Bin Bati Bin Tel #10

Once Moses said to God, “I long to see one of your devotees.”

A voice replied, “Go to such-and-such valley. There you will find the one who is dear to God, who loves God, and who walks the path of virtue.”

Moses went, and he saw a man wrapped in rags, lying there. All kinds of insects and worms were crawling over his body.

Moses asked, “Can I do something for you?”

The man said, “Bring me a cup of water. I am very thirsty.”

When Moses turned back with water, he found the man lying dead. He went again to fetch cloth for a shroud, but when he returned a lion had already devoured the body. Moses was deeply grieved and cried out, “O Almighty, who makes man from dust! O All-knowing! Some go to heaven and some suffer terrible torment. Some are happy and some miserable. This is the riddle no one can solve.”

The question Moses asked thousands of years ago, we place before you again today.

Moses’ story is worth understanding. Moses is among the few who have searched deeply into life’s ultimate mystery. And whoever seeks life’s mystery will inevitably face this question: the Maker is one—then where did the tangle appear that some are unhappy and some happy, some live in heaven and some in hell? If the Maker is one, if the Father is one, how do his children pass through such different experiences? Why didn’t the Maker create only joy? He could have made only heaven—what need was there to create hell? If God is truly compassionate, there should be no suffering, no pain.

All the religions have faced this question. Seeing suffering in the world, it seems there cannot be a God. And if you have trust in God, then suffering becomes a riddle: why does suffering exist? Much effort has been made to solve it in many ways, but the riddle does not seem to resolve.

There have been many experiments in the West, many in the East. All the theories born of intellect have failed; they do not unravel the riddle. But from experience, from the depths of meditation, an answer comes that dissolves the riddle. Let us understand that a little, then enter the story.

Suffering and joy, freedom and bondage, heaven and hell can only be created together, never separately. Night and day can only be made together, not alone. If there were only light and absolutely no darkness, even light wouldn’t be. If there were only life and no death, life wouldn’t be. The mode of being is polarity. Anything that comes into being can only be with its opposite.

Ask an electrician: there cannot be only a negative pole, nor only a positive pole; both must be together, for they are two ends of one phenomenon. Birth and death are two ends. Birth alone cannot be. Our desire wants only birth, but birth alone is impossible. Without death, how will birth happen? If no one ever died, how would anyone be born? Old trees must fall for new shoots to sprout. The old must depart so the children can live. The old must make room for the new. If the old just piles up, there will be no way for the new to be born. Life feeds on its opposite.

For a moment imagine: if there were only happiness—our wish is for only happiness—but could you even taste it? If there were only happiness and no taste of sorrow, how would you even know it is happiness? The man who has never been sick has no sense of health. If truly you never fell ill, how would you know the flavor of health? How would you know you are healthy? You would have no inkling of health at all. If there were no hell, there could be no heaven. Hell’s presence is necessary for heaven.

It is not that God is harsh and therefore suffering exists; rather, without the opposite, there is no way for anything to be. People say God is omnipotent—but there are things even God cannot do. For example: He cannot create happiness alone without sorrow. Try as He might, it cannot be.

The moment happiness is created, sorrow arises alongside it. So understand a very deep point: the more happiness increases, the more sorrow will also increase. Therefore, those who are very happy are the very ones who will be very unhappy. If there is much sorrow in America today, what is the reason? The reason is: there is much happiness. Where the limits of pleasure grow, the limits of pain grow right along with them; there is a proportion. Hence, a poor person is never as unhappy as a rich person can be.

The rich feel the poor live in misery. That is the rich man’s notion, his interpretation. The poor are never as miserable as the rich imagine them to be. That is why you sometimes see a smile on a poor man’s face, sometimes he even dances in abandon. See him sleeping under a tree by the roadside—no, the poor are not as unhappy as the rich suppose.

