Sahaj Samadhi Bhali #18

The event of supreme knowing can happen at any moment. There is a saying: even a tiny straw can make a camel sit—but it must be the last straw. Keep piling weight on the camel; he will bear it up to a limit. When that limit is crossed, even the last straw will bring him down. Keep filling a pot with water; it will take it up to a limit. After that, one drop more cannot be contained—one drop more and the water spills over. The last drop—the last straw—proves revolutionary.

You heat water—one degree, two degrees, ninety-nine degrees—but it does not become steam. Then the hundredth degree—and water takes a leap; a revolution happens, and water becomes steam. What difference is there between the first degree and the last degree? The heat is the same: heat at the first degree, heat at the hundredth. Yet transformation happens at the last.

Earlier you placed stones on the camel and it didn’t sit; and the last straw made it sit! Does the straw have more weight? The question is not the straw; the question is the camel’s capacity. Once the last limit is reached, even a tiny incident becomes a revolution.

Keep this in mind, and then the story will be understood; otherwise it will look absurd. Zen is full of such stories. And remember: these are historical events in the inner sense, not fables. Such things have happened—not only to Zen seekers, but wherever, in every corner of the world, people have attained supreme knowing: some small thing becomes the revolution.

If you look at it straight, it’s only a straw; how can it make a camel sit? If you measure heat straight, one degree is one degree—whether the first or the hundredth; how does water become steam? You must see where the revolution happened in someone’s life; where that person was standing.

If you are at ninety-one degrees, the same degree of heat will only warm you a little—you’ll reach ninety-two. But if someone is at ninety-nine degrees, the very same degree triggers a revolution. You won’t understand.

You place one straw on a camel with no load; the camel won’t even notice it. He will be surprised to hear that sometimes camels have sat from the weight of a straw. He will laugh: you’ve gone mad! A straw has no measurable weight—how would camels sit! But if the camel is already loaded and the last hour has arrived—the limit of capacity reached—then one straw is enough.

It is not a question of the straw; it is a question of your inner condition. If a person has been seeking and seeking, pouring his entire energy into the search—withholding nothing—note this well.

You always hold back; that is why you miss—lifetimes upon lifetimes. You will miss in this life too if you hold back; because your camel will never be fully loaded. The last straw will never get the chance to be the last straw. Your water will remain lukewarm; it will never reach ninety-nine degrees. Therefore the last degree will not trigger revolution in you.

Even if you meet Buddha, you will not sit. Even if you meet Krishna, you will not turn into steam. And sometimes someone has awakened hearing a butcher’s talk.

It is said Lao Tzu was sitting beneath a tree. A dry leaf broke off in a gust and began to fall. Simply watching the leaf fall—watching and watching—by the time the leaf reached the ground from that tall tree, Lao Tzu had attained enlightenment. But only because the camel was fully loaded; otherwise what dry leaf has the power to grant enlightenment! You could sit beneath that tree and all the leaves could dry and fall, and still nothing would happen.

A Zen nun was returning with water. A yoke rested across her shoulders, with clay pots hanging at both ends. Suddenly the yoke snapped. It was a full-moon night. The pot fell and broke. As the pot shattered and the water spilled, a revolution happened within her; she attained the ultimate. Hearing the pot break, seeing the water scatter—that was all, and the revolution happened.

You will say, If enlightenment happens like that, let’s go to the market, buy all the pots and break them all! No—that is where you miss. This is exactly how religious people have been missing. All rituals are born of this misunderstanding. A revolution happens in one man’s life due to some particular thing. Someone attains repeating “Ram Ram Ram.”

It is said Valmiki mispronounced it; instead of “Ram” he repeated “mara, mara, mara” and attained. So you also repeat—either “mara, mara” like Valmiki, or corrected as “Ram, Ram”—you will not attain. For Valmiki, that event was the last straw.

When your total energy is poured in—nothing left—when you stake yourself completely, then any small thing can trigger revolution.

Then you need not imitate anyone. And for each person the revolution will come from unique causes; life is vast, infinitely vast. Events are happening every moment. When the moment of your revolution will arrive depends on you, not on the events. The event is incidental—whether it happens in a market or a forest is purely incidental.

