Non-Manifest Consciousness (Anidassana Viññāṇa) - 10 | Ven. Aluthgamgoda Gnanaweera Thero | Nihada Arana

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Non-Manifest Consciousness (Anidassana Viññāṇa) - 10 | Ven. Aluthgamgoda Gnanaweera Thero | Nihada Arana 

A Note on the Source Text: This translation was prepared from a transcript of the original video recording. As the source transcript may have contained inaccuracies, there may be variations between this text and the original audio, particularly in the spelling of personal names, the titles of Suttas, and the rendering of Pali verses.

[Music]
Right, today I thought we should discuss the second paragraph on page 88 a little bit. It explains that the Buddha clarified how the dark cloud obstructing the field of vision regarding our mental life arises from the delusion concerning the perception of self (attā saññā). This delusion presents itself as a viewpoint—please refer to Chapter Six. We will not look at Chapter Six right now; perhaps we can discuss Chapter Six of "The Magic of the Mind" (Manase Māyāva) another time. To understand this point, Venerable Katukurunde Nanananda Thero has suggested looking at Chapter Six of "The Magic of the Mind." To ensure its long-term survival, taking ignorance (avijjā) as a background, and due to ignorance and craving (taṇhā), the mind becomes trapped within acquisition—trapped within the sense of "owning." Within the narrow limits measured by the conceit "I am" (asmimāna)—that is, the feeling that "I exist"—the accumulation of knowledge built upon the six bases of contact is revealed to be nothing but ignorance. As a result of the inevitable duality regarding the internal (ajjhatta) and external (bahiddha) bases, consciousness gets crushed and stuck between "here" and "there"—refer to Chapter Five.

So, we will have to look at that another time as well. Venerable Katukurunde Nanananda Thero has explained this somewhat, referring to Chapter Five of "The Magic of the Mind." Now, we are discussing the final chapter, Chapter Eleven. The facts in the book state the following: The attempt to generate light through union with Brahma (brahmasahavyatā)—becoming one with Brahma—is a myth. It is merely the submerging of one dark layer, the individual self, into another dark layer, the universal self. Generally, in Hinduism, the merging of the individual soul with the universal soul is accepted as Moksha or Nibbāna. However, according to the Buddha's teaching, this is not accepted; it is stated to be different. By shattering the conditioned limits created by personality view (sakkāya diṭṭhi) using the penetrating wisdom known as nibbedhika paññā, one can realize the potential within consciousness to reach the state of being infinite and luminous in all directions (anantaṃ sabbatopabhaṃ). This was a revelation of a kind that human convention, which believed such a merging occurred, had never expected.

Now, a small problem arises here. Sometimes, for those present here, if they are not familiar with the terminology of the Tipiṭaka, listening to this feels a bit like listening to Greek; it sounds like gibberish. This is because they are not accustomed to this pattern of language. Just look at this—if someone does not understand these three specific terms: breaking the conditioned limits created by personality view (sakkāya diṭṭhi) through the penetrating stream of wisdom known as nibbedhika paññā, and realizing the capability within consciousness to reach the state of being infinite and luminous in all directions (anantaṃ sabbatopabhaṃ)... If one does not know these three words, this paragraph cannot be understood. We encounter all three of these terms in the Tipiṭaka.

Right. The first one is personality view (sakkāya diṭṭhi). We know that when one attains Stream-entry (Sotāpanna), three fetters (saṃyojana) are abandoned. One is personality view (sakkāya diṭṭhi), then doubt (vicikicchā), and adherence to rites and rituals (sīlabbata parāmāsa). You can see how much personality view exists... (Aside: I do not know if the elephant has died; someone is typing a letter or hammering something into a microphone nearby). So, the Dhamma mentions that personality view (sakkāya diṭṭhi) is abandoned at the stage of Stream-entry. In reality, the Buddha's instruction does not speak of destroying the sense of "I" or "mine-ness." It speaks of the abandoning of personality view (sakkāya diṭṭhi). We have mistakenly translated this into the Sinhala language as a story about destroying the "self." That is an error that has occurred. Stream-entry is not actually the destruction of the "self"; it is the abandoning of the fetter known as personality view (sakkāya diṭṭhi).

So, if we do not properly understand the true meaning of these words... well, we simply do not know. Suddenly, there is talk of personality view (sakkāya diṭṭhi). Then, we get into quite a tangle about what personality view (sakkāya diṭṭhi) actually is. To be free from personality view (sakkāya diṭṭhi) is simply to understand personality view (sakkāya diṭṭhi) as personality view (sakkāya diṭṭhi). One must realize that personality view (sakkāya diṭṭhi) exists.

The reason we have not yet attained Stream-entry (Sotāpanna) is precisely because we do not recognize personality view (sakkāya diṭṭhi) for what it is. We lack the understanding of personality view (sakkāya diṭṭhi) as personality view (sakkāya diṭṭhi). To understand it as such means to comprehend it in this specific manner. If I do not explain these three words a little... well, we are very fond of reading books like this, but if we read a paragraph, we often do not understand even half of it.

However, we do not realize if this is perhaps a force of Māra. The Buddha has stated that personality view (sakkāya diṭṭhi) is abandoned... well, it happens, doesn't it? Someone comes and breaks our attention; they do not allow us to do this for even a moment. We do not even know that Stream-entry is the abandoning of personality view (sakkāya diṭṭhi). Stream-entry occurs through correctly recognizing personality view (sakkāya diṭṭhi) as personality view (sakkāya diṭṭhi). It is the ignorance regarding personality view (sakkāya diṭṭhi)... so, we do not know; perhaps it is a force of Māra, though we are unaware of it.

So, anyway, let us understand personality view (sakkāya diṭṭhi) simply. When speaking about what lies within personality view (sakkāya diṭṭhi), what we must understand is this: we feel that we are receiving certain experiences. This concerns the aggregate of clinging to form (rūpa upādānakkhandha). That is to say, a feeling has arisen that there is a "someone" called "I" who is experiencing things.
That means, for instance, experiencing this rain. Experiencing the lightning striking. This cold... The characteristic of form (rūpa) is the characteristic of being afflicted or deformed (ruppana). It means that an affliction is happening here. That is the sense of the aggregate of clinging to form (rūpa upādānakkhandha). Following that is the notion that a person called "I" is feeling certain sensations (vedanā). That is, experiencing sensations in terms of pleasure, pain, or neutral feeling; undergoing certain experiences and feeling sensations.

Then, by that person, certain things are recognized. This is what we call the aggregate of perception (saññākkhandha). That is, "I recognize." It is to this aggregate of perception that we often refer when we say, "I remember." We say, "I remember such an event happened," or "These things happened to me when I was small." There is a recognition of things having happened to a "me."

That recognition exists as: "As a 'me' in childhood, I was like this," "In our village, it was like this," "We did this, we did that, this is how it used to be." Like that, an aggregate of clinging to perception (saññā upādānakkhandha)—meaning a memory—is functioning. There is a certain recognition, a certain memory. However, even now—it is good to observe—when this lightning strikes, you can see how much fear arises. You can see how much personality view (sakkāya diṭṭhi) is operating within. We still do not know it. If that were momentarily crushed... the aggregate of perception. Then, the second point... the next point is that feeling which always suggests something like "I remember."

"Such a thing happened." "I remember I felt it." "I have had such an experience in meditation." "I have had such an experience in life." Experiences, feelings, recognition, and this act of constructing. That is to say, regarding anything, the aggregate of volitional formations (saṅkhārakkhandha) means... well, take a note of this. When you take a teledrama, for example, it is not actually a real car that is burning; it is a toy car that is burning.

When the toy car is burning... if the person who constructed that scene goes to watch it... they get the feeling. That is what saṅkhāra means; saṅkhāra means putting these things together to create a different story. Just think about it. The aggregate of volitional formations (saṅkhārakkhandha) means... what the director always does is take a cardboard prop or a toy car, and makes it appear as if a real car is crashing and moving in the film. By combining those frames, they make it look like a live event.

That is what is called the aggregate of volitional formations (saṅkhārakkhandha). That is to say, saṅkhāra means volition (cetanā). Volition is an act of preparation or construction. It is not the thing that is actually relevant there; in a way, it is unrelated. That is, in reality, it was just a toy car that crashed. But it is constructed. It is prepared in such a way that, through the film, one gets the feeling that a real car has crashed. So, just imagine, if the person who constructed it goes and watches it, he experiences that feeling.

Even though it is a construction, the one who made it knows the reality. That is where penetrating wisdom (nibbedhika paññā) lies. He cannot be bound by it. However, if one does not know that this is merely the aggregate of volitional formations (saṅkhārakkhandha)—if penetrating wisdom is absent—one becomes like an ordinary person going to watch a film. They simply get scared. They think, "This car has really crashed and fallen into a precipice." Why? Because they do not know about the aggregate of volitional formations. They do not know the process of construction—how this was put together. Because they do not know the construction, that person gets scared, thinking it is a disaster.

