Ramnam Janyo Nahin #5

Prem Pramod, first, that proclamation attributed to Gautam Buddha—that he will not enter nirvana until all beings have attained it—is a fabrication, a mere story, coined about a thousand years after Buddha’s death. It sounds pleasing, looks beautiful, seems to console sleepy hearts—but it is not true. No one can postpone their entry into nirvana. The moment the eyes open, there is light. Even if you close your eyes again, you know the light is there. Nirvana is not a kind of experience you can choose to step into or choose to delay.

And this story does not fit Buddha’s own vision of life. His last words… when his disciples began to weep—as was natural, for those who had been in the presence of a Buddha for forty years, who had tasted that nectar, would, of course, be moved to tears—even those who had attained buddhahood found their hearts filling with tears. The farewell was difficult. When Buddha said, “Now I depart; my last hour has come,” even Ananda began to cry.

Buddha said, “Ananda, do not weep.” He told the others also, “Do not weep.”

Ananda said, “How can we not? How to stop? It is not in our control; it is inevitable. We have received so much love, drunk so much nectar—these tears are natural, an expression of gratitude. And we weep also because even in your presence many of us have not awakened; I am among them—I have not yet awakened. If I could not awaken while you were here, what hope is there after you depart? I cannot even hope that, in an eternity, I will find a master like you again. I weep for your going, and for my own foolishness.”

Buddha said, “You are mad. You have not understood the very core of my teaching. Even if I want to, I cannot liberate you. The bondage was created by you and will be cut by you. So remember”—Buddha said to Ananda—“this is my last statement on earth: Appa Deepo Bhava—be a light unto yourself. No one else’s lamp can serve you. It makes no difference whether I am here or not. You will have to search for your own light.”

Religion cannot be borrowed; it comes neither from scripture nor from the teacher. Religion is one’s own realization; even if someone wants to give it, it cannot be given. Truth is non-transferable. It cannot be bought or sold. That is its very glory: each person must find it in their own innermost privacy.

A true master can point the way, but you yourself must walk. And if you do not wish to walk, no one can drag you along.

The story goes that after death, when Buddha reached the gate of liberation, the doors opened in welcome, garlands in hand—moksha ready to receive him. But Buddha turned his back and said, “I will not enter until all beings have been freed.” This tale was invented a thousand years later. Behind it is not Buddha’s compassion but something else.

Buddha gave the individual a dignity, a primacy, no one had ever given before. But this dignity was not understood. Priests and pundits never wanted such dignity for individuals: if the person is so sovereign, what need remains for priests and middlemen? If truth must be realized directly, what use of brokers and mediators, what use of temple-keepers and pontiffs?

Buddha’s dharma was uprooted from India. When Buddhism spread to Tibet, Burma, Sri Lanka, China, and as far as Korea, it changed its foundation stones. It became clear that Buddha’s truth is so pure that people cannot digest it. Monks became less zealous for truth and more zealous for its propagation; compromises were made with the popular mind. Buddha never compromised with the popular mind; no awakened one does or can. To compromise is to bend truth before untruth. But priests are ever ready to compromise.

Those who carried Buddhism across Asia were priests. Their vested interests made them alter the base. The Chinese and Japanese did not even know what Buddha’s original teaching was; they were deceived. Priests invented the tale that Buddha was born for the welfare of mankind.

But Buddha said, “No one can do another’s welfare.”

They said, “Don’t worry. Just worship Buddha; remember him and his compassion will ferry you across. No need to meditate or cultivate samadhi; simply board the boat of Buddha’s compassion.”

They fabricated that Buddha stands at the gate of liberation waiting for you, that he will not enter till he has ushered you in, that he will bring every being into moksha, and only at the end, like the last person, will he enter.

The popular mind loves this: “Buddha is waiting for us. We need do nothing—just sing his praises.”

Buddha’s religion was not a religion of prayer. Yet his followers turned it into one. In Buddha’s teaching there was no God at all; it is a non-theistic path—no creator, no deity. But his priests enthroned Buddha’s image in temples.

Had they listened to Buddha, no temples or idols would have been made in his name; there would be no basis for worship or prayer. But they struck a bargain with the crowd—a compromise with falsehood.

And remember: whenever you compromise with falsehood, truth vanishes entirely. Truth is not preserved in parts; it is total or it is not. Put truth and untruth together, and untruth will win. Truth will disappear; you cannot keep a little of it.

