Sahaj Samadhi Bhali #6

Buddha’s last words on this earth are worth remembering forever. They are just three small words: “Appo deepo bhava.” Be a light unto yourself; be your own illumination.

As soon as Buddha said, “I am leaving this body,” Ananda began to weep. He said, “What will become of us? We have been following you with such great hopes. Now everything will be dark. The lamp is going out.” Buddha said, “If you took me to be your light, you were in a misconception. Each person must be his own light.”

If you seek light, seek it within. Whoever seeks light outside will go on wandering in darkness. Appo deepo bhava—be a light unto yourself.

And here is a unique fact: while Buddha lived, Ananda did not become enlightened. A day after Buddha died, Ananda attained. Forty years with Buddha, and no enlightenment—and then, in a single day without Buddha, it happened.

Where was the obstacle? Buddha’s presence would not let Ananda look at himself. While Buddha was present, Ananda kept looking at Buddha; his eyes were turned outward. Once Buddha disappeared, there was nothing left to gaze at outside. And after seeing Buddha, what remains to be seen in the world? He had seen all that is worth seeing in this world—and had even had a glimpse of the beyond.

As soon as Buddha vanished, Ananda’s eyes must certainly have closed. There remained nothing in the world worth looking at. In that very moment he looked into himself—and the moment one truly sees oneself, one is on the path. The very being of oneself is the path.

But the mind keeps trying to follow others. Imitation is easy; being authentic is difficult. It is always simpler to act another’s role. Acting is only on the surface; deep within you remain what you are. Hence the mind chooses imitation; it gets impressed and begins to live in someone else’s style.

Try as you may, if you are following another, the goal will be lost. The deepest art of life is this: even in the company of the awakened ones, avoid following them. Without their company, you will not do; but if you turn their company into imitation, you will not do either. Between the two there is a point—there lies the path.

To be near the awakened is great fortune. But to walk in their tracks is misfortune. Learn buddhahood from them, not conduct. Do not make the external layout of their life the blueprint of your life. The outer form of one person’s life becomes a prison for another. You are distinct, you are different. You are simply yourself.

If you build your life to another’s blueprint, you blunt your own framework. Your own possibilities of growth wither. The other becomes a prison to you.

And will a wife become a prison? Will a husband become a prison? Around the awakened ones it is very easy to build prisons. All the most precious prisons of the world have been built around awakened beings—call them Islam, Hinduism, Buddhism, or Jainism. These great prisons of sects arose around enlightened ones.

And the prisons around enlightened ones are almost made of gold. You won’t even feel like leaving them. You will cling and hold fast. Such prisons need no guard outside—you will not wish to escape.

Remember this.

But what is the middle point? Be influenced, but do not imitate. A paradox! For you, the moment you are influenced, blind imitation begins. For you, to be influenced means to imitate.

Take light from the awakened only as one lamp, unlit, takes flame from a burning lamp and then goes on its own journey. Then its stream of light is its own; its oil is its own; its wick is its own.

A glance, a leap—and the fire jumps from one lamp to another. Let being influenced only mean that in the presence of the awakened your thirst is aroused and you catch fire.

Jesus said, “Those who are with me are near the fire; and those who are not with me, the kingdom of God is far from them… Those who are with me are near the fire; and those who are not, the kingdom is far.”

To be near the fire is useful only to the extent that the spark leaps across and the fire catches you. But do not imitate, because an imitated fire will be false. You will wear it outside, but inside you will remain dark.

How easy it is to dress like the awakened! How easy to sit, stand, walk like them—and how difficult to become as they are! That living flame within—that is the difficult part. So we search for the easy way.

The mind always chooses the path of least resistance. There is no inconvenience in wearing the robe of a buddha, in sitting and standing like the buddha; to eat what the buddha eats, to sleep when the buddha sleeps. You can act it out perfectly on the outside.

Becoming an actor is the simplest thing. But the actor is not authentic. The actor is a lie. And you will know well that the acting is only on the surface; within you will continue to see your own darkness, your nakedness, your rot.

How will you hide it? However beautiful the garments, however precious the ornaments, they do not heal the ulcers within; they do not even hide them.

