Samadhi Ke Sapat Dwar #8

On the fourth path of dispassion, even the faintest gust of lust or desire will shake the steady light that falls upon the snow-white walls of the soul.
Within the antahkaran—the inner passage, the bridge between your higher Atman and your lower self, the great highway of tendencies, and the very shock that can rouse the ego—there, even a tiniest ripple of attachment or remorse for Maya’s delusive pleasures, a ripple that flashes like lightning, will snatch away your three prizes won through toil.
For know: in That Eternal there is no indulgence.
The Lord, the perfect Tathagata, who has walked in the footprints of those before him, has declared: the eight grievous sorrows depart forever. If not, then know you cannot attain knowledge; you cannot attain Nirvana.
The virtue of dispassion is very stern and ruthless. If you would be master of this path, you must keep your mind and vision freer than ever from fatal action.
You must saturate your being with the pure Alaya—the Supreme—and become one with Nature’s own self-sense. One with this, you are unconquerable. Separate from it, you become the playground of samvritti, the source-spring of all the world’s delusions.
As the journey nears the summit, the way grows harder. As the goal draws close, the chance of losing the way increases. The higher the height, the greater the fear of falling. From hell there is no falling; there is nowhere lower than hell. But from heaven, there is every facility to fall; for everything lies below it. From moksha there is no falling either; above or below it, there is nothing. From hell, everything is above; so none falls from hell. From heaven, all lies beneath; so anyone may fall from heaven. From moksha there is no rising and no falling—no direction below, no direction above.
As the seeker approaches moksha, he becomes more and more celestial. His happiness becomes subtle; his sensitivity supremely fluid and pure; his experience—precious, delicate. The more delicate the experience, the smaller a shock suffices to shatter it. The more valuable a thing, the more fragile it becomes. And in this pilgrimage we are daily refining ourselves—becoming sensitive, exquisitely sensitive. A slight gust can break everything. When the wind rises as a storm, the roadside stones remain unharmed, but flowers fall from the branches. The stones stand where they are; stones are not destroyed—but flowers are. A mere breeze and the petals drop. The more delicate the flower, the sooner it falls. The higher it grows upon the crest, the quicker it is struck down.
This aphorism is to be pondered in this very sense.
“At the fourth gate of dispassion, even the faintest gust of lust or desire will shake the steady light that falls upon the white walls of the soul.”
At the fourth gate of dispassion, even the lightest stir of craving will tremble the new glimmer of light that is dawning within; it will make that light waver, obscure it, set it quivering. And when the inner light quivers, one cannot go on; the falling back begins. The steadiness of light alone is the way forward. The more the inner light wavers, the farther we descend. The day the inner light becomes unshakable—nothing can stir it, no possibility of trembling remains—that very day the supreme state is attained. The measure is the inner flame: how much it flickers, how much it abides.
In the world drenched in craving, petty cravings reveal nothing. You are so full of great diseases that little ones go unnoticed. You know from experience: when a grave illness strikes, the minor ailment is forgotten. If a thorn is in your foot and someone stands before you with a knife, you forget the thorn altogether. If you are dressed in black and someone smears you with soot, nothing is seen upon your clothes. But the whiter the garment, the more even a little dust becomes visible. The purer the background, the more the impure looks terrible. For all perception is comparative. As the seeker advances, as he nears dispassion, the merest glint of attachment feels like a dangerous storm; it uproots everything. The saplings of dispassion are still very new; their roots are not yet deep; they are children still.
I have heard: a Sufi fakir, Junnaid, wept all his life. He would beat himself and weep. Passing along the road, he would slap his own cheeks. People asked, “Why such repentance? What sin have you committed? As we know you, it is hard to find a purer man. If you are so sorrowful, so full of remorse, what will become of us? We commit so many sins and feel no remorse at all. What sin did you commit? The village knows you from childhood—you never stole, never grew angry, never abused anyone, never insulted anyone. There may not be a purer man upon the earth than you.” Still, Junnaid kept punishing himself.
At the time of his death, thousands of disciples gathered. “Now at least tell us,” they said, “for what sin have you given yourself such punishment?” He said: “Once a thought arose in my mind that I am very pure—that very thought was a sin. Before God I shall not be able to raise my eyes, for I have committed one sin: the thought that I am pure arose in me once. I have been punishing myself for that.”