Therefore I do not agree with that story. Give up these notions that someone else’s compassion will save you. It is dishonest—dishonest with yourself. It would mean you have no freedom: you are bound—perhaps by someone else; you will be freed—again by someone else. Then who are you? Do you even exist? Do you have any being, any dignity, any privacy? Do you even have a soul? If anyone can bind you and anyone can free you, then if someone binds you again, what will you do?

I trust in the ultimate freedom of the individual. So I cannot say I will liberate you—such talk is meaningless. Yes, I can share the truth I have known. To accept or not accept it is in your hands. You are the sovereign of yourself.

The sun rises. Open your door and the rays will enter. Keep it closed—do you think the sun will push and break your door? It will neither shove nor even tap at your latch. Not because existence lacks compassion.

In my vision, granting total freedom to the individual is the greatest compassion. The expectation—“I will not accept liberation until all are liberated”—feels like coercion, not compassion. Do others not have the right to remain unliberated? What then does freedom mean? And what kind of liberation is this that must be taken under one man’s compulsion? Who is being compassionate to whom? Is Buddha being compassionate to you, or are you being compassionate to him—“All right, for your sake we’ll also enter, otherwise you’ll keep standing there at the gate; you must be tired!” Who is pitying whom? You yourself would begin to feel pity: “Enough now—close down the world, close the shop, end the commotion. Poor Gautam Buddha is still standing there!” Surely he must still be there, because the world is as unliberated as ever.

In truth, there are more beings now than in Buddha’s time. The situation has gotten “worse.” In Buddha’s day India had twenty million people; now it is seven hundred million. The world population has crossed four and a half billion.

And Buddha did not know this earth is not alone. Scientists now say there are at least fifty thousand earth-like planets with life. What a tangle for Buddha! Fifty thousand earths with life! And Buddha didn’t say “humans”—he said “all beings.” That includes elephants and horses and donkeys, monkeys and bears, parrots and crows, flies and mosquitoes…

I don’t think Buddha will ever be able to enter—impossible! When will the day come when the whole of existence is liberated? You will have to be compassionate toward him!

But even your compassion won’t help. Mosquitoes aren’t so compassionate. I was once a guest at the house of the Buddhist monk Jagdish Kashyap in Sarnath. Such big mosquitoes! I’ve never seen their like. Sacred mosquitoes, perhaps. In so holy a place as Sarnath—just as Kashi has its pundits, Sarnath has its mosquitoes! Even in daytime you must sit inside a mosquito net: one for me, one for Kashyap. Our discussion went on through two nets.

I told him, “Now I understand a secret.”

He asked, “What secret?”

I said, “Buddha travelled Bihar for forty-two years. He went to many places twenty, thirty, even forty times—but he came to Sarnath only once, and stayed just one day. I always wondered why. Now I know—these mosquitoes! And I, too, will not come again.”

And I did not. If in broad daylight one must sit in a net! Mosquitoes did not show pity to the living Buddha; do you think they will pity a dead Buddha? Will mosquitoes worry that the poor man is waiting? They will say, “All the better—he’s standing still. Let’s drink a little more.” And Buddha’s blood would be sweet; from any side you taste it, Buddha is sweet.

Such stories are concocted to beguile the masses. All religions have done it. In Buddha’s religion it is utterly inappropriate, totally out of tune with his vision.

Compassion can mean only one thing: to share what has been found—not to impose it, not to coerce. Even good people are often prone to coercion—more so. The bad man is a little afraid, guilty; he knows his ways are wrong. But the good man’s ego becomes very strong; he is ever ready to grab anyone by the neck.

These so-called saints and holy men—given a chance to squeeze your throat, they will. Given a chance to condemn you, they will. They won’t miss any opportunity to declare you sinners bound for hell—because by painting you black, they appear white and heavenly. Under the name of compassion, they impose slavery—but subtly.

In Mahatma Gandhi’s ashram even tea was forbidden. If anyone was caught drinking tea, Gandhi, for his self-purification… The man drank the tea—and Gandhi would fast! You will say, “What great compassion!” Tea goes to the soul? What a miracle—tea entering the soul! It goes into the body and comes out. The soul remains untouched. But no, for his soul’s purification he would fast.

What a beautiful way to torment another! Imagine the man’s plight: the whole ashram will look at him as a great sinner. They will pounce on him: “Because of you, Bapu must starve!” The man will weep, beg at Gandhi’s feet: “Please eat; I will never make such a mistake again. Forgive me.”

