Mahaveer Meri Drishti Mein #24

It is very useful to understand these three words: suffering, happiness, and bliss.
Suffering and happiness are not different things; the difference between them is, at most, of quantity, of degree. Therefore happiness can turn into suffering and suffering can turn into happiness. What we call happiness can become suffering; what we call suffering can become happiness. The gap between them is not the gap between opposites. The difference is of measure.
We call one man poor and another rich. What is the difference between poor and rich? Are they opposites?
Ordinarily it appears that poverty and wealth are opposing states, but the truth is: poverty and wealth are degrees of one and the same thing. A man with one rupee is poor; with one crore he is rich. If with one rupee he is poor, how with one crore is he rich? At most we can say: with one crore he is a crore times less poor. And if the man with a crore is rich, how is the man with one rupee poor? Then we can only say: he is a crore times less rich.
The difference between the two is not the difference that exists between opposites; it is the difference that exists among the measures of one and the same thing. Yet poverty can be suffering and wealth can be happiness. The poor man is unhappy and wants to be rich.
So the difference between suffering and happiness is also, in the same way, one of degree. All our experiences of happiness are connected to suffering, and all our experiences of suffering are also connected to happiness. The one who wavers between the two is in the world. To be in the world does not mean only the experience of suffering. If there were only suffering in the world, no one would wander; there would be no way to wander. One wanders only because there is the hope of happiness while the experience is of suffering. And when happiness is attained, the very moment it turns into suffering.
One should look at the experience of the world—of samsara—in two or three ways. First: happiness is always in the future—tomorrow it will come. And for the happiness that will come tomorrow, today we are ready to undergo suffering! We endure today’s suffering in the hope that tomorrow happiness will arrive. If there were no hope of happiness tomorrow, it would be difficult to endure today’s suffering even for a single moment.
Omar Khayyam wrote a song in which he says: I have been wandering for many lives and have asked everyone, Why does man wander? But no answer was found. Then, tired one day, I asked the sky itself: you have seen all who wander, and those who have gone beyond wandering, and you will see those who will come to wander and those who will go beyond it—tell me, why does man wander? From all around, from the sky—he says in his song—I heard a voice: Because of hope! Because of hope!
Why does man wander? Because of hope! And what is hope? The possibility that tomorrow happiness will come. The assurance that tomorrow happiness will arrive. Endure today’s suffering, tomorrow there will be happiness!
We endure today’s suffering in the hope of tomorrow’s happiness. Then when tomorrow’s happiness comes, a very surprising event happens: as soon as it is attained, it becomes suffering. The thing that became available—how much we had imagined that on attaining it, this will happen, and this, and this…
If each person examines his experience just a little, he will be amazed: how many dreams I had piled up—this will happen, that will happen. Then the thing was attained—and nothing happened. Where did those dreams disappear? How did all those imaginings melt away? The moment the thing is in hand, the happiness hidden in its possibility vanishes all at once.
As long as it is not attained, happiness seems to be in waiting; as soon as it is attained, all happiness ends! Then a new chase begins. Because where suffering is, we will run away. Understand this too. Where there is suffering, we cannot stay. We will run. How to run away from suffering? Ordinarily we see only one way: in some hope of happiness we forget today’s suffering; we let it slip into oblivion.
So the very moment suffering begins, we weave a new hope of happiness. Into that hope we pour all that is opposite to our suffering. We include everything we want to be. Thus man lives in suffering! He lives in suffering, is in suffering—but his eyes remain fixed on happiness! As if a man walks on the earth but always looks at the sky. Looking at the sky has one convenience: you can forget you are on the earth—yet you still are on the earth.
We stand in suffering, but our eyes are always stuck on happiness! This gives us the convenience of forgetting suffering and the capacity to endure it.
Now, if you look very deeply, happiness is only a possibility—never a truth. Suffering is always the truth, the fact, the reality. But how to endure suffering? We endure it in the hope of happiness. Tomorrow’s happiness makes today’s suffering bearable.
And that happiness of tomorrow never arrives. And on the day it does arrive—by mistake—on that very day we find the illusion has broken. The hope we had woven has proved false. Yet we only understand this much: this particular happiness was wrong! Other happinesses are not wrong—keep running after them. This one was a mistake; now that this error is exposed, suffering has come—so the mind will run again.
That is, we are uprooted from one hope, but we are not uprooted from hope itself. We know the futility of one happiness, but we do not know the futility of happiness as such. Hence the race continues. If there were only suffering in life, and not even the feeling of the possibility of happiness, then a person could not remain in the world for even a moment. He would be free in a single instant. But hope keeps him in movement.
