The Secret of Misery: Expecting Returns
If we examine our own lives, we find that the greatest cause of sorrow is this: we take up something, and put our whole energy on it–perhaps it is a failure and yet we cannot give it up. We know that it is hurting us, that any further clinging to it is simply bringing misery on us; still, we cannot tear ourselves away from it. The bee came to sip the honey, but its feet stuck to the honey-pot and it could not get away. Again and again, we are finding ourselves in that state. That is the whole secret of existence. Why are we here? We came here to sip the honey, and we find our hands and feet sticking to it. We are caught, though we came to catch. We came to enjoy; we are being enjoyed. We came to rule; we are being ruled. We came to work; we are being worked. All the time, we find that. And this comes into every detail of our life. We are being worked upon by other minds, and we are always struggling to work on other minds. We want to enjoy the pleasures of life; and they eat into our vitals. We want to get everything from nature, but we find in the long run that nature takes everything from us–depletes us, and casts us aside.
Had it not been for this, life would have been all sunshine. Never mind! With all its failures and successes, with all its joys and sorrows, it can be one succession of sunshine, if only we are not caught.
That is the one cause of misery: we are attached, we are being caught. Therefore says the Gita: Work constantly; work, but be not attached; be not caught. Reserve unto yourself the power of detaching yourself from everything, however beloved, however much the soul might yearn for it, however great the pangs of misery you feel if you were going to leave it; still, reserve the power of leaving it whenever you want. The weak have no place here, in this life or in any other life. Weakness leads to slavery. Weakness leads to all kinds of misery, physical and mental. Weakness is death. There are hundreds of thousands of microbes surrounding us, but they cannot harm us unless we become weak, until the body is ready and predisposed to receive them. There may be a million microbes of misery, floating about us. Never mind! They dare not approach us, they have no power to get a hold on us, until the mind is weakened. This is the great fact: strength is life, weakness is death. Strength is felicity, life eternal, immortal; weakness is constant strain and misery: weakness is death.
Attachment is the source of all our pleasures now. We are attached to our friends, to our relatives; we are attached to our intellectual and spiritual works; we are attached to external objects, so that we get pleasure from them. What, again, brings misery but this very attachment? We have to detach ourselves to earn joy. If only we had power to detach ourselves at will, there would not be any misery. That man alone will be able to get the best of nature, who, having the power of attaching himself to a thing with all his energy, has also the power to detach himself when he should do so. The difficulty is that there must be as much power of attachment as that of detachment. There are men who are never attracted by anything. They can never love, they are hard-hearted and apathetic; they escape most of the miseries of life. But the wall never feels misery, the wall never loves, is never hurt; but it is the wall, after all. Surely it is better to be attached and caught, than to be a wall. Therefore the man who never loves who is hard and stony, escaping most of the miseries of life, escapes also its joys. We do not want that. That is weakness, that is death. That soul has not been awakened that never feels weakness, never feels misery. That is a callous state. We do not want that.
At the same time, we not only want this mighty power of love, this mighty power of attachment, the power of throwing our whole soul upon a single object, losing ourselves and letting ourselves be annihilated, as it were, for other souls–which is the power of the gods–but we want to be higher even than the gods. The perfect man can put his whole soul upon that one point of love, yet he is unattached. How comes this? There is another secret to learn.
The beggar is never happy. The beggar only gets a dole with pity and scorn behind it, at least with the thought behind that the beggar is a low object. He never really enjoys what he gets.
We are all beggars. Whatever we do, we want a return. We are all traders. We are traders in life, we are traders in virtue, we are traders in religion. And alas! we are also traders in love.
If you come to trade, if it is a question of give-and-take, if it is a question of buy-and-sell, abide by the laws of buying and selling. There is a bad time and there is a good time; there is a rise and a fall in prices: always you expect the blow to come. It is like looking at the mirror. Your face is reflected: you make a grimace–there is one in the mirror; if you laugh, the mirror laughs. This is buying and selling, giving and taking.
We get caught. How? Not by what we give, but by what we expect. We get misery in return for our love; not from the fact that we love, but from the fact that we want love in return. There is no misery where there is no want. Desire, want, is the father of all misery. Desires are bound by the laws of success and failure. Desires must bring misery.
Poet Bhartrhari expressed the same idea thus:
bhogaa na bhuktaa vayameva bhuktaaH
tapo na taptam vayameva taptaaH .
kaalo na yaato vayameva yaataa-s
tR^ishhNaa na jiirNaa vayameva jiirNaaH
Pleasures have not been enjoyed by us; we have been consumed in the pursuit
Penance and austerities have not been performed by us; we have been burned
by the practice of tapas.
Time has not just passed by us; it has ravaged us without our consent.
Our desires have not been fulfilled; we have been drowned in our desires.
*A Mulla Nasruddin Story*:
Mulla Nasrudin, as everyone knows, comes from a country where fruit is
fruit, and meat is meat, and curry is never eaten.
One day he was plodding along a dusty Indian road, having newly descended
from the high mountains of Kafiristan, when a great thirst overtook him.
"Soon," he said to himself, "I must come across somewhere that good fruit is
to be had."
No sooner were the words formed in his brain than he rounded a corner and
saw sitting in the shade of a tree a benevolent-looking man, with a basket
in front of him.
Piled high in the basket were huge, shiny red fruits. "This is what I need,"
said Nasrudin. Taking two tiny coppers from the knot at the end of his
turban, he handed them to the fruit-seller.
Without a word the man handed him the whole basket; for this kind of fruit
is cheap in India, and people usually buy it in smaller amounts.
Nasrudin sat down in the place vacated by the fruiterer, and started to
munch the fruits. Within a few seconds, his mouth was burning.
Tears streamed down his cheeks, fire was in his throat. The Mulla went on
An hour or two passed, and then an Afghan hillman came past. Nasrudin hailed
him. "Brother, these infidel fruits must come from the very mouth of
"Fool!" said the hillman. "Hast thou never heard of the chillis of
Hindustan? Stop eating them at once, or death will surely claim a victim
before the sun is down."
"I cannot move from here," gasped the Mulla, "until I have finished the
"Madman! Those fruits belong in curry! Throw them away at once."
"I am not eating fruit any more," croaked Nasrudin, "I am eating my money!"
Again, the same message, a different way of telling!