaments and jewels. That too must have struck at her pride—she could not even say, I do not have money, how can I do so much? She did it—even if she could not, she did. But in the doing she was immersed.

Keep this in mind: the finest moments of your life are those in which you forget yourself—forget yourself in whatsoever you are doing. The painter forgets himself in painting; the sculptor in his sculpture; the dancer in his dance; the singer in his song. Wherever you forget yourself—at that very moment the supreme moment descends into life. Where you forget yourself, there the ego has moved aside. For a moment the clouds parted and the sun appeared; for a moment the darkness broke and light descended; for a moment, nectar showered upon you.

That is why Jesus emphasized service. The meaning of service is only this: drown yourself in the other. Then, for a little while, a state of egolessness will arise within you. You will have a taste of it. And once you know that in forgetting for a moment there is such taste, such sweetness—you will want to drop the ego forever. You will want to—and it will be logical. Once you have tasted, you will want the whole. If in forgetting the ego there is so much juice, how much more there will be in dropping it utterly.

She got engaged in the work. She must have stood in the blazing sun—forgot her beauty, forgot her prestige, forgot her illness. Physicians also say: those who cannot forget their illness—it is impossible to cure them. That is why if someone is ill, the first thing a doctor wants is that somehow he should sleep. If a sick person does not sleep, treatment cannot happen—because he does not forget; he keeps scratching at his illness. Your stomach aches; you keep going back to it; by your going, the hurt is aggravated and the wound grows. You must forget.

I have heard: Bernard Shaw telephoned his doctor—My heart is pounding hard; I’m very anxious—it feels like a heart attack... please come quickly. It was midnight.

The physician came, climbed the stairs. As soon as he came up, he suddenly threw his bag on the floor and collapsed into the armchair with eyes closed. Bernard Shaw said, What happened? He said, It seems—a heart attack. He was an old doctor.

Bernard Shaw forgot his own heart attack, jumped from the bed at once—Lest he die! He fanned him, gave him water, and after ten minutes asked, How are you now? The doctor said, Now I’m perfectly fine.

As he started to go, he said, My fee. Bernard Shaw said, Fee? I should be charging you! The doctor said, Nothing happened to me—no heart attack—I did it to make you forget your illness. See, you are fine now; a while ago you were bedridden.

If someone has a heart attack before you, you will forget your own discomfort. Bernard Shaw got up—within ten minutes all his troubles were forgotten.

Often it happens: whenever you become absorbed in another, you forget yourself. And illness departs only when you forget yourself. If you want to preserve illness—don’t forget.

Some are very skilled at preserving illness. They simply never forget. From morning till evening they talk illness, illness. Whenever they find a chance, they will talk of their illness; whoever they meet, they will talk of their disease. These hypochondriacs—people who relish illness—there is no way to cure them. Because they keep scratching the illness; they do not let the wound dry; they open it again and again.

Months must have passed; it must have been summer—because Buddha had come for the rains—soon the monsoon would arrive, Ashadha was nearing, clouds were gathering; the roofing had to be quickly done; arrangements had to be made for ten thousand bhikkhus to stay. Rohini completely forgot; she was drowned in the work. The story is sweet—it says ninety-nine percent of the disease went away. Even so, she did not go to the Buddha. Still one percent remained. As the saying goes: the elephant has passed, the tail remains. The last shadow of illness remained upon the face.

Then the Buddha called her; and asked, Do you know for what reason this happened? She said, No, Bhante.

Aniruddha had treated her without telling her. Aniruddha was a physician in his own right. He treated without saying anything. Perhaps saying would have disturbed matters—perhaps by saying Rohini would have become conscious; then it might not have been so easy to heal. Often the physician has to treat without telling you.

You have seen: when the physician writes a prescription, you cannot read it—that is essential, that you cannot read it. If you read it, it may hamper the cure. Sometimes he writes things you already know—What is in this! You yourself know.

That is why allopathy chooses Latin and Greek names for medicines. Quite appropriate. If the names were in your own tongue, you would say, Ah! Suppose it is just ajwain (carom seed) essence—if it is in Latin or Greek, you go and pay five or ten rupees to the chemist. If in Hindi, you may not part even with a couple of annas. Ajwain essence! When has anyone been cured by ajwain essence? The elders at home always say it; your wife says: Take ajwain—there is stomach pain, gas, take it. You never even listened to her; even if you took ajwain, nothing happened. But the doctor’s name, big degree, big plaque, large crowd; two hours waiting in his sitting room—that too is part of the medicine. Then his prescription—his handwriting is illegible...

