Bin Ghan Parat Phuhar #1

Please, help us understand their meaning.

A shower without the clouds! This series will be an altogether new journey. Until now I have spoken on liberated men. For the first time I begin a discussion on a liberated woman. Speaking on liberated men was easy; I can understand them—they are of my own kind. Speaking on a liberated woman will be a little more difficult—it is a somewhat unfamiliar path. In their innermost core, of course, man and woman are one, but their expressions are very different. Their manner of being, their way of appearing, their statements, their way of thinking—not only are they different, they are often opposite.

I have not spoken on a liberated woman until now. If you have understood a little about liberated men, if you have tasted a little of liberation, then perhaps understanding a liberated woman will also become easier.

Just as a sunbeam is white, yet passing through a prism it breaks into seven colors—the green is not the red, nor is the red the green; although both are born of the same ray and will ultimately rejoin into that same one ray. Before breaking they were one; after merging, again they will be one. But in between there is a great distance—and that distance is delightful. There is a great difference in between, and the difference should not be erased. Let the difference remain forever, for in that difference lies the sap of life. Let the red be fully red, the green entirely green. Only then do red blossoms appear upon green trees. Green blossoms on green trees would not be very beautiful; red blossoms on red trees would hardly look like blossoms at all.

In the Divine, woman and man are one; there the ray becomes white again. But in existence, in the manifest realm, in expression, they are very different—and their difference is very lovely. Do not destroy their difference, adorn it. Do not annihilate their difference; rather, see the non-difference hidden within it. When the same one tone begins to be heard in both woman and man—without erasing their difference—then know you have eyes.

A vina player plucks the strings; many notes arise. The fingers are the same, the strings are the same—only a slight change in touch—and very different notes are born. Fortunate that different notes arise, otherwise there would be no music at all. If there were only one note it would become horribly tuneless, unbearably boring.

The world is beautiful because there is non-duality within differences. Amidst all the notes there is the same touch of fingers, the same vibration of strings. The musician is one, the instrument is one, yet the waves of music are wonderfully diverse.

Man is one great wave; woman is another. Not only different, I say opposite—waves moving counter to each other; and precisely for this reason there is such attraction between woman and man. Because they are unlike, there is a fierce longing to know one another, to unveil, to recognize each other’s mystery.

I have spoken on Kabir, on Farid, on Nanak, on Buddha, Mahavira and hundreds of liberated men; that theme was one-toned. Today I add a second note. To understand this second note, that first note has prepared you. For a very unique event happens: when a man reaches the last steps of liberation, he becomes like a woman; he becomes womanly. That is what Farid said: “The lover became the beloved.” He who was the lover is now the beloved. And Farid says to himself, “Sister, if you can do this much—that only the hope for the One True remains in you—then the Beloved is not far.”

If you understand Buddha’s life, you will find in it the kind of femininity that sometimes becomes available in the very finest women—the same delicate feeling. Call it compassion, but if you look deeply you will see: that compassion is the shadow, the accompaniment, of a new woman being born within Buddha. In Mahavira you will find it as nonviolence. Whenever a man becomes liberated you will suddenly find a profound feminine sweetness entering his life. All the qualities Farid praised—patience, modesty—these are feminine qualities. Modesty is feminine, very delicate. And patience—endurance—is a feminine gift.

Men have no patience. Man is restless, always in a hurry. If men had to raise children the world would soon be childless—there isn’t enough patience. If men had to carry pregnancy, the world would be full only of abortions—no man would agree to sustain a pregnancy—who can wait nine months? Man is in haste, in speed. Time presses on him.

Woman lives in the timeless; man lives in time.

I was a guest in Mulla Nasruddin’s home. After our afternoon rest we were sitting and chatting on the bed when his wife peeped in and said, “Listen, take care of the children, I’ll just pop over to the doctor to get a tooth pulled.” Mulla leapt up, thrust his arms into his coat and said, “Wait, Fazlu’s mother—better you mind the children; I’ll go get the tooth pulled!” Minding children is such a calamity! Man doesn’t have that much patience. To bring up a child is very difficult—twenty, twenty-five years before a child can stand on his own feet.

Patience is easy for a woman; for a man it is a discipline. Hence Farid says: cultivate patience. A woman’s mind will wonder, what’s there to cultivate in patience? This is the difference I’m explaining. The woman feels, what is there to practice? Patience is already there. Farid says: cultivate modesty. The woman feels: without modesty, what is there to talk about? Modesty is my very nature.

If a woman has to do spiritual discipline, she must break modesty; modesty comes to her naturally. As leaves come to trees, so modesty comes to woman. To find a modest man is a little difficult. To find an immodest woman is also a little difficult. If women lose modesty, it is under men’s influence; and if men gain modesty, it is under women’s influence. What comes to a man only through great austerity comes to a woman by birth. There are other things that come by birth to men and not to women.

If a woman wants to become a soldier, she will have to pass through arduous training; but to become a saint she needs no such austerity. If a woman is to go to the battlefield, she will need great preparation and training; but if she is to go to the temple to pray, to worship, she needs learn from no one. Take a little girl to a temple, and it seems she knows from birth how to bow there. Take a boy—you have to push down his neck; he keeps standing. Bowing doesn’t come. Bowing doesn’t appeal. He wants to make others bow, not bow himself.

For man, struggle is natural; war is natural.

Man knows only one way to win—through struggle.

Woman knows a different way—to win by surrender.