Buddha was sitting in siddhasana when the event happened. Since then thousands have sat in siddhasana hoping for the event. They are fools. It was mere coincidence that Buddha was in siddhasana, and his total energy had ripened.

Mahavira’s event happened in a very odd posture—godohasana, like the posture one takes while milking a cow. Who knows what he was doing! No one even sits in godohasana. Perhaps he was half-standing, half-sitting—about to sit. And while he happened to be in godohasana, the revolution occurred. Since then countless people have sat in godohasana, hoping the revolution would come! They err.

You worry about the straw—worry about yourself. The straw has no real value. What matters is that your total energy has been invested; nothing left over. Then even a gust of wind, and you are another being. A dry leaf falls—and the old dies, the new is born within you. Understand this first point.

The second point—before we enter the story—must be understood: the entire game of mind stands upon comparison. As long as you go on comparing, there is no freedom from mind.

The mind says: this is good, that is bad; this is beautiful, that is ugly; this wholesome, that unwholesome; choose this, drop that. The mind says: this is heaven, that is hell; this is Ram, that is Ravana. The mind divides. And when you listen to the mind, you too become divided. You will remain divided so long as you listen to the mind. For the mind says: this is right, that is wrong. Don’t do the wrong, do the right.

This division is not only outside; if you agree to it, division happens within as well. The mind divides the outer and divides the inner. That is why Krishnamurti keeps insisting: choicelessness—do not choose.

The fundamental meaning of non-choice is: do not compare. The moment you compare, choice has happened. Do not discriminate; do not say, This is stone and this is diamond. Do not say, This is valuable, that is worthless. The instant you erect any kind of comparison—you are split. To become unsplit, indivisible—that is the path to the attainment of non-duality. You will see the One only when you become one. As long as you are two, everything will appear two. And you are many; hence everything appears many. This world is a vast screen upon which your own immensity appears.

This story seems difficult only because we cannot accept that in one shop everything could be “the best.” And the shopkeeper says there is nothing here that isn’t the best. He is smashing all comparison. We will insist: they may be good, but still there will be comparison. Some will be better, some less good—some very good. How can a whole shop contain only the best? And if everything is best, what is the meaning of calling it best? Without the inferior, how will the superior be defined? Without lower steps, how will the highest rung exist? Where there are no shudras, how will there be brahmins? Where there is no lower step, how will there be an upper step? Where the useless is not, how will the meaningful be?

I have heard Mulla Nasruddin was in love with two women and could not decide whom to choose: one was very beautiful, one very wealthy. His mind ran both ways. Greed for wealth would not let go—there was a lot of money. His mind said: physical beauty will turn stale in two days; the beauty of money lasts. After two days even the most beautiful woman will seem ordinary—once you are familiar. But money will serve longer. More lasting than form is the rupee.

Another part of his mind said: What will you do with money? If you get trapped with an ugly woman, you will weep all your life. Granted, beauty is fleeting—but it is precious. To waste your life on the lifeless—collecting money that, being dead, is perhaps precisely why it is permanent, for life is change.

His mind was in great trouble. He could not decide. Both women too grew restless. Finally they thought: we must do something.

One day they took Nasruddin for a boat ride on the river. In the middle they asked, If the boat sinks and you can save only one of us, whom will you save? Which of us do you consider more beautiful, more worthy? Nasruddin said, You both are each more beautiful than the other. Each of you surpasses the other in beauty. Still, he would not commit. But how can two persons both be each “more beautiful than the other”! This paradox is possible only when the mind is not the seer.

As long as the mind is there, it will say: one less, one more; one lower, one higher. Mind builds ladders. All castes, all hierarchies are constructions of mind. Mind says: number one, number two, number three... It classifies, ranks, stratifies.

Karl Marx, Lenin, Stalin, Mao wished to create a classless society in the world; but they knew nothing of the deeper laws of life. As long as mind persists, a classless society cannot be. Because mind is the creator of class.

Money is not the real issue. Even if wealth is redistributed equally, classlessness will not arrive. The mind will still rank: someone beautiful, someone ugly; someone intelligent, someone dull; someone able, someone inept. And soon the intelligent will gather more wealth; the unintelligent will lose it. In no time wealth will flow to the beautiful, leak away from the ugly. How long will it take for classes to reappear? So long as mind remains, the door for class is open.