Mulla Nasruddin said to me, The doctor’s prescription he gave me—what use it was! I asked, What use? He said, I took the medicine from it; and for two months I traveled by train showing it as a pass. Because no one can read it, so even the ticket checker says nothing—All right, move on. It is very useful; whenever I run into trouble, I show it at once. No one can read it—and no one is ready to admit he cannot—so he says, Quite right, go ahead.

If you take it back to the doctor, even your doctor might not be able to read it.

Aniruddha did right not to say. Silently he gave a process.

People come to me—someone says, I am tormented by anger. I say, Fine—do not worry about anger; meditate. He does not like it—because he came for anger and I say meditate. He thinks I have not touched his illness.

There is no need to touch your anger-illness. If somehow you begin to descend into meditation, if for a little while you start to forget yourself—to forget in dance, in song, in chanting, in dhyan, in bhakti, in feeling—the very capacity for anger will begin to wither away.

Someone comes and says, I have great ahankar—blazing like a burning coal. What should I do? How to quench it? I say, Meditate. He too does not feel the answer is right—he thinks he has brought such a great illness and I have put him off—Told me to meditate. He thinks perhaps I have dodged him. And he is amazed that whatever illness one brings, I say: Meditate! Can there be one medicine for all illnesses?

I say to you: there can be. Because behind all illnesses there is one mind; and behind all medicines there is one meditation. Meditation means mindlessness—what else? Meditation is panacea—the Ram-baan arrow that strikes all foes. Because the enemies have different names, but all are names of the mind.

Aniruddha did right to say to Rohini, Go—engage in this work. He did not raise the discussion of her disease at all—did not analyze it either. Sometimes analysis becomes costly.

Psychoanalysts analyze—then it takes three, four, five years. Daily you go—an hour of analysis. Five years the analysis of mind goes on—and still no notable result appears. The analysis becomes a bit too much. Diagnosis goes on and on; the medicine never gets its chance. The essential is the medicine. Let the physician make the diagnosis within himself—there is no need to tell it to you.

Aniruddha must have seen what the matter was. She was his sister—he had known since childhood her real disease: the hankering for beauty, the vanity, the pride. That disease was eating her. She could not forget herself, she could not forget her body. He silently gave a method.

This work was difficult; there was no money at hand; ornaments had to be sold. And if a beautiful woman agrees to sell her ornaments, then half the effort of adorning her beauty is anyway stopped. After all, what was the greed for ornaments? What was their meaning? Only that she might appear more beautiful—let the beauty of diamonds and jewels be added to mine, make me shine, make me radiant.

Aniruddha devised such a trick that all the ornaments were sold; perhaps the costly saris too. So the very means of adorning that beauty, he cut at the root.

And then the greater thing: it was work to be done quickly—the rains were coming—and it was a great work; Rohini was completely caught up in it. From morning to evening, tired and exhausted, she remained engaged; at night she fell unconscious to sleep; in the morning she rushed again. The work was so large, the Buddha was at the door, the rains were at hand—such a big task had fallen upon her; it had to be fulfilled. She used to be a proud woman; such a responsibility had come—she had to complete it. In all this, she must have forgotten.

So the Buddha—when she came to him—said, Do you know why it happened? No, Bhante.

We are afflicted by disease, and we ourselves are the begetters of disease—and yet we do not know how we give birth to disease. Now you may take treatment—what will happen? If you continue to generate disease, then however much treatment you take, nothing will be resolved. With one hand you will take the medicine, with the other hand generate the disease—when will the final result come? Never.

But now the time had come. Now one percent remained. Now analysis could be offered. And this sleeping woman could be awakened. Seeing the moment, the Buddha said, Rohini, because of your anger. Your anger has become ugliness upon your beauty.

Have you seen—even the most beautiful person becomes ugly when he is angry. If only you could know how ugly you become when you are angry, and how beautiful you become when you love—you might drop anger for this reason alone.

