Samadhi Ke Sapat Dwar #15

Many things have to be understood in this regard.

First, woman and man are fundamentally different. Different does not mean higher or lower; they are equal, but opposite. Neither is above, neither below. Equal—but polar opposites. And their polarity is essential; from the union of these two opposites, birth happens and the current of life flows. Because they are opposite there is attraction; because they are opposite there is also love and there is conflict. Love, because there is attraction; conflict, because they are opposite. Between woman and man there can never be a final reconciliation—nor can there be. Their polarity creates a pull, and the same polarity creates attraction.

Man is incomplete without woman; woman is incomplete without man. Man wants to be whole with woman; woman wants to be whole with man. To be whole alone is very difficult—until the inner journey begins, one goes on seeking outer completion. But the one through whom we seek completion is our opposite. Being opposite, there is inevitably tension and a certain conflict. We come close and we move apart; we go far and we come close again. And every coming close becomes a preparation for going far again.

Between man and woman no fixed relationship can be formed—nor can it be. All such relationships will be unstable. Hence the whole world is like the relationship between woman and man: unstable—now this, now that. A relationship that seemed joyous a moment ago, becomes painful the next; where there is love a moment before, there is hate a moment after. It is natural. There is no way to change it; it is so—unless one sets out on the inner journey. So the first thing to understand is that woman and man are opposite and different; therefore their qualities are also opposite and different.

Understand it from the body, then the inner will also be understood; the pattern of the body is the pattern of the inner personality too. Man is aggressive; woman is non-aggressive. Man is active; woman is receptive. Man loves; woman receives love. On the biological plane too, the man gives the seed; the woman accepts it. There also the giver is man, the receiver is woman. There also the man takes the initiative.

A woman does not go and directly say to a man, “I love you.” She waits for the man to say it to her. Even her invitation is silent, passive. The man has to take the initiative. He has to make the plea, “I love you.” The woman will fill in yes or no to that plea—but she will not plead. And if a woman pleads to a man, “I love you,” the man’s eagerness for that woman cannot be the same, because she is behaving like a man; she ceases to be womanly, she has become aggressive.

For the harmony of man and woman’s personalities, ancient China used two words: yin and yang. Yin is the feminine, yang the masculine. Woman is like a valley; man is like a mountain peak.

Woman is the receiver. She must be, because the womb is formed in her. Man cannot draw a womb into himself or carry it. In the child’s birth the man’s part is for a moment; the woman’s relationship is very deep—the child grows within her; he grows as her very flesh, blood, bone, marrow. Therefore the intimacy and soul-closeness between mother and child cannot exist between father and child. Mother and child are like an extension of one thing. So she has to be the receiver. She is not aggressive; she conceives.

I am saying this because this is also her inner way. Now let us see what this has to do with spirituality.

If a woman is a disciple, you will find it hard to find a disciple better than her. A woman’s discipleship is supreme; no man can match it. The capacity for surrender that she has, no man has. The total way in which she accepts and receives—no man can accept in that way.

This is also my daily experience. No man’s surrender can be compared with a woman’s. And when a woman accepts, not a trace of inner conflict remains—no doubt; her trust is complete. If she accepts my vision or anyone’s vision, that vision enters her womb; it becomes part of her bone, flesh, and marrow. She nurtures that vision like a seed, like a fetus within. No man can do this.

Even if a man accepts, he does so with great struggle; he raises great doubts and questions. And even if he bows, he bows saying, “I bow half-heartedly, not with my whole heart—what to do, there is no other way!”

Men come to me—this is their plain truth; they say, “I cannot surrender totally—part of me is in agreement, part in opposition.” Because man is aggressive, surrender is extremely difficult for him; because woman is receptive, surrender is very simple for her. So the heights of discipleship that a woman attains can never be attained by a man.

Among men, the very best disciple only reaches close to the lowest among women disciples. Therefore many wondrous women have become disciples. But the names of disciples are not remembered in history; the names remembered are the names of masters. If Mahavira had four chief disciples, three were women and one was a man. Mahavira had forty thousand renunciates: thirty thousand were nuns and ten thousand were monks. The ratio was the same with Buddha: three women to one man.