In the same way, saṅkhāra simply means constructing or preparing. Or else, volition (cetanā). So, volition and attention (manasikāra) constitute the aggregate of volitional formations. Personality view (sakkāya diṭṭhi) arises within this aggregate of clinging to volitional formations when one thinks, "I feel," or "I think." The tendency to feel that what is constructed is real or true—that is what is called personality view.

Consider that point. Personality view (sakkāya diṭṭhi) is simply the unawareness of personality view as personality view. Now, I only mentioned the aggregate of volitional formations. Do not take only the aggregate of volitional formations. All five aggregates are bound together in this; there are not five separate things here. Now, when we speak of the aggregate of clinging to consciousness (viññāṇa upādānakkhandha), it is the knowing of what was prepared by the aggregate of volitional formations. Then one thinks, "I knew it," "I understood it," "I felt it." "I knew," "I thought"—that is exactly what personality view is.

We have understood these five—Form, Feeling, Perception, Formations, and Consciousness—as a person experiencing, feeling, recognizing, thinking, and knowing. Now, do not just stick to the book; the book itself is of no use. This book speaks about our life. When you apply this to life, it becomes clear. Personality view is not some strange external thing. The Dhamma explains our very life.

However, it is not the way we usually see life. The Dhamma highlights the distortion in our way of seeing. We think that the way we see—where there is a "someone" called "I" who experiences, feels, recognizes, thinks, and knows—is reality. That is how personality view has become solidified and tightened within us. That is the burden. Personality view means attributing these five to a person. "I am living"—this whole idea comes from: "I experience," "I feel," "I recognize," "I think," "I know." "I felt," "I thought," "I recognized," "I remember," "I enjoyed that." That is what is called personality view.

So, regarding penetrating wisdom (nibbedhika paññā)... these words are the Buddha's words found in the Tipiṭaka. The point to understand here is this: if we can truly understand—through direct knowledge (abhiññā)—what exactly experiencing, feeling, recognizing, thinking, and knowing are, then the crossing over of personality view occurs. That is, one transcends personality view itself.

For example, try to understand what I am saying. Think about personality view. We experience things. If asked to explain the experience, we must explain the experience without talking about what is experienced. Take feeling. When we feel a sensation, we usually say, "I felt a pain," or "I enjoyed it." But feeling must be recognized simply as feeling. That is when there is no room for personality view (sakkāya). That means, regarding recognition—perception (saññā)—it must be recognized simply as perception. When we try to explain recognition, look at what happens. We usually say, "Ah, I recognized it like this," or "I remember this thing." It is not about the thing remembered. What is memory itself? Not what was recognized, but what is the act of recognition? That is where wisdom must be applied.

That is precisely what it means to see with clarity—to see the five aggregates of clinging (pañca upādānakkhandha) clearly. To see personality view (sakkāya diṭṭhi) clearly means understanding that the person we feel as "I" arises from the notions: "I recognized," "I knew," "I thought." Therefore, we must investigate: what exactly is "thinking"? What is "knowing"? What is "feeling"? What is "experiencing"? That is where wisdom must be directed.

Observe this closely. If you have a question, it does not matter, please ask. If you have a thought... because this is a very subtle point. The ignorance lies precisely there; that is the problem. The Buddha instructs us to see personality (sakkāya) itself clearly. To see personality view itself with clarity. That is the point we must understand here.

In reality, whenever we try to explain perception (saññā), we do not explain the act of recognition; we try to speak about the thing that was recognized. We say, "I am thinking." Now, the thing being thought of is not "me." We speak in terms of "I thought like this," "I recognized like this," "I felt like this," "I experienced like this," "I knew like this." Thus, "I" describes "myself" through these processes: Consciousness (viññāṇa) is knowing; Formations (saṅkhāra) are the preparation or volition; the Aggregate of Perception (saññākkhandha) is recognition; the Aggregate of Feeling (vedanākkhandha) is feeling; the Aggregate of Form (rūpakkhandha) is experiencing. It is from this collection that the nature called "I" gains its existence. The existence of the personality (sakkāya) called "I"—the nature called "I"—is sustained right there.

So, if we look closely at what this experiencing, feeling, recognizing, thinking, and knowing actually are... we will understand. However, do not grasp at the object that is experienced. The moment you grasp the object, it gets tangled. Why? Suppose I am thinking about my mother. The object of thought is the mother. The mother is not "me." "I thought about mother." The sense of "I" is found in the phrase "I thought." Now, remove "mother" from that. Remove the mother and look at what "thinking" actually is. What is "thinking"? What is "recognizing"? When I say, "I recognized the person in front of me," the person in front is irrelevant. The person is not the recognition. The sense of "I" comes from the idea "I recognized." "I" is constructed through the notion that "I recognized him." So, look at what recognition itself is.

Now, we say, "Oh, I felt a pleasure," or "I felt a pain." It is not about the thing that was felt. You are not the thing that was felt. We call ourselves "I" based on the feeling "I felt." Now, remove the thing that was felt and give attention to the feeling itself. "I had such an experience." It is not about the object of experience. Look at what the act of experiencing is. If you direct your attention well to that point, see what happens. If you direct your wisdom there... The Buddha speaks of impermanence (anicca). He does not say the object recognized is impermanent. Recognition itself is impermanent. Why? Because recognition cannot truly happen. We use a perception of permanence to handle something that does not actually exist in time.

"I recognized," "I knew," "It occurred to me," "I thought." Or one might say, "I thought of it," or "It came to mind." Whether you say "I remembered," "I recalled," "It occurred to me," "I thought," "I knew," or "I felt"—look at what that process actually is. That is the place. That is the kind of place the Tathāgatas point towards.

People always confuse this. When the Buddha says that perception (saññā) is impermanent, people think, "The thing I recognized is impermanent." That is wrong. That is going too far astray. By then, personality view (sakkāya) has already slipped in. Because there is a "thing" that was recognized. At that point, "I" have already been constructed. Then, regarding that arisen thing, we start talking about the destruction of the "I" or the destruction of the world. That is falling into the perception of permanence. Always understand this: the ordinary mind (puthujjana mind) is accustomed to looking not at the recognition, but at the object recognized as impermanent, suffering, and non-self. The recognized object is merely a trace of elements (dhātu). The recognized object is non-self (anattā). But when you go to the place of "the recognized object," personality view (sakkāya)—the five aggregates of clinging—has already been constructed. When you arrive at "the thing recognized," the whole work is completely ruined.

You are already completely caught in the trap. Why? Because in the moment you grasp the object that was recognized, personality view (sakkāya diṭṭhi) is born from it. You think, "It is I who recognized," "It is I who thought," "It is I who knew," "It is I who experienced." That is how personality view gains existence. The construction of personality (sakkāya) has already taken place right there.

Now, observe this. The Buddhas point out that we should not let the story go that far. Once it has gone that far, it is of no use; you are already ensnared. However, the world is accustomed to regarding the thing recognized, the thing thought, or the thing known as impermanent, suffering, and non-self. They think, "One day we will die," or "One day all of this will pass away." Holding onto a view like that will never help one attain the state of Stream-entry (Sotāpanna) regarding this personality view.

However, that view is good in its own way. Through it, one can reach a point of renunciation (abhinikkhamana), just as Prince Siddhartha left after becoming disenchanted with the world. That view is useful for understanding the nature of the world and turning towards seeking Liberation (Nibbāna). That is, when seeing the four omens, a sense of disenchantment arises, prompting one to seek the truth.
Therefore, understand this well. When we contemplate impermanence, suffering, and non-self after the five aggregates of clinging (pañca upādānakkhandha) have already been constructed, what arises within us is a subtle aversion (paṭigha). It is a kind of weariness. It is not true knowledge (ñāṇa) that arises there. It is not wisdom (paññā) that is applied. The mind simply becomes negative. One becomes disenchanted with the world.

But what happens here is something different. What is recognition? Recognition operates based on "I." "I think," "I know," "I feel." So, without going to the object that is felt or recognized, look at what recognition itself is. Look at the act of thinking.

Now, just see what happens when we try to look at recognition purely as recognition, without an object that is recognized. When we say it is impermanent, it does not mean "recognition is impermanent." Be careful—the moment you name it "recognition," it becomes a "thing," and existence is created for recognition again. Existence itself is constructed right there. So, you see, you cannot go even that far. If you go that far, the work is ruined.

Because the moment I bring up the word, that existence has already arrived; it has been made into a "thing." Therefore, there must be wisdom—a knowledge must arise that transcends even this language I am speaking. Because when it comes to language, by calling it "recognition," it has already been made into an entity. Consequently, the person "I who recognized" has already been constructed.

That is the point. Recognizing personality view (sakkāya diṭṭhi) as personality view is something like this. It is not a destruction of the "self" that happens here. When wisdom is applied to see how this personality view was constructed, the knot known as personality view does not get tied. It is not that an existing knot is untied. Rather, the knot simply does not arise.