Sometimes stand before a mirror and make the gesture of anger—stoke your anger—raise that ghastly face—and see what happens to your face. Your face is not visible to you when you are angry—that is why you do not know what becomes of you when you are in anger. What hell descends upon your face! What violence! What murder! How animal-like you appear! Your eyes fill with blood; your fists clench; your teeth grind. This is the animal state.

You know: when an animal is filled with rage it can do only two things—first, tear with nails, hence the fists clench; and second, rip with its teeth. The animal has no other weapons. Even today, when man is angry, Darwin is proved true—your fists begin to clench, ready to tear; your teeth are ready to bite. You have fallen to the animal plane—you are no longer human in the moment of anger. Naturally, in that state if bestiality appears upon your face, a demonic condition—there is no surprise.

If only you could see your face in anger! But others see it. You see the faces of others; none sees his own. Whoever begins to see his own gradually becomes free—he must.

So sometimes in anger stand before a mirror. Arouse anger—invoke a memory—play a drama. Remember your enemy whom you want to kill—and think: I am ready to kill; now what will be the state of my mind, how will my eyes be, how will my face be—and see your ugliness. Perhaps then you will never be able to be angry again.

Then, also evoke the feeling of karuna—because the opposite of anger is karuna. Then suddenly you will find that Buddhahood arises in your face. Within your face the hidden Buddha begins to reveal himself. In your face a unique grace is also concealed. As the animal is hidden, so too the Divine is hidden. When you stand filled with karuna, you will suddenly find God appearing within you. If you get even a slight glimpse of that, revolution in your life is certain.

The Buddha said, Because of your anger. It is the fruit of intense anger; and therefore see—through karuna it has gone away by itself.

You are so eager to put a roof over the heads of these poor bhikkhus, these beggars, these homeless wanderers—that because of this karuna the disease has gone on its own. It arose from anger; through karuna it has departed. Illness born of anger—karuna is its remedy. Illness born of violence—love is its remedy. Illness born of ahankar—humility is its remedy.

But, said Buddha, the suffering has not fully gone. Because your karuna has not yet awakened. You have done it—but in sleep. Even here a little ego remains—some subtle ego: See, what a great work I am doing. No one could do this in Kapilvastu—but I am doing it. Still there is a pious ahankar—what Krishnamurti calls pious egoism. But ahankar is ahankar—even if most sacred. Poison is poison—even if most pure. In fact, the purer the poison, the more dangerous. In impure poison there is not so much danger.

Mulla Nasruddin wanted to die. He bought poison, drank it, and slept. In the morning he was amazed to hear the milkman’s call. He said, This is too much—do even milkmen come here after death? And when his son with his satchel passed by, he slowly opened his eyes, and said, This is too much—has this son come with me too—and going to school! And when he heard his wife’s voice, he sat up startled—This cannot be! I was dying to escape her—if she too has come, what is the gain of dying! He opened his eyes and saw his own room. He was very angry—ran to the shopkeeper from whom he’d bought—What is the matter?

The shopkeeper said, Sir, what to do? There is adulteration in everything. Pure poison is not available these days. This is Kali Yuga. Forget Sat Yuga, elder—where will you find anything pure!

Impure poison is not so dangerous. A small amount of pure poison becomes very dangerous—though the purer it is, the less effect upon the body; for the body is affected more by the impure.

Therefore notice the difference: the disease of an asattvic (impure) egoist begins to appear upon the body; the sattvic (refined) egoist’s disease will not appear on the body. If you want to see it, you must search with deeper eyes. It will be inside—more subtle. The ego of a worldly man anyone can notice; to catch the ego of a sannyasi you need eyes. The ego of a hedonist anyone can catch; to see the ego of a renunciate you need eyes.

Buddha said, See—there has been benefit from karuna; but your karuna is still asleep, in a swoon—awaken it. Do, in wakefulness, what you are doing. Your ahankar persists in subtle form—let even this go. And then he spoke these gathas—

‘Let him abandon anger, let him abandon pride; let him go beyond all fetters. Such a one, un-attached to nama-rupa, owning nothing, sorrows do not follow.’

‘He who halts the arisen anger as one would stop a runaway chariot—him I call a charioteer; others are only holders of the reins.’

‘Conquer anger by non-anger; conquer the unwholesome by the wholesome; conquer the miserly by giving; conquer the liar by truth.’