On the day Jesus was crucified, all the men left him. Those who took Jesus down from the cross were two women. It’s a strange thing. Mary Magdalene was a prostitute; because of her Jesus had to endure many troubles. People said: how can a great soul like Jesus stay in Mary Magdalene’s house—a prostitute’s house! Social morality and codes were badly shocked. The disciples who told Jesus, “Drop this Mary Magdalene; for the sake of this one, we are needlessly harming our cause,” Jesus laughed and smiled, but said nothing. And the night Jesus was arrested, those very disciples who had said, “Remove Mary Magdalene; because of her our cause is harmed,” Jesus said to them, “Before morning, before the cock crows, you will all leave me; and the very one you want me to leave will remain.” And so it happened. The night Jesus was arrested, when his enemies led him away, one disciple—Luke—slipped into the crowd behind; the rest withdrew because there was danger—even to their lives. Luke followed. The enemies saw a stranger among them and asked, “Who are you? Are you not a companion of Jesus?” Luke said, “Jesus? I don’t even know him.” Jesus turned back—his hands were tied, and the enemies held him—and said, “Listen: the cock has not yet crowed, and you have denied me once.” The woman who took him down from the cross was Magdalene.

The heights of discipleship that women can reach, men cannot—because the heights of nearness, of acceptance, of surrender that women can reach, men cannot. But the names of women disciples cannot become very famous—disciples are, after all, disciples; the names will be the names of masters.

And because women can become disciples in a most wondrous, deep, supreme way, they cannot become masters. Because the very quality that makes for discipleship becomes a hindrance for mastery. The master has to be aggressive; he will demolish the disciple, destroy the old, break it down. This is not in a woman’s capacity. She can create, receive, nurture; she can plant a seed in her inner womb and give birth. She cannot destroy; she cannot be aggressive.

And the whole function of the master is an assault. He will break, demolish, destroy; for without overthrowing the old, the new cannot be born. The master is necessarily a demolisher—through whom creation will arrive. If he cannot bring you to death, he cannot give you new life. That capacity is not in woman; she cannot attack, she can surrender. Surrender takes her to great heights in discipleship; but however great a disciple she becomes, she cannot be a master. The very excellence of her disciple-quality becomes a barrier to becoming a master.

If a woman ever becomes a master, the best among women masters will reach up to the level of the lowest among men masters—no more. A man’s obstacle is in becoming a disciple; but if he does become a disciple—despite great difficulty—then he has the capacity to be a master. It is hard for him to become a disciple, but it is not at all hard to become a master. For a woman, becoming a disciple is easy; becoming a master is extremely difficult.

For this reason—among others—Buddha, for a long time, did not initiate women. He refused: “I will not initiate women.” The reasons were many; one important reason was this: Buddha thought—and rightly—that however much labor you expend on a woman, that labor ends with her. She cannot become a master. She becomes a disciple quickly, surrenders quickly, can attain quickly—but the attainment ends with her; it does not spread. Prepare one man, and he will become a donor of the treasure to millions. Prepare even a million women, and they will dissolve in themselves and become silent; from them no alms will flow.

So Buddha’s thought was, to a large extent, correct: “Let my effort be upon men. With the same effort I can prepare men who will carry these seeds far and wide. Let me not expend my primary labor directly on women.”

There are still more things to understand.

A woman’s curiosity outside herself is next to nothing—almost not there. A man’s curiosity about the other is very much. Man is extrovert; woman is introvert. Woman is inward, man is outward.

Generally, understand it so: even in love, a woman does not like love to happen in full light; she prefers the dark. And when you love a woman, she immediately closes her eyes; she does not keep them open. A man wants love to happen in the light; he wants his eyes to remain open—even in the moment of lovemaking. He wants to see the woman’s face whom he loves—even in lovemaking. Why? Because if he sees joy on her face, he too rejoices. He is outward. The woman closes her eyes and drinks her joy within; she leaves aside the concern of what happens to the man—she doesn’t even open her eyes to look. Whatever happens inside is enough. She is sufficient unto herself, enclosed; her juice is inner. The man’s juice is also outer.