People said, “You have gone mad! If for so small a sin you cannot raise your eyes before God, what will become of us?”
Junnaid said, “You will easily raise your eyes. Your sins are so many that you will not even feel ashamed. How long can one be ashamed? If I had been like you, there would be no worry. But this one spot has stuck. Upon a white garment, a black stain appears so stark that I cannot forget it; it is a pain to me.”
Remember: as you proceed upon the inner journey, small things become immensely significant. The petty, upon the pilgrimage to the vast, begins to look vast. Until freedom from it is complete, you may be flung back. The path grows narrow; the height grows great; and you are new and delicate upon this trail. A small mistake can be terrible.
“Even the faintest gust of desire at the gate of dispassion will shake the steady light that falls upon the white walls of the soul. In the antahkaran, the bridge between your higher and lower self, the great highway of tendencies, the jolt that can awaken the ego—there, even the smallest, lightning-like ripple of attachment or regret for Maya’s illusory pleasures will snatch away your three rewards won by labor.”
Standing at the gate of dispassion, a mere glimmer of ego will destroy all.
And at the gate of dispassion, ego comes. The ego of the attached is one thing; the ego of the dispassionate is another. The attached ego is gross; plainly seen. The dispassionate ego is subtle; not easily visible. Hence more dangerous. The enemy who is seen is less dangerous; something can be done about him. The invisible enemy is dangerous, for he is not seen.
Krishnamurti has called sadhus and sannyasins “pious egoists.” Rightly so: there is danger there. The impious ego is not so dangerous—its impurity is visible. The pious ego is very dangerous; in piety the ego hides completely. Around poison a sugar-crust forms; then drinking the poison is easy. The impious ego is pure poison; there is not even a sugar-crust around it, so the drinker knows. The pious ego goes unnoticed.
The conflicts among religions are conflicts of pious egoists. It is pure poison—but coated with piety. One who has renounced walks with as much stiffness, though subtler. The worldly man does not walk with such stiffness. He who possesses wealth—why would he strut as stiffly as the one who has kicked wealth away? Naturally, the possessor is smaller than the one who threw wealth away. Many possess wealth; but few have the courage to spurn it. So the one who has left all gets seized by a new thing: “I have left all.” Renunciation becomes a form of indulgence; humility becomes pride; piety turns into sin.
At the moment of dispassion this feeling will arise: “I have renounced; others cannot. I have sacrificed; others cannot—who is a greater renunciate than I! I kicked the world away. What was so difficult, I accomplished.” This “I” is born.
The sutra says: If this “I” takes birth, the three gates you crossed with labor will be lost at once. You will stand again where you stood before. Not even a moment will be needed. What has been won by labor can be lost very easily.
Be attentive: what was gained with effort need not be lost with effort. A house that took years to build can be brought down in a day—in a moment. And this inner edifice, built over many births, can be leveled in a moment. A little thing, and all can be ruined. The farther you go, the greater the possibility of destruction by the subtle. As the possibility of creation rises, so does the possibility of destruction.
Understand it thus: all your possibilities grow together. Seize this rule deeply. In you, one direction does not grow alone—the opposite grows with it. As you become capable of happiness, you become equally capable of sorrow. With happiness grows the capacity for pain. Animals do not appear deeply miserable, for they have little capacity for bliss. An affluent man can be made more miserable than a poor man. He has increased his capacity for pleasure; his capacity for pain has grown alongside.
The opposite grows side by side; it walks along the edge. You cannot grow one without the other; the other, like a gorge, always stands near the peak. As your virtue grows, vice stands at your side. As your merit grows, sin stands by your side. The sinner cannot fall; you can. The greater the excellence, the greater the fear of baseness. As the capacity for creation grows, so does the power of destruction. The two walk together; the opposites walk together. As your peace grows—this will sound strange—as your peace grows, so does your capacity for wrath. It seems inverted.
And we have read of rishis and seers who were terribly wrathful—understand why. As great as their peace grew, so did their capacity for anger. They may not use it—that is another matter; they may save themselves—that too is another matter. But if they do, none can equal their anger. And their anger will be effective in result. Yours is not. That is why we have woven this sweet theme into hundreds of stories: a rishi’s curse is dangerous. Your curse has no worth; you are always cursing. A rishi does not. We consider it almost impossible that a rishi would curse. But if ever a rishi’s curse arises, it will bear fruit; there will be no power to prevent it.