‘Speak the truth; do not be angry; when asked, give even a little—by these three states a man goes near the devas.’

Such sutra-like gathas did Buddha speak to Rohini. A few words here are very significant—let us note them separately.

‘Let him abandon anger; let him abandon pride; let him go beyond all combinations.’

Let him go beyond all combinations. Do not live by making plans for tomorrow. Live spontaneously. What will happen tomorrow—will happen. As it will be, so it will be. If we are present, whatever can be done tomorrow—we will do. Do not make combinations.

Ahankar makes big plans. Ahankar builds big bridges for tomorrow. Ahankar lives only in the morrow—therefore never lives at all. It keeps thought not only in this world for tomorrow or the day after, but even for the other world—what arrangements to make there—what merits to acquire, what not—so that in the other world also one may get a place right next door to God’s house. This planning—this plotting—Buddha calls bondage. Live simply, spontaneously.

All your planning is imaginary. I was reading a story by Leo Tolstoy. A poor man entered an orchard to steal cucumbers. The cucumbers were abundant. Before he had plucked any, looking at them his mind filled with fantasies. He thought, Today is a miracle! I will take all the cucumbers. With the money I get by selling them, I will buy hens. I will sell eggs. With the money from eggs I will buy a buffalo. Then I will sell milk, curd, ghee; the money will flow; I too will plant an orchard ten times larger than this—if I do not, my name is not my name! I will produce cucumbers and cucumbers.

And note—he thought: Just as I have come to steal, someone else might also come to steal! He said, Not in my orchard! Now he began to think loudly: Yes, theft might happen. He said, Such things will not be allowed in my orchard; I will keep a watchman. And not only a watchman—who can trust watchmen these days—they might collude with thieves—I will myself go and shout from time to time: Attention! Stay alert! He cried so loudly—Attention! Stay alert!—that the gardener came running and caught him red-handed. He had not yet plucked a single cucumber! He did too much planning. The planning became excessive.

The worldly mind lives in planning. The sannyasi mind lives without planning. Sannyas means living spontaneously.

‘He who halts the arisen anger as one would stop a runaway chariot—him I call a charioteer.’

Buddha says: if anger did not arise, the situation for anger did not occur, and you did not become angry—this is no virtue. If no one abused you and you did not get angry; if no one reviled you and you did not get angry—this is no virtue.

‘He who halts the arisen anger as one would stop a runaway chariot—him I call a charioteer.’

Someone hurled abuse—and you did not get angry. Someone threw a shoe—and you did not get angry...

‘He who halts the arisen anger as one would stop a runaway chariot, him I call a charioteer; others are only holders of the reins.’

Sometimes it happens: your little child also sits in the chariot and holds the reins. The chariot still runs. Sometimes he sits in your car and holds the steering wheel—though you do not leave it completely; you hold it, you keep control—but he takes the wheel and enjoys. But he is only a holder of the reins. If an obstacle appears, he can do nothing. You will have to take over. He is no charioteer.

Therefore Buddha says: ‘Conquer anger with non-anger; conquer the unwholesome with the wholesome.’

Within us there is anger—conquer it with non-anger. Within us there is the unwholesome—conquer it with the wholesome. Within us is miserliness—conquer it with dana, with giving. Within us is falsehood—conquer it with truth.

Whoever succeeds thus becomes a deva among men—the Divine begins to reveal within him.

The second story—

In Rajagriha, the sethi had a maid named Purna. One night, having pounded paddy, drenched in sweat, she stood outside. Midnight—tired and worn out—waiting for her lover. Not seeing him come, she began to be very sad. Tired and aching—and lustful too. It was natural that, not seeing her lover arrive, sorrow would arise. All day she had pounded grain in the hope that her lover would come at night. Because of worry she could not sleep. Two or three times she went to bed, and then returned again and again outside—lest it be that I doze off and the lover comes and knocks and I do not hear. I am so tired that if I fall into deep sleep I will not hear the knock. So again and again she would return outside.

Then she saw that in the nearby mango grove—where the Buddha was residing—where he had halted—where the vihara was and thousands of bhikkhus were staying—she saw many bhikkhus sitting silently, many standing, many walking. She was astonished. She thought, So late at night—what are these bhikkhus doing here? Why are they awake? She thought, I have stayed awake pounding paddy; why are they awake? What are they pounding? And she thought, I am awake waiting for my lover; whom are they waiting for? Then she laughed and said to herself, Ah! All are corrupt, hypocrites, pretenders. They too must be waiting for their lovers. Otherwise what is the point of staying awake at midnight?