Learn from the awakened how to walk your own path. Do not learn imitation. Learn from them how your buddhahood can be awakened. Do not, like a blind man, follow them with closed eyes. Their path will never be your path. Whoever imitates will go astray. This is the first thing to understand.

The second: you not only imitate in conduct, you also repeat in knowledge. You hear and you begin to parrot. What you repeat does not come from your heart—not even from your throat; it only reaches your lips. Your ears donate directly to your lips. You hear and your lips go on speaking. There is a direct door between your ears and your lips; your heart is not even touched.

Whatever you hear about the awakened, do not repeat it. Do not become a parrot. Let it pass through the heart. Whenever a ray of knowing passes through the heart, it becomes your own. Then you do not repeat; your knowing is not stale. It has the freshness of the first morning light, the newness of the morning dew.

Whoever hears from scriptures and masters and then repeats becomes a pundit, not a knower. And the pundit is off the path; his way is lost. The ignorant may arrive; pundits are never heard to arrive.

Now, let us enter this little dialogue.

A disciple said to Master Ummon, “The light of the Buddha illuminates the whole universe; the wisdom of the Buddha irradiates the entire world.”

He must have read these words somewhere. Where are the eyes that can see the Buddha’s light illumining the whole universe? Whoever sees this has himself become a buddha. Where is the heart that can experience “the wisdom of the Buddha lighting the whole world”? Whoever has experienced this has himself become a buddha.

Without becoming a buddha, it is not easy to understand buddhahood. It won’t do to be a Buddhist; you must be a buddha. It won’t do to be a Jain; you must be a jina. If merely being Christian worked, half the world would have entered heaven; you must be a Christ.

How easy it is to be a Christian; how difficult to be a Christ! To be a Christian costs nothing—cheap bargain. You risk nothing and hope to gain everything. You stake nothing and dream of victory.

Jesus said, “Whoever would understand what I speak will have to carry his cross upon his shoulders.” And he said, “Until you are hung upon the cross, the kingdom of heaven will not open to you.”

A strange event in human history: Jesus had to carry his own cross to Golgotha. When the soldiers led him from the prison, they put the cross upon his shoulders. He climbed the hill of Golgotha—drenched in sweat. People threw stones, hurled abuses. And Jesus carried his own cross.

Then there are priests—Christian clergy—also wearing the cross upon their chests. Their cross is of gold. One cross was wooden, heavy, weighty; the climb was steep; all around there was insult and abuse. And soon Jesus would be hung on his own cross and die. And one cross is golden, precious, not heavy; and for wearing it you do not receive insult but honor, respect, welcome!

Man is clever—he replaces real crosses with golden counterfeit ones. To be a Christian may be fine; but it is not enough to be a Christ. Perhaps it is the very obstacle to being a Christ.

When Ummon’s disciple said this, Ummon would not have taken even a moment to see. There was no need to see. In front of a knower, if you present borrowed knowledge, he sees with his eyes closed. There is no need even to probe. Your words are so stale and rotten—like a face painted with cosmetics. Who is deceived by that? Perhaps you, standing before the mirror, believe yourself beautiful—then it’s another matter. Otherwise, the paint only exhibits your ugliness.

Ummon would have needed no time to recognize that these words belong to someone else. Of course they do—he knows the disciple well. One still wandering in darkness—how could he see that “the whole world is illumined by the Buddha’s light”? One whose heart has not yet known its first opening—how could he understand that “the wisdom of the Buddha stirs the whole world”?

These are borrowed words. Borrowed knowledge is poisonous. It does not kill others; it kills you. Under borrowed knowledge, you alone are crushed, you rot and you wander astray.

Ignorance does not mislead; borrowed knowledge certainly does. Ignorance is humble—“I do not know”—therefore there is still a possibility of knowing. Borrowed knowledge is not humble; it is filled with pride—“I know.”

And when this disciple spoke before Ummon—“The Buddha’s light illuminates the universe; the Buddha’s wisdom illumines the world”—he must have said it with great conceit. Without conceit, such words are not even uttered.