If a knot does not arise, then there is no need to talk about there being "no knot." We are trying to untie a knot that does not exist. What is needed is the realization that the knot does not exist. So, that is the story of the five aggregates of clinging (pañca upādānakkhandha) and the story of personality (sakkāya).
That is what happens here. Personality view (sakkāya diṭṭhi) is this tying of the knot. Whenever we try to understand "recognition" through the thing that is recognized, "I" am constructed. "I knew him," "I remember him," "I still remember that feeling." In that way, a trinity is formed: a "me" that was nowhere to be found, a recognized object, and the act of recognition.

That is how the construction of the five aggregates of clinging occurs. Now, regarding this matter and the application of wisdom, let me offer a simile. Please pay close attention to this simile. Let us take it like this... observe through this example. However, there is a slight danger in this example.

The reason is that this example sounds a bit like an attempt to describe Cessation (Nirodha). Whenever one attempts to describe Extinguishment (Nibbāna), it gets a bit messy, doesn't it? We are trying to describe a place that cannot be described. So, there is some danger in the simile. However, just to explain the non-arising of the five aggregates of clinging, I will use a simile. Please consider this simile.
Think a little. Just imagine that we are dreaming at night. In the dream, seeing, hearing, feeling, recognizing, and thinking—all five of these are functioning, aren't they? We experience things. In the dream, we have experiences. Then we feel happiness or sadness; we recognize things; we think; we know. Just think about it for a moment when we are dreaming.

At the moment we are dreaming, the entire five aggregates of clinging (pañca upādānakkhandha) are in operation. The whole story of the dream functions through our five aggregates of clinging. Because, look, in that dream, the person called "I" is felt. The five aggregates of clinging—recognizing, feeling, experiencing, knowing—are active when we see a dream at night. But now, think about this example carefully. Look at the place where we experience the dream. The dream is experienced... this is just a simile to explain the cessation (nirodha) of the five aggregates of clinging and personality view (sakkāya). Just imagine that the entire process of the five aggregates of clinging in this dream is happening...

It is a dream that cannot be known. We cannot know sleep itself. We can never experience the state of sleep while we are asleep. However, we know that it is from sleep that this dream appears. So, in a place that cannot be experienced at all—that is, in reality, what is actually there is sleep—but the true experience is what we cannot experience.

The true experience is sleep, but we cannot experience sleep itself. Even though we cannot experience it, there is something we do experience: the dream. But just sit and reflect on this carefully. After we wake up, we realize that what was actually there was sleep. What we did not experience at all was sleep. Yet, what we experienced was the dream.

Forms, feelings... at that time there were experiences, sights, sounds, recognitions, and knowings. But it was precisely those five that were not actually there. That is to say, those five were exactly what had not arisen there. Do you understand the simile? Let us take that simile for now to infer this. Use this inference to understand the matter of personality (sakkāya). That is, regarding that which truly has no experience—sleep cannot be experienced by anyone; no one can experience it there.

However, the dream I experienced—the dog I saw, the sound of that dog, the fear I felt when the dog came to bite me, then the anger I felt towards it, the knowledge I had... I knew, consciously, "A dog is coming after me." That "I" who knew, that dog which was known, that act of knowing... look at that a little. That is exactly what did not happen. Do you see? What did not happen at all was precisely that process of the five aggregates.

It was the five aggregates of clinging themselves that did not function there. Yet, what we encountered as "real" was that very lie. What we meet as "truth" is that same lie. But when we wake up, we realize that it was exactly that which did not exist. However, the sleep that was actually there—we did not see it, nor did we know it. Try to understand something like that. I am just offering a simile.

Just look at it in relation to that simile. Now, let us assume we wake up after that. Look at the process of waking up. I will use another small simile to explain how the five aggregates of clinging are constructed. Come, look through this simile to clarify this a bit. Suppose now, while listening to the sermon, we drift off a little; we doze off for a moment, fall into a light sleep, and then let's say we wake up like this.

Suddenly, we are awake. After waking up... imagine this: you are listening to the sermon. I had fallen asleep and even saw a dream, and suddenly I woke up. After waking up—having seen a dream and then woken up—what did I do? Then, my attention went back to your sermon. Now, while that attention is shifting, observe carefully what I am saying. While attending to the sermon, we also drift into mental worlds (manoloka); we remember things, we think, and we listen to the sermon.

While listening to the sermon, suppose our mind wanders off somewhere. It goes into some thought. It goes to some train of thought. Now, we must understand this simile while keeping the earlier dream simile in mind. If you grasp the dream simile while understanding this, it will become clear. So, while listening to the sermon, after the mind has wandered off, suddenly I am startled—like when a thunderbolt strikes—and I snap back to the body. It is like that.

Think a little. Suppose a thunderbolt struck, or a needle pricked me. Suddenly, I came back. I suddenly came back to this body. At that moment, I realize that I am sitting here. But now, just think... while listening to this sermon, how many times did we actually feel that "I am sitting here"? If we conduct this sermon for an hour, sometimes our attention goes to the fact that we are sitting only two or three times.
Perhaps when an ant bites, or when a leg hurts. Otherwise, we do not have a constant feeling of "I am sitting here." We drift into mental illusions, into worlds of thought, or fall asleep; we drift in and out of the sermon. We go into other mental fantasies. If you want to verify this, just listen to the recording of this later. You will wonder, "Oh no, at what point did you say that part? I didn't hear it!"

"When did you say that part? I missed it completely." Listen to the recording again when you go home, and you will understand. Then you will realize how little you have actually heard. And listen a second time—you will realize, "What I understood and what he actually said are completely different." You will see that too. He said one thing at that moment, but I had assumed something else and tried to understand it through that.

Just listen to the sermon ten or fifteen times; you will begin to understand it in ten different ways. You will begin to feel it in ten different ways. I gave a book to someone to translate for the meditation retreat next month. Later, I asked him to check the Sinhala translation again. He looked at the book and said that a completely different meaning was emerging.

The very book he worked on first seemed completely different. When reading the same English book for the second time, it seemed like a different book with a different set of ideas. So, was the first one a lie? If I had explained it based on that first reading, I would have gone astray. Do you see? How much it has changed! When the person who translated it reads it again five or six months later, he realizes, "Is this really what I interpreted back then?"

"Is this really what I understood and explained?" That is why you should listen to the same sermon again and again. A young person once told me, "Venerable Sir, you seem to be speaking about the same point at the Kandy retreat." I said, "No." That idea of "one point" comes because our mind has fallen somewhere. No, every day, you are not just understanding a new idea.

It does not fall like that. Instead, your awakening begins to open up more and more. You realize that you are beginning to expand. Your awakening becomes more powerful. There is no such thing as "speaking about the same point." There is no such place. It begins to become more and more infinite and luminous in all directions (anantaṃ sabbatopabhaṃ). It becomes infinite, infinite, infinite. Day by day, we may talk about the same five aggregates of clinging (pañca upādānakkhandha) again and again.

We might think, "Ah, today too we talked about the five aggregates of clinging. Yesterday too we talked about the five aggregates of clinging." No, look closely. When you listen as a completely new person today, you begin to be purified further. Your awakening begins to strengthen. You begin to be freed further. You begin to open up further. You realize a Dhamma that was never heard before, which you did not understand previously. I realize this myself; every day, I listen to one or two sermons from my teachers.

When I listen, I always find something new. It becomes fresh every day. Just like we need to eat rice again today even though we ate yesterday. Every day, listen to a few words from a teacher—listen, listen. Then I feel... well, if I said something wrong yesterday, I can correct it today. We do not know everything, do we? We speak just a little bit—yantaṃ santaṃ padaṃ—according to what we know and understand.

We speak in a way that can be understood, gently and peacefully. Then, it doesn't matter. I realize myself, "If I had said it this way, it would have been even clearer than that." As I listen to it again and again, I realize I am getting updated. Furthermore, if someone comes and asks a question... oh my goodness! From within, it gets analyzed from even more angles. That discussion becomes even more wonderful than the sermon itself.

Why? Because once we get into a discussion... well, the issue here is that our people do not ask questions. They sit there like stone statues (gal bamuṇā), so nothing comes out. But when questions arise like this, a completely different sermon emerges from it. Relative to the question asked, that point begins to unfold in a different way. It begins to unravel further.

So, I think we won't die easily. Our work is not finished, is it? Now, it is unlikely that even a lightning bolt could kill us because we haven't finished knowing what needs to be known. Now, suppose you think, "The Venerable Monk will die in another two months." Well, why live then? Since we still do not know somehow, nature will give us more life to read more, to learn more, to learn more.

It gives us life to learn more and more. Why? Because we do not know yet. That is why tomorrow, too, we will listen to a teacher's Dhamma talk. Tomorrow, too, we will read the Sutta Piṭaka. Tomorrow, too, we will read a new Sutta. Then, again and again, this becomes fresh. Otherwise, one gets fed up with this; it becomes stale. One thinks, "Oh, I already know this," but there is nothing actually known. The defilements (kilesa) are the same. The gratification (assāda) is the same. There is no freshness in life. There is no newness.