From hundreds of women, this is my experience: I have not yet seen a woman who is genuinely interested in others. She is interested in herself. If she shows interest in others, at the root of it there is some deep self-interest. That is her personality; there is nothing good or bad in it—it’s a fact that she is interested in herself. So even if you bring a woman to supreme enlightenment, she will not become a bodhisattva; after enlightenment she will dissolve into the great void.

There are two modes of Buddhahood—two ways of attaining to it. One is called “arhat,” the other “bodhisattva.”

Arhat means: a Buddha who, after becoming a Buddha, will not worry about the world—he will dissolve into mahāshūnya, the great emptiness. His fetters have fallen, his suffering has ended, his anxieties have ceased, his world is over—now there is no reason for concern. It won’t even occur to him that around him people are suffering and in pain. His enemies are annihilated; hence he is called arhat—his “ari,” his foes, are destroyed. He will dissolve into the great void. There is no lack in his Buddhahood, but he will not become a boat for others; his work is finished.

A woman closes her eyes in love; she closes them in samadhi too. And when the supreme samadhi is attained, she completely forgets that anyone is left outside—she is absorbed within. Women do attain Buddhahood, but they do not become bodhisattvas.

Bodhisattva means: one who has known, but will not yet dissolve; he will turn his back on absorption and, for those left behind, pave the way, support them, build the boat, become the helmsman, and set them on the path.

So a woman has not yet been a bodhisattva—and never will be. It is not in the feminine personality. She can be an arhat; she can be a Buddha.

But understand: one who dissolves into the void leaves no mark in history—because a mark appears in history only of one who leads others to that void. History is created by those who are interested in others. The ones who are interested in themselves do not create history—their trace disappears. Therefore we know Buddhas; we do not know female Buddhas.

Women have attained Buddhahood, but could not become masters. Becoming a master for them is as impossible as it is for a man to become a mother. No one asks why no man has yet become a mother—there is simply no question of it. A man can be a father, not a mother. A woman can be a disciple, not a master. That is natural; there is no other way. Because of this inwardness, a woman often appears petty, low. Her ways of thinking seem narrow. But it is not her fault; it is her nature. Her curiosity centers on her neighborhood, her home, her children.

A man’s curiosity is not so much in the neighborhood, nor in children, nor in the home; he shows interest in these under a woman’s pressure. His curiosity is: what is happening in Vietnam, in Russia, in America—far and wide. This is not a “virtue”; I am simply saying, this is how it is.

A woman is concerned with how the woman next door is dressed—and that too because she is measuring herself against that dress. She is centered on herself; hence she is puzzled listening to men’s talk—“What are they talking about? What has Vietnam to do with anything? What does it mean what is happening in Delhi? These are futile talks.” And this is why no man enjoys conversing with a woman—because a woman’s talk is petty and limited.

Bernard Shaw said somewhere: even with the most beautiful woman, conversation becomes boring; it is better if she remains silent. The reason is that the relish a man finds in his talk is not shared by the woman—their dimensions are different. A woman too gets harassed listening to men’s talk: “They are engaged in nonsense—so much argument about matters that carry no substance. What substance is there in whether communism is right or socialism is right, whether the Bible is right or the Koran?” To a woman these are airy nothings, a waste of time—arguing and fighting over them is beyond her grasp. A man cannot understand talk about clothes; a woman’s conversation remains confined to a few things—clothes, children, house, car, jewelry—and she goes no further. But all this is in the context of inner introversion and extroversion.

When a woman walks toward supreme knowledge, she remains introverted; and on the day supreme knowledge happens, the matter ends. Why should she worry then about how many are in ignorance, how many are in pain, how many are struggling to attain knowledge? She has no concern; the matter is finished. A man is very concerned; his eyes are always on the other. There are advantages to this, and disadvantages.

