Bin Ghan Parat Phuhar #9

Ordinarily it is thought that the atheist doubts and the theist trusts. But the theist also doubts, and the atheist also trusts. The theist trusts the divine and doubts the world; the atheist trusts the world and doubts the divine.

The amount of doubt and trust is equal in everyone. Only the direction differs. If trust gets fixed in the wrong direction, one goes astray; and if doubt is placed in the right direction, one arrives. No one arrives through trust as such, and no one goes astray through doubt as such. The question is direction. All theists doubt the world; all atheists trust the world. So don’t think anyone arrives through trust—otherwise atheists too would arrive. And don’t imagine that one wanders off through doubt—otherwise theists too would be lost.

Neither does doubt obstruct, nor does trust deliver. In the right direction, doubt too delivers; in the wrong direction, trust too misleads. Ultimately, only direction has value.

The atheist and the theist are the same kind of person. The atheist is standing on his head; the theist stands on his feet. The atheist is inverted. Where doubt is needed he is trusting, and where trust is needed he is doubting. That’s why any atheist can become a theist in a single instant, and any theist can become an atheist in a single instant—how long does it take to go from standing upside down to standing upright? And from upright to upside down, how much inconvenience is there?

A small incident happened one evening in the sea. The sun had set. A fish, just moments earlier, was dancing and swimming, utterly delighted in the infinite expanse of the ocean, gladdened in the net of the sun’s last rays. There was no sorrow or heat. Not a single faint line of doubt in her mind. Very simple, natural. But just moments earlier she had met an atheist fish. And that fish upset everything.

Other fish kept their distance from this atheist fish. This was a new fish; she didn’t know much. The atheist fish came near; out of courtesy the young one listened. The atheist fish said, “What are you preening about? What happiness is this? What festival is happening? It seems you are as superstitious as the other ordinary fish. There is no joy. Joy is only a delusion. And the ocean—in which you imagine you are preening, swimming, leaping, exulting—that ocean is nowhere. Have you ever seen the ocean?” The young fish was startled. She had heard of it; she hadn’t seen it.

When one is born in the ocean, grows up in the ocean, lives in the ocean, and has never gone outside it, there is simply no way to see the ocean. To see, you need distance, space, a gap.

She had heard the ocean is; she hadn’t seen it. Even her eyes were made of the ocean. Whatever touched her eyes was also the ocean. Fish and ocean would need to be different for the ocean to be seen. A little separation is required. There was no such distance.

The fish had heard: there is an ocean. The atheist fish laughed and said, “Just as men believe in God—blindly—so fish believe in the ocean. There is no God, and there is no ocean. Look carefully; open your eyes and see. You are still young. Why panic so soon? On all sides the great Void has encircled you. Other than death, nothing is true.”

The young fish looked around. Certainly, on every side a void seemed to encircle her. The sun was near setting. The ocean’s blueness was everywhere—like bare sky. As far as the eye could see, the blue sea was sinking into darkness. Dense night everywhere.

“Where is the ocean?” The question arose in her mind.

She peered down—bottomless emptiness. She panicked; fins trembling. Every hair bristled with worry. “If I fall into this void, who will save me?” She forgot that she had always been swimming in this very void and had never fallen. She forgot that moments earlier she was happy, content, and this void had never cut her. But now, looking closely on all sides, her inner life-force for swimming went limp—like paralysis in a frightened man’s limbs. Fear grew terrible. Silence all around. Night closing in. Void on every side—if she fell, what then? She must grab some support. She looked carefully: “What can I do? What can I hold on to?” There was no one. So she thought, “Let me try to hold myself by my own tail.” She bent, twisted—she wasn’t a hatha yogi—tried hard to catch her tail; it wouldn’t come into her grasp; she panicked even more.