A classless society cannot be created by communists; only by yogis. Which is to say, it is almost impossible—only when the entire earth becomes adept in yoga, when the whole earth arrives at a state of no-mind—where the mind ends—only then will classlessness come. Before that, there is no way.

This second principle helps explain how a fakir attained enlightenment on hearing a butcher! The butcher uttered something so mindless that the mind could not grasp it—it became a riddle. Meditation gathered around it.

And the butcher spoke a truth about this world: in God’s universe, all is the best; there are no categories. There is no way to put things lower or higher. Everything here is on top. There is no such event as “below.” It is another matter that to you some things appear low and some high.

That is your seeing, your angle, your eye which creates categories. The way of the wise is such that categories dissolve as he sees. He simply sees—and categories vanish. Therefore the wise do not judge; they do not become judges. Jesus told his disciples again and again: Judge ye not—do not be judges; do not render verdicts.

There is a famous story. In a village people brought a woman to Jesus, accused of adultery. The Law said such a woman must be stoned to death. The whole village was eager to kill her. These were the very people who were themselves eager for adultery—perhaps all the more eager to kill because someone else had done it and they had missed their chance! Competitors in sin, queued up! Foiled and furious. But anger seeks noble roads: they wished to stone her. She had defeated them, tempted and aroused them, yet had not satisfied their lust.

They stood on the riverbank, old and young, stones in hand, ready to kill. Jesus was sitting there, so they thought to ask him too—also a good chance to trap him. If Jesus said the old Law is wrong, they would stone both—this dangerous man who speaks against Scripture, and the woman. If he said the Law is right, they would stone the woman, then confront Jesus: What of your teachings? You say if someone slaps your cheek, offer the other. You say love is the way to God. You say the meek shall inherit. You oppose violence and war; your message is peace. How do you agree to stoning this woman? That is murder, hatred. We’ll trap you either way.

But Jesus is hard to trap—only the mind can be trapped, and he was beyond mind. He answered: The old Law is perfectly right. I have not come to destroy it but to fulfill it. Only one thing is missing, which I will add: let the one who has never committed adultery, nor even entertained the thought, cast the first stone. Those who are themselves adulterous have no right to throw a stone. Let the one who is pure among you step forward. Those in front—the elders, village heads—slipped back into the crowd, for in a small village everyone knows everyone.

Small villages have a charm and a danger: every person knows every other. In big cities you can wear false faces; in small villages it is difficult. Every trick is known. Nothing can be hidden; every life is an open newspaper. People are so close that everyone knows who goes to the prostitute, who loves another’s wife, who does what.

In a small village the world is one family—privacy is almost impossible. This is a boon and a danger. The danger is: no privacy, no independence. Everyone’s hand is on your neck. True freedom arrived with big cities. The small village is risky: you cannot live a private life; nothing is private, all is public.

No one could claim he had never sinned—before the crowd would cry: What! Before our eyes, and you dare say that? Stones dropped from hands; people drifted away. Soon the crowd had vanished. Those who came to stone the adulteress had gone; not one was qualified to lift the first stone.

It is often the case: the sinners are the keenest to punish sinners. A virtuous person cannot even entertain the thought of killing a sinner. In truth, a virtuous person cannot even decide, “This one is a sinner.” That is the glory of virtue.

When all had left, only Jesus remained with the woman. She realized he had not only saved her life—he had not looked at her with eyes of condemnation. She said, I feel no shame before you. I confess I am a sinner; I confess I am an adulteress.

Remember, when you do not look with condemnation, you empower the other to confess his sins himself. When there is no anger in your eyes, no gesture to consign the other to hell, you strengthen him to speak the truth; you give him a chance to be true—that too is virtue.

To give another the chance to be true is the greatest virtue. When you condemn, you give the other a chance to hide, to become false—that is sin. Therefore Jesus says: do not judge, do not render verdicts. Who made you a judge to say what is sin and what is virtue? Who is bad, who is good? Who is saint, who is not? Be silent.

The woman said, I am sinful; I am an adulteress. Give me whatever punishment you wish. My head is bowed. Jesus said, Who am I to judge you? This is between you and your God. Who am I to stand in between? But if you feel in your heart that you did wrong, then do not do it again. Only if you feel it—not my command. If you see that it was wrong, then do not repeat it. I do not call you sinner or adulteress. Who am I!