We have precious, symbolic tales: if a rishi pronounces a curse, even God cannot alter it—it must be borne, because it is uttered from such height. One who is willing to fall from such height, who loses so much behind his curse—his curse will be fruitful.
When you curse, nothing happens. You put nothing at stake; it is but a play of mind. The rishi wagers his life’s earnings—perhaps the earnings of many lives. He is falling from such a height that in his fall there is force.
You know: the greater the velocity, the greater the power. A small pebble, if hurled at the speed of light, cannot be stopped by any power; it will pierce all things and pass through. A grain of sand thrown at the speed of light will possess the power of an atom bomb. With speed, power increases. If a bullet kills you, not only because of the gunpowder in it, but because of the speed with which it is hurled. Throw it slowly and it will drop to the ground; nothing happens. Powder is not the main thing—speed is; with what speed it is thrown.
When a rishi falls, there is speed—he falls from a great height. When you fall, you simply drop with a thud; no speed. You fall where you were standing. Your curse is without momentum.
Hence the danger of Durvasa. If he speaks, there is no remedy; for in speaking, he is losing his power. Where will that power go? Like a bullet, it will come toward you. So all religions have said: before one ascends spiritual heights, one must master virtue and restraint—otherwise he is dangerous.
Buddha made it a rule that after every prayer his bhikkhus must add another essential prayer: whatever has come to me through this prayer, may it be distributed to the whole world—may none of it remain with me. Let them deepen this feeling: whatever I gain in the spiritual, whatever power arises, may it be shared by all—let it not be for me. If compassion grows side by side with prayer, there is protection. Otherwise, prayer alone can become dangerous any day. Power will be in the hand, and there will be no awareness of compassion. So Buddha said: whatever comes through prayer, distribute it the very day; do not store it; do not accumulate it. Otherwise, one day power will be in the hand and danger will be near. There will be gunpowder in the hand and fire close by. As you climb toward the peak, powder and fire will come closer and closer. Near the very summit, powder and flame will be almost touching. Then saving yourself can be hard.
Yet the harder it is, the greater the joy of safeguarding. The harder, the richer the nectar. The harder, the higher you are established beyond that hardness—if you do not fall. If you fall, you land in the abyss. If you do not fall, the summit draws very near.
Remember, it is proportional. From the place you can fall down farthest, from that place you can rise up highest. The proportion remains equal. If from this spiritual peak you can fall thousands of miles—if you err; and if you are saved from error—you rise thousands of miles above. The two go together.
It is said that great men do not err. Completely wrong. Great men do not commit small errors. If they err, they commit great ones. People say the difference between a small man and a great man is that the small man errs and the great man does not. Completely wrong. The difference is this: the small man commits small errors; the great man commits great errors. If the small man avoids small errors, he goes a little ahead. If the great man avoids great errors, he goes far ahead. Your error can throw you down no farther than your avoidance can lift you up. No more than that. The two grow together. Keep an eye on the other that walks with you. As you grow in power, so does its opposite.
“In this moment of dispassion, a slight gust will jolt the ego awake. Even the lightest, lightning-like ripple will snatch away your three rewards, won by toil.”
“For know that within That Eternal there is no falsehood.”
Its law is everlasting; there is no lying within it.
If you fall from a bullock cart, gravity still works; but the injury is only as much as the height at which you sat. If you fall from an airplane, the same law of gravity works; but then there is no way to be saved. Because you were in an airplane, not a cart. Therefore, the driver of a bullock cart can travel at noon with his eyes closed. There is not much fear there. Even if he goes astray, he cannot go very far astray. Even if he does not reach, the destination will not be far. He will reach anyway. The bullock cart driver even sleeps; the bulls carry him along. Your being awake is not very necessary. Your shop, your market—your bulls carry you. Your senses can do the job.
When you return home, you need not remember which turns lead where. You need not think—your feet turn by themselves. You do not have to stand and think: shall I turn left or right? The feet turn. If you are driving, your hands manage; the eyes hardly needed. Much less the mind and thought. As for the soul awakening—no question at all. But the higher you are, the more wakeful you must be.
