Bin Bati Bin Tel #7

One day a man cut down a tree.
A Sufi fakir who was watching said, “Look at this fresh branch!
It is full of sap and looks happy—because it does not yet know it has been cut.
It may be utterly unaware of the grievous wound it has just received.
But in a little while it will know.
Meanwhile, you can’t reason with it.”

Such is the condition of man. He does not even know that his roots have snapped. He does not know that his connection with the Divine has been severed. He does not know that his stream has been separated from the source of life. Soon everything will wither. But withering takes time. And until he is utterly dried out, there is no way to make him understand by argument.

That Sufi is right. Someone has felled the tree. The tree is down, yet it is still green. Flowers still bloom; withering will take time. It does not know its link with the roots is broken. It does not know it no longer has any bond with the earth. Nor is there any way to make it understand. And when there will be a way to make it understand, it will be pointless to do so. Only when it has dried will its mind grasp what happened. But once dried—what is left to be done?

Man understands only when no time is left to act. Often people understand at the time of dying that their life has been wasted. Before that, try as you may to explain, it won’t penetrate. Their eyes keep finding essence in the trivial. They never quite believe death is coming either. The intellect whispers, “Others die—have you ever died before? And what has never happened to you, why should it happen now?” Life itself can’t believe it could become death. How can light believe it could become darkness? How can nectar be convinced it can turn into poison?

Whenever you see someone dying, it feels like an accident. As if something has gone wrong that shouldn’t have—rather than a fundamental truth of life. It should feel the other way: the only surprise is that it took so long!

The day you were born, your roots were cut. The day you were born, your bond with the earth was severed. The day you were born, your journey away from the Divine began. That day we became separate. You should understand the meaning of separateness.

A child, a moment before birth, was a limb of the mother. Even “limb” is not quite right, because he didn’t even know “I am a limb.” He was one with the mother. Even saying “one” is our way of thinking; he did not know “I am one,” because you only know oneness when two have already appeared. Without two there is no idea of one. The child simply was. Pure being. In that being there was no duality. Then the child was born; he was cut off from the mother; the roots were severed, as if someone had cut a plant from its soil.

What we call birth is a process of moving away from the mother. And what we call life is moving farther and farther away day by day. First the child leaves the mother’s womb, yet remains connected to her breast. Then that link too breaks. Still he moves around the mother. Soon that bond also loosens. Yet the mother remains a kind of center—because she is the first significant woman. That too will break. He will fall in love; another woman will become important. Then his back will turn fully toward the mother.

So he keeps going farther. And the farther he goes, the stronger the ego becomes. The closer he was to the mother, the less ego there was. In the womb—one—there was no ego at all.

Western psychologists say personality is built in the very movement away from the mother. Personality means ego. Personality means: I am separate, distinct, unique, a person. I am not one with all this that surrounds me; I am other. This feeling of being other is selfhood, ego. This ego will die. For a little while the branch stays green after being cut—even if that “little while” is seventy years! It is still only a little while. What value are seventy years in this vast existence?

Scientists say the earth is about four billion years old. But even earth is a very young planet. There are older stars and worlds. What is the meaning of seventy years? In this immensity, seventy years are not even a moment!

The branch breaks from the tree; it stays green for a while; for a while the flowers will remain. It may even happen that the bud that was blooming keeps opening a little more—because sap is still running. The tree is still green within. The new supply has been cut, but the old sap will complete its journey. The old momentum remains. The clock will tick for a short while; the heart will beat. But those who know say: the day of birth is the day of death. Death has already happened that day. You will hear the news seventy years later. The axe has cut the tree; it may take a few hours or a few days for the tree to come to know. But until then even explaining is useless.

If I tell you right now that you are dead, you won’t believe me; you’ll laugh. You’ll say, “We are very much alive—what nonsense!” But you died the day you were born. You were cut off that day. That day your link with existence snapped.

All religious seeking begins with this insight: I am cut off—how can I be joined again? My roots have been uprooted—how can they spread again? I have become separate from existence—how can I become one again?