For one like Jesus, everything is the best: the sinner too, the saint too.

The best is not an outcome of comparison. It is everyone’s nature. If God resides in all, then the butcher spoke something astonishing: everything must be the best. If the Divine itself beats in your heart, sees through your eyes, then whether you steal or commit adultery, or go to temple or mosque or brothel—what difference? Your essential best-ness is inviolate.

What is hidden within you has no way to be sullied. It is ever bathed, freshly washed—ever pure. Not for a moment, not by a particle, can there be any reduction in its purity. This is the vision of the supreme knower—the swan among seers.

Now let us try to understand the story.

“A Zen seeker, Banzan, was passing through the marketplace.” He is a seeker, not yet a siddha—still on the way, not arrived. But he is a seeker; not thinking about seeking, but practicing.

Some people think about practice and imagine they have become seekers! They go on thinking: I must meditate, pray, take sannyas—and think that is seeking. No one becomes a seeker by thinking about sadhana; one becomes a seeker by doing sadhana. Doing puts weight on the camel; then someday a straw will bring it down. Doing produces fire—not thinking. Someday the last heat arrives, and a man becomes steam.

“Banzan was passing through the market.” First point: Banzan is a seeker. He has been doing, for years—perhaps for lifetimes. Not sitting and thinking—walking on the path. And the last hour seems near. The seeker is where a siddha can be born.

One day that hour will come for you too. It can come soon if you pour your total energy into the effort; it can come now, this very moment, if you don’t hold back and flow totally. The more you save yourself, the longer it will take. Without your total plunge, the event cannot happen.

Even when you enter a river, you do it so—dipping only a toe, while you stand on the bank! How will you bathe? And this bathing is such that unless you drown and are effaced, it will not happen. At best you gather courage to go up to the neck. Many can manage that—but beyond it they are afraid. The real issue is the head; until it goes under, nothing truly submerges.

Up to the neck is useless—in the sense that it changes nothing essential. The real trouble is the head. But you want to save the head.

So you wade in up to the neck in sadhana too—and when it is time for the head to go, you turn back! Where there is fear that breath will stop, life will go—any moment you may drown—at that point you flee. Without dying, no one ever arrived. Until you have died, you are a seeker; you are attempting to die. The day you die, that day you are a siddha.

Banzan must have been a ninety-nine-degree seeker. And until the event happens, you cannot tell when ninety-nine has arrived. It is unpredictable; no forecast can be made.

People ask me, How long until enlightenment? Nothing can be said. No thermometer exists to show when you have reached ninety-nine degrees. It is not body heat that can be measured; it is the heat of consciousness, the inner fire—that is tapas. It cannot be measured by the body. No means exists—and never will. Consciousness is immeasurable.

And there is this danger too: many return even from ninety-nine degrees. You can cool down again. At one hundred, water becomes steam; then return is almost impossible. Revolution has happened.

Until revolution happens, many times you come close and turn back. You boil and become lukewarm again; you cool down again. In your life—you know it—many times a moment comes when you should jump—jump! The last moment arrives. Then some small thing happens and you steady yourself again. That “steadiness” is the enemy. You think you saved yourself cleverly—that very saving is the mistake.

This Zen seeker, Banzan, was a seeker—remember that. And, secondly, he was in the marketplace. For Zen says: the whole world is a market; you cannot run away. Go to the Himalayas if you like—still you will not escape the market. Wherever you go, the market goes with you. It is within you; so don’t run. There is no point wasting time.

Where will you run? Those who run end up where they started.

There is an old Sufi tale. A man rose early and told his servant, Bring my horse. Enough of this place; I am very unhappy here. I want to go far away from here. The servant said, Sir, the horse I can ready—but what destination? Where do you wish to go? The man said, You don’t understand. The destination is only this: away from here. That is my destination—away from here. The servant was no ordinary servant; he was a seeker—indeed a siddha.

Sufis hide themselves. They don’t advertise. One will be a cobbler, another a servant. Someone cooks in a village; someone sells vegetables in the bazaar.

A Sufi does not show himself. His disciples too remain hidden; you cannot detect them unless someone gives you the key. They are ordinary in life, not extraordinary. They are part of life’s flow. They sit in the market and do not run from it. They say: what has to happen will happen in the market, because God is in the market—and the market in God. Where are you running? What you cannot find here, how will you find there? And a strange thing: wherever you reach, that place becomes “here.”