Those who have been sent to the moon for space travel had to be taught meditation and yoga. In Russia, the first interest in meditation arose because of space travel. A cosmonaut must be utterly meditative. Otherwise, a small lapse—a deviation by an inch—and the distance becomes infinite. No possibility of return. Landing on the moon is not only an outcome of mechanical development; meditation has an equal hand. Because a space traveler must be aware, moment to moment. One moment’s lapse, and everything can be lost. A slight misdirection—and we may never even know where our travelers went. There, mistakes will not do.
The higher the altitude, the greater the need to be careful; and the cost of error grows dearer. One who climbs takes danger upon himself. But without danger there is no attainment.
“And that law—know that in that eternal law there is no concession.”
Never imagine you will be exempted. The mind clings to the delusion that for so small an error, God will forgive. The higher the height, the more forgiveness becomes impossible. You may be forgiven. Jesus or Buddha cannot. You commit so many mistakes that without forgiveness you could not live. Forgiveness means only this: where you stand, no large damage occurs from your mistakes. You are on the ground. Buddha is flying in the sky. Falling from there is dangerous.
And as your competence grows, existence demands more competence from you. This is the touchstone.
I have heard: once it happened—Abanindranath Tagore was a great artist, the uncle of Rabindranath. Nandalal Bose was his disciple; after Abanindranath, none in India matched him. When Nandalal was learning painting with Abanindranath, one day Rabindranath was sitting, chatting with Abanindranath, and Nandalal brought a painting of Krishna. The painting was so wondrous that Rabindranath said, “I have never seen such a picture of Krishna—perhaps unique.” Abanindranath looked at it, then threw it out of the house, and said, “Nandalal, better the village patiyas of Bengal had painted this!
“In Bengal, during Janmashtami, poor village painters make Krishna pictures for two or four paisa; they are called patiyas—they make Krishna-pats.
“They do better than you.” There could be no greater insult—two-paisa painters! “Is this what you have brought? Go learn from the patiyas!”
Rabindranath was stunned. He later wrote: I felt—what is Abanindranath doing! To my understanding, even his own paintings could not match this one. But he is the guru; Nandalal is the disciple. It is not proper to intervene. Nandalal went away; the painting lay where it fell.
Abanindranath went out, brought the painting back, and tears fell from his eyes. Rabindranath was even more amazed. “What are you doing!” he said. “Now that the disciple has gone, I can say what I felt: I doubt you yourself have painted a more beautiful Krishna.” Abanindranath said, “I know that.” The matter grew more complex. Rabindranath asked, “Then why so harsh?” He said, “Had he been a poor talent, I would not have been so hard. His genius is extraordinary; and there is still more possibility—he can be tempered. If I say ‘good,’ he will stop. You do not know the pain it causes me—but I cannot say ‘good.’ I will never say ‘good’ to him. Because my ‘good’ would be his murder. To ordinary disciples I do say ‘good.’ This picture is marvelous, and for ordinary work I would say ‘good.’ I expect no more from them.”
As a person rises, existence expects more; powers tighten from every side. No one comes to pat your back. The higher you go, the more existence demands. The greater the peak you stand upon, the greater grows existence’s demand—because existence wishes to draw out all that is hidden within you. Those without capacity may be forgiven. As soon as capacity grows, even a slight error becomes unforgivable.
Nandalal disappeared for three years. Abanindranath asked everyone who came, “Where is Nandalal?” No one knew. When he returned after three years, he was difficult to recognize. He had wandered from village to village in Bengal. Wherever he heard of a patiya, he went to learn: how do you paint Krishna? When he returned, he looked like a poor patiya. It was hard to recognize him as the same boy. Abanindranath had grown old; his sight was dim. Nandalal stood before him and said, “Your great grace—what you said to me. Had you not done so, what was hidden within me would have remained hidden. I have come to thank you for your stern compassion.”
We all think compassion cannot be stern. Compassion is not stern toward those who have no capacity; they can be left; existence forgives them. As capacity grows, existence grows stern—because it grows compassionate.
All these words I am using are symbolic—remember. A friend asked today: you say, fold your hands and bow your head to God; I do not even know who God is—before whom shall I bow? And if I do not know, will that God help me?
The question is not whether you know God or not. The question is: you fold your hands and bow. It is not valuable to whom you bow—that is secondary, a pretext. That you bow—that is valuable. God will not help you; for if He were to help, He would have done so long ago. You yourself will help yourself. But the more you bow, the more you help yourself. And you cannot bow without the idea of God; hence I say: bow. If you do not know Him, bow to the Unknown. If even that you do not know—then just bow, forget about Him; simply bow.
