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Happiness or sorrow—whatever befalls you, walk on untouched, unattached.

It will be of great importance if some day in the future we start changing the patterns of our languages, because our languages are very deeply rooted in ignorance. When you feel hungry, you immediately say, “I am hungry.” That creates an identification and gives you a feeling as if you are hungry. You are not. Language should be such that it does not give you this wrong notion—“I am hungry.” What is really the case is that you are observing that the body is hungry;  you are watching the fact that the stomach is empty,  that it desires food—but this is not you. You are the watcher. You are always the watcher you are never the doer. You always go on standing as a watcher far away.

Get more and more rooted into watching—that’s what Buddha calls vipassana, insight. Just see with inner eyes whatsoever happens, and remain untouched, unattached.

A tough, old—time Indian fighter came straggling back into camp with seven arrows piercing his chest and legs.

A doctor examined him and remarked, “Amazing stamina. Don’t they hurt?”

The old timer grunted, “Only when I laugh.”

In fact, they should not hurt even then—and they don’t hurt to a Buddha. Not that if you pierce the Buddha with an arrow there is no hurt; the hurt is there. He may feel it even more than you, because a Buddha’s sensitivity is at the optimum—you are insensitive, dull, half dead. The scientists say that you only allow two percent of information to reach you; ninety-eight percent is kept outside of you, your senses don’t allow it in. Only two percent of the world reaches you; ninety eight percent is excluded. To the Buddha, a hundred percent of the world is available, so when an arrow pierces a Buddha it hurts a hundred percent. To you it hurts only two percent.

But there is a great difference: a Buddha is a watcher. It hurts, but it does not hurt him. He watches as if it is happening to somebody else. He feels compassion for the body—he feels compassion, has compassion for his body—but he knows that he is not the body. He takes every possible care because he respects the body. It is such a beautiful servant, it is such good house to live in—he takes care but he remains aloof.

Even when the body is dying a Buddha goes on watching. His watchfulness remains to the very last. The body dies and the Buddha goes on watching that the body has died. If one can watch to such an extent, one goes beyond death.

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