The man even in victory loses; the woman even in defeat wins. Such is their difference—and it is beautiful. Though they move in opposition, still there is a deep harmony. Because the man wins and still loses, and the woman loses and yet wins, the two complement—opposites fit together, they sit side by side.

When a man approaches liberation, feminine flowers bloom in him; when a woman approaches liberation, masculine flowers bloom in her.

Understand this a little.

I have said before, and I’ll say again: of the Jains’ twenty-four Tirthankaras, one is a woman—Malli Bai. But the Digambara Jains changed her name to Mallinath, because they do not accept that a woman can be liberated; in a woman’s body there is no liberation. So they won’t admit that Malli was Malli Bai; for them he is Mallinath. There is a little meaning in their stance too. The meaning is this: when a woman nears liberation, masculine flowers open in her; when a man nears liberation, feminine flowers open in him.

Why does this happen?

To know this we must enter a little into the human mind.

Both are within everyone. In a man a woman is hidden; in a woman a man is hidden. It must be so, because everyone is born of both. In you your mother has contributed half and your father half. You cannot be only woman, nor only man. You are the confluence of woman and man. From that meeting you are made. So in you there will be half woman, half man.

Then what is the difference between man and woman?

Only this much: in a man, the masculine is on top and the feminine is hidden beneath; the feminine is deeper, the masculine on the circumference. In a woman, the feminine is on top and the masculine is pressed underneath. When you become free, when your consciousness returns to its silent center, what was hidden begins to reveal. What was apparent remains, but that which was concealed now also appears. Hence Farid says: “The lover becomes the beloved.” In that final hour you suddenly find: I was a man, but now something new is happening—a new door is opening within that was closed till now.

And naturally, what has never yet manifested has great freshness. What has been on the surface has gathered dust. You have lived that for so long; it has become part of your experience, its novelty has faded. When the hidden suddenly manifests—when the feminine appears in a man near the moment of liberation, near the soul’s center—it completely covers him. Hence the enlightened appear womanly; it veils them. In women who attain Buddhahood a great masculine feeling arises. The hidden man suddenly stands forth.

This is an event close to the center—when you are almost at the last step. It is not the center itself. There remains a step of distance. You are no longer on the circumference; you have not yet arrived at the center—only near it. What was hidden in between comes into view. In the final step, neither man nor woman remains. At the center both are lost. There your color remains one—pure, white. You are neither red nor green—the rainbow disappears there.

Where the rainbow disappears, the world disappears.

Then only One remains. We have not even called it “one,” for even saying “one” evokes the thought of two. We called it “non-dual”—only this much: it is not two. There, neither woman nor man exists.

Hindus dared greatly—they kept Brahman in the neuter gender—not feminine, not masculine; because there both are lost. In Jesus’ sayings there is a strange phrase that gives Christians much difficulty: time and again Jesus says to his disciples, “Will you be eunuchs for the Kingdom of God?” Christians stumble—what is this? But Jesus speaks rightly. In the last hour it will be so—you will be neither; you will go beyond both, free of both.

Last night I was reading a Jewish scripture, the Midrash. There is a saying: “The Torah has two paths; one is of sunlight, the other is of snow. If you follow the first, you will die of the sun; if you follow the second, you will die of the snow.” Then what to do? The Midrash says: “Walk between the two.” That middle is neither man nor woman. If you go by the masculine path you will die of heat; if by the feminine path you will die of cold. Then what to do? Walk between them. But that event happens only at the last point—when one reaches the center, one is free of both. The sunbeam becomes a sunbeam again; the rainbow comes and goes; the world forms and dissolves; you return to the source, the origin is attained.

Let us grasp a few things about the feminine mind; then Sahajo’s utterances will be easy to understand.

First, the feminine expression is not of meditation but of love. She attains meditation through love. She even knows meditation through love. She is soaked through with love. For her the name of meditation is prayer.

A man can live alone; in truth he wants to be alone. The ego does not want to relate, because in relating one must bend, drop a bit of stiffness, come to the other’s level. Friendship means we regard the other as our equal; love means we regard the other as above ourselves. The warlike male mind is not ready even for friendship—love is very difficult; prayer is almost impossible. Prayer means laying one’s head at another’s feet. Even when a man bows, he cannot do it with his whole heart; he bows out of compulsion. Finding no other way, he bows; out of helplessness he bows. Not out of strength but out of weakness. He does not consider it a blessing to bow; inside he feels it is an unfortunate moment.

In Western languages the word for “samarpan” (surrender) does not carry the feeling it carries in Eastern languages. “Surrender”—it means you were defeated. In the West surrender means someone overpowered you and forced you to bow. In the East surrender means: you bowed and yielded; no one forced you. Western languages are heavily influenced by the masculine; Eastern languages are deeply influenced by the feminine. Hence what is important in Eastern languages you will find tinged with the feminine: motherliness, compassion, nonviolence, kindness, prayer, worship, adoration—all feminine words. Whatever is soft, filled with sweetness, we have called “feminine”; there is some quality of woman in it.

Man is a warrior; woman is surrender.

For the man, meditation, austerity, discipline, yoga are easy; for the woman, love, prayer, worship, adoration.

Man values abstract, sky-like words—things not tangible, not touchable. He speaks of distant things, of the sky. Woman is very realistic—she speaks of the near, the neighborhood. Listen to women—the talk is of what is happening next door. Listen to men—what is happening in Vietnam, in Israel. This does not appeal to the woman. Why so far away? What do we have to do with it? To the man, what does it matter that the neighbor’s wife ran off with someone? What’s in it? Such things go on in neighborhoods! Real events are happening in Israel, in America, in Vietnam—the whole world is there, the earth is vast. And even that doesn’t satisfy him: we must go to the moon, to Mars. The woman wonders: what will you do on the moon or Mars? Better you fix the backyard garden, cut the grass that’s overgrown, clean the house—it’s dirty. What will you do on the moon? The very far—the distant—does not attract the woman. She wants the near—she is mother, wife, and earth itself! Nearer, closer, real!