When he imagines, the rich man is thinking of himself: If I had to sleep under a tree—me, who cannot sleep even on a fine bed—how would I sleep under a tree? If a slight unevenness in the mattress breaks my sleep, how will I sleep on stony ground? Even the best food doesn’t digest easily for me—this poor man eats dry bread, like stones; how would I digest that?

There was a Jewish mystic, Baal Shem. One day a wealthy man came to him—the richest in that town, a Jew. He said, “Give me some teaching too. What should I do?”

Baal Shem looked him over from head to toe: rich, but wearing rags. His body looked withered. He seemed a dreadful miser. So Baal Shem asked, “First tell me about your way of life. How do you live?” He said, “I live as a poor man should live. I eat coarse, simple bread. I make do with salt, chutney, and bread. I wear a garment until it is in tatters. I sleep on the bare ground. I live like a poor monk.”

Baal Shem suddenly became angry: “Fool! When God has given you so much wealth, why do you live like a poor man? God gave you wealth so you might live comfortably—eat well, sleep on a pleasant bed, wear good clothes, live in a palace. Swear that from today you will eat properly, wear fine clothes, sleep in comfort.”

The rich man was startled. “I had heard this is what saintliness is.” But Baal Shem said, “I tell you, this is miserliness, not saintliness.” After much persuading he made him swear. The man hesitated—he’d been a miser all his life. What he called saintliness was not saintliness, only parsimony. People hide their stinginess under the cloak of holiness. The miser claims, “I live like this because I am a saint.” Baal Shem made him swear, after much explanation.

When he left, Baal Shem’s disciples protested, “This is too much. You’ve ruined that man’s life. He was living like a monk. We’ve always heard that simplicity is the path to God—that is what you tell us. And with this man you did the exact opposite. Do you want to send him to hell?”

Baal Shem said, “If this man eats coarse bread, he will never understand the pain of the poor. He will think the poor could even eat stones and manage. Let him be a little comfortable so he can understand suffering—so that the pain of those who have become poor because of him in this village may come to his awareness. Only if he is comfortable will he see their suffering. If he himself lives in great suffering, he will see no one’s suffering. No beggar can come to his door because he himself lives like a beggar. He cannot feel anyone’s pain.”

When a rich man sees suffering in the poor, that is his interpretation. The poor are not that miserable. And the poor become truly miserable only when they have once been rich. That is why those who see poverty after riches suffer beyond measure.

The taste of the opposite is needed. If the world held only pleasure, you would never know pleasure. And you would grow so bored with pleasure that you would renounce it—more bored than you have ever been with suffering.

Look back into history. Renunciates like Mahavira and Buddha are not born in poor homes—they cannot be. One must get bored of pleasure for renunciation to happen. There was so much pleasure in Buddha’s life that its taste died. If one eats delicious food daily, taste dies. Fasting is sometimes necessary to recover the flavor of hunger. If there is never a chance to be hungry, and every day is a festival at home with sweets being made, very soon the taste dies. Hunger itself dies.

Therefore it is no surprise that the religious festivals of the poor are always feasts, while the religious festivals of the rich are always fasts. If the Jains’ religious festival emphasizes fasting, it has meaning. But a Muslim or a poor Hindu—on his holy day he wears fresh clothes, cooks the best food, makes halwa and puri. That is his holy day. One who passes three hundred and sixty-four days in hunger cannot have a fast as a religious day; it would be unjust. But one who celebrates food three hundred and sixty-four days, for him the holy day should indeed be a fast.

We derive our taste from the opposite. That is why when Jains observe Paryushan, for the first time they experience hunger. And after Paryushan, for a few days food tastes wonderful again; merely thinking about food is enjoyable. During Paryushan they dream of food—on other days there is no need to dream; on other days they consult doctors about their lost appetite.

Wherever wealth increases, sects that value fasting arise. It may surprise you that in America today fasting has great influence. In poor countries fasting cannot catch on—people are fasting anyway. But in America people go for month-long fasts. There are naturopathic clinics where the main work is to make people fast.