And what I said: what the liberated one attains should not be called happiness—we could use any word—but it should not be called happiness, because what he attains is different from both happiness and suffering. Therefore it should be called anand—bliss. It needs a new word. And it is a strange fact: you have never heard an opposite of anand. Happiness and suffering are each other’s opposites—but what is the opposite of anand?
There is no opposite of anand. There is no state opposite to bliss. And bliss is not happiness; if you make it happiness, then the world of suffering begins again.
Ordinarily we say: the one who is free of suffering attains anand. But there is a slight error in that. It should be said: the one who is free of both happiness and suffering attains anand. Because happiness and suffering are not two different things. Therefore the common man continuously makes this mistake, taking bliss to mean happiness. He thinks: to be free of suffering is happiness. So many people—even in the search for truth or for liberation—are actually searching for happiness.
Hence Mahavira did a very fine thing. He called the seeker of happiness the seeker of swarg—heaven. And the seeker of anand he called the seeker of moksha. The difference between moksha and swarg is the difference in the search. The seeker of suffering seeks narak—hell; the seeker of happiness seeks swarg; but the one who seeks freedom from both is the seeker of moksha. Swarg is not moksha.
Before Mahavira, the widespread notion was that swarg is the ultimate attainment! Beyond that what else is there? Where all happiness is found, that is the ultimate. But understand this great psychological truth: where there is happiness, suffering is inevitable. As where there is heat, cold is inevitable. Where there is light, darkness is inevitable. In reality they are two aspects of the same truth and they live together. To save one and throw away the other is impossible. At most you can push one above and keep the other below. When we are in the illusion of happiness, suffering is hidden underneath and waits to appear. And when we are in suffering, happiness is hidden below and gives us hope every moment: I am just about to appear, just about to appear. But the two are one.
If this is understood, the illusion of happiness breaks. When the illusion of happiness breaks, there is a direct encounter with suffering. If the illusion remains, there is no direct encounter with suffering—because through that illusion we make suffering bearable. We tolerate it, endure it.
The illusion of happiness does not allow the full revelation of suffering. As it is, suffering does not show itself fully. Its sharp edge cannot pierce us entirely. The illusion of happiness blunts the edge of suffering. In truth we never look at suffering; we keep looking toward happiness! Suffering slips by under our feet, but we never fix our eyes upon it. We always escape. From suffering we run toward the hope of happiness. The one who is free of the illusion of happiness—who sees that there is nothing like happiness…
Turn back and look behind, then the idea can occur. We always look ahead, so the idea does not occur. Turn back and look: when was it that happiness was actually attained? Which was that moment when it was found? Look back, for there events have already happened. Which moment was it when happiness was attained?
You will be very surprised looking back: a complete desert—where no flower of happiness ever bloomed. Although many times, when what is now the past was not past but future, we had thought: happiness will come, will come. Then it became past and our hope moved again into the future. What was future yesterday is past today. What is future today will be past tomorrow. Look back at the past: was happiness ever found? Although just as much hope was there then. There was the same belief in attaining, in achieving. But it did not happen. And the same belief is present now—and we are doing ahead of us exactly what we did behind us. We are enduring today in the hope of tomorrow. Therefore we cannot see today.
Understand this sutra: the one who is in the illusion of happiness cannot have a direct realization of suffering.
The illusion of happiness does not allow the encounter with suffering. In fact, we create the illusion of happiness precisely so that suffering will not be encountered.
A man lies hungry. He cannot encounter hunger, because at that moment he is dreaming of the meal that will be cooked tomorrow. A man lies ill. He cannot encounter illness, because he is lost in the dream of the morrow when he will be healthy.
We have missed the whole point—the place where we are. And where we are, there is continuous suffering. Perhaps suffering is so hard to bear that we have to miss, to run away; we escape, we flee.
If the illusion of happiness breaks, where will you run—have you ever thought? If the illusion of happiness breaks, where will we run? Where will we go? We will have to live in suffering, to endure it, to know it. We will have to fix our eyes into suffering, because there is no way to go anywhere else. Here we are—and here is suffering.
The one who encounters suffering arrives at that intensity from which the return begins—from which he turns back. As I said in the morning: when the full pain, the full suffering, the thorns of suffering pierce him from all sides, and no hope remains in the future, and there is no way ahead—then where will he go? When there is no hope ahead in the future, then he returns into himself. The very day suffering is fully encountered, the return begins. On that very day the person turns back.
Understand it thus: if you run from suffering, you will reach happiness. If you awaken in suffering, you will reach anand. Running from suffering—happiness. That is the trick of escape. Not running—standing in suffering, seeing it in its totality, encountering it—and transformation begins. Because as soon as suffering is fully encountered, how can we go on doing that which brings suffering? How can we keep living in the same ways that bring suffering? How can we be caught again in the same cravings, the same thirsts, whose fruit is suffering? How can we sow the same seeds whose fruit will be suffering?