This search for oneness is religion. And the search for difference is the world. “How can I become more separate? How can I be more distinct?”—that quest is worldly.

That is what we keep doing in the world. If you have little wealth, you cannot be very different. If you have great wealth, you can be very different. The one who has vast wealth need not go among people. He need not bow before anyone. An emperor lives on a peak where no one else can reach; he is utterly alone there. A beggar cannot be alone. He must go to others to beg. He must depend on others. His ego cannot be very strong. An emperor can be full of ego: “I am utterly separate, completely independent; I am not dependent on anyone...”

People seek high positions because a great post is like a peak. Like a pyramid—broad at the base, narrowing to the top. In the end there remains the president, the emperor, the prime minister. Below, a vast expanse of people. In that crowd you are not alone. So everyone tries to reach the tip of the pyramid—where he will be utterly alone, resting on everyone’s shoulders while no one is on his. Look deeply, and the search for position is the ego’s search for independence: “How can I be alone! How can I depend on no one, while all depend on me? Only then can I declare, I am—unparalleled, unique, supreme! Above me there is no one.”

Religion’s search is the exact opposite. Religion is the search to dissolve the ego. “How can I come to know that I am not? How can I melt?” As a drop disappears into the ocean, as ice melts into water and becomes one with the river—how can my ego melt and become one? Ego is like ice—congealed. Because it is frozen, boundaries appear. Melt, and boundaries fade. Turn to vapor and you become one with the sky. All boundaries are gone.

There are three states of human existence. One is frozen—like ice; then there is boundary, sharp and hard. The second state is like water—melted; the boundary is fluid now. It still exists but it is no longer sharp; it has become hazy. You have begun to mingle with the other. And the third state is vapor—like steam. For a little while steam still seems to have edges, but soon they vanish and the vapor becomes one with the sky.

The religious person is vaporized; the irreligious person is like ice.

And what is your longing? Do you want your boundary to be sharp? Do you want to appear separate, distinct from others? Then whatever you are seeking, only suffering will come of it. And death will come of it. But it is hard to make you understand that you are already dead. Your intellect keeps insisting that only others die. You have seen others die; you have never seen yourself die and never will—because there is no way to see your own death. Whenever you see, you see yourself alive. That is your experience. And your intellect follows your experience. So the intellect’s argument is “right”: Who says the roots are broken! Who says we have been cut off? We are—very much we are. It will take you seventy years to dry out. You too will understand—but when you do, nothing will be left to do.

At the moment of death people often become dispassionate. But then no time is left. Their whole time was wasted in the world; none remains for renunciation. At the moment of death it seems whatever was, vanished like a dream. Not even a sweet dream, but a nightmare. What was gained? One cannot tell. The hands look empty. One is preparing to go naked. And wherever one is going, nothing that was accumulated or achieved can go along. But this dawns only then... The whole life replays before the eyes.

You have heard—and it is true—that if someone drowns, in those moments the whole life passes before his eyes like a film, in an instant! It replays in a moment. And you see the futility—nothing was gained. You were squeezing sand looking for oil and found none; you searched for treasure where there was none. You walked a road that was long, but no destination ever came. Or perhaps it was a circular path—you walked and walked like an ox at the oil press—walking, walking; perhaps thinking, “We are getting somewhere...we are getting somewhere.” They cover the ox’s eyes so it cannot see to the sides. It sees only what is ahead, not to either side. Ahead there is always the path—so it goes on. If it could see around, it would know: I am going in circles; I will never arrive. I am moving in vain.

There is a bandage over man’s eyes too. You cannot see around you. You look only ahead. You neither look back nor to the sides. Desire always looks ahead. Desire is a bandage. Desire always looks to “tomorrow.” What will I get tomorrow? The eyes fix on the future; you go on moving forward. And you never think: yesterday you were seeing the same “tomorrow”; the day before you were seeing the same “tomorrow.” From the day you were born, from the day you began to think, you have been circling on the same track. The same lust, the same anger, the same greed—day after day the same. Nothing new. You have descended into the same desire many times; even now you long to descend again. You have been angry so many times; again you gear up to be angry. You have been greedy so many times; again you repeat the greed.