And what was the need to say such words in Ummon’s presence? Ummon himself is an awakened one. The disciple speaks thus before Ummon only to display knowledge. He wants Ummon to acknowledge, “I also know.” It is self-display.

But one cannot escape masters like Ummon. They will see you to the very depths you have not seen yourself. To them you are transparent. There is no way to hide. Your nakedness is revealed before them.

Alas! Had the disciple remained silent, it would have been better. He got caught by speaking.

The wise have said: the enlightened become silent; the unenlightened should remain silent. The enlightened fall silent by themselves; the unenlightened must cultivate silence—because the moment the ignorant speaks, he is trapped. If you do not speak, you are not yet wrong. In your silence you are still right; but the moment you speak, you invite trouble.

The enlightened become silent; the ignorant should practice silence. And near true masters—like Ummon—if you speak, you are utterly mad. By speaking there, what will you learn? You will only go astray. With them you should be as if you are not. In your non-being their being can pervade you; your emptiness can be filled with their sound; in your lonely desert their light can awaken you.

Remember: speaking and silence are opposite processes. When you speak, you attack. When you are silent, you receive. Let the master speak—he needs to break, to demolish something in you. The master will be aggressive—otherwise he cannot transform you. For the disciple to speak makes no sense. If the disciple speaks, receptivity is blocked. He is no longer receptive; he has become aggressive.

Before Ummon, one had to be silent. By speaking there, you only reveal your ignorance. But to be silent is very difficult.

I have heard: It was Ramadan. People were fasting, spending their days in mosques in prayer. In Ramadan it is necessary to be silent in the mosque. Wherever there is religion, there is a need for silence—only when you are silent can religion speak; when you speak, religion falls silent.

Mulla Nasruddin also went to the mosque. He had no intention to go, but reputation was at stake. Whoever does not go to the mosque during Ramadan is regarded irreligious by the village—and to be irreligious is expensive.

Respectability is needed—if you live in society, you must appear religious at least. For when people think you religious, you can deceive them more easily. If they take you to be irreligious, it is difficult even to run a shop. The thief too must go to the mosque; the dishonest must go to the temple—it facilitates dishonesty.

The whole village was going, so Nasruddin went. Sitting in a corner, eyes closed, he prayed. A man next to him said—though speaking was against the rule—“I don’t know whether I locked my house or not.” Another heard and said, “You spoke! You have spoiled everything. Now we must pray again.” Nasruddin said, “Thank God, I have not spoken yet; I am still silent.”

That attacking mind goes on speaking. Often you are not even aware that you are speaking. Even when outwardly silent, it speaks within. There was no need to speak before Ummon. You were in a mosque; it was time for prayer. In a temple—place of worship—you should be silent. Only the silent reach the master.

Ummon did not even let the disciple finish and said, “Ah! Are you not quoting someone else’s lines?”

The disciple had barely begun. The verdict was not based on hearing his words to the end. If Ummon had to judge by what was said, he would have let the disciple finish. But Ummon does not decide by hearing. The disciple spoke—that was enough. The moment he spoke, the matter was settled.

The urge to display oneself before the master can only arise from ignorance.

To cover yourself with a cloak of knowledge before the master is suicidal—like a patient going to a doctor and refusing to reveal his illness. To the doctor you confess everything—but to the master you try to show you are healthy. How can treatment happen? And then you want to be healed!

Daily I experience this. I ask, “What is the trouble?” They say, “No trouble. Everything is fine.” The trouble is obvious; nothing is more obvious than trouble. But they say, “All is well.” If I point out, “This is a disease,” they feel offended. And even if I indicate, they deny it: “No, nothing like that!”

Why do you hide yourself? Have diseases ever vanished by hiding them? They must be exposed, laid bare. If surgery is needed, all must be exposed—down to the roots. And your roots are in your very bones, in your flesh and marrow. Your entire ground must be dug up; the seeds of illness removed from their roots.

You can be honest about the body—before the physician you reveal all. About the soul you are not so wise—you hide.