Here is a great difference between human beings, between woman and man. Man will say “Motherland”; woman will say “Our home.” Man will say “Humanity”; woman will say “My son, my husband, my brother.” A woman’s boundary is fulfilled in the family. Woman is like a small lamp that casts light a little way around her; that circle of light is the family. Man is like a torch—he does not cast much light nearby, but his beam goes far; there is curiosity for distant things.

Man is far-sighted; woman is near-sighted.

This means that when man speaks of God, woman speaks of the Master; because God is very far, the Master is very near. God may be merely a concept, a hypothesis, a word. Who has known, who has seen? But the Master is very real—you can hold his feet in your hands. Where will you hold God’s feet? For a woman the Master becomes more important than God.

Sahajo’s word sounds like that of a great atheist: “I could renounce Ram, but I cannot forget the Master!” I can leave God; it is no great obstacle for me to abandon Ram. But to leave the Master is impossible. A man would hesitate to say this. He would say, the Master must be left, God must be attained; one day the Master must be left behind to meet God. The woman will say: if God is to be met, let him come into the Master; and as for leaving this one, that is impossible.

Don’t leave the Master to attain God; find God in the Master. This is the grip of the real—for the Master is near, tangible. His body is like yours; his speech is like yours; his eyes are like yours. He is more than you, but he is also like you. He is a plus; there is some wealth, some more-ness, but he is of your kind.

God is not at all like you. However much more He is, there is no hold upon Him; there is no way to touch Him. If you listen to men’s language, they will say: the Unmanifest, the Formless, the Attributeless. No one has ever seen, no one has ever heard, no one has ever touched Him. From there words return; as for hands reaching—what to say! The eyes cannot see—He is not an object, not a substance; He has no form. He is formless, attributeless existence. Where is He? Do not ask. Everywhere.

To a woman such talk seems empty, words piled high, without the flavor of truth. She says: let Him be with attributes, only then is He trustworthy. Let Him have form; only then can we trust. Because woman wants to love, not to meditate.

Understand this difference.

For meditation the object may be formless; if it has form, it becomes a hindrance in meditation. But whom will you love if he has no form? How will you embrace? How will you call him to your heart? He is formless. “Formless” seems an empty word. No devotion will arise from it, no emergence of love. It is so vast you lose hold of it. You can drown in it, you can die in it—but how will you live with it? The devotee says: No, He is with attributes. All attributes are His, he says. He has form; all forms are His—he has taken form in flowers, leaves, mountains, waterfalls. The feminine mind does not want to go beyond form—nor is there any need. The masculine mind feels bound by form.

Understand this.

To a man even love feels like bondage; to a woman love feels like liberation. A man, even when he falls in love, thinks, where am I getting tied up? A woman, when she falls in love, says, these bonds are sweet, for through them I am freed. The two languages belong to different worlds.

For woman, love is liberation; for man, love is bondage.

Men must have coined many words. Invitations come to me: a father writes, “My son is entering the bond of love.” Why “bond” of love? “Entering the bondage of marriage, we seek your blessings!” Why blessings for entering a bondage? He’s going to jail—better he didn’t go! But in the male tongue marriage is bondage. And he always thinks—Run! Run away! Leave the home! Go to the Himalayas!! Renounce!!! Even if he stays, he stays reluctantly. As if, what to do—compulsion, can’t leave—children, wife, heavy bondage, duty. Women have never spoken of such renunciation—leave all, run to the Himalayas. Woman has tried to find God where she is; to find him near at hand.

The Upanishads say: God is farther than the farthest, nearer than the nearest.

I would add: for men He is farther than the farthest; for women nearer than the nearest.

Hence men laugh: the woman sits with Krishna’s image; she adorns him, dresses him, places the peacock crown, sets the feather. Tears flow from her eyes, she dances in ecstasy. Men laugh: madness. Men go to the forest, leave everything, light their sacred fires, sit stiff under trees. The woman feels: his mind has gone wrong. It is natural that both feel thus; their dimensions are different.

So I said, a new journey begins.

Sahajo will not be the only woman I speak on, but the beginning is with her, because in her, woman manifests in a very pure form. Before we enter her sayings, let me also tell you: as I said, even when men become liberated and are filled with feminine feeling, even when they speak of it, their discourse does not become complete; it remains half. After all, Farid is Farid; however much he says “sister,” when Farid says “sister,” inside he still knows he is a brother. If you suddenly go to Farid and say, “Sister, what are you doing?” he will be annoyed: can’t you see? He himself can say it—alright; you don’t say it. However much he tries, the man remains man. When feminine feeling comes over him it surrounds him from without, as if clouds have encircled him; he is enveloped, he bends; yet deep within you will still find the man. Even in his bowing you will detect a kind of stiffness. Burn the rope, still the kinks remain in the ash. It is natural.