The issue of tea is gone; the real question becomes, “How to make Gandhi eat lest he die?” If he dies, the tea-drinker will carry the guilt of murder all his life.

Is this a way to purify another? It is coercion. In the name of nonviolence, there is violence. And you cannot argue: when someone is ready to die, discussion ends. He even says, “I’m fasting for my own purification.” But that “self-purification” becomes a kind of authority, a dictatorship. Behind the curtain, something else is going on: an attempt to seize the other’s soul. This is not compassion. I do not trust such compassion.

For me, compassion means only this: love means only this—that I give you freedom; that I indicate the path and then leave you wholly free to choose. If bondage is what you find pleasant, who am I to interfere? If you decide that staying bound feels good, what question of freeing you by force?

Rabindranath Tagore has a song from his final days: “Lord, I do not want release from the cycle of birth and death. Send me back again and again. Your world is too lovely. Your sun, your moon, your stars, your flowers, your rainbows, your people—this earth is so enchanting that I want no heaven, no liberation. Grant me only this grace: send me back again and again, that I may sing your songs, that my flute may carry your notes.”

Now a great difficulty arises: Buddha stands at the gate of liberation; Rabindranath says, “Send me back.” A conflict will erupt between them. Buddha will say, “You must be free! Otherwise I’ll continue to stand here. Think of me a little.” And you are praying to return.

“Granted,” says Rabindranath, “I may not be worthy to be sent back again and again—but your compassion is boundless. Granted I have not used life as I should have—but your compassion is boundless. Send me back. However unworthy I may be, this time I will try even more to craft a more beautiful song, to tune the instrument more perfectly.”

On the very day he died, in his last song, Rabindranath wrote: “What is this, Lord? Just when I had barely tuned my instrument…!”

You have seen classical musicians: for half an hour they only tune—someone tapping the tabla, someone tightening the sitar strings; pounding and plucking.

A Nawab of Lucknow once invited the Viceroy to a concert. The classical recital began. For half an hour there was only tuning. The Viceroy thought, “This is classical music!” He whispered to the Nawab, “I’m enjoying this very much—let this continue.” The Nawab was startled, but what to do? The whole night went in tuning. The musicians were told not to proceed—“just keep tuning; the Viceroy is enchanted.” He returned delighted: “What classical music!”

Rabindranath wrote in his last song: “Lord, what kind of way is this of yours? I had only just tuned the instrument; I had not yet sung—and the moment of departure came! Why such haste? A little more time, so I could sing the song, play the flute.”

Do you think we should forcibly send Rabindranath to moksha? Would that be compassion? Would it be right? If this is what delights him, then this is his moksha. Force him into liberation and even liberation will feel like hell.

Remember this principle: if you are forced into heaven, even heaven becomes a prison. And if, out of your own joy, choice, and freedom, you go to hell, even hell becomes heaven. The issue is not heaven and hell—it is the freedom to choose.

Thus a true master teaches freedom.

You said: I say the thirsty go to the well, not the well to the thirsty.

That is right. If a well starts following the thirsty, running behind them, the thirsty will also feel pity for the poor well wandering about! The man goes to the office, the well trails behind; he goes to buy vegetables, the well follows; he makes love to his wife, the well stands there. Is this decent? Is this compassion? That would not be a well—it would be a policeman.

No—the right thing is that the well does not go to the thirsty. Yes, the well sends news: an announcement—“Water is available here; whoever is thirsty, come.”

And one who is not yet thirsty—why should he come? What reason has he? And one still satisfied with dream-water—he, too, need not come. Truly, no one has the right to break another’s dream. I regard the individual’s freedom as supreme. If you are enjoying a sweet dream, who am I to break it? What right do I have to shake you awake? You will only be angry with me and fall back into your dream.

No forcing is possible. Religion is not coercion. Yet much coercion has been done in the name of religion—all in the name of compassion.

Mohammed moved with the sword. On his sword was inscribed: “Peace is my religion.” Astonishing! On the sword: “Peace.” Islam means peace. Yet as much unrest spread in the world through Islam, perhaps none spread through any other.

Notice: your very notion of compassion, Prem Pramod, is the same as Islam’s. Islam holds that one who is not a Muslim can never enter paradise; therefore everyone must be made a Muslim—out of compassion—even if the sword must be raised; even if force must be used. By any means, send people to heaven. Most Muslims you see today in the world were made Muslims by force.

