Besides, what else is the intent of those sacred records that make you utter: ‘Om, I believe that not all Arhats taste the sweet fruit of the Path of Nirvana.’ ‘Om, I believe that not all Buddhas[36] enter the Dharma of Nirvana.’ Yes, upon the Arya-path you are no longer a srotapanna, you are a Bodhisattva[37]. The river has been crossed. True, you have become entitled to the robe of the Dharmakaya; but the Sambhogakaya is greater than the Nirvani. And greater still are those of the ‘Nirvana-kaya’—the compassionate Buddhas[38]. Now, O Bodhisattva, bow your head and listen well. Compassion itself speaks: so long as beings are in suffering, is bliss possible? Will you be safe alone while the whole world weeps? Now you have heard what was to be said. You will attain the seventh step and cross the gate of the Supreme Knowledge; but will it be merely so that sorrow may have no alliance with you? If you would be a Tathagata, then walk in the footprints of your predecessors and remain ego-less to the endless end. You are Sambuddha—choose your path. See that tender light which is flooding the eastern sky. As a token of praise, heaven and earth stand with arms entwined. And from the fourfold manifest powers—blazing fire and flowing water, honey-scented earth and wandering winds—the sweet music of love is arising. …Out of the profound and unfathomable vortex of golden light in which the Victor bathes, the silent voice of all nature proclaims in a thousand modes: Rejoice, O men of Myalba[39], a pilgrim has returned from the Other Shore. A new Arhat[40] has been born. Peace for all beings[41]. There is a joy in attaining bliss—and then there is another joy altogether, the joy of sharing it. What is received does not reveal its full realization, its full essence, its full flavor until it is given. Only by sharing do we come to know what has been received. When the seeker comes near to the Ultimate, when the moment of becoming a void arrives, what he attains is immeasurable, boundless. He could drown in it alone, but these Mahayana sutras say he will miss the final, sweetest fruit of bliss. The bliss will be complete, and yet the final sweet fruit will be missed—the sweet fruit of sharing. There is one joy—the joy of attaining bliss; and then there is a vaster joy—the joy of sharing bliss. That which is to be shared, the seeds of bliss which are to be scattered—not all Buddhas do this. Some Buddhas do it; some Buddhas disappear into the Void. These sutras are about this. Let us understand them. ‘Besides, what else is the intent of those sacred records that make you utter: “Om, I believe that not all Arhats taste the sweet fruit of the Path of Nirvana.”’ Not all Arhats taste the sweet fruit of the Path of Nirvana—the sweet fruit of the path is in distributing it, in spreading it. For oneself—everyone in the world lives for that. Worldly people want to enjoy worldly pleasures for themselves. And then, in the spiritual realm, they want to enjoy spiritual bliss for themselves. In this, in a way, the old worldly habit remains—the habit of gaining for oneself. One may attain, yet the old habit of the world keeps working—the “I” remains the center. The ego has dissolved now, the Self has become the center, but still I am the center. The false ego is gone, the true Self is found, yet the center is still “I.” Thus an old formula of the world continues to function—that I am the center. Not all Arhats, not all realized ones, return and break this last formula—that I am not the center, that now the center has become other. Now this entire existence is the center, and I am consecrated to this existence. ‘I believe that not all Arhats taste the sweet fruit of the Path of Nirvana.’ ‘Om, I believe that not all Buddhas enter the Dharma of Nirvana.’ Not all Buddhas return to share—not every Buddha shares. The Jains called those Buddhas who also share, “Tirthankaras.” The Jain word Tirthankara is precious. Understanding that word will make it easier. There have been twenty-four Tirthankaras among the Jains. These twenty-four enlightened ones—it is not that only twenty-four enlightened ones have ever been. There have been many Jinas, many enlightened ones. Many have attained samyaktva, samyak-jnana, the ultimate knowing, kevala-jnana. Many Arihants have been. “Arhat” is the Buddhist word, “Arihant” the Jain word—the meaning is the same. But only twenty-four became Tirthankaras. Out of infinite Buddhas, Jinas, Arhats, Arihants, only twenty-four returned. And what they received, they tried to share. Tirthankara means: maker of the ford, builder of the ghats. When a person becomes a Buddha, he reaches the other shore. If he does not return to this shore where the world is—where his companions, friends, disciples, loved ones, kin of many births, fellow travelers of many journeys, his great family steeped in sorrow dwell—if none returns to that shore, then no ford is made. If one returns to this shore, he builds a ghat. Now he has the experience—how the path to the other shore goes, and from where to step down so that we may reach the other shore with ease. Thus, having returned to this bank, he constructs a ghat from which the boat may depart to the other shore. That ghat is called a tirtha, a ford. And the one who constructs it is the Tirthankara. Having gone to the other shore, when he returns to this shore and builds such a ghat that others can hold the boat and set out towards the further shore—such a Buddha, such a Jina, such an Arhat is a Tirthankara. But not all Buddhas do this—it is an exceedingly arduous task. The bliss of the beyond is indescribable. The peace of the beyond is incomparable. The beyond is supreme joy. There not a trace of pain remains. To return from there to this side is almost impossible. From suffering to happiness is easy; from happiness back to suffering is very difficult. Anyone would be ready to go from hell to heaven, but who would wish to come from heaven towards hell? To return from that shore to this is supremely difficult. To go from this shore to that is already supremely difficult; to return from that shore to this is even more arduous—an act near impossible. Therefore we have given such honor to Tirthankaras and Buddhas. They have done the impossible: after tasting that supreme bliss, they have come back into this searing world, where everything burns and is a hell. We do not feel the hell so keenly; because we have grown up in it, lived in it, it is in our every breath. We take it for life itself. Only the one who has had a glimpse of the other shore realizes the fullness of this hell. So the sorrow you know—you imagine, perhaps, “Is there so much suffering?” You think, “Granted, there is some suffering, but why so much that none would wish to return from the other side?” We have no measure. The suffering the poor man endures—if a rich man were to stand in the place of the poor, what he would come to know the poor himself never knew. Only when the rich becomes poor will he know that pain which the poor man, living in the same hut, never really feels. He is accustomed. He has no instrument for comparison. By what rule shall he measure, on what basis shall he call it suffering? This is life. It is hard. But for one who has known pleasure, it is a great suffering. Once one has had a glimpse of the other shore, this shore becomes “Myalba” to him. This is the Tibetan word. Myalba means: Great Hell. Not an ordinary hell—the Great Hell. The one who returns towards this Great Hell is called a Tirthankara, a Bodhisattva. It is natural he be given such honor. ‘I believe that not all Buddhas enter the Dharma of Nirvana.’ ‘Yes, upon the Noble Path you are no longer a srotapanna; you are a Bodhisattva. The river has been crossed. True, you have become entitled to the robe of the Dharmakaya; but the Sambhogakaya is greater than the Nirvani. And greater still are those who abide in the “Nirvana-kaya”—the compassionate Buddhas.’ In Buddhist contemplation there is the vision of three kayas. These three terms should be rightly understood. One is ‘Dharmakaya.’ Right now we are in a body—this is the earthly, gross body. Without this gross body one cannot be in the world. To be in the world, this body is needed. In moksha, in the Great Void, when we enter, the aura that envelops us is called Dharmakaya. It is not a “body” as such; it is a symbol. When one enters the Great Void, the aura surrounding him, the breath of existence itself—that is called Dharmakaya. Dharmakaya—because it is our very nature, our Dharma. It cannot be stripped from us. It cannot be destroyed. There is no way to erase it. It is we ourselves. It is our Atman, our fundamental existence—what we call swabhava, the ultimate swabhava. From it not a particle can be separated, because it is us. Whatever can be separated is not swabhava. Swabhava means… if we can be apart from it and still be, then it is not swabhava. Swabhava is that from which we cannot be separated at all; there is no way to set it apart—that is swabhava. Dharmakaya means: the ultimate swabhava. When one enters the Void, all else is snatched away. Whatever was alien, foreign, not one’s own—all falls away. What remains is pure existence. Its name is Dharmakaya. Below that kaya is ‘Sambhogakaya.’ And still below that is ‘Nirvana-kaya.’ With the attainment of Dharmakaya, the person has become void. Dharmakaya is the last—after that, returning is not possible; because all the means to return are lost. To return, a vehicle is needed. On the plane below lies Sambhogakaya. Sambhogakaya is the middle state. Standing in Sambhogakaya, one can behold the entire state of Dharmakaya. One step ahead is Dharmakaya—the last—where existence dissolves. There the Great Void and Nirvana begin. After that, returning is difficult. Sambhogakaya is that moment from where one sees: if I take one step further, I will not be able to return. From here there is a glimpse. From here the beyond becomes visible—the Great Void, the infinite expanse of swabhava, Brahman, Nirvana. It can be seen from here. But if the seeker moves a step further, he will become one with that Nirvana. The last kaya is Sambhogakaya. If what is other falls away, then returning is no longer possible. Those who are to be Bodhisattvas must stop at the moment of Sambhogakaya—from where the Great Void is visible. But there is still distance; one has not yet become the Void itself. The Void still appears, is perceived; there is its vision. One is still the seer. A very subtle distance remains. If one preserves just this much distance, returning is possible. And before Sambhogakaya there is yet one more step—the ‘Nirvana-kaya.’ From Dharmakaya none can return to the world. Sambhogakaya alone is the interval between. Only when one is in Nirvana-kaya can he be of use to the world. Let us understand Nirvana-kaya as the bridge of relation between the world and Nirvana. Through Nirvana-kaya a Buddha, if he so wishes, can engage himself in the welfare of the world—in compassion, in the awakening of the world. Nirvana-kaya is the medium between the world and Nirvana. Between Nirvana-kaya and Dharmakaya lies Sambhogakaya. If one remains only in Nirvana-kaya, he cannot experience Dharmakaya, the Great Void—it is still distant; one step further lies Sambhogakaya. It is called Sambhogakaya because there is the taste of communion—sambhoga—between oneself and the Infinite. A slight gap remains; one has not become utterly one yet. Understand it thus: when a lover meets his beloved in depth—two yet remain, and yet for a moment it seems the two are no more, only the One is. That is the moment of sambhoga. Still, two remain. For a moment it seems—there is an intimation—a fresh gust of wind, and it seems the two have dissolved and one wave remains. Two waves have merged, two songs have drowned into one another, two rivers have intermingled. The momentary intimation we call sambhoga. This kaya is called Sambhogakaya because the one standing in it has the experience of becoming one, for a moment, with the Great Void—yet he does not become one. If he became one, then there would be no return. He does not become one; therefore he can return. Sambhogakaya is the last halt; beyond it there is no returning. If one gathers himself at Sambhogakaya—where the experience of communion with existence has arisen—distance remains, yet union has happened. As with lover and beloved. If from here, with great alertness, one turns back and descends, then there is Nirvana-kaya. One can still descend. The relations are not broken yet. Only by remaining in Nirvana-kaya can one remain awake as bodhi, as Bodhisattva. Thus this sutra is very wondrous. It says: the river has been crossed. And it is true—you have become entitled to the robe of Dharmakaya. Now you are worthy of oneness with the Great Void; but Sambhogakaya is greater than being a Nirvani. Stop—drowning in Nirvana is very natural, all drown; a still greater act is to pause in Sambhogakaya. Where you have come utterly close to becoming one, there turn your back and return. ‘And greater still are those who abide in the Nirvana-kaya—the compassionate Buddhas.’ But even if one remains in Sambhogakaya, there is no use for the world. Descend further below, and build the bridge of the last relationship with the world—Nirvana-kaya. And through that bridge, filled with compassion, engage in benefitting the world. ‘Now, O Bodhisattva, bow your head and listen well. Compassion itself speaks: so long as beings are in suffering, can bliss be?’ These are the essential sutras of Mahayana—and very profound. This sutra says: so long as beings suffer, can bliss be? Granted that your suffering has ended; but while this world suffers, has your suffering truly ended? Will the world’s sorrow not touch you at all? Will the pain of this existence, of which you are a limb—will it not touch you? Will not the waves of this pain enter your heart too? Is it truly possible that suffering remains in existence and you attain bliss? You may have found your bliss; but when others—many—are still in pain, will that pain be utterly forgotten by you? Will you forget that suffering remains in existence?—This is the question. The question is: so long as beings suffer, can bliss be? ‘Will you be safe alone, while the whole world weeps?’ ‘Now you have heard what was to be said.’ ‘You will attain the seventh step and cross the gate of the Supreme Knowledge—but will it be merely so that sorrow may have no alliance with you?’ Was the whole journey only so that your link with suffering be severed? ‘If you would be a Tathagata, walk in the footprints of your predecessors and remain ego-less to the endless end.’ ‘You are Sambuddha—choose your path.’ Now do not think only of losing yourself. Remember the many who suffer. And as the Tathagata Gautama Buddha, before you, held himself back—until such time as this boundless world attains to bliss—he took such a Great Vow—so you too take such a Great Vow. ‘Now you are Sambuddha.’ Now you are awake. ‘Choose your path.’ Now do not sink, drawn merely by bliss. We can understand it thus; in the Mahayana vision it is indeed so—that this is the last desire: that “I drown in bliss.” “I have attained my bliss; the matter is finished.” Break this too. What is “mine”? So long as there is suffering, speak not of “me” and “you.” Until there is only bliss and none remain in sorrow, hold back. And you can hold back—you have the power. Because you are Sambuddha, awakened; you have moved beyond law. Now there is no compulsion upon you. Now you yourself are Bhagavan. There is no reason now that pushes you: do this, do that. Now you can do whatsoever you wish. In this moment such power has come to you that you can do whatsoever you choose. Use it. Or will you use it only so far as to end your suffering? Your suffering ended—and that is the end? ‘See that tender light which is flooding the eastern sky. As a token of praise, heaven and earth stand with arms entwined.’ A glimpse of that state—if you return, turn your back on the Great Bliss and remember those who suffer—a glimpse of it. ‘See that tender light which is flooding the eastern sky.’ If you return, the entire eastern sky will fill with light at your very return. Where there has been darkness since always, there a sun of light will arise. ‘See that tender light which is flooding the eastern sky. As a token of praise, heaven and earth stand with arms entwined.’ The earth will welcome you; heaven will welcome you. Arm in arm they stand, for you are coming. ‘And from the fourfold manifest powers—blazing fire and flowing water, honey-scented earth and wandering winds—the sweet music of love is arising.’ See—you are returning to that world where there is sorrow, where there is darkness. As if in the East again, in a spiritual sense, a sun is being born. Heaven and earth, arm in arm, welcome you. From blazing fire and flowing water, honey-scented earth and wandering winds, the sweet music of love is arising for you. ‘Hear… Out of the profound and unfathomable vortex of golden light in which the Victor bathes, the silent voice of all nature proclaims in a thousand modes: Rejoice, O men of Myalba, a pilgrim has returned from the Other Shore.’ O inhabitants of the Great Hell… Myalba means: Great Hell. Our earth is Myalba. ‘Hear… Out of the profound and unfathomable vortex of golden light in which the Victor bathes, the silent voice of all nature proclaims in a thousand modes: Rejoice, O men of Myalba, a pilgrim has returned from the Other Shore.’ ‘A new Arhat, a new Bodhisattva, a new Buddha has been born.’ ‘Peace for all beings.’ Man, being in sorrow, seeks happiness. The more he seeks happiness, the more sorrowful he becomes. When the awakening comes that the very search for happiness is the cause of his sorrow, then sadhana is born. Then man does not seek happiness, does not wish to escape suffering; he wishes to rise beyond both happiness and suffering. The worldly man is one who, being in sorrow, seeks happiness. The sannyasin is one who has understood that in the effort to avoid suffering and seek happiness lies sorrow. So a sannyasin is one who seeks the way to rise above both happiness and suffering. The siddha is one who has reached that place which is beyond happiness and suffering. Once beyond happiness and suffering, ananda happens. Siddhatva is the state of ananda. A Bodhisattva is one who, having attained this ananda, does not get lost, does not fall silent, does not merely sit; rather, he returns for those who are in suffering. I have heard that in a Japanese prison a unique event kept happening for years. A fakir would steal again and again and be punished. People were astonished, because the fakir was such an extraordinary sadhu that none could believe he would ever steal. His qualities were those of Buddhahood, and the matter of stealing did not fit at all. And the thefts were petty! This went on his whole life. When he became old, his disciples said: now stop this disturbance. We cannot even imagine why you steal! We cannot even believe you steal; yet witnesses arise, proofs arise, and you are sentenced. And we too get defamed behind you—“Whose disciples are you? That man has gone to jail again.” And now you have been released for the last time; not much life remains, the health is not sound—please stop this mischief. And whatever you need, we are always ready to give; you do not need to steal. And you steal such trifles that we cannot understand why you do it! He said: all my life I did not say it; now I will tell you. I steal only so that I can go inside and transform the thieves. There is no other way to reach them. Many thieves are suffering there. Many criminals and sinners are there. Who will transform them? And how? And if I go as a guru to preach, I cannot transform them. Because there is no respect for one who is not one’s own; no relation arises with one who is not like oneself. If I go and stand there as a guru, as a sadhu, a distance and a gap remains in their minds—that I am a sadhu and he is a thief. Perhaps my very presence becomes their condemnation. Perhaps because of me they feel hurt. Perhaps without cause I become the cause of their suffering. So I prefer to go as a thief. Then I am like them. Locked in the same cells; chains on my hands as on theirs; I too a thief, they too thieves. Then we can understand one another’s language. And then, in their very language, I try to transform them. So do not stop me. As long as I am, this is my work—to bring out those who are surrounded by pain and sin. A Bodhisattva is such a one returning from that shore to this shore. And if he is to return here and bring help to the people of this shore, he must maintain some language of this shore. He must establish some relationship with the people of this shore. Nirvana-kaya is precisely that relationship with the people of this world. And what is the language of this world? The language of this world is vasana—desire. Therefore if a Buddha is to become a Bodhisattva, he must transform his compassion into a vasána. He must cultivate this profound vasána: that I may be able to help others, accompany them, and give them guidance. In Jainism it is said that only he becomes a Tirthankara who has bound the Tirthankara-karma. This too is called karma. This too is a sin. It is so, because the endeavor to awaken others, to transform others, is yet an endeavor—a vasána. He who has preserved the vasána to awaken others alone can become a Tirthankara. He must retain at least so much vasána: that I may be of use to others. Let that thread of vasána remain—that very vasána is Nirvana-kaya. Then he remains connected with us by a very subtle thread. It can snap at any moment. It is no heavy chain. And it is tied by his own hand. If one is to remain on this shore, he must tie some pegs, some sutras, some threads, some ropes to this shore. I have heard that Ramakrishna had an excessive fondness for food—so much so that those around him were worried. Sarada would often scold Ramakrishna: stop this childishness. In the midst of Brahman-discourse he would suddenly get up, reach the kitchen, and ask: what is being cooked? What is being made today? Sarada would say: leaving Brahman-discourse and coming to the kitchen to ask such questions does not befit you, Paramahansa Deva. Disciples also advised: news goes among people—what kind of jnani is this Ramakrishna? So concerned about food! Even the ignorant are not so concerned! When Sarada would bring the plate, he would stand up to look at it; seeing the plate, his face would light up with great joy! One day no one else was there. Sarada had scolded many times. That day she became very angry and said: beyond understanding—your relish for food! Ramakrishna said: I have hidden it until now, because saying it would trouble you. You do not agree and you get entangled; so let me say it: remember, only so long as I take delight in food will I remain in this body; the day I take no relish in food, know it and send word that within three days my body will be gone. Still, none took it very seriously, because we always take things seriously later. Sarada too ignored it. Others also let it pass. Years later, one day she remembered. She came with the plate—Ramakrishna was lying down. He turned his back. This was impossible. His relish for food was such that he would never turn away and give his back. Suddenly Sarada remembered; the plate fell from her hand. She began to weep and said: what are you doing—why have you turned your back? Ramakrishna said: you people always said so; today I am doing what you wished. Exactly three days later he died. If a Bodhisattva is to be kept bound to the body, then he must hold on to some bodily vasána; otherwise he will slip away at once. But even in taking hold of this vasána, he remains the master. The vasána does not hold him. One way is: the peg on the bank holds you and you are at its mercy. Another way: you yourself hold the peg with your hand—because you do not wish to drift with the current; you wish to be of some use on this shore. The day you wish, in that very instant you can let go. The peg has no hold on you—you are holding the peg. You too have a relish for food; do not think you are like Ramakrishna. There is a difference between Ramakrishna’s relish for food and yours. His was purposive, intentional, chosen. Ramakrishna knew: if this body is to be held so that some work may be done, then in the language of the body some sutras, some bridges, must be held. I have said this as an example. At the moment when one comes near to losing himself in the Void, if he is to retain any relation with the world, he must hold himself in the vasána of compassion. This sutra is to awaken the vasána of compassion. The book ends thus: ‘Peace for all beings.’ Buddha said again and again: do not ask for peace for yourself; ask for peace for all beings. Do not ask for bliss for yourself; ask for bliss for all beings. Do not pray for yourself; pray for all beings. Why? Because through these very prayers, these very askings and aspirations, within you the inner track will be made, so that in the final moment, when you begin to be lost in the Void, it can draw you back. The remembrance of all beings—thus the seeker who follows Buddha prays beforehand, and after his prayer he says: peace to all beings. What I have received—may it be shared among all beings; what I have found—let it not be mine alone, let it become everyone’s. He says this continually, so that a deep line is etched within. And the day the Great Bliss comes, then instantly, because of this deep, old groove, the feeling arises in his mind: what has come to me—may it be shared among all beings. The peace that has come to me—may it be everyone’s. The joy that has come to me—may it be everyone’s. With this remembrance, he turns back and looks towards the world—and the bridge is built. The name of that bridge is Nirvana-kaya. This is the last day; before I go, I wish to say a few more things to you. First: what you have been doing here is only an experiment—to get a feel for what is to be done. Doing just this much will not resolve things; it must be continued. So continue when you return. Otherwise I see that you do it in a camp, you feel peace, ease arises, an innocent glimpse comes, a fresh gust of wind arrives—and it feels good. Then returning home, you live by old habits. Again you will come to some camp; again you will do it. Doing so again and again, and losing it again and again, will not bring deep results. This must be dug continuously. This well is so deep that if you dig for two or four days and leave it for four or six months, then trash fills in and the ground becomes as before; the surface is as it was. Then you dig two or four fathoms again, and leave it again—the well will never be made; and the water you seek will never be found. Keep digging. Keep digging at one place. If you dig at different places again and again, labor will be spent, time wasted, energy lost, and there will be no result. Rumi once said to his disciples: come with me; I will show you how you are. He took them to a field; there were eight large pits dug, the whole field spoiled. Rumi said: look at these pits. This farmer is mad. He wants to dig a well; he digs four or eight fathoms, then thinking there is no water here, he digs another. Four, eight fathoms—then thinking there is no water—he digs a third… he has dug eight. The whole field is ruined; still there is no well. Had he put into one pit the labor he put into eight, water would surely have been found. So resolve once for all; keep digging continuously in one place—only then will you find the sources of life’s waters. Practice what you have learned here, so that when you come to other camps you do not have to begin from where you began in the first camp. Bring some digging done—and then we can dig deeper. Each camp can open new doors for you—if meanwhile you have been working at the old door. So remember first: meditation is an inner excavation that must be kept up continuously. Second: here it is easy to do. At home you will fear—neighbors, people around, family; they will laugh, shout, cry—“What will people say?” Always remember this: anyway, no one says good things about you. Do not live in the illusion that people think very well of you. From that illusion your trouble begins—lest your fine image fall. There is no fine image anywhere. Consider—do you have some fine image of your neighbor? Of whom do you keep a fine image? In whose mind will there be one of you? It is a needless illusion—do not fall into it. It is better to tell those at home that you are doing such experiments; no need for worry. If easy, go to neighbors and tell them too: I am doing an experiment; if there is some noise, some shouting, do not be alarmed. Then you can do your experiments loosely, lightly. People will know; in a couple of days they understand that it is fine. Those of whom you are afraid—if you do the experiments, dropping your fear, within a month or two they will come and ask you to teach them too. Because in two months you will begin to change. Right now no one has an image of you, but if you meditate, surely there will be an image of you. News of your peace begins to spread. When flowers bloom, they cannot be hidden. When the sun rises, even the blind feel its warmth—though they do not see it—yet the birds begin to sing: morning has come. As you go deeper into meditation, your peace, your joy, your love, your compassion will all grow. Your anger, your hatred, your jealousy will diminish. Among your neighbors, your family, your relations you will become a new person. But if even now you fear that someone may think you are mad, that someone may think this or that—drop this illusion. First, none has much time to think about you. Everyone thinks about themselves. Who has leisure to think about you? How much do you think about others? And if someone next door shouts loudly, you may think once—“Perhaps his mind is out of order”—but have you time to keep at it? Yet if that person—who shouts—begins to look different the next day, and within six months becomes a source of peace, you will ask him yourself: what is that trick of shouting by which you have become serene? So do not hurry; wait for the transformation in yourself. Only then is any image formed of you. Now there is no image—only an idea in your mind. Third: at home you will be alone, but you need not be. In the very manner you sit here before me to meditate, if you keep in your heart that I am sitting before you and you are meditating, you will find my presence just as you find it here. Then you can experiment without fear. And your fearlessness is very necessary for the experiment. If you are afraid—alone—“something may happen”—nothing will happen. Leave all dangers, all fears with me before you go. And I ask only this of you in these departing moments: whatever sorrow, anxiety, pain, torment you have—give them to me. Do not carry them with you. There is no need to keep them. I do not ask for your wealth, your body, or anything else. Whatever pain you have, whatever disturbance, whatever torment—give it all to me. It will be no hindrance to me; you will be unburdened. And that very force by which you are suffering—out of unawareness; that very force by which you are anxious—out of unawareness—give all that unawareness to me. I will return the same force to you—it will become joy, it will become peace, it will become compassion. When you reach home, do not lose time. The current born here, the breeze created here, the orientation of the mind which has arisen—do not let it be lost; do not waste time. Begin meditation immediately on reaching home. Give one hour daily to meditation. At the end of life you will find that all other time was wasted; only the time given to meditation proved useful, only that remained, only that became meaningful. And remember me; there will be no fear. And when you enter within, sometimes it will seem as if death were approaching. As meditation deepens, the experience of death begins to happen. Do not panic even a little; do not turn back in fear. Even if death comes within, say: fine, I accept, I go on. And I am with you.
Osho's Commentary
‘Om, I believe that not all Arhats taste the sweet fruit of the Path of Nirvana.’