It is not the object of surrender that matters. Surrender matters. Bowing down matters.
One who bows becomes worthy of many powers; the stiff man closes himself with his own hands—no power reaches him. “God” is a pretext, a word. The real thing is to help you bow. By what pretext you bow is secondary. Find some pretext—and bow.
And what a marvel: without a pretext you remain stiff. When asked to bow, you ask, “Which God—before whom?” For whom are you stiff? For what reason are you stiff? What is it that makes you stiff? No one ever asks: why am I stiff! For what reason do I stand rigid? What is within me that I am stiff for? Are you stiff because of this clay-body? Because of this life—which is now and will soon be no more? Because of intelligence—because you can add two and two to make four? What pride is this? Think a little. Instead of asking before whom to bow, ask why and for what you are stiff—what within makes you so.
Then you will see: there is nothing within at all for which to be stiff. Seeing this, bowing will happen. Then there is no question before whom. And with a little understanding you will know: stiffness is the cause of all suffering—and bowing down is the door of all bliss. Because the bowed man opens.
It is like standing rigid in a river, thirsty, and saying, “I am thirsty.” You will have to bend. Bow and make a cup of your hands; then water will come into your palms. The river will grant no favor—the river’s grace becomes possible only when you bow. If you remain stiff, saying, “If the river wants to give, it will give. And what kind of small condition is this—that I should bow! If God is such a giver, why this condition?” The river will keep flowing. It is not that it does not want to give. Giving and not giving are not the issue. He who bows receives water. He who does not bows remains thirsty.
In this sense, when I say fold your hands and bow, understand that all is symbolic. I too know you do not know God. If you knew, why would you be here? And when you do know, then will you bow? Then there will be no need—for knowing happens only when a man has wholly bowed. Before that, knowing does not come. If you keep the condition, “When I know, then I shall bow,” you will never know. Bow—forget the idea of knowing; the very bowing will begin to reveal.
“The Lord, the perfect Tathagata, who has walked in the footprints of those Tathagatas who came before, has said: the eight grievous sorrows depart forever. If not, then know you cannot attain knowledge; you cannot attain Nirvana.”
“Tathagata” is a precious word—and subtle. It is used for all Buddhas, for the awakened ones. Literally it means: one who has walked in the footsteps of the Buddhas before him.
The subtlety is this: no footprints form in that realm. All Buddhas are unique, each like himself and none like another. No comparison is possible between any two Buddhas. Jesus is a Buddha; Mahavira is a Buddha; Gautam Buddha is a Buddha; Krishna is a Buddha—awakened ones. No harmony between any two. Look where Krishna is, where Mahavira! Where Buddha, where Jesus! What congruence? What harmony? Even their footprints are not the same.
Jesus hangs upon the cross. Christians say he sacrifices himself to redeem mankind’s sins; he effaces himself so that man may rise. They say Adam sinned; therefore man was perverted. Until man is punished, Adam cannot be forgiven. And all men are Adam’s descendants; they share his sin.
You are responsible not only for your own sin; man as such is responsible. It is a profound notion. And not only for those now alive; you are responsible for the sins of those who were yesterday, the day before, and those who will be. Humanity is responsible. So since Adam erred, all humanity became guilty. Another man must bear the counter-stroke and suffer the entire punishment—Jesus sacrifices himself. The command that Adam violated, Jesus accepts as God’s command—offers himself and consents to die. Therefore Christians say: no Buddha like Jesus has ever been; unimaginable!
No Jain can imagine Mahavira upon a cross; for Jains say crucifixion happens due to the fruit of karma. Only if one has committed a great sin can such a cross befall. How could Mahavira be crucified? One whose karmas are exhausted is a Buddha. One whose karmas are gone is Buddha. For such a one—crucifixion! It is inconceivable.
Ask those who hold the doctrine of karma why Gandhi was shot by Godse. On the surface, Godse is responsible; but seen from karma, Gandhi must be responsible somewhere—he must have done something to Godse sometime—else how this result? In the outer law, Godse is responsible; in the law of karma, somewhere, in some birth, on some plane, Gandhi must be responsible.