With every advantage comes a disadvantage; with every disadvantage, an advantage. Because a woman has no interest in the other, meditation happens to her more quickly. Her interest is in herself; hence her mind is not much agitated. And the disturbance that is there is simple; it does not obstruct giving it up. No doctrines, no isms, no scriptures—no such disturbances. In one sense a woman’s mind is light; it does not carry much load. In one sense a woman is simple and childlike; hence meditation happens easily to her—because meditation is in a way self-centered. When I say this, it may be hard for you—but it is a kind of “selfishness”! It is, for when there is so much suffering...

People come to me saying, “There is poverty in the village, there is famine there, this is happening—and you say meditate! How can we meditate now? First we must bring socialism, remove poverty, end famine.” This is a man’s natural inquiry: “With so much misery around, first let us solve that—then we will meditate.”

But remember, these miseries are always there and will always be there. There has never been a moment in the world when there were no outer miseries, and there will never be. Yes, the miseries will be different—that can be. And if someone says, “We will meditate when there is no misery in the world,” know that he will never meditate, not in eternity. But a man feels: “How can I meditate when so much remains to be done?”—you will be finished, and the work will remain.

A woman never raises this question. So many women come to me; none says, “There is this problem, that problem.” Her interest is in herself; if she can find bliss and peace, she is ready to meditate. This gives her one advantage: she can go into meditation quickly; she lacks outer entanglements. But there is a disadvantage: the day meditation is complete—one who had no outer entanglements before—on full attainment she will not be concerned to give peace, bliss, meditation to the world; she will dissolve.

A man has many disturbances—this to fix, that to fix; he wants to fix the whole world; only when all is put right will he meditate—hence he never does. And if he ever does, naturally on the day he attains, he wants to share it with those for whom he has always been concerned.

So if a man becomes meditative he can easily be a bodhisattva; if a woman becomes meditative she can easily be an arhat. The states are equal; there is no difference in the inner attainment—but their consequences for the world differ. The bodhisattva will strive to lead the world on this path; the arhat will not—he will quietly dissolve into the void.

Buddhists have two paths: “Hinayana” and “Mahayana.” Mahayana accepts the bodhisattvas; it says, “Build so great a boat that the whole world can cross.” Mahayana means the great vehicle. Hinayana means the small vehicle—the little canoe in which one person crosses over.

Hinayana says: “It is futile talk to ferry others—who can ferry whom? And one who does not want to cross, how can he be ferried? You yourself cross—enough. Beware that in concern for others you do not remain stuck on this shore. And rightly so: if people see you crossing, perhaps the desire to cross may arise in them. But if you remain here, entangled in ferrying them, then seeing you still here, they may not even feel curiosity or aspiration.” So Hinayana says, “If a boat comes to you, please cross. Those on this shore who are eager will see you crossing and search for a way. Do not waste time in worry for others.”

Mahayana says: “If people cross one by one in tiny boats, when will there be peace and bliss in this vast ocean? Never. It is like purifying the ocean with a teaspoon; when will it be purified?” The entire ocean has to be cleansed by a vast endeavor: that vast endeavor is the bodhisattva’s. The great compassionate one stops at the shore, moors his boat, and says, “My boat is ready, but I will not go until I have persuaded others—even if I have to wait for eternity.” Hence the name Mahayana—the path of the great vehicle.

In my view, those of the Hinayana say, “All this talk of bodhisattvas is futile—no one can ferry another.” There seems truth in this too; try to ferry someone and you will see what an uproar it is. When I labor with you, the Hinayana people seem exactly right—what an affair this is! The one you want to free does not want to be free; he thinks you are troubling him, disturbing his sleep, breaking his dreams—then he tries to take revenge if his dream is disturbed. And there will be twenty-five kinds of trouble, because you are uprooting him from where he is rooted; he feels you are out to destroy him, an enemy. He raises a thousand hindrances so that you cannot uproot him completely. So the Hinayana people also seem right: it is very difficult to ferry another.