Christians hold that, on the Last Day, Jesus will stand with God and separate his sheep: the Christians. Those who are not Christians will fall into hell. Naturally, out of compassion, Christians labor to make everyone Christian—by any means whatsoever. The age of the sword is gone, so other methods are used: give bread, give medicine, open hospitals, run schools, orphanages, widows’ homes—enticements, bribes for conversion. For without becoming Christian, there is no future. And behind it all stands the notion that a great work of compassion is being done.

We must shatter this notion of compassion, for it has bloodied humanity. The last five thousand years bear witness: more killings, rapes, and burnings have been committed in the name of religion than in the name of anything else. Religion has proved a curse rather than a blessing. Why?

Because each person tried to drag everyone onto his own “true” path to heaven, declaring all other paths false. If all other paths are false, then bringing people to the true path is compassion. All this was done in the name of compassion.

Therefore, Prem Pramod, I want to change the very idea of compassion. Otherwise the stupidity will continue, the sin will continue, irreligion in religion’s name will continue. My compassion is freedom. You are free. I am free to say what I have to say; whether you accept it or not is your freedom. My joy is that I have said it. Your joy is to accept—or not. I honor the freedom of both: the one who accepts and the one who does not. Not that I am more pleased with the one who accepts and less with the one who does not. Even that difference would be a failure to honor your freedom and privacy. It was my joy to speak; it is your joy to listen; it is your joy to accept or not. I have no expectation and no claim.

Krishna declares: “Whenever there is a decline of dharma on earth, I will come, to release people from adharma and set them on the path of dharma.”

Such claims obstruct individual freedom; they are undemocratic. And the irony is, they are not even fulfilled. When he came, whom did he release from adharma? If Krishna liberated people from adharma, then after Krishna there should have been no adharma in the world. It increased rather than decreased—and, in truth, it increased because of Krishna; it did not diminish. Arjuna appears more religious, more sensitive. He saw the slaughter that was to come—think how many! Eighteen akshauhinis stood arrayed—in today’s terms, one and a quarter billion. For a small kingdom, for wealth, for status, for prestige—was a massacre of 1.25 billion justified?

Some wisdom arose in Arjuna, some compassion. The Gandiva slipped from his hand; he collapsed in his chariot, saying, “This war does not seem right. What will I gain by it? So many will die—our own people. All are our kith and kin. The quarrel is between brothers—so all relatives are divided. Krishna himself is on our side; his armies are with the Kauravas. Some uncles are there, some grandfathers here. It is our own family, split. Our own friends, divided. Bhishma, whom I revere as much as any, stands with the enemy. Krishna is on this side. It is clear: we will have to kill our own. Such great violence—what is the outcome? A few days on the throne, then death. For a brief moonlight, to play with so many lives—this is not right.”

Krishna, however, by persuasion and by all manner of arguments—right and wrong—drove him into war. The Gita proves only one thing: Krishna was more skillful in argument than Arjuna—nothing more.

But skill in argument is no real skill. With argument anything can be proved. Argument is a harlot; it sides with anyone. It is a lawyer. You go to a lawyer with any case; he will say, “Don’t worry—you will win.”

Mulla Nasruddin went to a lawyer. He told the whole story. The lawyer said, “Don’t worry—though you have done a very bad thing, you will be saved. No law can catch you. I guarantee acquittal.”

Mulla stood up to leave. The lawyer asked, “Where are you going? Don’t we need to prepare the case?”

Mulla said, “What’s the point? I told you the story from the other side’s point of view. If his victory is certain, why should I waste money on your fees?”

Mulla, too, was clever.

Krishna, with his web of arguments, got Arjuna to fight, explaining that this would protect dharma. But it was dharma that was killed—not protected. One and a quarter billion died; the land was carpeted with corpses. And what new form of dharma appeared? What revolution occurred? None then, none later. Yet Hindus still believe Krishna will come again—Sambhavami yuge yuge—and save them.

Others hold similar claims.

Jesus claims he came to free the world from sin; Christians believe it. But did the world become free from sin? If the claim were true, it should have. Whom did he free? Sin was not crucified; Jesus was. Sin still sits on the throne—then and now. The very notion of claims is wrong.