‘Om, I believe that not all Buddhas[36] enter the Dharma of Nirvana.’
Yes, upon the Arya-path you are no longer a srotapanna, you are a Bodhisattva[37]. The river has been crossed. True, you have become entitled to the robe of the Dharmakaya; but the Sambhogakaya is greater than the Nirvani. And greater still are those of the ‘Nirvana-kaya’—the compassionate Buddhas[38].
Now, O Bodhisattva, bow your head and listen well. Compassion itself speaks: so long as beings are in suffering, is bliss possible? Will you be safe alone while the whole world weeps?
Now you have heard what was to be said.
You will attain the seventh step and cross the gate of the Supreme Knowledge; but will it be merely so that sorrow may have no alliance with you? If you would be a Tathagata, then walk in the footprints of your predecessors and remain ego-less to the endless end.
You are Sambuddha—choose your path.
See that tender light which is flooding the eastern sky. As a token of praise, heaven and earth stand with arms entwined. And from the fourfold manifest powers—blazing fire and flowing water, honey-scented earth and wandering winds—the sweet music of love is arising.
…Out of the profound and unfathomable vortex of golden light in which the Victor bathes, the silent voice of all nature proclaims in a thousand modes: Rejoice, O men of Myalba[39], a pilgrim has returned from the Other Shore.
A new Arhat[40] has been born.
Peace for all beings[41].
There is a joy in attaining bliss—and then there is another joy altogether, the joy of sharing it. What is received does not reveal its full realization, its full essence, its full flavor until it is given. Only by sharing do we come to know what has been received.
When the seeker comes near to the Ultimate, when the moment of becoming a void arrives, what he attains is immeasurable, boundless. He could drown in it alone, but these Mahayana sutras say he will miss the final, sweetest fruit of bliss. The bliss will be complete, and yet the final sweet fruit will be missed—the sweet fruit of sharing.
There is one joy—the joy of attaining bliss; and then there is a vaster joy—the joy of sharing bliss.
That which is to be shared, the seeds of bliss which are to be scattered—not all Buddhas do this. Some Buddhas do it; some Buddhas disappear into the Void. These sutras are about this. Let us understand them.
‘Besides, what else is the intent of those sacred records that make you utter:
“Om, I believe that not all Arhats taste the sweet fruit of the Path of Nirvana.”’
Not all Arhats taste the sweet fruit of the Path of Nirvana—the sweet fruit of the path is in distributing it, in spreading it. For oneself—everyone in the world lives for that. Worldly people want to enjoy worldly pleasures for themselves. And then, in the spiritual realm, they want to enjoy spiritual bliss for themselves. In this, in a way, the old worldly habit remains—the habit of gaining for oneself. One may attain, yet the old habit of the world keeps working—the “I” remains the center. The ego has dissolved now, the Self has become the center, but still I am the center. The false ego is gone, the true Self is found, yet the center is still “I.” Thus an old formula of the world continues to function—that I am the center.
Not all Arhats, not all realized ones, return and break this last formula—that I am not the center, that now the center has become other. Now this entire existence is the center, and I am consecrated to this existence.
‘I believe that not all Arhats taste the sweet fruit of the Path of Nirvana.’
‘Om, I believe that not all Buddhas enter the Dharma of Nirvana.’
Not all Buddhas return to share—not every Buddha shares.
The Jains called those Buddhas who also share, “Tirthankaras.” The Jain word Tirthankara is precious. Understanding that word will make it easier. There have been twenty-four Tirthankaras among the Jains. These twenty-four enlightened ones—it is not that only twenty-four enlightened ones have ever been. There have been many Jinas, many enlightened ones. Many have attained samyaktva, samyak-jnana, the ultimate knowing, kevala-jnana. Many Arihants have been. “Arhat” is the Buddhist word, “Arihant” the Jain word—the meaning is the same. But only twenty-four became Tirthankaras. Out of infinite Buddhas, Jinas, Arhats, Arihants, only twenty-four returned. And what they received, they tried to share.
Tirthankara means: maker of the ford, builder of the ghats.
When a person becomes a Buddha, he reaches the other shore. If he does not return to this shore where the world is—where his companions, friends, disciples, loved ones, kin of many births, fellow travelers of many journeys, his great family steeped in sorrow dwell—if none returns to that shore, then no ford is made. If one returns to this shore, he builds a ghat. Now he has the experience—how the path to the other shore goes, and from where to step down so that we may reach the other shore with ease.
Thus, having returned to this bank, he constructs a ghat from which the boat may depart to the other shore. That ghat is called a tirtha, a ford. And the one who constructs it is the Tirthankara. Having gone to the other shore, when he returns to this shore and builds such a ghat that others can hold the boat and set out towards the further shore—such a Buddha, such a Jina, such an Arhat is a Tirthankara. But not all Buddhas do this—it is an exceedingly arduous task.
The bliss of the beyond is indescribable. The peace of the beyond is incomparable. The beyond is supreme joy. There not a trace of pain remains. To return from there to this side is almost impossible. From suffering to happiness is easy; from happiness back to suffering is very difficult. Anyone would be ready to go from hell to heaven, but who would wish to come from heaven towards hell? To return from that shore to this is supremely difficult. To go from this shore to that is already supremely difficult; to return from that shore to this is even more arduous—an act near impossible.
Therefore we have given such honor to Tirthankaras and Buddhas. They have done the impossible: after tasting that supreme bliss, they have come back into this searing world, where everything burns and is a hell. We do not feel the hell so keenly; because we have grown up in it, lived in it, it is in our every breath. We take it for life itself. Only the one who has had a glimpse of the other shore realizes the fullness of this hell.
So the sorrow you know—you imagine, perhaps, “Is there so much suffering?” You think, “Granted, there is some suffering, but why so much that none would wish to return from the other side?” We have no measure.
The suffering the poor man endures—if a rich man were to stand in the place of the poor, what he would come to know the poor himself never knew. Only when the rich becomes poor will he know that pain which the poor man, living in the same hut, never really feels. He is accustomed. He has no instrument for comparison. By what rule shall he measure, on what basis shall he call it suffering? This is life. It is hard. But for one who has known pleasure, it is a great suffering.
Once one has had a glimpse of the other shore, this shore becomes “Myalba” to him. This is the Tibetan word. Myalba means: Great Hell. Not an ordinary hell—the Great Hell. The one who returns towards this Great Hell is called a Tirthankara, a Bodhisattva. It is natural he be given such honor.
‘I believe that not all Buddhas enter the Dharma of Nirvana.’
‘Yes, upon the Noble Path you are no longer a srotapanna; you are a Bodhisattva. The river has been crossed. True, you have become entitled to the robe of the Dharmakaya; but the Sambhogakaya is greater than the Nirvani. And greater still are those who abide in the “Nirvana-kaya”—the compassionate Buddhas.’