I have heard a story about Stalin. The head of his secret police was Beria. Stalin wanted to test whether he was competent. One evening he drove through Moscow without telling anyone, and scattered a hundred typed cards on different streets. On one card it said, “Stalin is a scoundrel.” On another, “Stalin is mad.” On another, “Stalin is a debauchee.” He wrote every possible abuse about himself across those hundred cards and threw them around.

In the morning, as Stalin was sipping tea, Beria arrived and placed the hundred cards on the table. Stalin felt inwardly pleased—“The man is efficient.” Outwardly he showed anger: “Who wrote these? Find him. Have you discovered who threw these cards in the city?” Beria said, “Sire, it was you.” Stalin was even more pleased: “How did you find out?” Beria said, “Who else could know so accurately such true things about you?”

But when you go to a master, he will know even what you do not know. The master is an x-ray; he will see you through and through. Otherwise, he is no master. He will not wait for your confession.

A master is not an allopathic doctor who diagnoses after your statement. He is of the old ayurvedic type. Before you enter his room, he knows your disease. Before you inhale, he recognizes the malaise. Without needing to peer into your eyes, he has caught it.

The old ayurvedic physician’s sign was that he did not ask you; if he asked, what kind of physician was he? To diagnose after hearing the patient—what kind of physician? What diagnosis arises from the patient’s own account!

Allopathy asks the patient; Ayurveda observes him. The master is ayurvedic—not allopathic. Even before you come, he has recognized. Your posture, your gestures, your eyes say it all. You are an open broadcast—there is no way to prevent it.

Your hesitation, your arrogance, your ego, your false humility, your attempts to hide—are all revealing you. Every moment you are proclaiming yourself. Your proclamation does not cease even for a moment.

Ummon did not listen fully and said, “Ah! So you are repeating someone else’s lines?” The lines had not yet been spoken—but there was no need. You are false; you will repeat. Your lips are false; whatever comes upon them will be borrowed. Your eyes are false; whatever you see through them will be delusion.

The disciple hesitated. The verdict came even before he had finished. He had not imagined he would be caught—yet he was.

Ummon looked straight into his eyes—attentively. For when you hesitate, your whole stream of life trembles. When you hesitate, the entire mirror of your mind shakes. What does hesitation mean? It means duality within, conflict. One part knows the master is right; another part wants to deny it. You are split in two. Where you are two, you hesitate. Where you are one, there is no hesitation.

The more divided you are, the more hesitation there will be. The more undivided, the less. When you are one, there is none.

Upon this very basis the lie-detector was developed in the West. Now courts use it to catch lies. But true masters have always known that hesitation is the sign of conflict.

In the last fifty years scientists have devised a machine. You may not know it—you go to court, stand in the witness box, and are asked questions. A machine below records your hesitation. Whenever you hesitate, it reports: here this person hesitated—and where you hesitated, there is a lie.

When you hesitate, your heartbeat pauses for a moment—one beat is lost in the middle; a gap appears. Your blood flow changes. A storm arises in your mind. Within, two answers collide—yes and no.

Suppose you are asked in court: “What time is it?” No reason to hesitate. If it is nine, it is nine—the clock hangs there. You answer “Nine o’clock,” and your response is single. No inner voice says, “It is not nine.” You are not split.

If asked, “How many people are in the court?” you count and reply, “Ten.” No reason to lie. The machine below records your heartbeats, breath, blood flow, your ease—just as a cardiogram. Lines are being traced; you are harmonious.

Then you are asked, “Did you commit the murder?” A jolt occurs. You know you did; you cannot prevent the jolt. Your life within says “Yes.” But you also know that if you say “Yes,” death is near; your mind says “No.” The heart says “Yes,” the mind says “No.” A conflict arises. Opposite answers arrive simultaneously. The machine below records your wobble—your hesitation. There you are caught.

Whenever you lie, you hesitate. So those who lie continually—if they suffer heart disease—do not be surprised. Continuous shocks damage the heart.

As lies increased in the world, heart disease increased. The poor tribal in the village does not die of heart disease. The more “successful” a person, the more he dies of heart disease—politicians, big leaders, tycoons. The reason is straightforward: so many lies! From morning till night lies upon lies. So many jolts to the heart that its natural rhythm is destroyed.