If it were only pleasure and no means of sorrow, you would grow bored of pleasure. A strange fact: no one gets bored of sorrow, because in sorrow hope remains. Today there is sorrow; tomorrow there will be happiness. The dream stays alive, the mind keeps desiring, and we postpone today for tomorrow. A sorrowful person never gets bored. The happy person gets bored; he has no hope left. Pleasure he has today; nothing remains for tomorrow.

You don’t know why Mahavira and Buddha became sannyasins? Why are the Jains’ twenty-four Tirthankaras sons of kings? Why are the Hindus’ avatars all princes? The point is obvious. The arithmetic is simple. There was so much pleasure they became bored. There was no way to get more. Whatever could be had was already given.

So the day Mahavira walked naked on the road like a beggar, the joy he felt—don’t make the mistake of thinking you’ll get it by walking naked down the road; you won’t. You’re missing the arithmetic. Before that, one must be a king. When someone has become so bored with garments that they feel burdensome, then if he stands naked on the road there is the taste of freedom—liberation! He will feel he has attained moksha. One who is tormented by food—when he fasts for the first time the body becomes alive again; hunger awakens again. One who was imprisoned in palaces—when he sleeps under the open sky, beneath a tree, for the first time he knows the joy of life.

Hearing Mahavira, many ordinary people become renouncers. They fall into great difficulty because the bliss Mahavira experienced does not seem to come to them. They think some error lies in their practice. There is no error in the practice; the mistake is at the very start.

Mahavira steps down from the royal throne because he is bored—because there is no further rung. He stood on the last step; there was no way to progress further. Desire had nowhere to go. Stepping down, life rekindles; zest returns; the search begins anew. This cannot happen in your life. How can one renounce who has never enjoyed? How can one give up what one does not possess? You can only renounce what you have. How will you give up what you don’t have? Don’t fall into that illusion.

So I say again and again: those who become bored with the world, truth becomes available to them. But you are not bored. Hearing the words of those who are bored, you start imitating them. No one has ever attained truth by imitation. You will only deceive yourself. It is self-delusion.

Attain the world properly—so that you can drop it. Experience desire thoroughly—so that you can become free of desire. Enjoy wealth completely—so that wealth becomes futile. Wherever there is juice, go into it totally, so that nothing remains ahead and you can return.

Incomplete experiences lead nowhere. When a tree fully ripens its fruit, the fruit falls of itself. Unripe fruit does not fall. Incomplete experience is unripe fruit; complete experience is ripe fruit.

So first, keep this in mind: the way of the world’s being is as it is; it cannot be otherwise. Here, opposites will be—this is one thing.

Second: God neither gives you suffering nor gives you joy. Joy and sorrow are two options. You are always free to choose. The choice is in your hands. God does not push you into hell nor welcome you into heaven. The gates of both heaven and hell are open. The choice is yours—go wherever you wish. And it is fitting that the gates are open, because without freedom there can be no attainment of truth. You are free to suffer. Your freedom is ultimate. You are free to enjoy, and you are free to change your path. There is no obstacle to your freedom.

Understand this well. If you suffer, it is your choice. If you rejoice, it is also your choice. If you do not move from where you are, that too is your choice. If you move, that also is your choice. There is no control over your consciousness.

In a house a fire is lit in one place, and in another place flowers bloom on the trees. You are free: you may pluck the flowers and fill your lap, or you may thrust your hand into the fire and be burned. No one is pushing you. The fire burns; the flowers bloom.

God creates the creation, not you. Understand this a little. God creates the creation—meaning: He creates the circumstances, the options. The gates—heaven and hell, joy and sorrow—He creates; not you.