The man said, I want to get away from here. The servant replied, Then it is difficult. No matter how fast the horse, you won’t get away from here. Wherever you arrive, it will be here. Where will you go? Wherever you arrive, it will be here.

The master said, I never knew you were a great philosopher! You speak lofty things. I told you to prepare the horse and provisions. The servant said, That is harder still. For this journey is endless. No provisions will suffice; they will run out. You can never reach a place that is not “here.”

No one has ever reached “there.” Wherever you go, it will be here. What is “there” for you becomes “here” upon arrival. Where you sit is “here” for you, “there” for others.

No one can go away from here. And if you insist, your choice—but don’t carry provisions; they will be exhausted while the destination never comes. The road is not long—it is endless.

Running from the market to the Himalayas, you are trying to flee “here” to “there.” You will not reach. You are the market; it is within you. Wherever you go, you will set up a market there.

If greed is within you and you sit alone on a mountain, and a diamond lies before you, you will quickly hide it in your rags—or will you let it lie? If you can let the diamond lie on the Himalayas, why worry in the bazaar!

If there is no greed, the market vanishes here. If greed is there, wherever you go, there will be the market. You may sit on the Himalayas, but you will think of here—from where you came. The mind will go to the past or future. You will think: I must resume the shop. This time I won’t make the old mistakes. I’ll choose a better wife; last time I chose wrong. I didn’t get happiness because the circumstances were wrong; I will change the setup. This is how you have been going for many lives. Each life you think: next time I’ll get it right. This time I erred; next time I won’t. But you commit the same errors—because you are the same, so the same mistakes arise, as a tree gives only the leaf hidden in its seed.

“A Zen seeker, Banzan, was passing through the marketplace. He overheard a conversation between a butcher and a customer.”

A strange place indeed—before a butcher’s shop. If it had been a jeweler’s, we could accept that enlightenment happened there. But before a butcher? Life is absurd to the mind. He heard a snatch of talk. The customer said, Give me the best cut.

Whoever goes to buy asks for the best. The buyer’s mind naturally demands the best. And that is why every demand leads to suffering. You ask—and before you get it, you see something better exists—suffering begins. The diamond is not yet in hand and bigger ones appear. The position is not yet attained and gloom sets in.

I have heard Mulla Nasruddin married. On the wedding day his relatives saw him strangely sad, as if searching for something lost. A friend asked, Have you lost something? The ring? Nasruddin said, The ring is on my finger. But yes, something is lost—the excitement of marriage. Yesterday I was crazy to have this woman. The friend said, Yesterday you were mad; we thought your joy would know no bounds! He said, True; but today at the ceremony I saw many women more beautiful than this one. She has already faded. I tremble to think what will happen later.

Before you attain, the juice is gone—because eyes keep seeking the “best.” So long as the eyes compare, this will happen: excitement will die; the moment you reach, you are dissatisfied. Hence people say: the fun is in the waiting—they are right, for until you attain you are at least engaged with one thing. As soon as you attain, the eyes swivel elsewhere—instantly.

The poor enjoy money more than the rich—because for the poor, it is not yet attained; it is hope. The rich have it—no juice remains—he wants something else, more.

The customer always demands the best. He said, Give me only the very best cut. I won’t settle for less. The mind says: the very best—and nothing less. The butcher replied: Everything in my shop is the best. An extraordinary butcher—he spoke a word of ultimate knowledge: Everything in my shop is the best. There is nothing here that is not the best. Hearing just this, Banzan became enlightened.

Is this even a “teaching”? And is this a place to attain? We can understand Buddha under the Bodhi tree—that makes sense. But before a butcher’s stall—the butcher’s shack becomes a Bodhi tree!

We can understand that hearing Krishna’s words, Arjuna awakened. But hearing a butcher, Banzan awakened! No logic can account for it—and none is needed. The butcher’s shade is as good as the Bodhi tree’s; what fault is there in a butcher’s awning? And why was Buddha under the tree? For shade! He did not sit there in order to become a Buddha. A butcher’s shed can give as much shade—perhaps better. And the word that spoke from Krishna’s mouth can speak from a butcher’s lips—because all lips are His.