The Mahayana people also seem right: when one person has crossed and has attained bliss, even dissolving into the void will not bring a bliss greater than this. The matter is complete. Where is the harm in waiting a little on this shore? The shore can do him no harm now; what he has attained cannot be lost. What harm if he waits a bit? People may cause obstacles, but no real obstruction can happen; no pain can reach within. Even if people delay—what is “delay” now? For one who has attained, time has disappeared. Even if others hold him back for countless births, what is the harm? Time has no meaning for him. And if in this effort someone crosses, it is all profit—there is no loss.

The bodhisattva loses nothing by waiting. Even if no one gains, nothing is lost; and if someone gains, it is a gain. It is a bargain where loss cannot happen; at best there is profit. So Mahayana’s view also seems right. But Mahayana and Hinayana quarrel; each says the other is wrong. I do not say so.

I say there are two kinds of people; no one is absolutely right or wrong. There are those with a feminine tendency—women are naturally more in this category—introverts. If they get their boat, they will cross—and I say they should cross; such people have no reason to wait at the shore.

And there are those who are outward—men are naturally more in this category—who will want to remain. The question is not what should be done; the question is: what does your nature, your destiny, impel you to do? If your nature says: “At the final moment I will not wait—I will dissolve,” then dissolve. If your nature says: “Pause—before dissolving let the news reach others; perhaps someone will be ready,” then stay. I do not say this is right and that is wrong; I say only this: to walk in tune with your destiny is right.

That is why women have not been masters. And whenever they try to be, they can become only petty, ordinary masters. And it is astonishing that if people go even to such women masters, then know that liberation from the world is very difficult indeed. First, it is difficult for a woman to be a master; if she is, she will be of a very ordinary order; and if even she gets disciples—then there are many obstacles indeed. Therefore Buddha and Mahavira, Krishna and Christ—are men. Not for any other reason: manhood lends itself to being a master; womanhood lends itself to being a disciple.

Both have advantages and disadvantages. Remember only this: if you are a woman, accept your destiny and move accordingly; if you are a man, accept your destiny and move accordingly. Because from what you are, the journey is smooth and natural; to try to be otherwise brings trouble and unrest, with uncertain results.

Before we enter the sutra, a few words about the sixth gate of meditation.

Meditation means such a state of consciousness where there is no wave of thought. As there is an ocean or a lake with waves—that is one state. When there are waves on the lake, call it storm, unrest. Similarly, when there are waves of thought on consciousness, that state is called mind. The mind is not a separate entity; it is the name of wavy consciousness. When the lake becomes peaceful, the waves fall asleep, no ripple remains upon its breast—it becomes a silent mirror, or think of it as frozen into ice; no wave rises, no wave can rise—likewise when consciousness becomes thought-free and wave-less—like a frozen lake—that state is meditation.

Mind is the absence of meditation.
Meditation is the absence of mind.
Mind is wavy consciousness; meditation is wave-less consciousness.

This is the sixth gate: becoming wave-less. Until then, the waves carry us outward. Every wave leads outward—just as every wave runs toward the shore, so every thought-wave runs toward the world. The bigger the wave, the stronger it rushes outward.

When no wave remains, our movement toward the world ceases; consciousness cannot go outward, for it needs waves for going. When it does not go outward, it remains within. When the door outward is not found, consciousness rests in itself. That consciousness resting in itself is meditation.

All that we are doing here is to find how the mind can become wave-less. I tell you to throw out whatsoever waves arise within; because if you press them inside, the mind cannot become wave-less. Throw them out, empty them, pour them out—leave nothing within that can keep generating waves. Become light; let no uproar remain inside. Throw the uproar out, and the mind can become wave-less. Without this wave-less state, no one attains self-knowledge.

Therefore there are so many religions, sects, paths—thousands of doctrinal differences—but on meditation there is unanimity. No one can say religion is possible without meditation. Whether in a mosque, temple, church, or gurdwara—meditate. Whether you take the support of Christ or Krishna, Mahavira or Mohammed—it makes no difference—meditate. Whether you bow your head on the Koran or the Gita—it makes little difference—meditate.