The story says the ocean was watching everything silently. It was laughing too: “Crazy fish, you can’t see the ocean. You yourself are ocean!” And it was filled with compassion: “Poor thing, how much distress she has fallen into.” Moments ago there was the bliss of trust. In a moment, clouds of smoke gathered—clouds of doubt. The sky was oppressed, covered.

At last the ocean couldn’t bear it. The ocean said, “Listen, fool—till now you have not fallen; who has been holding you? Why would you suddenly fall today?”

The very thought of falling comes with doubt. Trust holds you. Its unseen hands support you from all sides. When doubt arises, all hands seem to withdraw. An abyss opens.

The fish was afraid. She said, “Who are you? Because there is no ocean. It’s only people’s blind belief.” The ocean laughed. It said, “The ocean is. Fish come and go. Believers, blind believers, and unbelievers come and vanish. The ocean remains forever. The ephemeral imagines it exists; of the eternal you are doubtful! Fool, if you must doubt, doubt yourself. One day you were not. And one day you will again not be. The ocean always was and always will be. Doubt the fleeting; trust the eternal.”

Atheism means: trust in the fleeting.

Distrust, doubt toward the eternal.

The condition of that fish is the condition of man. And in this century even more so. Because countless people have increased your doubt within, yet you have found almost no one who could impart trust. And those you think are givers of trust—sitting in temples, mosques, gurdwaras—even they did not increase your trust. Their lives gave you more doubt. From their conduct, no music of trust arose; in their very way of being you did not catch the fragrance of trust. From them came only the stench of doubt. It did not seem they had arrived at trust. Neither in their lives, nor in their way of being, nor in the glint of their eyes, nor in the gait of their feet, did you find the dance of trust. Perhaps they are more clever than you. Perhaps more skilled in argument than you. Perhaps in believing in God they have used more cleverness. But it did not feel from their touch that God had met them.

The atheist is an atheist, and your temples and mosques do not play the veena of the theist either. From there too, a hidden atheism seems to be sounding.

From all sides man is encircled by atheism.

What is to be done?

Perhaps you have been told continuously: drop doubt, increase trust. I do not say that to you. I say: doubt too is auspicious—place it in the right direction. Doubt the transient. Do not throw doubt away; it too is a precious alchemy. Whatever God has given is meaningful. Doubt is meaningful. Denial is meaningful. The value of “no, no” is also there.

Only, do not apply it to that which is not to be said “no” to.

I do not tell you to cut doubt off and throw it away. Because if you cut doubt off, you will become crippled. You will cut off half your life-breath. Then only one wing will remain; with that you cannot fly, you cannot arrive.

So I tell you: use doubt, and use trust. They are both your feet. Yes, use them in the right direction. The difference is only of direction; the combination has to be changed. A small shift makes a great difference.

These sutras of Sahajo give news in this direction.

Sahajo: In a single moment of dream, fifty years pass.
When the eyes open, all proves false—so too this dwelling in the body.

This is the right use of doubt. If you must doubt, you need not go all the way to God. Look at the world surrounding you on all sides. You will not find a more worthy subject for doubt. First doubt this.

…In a single moment of dream, fifty years pass! Have you ever noticed? For a moment you doze—sitting at the office doing work, or in the morning reading the newspaper—your eyes close, you nod for a moment. You had glanced at the clock on the wall before nodding; when the nod breaks you see only a minute has passed. But in the nod you saw a long dream. So long that, if it had to happen in waking life, fifty years would be needed—you were small, you grew old in that dream; you got married; children were born; the moment for their marriages drew near; the shehnai was playing…and its very sound broke your sleep. You look at the clock—only a moment passed. Such a long dream in such a small instant! Scientists agree that time is relative, and your sense of time changes daily. When you are happy, time passes quickly. When you are unhappy, time hardly moves. In joy, hours go by unnoticed—only moments are felt. In sorrow, life is weighed down, you are sad—moments feel like hours; they don’t seem to pass. Will this night pass or not—it stretches so long.