It may well be that this butcher was a hidden knower. Very likely.

There is a famous tale from China about the emperor’s cook—a butcher—who daily cut up an ox for the emperor. The emperor, who had watched him for years, grew old watching. The butcher had one cleaver only; he never sharpened it, never replaced it. For thirty years the emperor had never seen it snag on the animal.

One day he asked, You’re astonishing. Your skill defies measurement. You never sharpen your cleaver, never change it? The butcher said, The clumsy need to sharpen weekly. The skilled, every three weeks. But one who has known—never needs to sharpen. Because I do not cut the ox. What happens between the ox and the blade is a play; I am only the witness. When someone “cuts,” he strikes with the blade; there is conflict between blade and ox; in that conflict the edge dies. I do not cut. Who am I to cut? And the ox is not cut, for in this world nothing can truly be cut.

He said what Krishna told Arjuna: weapons cannot cut me; fire cannot burn me. There is no killer, no killed. It is a play of the One alone. He hides here, He hides there. Do not worry in vain.

The butcher told the emperor: I am not a cutter; I am not in enmity with the ox. Who am I to come in between! The same dwells within the ox and within me. He cuts and He is cut. Between blade and ox there is harmony, a rhythm. The blade only finds the spaces; the ox yields the spaces. Thus the edge never dulls.

The emperor asked, Can you teach me this art? The butcher replied, Impossible. Art cannot be taught; it can only be learned—not taught. I cannot even teach my son. There is no way, for art has no formulas.

Even the greatest painter cannot explain his art. He can paint; you can learn by sitting near him—as one catches an infectious fever, you may “catch” his art.

That is the point of sitting with a master—that it becomes contagious. Sitting and sitting, you catch his art. But art cannot be deliberately taught.

How would a painter teach the key to his art? He himself does not “know” it. In fact, he is absent when it happens—that is the key. When he is utterly lost in the painting, then the painting happens.

This butcher said, I cannot teach—but you can learn.

The guru does not teach; the disciple learns. The guru does not “tell”; the disciple understands. The guru’s presence is an indication; the disciple makes it contagious—he drinks the guru.

The butcher who said, Everything here is the best—he must have been a hidden Sufi, a hidden Zen sage. There is nothing here that is not the best. He spoke a statement about the whole of existence: It is your delusion of vision. Here everything is the best.

The customer did not awaken; the customer is you. He must have thought: nonsense, sales talk. How can everything be the best? Obviously some things are better. And if everything is best, what is the point of saying it? “Best” exists only by comparison with the worst. The shopkeeper wants to sell me anything, so he calls everything the best. All shopkeepers do.

The customer must have thought: a trick to deceive. But Banzan, passing by, hearing this, awakened. The last straw fell on the camel.

There is a famous story. When the great deluge came and the world was drowning, God told Noah to take pairs of every species into the ark and reach the mountain peak where the flood would not reach. All pairs came. But three camels tried to enter. Noah said, Stop! Did you not hear the order? Only one pair. The camels said, In our case, you must make an exception. The first camel said, I am that camel of the proverb who sits under the weight of the last straw. If I am lost, what of the saying! The second said, I am the camel of whom it is said: easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter heaven. Without me, the proverb is lost. The third said, I am the camel people watch to see on which side he will sit. Without me, how will people know the weather!

Noah pondered and said, Without these sayings, man will not function. All right, you three enter—the exception is granted.

The first camel is ours today. Banzan was like that camel—waiting for the last straw. He did right to go to the market. Anywhere he might have gone, the event could have happened. Any incident—incidental—can be the last straw.

What happened within Banzan? Hearing the butcher say, Everything here is the best—don’t even ask; nothing we sell is not the best—what happened inside? All categories collapsed—mind’s categories. As if a veil fell; comparison disappeared. Nothing remained small, nothing big; nothing bad or good. Everything became best. Stones turned into diamonds; diamonds into stones. Life became death; death became life. Saint became sinner; sinner became saint. All mental categories wobbled. A great flood came. In that deluge he saw: I am gone; my mind is gone. Here, everything is the best.

People come to me, naturally anxious: When you speak on Krishna, it seems Krishna is the supreme. When you speak on Lao Tzu, he seems supreme. On Patanjali, he seems supreme. Who, ultimately, is supreme? I tell them, In this shop, there is nothing that is not the best. Everything is the best.