But this comes from the direct encounter with suffering—an encounter with sorrow. The pain is there, the suffering is there—but we have never looked it in the eye. The direct encounter with suffering inevitably becomes the journey toward bliss. You do not have to go—you begin to go. Because you recognize: this I did, and from it this happened.
Buddha says: This done, that happens. So do not do this, and that will not happen—such is the law.
I did this: I abused, the abuse returned. I inflicted pain, pain came back. Now if I become fully aware of this pain—if its dagger sinks completely into my chest and I do not forget it by dreaming—what will happen? Naturally, tomorrow I will not abuse! Tomorrow I will not hurt anyone! Because pain that is inflicted returns. Then the possibility of suffering will keep becoming weaker. I give only one example.
In the same way, at every fork of life, how suffering is produced will begin to be seen. What begins to be seen…
No one ever boards a boat called “suffering.” Everyone boards a boat called “happiness.” Who will be ready to board a boat called suffering? If it were certain that this boat is of suffering and will drop you at the ghat of suffering, who would board it? We board the boat of suffering, but the ghat is always called happiness—therefore we get in. We hope: never mind; if on the way the boat gives us some trouble, even the fear of sinking—still, no worry—the ghat on the other shore is happiness.
But how can a boat of suffering reach the ghat of happiness? The instrument that gives suffering—how can it become the end called happiness? In truth, what is present in the first step will be present at the last. Very deep down, the first is the last. Because from there the beginning has happened.
If I take a step that is already giving pain now, how is it possible that the same step, moving forward, will bring happiness tomorrow?
It is only possible that moving forward it will bring greater suffering. Because today it is small; tomorrow it will be bigger. I will take ten more steps; the day after, ten more. It will keep growing. This small seed of suffering will become a tree. It will have more branches, more fruits, more flowers. And not only flowers—one seed very soon becomes a thousand, a million seeds by way of the tree. They will fall and more trees will grow. And it will spread.
This spread is endless. Has anyone ever calculated how many trees one seed can produce? Perhaps as many trees as there are on earth—one seed could produce. Not only on earth—perhaps as many trees as there are in the whole cosmos—one seed could produce. If you think of the infinite potential of one seed, you will be frightened. Infinite—because one seed can become millions. Then each seed becomes millions—on and on. There is no end to this spread.
So the first step we take becomes a seed and the final fruit is its natural outcome. But we take the step in the hope that though we sow a poisonous seed, the fruit will be nectar.
It is never nectar. Again and again we have experienced it. Continuously, moment to moment, we have known: we sowed these seeds and those fruits arrived.
But we are adept at deceiving ourselves. When the fruit comes, we say: certainly some mistake occurred somewhere. Certainly some error happened; surely the circumstances were not favorable. The winds did not blow right, the sun did not rise on time, the rains failed, the fertilizer was not given—therefore the fruit turned bitter. We blame everything except one thing—that the seed was poisonous!
And the amusing thing is: if the rains did not come on time, if conditions were unfavorable, the gardener neglected the fertilizer, the sun did not shine—because of these only one thing could happen: the fruit that could have grown big remained small. Because of this the only possibility is that the bitter fruit remained small. If everything had been favorable, a much larger bitter fruit would have grown.
Understand this. The suffering we receive—we usually say it depends on circumstances. The circumstances give us suffering. “I am fine. The friend is wrong, the wife is wrong, the father is wrong, the husband is wrong—the world is wrong, the circumstances are wrong—I am fine.” Thus we save the seed. “What I did is right. But support was not favorable—the winds blew contrary, the sun did not rise—everything got spoiled.”
Remember: if under adverse circumstances so much bitter fruit came, how bitter would it have been under favorable ones—can you calculate? We do not even consider it. The wishes we cherish—if they were fulfilled completely—we would fall into as great a suffering as we have never known. Understand this a little.
Usually we think we suffer because our desires are not fulfilled. Our logic is: we suffer because what we wish for does not happen. The truth is: we suffer because what we wish for is the seed of suffering. Without being fulfilled it brings so much suffering—if fulfilled, how much more would it bring? Think—take any desire: if it were totally fulfilled…
A lover longs for his beloved. As long as the beloved is not found, he enjoys the happiness of hope, the sweetness of waiting. The desire is not yet fulfilled. Though at that time he feels very miserable—ask him then and he will say: there is no measure to my suffering; the one I wish to attain has not been attained; a thousand obstacles are there.
But those who know will say: the happiness savored in that time—that is enough. Though he will not say he savored happiness then. He endured such pain that cannot be measured.