Buddha attained enlightenment, yet he did not want to initiate women. Nothing lacking in his knowledge—he knew there is neither woman nor man—yet the difference remained outwardly. When women asked for initiation, he hesitated. This hesitation is like the burned rope—no longer there, but the outline remains. For a moment he wavered: if I initiate women there will be trouble. Only because the memory of being a man still lingered. The rope is burnt, the marks remain. He thought: if women are initiated then women and men will be together—there will be disturbances. Attraction will increase; men will fall in love with women; and even if men protect themselves it will be difficult, because woman cannot live without loving. Men may run, but it won’t help much. And the ways by which women win are such—so skillful—without noise, without weapons—they conquer so quietly that it will be hard. Some monk will be ill, and a woman will massage his head, rub his feet. In that touch, a note of love, of passion, will begin to rise. Perhaps she had no such intention at all—no thought of arousing attachment—but that is not the point; it will happen. The monk will become soft toward her; she will enter his dreams. Sometimes the monk will lie down with a headache that isn’t there, just to feel the touch of her gentle hands. Gradually the longing will deepen.

So Buddha was afraid. Who was afraid? The man—gone now, only ash remaining—he was afraid. But when the request was pressed, Buddha yielded. He said, alright. But he yielded reluctantly. He said, my religion would have lasted for thousands of years; now it will not last more than five hundred. For where women and men are together, a household arises.

And Buddha’s sannyas is a man’s renunciation—opposite of household, for the monk who goes to the forest; opposite of family. He said, where women are, they will soon start making a family.

Scientists say if men had their way, there would be no houses—only tents at best. People would roam like nomads carrying their tents.

Men do not enjoy settling down; they don’t want to settle in one place—their minds are restless. They say, see the world—go here, go there. A woman cannot understand where this going is, what for! There is joy at home—sit in peace. They have no peace. They dash to the Lions Club, the Rotary Club, the Poona Club. They rush. They return home exhausted and say, now to relax we are going to the club. If not freed from the shop, then the club; if not the club, then parties; if not parties, then politics; if not politics, then something... Something or other—some agitation! A woman cannot understand why a man can’t sit quietly at home. That is not the man’s nature. Homes were built by women. That’s why in Hindi we rightly call a woman gharwali—“the one of the house.” No one calls a man gharwala—he isn’t. The word doesn’t suit him. The home is the woman; to that stake the man is tied. Love causes him to stop; otherwise he would keep running.

All civilization is built on the foundation of woman. Without homes there would be no cities, and without cities civilization would be lost. Man could be a nomad—Baluchi-like—wandering. That is why Baluchi women have acquired masculine traits. Your men might not be able even to wrestle a Baluchi woman; she is stronger than your men. If she grabs your hand, you may not be able to free it. Naturally she’s become masculine, for she walks with men as a nomad. The camp changes daily—today here, tomorrow there. Passing through such struggle, the Baluchi woman became strong. Because your men are tied to the house, they have become weak; they have become womanly, while the Baluchi woman has become manly. The way of life conditions and shapes.

Man and woman are two dimensions. If you recognize their differences finely, Sahajo Bai’s verses will become clear. Do not try to understand them in a masculine way. Forget who you are—otherwise your notions will interfere.

“I could renounce Ram, but never forget the Master.”

Only a woman can say this. For Ram is a distant idea—who knows if He is or not? Who has seen? Perhaps He is in the sky, perhaps not. So I can leave Ram, I can leave the formless; but I cannot leave the Master. The Master has form; he is present here—he can be touched, seen; his body’s fragrance is tangible; you can gaze eye to eye; you can hold his hand; you can press his feet—there is a bridge with him; he is real.

“I could renounce Ram, but never forget the Master.

I will not regard even Hari as equal to the Master.”

No, before the Master I cannot even look at God. Astonishing! Sahajo says even God I cannot place as a rival to the Master; I cannot seat you on the same throne. You may be, you may be beautiful, you may have created the world—granted. But I cannot seat you before the Master. The Master above God. Men have been brave at most in bringing the Master near to God; they cannot place him above.

Kabir says: “Guru and Govind both stand before me—whose feet shall I touch? Blessed is the Master who showed me Govind!” So I touch the Master’s feet. But why? Because you showed me God. The real thing is God. The feet I touch are the Master’s, but the reason for touching is that he showed God; without him I wouldn’t have known. Thus he is the means; Govind is the goal. See—Kabir still touches the Master’s feet, but makes clear that God is above the Master. Very clever, very political—he pleased both. He touched the Master’s feet and said, “Because of you I know God,” thereby pleasing God as well—look, it’s for Your sake that I touch his feet. Sahajo can say what Kabir cannot.

“I will not regard even Hari as equal to the Master.”

No—I can keep you in worship, but not equal to the Master. I cannot seat you on the same throne. Wherever a woman has seen love, there God is. Then no one can place a God above that; it is impossible—for nothing can be placed above love.

She gives her reasons, and they are delightful:

“God gave me birth in this world.”

Understand: Kabir too gave a reason for touching the Master’s feet—“because you showed me God.” Sahajo also gives a reason: I cannot place you equal to the Master; I say it plainly. The reason is: “Hari gave me birth in this world!” You sent me into the world. For this there is no need to offer great thanks.

“The Master freed me from coming and going.”

And the Master freed me from the cycle of birth and death. Now whom shall I thank—you or the Master? What did you do? You threw me on this dark path alone, cast me on an unknown, incomprehensible road—that is what you did. What did the Master do? He set me again on the path of light; he gave me his hand, did not leave me alone where I was alone. You left me in the forests; he brought me back to the royal road. With what face do you expect me to place you above the Master? No.

“I could renounce Ram, but never forget the Master.

I will not regard even Hari as equal to the Master.”