Man is a repetition—an ox at the press. Because you only see ahead, it never occurs to you that you are circling. From this circling no destination will come—only death. The ox will tire, fall, die. Perhaps at the dying moment it will look around, for then there will be nothing left to look forward to. There is no “tomorrow” at death. When a man dies, tomorrow does not remain. Tomorrow ends. Only today remains. Perhaps on that day he will look around; perhaps he will look back. And then he will find that for seventy years he was circling the same round.

Understand this much at least: all journeys of life here are circular. The moon moves in a circle, the earth moves in a circle, the sun moves in a circle, the seasons move in a circle; the whole world moves in circles. Your life too must be moving in circles; all journeys here are circular. Yours cannot be different. Where will the moon reach by circling? Nowhere. It will only die. Where will the earth reach by circling? Nowhere. It will only shatter and scatter. You too will break and scatter. Your roots have already snapped.

The Sufi is right: it is hard to explain to a cut branch that it has died; that its roots are broken; that it has no future. For the branch will say, “I am green, I am young. Flowers are blooming; buds are opening; the leaves haven’t even wilted yet—what madness to say I’m dead!” The branch’s logic will insist, “No, I am alive.”

The intellect too will understand—but when it does, time will be gone. Therefore the wise is the one who understands before time. Do not behave like that branch. And when a fakir tells you you are cut off, think on it. And when a Buddha says you have already died, do not be quick to deny it just because your breath is moving. Breath has no necessary connection with life. Breath can go on.

I went to see a woman who had been unconscious for nine months. The breath was going on; she was in a coma. The doctors told me she could remain in a coma for three years. Injections were being given, oxygen supplied; the breath moved, the heart beat, the blood flowed. The body did everything, but she would never come to consciousness again.

Your breath moves, your heart beats, the blood is being made—but are you not perhaps unconscious too? With that woman it is obvious she is unconscious. But does she know she is unconscious? If she is dreaming, she may be building a house in the dream, getting married, loving, arranging her household. She may never know it is a dream, because the dream can continue for three years. You find out because you wake in the morning and the night’s dream breaks. But have you ever noticed? In the dream, it does not feel like a dream. It feels totally real. Only in the morning do you know it was a dream. But at night, when you sleep again, even what you called “waking” in the day becomes another dream. The night’s dream leaves some faint memory; the day’s dream leaves even less by night. Everything is forgotten—even who you are.

I have heard: a Chinese emperor sat by the bedside of his son, who lay dying. He had only one son—the apple of his eye. Everything depended on him; the empire was vast. The emperor was old. In old age this son had been born—and now he was dying. The physicians said he could not be saved; the illness was beyond remedy—death was certain. So the emperor kept vigil. Any moment the son might die. For three nights he stayed awake. On the fourth night, exhausted, he dozed. In the doze he saw that he was an even greater emperor. The whole earth was his kingdom. A chakravarti. All were under him—and he had twelve sons. Beautiful, healthy, brilliant—each unmatched, each surpassing the other. He was ecstatic, blissful. A palace of gold, everything perfect—no thorn on his path.

Just then the son on the bed died. His wife beat her breast, screamed. The emperor’s eyes opened. He burst into loud laughter. The wife thought perhaps he had gone mad from grief.

She said, “What are you doing?”
The emperor said, “I am in great difficulty. Should I weep for this one son—or for those twelve I just had? Should I mourn this kingdom whose heir has died, or that vast empire of the whole earth I have just left? Should I grieve for this palace of stone and mud, or for the palace of gold I have just come from? And I am filled with doubt—what is true? That is why I laugh. I am not mad.” The emperor said, “If you understand rightly, for the first time my madness has broken; I have come to my senses.”

Neither this world is true, nor that. Both appear like dreams. One is a day-dream, the other a night-dream.