But the beloved is attained—the desire to attain is fulfilled. And immediately all the hopes fall away. The happiness that belonged to conquest, to victory, to succeeding—that all is gone. We have succeeded. The hope we had all these days—that on attaining, this will happen, that will happen—also goes. Because that hope was not related to attainment; those were our dreams, our poetry, our projections. A beloved, from a distance, is never what she is from near.
Not only drums, everything is charming from afar. Distance creates charm. The gap is very charming. The more the distance, the more pleasant—because from afar we cannot see completely. In truth from afar we do not see truly. We see a little. What we do not see, we put our dream in its place.
We see a person from afar, we see an outline—but much we add from our dream. We ourselves have added it; the other person is not to blame. But on coming near, what we added melts away. The dream we had added, the poetry we had spread—begins to disappear. The person as he is, begins to appear—such as we had never imagined.
How could we imagine what the other would be? We can only desire that he be such. But no one is born in accordance with another’s desires. A person is born in accordance with his own desires. We imposed our wishes; they shatter as soon as we meet. And the person appears whom we had never known. Reality breaks each of our dreams—one by one.
Then we wished the person would be entirely ours. That is: when I say “night,” he will say “night”; when I say “day,” he will say “day.” This wish is never fulfilled. Because it is hard to find a person who becomes exactly what you say. And the amusing thing is: the other also had the same wish! He also desired: when I say night, it should be night; when I say day, it should be day. This was the criterion of his love too. Then it becomes very difficult—because you want him to say what you say, he wants you to say what he says. You expected peace—there will be conflict. You expected happiness—there will be sadness.
And we will say—this is what I am trying to explain—we will say: this is happening because what I wanted did not happen. I wanted that when I say “night,” he also say “night”—this did not happen; hence I am unhappy. Not because of desire—but because the wrong person came. The wrong person, my desire could not be fulfilled—therefore I am unhappy. This is desire’s reasoning. It says: I am not being fulfilled, hence you are unhappy. If only I were fulfilled, happiness would be. If only another person had come instead of this one…
But understand for a moment: suppose your desire were fulfilled, that when you said “night,” the other person said “night”—even though it was day. You put chains on his feet and called them ornaments, and he too called them ornaments! You found a person who is exactly like you—your shadow. The amusing thing is: with such a person, how much suffering will arise—you cannot imagine. Because he would not be a person at all—he would be a machine, a device, without individuality, without soul. And could you love a person without a soul, without individuality? You could not love even for a moment.
If desire were fulfilled, the suffering would be greater than anything that ever came from its non-fulfillment. No one wants to purchase a shadow; we want a person. But our desire is strange: we want a person—who obeys us. These two do not fit. If he is a person, he will live in his own way; if he obeys us, he is not a person. There is no soul in him; he is a dead thing—like a piece of furniture you can place anywhere.
Let this example suffice.
Take another: a man is poor, and says: I am unhappy because the wealth I want does not come. If I get it, I will not be unhappy.
All right—let him get it. First, on getting some wealth, desire will move ahead: What is this? Not enough. More, more. Suppose his desire is that all the wealth of the world be his. This cannot be fulfilled; therefore great suffering. Suppose it is fulfilled—do you know how much suffering he will bear?
You cannot imagine. The fun of being wealthy was in leaving other wealthy ones behind—competition, contest—where you win. If one person gets all the wealth of the earth, he will become utterly sad—because there is no competition left, no possibility of competition. If all the wealth of earth comes to one person, he will commit suicide—saying: now what? What shall I do now? He will become so depressed…
There is a story about Alexander. Diogenes said to him: If you conquer the whole earth, have you thought what then? Alexander said: even conquering is difficult now. Diogenes said: suppose you conquer it—what then? There is no second earth to conquer.
The story says Alexander became sad hearing there is no other earth. He said: I never thought of this. But if the whole earth is conquered, then what? There is no second earth—what will I do?
He began to ask Diogenes: then what will I do? You are right—but do not raise such anxieties; it is very difficult even to conquer this earth. Do not raise such anxieties.
Diogenes said: this anxiety must be raised. Because your desire is: after conquering the earth I will be happy. I say: suppose you have conquered it—will you be happy, or unhappy? He laughed loudly: Even now, just thinking “what then?” you have become unhappy.
When our wishes are not fulfilled, we suffer. When they are fulfilled, we think we will get supreme happiness. We think we suffer because our desires are not fulfilled.
Tolstoy wrote a story: a father had three daughters—married in three different homes. One to a farmer, one to a potter, one to a weaver who weaves and dyes cloth. The rainy season is due—but the rains have not come.
The potter is very happy; his wife thanks God: Thank you! All our pots have been shaped; if it rains, we will perish. Let there be no rain for eight days, so our pots can be baked and reach the market.
But the farmer’s wife is distressed: the field is ready and no rain. If delayed eight days, sowing will be late and everything will become difficult. She prays daily: O God, what are you doing? Our children will starve; let the rain fall quickly!