It feels like one has just become old and stale. But it is not like that. For me, no matter how much I speak about it, I never hear an old story. These days, I am reading a book by Ramana Maharshi—something like "Ulladu Narpadu" or whatever it is called. I think I have been reading the same forty verses for about six or seven months now. I read it about ten times. But when I read it the next day, I feel it from a completely new place.

I cannot figure it out—is it something about the book, or is it my own case? What is happening here? I think I have read the same forty verses about ten times now. I read the very same thing. Yet, it never feels old. I never feel, "Oh, I read this last week." I do not know; there is something very strange about this Dhamma. The Dhamma is something that is always, always, always pubbe ananussutesu dhammesu—it is always heard as a Dhamma never heard before.

It is always pubbe ananussutesu dhammesu—completely unheard of before. It is always new. It never gets old. And because it never gets old, I never get old either. We do not age. So, we are not old. We always consume that freshness; we consume fresh things.

Ah, there is no sickness. We remain new every day. We remain fresh every day. We are always refreshed within the Dhamma of the Tathāgata. One only gets old if one grasps onto some memory—some perception (saññā)—and struggles with it. Only if one gets stuck in an aggregate of perception (saññākkhandha). If we get trapped in some memory or perception, then we start to get old. We start to rot. We start thinking, "Oh, this is not it."

So, let me come back to what I was saying. Regarding the five aggregates of clinging (pañca upādānakkhandha), look at that simile I used earlier. Pay a little attention to the simile I took. Actually, when the mind goes astray... let's assume, as I said earlier, when we are sitting here, for how long do we actually feel "I am sitting"? Then, our mind wanders into various worlds of thought, goes to various places, and suddenly we return to the body. Then our mind says, "What is this 'I'?" Look, one says, "Oh, Venerable Sir, my mind went astray! Oh my, throughout the whole sermon, I was off track. Throughout the whole sermon, my mind went somewhere else."

Then I ask, "Now, when you say your mind went somewhere else, look at this point: that mind which went astray is not 'you,' is it?" Then, regarding "you," where have you taken your basis from? Now look at the base. Go back to the dream simile. "Oh, look, Venerable Sir, I was asleep and saw a dream." When I take the base, it is sleep.

I base it on sleep and say, "I saw a dream." See if you can understand that. Similarly, when my mind wanders off now, what do I base it on when I say, "My mind went astray"? Let's discuss this just to break the monotony (kammale yannath ekka). What is the base? Right. In the case of a dream, I base it on sleep and say, "In my sleep, I saw a dream."

Taking sleep as the base... "Sleep is where I was sleeping; I saw a dream." The dream is not "me." I take sleep as the base, yet I did not actually experience sleep. Taking the unexperienced sleep as a base—establishing myself on that foundation—I spoke about the dream. Right. So now, at this moment, when we say, "My mind went astray," look... "Venerable Sir, my mind went completely off track (nannattāra vunā)."

Then, where did I base "myself"? Huh? I can't hear you. No, no, it's not aversion (dosa), not like that. Now, the mind went astray, right? That mind which went astray is not "me," is it? I know that the mind is just thoughts; various things came to mind, I remembered this and that—that is what I feel. So, I know that the mind went astray. That mind which went astray is not "me." So, when I say, "My mind went astray," or "For this long, I forgot where I was; I was just lost," where am I basing "myself"? Do you understand that?

Now, in the dream... "Oh, I saw a dream; it was madness; my head was spinning; I saw a crazy dream while I was asleep." When I say that, do you understand where I have based "myself"? It is not in the dream, is it? Where is "me" based? Where have I established my foundation? In sleep. Right. Now, after waking up... when I say, "My mind went astray," or "I went into various thoughts, Venerable Sir, I went off track"...

That is, when I say, "My mind went astray," where am I basing "myself"? Huh? Ah, exactly! "I am sitting here; I am this body." Based on the aggregate of clinging to form (rūpa upādānakkhandha)—based on the idea "I am the body"—I say all of this: "My mind went astray," "Oh, I didn't feel myself for about an hour," "Did you see? Based on 'me'—based on this body—I lost the sense of myself for about an hour; my mind went here and there."

So, that means... do you understand now? We have created a foundation based on the "body." We are basing ourselves on the first aspect of personality view (sakkāya diṭṭhi)—the aggregate of clinging to form. But just think: during that whole hour when the mind was wandering, regarding that which we based ourselves on—the body—we had absolutely no experience of it as a "body," did we? Whether the body existed or not, whether "I" existed or not... actually, regarding the very place where we established our foundation, we had no experience whatsoever.

We are established in a place that is impossible to experience—where no experience can be grasped. Just like sleep, which we cannot experience. Yet we say, "I slept; after falling asleep, I saw a crazy dream." Taking sleep as the base, we talk about the dream. The dream is a lie. But "I was in sleep."
"My mind went astray, but I was sitting." So, how can you say "I was sitting"? Look, did you see? It cannot be experienced. It is an experience like darkness. That is, based on a form (rūpa) that cannot be experienced—that is impossible to experience—I say, "My mind went astray," "It went there," "It went here," "It went to other worlds." Right, so if I ask, "Then, you..." I say, "Oh..." But if you look closely, you will understand.

At the moment our mind went astray, we did not even know if there was a body. Whether there was a "me" inside the body or not... the body was just like sleep. There was no experience like that. So, we say we have created a foundation in a place where a foundation cannot be maintained. Ah, in a place where clinging (upādāna) is impossible, a clinging has been formed. The aggregate of clinging to form (rūpa upādānakkhandha) is a place that cannot be experienced.

Oh, personality view (sakkāya diṭṭhi) means... a "me" has been created, established on a place that cannot be experienced. Regarding a form. But we cannot experience such a thing. We have created a foundation in a place that is impossible to experience. There is no meaning in that foundation. So then, just think... when doing walking meditation (sakman bhāvanā), we say, "Venerable Sir, my mind went astray; it went here, it went there."

So, if I ask you, "Right, you say your mind went here and there. When you say your mind went astray, what are you referring to? Where are you basing the word 'you'?" Then you might say, "Venerable Sir, I was doing walking meditation." Well, look. Whether you thought you were doing walking meditation or not, the walking happened, didn't it? At the moment your mind went astray, was there a body there? Was there a feeling that "I am walking"? No.

In that experience, nowhere was there a "you" or a feeling that "you are walking." The walking happened in a place that cannot be experienced. Walking cannot be experienced. What are we constructing? We are taking a foundation in a place where a foundation cannot be taken, and proceeding as if "I did the walking meditation." That is how it is. Now, the issue here is... there is a small problem. The problem is that we are talking about a place that cannot be known anyway.

So, to the mind, this seems like madness. However, that is why I said I am only giving you a kind of inferential knowledge (anumāna ñāṇa). I am giving you a small inference to understand this story. We base our foundation on something that cannot be a foundation. That is where our personality (sakkāya) is established—in the very place where it cannot be established. It is through that ignorance that the existence of the personality (sakkāya) of the five aggregates of clinging persists.

If you look closely, you will understand. Actually, we think about this life based entirely on the idea of a form (rūpa). But what we have never actually encountered is that very form we have based everything on. Just like in the dream—we base the dream on sleep, which is the very thing we have never encountered. We base our stories of "I knew" on a place that cannot be known. So, understand that point. Understand the story of "I knew" very well.

So, right where we take our foundation, there is a hollowness. We have created a foundation in a place where a foundation cannot be made. As you see this more and more, that construction begins to become hollow. The formations (saṅkhāra) become unable to construct. They cannot create that massive lie. Why? Because when you turn around and look at the place where it was established, you cannot find such a place.

It cannot be known. Now, let's take an example. Then you might say, "Right, Venerable Sir, if we cannot base it on the body as you say—because when the mind went astray into thoughts, we didn't even know if there was a body or not—then is what we call 'I' the thinking that happened at that moment?" Now, we want to give "me" a foundation from somewhere, don't we?

"Then, is the person who was thinking at that moment 'me'? Or is the knowledge that 'it was a thought' me?" Look at that too. Now, for an example, I will take this one. Try to understand it. To understand that point, look at this example. Suppose we are watching a teledrama. While watching the teledrama, think like this. Let's say, for example, I was eating. While eating, I am watching a teledrama. Then, some actor—a villain—hits the hero.

Now, while watching the teledrama at that moment, I feel it, don't I? When the villain hits the boy with a pair of scissors, I feel intense anger, sadness, fear—all the feelings come up. So, at that moment while watching the teledrama, am I not conscious? I have mindfulness (sati), don't I? I haven't fallen asleep. I can see clearly. I can feel clearly. I recognize clearly.

I know, I think. So, the five aggregates of clinging (pañca upādānakkhandha) are active at that moment. At that moment, I have the experience: I see, I feel sadness and happiness, I recognize. I recognize the actor, I recognize the actress, I recognize the enemy. I think, "It would be good if he were killed." I feel like killing that enemy myself. So, there is a construction happening too.