In Buddhist contemplation there is the vision of three kayas. These three terms should be rightly understood.
One is ‘Dharmakaya.’ Right now we are in a body—this is the earthly, gross body. Without this gross body one cannot be in the world. To be in the world, this body is needed. In moksha, in the Great Void, when we enter, the aura that envelops us is called Dharmakaya. It is not a “body” as such; it is a symbol. When one enters the Great Void, the aura surrounding him, the breath of existence itself—that is called Dharmakaya.
Dharmakaya—because it is our very nature, our Dharma. It cannot be stripped from us. It cannot be destroyed. There is no way to erase it. It is we ourselves. It is our Atman, our fundamental existence—what we call swabhava, the ultimate swabhava. From it not a particle can be separated, because it is us. Whatever can be separated is not swabhava. Swabhava means… if we can be apart from it and still be, then it is not swabhava. Swabhava is that from which we cannot be separated at all; there is no way to set it apart—that is swabhava.
Dharmakaya means: the ultimate swabhava.
When one enters the Void, all else is snatched away. Whatever was alien, foreign, not one’s own—all falls away. What remains is pure existence. Its name is Dharmakaya.
Below that kaya is ‘Sambhogakaya.’ And still below that is ‘Nirvana-kaya.’
With the attainment of Dharmakaya, the person has become void. Dharmakaya is the last—after that, returning is not possible; because all the means to return are lost. To return, a vehicle is needed.
On the plane below lies Sambhogakaya. Sambhogakaya is the middle state. Standing in Sambhogakaya, one can behold the entire state of Dharmakaya. One step ahead is Dharmakaya—the last—where existence dissolves. There the Great Void and Nirvana begin. After that, returning is difficult.
Sambhogakaya is that moment from where one sees: if I take one step further, I will not be able to return. From here there is a glimpse. From here the beyond becomes visible—the Great Void, the infinite expanse of swabhava, Brahman, Nirvana. It can be seen from here. But if the seeker moves a step further, he will become one with that Nirvana. The last kaya is Sambhogakaya. If what is other falls away, then returning is no longer possible.
Those who are to be Bodhisattvas must stop at the moment of Sambhogakaya—from where the Great Void is visible. But there is still distance; one has not yet become the Void itself. The Void still appears, is perceived; there is its vision. One is still the seer. A very subtle distance remains. If one preserves just this much distance, returning is possible.
And before Sambhogakaya there is yet one more step—the ‘Nirvana-kaya.’ From Dharmakaya none can return to the world. Sambhogakaya alone is the interval between. Only when one is in Nirvana-kaya can he be of use to the world.
Let us understand Nirvana-kaya as the bridge of relation between the world and Nirvana. Through Nirvana-kaya a Buddha, if he so wishes, can engage himself in the welfare of the world—in compassion, in the awakening of the world. Nirvana-kaya is the medium between the world and Nirvana. Between Nirvana-kaya and Dharmakaya lies Sambhogakaya. If one remains only in Nirvana-kaya, he cannot experience Dharmakaya, the Great Void—it is still distant; one step further lies Sambhogakaya.
It is called Sambhogakaya because there is the taste of communion—sambhoga—between oneself and the Infinite. A slight gap remains; one has not become utterly one yet.
Understand it thus: when a lover meets his beloved in depth—two yet remain, and yet for a moment it seems the two are no more, only the One is. That is the moment of sambhoga. Still, two remain. For a moment it seems—there is an intimation—a fresh gust of wind, and it seems the two have dissolved and one wave remains. Two waves have merged, two songs have drowned into one another, two rivers have intermingled. The momentary intimation we call sambhoga. This kaya is called Sambhogakaya because the one standing in it has the experience of becoming one, for a moment, with the Great Void—yet he does not become one. If he became one, then there would be no return. He does not become one; therefore he can return. Sambhogakaya is the last halt; beyond it there is no returning. If one gathers himself at Sambhogakaya—where the experience of communion with existence has arisen—distance remains, yet union has happened. As with lover and beloved. If from here, with great alertness, one turns back and descends, then there is Nirvana-kaya. One can still descend. The relations are not broken yet. Only by remaining in Nirvana-kaya can one remain awake as bodhi, as Bodhisattva.
Thus this sutra is very wondrous. It says: the river has been crossed. And it is true—you have become entitled to the robe of Dharmakaya. Now you are worthy of oneness with the Great Void; but Sambhogakaya is greater than being a Nirvani. Stop—drowning in Nirvana is very natural, all drown; a still greater act is to pause in Sambhogakaya. Where you have come utterly close to becoming one, there turn your back and return.
‘And greater still are those who abide in the Nirvana-kaya—the compassionate Buddhas.’
But even if one remains in Sambhogakaya, there is no use for the world. Descend further below, and build the bridge of the last relationship with the world—Nirvana-kaya. And through that bridge, filled with compassion, engage in benefitting the world.
‘Now, O Bodhisattva, bow your head and listen well. Compassion itself speaks: so long as beings are in suffering, can bliss be?’
These are the essential sutras of Mahayana—and very profound.
This sutra says: so long as beings suffer, can bliss be? Granted that your suffering has ended; but while this world suffers, has your suffering truly ended? Will the world’s sorrow not touch you at all? Will the pain of this existence, of which you are a limb—will it not touch you? Will not the waves of this pain enter your heart too? Is it truly possible that suffering remains in existence and you attain bliss? You may have found your bliss; but when others—many—are still in pain, will that pain be utterly forgotten by you? Will you forget that suffering remains in existence?—This is the question.
The question is: so long as beings suffer, can bliss be?
‘Will you be safe alone, while the whole world weeps?’
‘Now you have heard what was to be said.’
‘You will attain the seventh step and cross the gate of the Supreme Knowledge—but will it be merely so that sorrow may have no alliance with you?’
Was the whole journey only so that your link with suffering be severed?
‘If you would be a Tathagata, walk in the footprints of your predecessors and remain ego-less to the endless end.’
‘You are Sambuddha—choose your path.’
Now do not think only of losing yourself. Remember the many who suffer. And as the Tathagata Gautama Buddha, before you, held himself back—until such time as this boundless world attains to bliss—he took such a Great Vow—so you too take such a Great Vow.
‘Now you are Sambuddha.’
Now you are awake.
‘Choose your path.’
Now do not sink, drawn merely by bliss.
We can understand it thus; in the Mahayana vision it is indeed so—that this is the last desire: that “I drown in bliss.” “I have attained my bliss; the matter is finished.”
Break this too. What is “mine”? So long as there is suffering, speak not of “me” and “you.” Until there is only bliss and none remain in sorrow, hold back.