There is a Western joke now: whoever, by age forty or forty-five, has not suffered a heart attack—his life has been wasted. He is not successful; he has failed.

A politician came to ask for my vote. I said, “You are a little late. Your opponent came first—and I have given him my word.” The politician said, “What are you talking about! In politics there is no question of keeping one’s word. Between word and act there is a vast difference.” I said, “If that is the rule, I give my word to you also—no obstacle then!”

Politics is a web of lies; the marketplace too. To succeed there is to purchase heart weakness. The successful die of heart disease.

Before a true master, the moment you hesitate—even a slight ripple—he senses it. You will not find a greater lie-detector than a master. The machine can be deceived; some have cheated it by practice. Being a machine, you can train to slip by. But the master is not a machine. However subtle your hesitation, you will be caught. Hesitation reveals all.

“The disciple hesitated, so Ummon looked sharply into his eyes.” That silence of Ummon must have cost the disciple dearly—must have gone deep. He must have been drenched in sweat. Many times he must have felt like saying, “No, these are my own words. I speak from experience.” That is precisely why the master kept looking—so the possibility to deceive would not remain.

When an awakened one looks deep into your eyes, the temptation to lie diminishes. He is pushing you toward truth. His attention supports you toward becoming attentive. His truthfulness nudges you toward truth.

Ummon looked attentively. Frightened, the disciple said, “Yes.” That “Yes” came out of fear. He must have known he was recognized. There was no way to deceive.

Mulla Nasruddin was once caught in a theft. He glanced around: the jury had twelve women. He told the magistrate, “I confess.” The magistrate said, “We haven’t asked anything yet, and you confess?” Nasruddin said, “At home I cannot deceive even one woman—here there are twelve. Impossible. Better to confess at the outset.”

If someone looks deep into your eyes, deceiving becomes hard. Men cannot easily deceive women. Why? They try hard, but a woman basically catches them—because of love. She can look straight into your eyes.

Have you noticed? Whenever you are not loving, you avoid looking directly into the other’s eyes. Whenever you lie, you glance here and there; you do not look straight. The husband does not know that whenever he avoids a direct gaze, his wife catches that something is wrong—he is looking around!

The eyes are a mirror, and everything is there—the entire personality. Women are skilled in reading eyes. The body can deceive, it is gross; the eyes are subtle—they cannot. To train the eyes to deceive is a long process.

And because a woman loves you, you cannot deceive her. As for the master—you cannot deceive him at all. No one can love you as the master does. Such love has never happened in this world. All worldly loves are small; a master’s love has no comparison.

Before a master your whole personality becomes like an eye—a clear mirror. You are visible from all sides. You cannot escape by looking away. Wherever you run, you cannot escape the master. Once you have come to him, there is no way to flee; he will follow you.

Frightened, the disciple said, “Yes.” He wanted to say “No”—hence the fear. When you are willing to accept the truth, there is no fear. Fear arises only when you are unwilling to accept truth. If you accept truth, why fear? Fear of what?

All fear is fear of your own lie. Therefore the liar can neither sleep well, nor rest well, nor meditate, nor love—these are possible only without fear. The liar lives in constant fear.

Truth is religion—not because it will get you heaven in the future, but because it gives you heaven here and now. Lie is sin—not because it leads to hell later, but because the moment you lie, you are in hell. The liar lives in hell every moment. No one else creates hell; your lie fills your being with such panic that you live in hell.

Hell means living in panic. Heaven means living unburdened—the depths of life without a ripple of restlessness; a profound repose.

Jesus repeatedly tells his disciples: “Come unto me, and I will give you rest.” How will Jesus give you rest? Truth is the way to rest; lie is the way to tension.

People come to me saying, “My mind is tense, restless; do something.” If the mind is tense, it means you are false. What can I do? If you are restless, it means what you are doing shakes your life. If I say, “Drop all that makes you restless,” they say, “That is difficult. Give a trick so I can be peaceful.”

Understand the difference.