Inside, look... there is experience and feeling. But at that moment, we do not actually realize, "I am holding a phone and looking at a screen." Even though I am stirring up emotions, stirring up feelings, stirring up negative sensations, thinking thoughts, getting angry—whatever I do—take the reality. This is just a simile, okay? Actually, even the story that "this is a screen" is also a formation (saṅkhāra).
For now, just take that simile. When we take that simile, the truth is that we cannot know the reality. We only know mental illusions (manobhrānti) which are not the reality. That is to say, actually, on the phone screen—on the phone display—there is no actor, no actress, no enemy, nor any story happening. So then, even if we say, "I am the one who felt it at that moment," or "I am the one who watched that film," that very mindfulness (sati) is actually a lack of mindfulness (asihiya).

So, if we say we are experiencing something, look at that experience. That knowing, that recognizing... we encounter a thing that is recognized. A thing that is seen, a thing that is felt. That very thing is what has not arisen there. Such a thing cannot exist there at all. It is purely that our mindfulness itself is a lack of mindfulness. Just like that, look... we do not even know the place where we are established.
Then, due to not knowing where we are established, we think something like "I was there." But at that moment, the "I" who was thinking, the film that was seen, that actor, that enemy, the intention to hit him, the "I" who felt sad about it—that whole story is purely a lack of mindfulness. That very knowing is ignorance (avijjā). Mindfulness itself is unmindfulness.

If I say, "I watched the film with mindfulness," well, a film cannot be found with mindfulness. If it is found, then that is unmindfulness. Right, then we say... coming to this point... then we say, "Right." Suddenly we are startled, and then we come back to "I am eating." Then I see the plate of rice again. Even as I see the rice, I think again, "Now I am mindful; I am eating rice now."

Just as it seemed real through intention (cetanā) while watching the film, here too, another intention has been formed. This and the one in the film are both the same. Now a feeling has come: "I am eating rice." Just as I saw frames on the screen, here too, "Ah, I am eating rice." Again, there is another formation (saṅkhāra). So, again and again, if we claim to know something... "I knew."

Then I say, "Oh, that film was a lie. That didn't really happen." But at the moment of seeing it, it was completely real. However, understand this: afterwards, I think, "I was actually eating rice properly." In reality, while watching the actor being hit in the film, at that moment, neither the story of eating rice nor the story of not eating rice existed. Nothing like that occurred there.

But we say, "I forgot that I was eating. I got lost in the film." Was there even a sense of forgetting there? At that time, there is no experience to even say, "I forgot." Then you understand. So, if we see the film as a lie and the "eating" as the truth, that is again just another experience of the five aggregates, constructed by more intentions in the same way.

Ah, there too, it is the same unmindfulness. So, if we say there is any experience, if we say, "I was mindful," that very mindfulness is unmindfulness. You have established that unmindfulness and called it mindfulness. So, Nibbāna means the gradual awakening to the fact that this mindfulness is actually unmindfulness. One cannot simply "wake up." That is the delusion of mindfulness. However, we do not tell this to a meditator at the beginning.

In the beginning, if we tell such a big story, that person will be terrified, wondering, "What is this being said? Mindfulness is unmindfulness?" So, yes, as long as your meditation works on the basis that there is a separate thing being experienced and a separate experiencer—if it is based on certain experiences or meditation subjects (kammaṭṭhāna)—until then, it cannot be called Nibbāna.

Anyway, that is not the consciousness that does not manifest (anidassana viññāṇa); it is not the unestablished consciousness (appatiṭṭhita viññāṇa). In the place where you are established, calling it "mindfulness," personality view (sakkāya) is working completely. The five aggregates of clinging are working completely. We tell you to meditate until that place where you are established, experiencing it as "correct," wears away. Until you cannot even establish yourself there. Until you have had enough of lagging there. Then, someone might have... now, regarding that simile... let's understand it for now. I took two similes: the dream and sleep. However, we never actually encounter the story of sleep.

We encounter the dream, but we base it on sleep and say, "In my sleep, I saw a dream." Yet, we have never actually encountered the foundation. Similarly, I say, "While I was sitting, my mind went astray." But we never actually encountered the act of sitting. It is something that cannot be known. Likewise, the "I" that exists within the claim "I knew" was not actually something that existed there either.

In the place where one says "I thought" or "It occurred to me," there is no "thing" to be found; the knowing itself is just hollow. It is merely an illusion (māyā), merely a mental distortion (manobbhaṅgama). Keeping this wisdom in mind—that is, someone who has applied this wisdom, someone who has applied this understanding—goes on to practice the Foundations of Mindfulness (Satipaṭṭhāna). He goes on to develop mindfulness (sati).

As he develops mindfulness... the way I understand it... imagine now that he is meditating. As we develop mindfulness, which we discuss fundamentally, he begins to understand this matter. I mentioned those similes earlier as theoretical principles.

In the practical life of meditation, one does not experience it exactly as I described. Now, having listened to that sermon, having understood that this "consciousness that does not manifest" (anidassana viññāṇa) or "unestablished consciousness" (appatiṭṭhita viññāṇa) is not something one can experience... it is not a feeling known as "mindfulness" that can be grasped by mere awareness. It is the person who has the understanding that this is found only through a mindfulness that goes beyond feeling—through wisdom itself—who is now developing and practicing the Foundations of Mindfulness (Satipaṭṭhāna).
As one practices with such wisdom, as one develops mindfulness... it is strange... well, not exactly strange. It is like this: we still identify ourselves based on the body. We live in concepts. So, we have an effort—a try—to calm down this body and these concepts. To settle this down a little.

At this stage, the view (diṭṭhi) is still too strong. Please understand well what I am saying. Therefore, as you develop mindfulness, pay close attention to this. Because personality view (sakkāya diṭṭhi) has not yet worn away 100%, and if the conceit "I am" (asmimāna) still exists within us, if personality view still exists, then in a subtle way, through thoughts, we still have the tendency to identify ourselves based on form (rūpa) and the five aggregates. That tendency is still working inside.

Therefore, we try... it feels like we are trying to calm down the five aggregates of clinging, to calm down this form and this feeling. Like trying to extinguish the two phenomena of name-and-form (nāma-rūpa). It is not felt simply like that; rather, we just really like to be calm, to be settled, to be cooled. I am speaking about a part of the practice here. Because the earlier similes were metaphors pointing directly at Nibbāna.

You cannot grasp that. If you try to grasp that through similes, it will lead to madness. It is enough just to let those similes be felt by a little mindful wisdom. In the practical realm, as we carry on with the practice, what happens is that we get caught... the foundation of the body and mind, mixed with that awakening and mindfulness, still exists to some extent. Therefore, we engage in a small struggle; we make some effort, we exert some energy, thinking we are meditating to calm down this mind and body.
I am saying that there is nothing much wrong with that. However, do not put too much effort into it. Because that is not easy. This idea of calming the mind and body... if it is good today, tomorrow it might be a madhouse. Today the body feels very good and healthy. By tomorrow, phlegm might be aggravated, it might hurt here, hurt there. Look at today—the mind is like a baby. Tomorrow, it is a million madnesses. Therefore, understand this well.

Therefore, what needs to wear away is the identification of oneself with this mind and body. To do that, the intensity of that "awakening" must increase. The intensity of mindfulness, the intensity of awakening must increase. As the intensity of awakening increases... I will tell you... the experience is not felt exactly like the simile I gave. How it is felt is that you begin to realize... it feels like you are becoming silent from within, more and more.

That is to say, it is raining outside now, but we are here without getting wet. In the same way, you begin to feel it for yourself. The experience is different for each person. Ah, everything happens just as usual. Thoughts come, feelings are felt, it rains, lightning strikes. Lightning struck just now. Perhaps we could have even died. We cannot say for sure.

Anything like that can happen. But what do we realize? The "gum" (gam eka)—the glue that was sticking to it—begins to wear away. A small gap appears between the mind-body and mindfulness. The glue begins to detach. A certain spaciousness, a sense of space, begins to increase. It is like going towards the middle of the ocean where it becomes still. On the shore, it is turbulent. On the shore—meaning the mind and body—it is just the same as usual.

Those two are wriggling, dancing, acting crazy. There is no address for that (no fixed state). There is movement in these two. You cannot keep these two the same way every day. There is a big... even in those two, there is some temporary calming. It is better than usual. But it is not "good." Why? Because who knows when it will do something mischievous (nasarāni)? You cannot trust that mind at any moment. Today it might be like a baby, but tomorrow—oh my!—a demoness (yakṣaṇī), a demon (yakṣayā). That loveliness, that kindness—those are not there.

And there is no problem with that either. One does not need to artificially create it or pretend, "I am kind." As you go on developing mindfulness (sati), the story of crossing over the five aggregates of clinging (pañca upādānakkhandha)... well, despite the similes, I do not know about the practical reality. The way I understand it is something like this. As a point of Dhamma, it can be explained in that way.
In the practical realm, what happens is that gradually, bit by bit, the sticky nature—the glue—attached to forms, feelings, perceptions, and formations begins to loosen. Recognition works, feelings work, thinking works—all of it works. But even though it works, it feels like we are leaving this earth... Yesterday, a gentleman came and told me that he feels like he is gradually leaving this earth and going upwards.