Ask the Jains and they will say: a thorn cannot prick Mahavira’s feet—crucifixion is far away. For even a thorn pricks only when you have hurt a thorn sometime. How different are these footprints!
Jesus is sad—he is said never to have laughed. Christians say Jesus never laughed; laughing seems so petty. He is sorrowful—the suffering of all humanity, the pain of all humanity. With such a hell constructed, how could Jesus laugh?
Here, Krishna plays the flute. No harmony is possible. Here, Krishna plays the flute, leads the rasa, dances. He has sixteen thousand wives.
Jesus is unmarried. To imagine a wife with Jesus is difficult.
Here, a vision of sixteen thousand wives! Those who imagined this were fearless. Only an awakened one could remain sane amidst sixteen thousand wives. One wife drives men mad; sixteen thousand! Only a Buddha could remain among them and not go insane. Existence could devise no greater test than to give someone sixteen thousand wives. Everyone has experience of one. A few have of two or three. They know how troublesome it becomes. Sixteen thousand!
They were brave who envisioned this. And Krishna, in their midst, still plays the flute. Try playing a flute with one wife! He dances—this is altogether different. There is no congruence with Jesus, none with Mahavira. The whole existence appears as a dance. As if sorrow were superficial and vain. Sorrow is but ignorance. Sin, merit, repentance—all are superficial things. The festival is inner, deep.
Therefore “Tathagata” is to be understood. It means: all awakened ones are the same. But on the surface they are many; to house them together is hard. Seat Krishna and Christ in one home—and it will be difficulty. There hangs Christ upon the cross, and there Krishna plays the flute. Hard indeed.
On the surface no accord; each awakened one unique and himself alone. But in the depths, they have walked upon the same footprints. Hence they are all called Tathagatas.
In the depths, their footprints are exactly the same—but only a very deep eye can see. Outer garments differ, personalities differ; the soul does not.
“The Lord, the perfect Tathagata, who has walked in the footprints of his forerunners...”
Therefore the awakened one is ever new—and ever ancient. New, if you see him from above; ancient if you know him from within. Utterly novel, original—and utterly eternal, primordial. Whatever he says is utterly unique—and whatever he says is what the awakened have always said. When these opposites are seen together, the meaning of Tathagata is understood.
In the inner realm, Buddha and Mahavira are exactly alike. What is their sameness?
Here, we are many, all different. Even if outwardly we look similar—bodies alike, clothes alike—within, the thoughts are different. Those inner thoughts make all divergent. Buddha, Krishna, Christ, Mahavira—within them there are no thoughts—there is shunya. That shunya makes them the same within.
In the expression of that shunya, differences appear. When the void manifests, it passes through the layers of personality. As if we light lamps and place around each a glass of different color. One blue, one red, one green—one and the same lamp burns within. The light’s nature is one. But outside the different sheaths, different colors appear.
The light that burns in Buddha and in Christ is one. They are Tathagatas—there all is shunya. Between two voids there is no difference. Between two thoughts there is difference; between two minds there is difference; between two Samadhis there is none. If we all here become silent, within us no difference remains. All outer differences disappear among awakened ones; among us, outer harmony, inner difference. Outwardly we live almost alike; inwardly vast difference. Hence, even two friends are hard to make in the world—between them there is great inner difference. Inner thought breeds conflict. Two awakened ones need not be brought together.
I have heard: once Mahavira and Buddha lodged in the same village, in the same dharmashala—and did not meet. It seems unbecoming—they should have met; mankind would have benefited. Not that people did not try—surely they did; surely they were troubled—why do they not meet? They should meet. But beyond our understanding there is no meaning in meeting; within they are so one—whom to meet, what to meet? What meaning? Two voids within—even if they meet, there will be one void. Two zeros do not make two zeros when combined; they make one zero. Add a thousand zeros—they still make one zero. Not a thousand.
Zero means not an entity, but emptiness. Two emptinesses—what happens? One emptiness remains. Seat Buddha and Mahavira together, there are not two men, there is one. Gather all Tathagatas—there will not be a thousand; there will be one void. In this sense, the Tathagata is both unique and one who walks in the footprints of his forerunners.
“The words of all Tathagatas are: the eight grievous sorrows depart forever. If not, know you cannot attain knowledge; cannot attain Nirvana.”