There is a trick not to be restless; there is no trick to be peaceful. There is no trick to be healthy; there is a way not to be ill. Whoever is not ill is healthy.

But you want to enjoy the benefits of your illness and also be peaceful. You demand the impossible: the shop must keep running, the lie must continue, the deceit must go on—and you should still be at peace!

You want to drink poison and not die—and then you look for gurus. You expect them to do the impossible: you drink poison, and they should not let you die!

Whenever you are restless, it means your personality is built on wrong foundations. You have built your house on sand; at the slightest breeze it shakes and threatens to fall. Or you have made a house of cards—it will collapse. Someone asks, “How to strengthen it?” Knock it down. It will not be strengthened; you must build another.

Your restlessness simply indicates that your personality is wrong.

The disciple hesitated, panicked. In panic he said, “Yes.” His yes was half-hearted. Properly understood, even this yes was forced out by the master’s eyes; otherwise he would have said no. This yes was not his own. When your own yes arises, you rejoice. There is no joy greater than yes—because instantly you become one. All inner conflicts vanish when you say yes.

But this yes was extracted by the master’s piercing gaze. The master was looking so keenly that the disciple could not say no. He wanted to; thus he said yes helplessly. Such a yes cannot be joyous. Ummon said, “Then you have strayed from the path.” Your yes is incomplete; therefore you have gone astray. If only the yes had been complete, the way would have opened. First you lied; you repeated others’ words; you called knowledge that was not yours your own. I looked into your eyes and you said yes—but as if out of fear.

I heard of a court case—a car accident. A cart driver had been overturned by a car; his limbs were fractured, in plaster. The lawyer asked him, “Do you remember that immediately after the accident, the car owner asked, ‘Are you hurt?’ and you replied, ‘No’—and now you claim you are severely injured?” The man said, “Yes, I remember saying I was not hurt. But hear the whole story, then decide. My cart turned; one bull fell into a ditch; the other died immediately. One bull lay upside down, legs in the air, head bleeding. I too was in the ditch, all bones broken—could not even stand. The car owner came out, took his gun from the car, and seeing the bull writhing, he shot it—dropped it dead. Then he asked me, ‘You’re not hurt, are you?’ So I said, ‘No.’ Of course I said ‘No’—given the circumstances! Otherwise I would not be here today.”

This disciple of Ummon said “Yes,” but because of the master’s eyes. The yes was not his own. There was no joy, no blooming—only fear. Perhaps by saying no he would have been happier—his ego would have been gratified. By saying yes his ego was reduced to dust. He was caught red-handed. The moment he said yes, Ummon said, “Then you have strayed from the path.”

Sometime later, another master, Shishin, asked his disciples, “At what point did Ummon’s disciple go off the path?”

It is a Zen tradition to weave a small story for centuries—using it as a koan for inner search.

Shishin asked his disciples, “Tell me, at what point did Ummon’s disciple go astray?”

Ordinarily, those who skim the surface will think he went astray the moment he said, “The Buddha’s light illumines the world.” He should not have repeated borrowed speech; he erred there—the journey began wrong.

On the surface it may appear so—but it is not right. Whether he spoke or stayed silent, the same borrowed idea would have been echoing in his mind. That was his state. He did not go astray there; he was not on the path at all then. One can only stray if one is already on the path. Understand this well.

Only the fortunate can go astray. You cannot even go astray—if you are not on the path, how can you stray? The one who is on the path can deviate; only a few fortunate ones are “yoga-bhrashta”—fallen from yoga.

In Hindu astrology, when a child’s horoscope is made, it is a sign of great fortune if the astrologer says, “This child is a yoga-bhrashta from a past life”—meaning he was on the path and fell, and so can return. But one who never was on the path—his arriving is difficult.

In the first incident the disciple was not on the path; there is no question of straying. You lose only what you have. The disciple had neither path nor treasure—only borrowings. Borrowed things do not get lost by being spoken or unspoken.

Where did the disciple stray? He strayed where the master looked into his eyes. Even then his yes did not become whole. He wandered there. The master’s eyes were the path. The light flowing from the master’s eyes was the path. In that moment he could have said a heartfelt yes and stepped on the path—perhaps completed the journey of lifetimes.