If all the religions of the world agree on one thing, it is meditation. And meditation means: make the mind wave-less; empty it of thoughts—no wave rising. What happens in that wave-less state is the sixth gate.

Now the sutra.

“Yes, he is mighty. The living power that is released in him, and which he himself is, can lift the pavilion of Māyā above even the gods—above great Brahma and Indra. Now he will surely attain his great reward.”

With meditation, great power becomes available—that is the reward. He who has wrestled with mind, conquered it, dissolved it—he nears self-realization. Until now all his powers were borrowed—wealth from without, weapons from without, even bodily strength from without. Now, for the first time, becoming wave-less, his connection with external powers is cut; now his link is with his own power—the source of his life, what is alive within him. His relationship with the root of life is established. He stands at the door of the great power. That is meditation’s reward.

“Will he who has vanquished the great Māyā not use these boons for his own rest and joy, for his own hard-won bliss and glory?”

Here the divergence begins—at this very moment it becomes clear whether you are on the path of the arhat or the bodhisattva. Blavatsky inclines toward the bodhisattva; hence from here the sutra proceeds on the bodhisattva’s path, not the arhat’s. Up to this point they are the same—up to the attainment of meditation. With meditation, great powers arise.

Blavatsky asks: “Will he who has conquered the great illusion not use these boons for his own rest and joy, for his own well-earned happiness and glory?”

“No, O neophyte of the esoteric path, if one would follow in the holy Tathagata’s footsteps, then those boons and powers are not for himself.”

“No, O neophyte of the esoteric path...”

The master tells the disciple, “No.” Here the paths of arhat and bodhisattva part. Before this they are alike; after this, this book follows the bodhisattva ideal—the Mahayana view. When powers arise with meditation, the question is: shall I dissolve myself in their enjoyment? The master says, “No. If one follows the Tathagata’s footprints, those boons and powers are not for oneself.”

“Will you dam the river whose source is on Sumeru’s height?”

Will you confine that great power to yourself? Will you limit it for your own self-interest?

“Will you turn its waters to flow for yourself and your own, or send it back by the mountain path to its primal source?”

Will you distribute it to all—or hoard it for yourself? Will you make a dam of this great river for your own delight, or send it where it can become the joy of multitudes?

“If you would keep flowing the stream of knowledge you won by hard labor—the heaven-born stream of prajñā—you must guard it from becoming a still pond.”

For your own joy it is enough if it becomes a lake and you drown in it; but do not make it a pond—make it a river that flows, that moves; passing by the edges of countless villages, by the shores of countless hearts—so that people may taste its cool, blissful waters. If even a drop reaches someone, good.

“Know that
if you would be a coworker of Amitabha of the Boundless Aeons...”

If you would be a coworker of the Buddhas...

“...you must, like the twin bodhisattvas, radiate the light you have received over the three worlds.”

In China and Japan there is a tale of two bodhisattvas: having attained supreme knowledge, they instantly distributed their entire realization in the world, and stood empty. Whatever bliss they had received, they gave it away—keeping nothing for themselves. Such are the two “twin bodhisattvas” of Chinese and Japanese lore.

So the sutra says: will you not, like those twin bodhisattvas, share your bliss, your samadhi, your wisdom? You must radiate it, if you wish to be a companion and helper of the Buddhas.

“Know that this stream of superhuman knowledge and divine wisdom which you have garnered must, through the canal of Alaya (the universal soul), be poured into another river—away from yourself.”

What you have received must be made into a flow—do not hold it for yourself.

“O traveler on the secret path, narjol (adept), know that with its pure and fresh waters you must sweeten the salty waves of the sea—the sea of sorrow made of human tears.”

The whole world is a salty ocean—formed of people’s tears and pains. Will you leave this salty sea unregarded? Now that you have found bliss, do you think everyone has? Will the pain of others not touch you? Will you not see that this world is like an ocean filled with human tears? Will you not wish to sweeten its waves with your sacred waters?