The next morning Bhagwan went to her door on alms round. She was startled. She wanted to refuse him, but could not. The guru of hypocrites he may be—then he should be a hypocrite too. She wanted to refuse—but before this man of serene presence she could not refuse. Somehow she fed Bhagwan. After the meal Bhagwan said to her, Purne, why do you slander my bhikkhus? She could not believe it—she had told this to no one. She said, Bhante, slander! I do not slander—when did I slander? Bhagwan said, Remember last night—what did you think?

Purna was very ashamed; then she told the whole thing. The Master said to her, Purne, you did not sleep because of your sorrow; my bhikkhus are awake because of their bliss. You did not sleep because of your thoughts and defilements; my bhikkhus were meditating—they do not sleep because of the thoughtless state. There is a difference in sleep and sleep, Purne—and in wakefulness and wakefulness too. Learn this new wakefulness, crazy one; the old wakefulness is no real wakefulness. Sleeping, you have only lost—now earn something. And then he spoke this gatha—

‘Those who are ever wakeful, who learn day and night, who are wholly resolved upon Nirvana—their taints come to an end.’

First let us rightly understand this tale.

First point: about others we think only what we know of ourselves. Naturally so—there is no other measure in our hands. The thief sees the whole world as thieves. And even if a sadhu seeks, he cannot find the unsaintly easily. The angry sees everyone as angry; the dishonest sees only dishonesty—because what we see is a reflection of our own outlook.

Understand: the world is like a mirror—we see our own face in it. In every face we see our own face. The skill to see the other’s face as it is—the skill to see the other as he is—belongs only to the awakened ones. Asleep, filled with slumber, unconscious—as much as we may wish—we cannot see the other. Our eyes are bound by concepts. And there is much smoke upon them.

Now this woman, waiting for her lover and sexually aroused—she knows what it means to be awake at midnight. Why are these bhikkhus awake? It would not have occurred to her even in a dream that there might be another reason to be awake. Why are they awake? Surely they too are entangled like me; they cannot sleep; some anxiety grips them; some restlessness rides them; some ghost torments them as it torments me. So she thought: All hypocrites, pretenders, corrupt!

Remember: whenever you pass judgment about another, you reveal information about yourself. Whether your judgment is true about the other or not—about you it is certainly true. Be careful in judging others—or better, do not judge.

Hence Jesus said, Judge ye not—do not become a judge of others.

Who are you? What is happening inside the other—you cannot know. You do not know what is happening within you—you are not aware of your own inner happenings. Do not even think of entering others’ interiors when you have not entered your own.

But this happens. From where we are, we cannot accept anyone above us—for it wounds the ego. This Purna is a maid—how can she accept that there can be a higher form of human being than herself? People might be awake at midnight for meditation? That is unimaginable. Meditation! She has never meditated. The very word is empty—no content in it for her.

People come here; they see sannyasins meditating; they cannot believe it. They think, These people have gone mad. Naturally—only madness would make them do it, because they themselves would do such a thing only if they went mad; so they think these are mad. In this judgment they are informing about themselves. They cannot accept that people might be dancing intoxicated in bliss. They can only assume someone has hypnotized them. Poor fellows! They feel pity.

They also cannot accept that someone can go higher than themselves; thus whenever they hear of someone going higher, they at once become eager to slander. Through slander they protect their ego. Through slander they bring the man down. Until they can bring him below themselves, they have no ease. Someone has gone ahead of them—intolerable! They themselves are the highest; others can only be inferior.

So the maid thought, All hypocrites, all pretenders. What are they doing awake at night?

The next day Bhagwan called at her door for alms. She was surprised—only last night she was thinking this—and the guru of the hypocrites stands at her door! She wanted to refuse—but she could not. Sometimes such moments come in life when the voice arising from your ego becomes faint and breaks before the impact of another’s presence. She wanted to say: Go away; go elsewhere; ask elsewhere; I do not want to be part of this hypocrisy. Why should I give? But the presence of the Buddha—his gentle form, his equanimity, his grace; the karuna showering around him—despite herself she was compelled to give. She thought: Give—and quietly send him away; why get into a tangle? Somewhere she even began to feel that perhaps the man is genuine.