And you can hold back—you have the power. Because you are Sambuddha, awakened; you have moved beyond law. Now there is no compulsion upon you. Now you yourself are Bhagavan. There is no reason now that pushes you: do this, do that. Now you can do whatsoever you wish. In this moment such power has come to you that you can do whatsoever you choose. Use it.
Or will you use it only so far as to end your suffering? Your suffering ended—and that is the end?
‘See that tender light which is flooding the eastern sky. As a token of praise, heaven and earth stand with arms entwined.’
A glimpse of that state—if you return, turn your back on the Great Bliss and remember those who suffer—a glimpse of it.
‘See that tender light which is flooding the eastern sky.’
If you return, the entire eastern sky will fill with light at your very return. Where there has been darkness since always, there a sun of light will arise.
‘See that tender light which is flooding the eastern sky. As a token of praise, heaven and earth stand with arms entwined.’
The earth will welcome you; heaven will welcome you. Arm in arm they stand, for you are coming.
‘And from the fourfold manifest powers—blazing fire and flowing water, honey-scented earth and wandering winds—the sweet music of love is arising.’
See—you are returning to that world where there is sorrow, where there is darkness. As if in the East again, in a spiritual sense, a sun is being born. Heaven and earth, arm in arm, welcome you. From blazing fire and flowing water, honey-scented earth and wandering winds, the sweet music of love is arising for you.
‘Hear… Out of the profound and unfathomable vortex of golden light in which the Victor bathes, the silent voice of all nature proclaims in a thousand modes: Rejoice, O men of Myalba, a pilgrim has returned from the Other Shore.’
O inhabitants of the Great Hell… Myalba means: Great Hell. Our earth is Myalba.
‘Hear… Out of the profound and unfathomable vortex of golden light in which the Victor bathes, the silent voice of all nature proclaims in a thousand modes: Rejoice, O men of Myalba, a pilgrim has returned from the Other Shore.’
‘A new Arhat, a new Bodhisattva, a new Buddha has been born.’
‘Peace for all beings.’
Man, being in sorrow, seeks happiness. The more he seeks happiness, the more sorrowful he becomes. When the awakening comes that the very search for happiness is the cause of his sorrow, then sadhana is born. Then man does not seek happiness, does not wish to escape suffering; he wishes to rise beyond both happiness and suffering.
The worldly man is one who, being in sorrow, seeks happiness.
The sannyasin is one who has understood that in the effort to avoid suffering and seek happiness lies sorrow.
So a sannyasin is one who seeks the way to rise above both happiness and suffering.
The siddha is one who has reached that place which is beyond happiness and suffering.
Once beyond happiness and suffering, ananda happens.
Siddhatva is the state of ananda.
A Bodhisattva is one who, having attained this ananda, does not get lost, does not fall silent, does not merely sit; rather, he returns for those who are in suffering.
I have heard that in a Japanese prison a unique event kept happening for years. A fakir would steal again and again and be punished. People were astonished, because the fakir was such an extraordinary sadhu that none could believe he would ever steal. His qualities were those of Buddhahood, and the matter of stealing did not fit at all. And the thefts were petty! This went on his whole life. When he became old, his disciples said: now stop this disturbance. We cannot even imagine why you steal! We cannot even believe you steal; yet witnesses arise, proofs arise, and you are sentenced. And we too get defamed behind you—“Whose disciples are you? That man has gone to jail again.” And now you have been released for the last time; not much life remains, the health is not sound—please stop this mischief. And whatever you need, we are always ready to give; you do not need to steal. And you steal such trifles that we cannot understand why you do it!
He said: all my life I did not say it; now I will tell you. I steal only so that I can go inside and transform the thieves. There is no other way to reach them. Many thieves are suffering there. Many criminals and sinners are there. Who will transform them? And how? And if I go as a guru to preach, I cannot transform them.
Because there is no respect for one who is not one’s own; no relation arises with one who is not like oneself. If I go and stand there as a guru, as a sadhu, a distance and a gap remains in their minds—that I am a sadhu and he is a thief. Perhaps my very presence becomes their condemnation. Perhaps because of me they feel hurt. Perhaps without cause I become the cause of their suffering. So I prefer to go as a thief. Then I am like them. Locked in the same cells; chains on my hands as on theirs; I too a thief, they too thieves. Then we can understand one another’s language. And then, in their very language, I try to transform them. So do not stop me. As long as I am, this is my work—to bring out those who are surrounded by pain and sin.
A Bodhisattva is such a one returning from that shore to this shore. And if he is to return here and bring help to the people of this shore, he must maintain some language of this shore. He must establish some relationship with the people of this shore.
Nirvana-kaya is precisely that relationship with the people of this world.
And what is the language of this world? The language of this world is vasana—desire.
Therefore if a Buddha is to become a Bodhisattva, he must transform his compassion into a vasána. He must cultivate this profound vasána: that I may be able to help others, accompany them, and give them guidance.
In Jainism it is said that only he becomes a Tirthankara who has bound the Tirthankara-karma. This too is called karma. This too is a sin. It is so, because the endeavor to awaken others, to transform others, is yet an endeavor—a vasána. He who has preserved the vasána to awaken others alone can become a Tirthankara. He must retain at least so much vasána: that I may be of use to others. Let that thread of vasána remain—that very vasána is Nirvana-kaya. Then he remains connected with us by a very subtle thread. It can snap at any moment. It is no heavy chain. And it is tied by his own hand. If one is to remain on this shore, he must tie some pegs, some sutras, some threads, some ropes to this shore.
I have heard that Ramakrishna had an excessive fondness for food—so much so that those around him were worried. Sarada would often scold Ramakrishna: stop this childishness. In the midst of Brahman-discourse he would suddenly get up, reach the kitchen, and ask: what is being cooked? What is being made today? Sarada would say: leaving Brahman-discourse and coming to the kitchen to ask such questions does not befit you, Paramahansa Deva. Disciples also advised: news goes among people—what kind of jnani is this Ramakrishna? So concerned about food! Even the ignorant are not so concerned! When Sarada would bring the plate, he would stand up to look at it; seeing the plate, his face would light up with great joy!
One day no one else was there. Sarada had scolded many times. That day she became very angry and said: beyond understanding—your relish for food! Ramakrishna said: I have hidden it until now, because saying it would trouble you. You do not agree and you get entangled; so let me say it: remember, only so long as I take delight in food will I remain in this body; the day I take no relish in food, know it and send word that within three days my body will be gone.
Still, none took it very seriously, because we always take things seriously later. Sarada too ignored it. Others also let it pass. Years later, one day she remembered. She came with the plate—Ramakrishna was lying down. He turned his back. This was impossible. His relish for food was such that he would never turn away and give his back. Suddenly Sarada remembered; the plate fell from her hand. She began to weep and said: what are you doing—why have you turned your back? Ramakrishna said: you people always said so; today I am doing what you wished. Exactly three days later he died.