“Hari gave birth in this world!” Granted, you are the giver of birth. But what was gained in this life? Other than sorrow, suffering, pain—what else was obtained? Shall I thank you for this burden of misery? Woman is explicit; man goes round and round. “The Master freed me from coming and going.”

“Hari gave me five thieves as companions;

the Master rescued this orphan.”

You set five thieves—the senses—upon me; wove a net of desires; made it hard to be free. You bound me; you did not free me. And you left me an orphan. You slipped far away; no news of any Master. I took the senses to be my masters and ran after them. You cast me into mirages; how many deserts I wandered! For what reason should I place you above the Master? The Master rescued me, delivered me from my orphaned state, made me someone’s own again.

“Hari ensnared me in the net of family;

the Master cut the bonds of attachment.”

These are loving reproaches addressed straight to God—without any trick. This is the difficulty in conversations between men and women: the dialogue doesn’t happen. The man speaks by stratagem; the woman speaks directly. The man cannot grasp how anyone can speak so straightforwardly; the woman cannot grasp why there is any need to circle—say it straight! The woman finishes in a few words; the man hides what he wants to say in a thousand ways, and says what should not be said.

“The Master cut the bonds of attachment.”

This is not great poetry. Kabir’s poetry—another matter! Farid’s songs—another matter! Sahajo Bai’s sayings are not great poetry; there is no great art. There is a direct blow—a simple, pure-hearted woman’s speech.

“Hari ensnared me in the net of family.”

You made the net of family, gave me the world, surrounded me on all sides—I writhed in it; nowhere a refuge; nowhere a shade—only scorching sun. “The Master cut the bonds of attachment.” All those thickets of attachment you planted—he cut them down. No—do not ask me to place you above the Master.

“I will not regard even Hari as equal to the Master.”

I cannot do it; it is impossible for me. I will not be able to regard you as equal. Don’t be angry—there is no cause—this is the plain logic of life.

“Hari tangled me in disease and indulgence;

the yogi-Master freed me from all.”

Let us understand “attachment” a little. Here you will slowly grasp the difference. When a man prays, he says: free me from ego. In man, ego is his hurt. When a woman prays, she says: free me from possessiveness. Ego is not the woman’s pain; possessiveness is—my son, my husband, my house, my sari, my jewelry—the sense of “mine.” For the woman, ego is not the real disease; “mine-ness” is. For the man the disease is “I”; for the woman “mine.” If the woman’s “mine” is cut, her “I” falls; if the man’s “I” falls, his “mine” is cut. So the matter is simple and clear—the Master cut the hedge of possessiveness! He awakened her slowly: nothing is “mine”—“mine” is false, a dream, only waves in the mind—not reality. We come into birth alone—no “mine” with us. We go in death alone—no “mine” with us. The talk of “mine” is the world. The Master cut the hedge of possessiveness!

“Hari tangled me in disease and indulgence.”

Let us understand three words—rog (disease), bhog (indulgence), yog (union). In spiritual terms, rog is the state when one is utterly disconnected from God. Hence disease is “illness.” If you understand “illness” correctly, you will understand “disease”: dis-ease—dislocated from the self. “Health” means being established in the self—swabhava—one’s own nature. When you move outside your nature—ill. Disease means the greatest distance from God.

These three words measure distance: disease—endless distance from God; union—no distance—oneness; indulgence—midway. Sometimes for a moment there is union with God; for a moment; and years of distance follow. That is what you call indulgence. Eating: for a moment a taste flashes; in that taste there is deep satisfaction; in that moment you are close to nature, close to God.

Hence the Upanishads say: food is Brahman. When a seer eats, he comes closer to God—through food he knows Brahman—annam brahma!

Tantra says: sexual union too is near to samadhi. The tantras say: the bliss of the senses is the sibling of the bliss of Brahman. In the deep moment of lovemaking, when all thoughts vanish, when even your control is lost; when God seizes you and you tremble and shake in His hands like leaves in a storm; when you are neither master nor controller nor doer—for a fleeting instant you are drowned, lost—that instant of sensual bliss is the sibling of divine bliss. But it comes in a flash, and then many days of distance. So indulgence comes close to union, then snaps back into disease.

Indulgence is momentary union, and then a long disease.

Sahajo says: “Hari tangled me in disease and indulgence!” You gave me disease and at most indulgence—no more than that. Yes, you gave a glimpse now and then; but even that glimpse brought no lasting joy—after it the sorrow grew heavier. A moment of bliss—and countless hours of pain. You gave indulgence and disease; do not take too much pride in this.

“The Master—the yogi—freed me from both.” He gave yoga—union—and released me from disease and indulgence. One who attains union, the body’s indulgences fall away of themselves. When the superior is found, the inferior drops of itself. When essence is in your hand, who gathers the nonessential? One who gains yoga, his indulgence departs. And when indulgence is gone, there remains no vehicle to carry you far from God. That vehicle was indulgence; riding it, you reached disease. With indulgence dissolved, disease is dissolved too.

Do not think from this that saints never fall ill. Illness may seize the saint’s body, but saints are never “ill.” Ramakrishna died of cancer; doubts arise in many minds! Ramana Maharshi too died of cancer. Mahavira died of severe dysentery. Buddha died from poisoned food; the poison spread in his body. Mahavira was ill for six months before death.

Question: if they attained union, do they still fall ill? They do not—but the body is another matter. Mahavira is one; the body another. To you the body seems one with you. Mahavira’s distance from his body became as great as from disease. For whatever relationship he had with the body was also through indulgence. The day he attained yoga, that relation broke too—body separate, soul separate—the bridges gone. And because those bridges fall away, sometimes the bodies of yogis become more diseased than those of ordinary sensualists. The body stops receiving the warmth of life; the support of prana it used to get stops; your companionship to the body ceases. Now the body runs on its own strength; it gets none from the soul. It totters. So yogis often suffer great diseases. But you only think they are afflicted; they do not. They are utterly free of disease.