You are God. You are His very fragment. He cannot create you. If you were a made thing, you would be worth two pennies; then there could be no liberation for you. If you were a puppet He made, then the day His mood changed He could destroy you. He did not make you, nor can He destroy you. You are that very One. You are God. And this whole play all around is your own creation. The options stand before you, both present. Choose whatever you wish.

Now let us try to understand the story. Moses asked God, “Let me see your supreme devotee—one of single-pointed devotion, whose trust is unbroken—one who has attained, who has become the very master of your heart, in whom and in you not a hair’s breadth remains. I want to behold him.”

But why did Moses want to see such a man?

First, because Moses must have thought: such a man will be supremely blissful. For one who is God’s supreme devotee, surely God has showered bliss upon him. Our devotion too hides our desire—we want to get something from God through it. So Moses says, “Let me see the one who has come close to your heart—between whom and you not a hair’s breadth remains.”

Moses must have thought, “I will find him upon a throne; he will be some emperor. Everything will be available to him. Not a trace of lack. No need of desire. The moment any wish arises, it will be fulfilled. For one so near to God’s heart, what remains to be gained?” Perhaps this is why Moses wanted to see him.

People come to me and say, “Show us one disciple of yours who has arrived, who has attained. We want to see him.” It is their desire that is asking. Seeing him, they will decide whether to walk the path or not. They will look at that man and decide: if he is blissful, we too will walk this path.

But God always plays a game. You cannot deceive God so easily. Moses asked one thing while wanting something else. He asked to see the supreme devotee, but the inner desire was: If I can see him, then I will decide whether to walk this path—is God worth attaining or not? If God’s supreme devotee is rotting somewhere in hell, why should we get into this mess? So much effort! So much hardship! To lose the world and in gaining you, get hell! We don’t really want God—we want to climb to heaven by using God as a ladder.

A voice came: “Moses, go to such-and-such valley; there my supreme devotee is present.”

Moses must have gone filled with great hopes. How many thoughts, how many dreams must have arisen: What will this supreme devotee be like? Radiant with the supreme light! Dancing in bliss! Showering gold all around! Blessed is the valley where such a devotee lives! And when he arrived, how disappointed he must have been!

The man was a beggar. Not even an ordinary beggar—he was in tatters, a beggar among beggars. And more: across his whole body crawled all sorts of worms and insects. Filthy. Half-dead; rotting.

Moses’ faith must have been badly shaken. For somewhere, faith hides desire. His mind must have cried, “What is this? Is this the state for which we practice and pray? Are the temple bells rung and worship performed for this? If this is the attainment, then those wandering in the world are not lost—they are saving themselves. Then the world is better.”

God’s riddle is hard to understand. Wherever your desire stands up, there God becomes impossible to understand. Had Moses asked without desire, he would have been sent to another valley and seen another form. But because he asked full of desire, he had to be shown this form—born of Moses’ own desire. Necessary. So that Moses’ state might be clarified: Is your faith true, or is your faith only desire in disguise? Is your prayer genuine? Do you worship God—or do you want to use and exploit God?

That night Moses must not have been able to pray. That day God must have felt farther than ever. If this is the condition of the supreme devotee, the courage to become one would have melted away. In that moment Moses’ heart must have become a desert where all the trees of prayer withered.

And the man opened his eyes and said, “I am very thirsty—bring me a little water.”

Far from heaven—this man is thirsty, and there is not even anyone to give him water. And this is a supreme devotee? And God does not even shower a little water upon him? What kind of protection is this? God gives him nothing, and this man has given everything!

Doubt must have arisen; atheism must have thickened. This was Moses’ moment of trial.

Such moments of trial will come in your life too. And only the one who passes through them has true faith. For faith this is fire. Let gold pass through fire to know how pure it is, how alloyed—how true or false!

Moses could not be filled with awe at the sight of this man. He went to fetch water, but when he returned the man was dead—dead of thirst. God’s singular devotee! God did not even give water; while Moses went to fetch it, God did not allow the man’s breath to last a little longer so he could drink and die. This is a dreadful hellish state.