The third daughter, wife of the weaver—her cloth has been woven and dyed. She says to God: now it is Your will. Let it rain today or tomorrow—it makes no difference to us! Our work is finished; our preparations complete; we have gathered everything indoors. She folds her hands: Now it is Your will—today or tomorrow, it does not matter.
In the story God asks his angels: tell me, what should I do? Whose desire shall I fulfill? And God says: these are only three; if I were to ask all the desires of the whole earth and fulfill them all, the earth would end—this very moment!
We do not know our desires and the race of our desires—nor what we want from them. But the delusion continues because our idea is: suffering comes because desire is not fulfilled; happiness would come if it were fulfilled.
One who enters deeply into this will know: no fulfillment can bring happiness—it brings more suffering. Non-fulfillment brings so much suffering—how much would fulfillment bring! Do the mathematics: If with the seed getting little facility such a poisonous fruit has come, with full facility, how much poison would have come! How much!
Every desire leads into suffering—but gives the assurance of happiness. Every boat is of suffering—but promises to drop us at the ghat of happiness.
A thousand times we board the boat daily—and a thousand times the boat of suffering drops us at the ghat of suffering. Yet we say: some mistake has occurred! Otherwise how could a boat bound for the ghat of happiness reach the ghat of suffering? But we never ask: perhaps the boat itself was of suffering? The question is not of the ghat at all. The question is not where you will arrive. The question is from where you depart; upon what you ride. The question is not what the fruit will be; the question is what seed you sow.
Jesus says: As you sow, so shall you reap. But when reaping, do not repent. If you must repent, do it while sowing. When reaping, what is there to repent? Then you will have to reap.
But we all want to reap something else and sow something else. This inner conflict—that we sow one thing and want to reap another—can keep us wandering for eternity, for countless births.
This delusion must be broken. One must awaken from it. And one must understand this sutra: whatever we sow, that we reap. Perhaps we do not recognize the seed—because the seed is unobvious, unmanifest, not yet expressed. A seed is here—you may not recognize what tree it will become, because the tree is hidden in the seed and cannot be seen.
So Jesus says: what you sow, that you reap. I want to add the reverse: what you reap, know that that is what you sowed. Because in sowing you may not recognize—the seed does not show clearly whether it will become poison or nectar. There may be a mistake then; but while reaping, there can be no mistake. Perhaps while boarding the boat you could not understand what boat it was—but when you arrive at the ghat you can see what kind of ghat it is. You will see where the boat has brought you.
So while reaping, if suffering is reaped, know that suffering was sown. Then try to understand which seeds bring suffering, so that tomorrow you can recognize them. How often jealousy brings suffering, how often hatred brings suffering, how often anger brings suffering—yet we continue to sow those very seeds! And again and again we lament: why this suffering? We do not want to endure suffering—and we want to sow seeds of suffering! In this conflict how much time we waste! How many births and lives!
But we do not see the conflict—because our knack, our delight, our delusion—this self-deception—is that we get angry only at what is reaped. We say: a wrong thing was reaped. But we never consider what we sowed.
If a wrong harvest comes, a wrong sowing was done. It is necessary to understand the correspondence, so that tomorrow we do not sow wrongly. The ghat at which we have landed is the news about our boat—upon what we had ridden. But we board the same boat again tomorrow, and imagine landing at a different ghat!
It is astonishing that man repeats the same mistakes daily! He does not even make new mistakes. If someone made new mistakes, he might still get somewhere. But we keep making the old ones. Something is such that we forget what we did, and think again the same way.
A man in America married eight times. The first marriage—full of great hopes, as everyone does—but all hopes turned to dust in six months. He concluded: the woman was wrong—as all men conclude. He divorced.
Then he spent a year searching for the second woman with great effort. Now he was happy, because after the first experience he had done research. He married with the same great hopes—but in six months everything went wrong. He thought again: wrong woman. Thus he married eight times; each time the same.
After the eighth he went to a psychologist: I am in trouble; eight marriages, life is wasted. There is no way to attempt a ninth. What happened? Each time I got the same kind of woman, and I searched so carefully!
The psychologist asked: What were your criteria? If your yardstick remained what it was with the first, the second was also measured by the same yardstick. And each time you found the same type that you could find—given the kind of man you are. You kept finding the type you could find.
Perhaps—this is a possibility—that on the basis of this experience, long ago, people instituted the custom of a single marriage. Because an ordinary man can only find one type; so it makes no difference—only the name will change, the face will change, but the type will be the same. Why enter this repeated fuss? Some intelligent people may have said: one marriage is enough for one life; search once—that is enough.