I make no claim that I will free you, take you to heaven, guarantee your liberation. No. I only proclaim this much: I have found the key to live life in joy, and I share it with you. I will not follow behind you. He who is thirsty must come. And if you are not thirsty, what is the hurry? When thirst comes, you will come. If not to me, then to someone else. I hold no monopoly. If I am gone, someone else will be there. The lineage of Buddhas will continue.

You ask: “Will your fountain of bliss not flow everywhere, awaken their thirst and satisfy it?”

Bliss is like sunlight. It does not even knock at the door. It simply waits—without even a rustle—lest someone’s sleep be disturbed or a dream broken. Bliss does not enter anyone’s house by force. And if there is no thirst, why force someone to feel thirsty? Do you think anyone has ever, anywhere, managed to awaken thirst in another? It is life’s very experience that gradually brings a person to the point where thirst arises—sooner or later. But eternity is vast—what’s the hurry? I am in no hurry.

You say: “It was the supreme expression of Buddha’s compassion that until all beings attain nirvana, he will not enter.”

That is bargaining, a condition: “When this condition is met, I will enter nirvana.” Conditions never work. Nirvana becomes available only when all conditions are dropped. Nirvana means: there is no longer any condition on my life—no expectation, no “this should be,” no “that should not be.” Only a desireless one attains nirvana.

If Buddha had such a condition, you are mistaken: even if he wished, he could not enter nirvana. It is not that he is standing at the gate and refusing to enter until all are in. If there is a condition, even if he wants to enter, the door is closed. The condition itself shuts the door. However beautiful a condition, it is still a condition.

You cannot make a deal with existence. With existence, one is only unconditionally. The falling away of all conditions is nirvana.

This, too, would be desire, would it not? A craving. Understand it well: it is not compassion; it is desire. Desire means, “It should be so—if it is, I will be happy; if not, I will be unhappy. If I get this much wealth or position, I will be happy.” We recognize this as desire. But even at the very gate of nirvana, to make a claim—“It must be so”—and not a small condition either, but one so vast—“Only when all infinite beings are freed will I enter”—if Buddha did that, he is standing at some other gate, not the gate of nirvana. He is deluded. The gate of nirvana opens only when no desire remains. Even the desire to free others is still desire.

The one who has attained bliss simply sings his song, lost in his own tune. Of course, a gathering forms around him; of course, lovers come; of course, a tavern of nectar arises. But all this is natural; it carries no condition—no “should be,” no “should not be.” It just happens. Certainly many will attain near one who is awakened—but the Buddha does not “make” them awakened. They drink the water of buddhahood by their own thirst; they fashion their own hearts into cups; they bring their extinguished lamps near the Buddha’s flame so that flame lights flame.

If you want to understand me, Prem Pramod, know this: one who has attained does nothing. His very presence is enough; things happen around him—he does not do them. Spring comes and flowers bloom—not that one goes to each bud and pries open the petals. Morning comes and birds begin to sing—not that the sun seizes each throat: “Sing, it is dawn!” It happens of itself.

But not every flower blooms. Some bloom at night. Not all birds sing. There are owls, too—their offspring—who close their eyes at the very sight of the sun. That is their freedom. If you force an owl’s eyes open, he will only be angry. It is his whim; let him enjoy the night. What’s the harm? Each to his own joy.

I do not condemn anyone—anyone at all. If someone delights in wine, I do not condemn him. It is his freedom. I will certainly say, “You are entangled in a petty wine; there is a better one! There is an inner wine, distilled not from grapes but from the soul.” But then—your joy. If you find taste only in grape-wine, you are entitled to your path. One cannot drag you to drink the inner wine. Coercion has no place in my vision.

That is why people often ask me why I do not give my sannyasins a discipline.

I cannot. Mahavira did; Jains call him the great disciplinarian, and their path “the Jain Order.” This is political language. Buddha, too, gave rules—but if you study them, you will be shocked: thirty-three thousand rules—hard even to remember, much less to follow. Rules for every tiny thing: how to sit, how to place one foot over the other, which hand over which, what to eat and not eat, when to eat and not eat, when to drink and not drink, when to travel and not travel—thirty-three thousand rules. Can a man bound in thirty-three thousand chains attain liberation? Chains everywhere—where is the man?

And what right does anyone have to regulate another’s life? Each individual is so unique that no universal rules can be made.

Hindus hold that waking in brahma-muhurta (before dawn) is supremely religious; without it, no saintliness is possible. How did this rule arise?