He said it feels like going up and seeing the whole picture. That is correct. It is the same thing, but each person explains it using their own similes. It is how they feel it. Different people explain the same phenomenon in different ways. He came and cleared his meditation report (kammaṭṭhāna) with me. He said that he now gradually understands that he is moving further and further away from this "earth"—by "earth," he means this physical body and mind. He is gradually detaching from the connection with that. He truly feels he is separating from what is called "this body." This body works.

It goes, walks, eats, drinks. But "he" is not here. The connection with this body has been removed. The connection breaks. It is like going into outer space. That was that gentleman's experience. So, it is like that; as everyone develops mindfulness, for everyone, in such a subtle way, the clinging nature of the five aggregates of clinging begins to reduce—the "glue" starts to weaken.

However, let me tell you a small point about this. As it reduces, do not go looking for stability in it. Do not think, "Now it is stable; now it is completely detached; the work is done." It does not happen like that. The way to test this is to practice that awakening well and then throw yourself into a "Village Council business" (gam sabhā business—meaning a chaotic, busy situation) as much as possible. In the past, they used to tell us, "Throw yourself into a Village Council business as much as possible."

A "Village Council business" means... in such a situation, we encounter all sorts of tangled cases. When you start a chaotic task, that is when you realize how your awakening works in that situation. Is it truly cooled? What kind of cooling is actually there? I will give you an example. The easiest way... if anyone is willing, just take charge of something like the "Dāna book" (the schedule for alms-giving).

I give the "Dāna book" to someone to take charge of. That person knows... they know the burning (piccilla). That is, either set yourself to work with me or take charge of the Dāna book. That person knows how much tension is involved. Just ask them. No one stays in that position for long. They leave saying they cannot bear it. That means the pressure is too much. The pressure keeps increasing. And when that person thinks, "I'm okay now," I increase the pressure even more.
I increase the pressure even more. It is through that pressure that we see how much that person can move towards Liberation (Moksha). Liberation does not mean sitting aside with eyes closed. It is about the awakening within that person amidst the shaking. I must pressure him until the very last point he can bear—until the point where he feels like dashing it all on the ground and saying, "I've had enough of this!"

I must pressure him again and again until it becomes bitter to him, until he feels, "Enough now! Oh mother, is this why I ordained?" I must increase it to that extent. He does not understand what is being done while it is happening. He does not realize... nor do I realize if it becomes that much for him. So, to see a person's Liberation, one has to see how close they are to Nibbāna... well, I don't know, I am speaking about the Dāna book. But those in the kitchen might say, "Venerable Sir, come to the kitchen and see the pressure there!" It is just that I am more involved with this, so I know more about it.
So, what happens then? You know, Venerable Dhamma Alankara is also in this same mess (samayam). Why? Just imagine... suppose there is no dāna (alms) for about four consecutive days. Well, we cannot just wait until next month's work starts. We have to provide food for four days. Suddenly, in the midst of that, if a water problem also arises... oh my! There are people waiting for five days.

"When will we get some water?" Then calls start coming from this side; everything comes at once. When all of that comes, it is deadly. But that is when you realize how spiritual you truly are. Why? From here, problems from the lay donors (dāyakas) come. From here, the water problem. From here, the issue of how to eat tomorrow. Those who are not doing the task do not understand this. They do not feel the pressure; to them, it is not a big deal.

Only the one who has stepped into that "Village Council business" knows. Dragging that along is not easy. When the water issue arises, someone shouts from over there. People accuse from here, saying, "There is no cooking here." From here, they say, "No one is going to the toilet." From here, programs are prepared... oh, accusations come from everywhere. Then you realize... and then, from that side, the donors... suppose for five or six days, dāna is not being provided... in the group, they say there is no dāna, but there is no way to get provisions.

Then you have to borrow from somewhere. If the person you borrow from refuses, then that is also finished. Then the person doing it faces unbearable pressure. He talks to people, and people say, "Do you need that much? We can't do it." Or people say, "We have lost faith in that place." They say, "After coming there... seeing the behavior of those people... we don't feel like coming again."

Then they completely withdraw the dāna. Now, those listening to the recording might be laughing. So, completely... the group that gave last month decides not to give next month. Those who came next month do not come the month after. Then, entirely new donors have to be found; a new group has to be found. And there is no way to find them. So, the person who took on that responsibility feels the tension of it. He feels like banging his head. He feels like just sleeping.

He doesn't feel like coming out. Why? Just imagine... when they say there is no money in the account for tomorrow's dāna, or when going to buy goods... then what to do when there is no money to pay the electricity bill? Now, the new government is great—great for the Foundations of Mindfulness (Satipaṭṭhāna)! The previous government gave a little time. This government gives none. Temples are irrelevant. If you delay more than three days, they come and disconnect it.

Then you have to find one and a half or two lakhs (150,000 - 200,000) at once to pay the electricity bill. Then again, when the person who was helping earlier leaves, saying, "We are hurt," they stop paying the electricity bill. Then a new person has to be found. Just look, that person is under immense pressure. The person doing it is under pressure. He gets angry (mala pahinawa); he doesn't even come to the dāna for the four quarters.

"No one even gives a little support," he thinks. "There isn't even a feeling of support. No one even comes to the dāna to give a hand." Then, a demon rises within the person doing the work. A demon (yakṣayā) rises. That is, "I never get any support." By that time, no one realizes how this is running. If that pressure comes from somewhere—even if the water is a little late—it's over. The whole system collapses from there.

That is where Nibbāna lies. One must be thrown into a task like that. Otherwise, just staying idle like this... well, one will just drift along. However, it is not good to put a person into that without developing mindfulness (sati); the person will be crushed. If someone who has not developed mindfulness goes to take on such a heavy burden, they will end up pressured, tense, and get sick with different illnesses. They will get gastritis; they will get pressure.

Why? Because the body cannot bear that pressure, that tension. Oh, if you are with the gentleman (mahaththaya), it's over. He changes things like this and like that. You can do everything... yes, but when he changes things like this, like this, like this... that person cannot even imagine it. He cannot bear it internally. So, that is why I say... that is the story: mindfulness must be developed.

However, we must plunge in without fear. We take it on. We go in... and then a point comes where you cannot imagine what will happen next. In the next second, everything might blast apart. Everything might blast. Even at that moment, one remains still. It is not that there is nothing to do. But one does not struggle (dangalanne na). One remains in silent awakening. That is where it is understood. That is where that fear—the fear of death—arises. That is, one cannot imagine anything; one cannot imagine what the next solution will be; there is nowhere to stand.

If there is stillness even there—if that silence remains just as it is—then that person's story is over; their Saṃsāra is finished. They can handle any pressure. I am saying that one must do that... otherwise, this walking meditation (sakman) every day is useless. One must take the pressure. One must give the weight. One must take the tension onto the body. We ask, "What for?" Well, it is good... so, keep doing walking meditation every day then.

It is useless... well, it is good. One stays cooled every day. But mindfulness must be tested in a place like that. The day the nature of accepting everything in every place comes... death will be just another event for us. Why? Because we have already died about five times before death. Having eaten that pressure, eaten it, eaten it... there is nothing more to die from than that. Finally, having borne that pressure, borne it, borne it... that man has already died anyway.

There won't be a scene more serious than that for him to die again. Although I say it like this, all of us will have to face a place like that as we develop this. I am not saying you must take the Dāna book specifically. But from somewhere, as one goes along this practice, relative to their life, a shaking point like that will come.

That is to say, he cannot imagine... in any way... about the next second. "Will this happen in the next moment?" "Will all of this blast apart?" No idea at all. That is, we become completely lost. We cannot imagine anything. Right there... that is the near-death moment; it is essentially death happening. That is, the moment my entire world blasts apart. If the SMS (Sati-Mindfulness-Silence) is there even at that point, we say, "Ah, that is where his steel has been tempered (blast-steel vela)."

That means Māra has increased his maximum tension, increased the pressure, increased it and brought it to the maximum. Right there... I say something like this... just practice like this: "I thought... let it be crushed completely." You must take that grit (gata). It doesn't matter. Let it be destroyed. But listen, do not try to destroy it. That would be a reaction.

What I am saying is, that is how awakening is built. One cannot say how much strength of awakening you have at the point of "Patience is the supreme ascetic practice" (khantī paramaṃ tapo titikkhā). The Buddha said patience is the austerity. Khantī paramaṃ tapo titikkhā. Going like that, increasing the pressure, increasing it, taking it to the maximum... and still watching: "What is working inside?" Then you realize... otherwise, sitting here like this, we can just smile about the five aggregates of clinging until tomorrow.