Know such a one as guru, before whom, despite yourself, he begins to feel right to you. This is the meaning of guru: you wanted to refuse—but could not. Your whole mind said, Run from here—what are you getting into! And yet something held you back; you got entangled; you stayed. Despite wanting to run, you could not run. If such a person happens to you, know that the guru has been found—one from whom you cannot escape, however you try; to whose feet you bow despite yourself. One whose voice penetrates the tumult within you and reaches your innermost center; whose music you are compelled to hear even beyond your noise—though with difficulty, yet you must listen—at whose feet you bow despite yourself—he is the guru.

If you bow easily, without any inner resistance, that is not a guru; he is only a nourisher of your beliefs—your priest, your pundit—not a guru. He believes what you believe, so you bow; he knows more perhaps, but his being is not more than yours. He has read more scriptures, has more arguments, more intellect—but is where you are—just like you.

A Muslim bows before a maulvi; a Hindu bows before a Brahmin; a Jain bows before a Jain muni. Such bowing is not finding a guru. The sign of a guru is this alone: before whom you are compelled to bow despite yourself. You did not want to bow, but helplessly one bows; a gust comes—and you must bow.

Purna somehow offered food. After the meal Bhagwan said, Purne, why do you slander my bhikkhus? She said, Bhante—me and slander? No, never. Why would I slander? Bhagwan said, Remember last night—what did you think? Purna was ashamed, and then told everything. The Master said, Purna, you do not sleep because of sorrow—my bhikkhus are awake because of bliss.

You know that sometimes in the stimulation of sorrow you cannot sleep—and sometimes in the stimulation of joy—if there has come even a single such moment when you were joyous, thrilled—did you not find sleep impossible? One who is joyous forgets to sleep. One who is sorrowful cannot sleep even if he wants; one who is blissful forgets to sleep.

Therefore gradually the sannyasin’s sleep becomes less and less. I am not telling you to reduce sleep; I am not telling you to cut it down. But the sannyasin’s sleep becomes less. Krishna says: when the whole world sleeps, the yogi is awake. The need for sleep becomes less—because as your inner consciousness becomes more wakeful, even if the body sleeps, you do not. And midnight has no better time for meditation—because the tumult of the world is gone, the troublemakers sleep; all politicians are in deep slumber—there is no election anywhere, no agitation, no noise—nothing—everything is silent. There is no more beautiful moment than midnight. The earth sleeps; plants sleep; birds sleep. In that stillness it is easy to be awake.

She saw some bhikkhus sitting awake; some pacing slowly; some standing. What are they doing? Have they lost their wits? The worldly stays awake—fine—because of anxiety, restlessness. But what is happening to them? Ah, all are corrupt!

Buddha said to her, You do not sleep because of sorrow; these bhikkhus are awake because of joy. You were drowned in thoughts, in anxieties, in defilements; they were immersed in meditation. In meditation—where is sleep? Sleep and sleep are different, Purne.

When the meditator sleeps, he too does not sleep; and you—even when you are awake—what wakefulness is that!

And wakefulness and wakefulness are different, Purne. Now learn the new wakefulness.

Why did the Buddha shower such karuna upon this woman? She had no special merit; she only slandered! The question will arise: why did Buddha go to her door? Was there no other door in that city? But remember one point of psychology: where slander has arisen in someone’s mind—a link has been made. The one who says even this much—that these bhikkhus are hypocrites—has taken some taste. And where there is hatred, love can be created; but where there is neither even hatred, only indifference—there love can never be born.

I too know three kinds of people. Those in whose hearts there is love for me—naturally they can be greatly supported. Those who are annoyed with me—who have opposition, hatred—can be handled too. And the third—those who are indifferent—who have nothing to do—they cannot be helped at all.

Buddha’s going is indicative. This woman at least expressed hatred. She did something. Had she been indifferent, Buddha would not have knocked at her door. She took at least the trouble to say: all are hypocrites. It is necessary to go and say to her: All are not hypocrites. It is necessary to awaken her. She can awaken.