It is rare to find a master who looks into your eyes. It is rare to find a master whose compassion descends into you and tries to set you on the way. He missed it.

He missed that rare moment when the path was clear, the master’s eyes were open.

When the master was gazing into his depths, the disciple too could have looked into the master. It was a moment of meeting. But the master went on looking; the path lay open; the disciple slipped away. Even his yes was half—glancing here and there, not looking straight into the master’s eyes.

There was no need even to say “Yes.” Had he simply looked steadily into the master’s eyes, the master would have heard what was unspoken. The spoken was useless—half-dead, without life. He spoke out of helplessness; cornered by the master, he could not escape. He had to say yes. It did not arise from the heart. It was not the blossoming of the heart; it was compulsion.

If only he had blossomed! If only he had looked into the master’s eyes as the master looked into his! If the two eyes had met, the disciple would have come to the path. Where the master and disciple’s eyes meet—that is the path.

He missed it. Where did he err?

Shishin asked his disciples, “Tell me, at what point did Ummon’s disciple go astray?”

A great happening almost happened—and did not. The unmanifest was about to manifest—and did not. The master looked; the path was given. The way to the heart lay open; there was no obstacle. The master was open. When you look fully into someone’s eyes, if the other wishes he can look into you and reach your heart.

The master was reaching the disciple’s heart, but the disciple slipped away. Even his yes did not make him blossom. His yes was false.

Your theism has not led you into samadhi. You have said “Yes” to God—but falsely, half-heartedly. Perhaps out of compulsion. Better than you is the atheist who says “No” with his whole heart—at least the heart is whole. You said “Yes,” but not with your whole heart—out of fear or greed. Your other half keeps saying “No.”

As soon as the master’s eyes moved away, the disciple must have fallen back into his old stance. He staggered, trembled, then recovered and thought, “This man frightened me; fear made me say yes.”

This happens often—daily I see it. Someone comes; I look into his eyes and ask, “What do you say? Are you ready for sannyas?” Sometimes someone, out of my “fear,” says yes—but his yes is not whole. He has gone astray. Better he had said no. Sometimes one becomes radiant—says yes with delight; every hair says yes. No contrary voice within, no conflict, no opposition—he says yes in totality.

What is sannyas? Nothing more to give than this: the whole yes—and sannyas has happened. The rest is outer. The inner has occurred. Even if he does not formally take sannyas—it does not matter. He is a sannyasin already.

If even once you taste the joy of a total yes, you become theistic—for when so much joy is born from a single total yes, you will not miss the great joy of saying yes to existence in every moment.

A theist is one who has said “Yes” to the whole existence—who has dropped saying “No.” If death comes, he says yes. If happiness comes, yes. If sorrow comes, yes. He has ceased saying no. He is on the path. Yes is the path.

Where did the disciple err? Where even his yes was dead.

Do not become a dead theist.

Do not become a theist on the basis of argument—then your theism will be lifeless. Thought has no life in it. Do not become a theist out of fear.

Even if Buddha stands before you, and your within says no—say no; do not say yes. A false yes leads nowhere. A true yes can connect you to Buddha; a false yes cannot, even before Buddha.

Say only what is true within you. Do not move away from authenticity. This disciple moved away. If he had to say no, he should have said it without fear—totally. He said yes—lifeless, in fear. The flower did not bloom; it remained a bud.

Where did he fall? At the very point where the master was looking within—and he missed that rare moment. There was no question of yes or no. The master had given him a chance. Such moments can only be given sometimes, not every day—because such a conjunction is rare.

Bodhidharma lived nine years in China. When he was about to leave and return to India, he gathered his disciples. There were four precious ones.

He asked the first, “In essence, tell me what has happened through being with me.” The disciple said, “Everywhere there is only the One—nonduality.” Bodhidharma said, “You have my skin.”

He asked the second, “What happened?” The disciple said, “Where there are not two, how can there be one? There simply is. ‘One’ and ‘two’ cannot express it.” Bodhidharma said, “You have my bones.”