Ramana had cancer. Doctors said it ought to cause excruciating pain, requiring morphine injections. But no one ever saw him sad. He remained as serene; his flower bloomed as before—no difference. His fragrance remained the same—as if nothing had happened. Great physicians came saying, “At this stage there is terrible pain; only morphine saves one.” But what is this? He is perfectly alert; no change—like the cancer is happening somewhere far away, nothing to do with him—like it happened to someone else!

Ramakrishna had cancer of the throat; food would not pass, even water could not be drunk. One day Vivekananda clasped his feet and said, “Master! We cannot bear your pain. You may not have pain—we know—but we cannot bear it. Do this much for us: pray to the Mother. Not for your sake, for ours; that we may not suffer.” He said, “Alright.” He closed his eyes, then burst into laughter. “I told the Mother,” he said, “and she replied: ‘Through this body you have drunk plenty of water and eaten plenty of food. Now drink and eat through the other bodies.’ So, Vivekananda—when you eat, I shall eat through you; when you drink, I shall drink through your throat.”

One whose relation to his own body is broken has become related to all souls—he has become one with Brahman. That oneness is “yoga.” Yoga means joining; becoming one. Where the two vanish and non-duality appears, there can be no inner disease. Bodily disease is very possible—perhaps even more likely—because the body is left unsupported. The longing to live is gone, the will to live exhausted. A yogi lives as if, “Alright, one must live, so I live.” Breath flows until it stops; he is ready. He has left breathing from his side; if God keeps it moving, let it move. Now the body runs mechanically. Supports for the body fall away; an inner carelessness arises regarding the body, a kind of indifference, a void—attachment breaks. Great diseases may arise; but within, disease is impossible. Disease is possible only so long as indulgence is possible. Disease is the shadow of indulgence; it follows behind.

Sahajo says: “Hari tangled me in disease and indulgence; the yogi-Master freed me from all.” No, I cannot place you alongside the Master.

“Hari deluded me with action and illusion.”

You gave dreams—obsession with action, the madness of doership—who knows how many illusions, how many births of wandering.

“Hari deluded me with action and illusion;

the Master revealed the form of the Self.”

The Master awakened me, and said: you are not action; you are not the doer. You are pure existence. The Master turned me toward myself. You filled me with desire for other things—money, status, prestige. You made me run toward countless goals; the Master cut all goals and turned the arrow inward: wake up and know yourself. “The Master revealed the form of the Self!” No—I will not regard even Hari as equal to the Master. I could renounce Ram, but not forget the Master.

“Hari hid Himself from me.”

And you did the ultimate! You made me wander the world and hid even Yourself from me!

“Hari hid Himself from me;

the Master gave me the lamp and showed Him.”

The Master handed me the lamp—of meditation, of prayer, of samadhi. He removed your veils. You hid in darkness; he gave light. He revealed you, brought you face to face. “Hari hid Himself from me; the Master gave the lamp and showed Him.”

“Then Hari brought the states of bondage and liberation;

the Master dispelled all delusions.”

This is a revolutionary line; let us understand it carefully. Ordinarily people think: when bonds fall, one gains freedom. But when bonds fall, in truth freedom falls too; for freedom is only a part of the bondage. Where chains drop, there the idea of freedom drops; the idea of freedom arises only because of chains.

A man is in prison; he thinks, when will I be free? Have you ever thought outside the prison, “Thank you, God, that I am free!” You never think of freedom outside; the man in bondage thinks of it. When he was outside, he never thought, “I am free, so fortunate!” The feeling of freedom arises from bondage. So bondage and liberation are two sides of one coin.

“Then Hari brought the states of bondage and liberation.” You brought both bondage and liberation. “The Master dispelled all delusions.” He broke bondage and also broke liberation. That too was a delusion. He did not free me only from the world; he freed me even from liberation—he made me utterly free. Now there is no “moksha” either.

Ordinarily the mind thinks in dualities. You think: the world is bondage; there must be liberation somewhere. When the world is dropped, liberation is attained. But the very day the world is dropped, that day liberation is dropped too—and until liberation also drops, you have not attained liberation! Notice: when you are sick, the desire for health arises. When you are healthy, neither illness nor health is noticed. Does health have any “taste”? Headache—then you notice the head. When there is no headache, do you notice the head? Do you ever notice “the head is perfectly healthy”? When it is, you do not notice it. How then will you notice “health”?

In Sanskrit, the word for pain is “vedana.” A precious word—two meanings: pain, and knowing. From the same root come “Veda,” “vid,” “vidvān”—knowing. Vedana means knowing—and it means pain. Only pain is “known.” Is there any knowledge of pleasure? When your head aches, the head is known. When a thorn pierces, the foot is known. When there is pain in life, life is known. If all pain disappears—no suffering—what will you know?

Perfect bodily health would be “bodiless”—even the body is not felt. Small children do not feel the body; they do not even know that it is. Slowly, as troubles arise, the body begins to be felt. The old man knows only the body—rising he feels it, sitting he feels it, eating he feels it, bathing he feels it, breathing he feels it. Someone speaks—he feels it, for ears no longer hear well. Someone appears—he feels it, for eyes no longer see well. The old know only the body; the child knows nothing of it. Health has no knowledge; even knowing is a kind of sickness—it belongs to pain. Vedana and Veda are two sides of one thing.