A Jewish fakir wrote a book and sent it to the highest religious authority of the Jews. He told the courier: Whatever he says, note it carefully and tell me.

The youth went with the book. It was a fakir’s book—so the religious leader was angry—religious leaders are always angry at fakirs.

As soon as he saw it was a fakir’s book, he threw it out the door: Take it away! Do not defile my house! But the leader’s wife said, Why such a thing? There are thousands of books in our house; this too could be kept. If you had to throw it, you could have thrown it after the man left. If you did not want to read, do not read—how many books are there you have never read—this too could remain. Why such discourtesy?

The youth heard this and returned. He said to the fakir, The religious leader threw the book at once—he became red with anger. I felt he might attack me—like putting a live coal in his hand. But his wife is very good. She said: Do not do this. Keep the book in the house; there are so many books—if you do not want to read, do not read. How many are there you have never read. And if you must throw it, then throw it later. Why such incivility?

The fakir said to the youth, Foolish one—the religious leader I will change someday; but his wife is impossible to change. In his wife there is indifference. She says: Let it lie; it will lie in a corner—what is the harm? There are so many books—this one too. And if we must throw it, throw it later—why this excitement? The fakir said: Mark my words—the religious leader I will change; he will come after me sooner or later—there is so much heat! So much anger! This very anger can become love. The enemy can become a friend; and a friend can become an enemy. But the neutral never becomes a friend or an enemy.

That is why Buddha went to her door. And he spoke this unique gatha—

‘Those who are ever wakeful, who learn day and night, who are wholly resolved upon Nirvana—their taints come to an end.’

Their sins are destroyed, their darkness breaks, their ignorance falls.

‘Those who are ever wakeful...’

Sada jagaramananam...

‘And who learn day and night...’

Those whose discipleship is full—who never miss a chance to learn—day or night, morning or evening, one’s own or others’, enemy or friend, whether someone hates or loves, whether someone abuses or honors—who keep learning; who know the art of transforming everything into learning—that is the disciple. I said: the guru is one before whom you are compelled to bow despite yourself; and the disciple is one who learns in every situation. There is no situation in which he says, There is nothing to learn. Such a situation does not exist. In every situation one can learn.

Ahorattanusikkhinam—

Day or night, success or failure, victory or defeat, birth or death—

Ahorattanusikkhinam—

In every situation who learns and remains awake.

‘For whom Nirvana is the only aim.’

Who, by any means, wishes to be free of the limits of body and mind and dissolve into the vast sky of the Atman; who longs to drop his drop into the ocean—such a one alone goes beyond the darkness.

And the last sutra—a lovely incident—

A man of Shravasti named Atul went with five hundred others to hear the dharma in the Buddha’s sangha. He went successively to Elder Revata, to Elder Sariputta, to Venerable Ananda, and then came to Bhagwan himself.

Such was the arrangement: first people listened to the great disciples of Buddha, understood a little, gained some grasp; then they would go to Bhagwan with their questions.

Atul said to Bhagwan, Bhante, with such strong hope I came to hear the dharma—but Elder Revata said nothing; he sat silently. What kind of thing is this! I was not alone; I came with five hundred. We had traveled from far. I had heard great renown of Revata—that he has attained knowledge, that he is your great disciple. What happened? We sat—and he sat silently; he did not speak! This does not sit right.

Then we went to Sariputta. Sariputta spoke—but so much that it all flowed over our heads. He spoke beyond measure. So subtle, subtle were the things he said that we could not grasp them. We got bored; we were nauseated sitting there; we nodded; many times we even fell asleep. Is this right, Bhagwan? One should speak so much? One should talk in such subtlety? Say what we can understand, and as much as we can grasp. You spoke so much that what little we might have understood was washed away in your flood. Sariputta seems like a flood—deluge. One sat silent—did not get a drop; one gentleman poured so hard that nothing remained in hand.

And then we went to Elder Ananda. He spoke very little—extreme sutra form—what little we grasped slipped. Is this right, Bhagwan? Ah, speak a little at length, explain a bit, give examples, repeat, so that we can understand. You recited aphorisms—sutras! Sutras are very hard—seed-like—beyond our grasp. Now we have come to you. We have returned from them angry.