If a Bodhisattva is to be kept bound to the body, then he must hold on to some bodily vasána; otherwise he will slip away at once. But even in taking hold of this vasána, he remains the master. The vasána does not hold him. One way is: the peg on the bank holds you and you are at its mercy. Another way: you yourself hold the peg with your hand—because you do not wish to drift with the current; you wish to be of some use on this shore. The day you wish, in that very instant you can let go. The peg has no hold on you—you are holding the peg.
You too have a relish for food; do not think you are like Ramakrishna. There is a difference between Ramakrishna’s relish for food and yours. His was purposive, intentional, chosen. Ramakrishna knew: if this body is to be held so that some work may be done, then in the language of the body some sutras, some bridges, must be held. I have said this as an example.
At the moment when one comes near to losing himself in the Void, if he is to retain any relation with the world, he must hold himself in the vasána of compassion. This sutra is to awaken the vasána of compassion.
The book ends thus: ‘Peace for all beings.’
Buddha said again and again: do not ask for peace for yourself; ask for peace for all beings. Do not ask for bliss for yourself; ask for bliss for all beings. Do not pray for yourself; pray for all beings. Why? Because through these very prayers, these very askings and aspirations, within you the inner track will be made, so that in the final moment, when you begin to be lost in the Void, it can draw you back.
The remembrance of all beings—thus the seeker who follows Buddha prays beforehand, and after his prayer he says: peace to all beings. What I have received—may it be shared among all beings; what I have found—let it not be mine alone, let it become everyone’s. He says this continually, so that a deep line is etched within. And the day the Great Bliss comes, then instantly, because of this deep, old groove, the feeling arises in his mind: what has come to me—may it be shared among all beings. The peace that has come to me—may it be everyone’s. The joy that has come to me—may it be everyone’s. With this remembrance, he turns back and looks towards the world—and the bridge is built. The name of that bridge is Nirvana-kaya.
This is the last day; before I go, I wish to say a few more things to you.
First: what you have been doing here is only an experiment—to get a feel for what is to be done. Doing just this much will not resolve things; it must be continued. So continue when you return. Otherwise I see that you do it in a camp, you feel peace, ease arises, an innocent glimpse comes, a fresh gust of wind arrives—and it feels good. Then returning home, you live by old habits. Again you will come to some camp; again you will do it. Doing so again and again, and losing it again and again, will not bring deep results. This must be dug continuously. This well is so deep that if you dig for two or four days and leave it for four or six months, then trash fills in and the ground becomes as before; the surface is as it was. Then you dig two or four fathoms again, and leave it again—the well will never be made; and the water you seek will never be found. Keep digging. Keep digging at one place. If you dig at different places again and again, labor will be spent, time wasted, energy lost, and there will be no result.
Rumi once said to his disciples: come with me; I will show you how you are. He took them to a field; there were eight large pits dug, the whole field spoiled. Rumi said: look at these pits. This farmer is mad. He wants to dig a well; he digs four or eight fathoms, then thinking there is no water here, he digs another. Four, eight fathoms—then thinking there is no water—he digs a third… he has dug eight. The whole field is ruined; still there is no well. Had he put into one pit the labor he put into eight, water would surely have been found.
So resolve once for all; keep digging continuously in one place—only then will you find the sources of life’s waters. Practice what you have learned here, so that when you come to other camps you do not have to begin from where you began in the first camp. Bring some digging done—and then we can dig deeper. Each camp can open new doors for you—if meanwhile you have been working at the old door.
So remember first: meditation is an inner excavation that must be kept up continuously.
Second: here it is easy to do. At home you will fear—neighbors, people around, family; they will laugh, shout, cry—“What will people say?” Always remember this: anyway, no one says good things about you. Do not live in the illusion that people think very well of you. From that illusion your trouble begins—lest your fine image fall. There is no fine image anywhere. Consider—do you have some fine image of your neighbor? Of whom do you keep a fine image? In whose mind will there be one of you? It is a needless illusion—do not fall into it.
It is better to tell those at home that you are doing such experiments; no need for worry. If easy, go to neighbors and tell them too: I am doing an experiment; if there is some noise, some shouting, do not be alarmed. Then you can do your experiments loosely, lightly. People will know; in a couple of days they understand that it is fine. Those of whom you are afraid—if you do the experiments, dropping your fear, within a month or two they will come and ask you to teach them too. Because in two months you will begin to change. Right now no one has an image of you, but if you meditate, surely there will be an image of you. News of your peace begins to spread. When flowers bloom, they cannot be hidden. When the sun rises, even the blind feel its warmth—though they do not see it—yet the birds begin to sing: morning has come.
As you go deeper into meditation, your peace, your joy, your love, your compassion will all grow. Your anger, your hatred, your jealousy will diminish. Among your neighbors, your family, your relations you will become a new person. But if even now you fear that someone may think you are mad, that someone may think this or that—drop this illusion.
First, none has much time to think about you. Everyone thinks about themselves. Who has leisure to think about you? How much do you think about others? And if someone next door shouts loudly, you may think once—“Perhaps his mind is out of order”—but have you time to keep at it? Yet if that person—who shouts—begins to look different the next day, and within six months becomes a source of peace, you will ask him yourself: what is that trick of shouting by which you have become serene? So do not hurry; wait for the transformation in yourself. Only then is any image formed of you. Now there is no image—only an idea in your mind.
Third: at home you will be alone, but you need not be. In the very manner you sit here before me to meditate, if you keep in your heart that I am sitting before you and you are meditating, you will find my presence just as you find it here. Then you can experiment without fear. And your fearlessness is very necessary for the experiment. If you are afraid—alone—“something may happen”—nothing will happen. Leave all dangers, all fears with me before you go.
And I ask only this of you in these departing moments: whatever sorrow, anxiety, pain, torment you have—give them to me.
Do not carry them with you. There is no need to keep them. I do not ask for your wealth, your body, or anything else. Whatever pain you have, whatever disturbance, whatever torment—give it all to me. It will be no hindrance to me; you will be unburdened. And that very force by which you are suffering—out of unawareness; that very force by which you are anxious—out of unawareness—give all that unawareness to me. I will return the same force to you—it will become joy, it will become peace, it will become compassion.
When you reach home, do not lose time. The current born here, the breeze created here, the orientation of the mind which has arisen—do not let it be lost; do not waste time. Begin meditation immediately on reaching home. Give one hour daily to meditation. At the end of life you will find that all other time was wasted; only the time given to meditation proved useful, only that remained, only that became meaningful.
And remember me; there will be no fear. And when you enter within, sometimes it will seem as if death were approaching. As meditation deepens, the experience of death begins to happen. Do not panic even a little; do not turn back in fear. Even if death comes within, say: fine, I accept, I go on. And I am with you.