Thinking to give the man a proper burial, Moses went to arrange wood and such. He returned and found a lion had eaten him. Not even his last rites could be performed. This is the condition of a supreme devotee?

Had you been in Moses’ place, you would never again have taken God’s name. You would never again have looked toward a temple. You would have become an atheist forever.

Ask atheists, and ninety-nine out of a hundred will say: The proof of whether God exists or not is found in whether suffering exists in the world. If there is so much suffering, there cannot be a God.

Bertrand Russell—the century’s great atheist—raised this question. Russell said: A small child is born, born paralyzed. If God exists, why is the child born paralyzed? He will rot on a bed his whole life. A child is born—cannot even take a breath—and dies. What kind of God is this? What game is being played with the child? This leela seems exceedingly cruel. Such a God cannot be a father—perhaps an executioner.

So Russell says, it is better to believe there is no such hangman-God. Why get entangled in that? So that we can do whatever we can to remove suffering. Because of God we cannot even remove suffering—we waste time in prayer and worship. We think His grace will set everything right. Nothing has been set right by His grace; everything is wrong.

Thus, to an intelligent man it seems most reasonable: better that there be no God; there is chaos. We must arrange things; let us arrange for as little suffering as possible, as much happiness as possible. Turn temples and mosques into schools and hospitals. These useless ornaments are burdensome—and expensive—when stomachs are empty they cannot be carried.

Russell says that seeing the world’s suffering, it is clear: there can be no heart behind this world. Either the world runs mechanically, or it is a chaos, but it has no master. And if there is a master, that master cannot be like Buddha and Mahavira; he would be like Hitler or Mussolini. If there is such a master, there is no need to worship him—there is need to kill him, to erase him, for until he is erased this web of suffering will not end.

And Russell said: religion will remain so long as suffering remains. Either we remove religion so our steps turn to removing suffering; or we remove suffering and religion will die of itself. Russell says: when everyone is happy, who will go to pray? There is some truth to what he says, because you always go to pray out of suffering.

He says: if all are happy, temples will vanish by themselves. Churches will be empty. No one will go to houses of worship, because people go there out of pain, hoping God may remove it. The happy man will not pray.

Russell cannot be brushed aside. There are truths in his words. The first truth is that your prayer always rises from suffering. But such prayer has never been called prayer by Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna. Prayer that rises from joy, from gratitude, from fulfillment—that carries the fragrance of contentment—only that is prayer. Prayer is thanksgiving, not demand. You thank God: what you have given me far exceeds my worthiness. It is an expression of awe.

Moses saw the man lying there—thirsty, hungry, rotting, worms swimming over his body—so weak he could not even brush them away. They were eating him; he was thirsty; he opened his eyes and asked for water.

That is what was seen from the outside. If only Moses had seen the man from the inside, he would have known what the state of a supreme devotee is! Moses missed, for devotion cannot be recognized from the outside. Like circling a palace only from the outside, you learn nothing of its inner chambers. Worms crawled, yes—but Moses did not know the man’s inner state. He became entangled in the worms.

There was a Sufi fakir, Sarmad. A cancerous sore developed on his chest and worms bred there. When he bowed to pray in the mosque, worms would fall; he would pick them up and put them back. People said, “Sarmad, have you gone mad?”

Sarmad laughed and said, “The question is: should I save myself, or the worms? Immersed in His prayer, I will be saved; these worms know nothing of prayer. Their being saved is more important. There is life in them as in me. The final hour of my life is near, for I will not be born again. Their journey is just beginning; I must help them as much as I can.”

In the end Sarmad stopped bowing in prayer because when he bent, worms sometimes fell and died. He stopped saying namaz. People said, “Sarmad, have you gone crazy in old age?” He said, “Saving these worms is a greater prayer. Namaz is only the body’s bowing; within I keep bowing. It is not right to harm the worms. And the One who sent them—that very One’s wish is that I protect His worms as much as possible. This life is given by Him. When He is tending them, who am I to interfere?”