And it may also be that, based on the experience that a person’s first search will certainly be mistaken, those who have experience—parents—would search. Those who have gone through foolishness and endured stupidity might search better. Because the first search will be a person’s first experience—most likely wrong. So perhaps it was left to parents.
After continuous experience, some psychologists in America have begun to say: Start child marriages! It seems absurd. Child marriage is sad; parents arranging is also sad. But given the present situation, that seemed the lesser evil. A different way will be possible only when we understand the seeds of suffering—then our search will be of a different kind, the boat we board will be of a different kind—in all matters of life.
So do not think of happiness and suffering as separate. See them as one. Yes, there is a time lag in the ripening of their fruits. Because of the distance, we take them as two. Our vision is short and the distance is long. In this room we see both walls; we know both belong to this room. We would not commit the folly of trying to save one wall and demolish the other—if we did, the saved wall would also fall; the whole house would collapse. If you must demolish, demolish both; if you must save, save both. There is no other way. Because both walls are visible. But a room can be so large that we see only one wall at a time. The other wall is so far we never connect that both belong to the same room.
Life is vast; distances are large; man’s vision is small. He cannot see far. He cannot know when he sowed what, and what he is reaping now! When he built one wall, and this is the other wall. They are one.
If the right perspective is gained—vision to see far—we will find our sufferings hidden inside our longing for happiness. We will find our sufferings concealed inside our dreams of happiness. All our sufferings were sown by us in the possibilities of happiness; at harvest time, suffering appeared. The possibilities were of happiness—but the seeds we sowed were of suffering.
Let us see this; search in our own life. Look at our suffering—and look back at how we have been sowing them. And is it not that even today we are doing the same? If this becomes visible, you will drop the hope of happiness. The hope of happiness is sheer false hope, an impossibility. If it becomes clear that in life there is no possibility of happiness, only suffering—call it happiness as much as you like; if not today, tomorrow it will be suffering—then the hope of happiness drops. And the one whose hope of happiness drops stands face to face with suffering. There is no way to run. Here is suffering and here am I—and we are face to face.
The wonder is: the one who stands straight before suffering finds suffering vanishing—as if it never was. Then suffering cannot win, because its technique of victory is gone. Its technique was the possibility of happiness. The technique, the device of suffering’s victory, was the possibility of happiness. When that possibility goes, suffering stands here, I stand here—and there is no way left for me to run, nor for suffering to run. We are face to face. This is the encounter; this is the saksatkar—the direct seeing.
In this encounter a mysterious event happens: suffering disappears. I return to myself—because I drop the attempt to go toward happiness. There was one road toward happiness—I have left it. Now there is only one road: to return to myself. And this returning to oneself… because no one can remain in suffering. Either one runs in the hope of happiness—or one returns to oneself. Either one goes into anand—or one goes into happiness. We have been going toward happiness and have never reached bliss.
If we stand straight in suffering, we reach bliss. Bliss is not happiness. Bliss is the absence of happiness and suffering. In bliss there is neither happiness nor suffering. That is why Buddha did not use the word anand. Buddha chose his words with immense understanding—no one has ever displayed such care. Because in the word bliss, however much you are told, the flavor of happiness hides. However much I explain “bliss is not happiness,” you will still ask, How can bliss be attained? And when you ask, deep down you will be asking, How can happiness be attained? You will change the word; the feeling will remain. You will say: All right—then tell us how to attain bliss; there is suffering—how to escape it? Give us a technique to attain bliss; bliss is necessary.
If you look within you will find: you are using the wrong word; you are saying: Happiness is necessary—how to get it? How to escape suffering? It is very difficult to make a man understand that bliss is not happiness. Usually we use both as synonyms: A man who is happy says: I am in great bliss! He says: I am in anand!
Therefore Buddha used: shanti—peace. He would say: not bliss—bliss is not a good word; it is dangerous. Shanti has a wholly different flavor: neither happiness nor suffering—everything is quiet. No wave—neither of happiness nor of suffering. No mood—neither of happiness nor of suffering. Nowhere to go, nowhere to come—everything has stopped. Silence, stillness—the lake without a single ripple. So Buddha says: not anand. I do not give you the assurance of bliss—because if I do, you will take it as the assurance of happiness.
This is the difficulty: we talk of bliss, and you understand happiness—because your craving is for happiness. If you are ready even for the encounter with suffering, it will only be to escape suffering. And the one who encounters suffering in order to escape it—cannot encounter. Because how can you fully see that which you want to avoid? You will run before it appears.
The word shanti is also dear to me; its feeling is important. But the point is the same: where everything is quiet. Everything—not only suffering—happiness too—where all is quiet. We do not realize that suffering is a kind of restlessness that is unpleasant; and happiness is a restlessness that seems pleasant. But if the restlessness of happiness becomes intense, it can bring death. The restlessness of suffering, if intense, certainly brings death.