Hence the Hindus say: this world is maya—no more than a dream. A waking dream. And as long as you are asleep within, you cannot see anything but dream—whether your eyes are open or closed makes no difference. Inside, you are unconscious. You don’t even know this much: who am I? What meaning can your wakefulness have? You don’t even know from what deep source your life comes. You have never gone within. You have no acquaintance with yourself. How can you say you are awake?

Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna and Christ define wakefulness in only one way: one who has known the Self.

Suppose you meet a man on the road and ask, “Who are you?” and he says, “Forgive me, I don’t know.” You ask, “Where are you coming from?” He says, “Pardon me, I don’t know.” You ask, “Where are you going?” He says, “Excuse me, I have no idea where I’m going.” What will you think? This man is either unconscious, drunk, or insane. But on the path of life, are you in any different state?

If someone asks you, “Who are you?”—what is your answer?
“Where do you come from?”—what is your answer?
“Where are you going?”—what is your answer?
“Why are you?”—you know nothing!

I have heard: a man did business for years with a partner in London. The partnership went smoothly, because both were simple men and neither believed in arguments; so there were never any quarrels. They were content with each other, the work went well. Then they made enough money and thought, “Now we have earned enough—let’s go to the mountains and take a holiday. Time for a little rest.”

They went to the hills. The first night they lost their way. They got separated. One of them wandered into a deep forest and grew very afraid. He began shouting, “I’m lost!” Perhaps someone would hear. He shouted again, “I’m lost!” No one heard—only an owl sat on a tree. The owl hooted loudly—“Hoo.” The man thought it was asking, “Who?” So he shouted back, “Me—my name is Wilson!”
The owl said again, “Hoo.”
The man said, “Didn’t I tell you? My name is Wilson! Partner in Wilson & Johnson Company.”
The owl said again, “Hoo.”
The man said, “Never mind! I will find my own way. You’re asking too much. I myself don’t know more than that.” That much he knew: his name was Wilson, and he was partner in Wilson & Johnson. Beyond that, no one had ever asked, and he had never had to answer.

Do you know more than that? Let an owl ask “Who?” three times and your self-knowledge collapses! So forget the sage—forget the fakir—if even an owl asks “Who?” your knowledge is gone. Will you call this wakefulness? What kind of wakefulness is it? How much wakefulness is there in it? There is none. In the name of wakefulness you are deceived.

Gurdjieff used to say: You are asleep. Your sleep has two forms: one when you close your eyes at night, and one when you open them in the morning. But your sleep does not end. Your sleep continues. Sleep is your state. Someone would ask Gurdjieff, “What should I do? I want to be good, auspicious, pure, holy.” Gurdjieff would say, “Don’t talk nonsense! First, wake up. Without waking, how will you be good? You don’t even know who you are. Whom will you bathe? Whom will you purify? Who will meditate?”

Someone stopped Buddha on the road and said, “I want to serve people—how can I?” Buddha looked at him carefully and said, “I feel great pity. How will you serve? You are not even there.”

When Ouspensky went to meet Gurdjieff for the first time, he was a renowned writer; he had written many books. Like the so-called wise, he was knowledgeable. He had a grip on scriptures, was a great mathematician, a logician. Gurdjieff looked him up and down and said, “Before we begin any conversation, take this paper, go into the next room and write down everything you know—because about that we will not talk. And write down everything you do not know. Only about that can we speak. What you already know—why talk?”

Ouspensky grew uneasy. Gurdjieff had read his state at a glance: he knew too much. The swagger of the knowledgeable is of a special kind. He must have arrived puffed up. Ouspensky took the paper and went to the next room. As he sat to write, his hand began to tremble. “What do I know?” He had written books; he had spoken of God. But do I know God? He thought—and for the first time became aware: I don’t. Then fear arose inside: about what I don’t know, why did I write? And then this too: writing of what I don’t know, I have harmed others—because if I don’t know, where will those who read me go? He was drenched in sweat. It was a cold morning.