But Moses missed. This man must have been like Sarmad, worms crawling on his body and he not pushing them away—because the body to which they belonged was his body too. And inside him…inside there was no resistance, no rejection. His clothes were torn, he was a beggar, immersed in outward suffering—but within him was an ocean of bliss Moses could not see.

And whenever someone comes near that supreme bliss, outwardly all kinds of sufferings arise—because that is the examination. Hence the fakirs have said: when you approach Him, great tests will be given to you. It is natural. Passing through those tests, your gold is refined. This was the final moment of his prayer—the moment it would flower. When all kinds of outward suffering—hunger, thirst, not even water, death approaching…

When he said to Moses, “I am thirsty,” even then Moses did not look within. The man was speaking only concerning the body’s thirst; within, his thirst had been quenched forever.

Jesus was passing through a village. A woman was drawing water, but the village belonged to a “lower caste,” and Jesus was thirsty. Standing by the well, he said, “Give me a drink; I am very thirsty.” The woman said, “Forgive me, we are lower caste—how can I give you water?” Jesus said, “Don’t worry, give me water and I will give you water. Yours will not quench thirst forever, but mine will quench your thirst for all time. The bargain is cheap—accept it.”

This man who said at the time of dying, “I am thirsty,” had in his eyes that fulfillment in which all thirst is quenched.

Moses could not see, because we see only what we can see—and what we want to see. Moses became agitated just seeing this man’s condition. Whatever melody of God remained within him broke. The sitar fell silent. Prayer became pointless. Seeing this man, his eyes closed—he went blind. God did right: when Moses returned, the man was already dead.

God’s supreme devotee, in his final moments, will be outwardly thirsty in every way and inwardly fulfilled in every way. Only then do heaven’s gates open; only then the door to liberation. If outward thirst drags him and inner fulfillment is drowned, the world begins again. The last choice will arise in the final moment.

When outwardly there was deep thirst, inwardly he remained fulfilled. He died fulfilled, but Moses thought he died thirsty. He ran, to perform the last rites of God’s devotee. But to think to perform the last rites of one whom God Himself cares for—that very thought is full of ego.

Rinzai was near death. His disciples asked, “What shall we do? Shall we cremate you? Bury you? Preserve your body? What do you want?”

Rinzai said, “If you bury me, the earth’s worms will eat me. If you leave me on the ground, the animals will eat me. In any case I am going into His belly. What you do makes no difference. Don’t worry about it—let me die. If you bury me, ‘His’ worms will eat me. They are not ‘worms’ now—they are He. If you leave me above the ground, ‘His’ animals and birds will eat me; they too are not enemies—He will come through them.”

Moses prepared for last rites, but when he arrived a lion had eaten the man.

Wherever you arrive, God arrives first. But Moses was hurt: this is the limit—such maltreatment of a devotee! If this happens to devotees, what will happen to those who are not! That we could not even give him proper last rites, no rituals performed—a lion ate him. How tragic!

People come to me and say: this Parsi custom of placing the dead on towers for vultures is crude. It should be stopped. Sometimes modern Parsis themselves say it should be stopped, it is very bad. But why is it bad? It is bad because we cannot see “Him.” When the vultures come to eat the body, we cannot see Him. Strange, that He is within you but not within the vultures? If He is within you, He is within them.

In a sense the Parsis’ arrangement is most consistent. Hindus burn, Muslims bury. The Parsis make the dead body into food. Their way seems most consistent, ecological, natural. For all your life you ate food—you plucked fruits from trees, took flesh from animals, took eggs from hens; all your life you gathered food from countless lives. What right do you have to burn this food? Let this food become food again so the circle is completed. Let what you took return to those you took it from, so the circle is not broken midway. Burning is wrong. You made others your food; now become food for others so the journey completes. You treated all as your food, yet you try to save yourself as if you were no one’s food.