I have heard: a man won a lottery—one lakh rupees. His wife became very afraid. The news came; the husband was at the office—a peon. Hearing of one lakh—he might die of shock! She ran to the local church; she was Christian. She said to the priest: You are a wise man—advice me. News has come: my husband has won one lakh. We are poor—he may go mad, his heart may stop.
The priest said: Do not worry—I will come and handle it. I will reveal it gently.
The husband returned; the priest arrived. He said: Listen—twenty-five thousand have come to you as a prize! He thought: I will raise the figure slowly, the shock will be less—twenty-five, then twenty-five more. The man said: Twenty-five thousand—truly? If I get twenty-five thousand, I will give you half. The priest had a heart attack on the spot! Twelve and a half thousand—at once! He had never imagined. This man at least had some clue a lottery might come—but the priest could not even imagine twelve and a half thousand. He said: You will give me twelve and a half? Truly? The man said: If twenty-five comes—given! The priest’s heart failed.
Happiness can become so intense in a single blow that it takes life. The amusing thing is: suffering kills very few; happiness kills many! In suffering, however great, the mind runs in hope of happiness; therefore the full impact never hits. But in happiness we are not running anywhere; we are tired—so the blow lands completely. We cannot escape because we do not run away from happiness. In suffering, our mind runs toward happiness: All right; today, tomorrow; tomorrow happiness will come… We are there, but our mind is elsewhere. So the wound of suffering never hits completely. The wound of happiness hits badly because we are right there—face to face.
Happiness is also a restlessness—pleasant, perhaps. We want such restlessness. If you understand rightly: we want such restlessness. But how long can you want restlessness? A few minutes, half an hour—the wanting will fade; restlessness will remain. Suppose you are all laughing and joyful—let it go on for an hour. Then people will start to get up. Close the door: tonight we must celebrate happiness the whole night. After two hours people will say: we will strangle someone if this continues. We do not want to laugh now; we want to go out; we do not want to listen. Why? Because for a little while we can even desire restlessness—but how long? Soon the desire goes and restlessness remains.
A man plays the sitar—very pleasurable, but still noise. How long can you endure? It is unrest. One who knows peace will say: why this commotion? But accept that it is pleasing—pleasant unrest—one can desire it for a little while. How long? An hour, two; a night, two; then you feel like strangling the musician—either stop or we will stop you.
He will say: you were so pleased, so moved; you clapped—why strangle? We are playing more in the same joy. But he does not know: the desire for unrest ends quickly; unrest remains; then the urge is: when will it stop!
Pleasant unrest we call happiness; unpleasant unrest we call suffering.
Remember: if pleasant unrest is prolonged, the pleasant point will vanish—only unrest will remain. If unpleasant unrest is prolonged, the unpleasant point will vanish—and even unrest will become bearable, perhaps pleasant.
A man works in a railway yard—not the sitar, but engines, whistles, clatter—and sleeps there at night. After seven days on duty he returns home on the eighth night—sleep does not come. The unrest, the noise had become part of his milieu. How can he sleep without it? It is part of the environment; he needs that much unrest—otherwise he cannot sleep. He will be in trouble. What does this mean? It means both are tensions—and both can transform into each other. They travel into each other.
A friend stayed behind my place at Poona. He said: We stayed one day on a houseboat—so delightful. When we came again we booked for fifteen days and paid; we landed in such trouble—how to complete fifteen days! The same water, the same boat, going there every day! We became so nervous that we ran away on the fourth day—leaving the money. It had become suffocating.
That which appears pleasant—how long will it remain pleasant? And that which appears unpleasant—if you live in it, how long will it remain unpleasant? Both are unrests; both are mingled; both are ends of each other. Very quickly the journey happens from here to there and from there to here.
The one who understands this truth does not go on this journey. He stands where he is. He looks at what comes. What comes is suffering; happiness does not come. Happiness only seems to be coming—and in the very seeming, it dissolves. Suffering keeps coming.
The one who stands to see—suffering reveals itself in its full darkness, its full pain, its full form. With it, all the seeds reveal themselves that he had sown—those he is sowing even now. Even now he may be sowing in the garden where he sits. His hand stops; he returns within. He quietly sees, lives, endures the suffering—but does not run. Suffering that is lived through dissolves. Suffering that is fled from moves ahead. The one who does not run—he becomes silent, because now what is the reason to be restless? The one who does not run even in suffering—how will he be restless? He could be restless only if he ran. Now he does not run; whatever is, is okay. He becomes quiet. He attains bliss; he returns to himself. Through such a journey one reaches liberation. But this journey is necessary.
It never happens that the illusion of happiness breaks and bliss is not attained. It cannot happen.