Hari gives liberation and bondage; the world and moksha. The Master dispels all delusions! He frees you from the world and also from moksha.

“I lay body and mind at Charandas’s feet.”

Sahajo was a devotee of Charandas, an extraordinary fakir; some day we shall also speak of him.

“I lay body and mind at Charandas’s feet.

I will never leave the Master—even if I let God go.”

God has been found in the Master’s feet. “I lay body and mind at Charandas’s feet.” Everything is offered at his feet. “I will never leave the Master—even if I let God go.” As though in Charandas the whole of God has become embodied. And unless the whole of God becomes embodied in the Master, the feeling of Master cannot arise; you will not see the Master in the Master. If you do not see the whole Divine in him, your reverence will be incomplete. For men, this is very difficult—possible only through great discipline. For women, it is simple.

Hence an event has occurred in human history: as many Masters as men have been, so many perfect disciples have women been. Mahavira, Buddha—Masters like them are rare—Charandas, Farid, Kabir... Sahajo, Meera, Daya, Rabia, Teresa—disciples like them are rare.

People ask me: so many True Masters have been—why has there been no such famous True Master among women? So many religions were founded by men; no woman founded a religion. The scriptures—the Koran, the Bible, the Gita—are all uttered by men; no woman uttered such. The question is justified; it is surprising. But since it has happened so there must be a deep reason. Man can easily be a Master; to be a disciple is hard for him—because to be a disciple one must bow. Bowing is hard for him. It is easy for him to meditate; prayer is hard. Meditating and meditating, he does not bow the ego; he burns it. Understand this difference. Bowing the ego is hard for a man; destroying it is not difficult—he says, “I will destroy it.” So men say, “We shall be destroyed but we shall not bow, we shall break but not bend.” They burn the ego; in the fire of meditation they incinerate it and become egoless. But they do not go to bow at anyone’s feet—not Mahavira, not Buddha. They burn it, scorch the blood, and become without ego.

So even egolessness has two forms. One is: burning the ego—this is the egolessness of Buddha, Mahavira—the male egolessness. The other is: bowing the ego—then arises the egolessness of Sahajo, Daya, Meera. And note: the man’s egolessness is empty; the woman’s egolessness is full. The man’s pitcher is empty when he is egoless; the woman’s is full, because she has not destroyed anything—not even the ego—she has used it; she has bent it, not burnt it—made even that a means.

Woman is skilled in bowing; thus women have been supreme devotees, supreme disciples; the final height of discipleship has been attained by women. But the final height of Mastership is not possible for them. So understand—Mahavira had forty thousand sannyasins, thirty thousand were women. And this ratio has always been. Among those who come to me—if four come, three are women, one man. Always it is thus. When women come to me I find an instant tuning between us—instant. Between men and me the tuning takes some time; there is some delay, some tug-of-war. He tries not to bow; keeps a little stiffness; does not open the heart; tries to protect himself.

Men come—if they have to speak of their own problem they say, “A friend of mine has much tension in his mind; at night he cannot sleep; what is the remedy?” I tell them, “Better you send your friend here so he can say, ‘A friend of mine has tension and sleeplessness’—that would be closer to truth.” Men fear even stating their illness, because to say, “I cannot sleep; I have come to learn from you,” is to bow.

Women come—without even saying there is trouble, tears flood their eyes; their whole body trembles—no need to say it; the turmoil is manifest.

When the Koran descended on Mohammed he was alone on a mountain. A voice said, “Read.” He trembled: “I do not know how to read.” Again the voice: “Do not fear; read.” He said, “What are you saying? And who are you? Don’t frighten me. I cannot read.” Again the voice: “When I say read, it will come—read.”

Koran means “reading.” Mohammed read; he closed his eyes and began reading. An invisible book before his eyes and he repeated it—the first verses descended. He was so frightened—what is happening? He could not believe it; he could not trust himself; could not trust the event—that God is revealing the truths of life. He ran home, feverish, buried under blankets. His wife—Aisha—asked what happened. He told her everything. She became his first disciple; she immediately fell at his feet. “There is no question of doubt,” she said. “A great event has happened—do not fear.” Her faith gave Mohammed faith. She touched his feet and at that moment became a disciple.

Mohammed’s first disciple was a woman, not a man; Mohammed himself lacked faith; a woman believed, and by her support he too believed, gained courage. She slowly convinced him: “Do not fear; tell people. What has happened is unprecedented—do not hide it: God has chosen you as his messenger.” The first Muslim was his wife—Mohammed was not the first Muslim.

The same happened with Jesus. When Jesus was crucified, all the men fled—for at the moment of death only love remains; even knowledge slips away. When death stares you in the face, only those whose connection was of the heart remain; those tied by the head say, “Now what’s the point? Run, save your own life.” They were with Jesus for their own sake; when death approached, what meaning is there in staying? The men fled; the women remained.

If you have seen pictures of Jesus being taken down from the cross, three women lower him; no men. Among them was a prostitute—Mary Magdalene. The pundits ran; the prostitute did not. So I say, sometimes sinners arrive while pundits do not. Pundits had something to lose; the prostitute had nothing—why fear?

Then, three days later, when Jesus rose again—was resurrected—the tomb was found empty. The men—Jesus’ disciples—thought some wild animal had carried off the body. But Mary Magdalene thought, “Jesus said he would return on the third day; he must have returned.” She went searching in the dark nights—in forests, in hills. She was the first to whom Jesus appeared. Only when there is discipleship does the Master appear; the new form is seen—the death-transcending immortal form, the resurrection.