However, in the practical realm, when one goes to understand the five aggregates of clinging (pañca upādānakkhandha), that is when we get the shock of our lives (ammata siri venne). That is when all of this bursts open. When we see what the real story is inside us, how it gets stirred up... I watch it just like that. I watch how they handle it. Then I realize, "Oh, even though you nodded your head about mindfulness and explained it for two or three hours, your sermon gets caught right there in the shaking."
Is there more? But that is not a fault. If he is humble, he will increase it further; there is nothing else to do. See how it still shakes. See how, in a place like that, fear makes the leg step back a little. Whether it is "Rājā ho, Mā ho, Gaṅgā ho" (Kings, Māra, or the Ganges—come what may), whatever nonsense comes, instead of plunging in to die right there... when we take a step back, our reckoning is done.
However, even if I say it is useless, I cannot really say that. I cannot say that because he might still make it through; he might succeed (tun diya—win the lottery/succeed). We cannot say for sure. We cannot tell a person, "You are useless, get lost! You are not even good enough to be a wedge for a cart wheel."

I put another block (rodhaya) and give it a try. I check if there is anyone else... I want that "weighty" quality to emerge—the ability to bear the tension. So, some people cannot do it; some people cry. Some people go to others and cry, not to me. But crying to me is useless too; I will just scold them with some filth and chase them away. "Get lost! Can't you even do this?"

Therefore, tell someone else. Vent the anger you have towards me onto someone else. Tell someone, cry to someone... go to a dog or something and cuddle it or cry to it about what you cannot vent to me. That is the nature of the mind. I am not saying those are wrong; it is just that they are still shaking. That means the interior still trembles in those unsure places.

That means the person is shaken by death. They still tremble at death. Why? Because the training is... well, before death comes, we give a "pre-death" experience to see. If he has developed mindfulness in his life, he must show evidence of it. Otherwise, just saying "I sat and meditated" is not enough. One must show evidence for the mindfulness one has developed.

One must show evidence on this solid earth (gendagam poḷova) that one has truly done this practice. The Buddha said, "I have called the great earth to witness." Do whatever you want. I said to give the maximum pressure. When squeezed from every side... look, no one is doing it continuously yet, right? No one can do it; they cannot bear that pressure. So, while bearing that pressure, they just melt away (halā yanavā).

That means the pressure... what should happen there... let me give an example. Do not take only the Dāna book. Apply this to anything else relevant to your life. I used that as an example. It is about taking on a responsibility that is not really yours, but if you don't do it, everything will blast apart. We have to take on such tasks.

That means, if it doesn't happen through me, the whole system collapses. Yet, it is not something relevant to me. But it is a place where if I don't do it, the whole story breaks and finishes. It is an unimaginable responsibility like that. It drives one crazy. You cannot let go of it either; it is like holding a tiger by the tail. You cannot let go. If you let go, everything is finished.

And you cannot hold on due to the pressure. You have to go into a helpless task like that. You have to go to a place where you get lost, where the pressure is unimaginable, and see: how much can he pull upwards (up)? How much does he bear? So, that is the thing. Regarding that, we had a small discussion this morning. We discussed two stories of Ramana Maharshi. Those two stories are amazingly beautiful.
From those two stories, you will understand the point I am trying to make. I will tell you the idea briefly. In one of those stories, a person comes to Ramana Maharshi. He was a king of that region—not the President or Prime Minister of the country, but like a king who ruled that area. So, he had a lot of money.

Regarding his... I think... even for his glass of water, he would use a diamond-studded goblet or something grand like that. It was as if he was just placing a leaf, but it was actually immense wealth. He was a billionaire (dhana kuverayek); no one in that region or even the country had that much money. He was also governing that province. However, he was not a government minister.

So, this man was extremely wealthy—the richest man in those provinces. I cannot remember the name exactly... anyway, he came to meet Ramana Maharshi. He wanted to meet Ramana Maharshi. Somehow, he came to meet him, and while going to a restroom—in the bathroom area—he met Ramana Maharshi.
When he met him, he asked Ramana Maharshi, "May I worship you?" Ramana Maharshi asked, "Why?" and then said, "It doesn't matter." Then, with his tears, he wiped Ramana Maharshi's feet. After wiping them, he stood up and said, "They have made me a king completely; everyone has trapped me. They have trapped me completely. Now I have no escape. I have no escape now."

"They have trapped me thoroughly. The free life I had is gone. People have made me a king—made me the ruler of the province—and now I have no rest, no peace; I am dragging a non-stop workload. But internally, I have absolutely no need for this. Yet, I do not want to reject it either. I do not want to abandon the work and leave."

"However, it is not something my inner self demands." After saying this and worshipping Ramana Maharshi, he left. Then Ramana Maharshi told his disciples, "That man who came is truly a noble one (munivarayek)." Ramana Maharshi said that internally, he had absolutely no concept of kingship or wealth. Yet, Ramana Maharshi did not tell him to come and ordain.

There was no attachment, nor did he tell him to become a monk. There was no talk of him rejecting it either. Later, somehow, after an election by the Indian government or something similar, he was told to give up his kingship because such a position could not be held. Then, he gave it up very happily. Although he was accepted as the ruler, when a new ruler was appointed, he handed it over with great joy and lived very happily.

He lived happily. People later said what a pity it was that he left, because during his time, he had established facilities even better than those in England. He had looked after everyone. So, look at that. Now, I will tell you another story we discussed in the morning. I am telling you these two stories. One is that story. The other story is a beautiful incident from Ramana Maharshi's life.

In his youth, Ramana Maharshi lived under a temple at Arunachala (Tiruvannamalai). He meditated in a dark cave-like place under the temple and did not take food. His body had wounds, and insects bit him. There was a motherly woman who looked after him. Years later, that mother who had cared for him came to see Ramana Maharshi. She was very old by then.

By then, Ramana Maharshi was at the Ramanasramam, located a little distance away. Ramana Maharshi was known by many people; he had become famous, and people from many countries came to see him and discuss with him. Then, that mother came walking with a walking stick. Ramana Maharshi immediately asked everyone to make way and welcomed her with love. He welcomed her lovingly and asked, "Mother, how are you? We haven't met for a long time." He asked for details.

Then he asked, "Anyway, are your children looking after you now?" She replied, "There is nothing special. I am still living by your blessings. But I don't feel anything special. I don't even have a feeling of whether the children are looking after me or not." She said, "But I am living." Then she asked Ramana Maharshi, "I brought a thosai (dosa); will you eat it?"

He said "Yes," and immediately put aside the food brought by some government minister at that time. The food the mother brought was stale by then. But she had such deep devotion. He ate that stale, cold food. He ate that old, stale food. Now, look at these two incidents: one is the incident with the king, and the other is the incident with the old mother.

I will tell you another incident. This is not a story about Ramana Maharshi. I have told this story here about twice before, having heard it from the Nilambe Meditation Centre. There was a mother known as the "Ulapane Amma." Godwin Sir (Godwin Samararatne) used to say that if anyone wanted to see a Stream-enterer (Sotāpanna), they should go and see Ulapane Amma. The nature of that Ulapane Amma... she used to meditate and observe precepts (sil) at a temple down near Nilambe.

So, Ulapane Amma's husband was incredibly harsh. When she went to observe precepts, he would drag her back, saying, "You are going to observe precepts? You are going to meditate? What are you doing this for? There is no cooking done at home! You haven't done this! Do these things!" He would drag her away and even hit her. Her husband was very fierce. But Ulapane Amma... even though he hit her and fought with her when she went to observe precepts or meditate...

He would not let her do those things; he would torment her. Then, Ulapane Amma heard from somewhere that meditation should be done in a certain way, and she heard about the Nilambe Meditation Centre up there. She found Godwin Sir and went there to meditate. After going there to meditate... even though her husband was so cruel and harsh, Godwin Sir said that Ulapane Amma never once complained about her husband.

Then, if someone gave her a little food or something, she would bless them (pin denavā) incredibly. That mother, Ulapane Amma, had a very strange kind of appreciative joy (muditā). If someone brought some alms (dāna) to Nilambe and gave it to her, she would bless the givers for a long time so they could hear it. She respected them greatly. However, once she sat cross-legged (pariyaṅka), she would not get up for six hours.

Non-stop. That means, once she sat down, she would not uncross her legs for anyone for six hours. She would sit cross-legged for a very long time. Later, somehow, this mother sent a letter to her daughter's wedding. She wrote, "Daughter, I bless you. I cannot come; I am meditating." She had connected her life entirely to Nilambe. She connected to Nilambe completely, and then... somehow, that mother developed breast cancer.

It was breast cancer, and she was in the Peradeniya Hospital. After she was admitted to the hospital... Godwin Sir had permission to visit the wards at any time because he was a counselor at the Peradeniya Hospital. He had the opportunity to visit patients whenever he wanted. So, when Godwin Sir went there, that mother would shout out, "Ah, this Bodhisatta has come! Oh, please come!" She was a mother full of appreciative joy (muditā) towards everyone.