“Ah, once you have become the Pole Star of the highest firmament, then from the depths of ether you must radiate that heavenly halo for all but yourself. Give light to all; take from none.”

Once you have become like the polestar, standing upon the final summit beyond which no higher peak exists—whatever was to be attained you have attained; whatever was to be become you have become—now will you simply dissolve in it? Will you say the journey is over? Truly, your journey is over—but others’ journeys remain. Will you not give light to them? Before losing yourself in the great void, before becoming one with Brahman, will you not pause at the gate and refuse to enter, saying, “I will not come in yet; many still wander outside, and now I can show them the way, for I have seen the path up to the gate. I will return and inform them to come up to the gate—I know it”?

For once one steps within the gate, one cannot return—because entering the gate means that all the vehicles and instruments that function in the world are left at the threshold. Up to the gate, all your means remain—purified—but once within, there is no coming back. The only chance to return is to stop at the very gate.

“Ah, once you have become like the pure dew in the mountain valleys—cold and insensible to touch—yet warm and protective for the seed that sleeps in your heart...”

Outwardly you have become cool, peaceful, void like dew; but within you hold a seed of great wisdom, and for that you are warm, protective—carrying it in your heart.

“Then that dew must itself drink up the bone-piercing snows of the North, so that with their sharp and cruel teeth they may not bite the earth. In that earth lies hidden the harvest from which the hungry will be fed.”

For yourself you have become calm and void like dew; but you must enfold the seeds and keep them warm, and carry them to the soil—into the hearts of people. For if that seed does not reach them, they are hungry; they have been hungry for births upon births for this food you now hold in your hand—and you can share it.

This sutra is the sutra of the bodhisattva path. It is fitting that one, standing on the shore of the great ocean of knowledge, not lose himself but return. And yet I still say to you: what is natural for you—only that is right. Blavatsky’s longing is sweet, delightful—that one return and distribute. But only he returns who can return; one who cannot, cannot. This appeals to the one who can return; it will not appeal to one who cannot. It may seem pleasing that the sorrowing world should be helped—but even Buddha himself found it so.

When Buddha attained samadhi—standing at the ultimate door—he remained silent for seven days. The sweet story says that Indra and Brahma fell at his feet; the gods crowded around, clamoring and praying, “Rise and speak. The knowledge for which people have waited for ages has come to you—why are you silent? Speak, tell us what you have attained. Brahma and Indra too are thirsty; existence itself is thirsty to know the ultimate secret of life. You have known it—tell us, that we may know too.”

Buddha said, “There is no point; no essence in speaking. What I have known cannot be said; and even if I strain to say it, only those will understand who could have known it even without my saying it. Those who cannot reach without me will not understand me—so what is the point? Those who can reach without me will reach—whether today or in a few days. Do not put me to needless trouble. And those who cannot reach without me will not understand—so to whom am I to speak?”

The gods grew sad; their eyes became clouded. The logic was sound; it could not be refuted. They consulted among themselves: “How do we persuade Buddha?” They returned with a new argument—precious—and Buddha had to agree.

They said, “We agree: out of a hundred, most will not understand—speaking to them is useless. Out of a hundred, a few will understand even without you—speaking to them is also futile. But out of a hundred there is also the one who stands in-between; if you do not speak, he will wander for births untold; if you do speak, he may attain. He is right at the point—he needs only a slight push, the last straw on the camel’s back. If he gets that slight weight, he will sit; if not, he may wander for ages. For that one, speak.”

This seemed right to Buddha. If two types exist, there must be a third in the middle; wherever there are two, there is also the between. For that middle class, he spoke. This is the moment of samadhi: it seems to each that there is no point—what to say, what to hear, whom to tell? “Now let me taste this—like the dumb man’s jaggery—let me be lost in the taste!”

This sutra says: be alert at that time. This great power that has come—if it can be used, share it. Do not make it a pond; make it a flowing stream.