If, after dispassion, sorrow still remains, know you have missed. The dispassionate should not have sorrow. The sorrow of the attached is understandable: when attachment is not fulfilled, sorrow arises. In attachment there is expectation—when fulfillment fails, sorrow comes. If fulfillment comes, sorrow still comes; for the expectation of attachment keeps widening. The dispassionate should not have sorrow. If he has, know you have erred. The awakened ones say: all sorrow departs forever—if dispassion becomes true. And in the moment of dispassion, if by mistake there is no deviation, if ego does not seize, if no subtle desire begins to play—then all sorrows dissolve. If you feel sorrows have not dissolved, know you have missed—and Nirvana cannot be attained.
“The virtue of dispassion is very stern and cruel. If you would be master of this path, you must keep your mind and vision freer than ever from fatal action.”
The virtue of dispassion is stern and ruthless; no exceptions occur there. And rightly so. One who is ready to abandon all sorrow, to be freed from all sorrow, must pass through a hard test. He who hopes to be free of all sorrow must pass through a stern trial.
What is that stern trial?
Between two things: first, that freedom from sorrow is impossible until freedom from desire is complete. If subtle desire remains, subtle sorrow remains. Where there is desire, somewhere there will be pain. Where there is demand, there will be a thorn in the heart. The garments of desire we wear must be utterly dropped. They alone bind and cause pain.
I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin once gave a tailor some cloth to make clothes. After years of saving he had bought precious fabric. The tailor took long, made him run in circles. At last the clothes were ready. A festival was near; Nasruddin was happy. But on wearing the clothes he was distressed. “What have you done,” he cried. “You have ruined the fabric. Look at the collar—it climbs to my head!”
The tailor said, “It is not the collar’s fault—lift your head a little.” He pulled Nasruddin’s neck straight upward. The neck went up—but got stuck. “One arm is short, one long,” said Nasruddin. “Your body is at fault,” said the tailor. “Stretch this arm forward.” He pulled one arm ahead. “And this shirt is too short below.” “Bend forward a little,” said the tailor. Nasruddin bent forward. The pajama had one leg long, one short. The tailor kept fixing; Nasruddin’s form grew ever more distorted. He became like Ashtavakra—bent in eight places. “Now look in the mirror,” said the tailor. “All the beauties of the town will go mad. I have labored for months on these clothes!” Nasruddin saw his strange condition. Yet the hope that beauties would go mad pleased him. “Is it so?” he said. “Never have I worked so hard on any garment,” said the tailor.
Nasruddin set out home, holding his pose—one long arm held long, neck high, one leg short drawn in, one long thrust out, garments short so he leaned forward—hoping beauties would go mad!
Everyone moves thus, maintaining his posture. The man of desire becomes Ashtavakra.
On the way home, in hope that some beauty would go mad, many people were startled. Women too looked with a start—who would not, seeing such a sight! Nasruddin thought the tailor was right. A stranger, new to the village—others knew there was nothing special—that this was to be expected—called out, “Stop, Nasruddin, what is your tailor’s address? Who made this?” Nasruddin said, “What! Why ask my tailor’s address?” He thought the man wanted to compete. “I want to know your tailor’s address,” the stranger said, “because he who can tailor for an Ashtavakra like you must be a genius. Such a twisted body and he fits the clothes perfectly—astonishing! I want to meet him.” He did not know that the poor man was not Ashtavakra—he was made so by the clothes.
Your distortion is the circle of desires around you. One desire is pulling at the leg; one lifting the head; one pulling an arm. You hold yourself in a difficult posture. No yogi performs such asanas as you do. You hold yourself thus in the hope that some desire, in this manner, might be fulfilled.
This is man’s condition. Through births upon births, man has been Ashtavakra. Therefore dispassion appears stern and ruthless; your limbs must be straightened again. Your distorted condition must be restored to the natural. Where you have bent in many places, the joints have grown stiff—those joints must be broken. Habit-energies of desire are strong. Even standing at the gate of dispassion, the old habits bend you in their own ways. Hence it appears cruel and stern—as if a man’s bones had set wrongly and must be broken and reset, and plaster applied lest they set skewed again.
Nearly this is what dispassion must do. Through many births, all your arrangements are wrongly set. What should be where is not; what should not be is there. The forms of your so-called organs are not their natural forms—they are perverted, distorted. All has become distorted—attachment has distorted all. In the race of attachments man consents to distortion.