An hour later he returned and handed Gurdjieff a blank paper. “Forgive me— for the first time I have become aware that I know nothing.”

When will such awareness dawn on you? Only when you know nothing can something be explained to you; not before. Otherwise your intellect will argue: “This is not acceptable; I am still alive.” And I tell you, you are dead. You are not alive. Only the news will take a little time to reach you. You died the very day you were born.

Buddha has said: death is hidden in birth. As the sprout is hidden in the seed, so death is hidden in birth. The womb itself is the tomb. The beginning is the end. Therefore Buddha said: whatever is joined will fall apart. Whatever is made will be unmade. But do you know within yourself anything that was never made—unmade, unborn? Uncreated? If you have no taste of that, your roots are uprooted. You are rootless. And until you understand this... this is the first awakening—the first awareness: that you know nothing. If this does not dawn, you will argue. You will throw up twenty-five questions. You will accept no answer. Trust will not arise in you.

This is what the Sufi is saying: If I tell this tree, “You are broken,” no trust will arise in it. It will say, “You are blind. Look at my greenness. I am young—flowers are blooming, leaves are fresh. Who says I am dead? You are mistaken—or trying to fool me.” The felled tree will not consent.

Trust arises only when the illusion of your knowledge breaks. From the illusion of knowledge, argument is born. When the illusion of knowledge goes, argument falls away.

Then it will listen to the fakir attentively. Then the net of reasoning will not arise within. Then it will accept the fakir’s word and look around: “Is it true—have my roots snapped? Am I really cut? Perhaps I do not see the wound because news takes time to reach.”

When your foot is injured, your mind does not know at once. It takes time. Even if it takes only a little, it does take time. And if your mind is occupied, it can take a long time. You are playing hockey; your toenail tears; blood flows—you don’t notice. The game ends half an hour later; suddenly you become aware. Your mind was busy. The message reached the door, kept knocking, but the door was closed—you were absorbed. You didn’t know.

If your house is on fire, you may get a headache and not know it. Only after the fire is out do you notice the heaviness, the pain. On the battlefield soldiers often don’t know. Events happen that are hard to believe.

In America a soldier from the second world war suddenly felt a pain in his back. The war had ended long ago; he was now an old man. They investigated and found a bullet lodged in his spine—he had never known! Without being hit, no bullet can lodge within. But he must have been so occupied on the battlefield that the bullet went in; he thought it a minor wound; it healed; he forgot. In old age the pain arose. And this is not a single incident—such things happen in every war. Many soldiers forget that a bullet is in their body. Years later, during some pain or ailment, it is discovered.

In what state can a bullet enter the body without your knowing? Only when the mind is very busy is there no news. And your mind is very busy.

Your roots may be cut and you won’t know. And your roots are invisible. A tree’s roots can be seen. You are a walking tree. Your roots are not buried in the soil. Your roots are in the invisible. A tree’s roots are gross; yours are subtle. That is why you don’t notice when they break. Years pass. If someone tells you, you do not believe.

If I tell you that you are uprooted from God, you will most likely say, “What God? Which God? Where is God?” Instead of investigating your state, you will question God. Instead of inquiring—“Maybe I am so miserable, so tormented for this very reason: my roots have loosened. My life is filled with nothing but sorrow. There is no joy anywhere, no celebration, no zest. Perhaps it is true—I have been cut from the Divine!”—instead of this, you will argue about God.

And what do we mean by God? Not a person; this vastness spread in all directions, this totality—this we call God.

You are cut off from That. Your connections have slackened. A little breath still ties you, hence you live; but even that will break. Ninety-nine percent you are already cut. Perhaps one root remains, feeding the breath. A tiny jerk—and that too will snap. If only you would not argue... all religions say: do not argue. That is why “intelligent” people find no taste in religion—because they want to argue.

People come to me. A young man came recently and said, “Give me whatever arguments you can in favor of God; and I will give you whatever arguments I can against. If you convince me by reason, I will become your disciple.”