Your mind finds it hard. Your mind says: If Krishna is supreme, how can Buddha be? What difficulty is there? Has Krishna taken a contract? Does anything end with Krishna? Why can’t Buddha be supreme? This difficulty belongs to the mind—every mind.

Bertrand Russell wrote: I was born in a Christian land—the air was Christian—but my family was atheistic, so atheism grew in me. Surrounded by Christianity, a moment came when I saw I was not a Christian; in fact, I became anti-Christian. He wrote a valuable book: Why I am not a Christian—full of strong arguments. Yet he confesses: Having discarded Christ, whom shall I put in his place? The mind is empty. The image of Buddha arose—appealing, precious. Yet a subtle pain remained: how can I place Buddha above Jesus? At most, side by side.

What is this pain? Russell did not hear the butcher’s statement. He missed that shop where Banzan’s event happened.

H. G. Wells wrote: No man greater than Gautama Buddha has walked the earth. If someone asks me, I say: None greater than Krishna has walked the earth. And then I say: None greater than Buddha. None greater than Mahavira. You will be troubled—three “greatest”! How can that be true?

Here, everything is the best. How could the inferior be born in God? The inferior is your invention. He made everything beautiful; ugliness is your viewpoint. He made everyone saintly; the “sinner” was created by your rules. Your moral codes and scriptures produced the “sinner.”

He created nothing bad; “bad” is man’s discovery. This is not a matter of argument but of seeing. And you will see it when your camel is fully loaded.

I am placing that weight on you every day. Some day the last straw will fall—who can tell when? That day your mind’s camel will sit. You will see a world so green, so beautiful, so fresh, so new—as if born just now, like the morning’s first dewdrop, the first ray of the sun—so fresh; nothing stale. From one end of the cosmos to the other, all is the best.

He who dissolves the mind will see this. Keep meditating; today or tomorrow, while passing through some market, hearing some butcher—suddenly, like lightning in the dark, everything will flash into view—where nothing was visible before—so will it be for you.

But it won’t happen by roaming markets. You have roamed markets for lifetimes. Standing by butchers’ stalls won’t do it. Even if this very conversation is taking place there, the customer—the one engaged—remains unawakened. The passerby awakened!

The essential point is that your effort has brought you to the breaking point. Then it may even be that this butcher was no knower at all—just a seasoned shopkeeper. Perhaps he was merely using sales patter, not a sage’s word. Maybe he only had to sell, so everything was “best.” Then the story is even more delicious.

The speaker ignorant; the listener ignorant; and a snatch of talk between two ignorants becomes enlightenment for a third! That too can happen.

In Bengal there was a great saint. Old, retired from work, he went for a morning walk. His name at home was “Raja Babu.” In a nearby house a woman was waking her son or brother-in-law—his name too, by coincidence, must have been “Raja Babu.” She called from inside: Raja Babu, get up. Morning has come. How long will you sleep? The old Raja Babu, walking by with his stick, heard it. The door was closed; she had no idea he was outside. It was sheer coincidence—his passing. He heard: Morning has come; how long will you sleep? Get up, Raja Babu. They say he did not return home. He went from there straight to a temple beyond the village. His family came to persuade him; he only laughed and repeated one line: Get up, Raja Babu! Morning has come. How long will you sleep? Enough—slept too long!

So it is not necessary that the shopkeeper be a sage. Then note one last point: even an ignorant person can awaken you if your readiness is complete; and even a knower can do nothing if you are not ready. In the end, the decisive thing is your readiness.

Many have attained around gurus who themselves were not enlightened. Therefore don’t worry whether the guru is enlightened or not. Gurus have been ignorant, yet people have awakened around them—because they were ready.

The reverse happens daily: around enlightened gurus, hundreds come and go and nothing revolutionary happens—because there is no readiness. The final decision rests with your preparation.

Pour yourself totally, so that the camel sits with the touch of the last straw any day. Save yourself, and you will miss. Don’t save. Then anywhere, in any market, some casual word—uttered inadvertently—becomes scripture. Otherwise even if the Vedas sing in your ears, you hear only a buzzing—mere verbiage.

That’s all for today.