Time depends upon your mind. The more unconscious you are, the more dreams seize your mind. The more awake you are, the fewer dreams can grasp you. If the stupor is deep, in a single instant a dream of years can occur. If awareness is deep—complete—time dissolves. Not just years—time itself ends. Ask Mahavira, Buddha, Jesus; they say when samadhi ripens, time disappears. In perfect resolution, time is not. In perfect unconsciousness, time is—long, very long. We wander in between—sometimes unconscious, sometimes aware; sometimes happy, sometimes unhappy. In suffering, time becomes very long.

Christians say hell is eternal. Once you fall, you will never be released. Bertrand Russell raised a very rational argument. He wrote a book against Christianity: Why I Am Not a Christian. He gives many arguments. One is this—and it seems quite sound. Russell says, “Whatever sins I have committed in my life—and Christians accept only one life, so there is not much hassle—however many sins I have committed and even those I have only thought—if I confess all of them before the harshest court, I would not be sentenced to more than five years. Even for thought-sins—if they too are punished—no judge, however severe, could give me more than five years. But Christianity seems like sheer nonsense: for such small sins, to be thrown into hell for eternity—this does not make sense. The punishment seems excessive. It looks as if the Christian God is eager to punish—only let you be caught! What sins have you really committed!”

And if you reflect, Russell seems right. You may have stolen a little money, picked someone’s pocket, found some fallen banknotes and, seizing the chance, kept them without saying anything; you have looked at someone else’s wife with lust; at someone’s house with envy; you have abused someone, fought with someone—these are the sins. Small ones, trivial. For these you must rot in hell for eternity! Russell seems right. No Christian could answer Russell, because his point is clear. He says: however many sins, punishment must have a limit—because sins have a limit. Punishment infinite—for finite sins!

But I have other reasons. Russell is dead; were he alive, I would tell him he misunderstood. You missed the meaning of Jesus’s words. When Jesus says hell is eternal, he means: the suffering there is such that a single moment feels endless. The length of time is felt by the density of suffering. “Eternal” does not mean literal eternity; it is only a symbol. The suffering is so deep that the night won’t pass—feels infinite. The word “eternal” is used to convey the intensity of suffering within time. It doesn’t refer to time’s length; it refers to the depth of pain within time. Even if you remain in hell for a single moment, it will feel as if this moment will never end. That’s all. Moments of suffering become endless. Moments of happiness shrink. In bliss, time doesn’t survive. That’s why those who have known bliss say: it is timeless—beyond time. There time ends.

Someone asked Jesus to say one decisive thing about the Kingdom of God that makes it utterly different from the kingdoms of earth. Jesus said this: “There shall be time no longer.” In God’s kingdom there will be no time. This will be the fundamental difference between the earthly realm and the divine realm. Time is as much as your suffering is. Time expands with suffering, contracts with joy. In great suffering it becomes infinite; in great joy it becomes zero.

Sahajo says: In a single moment of dream, fifty years pass.

In a dream’s one instant, fifty years pass. Has it never occurred to you that these fifty years of life you call real—who knows, they are only a moment of a dream! This is to turn doubt in the right direction.

There is an ancient story in China. A king’s only son was dying. The final hour was near; the physicians said he could not be saved now. For three days the king had not slept, sitting by his side. The last breath dragged; it could break any time. A very dear son, the only one—all hopes, all dreams, were centered on him. He was the future. The old king wept. But there was nothing to be done. Everything had been tried. No medicine worked, no physician could win. The disease was incurable. Death was certain.

On the fourth night the king sat there. He had not slept for three nights—he nodded off. He dreamed a grand dream: great palaces of gold, an empire that spanned the whole earth; his rule universal. Twelve beautiful, healthy, young sons. The elegance of their bodies, the brilliance of their intelligence beyond compare. Diamonds and jewels were set in the steps of his palace. Boundless wealth. He was in deep, total happiness—no sorrow. While he dreamed thus, the queen beat her chest and cried: the boy had died. His sleep broke. He saw the dead body lying in front of him. Just now, in the dream, golden palaces were receding; twelve sons—their elegant bodies, their brilliance; the last glimmer of joy created by the dream was still present. And here the boy had died. There was wailing.