Rightly, before Moses could arrange last rites, God pounced like a lion, took him, and ate him.

We must merge back into That from which we were born. What we have received, we must return there.

The Parsis’ funeral rite is scientific, natural—no one’s is so scientific and natural—though it may seem harsh. But when you pluck fruits, it does not seem harsh. When you eat an egg, it does not seem harsh. When you cut a chicken’s neck, it does not seem harsh—but when vultures sit on your neck, it seems harsh. You consider yourself very special! All animals live, die, vanish; man performs grand funerals. The limit of ego. Ego considers itself special while living; even in death it considers itself special. When you have died, nothing remains. An empty body lies there. You are not in it even a little. Yet marble platforms will be raised around you, your name engraved. What is gone will still be fussed over.

Ego tries to protect itself even after death.

Moses was deeply distressed. He cried, “O God! What is happening?”—a complaint—“What is this? So much suffering! And to the one you called a supreme devotee?”

Remember, if we think with the intellect, only complaint will arise—not prayer. Intellect knows how to complain, not how to pray. Intellect points out what is wrong; it does not see what is right.

Moses saw with intellect. But can anyone ever see God’s devotee with intellect? To see him requires a heart of faith. No one has ever seen him through thought; to see him you need a thought-free consciousness. If not that, then at least to see His devotee, you need a meditative attitude.

If only Moses had sat there silently with closed eyes. This story would have ended differently. But Moses is a thinker. If only he had sat quietly and accepted: Since God sent me to this valley, there must be a secret here. Let me not be hasty. Let me sit quietly near this devotee, try to catch even a glimpse of what is happening within him.

Perhaps the situation would have been entirely different. The fragrance within the devotee might have touched Moses; perhaps the worms crawling on the devotee’s body would have disappeared—they were never there for the devotee; his thirst would have vanished—it was not there for him. It was as if through the devotee God Himself said, “I am thirsty,” and Moses ran to fetch water—that was the mistake. Had Moses seen, he would have said, “It is impossible that a devotee of God is thirsty.” The whole thing would have turned. Moses would have seen the inner fulfillment—what thirst? And when the wild beast had eaten him, Moses would have given thanks.

The heart always gives thanks; the intellect always complains. The heart has never known complaint; the intellect has never known gratitude. So whenever complaint arises in you, know you are thinking; and whenever gratitude arises, know you are meditating.

Gratitude is the devotee’s deepest quality. That devotee was thirsty, yet gratitude was rising in him. He was dying, and gratitude was rising in him.

Mansoor was cut to pieces. When the preparation to dismember him was underway, a crowd of hundreds of thousands gathered. A fakir named Shibli was there. Mansoor said, “Shibli, do you have your prayer mat?” As they sharpened swords and raised the gallows—Mansoor’s gallows worse than Jesus’, for Jesus’ hands were nailed and he died; Mansoor’s limbs were cut one by one while he still lived: first legs, then arms, then his eyes were gouged out, then his tongue—piece by piece.

As death was being prepared, Mansoor saw Shibli in the crowd and said, “Do you have your prayer mat? Give it to me, so I may say my namaz.” The executioners grew furious. They chopped off both his legs as he sat bowed on the mat. Mansoor said, “Thank you, God! I was wondering how I would perform wudu—there is no water. Blood is here. Forgive me for all those times I did wudu with water; I did not know the true ablution could be with blood.” He smeared his hands with blood, as Muslims wash with water. Then they gouged out his eyes. But his smile remained alive. You cannot cut a smile. You cannot cut love.

Even the executioners felt pity. “Your last moment has come; we are going to cut your tongue—do you have anything to say?” He said, “To the One to whom I must speak, I can speak without a tongue. There is nothing left to say to you. Saying to you brought me to this. You always understood backwards. But so you too may hear, he lifted his blind, bleeding eyes toward the sky and said, ‘God, forgive them, for they know not what they do. I have no complaint against them. They are merely ignorant—forgive them.’”