I told him: The one who goes toward God through argument cannot be convinced—ever. Because no path to the Divine runs through argument. It is like someone saying, “I will keep my eyes closed—and you must prove that light exists. Once you prove it, I will open my eyes.” We would tell him: how can we prove light to a man with closed eyes?

Trust is the opening of the eyes; argument is keeping them shut.

And argument says, “First prove it.” Sounds perfectly right: until it is proven, how can I accept? But without opening the eyes, how can light be proven? There is no other way to prove light. Only one way: open your eyes. But the rationalist says, “Why should I open my eyes until it is proven that light is?” There is no way.

I said to that young man, “Let us not waste time. Go your way—live by argument. But why have you come at all? Surely your argument has landed you in some difficulty.” He said, “No, not my argument... I have no difficulty with argument. But I am unhappy, restless. I want someone to prove God, prove the value of meditation; then I will do it. I am even ready to take sannyas—if someone proves it!”

“Wander a bit more; suffer a bit more; be troubled a bit more. Your trouble alone will break your argument—there is no other way. When you suffer enough, then you will doubt: perhaps my very argument is the cause of my misery. And the day this dawns, come back.”

Joy is the news that you are on the right path. Sorrow is the news that you are on the wrong path. Joy is the signal that your journey is in the right direction. Sorrow is the signal that you are traveling the wrong way. Joy tells you you are coming closer to the source. Sorrow tells you you are going farther from the source. Sorrow says your roots are broken, breaking. Joy says your roots have spread again; you have planted your feet in the earth; the sources of sap are flowing again. You are not separate—you are one with existence.

Uproot a tree and watch what happens. The tree that was green, filled, swaying—the breezes came and it danced in delight; clouds gathered and it hummed songs—uproot it and set it aside. Soon all its songs will be lost. Its greenness will fade. The leaves will droop. There will be no zest left. Clouds will rise in the sky, yet no song will stir in its soul. That is your condition.

The tree’s earth is soil; your earth is God.

The Sufi is right—but there is no way to make you understand through logic. Buddha does not give you arguments, nor does Christ. Instead of argument they simply present themselves before you. If their joy catches hold of you, if the lushness of their life touches your imagination, if their ecstasy stirs your heart, if their samadhi— their settledness—surrounds and enlivens you—

Buddha himself is the argument. Existence itself is the proof.

I told that young man: “You are unhappy; I am not. And the day you want to learn joy, come. But there is no question of argument.”

Only the uncomprehending get lost in argument. The wise do not worry about right and wrong; the wise care about joy and sorrow. What will you do tallying rights and wrongs? Even if you tally them, what will you have? Count joy and sorrow: how much sorrow, how much joy? Wherever you glimpse joy, know the source is near. When you see a dry river, you understand there is no source. When you see a river full, flowing, alive, dancing toward the ocean—you understand: there is a source. That is the proof. What else can a river say? Its current, its waves, its dance along the pilgrimage to the sea—this is its argument.

Existence does not submit to petty arguments. And arguments arise only because we have no taste of the great proof of existence.

With our tiny intellect we try to measure the vast. And in measuring, we lose. This immensity is too great, and the intellect too small—like someone sitting with a spoon on the seashore trying to measure the ocean. The ocean will not be measured. This man will die here with the spoon in his hand. His life will be wasted. The intellect is perhaps smaller than the spoon.

In America there was a great botanist who worked on the peanut and made remarkable discoveries—creating new forms, varieties, flavors. He used to make fun of himself. Only the truly intelligent can laugh at themselves. The foolish mock others; only the wise can laugh at their own expense.

That botanist would tell people: “At first I wanted to understand the whole universe, and I prayed to God—‘Reveal to me the mystery of this universe!’ I prayed a long time. My prayer was not heard. Then I thought—the universe is perhaps too big; I am too small. So one day I said to God, ‘Forget the universe. I farm peanuts—reveal to me the mystery of the peanut.’ Then I heard God’s voice: ‘Now you are talking sense. The peanut is exactly your size. Its mystery can be revealed. The universe was too vast; you were too small. Spoons don’t measure oceans. This mystery I will open to you.’”