He looked to the third: “What happened?” He said, “There is neither one nor two, nor the absence of both—everywhere the supreme void. Emptiness is truth.” Bodhidharma said, “You have my marrow.”

He looked to the fourth: “What happened to you?” The fourth simply looked at Bodhidharma, then bowed and touched his feet. Bodhidharma said, “You have me—my very self.” He said nothing, gave no answer.

Three went astray.

When one like Bodhidharma asks, it is not to receive an answer. Your whole being must be the answer. What you say has no value—it comes from the intellect.

Hence Bodhidharma said: one has my skin—outermost; one has the bones—still body; one has the marrow—still body, not soul. The soul was with the one who remained silent. He gave no reply—thus he replied. He answered with his whole being.

He looked into Bodhidharma’s eyes. Two eyes met. Two souls merged. Two boundaries broke. He bowed, touched the feet—expressed gratitude, not doctrine. There are no words to express gratitude.

And Bodhidharma was not seeking an answer. This was no exam to quote scriptures, to weave words. It was an ordeal by fire where you had to be the answer—and there the others failed.

The fourth bowed, touched Bodhidharma’s feet, said nothing, and set forth on the path. The journey reached its goal. This stream reached the ocean.

Shishin asked his disciples, “At what point did Ummon’s disciple go astray?”

I ask you the same: At what point did Ummon’s disciple go astray? If you think about it, you too have gone astray.

Do not think—see.

If you see, things are clear. If you think, everything gets foggy. Thinking is a form of blindness; seeing is the eye. Thinking is entanglement.

Therefore the story stops here. What did Shishin’s disciples answer? The story does not say. They must have been remarkable. Where Ummon’s disciple missed, Shishin’s disciples did not. The story ends with the question. Had they answered, they would have gone astray. They remained silent—they did not miss. Where Ummon’s disciple lost, Shishin’s disciples won. Hence, there is no answer.

I ask you the same.

Do not think—see. Seeing is totality; your whole being becomes an eye.

Thinking is always fragmentary. The skull thinks—and remember, you are outside the skull, not inside. If you were inside the skull, philosophy would suffice; answers are in books. You are far vaster than the skull. The skull is within you; you are not in it. You can use it as a servant—but the moment you make it the master, you miss.

The intellect’s mark is fragmentation. It never says a full yes or a full no; it says both together. If you watch closely, all intellectual answers carry both yes and no—sometimes yes is prominent and no hidden, sometimes the reverse.

The theist carries a hidden atheist; the atheist carries a hidden theist. They do not differ much—only who is on top, who below. The one hidden today may come out tomorrow; the one on top today may go inside tomorrow—time and circumstances can flip them.

There is another way to answer—out of totality, not thought.

You have heard this story. Can you see where the disciple missed? The master looked and the disciple averted his eyes—there.

Wait for the master to look.

An old tale: the Sufi Bayazid was with his master. A year passed; the master did not look at him, did not even ask, “Why have you come?” You would have run away long ago. One year! After a year the master asked, “Why have you come?” Bayazid said, “You know it better than I. My answer will not add anything.”

Another year passed. The master asked, “What is to be done?” Bayazid said, “I wait for your word. When you say, I shall begin. And you know well what is to be done and what not.”

A third year passed. The master placed his hand on Bayazid’s shoulder, looked into his eyes and said, “All is done. You sat silent for three years—that is enough. Go—do with others what I have done with you.”

What happened? Where Ummon’s disciple missed, Bayazid did not. He waited for that moment when the master would look.

When the eyes of a wise one gaze into yours, his lamp is approaching your unlit lamp. Do not flinch your wick here and there. Steady your wick before him. In a single instant, the spark will leap across. The event will happen.

Then you will burn from your own oil, with your own wick.

No one can be like Buddha or like Ummon. There is no need. You will be as you are. But you can miss that moment. That moment is satsang.

Ummon’s disciple missed where the master gave the chance—the moment of satsang.

Do not think about this. Let it hover around you like a fragrance. Let it resonate within you like a sound. Do not think—just see. So that when your moment comes and the master looks into your eyes, you do not miss.

Enough for today.