Bhagwan heard Atul, laughed, and said, Atul, this has been going on since ancient times. The silent one is criticized; the much-speaking one is criticized; the little-speaking one is criticized. In the world, criticism is the rule. Praise people offer under compulsion. The real relish is in criticism. Even praise people do as part of setting up criticism. They even criticize the earth, the sun, and the moon. No one is spared. See how much criticism is directed at me, said Bhagwan. But what fools say is not worth considering. Then he spoke this gatha—

‘O Atul, this is ancient—this is not only of today: they blame the one who sits silent; they blame the one who speaks much; they blame the one who speaks little—no one in the world is un-blamed.’

Man is very strange. He is immersed in the relish of slander. You will find some excuse to criticize. If someone sits silent—criticism: Why does he not speak? If someone speaks—criticism: He speaks too much. If someone speaks little—criticism: He doesn’t explain.

Have you heard the story? A man with his wife was going somewhere with their donkey. On the way some people met them. Both were walking—because there was only one donkey, and it was weak, it could not carry two. Those men said, You seem supreme fools—why do you have a donkey if you don’t ride it? You’re traveling—sit on the donkey. The man said, Better than being a fool—let’s sit; so he sat on the donkey, and his wife walked alongside.

Another crowd met them. They said, This is too much—see this idiot! He makes his wife walk and sits on the donkey himself! A man should walk! Put the woman up! He said, That too is right. So he began to walk, and seated his wife upon the donkey.

Then some people met them; they said, See the fun! Kali Yuga has come—a woman rides the donkey and the husband walks! The husband is God! They said, What to do—what to do! They said, Both sit. So both sat upon the donkey.

After a little, again people met them: You will kill the donkey; you seem to be donkeys. The donkey’s life is going—its back is bending; two are riding! Have you no shame? Even animals have life!

They said, Now what to do? Only one way remains—we will carry the donkey. They tied a rope to its legs, put a pole through, and both hoisted it upon their shoulders and walked.

A little farther, more people: What are you doing? Are you sane? We have seen men on donkeys—but a donkey on men! What are you doing?

This is an old tale from the Panchatantra—but meaningful. Such is the case. If you go by people, you will never be steady. If you keep silent—people will criticize; if you speak—people will criticize. Whatever you do—people will criticize.

What does this sutra mean? It means: whoever wants to relish criticism will find a cause. Therefore do not worry about the critics.

Thus Buddha says: there is no need to heed what fools say. Fools will keep speaking foolishness. You do only that which your prajna tells you to do. If you feel it right to be silent—be silent, whatever people say. If you feel it right to speak—speak, whatever people say. If little speaking seems right—speak little; and if you feel to let a river flow—then let it flow. Do not worry about what people say.

You are the master of your life. Live your life in your own way. You are you—do not worry about people’s opinion. If you worry about opinion, they will drive you mad.

Whoever worried about people’s opinion dies worth two pennies. Do not worry about people’s opinions. Live from your inner peace, your inner bliss, your inner awareness. Do what seems right to you. And do not change it every day either.

If ever you must change, change from your own inner understanding—not because of others’ understanding. Do not get caught in what people say. Only then will you arrive somewhere—else you will arrive nowhere.

If you go south, people will say, Where are you going? What is there in the south? If you go north, people will meet you and say, What is there in the north? Where are you going? If you go west, people will meet you; if you go east, people will meet you. There are people in all directions—and there are partisans of every direction—and in opposition to every direction someone will be found. They will let you do nothing.

If you want to attain something in life—some siddhi, some attainment—if you want to squeeze some fragrance out of life’s juice—then remain absorbed in your own tune. This is one point drawn from this sutra.

And the second: do not judge what others are doing. Do not get into this slander—whether they are doing right or wrong—who knows! They know; their god knows. Neither allow others to obstruct you in your work, nor obstruct others in theirs. The world could be very beautiful if people did not obstruct one another—did not give opinions, did not pass judgments.

Every person has the right to be himself. And every person has the birthright to find his own direction in life. It should be so.

Remember both points: do not obstruct another—What are you doing, how are you doing, you should not do this—you are not anyone’s controller, anyone’s master. Let him live in his own way; let him seek God in his own way. And do not make anyone your master either. No one is your master.

He who lives in this supreme freedom—he alone someday finds the lamp within, and lights it. This is what Buddha called: Appa dipa bhava—be a light unto yourself.

Enough for today.