Seeing Jesus she ran in ecstasy to the village. She told the disciples—they were sitting calculating how to preach, how to compile Jesus’ teachings, how to inform the people, how to build monasteries, temples—busy accounts. Jesus is gone; the responsibility now theirs; they were planning to expand the shop—to build a church. She ran in: “What are you doing sitting here? Jesus has risen! With these eyes I have seen him; with these hands I have touched him. I cannot be mistaken! Come with me!” They said, “Mad woman! Keep your madness to yourself. We have no time to waste. He who died is dead. If a miracle were to happen it would have happened then. It’s over; Jesus is no more. Let us plan what to do—don’t drag us into fantasies.”

No one listened to her. The story is wonderful: Jesus, seeing that no one would believe, went out to find them himself. Two disciples were walking along a road; Jesus joined them. “Where are you going?” he asked. “We are going to a nearby village; we are Jesus’ devotees. He has died—was crucified. We are going to preach.” Jesus walked with them, and none recognized him. “Tell me the whole story,” he said. They did. Even after a long walk they did not recognize him. They reached the village; they went to a wayside inn to eat and invited Jesus too. He sat with them. When he broke bread—as he had always done, breaking and sharing with his friends—when he broke and gave to them, a slight doubt arose: this man’s way seems like Jesus breaking and sharing bread. Still they did not trust their feeling; they hid it. Jesus said, “Fools! Even when faith arises within, you suppress it; when the wave of recognition rises, you do not trust it. Mary Magdalene is better than you: she saw and believed. Between seeing and believing not a moment passed—both were simultaneous. Vision became faith.”

Jain scriptures do not use the word “faith”; instead they say “right-seeing.” They are right. For what is faith that does not arise the moment seeing happens? If you see and then doubt and seek proofs, then conclude—that is a rational inference, not faith. If after seeing you still must think and then believe—that is man’s way, connected with the intellect. A woman sees; a surge rises in the heart; that wave itself is proof—self-certifying.

“I lay body and mind at Charandas’s feet.”

For Sahajo there is no other God now. Having found this Master, I will pour myself entirely upon him.

“I will never leave the Master—even if I let God go.”

Women became supreme devotees and supreme disciples; this is natural to them. Do not think therefore that men are special, hence they became Masters. To be a disciple is as great as to be a Master. To become a complete disciple is to arrive at the same height as one arrives by becoming a complete Master. Masters are those who have attained by meditation. Devotees, disciples, are those who have gone by the path of love. A Master means one who can show the way to others, teach the path.

Understand this a little.

Love cannot be taught; meditation can be taught. One who attained through meditation can teach the method: this is the path; do this and this; slowly the ego will fall—you will be free. Meditation can be systematized; it has technique. Love cannot be systematized; it is no technique. If love happens, it happens; if not, it does not. What will you do?

So if a ray of love arises in you, do not suppress it. Then there is no need for meditation—love will take care of all. If no ray of love arises and you are a dry desert where no seed of love breaks and no sprout appears, then take up meditation—other than that you have no rescue.

Those who go by meditation can become Masters. Those who go by love find all in discipleship itself; and they cannot teach others—love is not a matter of teaching. Love is not a craft; it is the innermost feeling of life. The courageous arrive in a moment. It is not a question of learning; it is a question of plunging. One can teach swimming; can you teach drowning? What need to teach drowning? Whoever wants to drown can drown—right now. Will you say: first learn drowning for a year, then drown? If you learn to drown for a year, you will never drown, for in learning to drown you will learn to swim. Drowning can happen now. Swimming takes a year.

Meditation is like swimming—must be learned; love is like drowning.

To destroy the ego takes time; to bow it—you can bow it now. The ego is present; only bowing is needed. The feminine mind bows easily. Women are like the vine upon a tree; bending is easy. The tree finds bending hard; for the vine, what’s there to bending?

So grasp Sahajo Bai’s first sutra rightly. It is a sutra of love. And do not think—otherwise you will err—that she is speaking against God. You will misunderstand. She speaks from great love. She says, what, after all, have you given? Do not try to sit on too high a throne. It is a loving reproach: now sit a little lower than the Master. It is a dialogue of love.

Kabir would feel a little fear in saying such things. But love—does it fear?

So Sahajo says boldly:

“I could renounce Ram, but never forget the Master.

I will not regard even Hari as equal to the Master.”

Do not think she is an atheist. It is hard to find a theist like her. Only a theist can say this; what could an atheist say? He has no such courage. Only one who knows, in the depths of her heart, that she has found God in the Master can speak such sweet reproach.

This is the lover and the Beloved’s playful sulking. She says: Enough now—don’t posture! You have not given me anything so great! You gave the world, bondage, desires; left me an orphan, threw me into darkness—the Master has lifted me up. Now I cannot place you above him. And I believe, if God were to appear before Sahajo, He would honor her and sit a little lower than the Master—not because He is lower, but because He knows there is no way He can be “under.” Not out of anger, but because He knows: these are words of love—a gentle scolding, a lover’s reproach. And Sahajo is not trying to seat Him lower. Think a bit: one who cannot place her Master below God, could she place God below the Master? Impossible. But do not weigh lovers’ talk with logic. Lovers say one thing but mean another. Their speech is oblique.

If we compress Sahajo’s meaning, she is saying: You have taken your seat in my Master; now there is no way to see you apart from the Master. Either the Master has become God, or God has become the Master.

That’s enough for today.