The heart has never known complaint. The heart is never thirsty. The heart never asks. The heart is always complete—aptakami.

But Moses missed. Missing was inevitable, because one who asks God, “Where is your supreme devotee?” is living through intellect. Otherwise, what need was there to ask? What need to search for a supreme devotee? Intellect is hunting; logic is calculating: Is this path worth taking or not?

The story is sweet. And you too—never be hasty in making judgments, because here emperors are sometimes found among beggars. At times the supremely healthy one appears surrounded by great disease. Sometimes where the lamp of fulfillment burns, all around dance the flames of thirst. And in the final moment there is the test. If prayer crosses that last moment—when there was every reason to complain, and yet prayer does not complain—only then does the key to the door come into your hands.

When there is nothing to complain about and you do not complain—there is no virtue in that. But when there is everything to complain about and no complaint arises—know that the touchstone has been passed. You have proven pure gold. Do not be hasty. Do not look from the outside. If you get even a small hint—and many times you do—you too often look from the outside and go away, as happened with Moses. If you get the slightest hint that someone is a devotee, sit near him with intellect set aside. This is what we call satsang.

Satsang means: to sit near one who has arrived, or is near arrival, without thinking. For when you think, a wall rises between you and him. When you do not think, the wall falls, and what has come to the devotee begins to seep into you. His current starts to flow toward you. Gradually he pours himself into you. This is what we call satsang.

Moses needed satsang. How difficult it must have been to reach that valley—and even there he arrived carrying his intellect. He kept thinking, kept judging: “What is happening?” He started complaining. He reached the valley, yet did not arrive. He asked God, a sign was given—and still he missed. Do not miss like this. Many times you too have missed this way. Some trivial thing turns into a complaint.

People went to Gurdjieff. He would ask, “How much money do you have? Take it out.” And immediately trouble began—for our grip on money is so tight. Gurdjieff would say, “First put the money down.” We think, “A saint—and money?”

Gurdjieff asked for money first. He answered a question and said, “One hundred rupees.” Many fled, for we have learned to get things free from saints. But what you get for free will be what is fit to be free. If you want the real, you will have to pay—whether with money or with meditation. You must give up something to attain the real.

Once a lady came. Gurdjieff said, “All your jewelry—she was quite wealthy—take it off and leave it here.” Before coming, she had heard that Gurdjieff does this. Intellect prepares strategies—she had asked around among old disciples.

A lady told her, “No need to worry. When I went, he had me remove my ring and necklace. But the next day he returned them. Don’t be afraid. I gave them with a sincere heart, trusting that if he asks, he asks rightly. The next day he handed me my pouch—and when I opened it at home, there were a few extra items I had not given.”

Greed seized the new woman—“This is wonderful.” She went, waiting eagerly for Gurdjieff to ask. He said, “Good, now give me everything.” She quickly took them off, tied them in a kerchief, and handed them over. She waited fifteen days. The pouch did not return. Finally she went to the other lady. “What can I do?” the lady said.

Someone asked Gurdjieff, “Sometimes you return things, sometimes not. Why?” Gurdjieff said, “To the one who gives, I return. How can I return to one who did not give? I can only return what has been given. This woman did not give—her eyes were fixed on getting back. Now it will never return.”

Sometimes even if you reach someone like Gurdjieff, you will miss. Some small thing will make you stumble. Intellect sees the trivial. Its net is very small; it catches small fish. The smaller the fish, the faster it catches; the vast one slips through. The heart’s net is very large; in it only the vast is caught.

So when you go to catch the vast, don’t take a small net. This is where Moses erred. He cast a small net. He went to catch a supreme devotee and came back with tiny fish. Do not repeat Moses’ mistake.

Anything more?