Alexander was a student of Plato. He learned philosophy from him. But Alexander was an emperor and Plato a poor philosopher. One day Alexander said, “Be a horse. I want to ride you.” He made Plato into a horse, as children do, and rode him. Then he turned to courtiers and said, “See the state of a wise man! This seer has come to teach me.” Plato said, “It is because of my own desires that I am in this state—that I have become your horse. Even in teaching you I am making a bargain—I want to get something. That wanting has brought me to this condition where you sit upon my head. My desire has made me a horse—you have not. What can you do? My craving has thrown me down; you cannot throw me down.”
Whatever your condition is in this world, it is because of your desire. Hence dispassion appears stern—because it will break your entire condition; it will remake you; it will destroy, break, and build anew. If the slightest old habit enters at this gate, then whatever you gained—charity, virtue, forbearance—all will be lost; you will stand again where you began. Therefore with dispassion, utmost alertness is needed.
“You must saturate yourself with the pure Alaya (the Supreme) and become one with Nature’s self-sense. One with this, you are unconquerable. Separate, you become the playground of samvritti—the field of play for the conventional illusion—which is the root-source of all the world’s delusions.”
Saturate yourself with the pure Alaya, the Supreme Reality.
What is desire? Desire means: we are not satisfied with what is. We are not content with what is given. We tell existence, “No, this is not enough—this is needed, and this, and this.” We say: “We shall be content when all this is given.” We are not at peace with what existence has bestowed. And existence has given all—life, and the wondrous secrets of life, and unfathomable depth, and the supreme bliss hidden within you. But it will open when you are at peace with existence. You have not the leisure even to see what has been given. You keep asking, “Give this; give that.” In the asking, that which is already given remains hidden. And what you ask for is nothing beside what is given.
A very wealthy lady had her portrait painted by a poor artist. When it was ready, she came to collect it, delighted. “What shall I pay?” she asked. The painter was poor. Even if a poor man desires, how great can his desire be—what can he ask for?
Our asking of God is like that of a poor man. Trifles and crumbs—from Him of whom such things should not be asked.
He thought, “Shall I ask a hundred dollars? Two hundred? Five hundred? A thousand?” His courage faltered—would she give that much? Better to leave it to her; she might give more. Yet fear arose: if I leave it to her and she gives little—once it is left to her, it is gone! Still he mustered courage: “As you wish.” “Then take this purse,” she said. “It is very valuable.”
The purse was indeed valuable and beautiful; but the painter’s heart sank—what would he do with a purse? He thought: Better I had asked a hundred dollars. “No, no—what will I do with a purse?” he said. “Give me a hundred dollars.” “As you wish,” the lady replied. She opened the purse; it contained a hundred thousand dollars. She took out a hundred and gave them to him—and went away with the purse.
It is said the painter is still beating his chest and wailing: “Ruined! I ruined myself!”
Man is almost in this condition. What God has given is closed, concealed. And we ask—two pennies, trifles. The treasure of life He has given—we have not even opened the purse.
Acceptance—the acceptance of existence—this is the meaning of being satiated.
What is given is infinitely more than what you can ever ask. But only when you are free of asking will you see what is given. Let the beggar return home; then he can see what lies within. He stands with his begging bowl in the marketplace! Gradually he forgets the home; only the bowl remains in hand. Wandering with this bowl through births, nothing has been gained. Nothing will be gained.
“You must be satiated with your pure Alaya—with the Supreme—and become one with Nature’s self-sense.”
Drop asking; asking itself separates you from Nature. Be content with what is. The moment you consent, the secrets begin to open; the eyes, no longer entangled in reaching forward, open and are free. Then we can see what is.
“One with this, you are unconquerable.”
Then there is no defeat for you.
“Separate, you become the playground of samvritti—the source of all the world’s delusions.”
Samvritti means Maya.
As Shankaracharya said, there are two kinds of truth—paramarthik (ultimate) and vyavaharic (pragmatic). Likewise Buddha said: the paramarthik truth and the samvritti truth. Samvritti is what Shankara calls Maya. The moment man asks, he enters the world of Maya. With asking, you become a beggar. Now you will wander in dreams.
Asking is the door of dreams.
The moment you stop asking, you become an emperor; you are outside Maya. The paramarthik truth begins to reveal itself.
And so long as we say, “It should be thus,” we are manufacturing dreams; we are living in Maya.