It is like someone saying: water reached one hundred degrees but did not become steam. We would say: impossible. Your measurement is wrong. If water is heated to one hundred degrees, it will become steam. There is no other possibility. Because one hundred degrees is the door through which steam happens. If it reaches that degree, it will become steam. It cannot stop there saying: We do not become steam at one hundred degrees. But mistakes can happen in measuring.
And in measuring water the mistake is rare—because water is separate from us. In measuring our own state, mistakes always happen.
Our illusion about happiness does not dissolve. In truth, in the search for bliss too, we go for happiness. The deep mischief is this: even in the search for bliss, what are we after? Did we go through the encounter with suffering? If we did, there would be no need to go—we would arrive. If we went through the encounter, we would not have to go—we would reach. But we did not go through suffering; we sought happiness in order to escape suffering. Then someone said: happiness is an illusion—and a little of it touched us, because our past also says: yes, happiness was not found. But does your future mind agree that happiness cannot be found?
When I say: happiness is an illusion; it has never been found—your mind also says: You are right; happiness is an illusion. Many times happiness seemed possible—but it never came—in the past. But is your mind ready to accept that even in the future it cannot be found?
No—it is not ready! Here a slight slip happens. The mind says: If you say it cannot be found this way, leave that—tell us how bliss can be found. Tell us how bliss is attained; we will leave happiness and attain bliss! What is the technique for bliss? Then a man begins to chant, to meditate, to worship, to pray. Now he is searching for a technique for bliss.
Hence I said the other day: there is no technique, no method. A method could exist for obtaining happiness. Here the whole point is: know the state that is—and you will reach bliss. To reach bliss you will not have to do anything extra—not even an inch of walking. But the device of our mind is: All right; you are right—happiness was not found—but ahead it might be? All right, do not call it happiness; call it bliss—we will search for bliss. Where is bliss? How can we obtain it?
Now this man is again running from suffering. Until now he ran with the name “happiness”; now he runs with the name “bliss”! He used to go to the tavern saying happiness is there; now he says: not there—he goes to the temple; there bliss will be found. But he is going somewhere. He leaves the tavern; he seeks the temple—but he goes somewhere. He is running. The one who goes to the tavern runs as much as the one who goes to the temple. From the standpoint of escape, there is no difference.
I am not saying: go and drink wine. I am saying: both are running. From the standpoint of running there is no difference. Yes—one kind of running may be socially unacceptable, may harm health. Another kind of running may benefit health and be socially approved; but the running continues.
So understand what I am saying: I will not give you any trick for bliss. I will not tell you: you can go into bliss. I will not even tell you: in the future you can attain bliss. I do not speak of the future. I say only this: in the present you can awaken to suffering. Beyond that I need not say. I say only: heat the water to one hundred degrees. Beyond that the water takes care of itself; you need not worry. It will become steam.
But what happens with us is: all teachings have become dangerous. Teachers give ready-made formulas. They say: there is no happiness in life. Done—the matter has ended. You listen and think: correct—the matter has ended. Where is happiness in life!
But the question is not whether happiness is in life or not. The question is: have you reached this truth—that for you there is no possibility of happiness—ever, even in eternity? Have you reached this truth? Has it become your realization that even for eternity there is no possibility of happiness? That there is no happiness ever—do you realize this? Then what will you do? Then you will not ask for bliss either. You will say: What bliss? There is no possibility of happiness; there is only suffering—and in it I have to live—I will stand in it. This is the truth; I will stand in it.
If you stand thus—you will reach bliss. It is not your reaching—what you do will not take you there; this standing will deliver you. But you are not ready to stand. You say: this suffering is all right—but tell us the way to bliss. Then bliss will become again a tomorrow—future. Then postponement begins.
What was the mistake about happiness? Postponement. The illusion of happiness? Postponement—tomorrow. What was its fault? Hope of future happiness. Bliss too can become a future hope. Bliss can become a postponement for tomorrow. Then you are using bliss for the same work that you used happiness for. The issue was never what you were going to in the future—the issue was that you were leaving the present and going elsewhere. You were forgetting this suffering—whether by the name of happiness or of bliss—it makes no difference.
I am saying: you have no possibility. You will not get happiness. You cannot get it. Not bliss either.
Do you understand me? I am saying: you cannot get. Understand this trap thoroughly—that in it there is no getting at all. Stand still. You will stand still only when you see you cannot get. If you can get, you will run. If you cannot, you will not run. Stand still. The moment you stand—you will “get.” But do not make this into a promise of the future; otherwise the running will continue.
Do you follow me? Therefore I continually have difficulty explaining—because it is subtle; in a small slip we go astray.
Then someone can ask me: Why should we listen to you at all, if you say we cannot get bliss, cannot attain it? Then we are troubling ourselves with you for nothing!