In the Hindu scheme, a person lived as a celibate student for twenty-five years; then twenty-five years as a householder; then twenty-five years turning toward the forest—preparing, looking at maps, packing bags, but not yet going; at seventy-five, he became a sannyasin. Those who became saints at seventy-five said, “Rise at brahma-muhurta.” In truth, old people cannot sleep; after seventy-five, even if you want to sleep till dawn, you cannot. The old made the rules. Children in the womb sleep twenty-four hours a day—their life’s work in nine months is greater than all the rest of life; if they woke, the work would be disturbed. After birth, they sleep twenty-two, twenty, eighteen hours—gradually, in youth, seven or eight hours are enough. Sleep is vital: the energy spent is replenished. But the old sleep three, four, two hours—they are on the way to death; the body’s building work is over.

Those who wrote the scriptures at seventy-five—if the young must follow their rules, trouble begins. If a young man sleeps only two or three hours and wakes before dawn, he will nod off all day. If he asks those sages why, they will say, “Your temperament is tamasic; change your diet—take pure food: milk.”

Man is the only animal who drinks milk after childhood; all other animals stop. Milk is for children. Tell a young man to live on milk and he will always feel hungry. He returns to the sages—who started the trouble—and they give more contrivances: stand on your head, do asanas. Thus the tangle grows—from a small mistake: the rules of the old do not fit the young.

Moreover, each person differs: some need six hours sleep, some eight, some ten. Each should live by his own understanding. Therefore I give you only the process to awaken understanding. Then you decide your life’s discipline. It is your life; you are the master—no one else.

But these so-called gurus are ever trying to seize you—always a noose for your neck. This is no noble urge; it is not compassion; it is the very opposite.

And finally, Prem Pramod, you say: “An enlightened one as powerful as you has never been born, nor will ever be.”

How do you know? Your love for me—that is another matter. Love speaks like this. When someone falls in love, he says to a woman, “No one has ever been or will ever be as beautiful as you. Cleopatra was nothing! Laila was nothing! Heer was nothing! You are a kheer made of Cleopatra, Laila, and Heer all mixed together! And no one like you will ever be born again.”

Such madness comes with love. Lovers of Buddha say the same; of Mahavira, of Mohammed, of Jesus. It is madness. In poetry and love it may be forgivable—but such proclamations should not be made.

Because of such claims, humanity has suffered much. There is no reason. Whenever anyone awakens, the taste of awakening is the same—five thousand years ago or today, in this body or another, or five thousand years hence—the flavor is one.

I understand your love, Prem Pramod. My sannyasins love me. But I warn you: this mistake has happened again and again; let it not happen with me. Tell Christians that Buddha is greater than Jesus—there will be a quarrel. Tell Jains that Buddha is greater than Mahavira—quarrel. Let this not arise again. It is your love—but it has proven costly.

So be clear about me: many like me have been, and many will be. In fact, there should be many—so many that the earth is full of such people. I would like the time to come when we no longer need to count enlightened ones separately. Why do we count on fingers—Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna, Zarathustra, Lao Tzu? Because there have been so few. This must change.

If in a garden of thousands of plants only one flower blooms, our eyes will be drawn to it, and we will remember it for ages. But it is no glory; every plant should flower—and not with one flower, but thousands. Then we will not need to count Krishnas and Buddhas and Mohammeds and Jesuses. Buddhahood should be the normal, natural state of life. A time should come when we count the foolish ones instead, and have no need to count the Buddhas. Let things change. And this change can happen only if we become very alert; otherwise love makes us unconscious.

The Samaveda says:
Yo jagara tam richah kamayante.
Yo jagara tamu samani yante.
“He who is awake is desired by the Riks. He who is awake, the songs of Sama come to him.”

Where there is awakening, the Vedas manifest of themselves. Where there is awakening, every word becomes a Rik; speech is nectar, and silence too. Whether speaking or silent, there is ambrosia. Where there is awakening, there is all wealth.

Awakening has no relation to time; no particular era. Yet all religions have tried to shut the door. Christians say Jesus is God’s only begotten son—why only? Fear that someone else may claim, “I too am a son of God,” or even, “I am his twin,” or “I am Jesus’s elder brother!” To preempt this, they declare: only begotten. Close the issue. Their religion stands on the uniqueness of Jesus.

Jains say Mahavira is the last Tirthankara—no more to come. Door closed. Strange! For eternity, no one will awaken?