That means she had such muditā, such respect. So, later... this story was told to me by Venerable Dhamma. When he was leaving Nilambe to become a monk at Nissarana Vanaya, he went to tell that mother. By then, she had come from the hospital and was staying at her daughter's home. When he went and told her, she was very happy. She said, "Oh, I have lived to see such things with my own eyes!" She was a mother of amazing appreciative joy.

Inside that mother, there was an incredible muditā and great respect. Later, Godwin Sir went and asked her, "Mother, do you feel anything now regarding the cancer?" She replied, "Oh, there is nothing, Sir. This is my spiritual friend (kalyāṇa mitta). What is there inside? Inside is empty. Outside is also empty. Inside is empty, outside is empty. So, if this friend goes first, I will go with him."

I told you these three stories for you to see. These three stories represent three different situations. One was a king. One was an ordinary elderly grandmother who was not looked after by her children, had no expectations, and ate stale food without proper meals. The other was Ulapane Amma, whose husband was harsh and cruel, and who also got cancer. Look closely at those incidents—did you understand? Every one of them accepted the nature of their existence as it was. The king did not reject his kingship saying, "I can't do this; I can't bear this; it's too heavy for me."

Similarly, regarding that elderly mother, and similarly, Ulapane Amma—with her cancer, she had no [complaint]. So, if we have reached that level, if our interior has developed to that standard, there is no shaking. Look at those three. For those three—whether the kingship was lost or kept, whether cancer struck, or whatever that husband did today—even if that mother had nothing to eat, that devotion... that is surrender.

That is what is called surrender. Along with mindfulness (sati), day by day, day by day, that capacity must grow within us. That is, the strength to bear within that awakening. At no time should one say, "I can't go beyond this; Venerable Sir, you do it; this is enough." No. Little by little, bit by bit... one does not accuse. That is, accepting and taking it on without any accusation.

If we go to that point, then when it comes to death, death will be just another incident for us. Otherwise, it is an unbearable story. Because while we are still alive... when we say we have meditated, it means we are all thrown into unimaginable situations like that. Everything we have is either destroyed or taken away. We become unable to imagine the next moment. Even as it is being destroyed, without getting agitated and trying to maintain it, without running to grab an object to protect oneself... knowing that in the next moment, I will be completely destroyed... if that inner awakening remains effortless (nirāyāsa) and unshaken...

Then, I do not try to distance myself from responsibilities, nor do I try to reject them saying they are too heavy. I do not try to artificially change them. Day by day, day by day, this strength of endurance increases. That is where the practical point of crossing over the five aggregates of clinging (pañca upādānakkhandha) lies. Those [theoretical] parts are good; we need to hear them. To some extent, for our attention (manasikāra), we understand that "something like this happens." However, the real work happens on the practical level, on the solid earth. No matter how much we discuss the theories of the five aggregates of clinging, it is about the place of Ulapane Amma, the place of that king, the place of that elderly mother.

Regardless of whether she was looked after or not, she came to Ramana Maharshi, and out of her devotion—even though she had nothing to eat—she offered that roti. That place where she offered the roti... Ramana accepted it because of her intense devotion. That is, her surrender (sära bava—surrender/letting go)... that is what true asceticism (tapasa) is. Ordination (pævidda) means... day by day, day by day... usually, when speaking of ordination, three words are used.

"Be a donkey, be a pig, be a monitor lizard (kabarayā)." That is, to be a pig means you do not choose. You eat whatever comes your way. When you go to eat, you do not pick and choose: "I don't eat this; I eat that; this is too much; this is too little." You just shovel in whatever is given. Some people, when they see the food, say, "Is this food? Even a dog wouldn't eat this!" and go back home. Instead of just eating whatever damn thing (magulak) is there... The Buddha didn't say "pig's mouth," but in the story, it implies one should be like a pig's mouth.

When a pig goes to eat, it doesn't choose. It just gobbles it up. To have a back like a monitor lizard (kabarayā) means no matter how much you are beaten on top, you just make a "bok bok bok" sound and that's it. That means, from the day you ordained, people will insult you saying you eat on charity, asking, "Is this how you behave even after ordaining?" To all of that... "bok bok"... no reaction whatsoever. To have a back like a donkey means doing the "Village Council business" (gam sabhā business).

You drag everyone else's load. You never say, "That's enough." You never say, "I can't do this much." Day by day, day by day, you bear the burden for others—something that is not yours. Without taking it as "mine," seeing how lovingly, with that awakening, "How much can I bear this pain now? How much can I bear it?" Someone told me that they get fed up; they feel like just opening the door and leaving. They feel more and more fed up.

So, I said... well, that is it. If you understand that you are getting fed up, then why try to react to it? You are fed up with accepting it. Someone said they were fed up and felt like disrobing... I don't know if they have come to sit for the sermon now. Are they not here? They said they were fed up and felt like disrobing. So, I said... well, that is exactly what endurance is.

"Everything is enough now; I am fed up with everything. The craving I had for meditation has worn away; the desire for walking meditation has worn away; the craving to do work has worn away. Everything has worn away; I am fed up with it all." Even then, drag it along. Like a donkey. Even then, drag it like a donkey. Then, Māra has nothing he can do. He cannot figure it out. "What is this guy aiming for by staying in the monastery? Now there is no use in anything."

"Now there is no need or desire for anything." We say, "I can't do it," and then we don't come. We fall asleep; we go off track. We go back to some old habit. Then it is finished. Look, even when you have no need for any of this... when there is no use in anything now... "Now drag it along and see what happens." Then Māra becomes confused (hituṇe nathi venavā). Māra gets fully confused (full ondoss). "How do I catch this guy?"

"He needs to grasp something." Yet, he does everything. As if with desire. But inside him, there is nothing. Nothing at all. Then someone tells me, "There is no happiness; how can I do this without happiness?" I said, "We are not doing all of this for happiness. You are asking how to do this without happiness... doing it without anything... without anything... there is no problem."

"We don't need such a thing. 'I must have happiness to do this thing I have taken on'—there is no such requirement. Whether the 'want' is there or not, it is the same. It just drags on, that's all." Do not start thinking about it. "I am fed up with this now..." Once you start thinking and saying "this and that," you are giving attention to unnecessary concepts. "The pressure is too high for me now; the stress is too high; that is too much; this is too much." That is not a problem.

The body and mind will say anything. The body and mind will say whatever they want. But that awakening can bear anything. More and more, the awakening does not pay attention to what the body and mind say, nor does it reject them. "I am fed up with accepting it. I used to meditate with such desire in the past. Now I am fed up." Meditating while fed up is not a problem.

Now the mind is good, isn't it? You cannot establish yourself in any state because if you think "today is good," tomorrow you will be fed up with everything. So, you cannot establish yourself in that either, because the day after tomorrow, you will want it again. Nibbāna means precisely that—not finding a footing (patiṭṭhā) anywhere. Because the work done with desire today will be done with disgust tomorrow. The thing that disgusts you tomorrow will be wanted again the day after. So, you cannot establish yourself anywhere.

The five aggregates of clinging (pañca upādānakkhandha) cannot settle or roost anywhere. You cannot say "it is good" anywhere because there is no permanence anywhere. Everything breaks down. If you do something with desire thinking it is good, in a few days you will be fed up with it. If you do it while fed up, again... well, it doesn't matter. You haven't established yourself anywhere. Accept that as Nibbāna. Dragging this along without establishing yourself anywhere. Without shaking anywhere, without trying to make decisions anywhere... the strength to drag this along is called Nibbāna.

I do not know how long it will take to understand that. Even if one ordains and twenty or thirty years pass, I don't think... That is when you realize, "Nibbāna is something like this." It is not like a light bulb suddenly switching on—boos gaala. It is not something where suddenly boos gaala something happens, I attain realization, and float upwards. More and more, more and more, the strength of endurance increases.

Day by day, day by day, you ask for more weight than before. You bear even more and see. You bear even more and see. You bear even more and see. When you reach the point where you absolutely cannot bear it, you allow it to crumble completely. Then you realize that nothing actually happens. It was only fear that existed. Taking pressure from the fear, getting tense from the fear. You just have to stay with the tension. Then others also get tense, don't they? Just stay relaxed from within.

There is nothing here; there is nothing in it. Even if there is tension, there is no problem with that either. Everything has collapsed. Fed up with monkhood, fed up with work, fed up with life... that is also a problem. There is no need to try and answer that. Trying to answer it is the foolishness. I told you to just keep working... I cannot see if they came to the sermon or not; I cannot find them. It is dark, so it is good. Let us conclude the sermon. May the Triple Gem Bless you all (Teruwan Saranai).

Original Source (Video):

Title: අනිදස්සන විඤ්ඤාණය - 10 |Ven Aluthgamgoda Gnanaweera Thero | නිහඬ අරණ

https://youtu.be/7xdFDImV4uo?si=EthrqZF7AlCUDhNf

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The translations shared on this blog are based on Dhamma sermons originally delivered in Sinhalese. They have been translated into English with the help of AI (ChatGPT & Gemini AI), with the intention of making these teachings more accessible to a broader audience.

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