And he would say, “It was opened. That is why I could create so many varieties and new flavors. When I asked the right question—one that fit my shape and limits—I received the answer.”

Remember this: As long as you ask questions bigger than yourself, answers will not come. The day you ask a question that fits you, in that moment the answer will arrive. And as answers arrive, your size grows; then you become capable of asking bigger questions. People go straight to asking about God—and immediately all is wasted. The intellect is very small. But we are very proud of the small. We strut over our smallness.

It happened that a rich man came to see Socrates. He was the wealthiest man in Athens. His arrogance was natural. His walk was different, his manner of speaking, of looking at people—everywhere his ego was on display. He came to meet Socrates.

Socrates seated him and said, “Sit. I’ll be right back.” He went inside and came out with a map of the world. He asked, “On this map, where is Greece?”—that little Greece! The man pointed it out, but asked, “Why do you ask?” Socrates said, “Show me where, within Greece, Athens is.” Just a tiny dot. The man again asked why. Socrates said, “Just one more question. In this Athens, where is your mansion? Then why are you so puffed up?”

And this map of the earth is not everything. There are some four billion suns, each with its own planets. And now scientists say: those four billion are only as far as we can see—there is no end to the expansion. They say at least fifty thousand earths should have life like humanity’s—but that is no end, because we have no news of any end. As our telescopes become stronger, the boundary recedes. There seems to be no boundary.

Where are you in all this? Yet the intellect is so conceited. A tiny head, a small brain—perhaps one and a half kilos—and within it “everything.” What pride; what arguments!

Those who sought truth have said: Until your head falls, you will not find truth. Your head is the obstacle. As long as you are with your head, you cannot find it. Because your head keeps raising arguments. And your arguments are absurd. But your head insists they are sound.

A sannyasin begins to live without a head. His existence is beyond argument. His being is of the heart, not of the head. In his being, the intellect is not the master. In his being, intellect is just one organ—like flesh and marrow, bile, heart, lungs—intellect is also an organ.

Truth is not found by intellect. Intellect is like a radar—it gives you a little sense of what is around so you can walk carefully. Intellect is not the master; it is the servant. But sometimes it happens the master becomes the servant and the servant becomes the master. This has happened within you. Intellect has become the master; you have become the servant. First you ask the intellect what is right, what is wrong—then you move.

The truly wise do not ask the intellect; they use it. They use it as a tool. Where needed, they call upon it. Where not needed, they set it aside. But “needed or not needed” is not your question—the intellect keeps chattering whether you are awake or asleep; sitting or standing makes no difference. It goes on and on: “Do this, do that,” and it makes you do.

Meditation means freedom from the control of the intellect. Freedom from its overlordship. Freedom from the slavery of the mind. Meditation is a rebellion—a revolution.

Had that branch been meditative, it would have understood the fakir. But the branch will raise arguments and ask the fakir to prove it.

Do not be like that branch. Otherwise nothing will be lost to the fakir—but you will lose everything. In your cleverness you will prove your foolishness.

If you ever come close to someone who can awaken you, then just as you leave your shoes at the door, leave your head there too. Leave your intellect at the door. Only then can you benefit from the Buddhas. Otherwise it is easy to miss them. Just a little argument—and a distance of a thousand miles appears. An inch of argument—and the distance between heaven and hell opens. Do not bring even an inch of argument there. If you want something from the Buddhas, do not go there with your head on.

That is why, in the lands of the East, we bow our head at the feet of the master—only a symbol. It means we bow the intellect. Now we are ready to listen in trust. Now we will not raise disputes. Now we are eager for dialogue. Now we want to know. We do not want a logical conclusion—we want a revolution in life. That bowing is a symbol. But you may bow the head and still be full of argument; then the symbol is false.

Where your head bows, lay down your reasoning too, and listen and understand in a state free of argument. Then existence will surround you. Then Buddhahood will transform you. Then even that tree could have understood the Sufi’s word.

Anything more?