Every religion makes such attempts. Sikhs say there have been ten Gurus—ten, and that’s it; now read the Guru Granth Sahib; no more living Gurus. If anyone claims to be a true Guru, out come the kirpans. The door is closed.

Buddhists too have similar notions. Muslims say Mohammed is the final prophet—no more messages from God. The last revised edition of the Quran has come; no correction is needed. Earlier books had errors, were incomplete; the Quran is perfect; Mohammed is the last messenger.

What insistence is this? Humanity will live—why give the impression that only darkness lies ahead? The truth is, there will be more Buddhas, more prophets, more people of the stature of Jesus—because man is evolving; talent grows; consciousness is refining, shimmering with new lights.

From Gangotri the Ganga issues as a thin stream; it grows as it flows to the sea. So is human consciousness. Some want to freeze it at Gangotri. But it must journey to the ocean; every day the current grows wider.

So let my sannyasins remember: I am not the last prophet, nor the last Tirthankara, nor the last avatar, nor the last Buddha—neither last nor first. Before me, incomparable flowers have bloomed; after me, incomparable flowers will bloom. And if you truly love me, you will love all those flowers—past and future. If you love one flower and get stuck to it, you have not loved the flower at all.

To love the flower means to love flowering, the opening of petals and the spreading of fragrance. Wherever fragrance wafts—from whatever flower, past or future—if you have truly loved one flower, your love must include all.

I am not giving you a religion; I am giving you religiosity. Do not stop at me. Use me to recognize all Buddhas of the past and all who will come. I want to make you vast, to give your heart many dimensions. Why sit confined?

Each Buddha has his own expression—like the champa has one way, the rose another, the jasmine another, the lotus another. All have their ways, but flowering is one event; all spread fragrance. If you cling only to jasmine, you will miss the champa, be blind to the lotus, avoid the roses. Your life will become one-sided—when the whole garden could have been yours. Why be miserly? At least in love, be generous.

Buddha has his way, like jasmine; Mahavira, like champa; Zarathustra, like the flame of tesu; Lao Tzu, like the rose. In your heart’s garden, make room for all these flowers. If you have truly loved me, they are all yours—flowers that bloomed, and those that will bloom. I give you not only the past but the future. Only when your consciousness touches all dimensions are you truly free.

One who becomes a Jain is not free; one who becomes a Buddhist is not free; one who becomes a Muslim or a Christian is not free.

To be simply religious is enough—to seek truth and beauty in life, to experience one’s own center. No need to go to temples or mosques; the true temple is within. The day you sit enthroned in your inner temple, you will find temples everywhere, because every consciousness is a temple; you will find God everywhere, because he abides in everyone.

The Rig Veda says: Ritasya shrngam urviya vipraprathe—“The power of Rta is spread everywhere.”

Rta is a precious Vedic word; from it comes our word ritu, season. In ancient times, seasons were exact: rains arrived precisely, heat began on the exact day, cold on the exact moment. A cycle governed by law. Gradually, the seasons tottered—man shook them; nuclear explosions unbalanced them. As there is a cycle in seasons, deeper still there is Rta in life—the law of consciousness. That law is called dharma; the Vedas call it Rta.

“The power of Rta pervades all.”

The day you experience Rta within, you are religious. The day you recognize the supreme law in yourself, you will begin to see it in all. Existence becomes a mirror.

And then you see that even those asleep are Buddhas. When they wake—whenever they wake—they will be Buddhas. Nothing is lost by sleep; our nature cannot be lost—at most, forgotten. And what is the harm in forgetting? Forgotten today, remembered tomorrow. Each person is free to remember when they will.

Therefore I will not knock at anyone’s door. This well will not go seeking anyone. Those who are thirsty will come. And many are thirsty—the whole earth is thirsty. Nor is it that people are unaware of their thirst; they have intimations. But they keep themselves distracted; they hide their thirst, fearing that if they acknowledge it, they will have to do something—seek a well.

And seeking a well is no easy matter. Drinking from it is no cheap bargain. From the well of truth, only one can drink who has set aside the ego; only one can drink who cups the hands of meditation.

Lacking such preparation, people postpone: “Someday we will seek.” Even if a well is near, they find a thousand excuses to avoid it. There is fear—for this well, the well of truth, has strange rules, topsy-turvy: here only the one who drowns reaches the far shore; here only the one who dies attains; fulfillment comes to the one who is ready to lose himself.

Enough for today.