The king was dumbfounded. He couldn’t think. For a moment he was stunned. The queen thought he had gone mad—no tears, no cry from his lips, not a single word of grief, not even a sigh. She panicked. She shook him: “What has happened to you? I knew the son’s grief would be heavy. Have you gone deranged? Why so numb? Speak something.” The husband began to laugh. He said, “I am in a great dilemma. For whom should I weep? Just now I had twelve handsome young sons; golden palaces; all happiness—and that suddenly vanished. Shall I weep for those twelve who died, or for this one who has died? For when I was with those twelve, I had completely forgotten this one. I didn’t even know I had a son. Now, with this one, I have forgotten those twelve. Which is true?”

Sahajo: In a single moment of dream, fifty years pass.
When the eyes open, all proves false—so too this dwelling in the body.

In a dream, fifty years pass in one instant. These fifty years of your life are no more than a dream’s single moment. How many have lived on this earth. Countless have been here. They dreamed as you dream. They cherished ambitions as you cherish. They ran after position and prestige as you run. They too fought, died. They too tasted pleasure and pain, made friends and enemies, called some “mine” and others “not mine.” And then all departed. Scientists say under the spot where you sit—where a man stands—at least ten corpses lie buried. Ten men have died there and turned to soil. You too will merge into that dust today or tomorrow. Dust remains in the end; all dreams fly off. Earth returns to earth. Between two heaps of dust, for a little while, this dream-world arises. If you must doubt, doubt this. And it is astonishing that people don’t doubt this, and they doubt the eternal.

People come to me and say, “We are not superstitious. We are thoughtful, educated. We have learned reason. We cannot feel trust in God.” I tell them, “Leave God aside. If you are truly educated, reasonable and thoughtful, what is your opinion about the world?” They say, “The world is.” What kind of reason is that! That is sheer blindness.

If you have learned doubt, try doubting your own life; you will find there is no difference between dream and this life. What do you call dream? When it is happening, it seems true. At night, when you are dreaming, it doesn’t feel false. In the morning, when you awaken, you know—on awakening you find it was a dream. All who have ever awakened on this earth have one statement in common: this world is a dream. Whether Buddha awakened, or Sahajo, or Kabir, or Farid—upon awakening, this world turns into a dream. Then it is found that the chase for wealth and status was only a web of mind.

Sahajo: In a single moment of dream, fifty years pass.
When the eyes open, all proves false—so too this dwelling in the body.

When the eyes open, it is known: all was false. So too is living in this body. Living in this body feels true only while the eyes are closed. When the eyes open, you realize what kinds of dreams you spun, what delusions you nourished, how you took the mind’s web for reality. They were only ripples of thought—waves of thought—arising and subsiding. They leave not even a line behind. Like someone writing on water, signing his name—not even completed and it is gone.

When the eyes open, all proves false—so too this dwelling in the body.

If the body feels true to you, the world will also feel true. If the world feels true, the body will also feel true. These two truths are interlinked. If doubt arises about the world, doubt will arise about the body, because your body is a fragment of the world. If doubt arises about the body, doubt will arise about the world, because the world is only your body spread out. This body was once not—this is certain. This body one day will no longer be—this too is certain. In between, a small ripple between two zeros…This ripple you take to be true. You never doubt it. And you doubt that which lies behind all ripples—call it the divine, call it the soul, call it liberation. No—I do not call an atheist very rational. One who is truly rational will become a theist. The atheist is still learning the alphabet. When he goes deeper into reason, when doubt becomes refined and sharp, he will see what Sahajo says: When the eyes open, all proves false—so too this dwelling in the body.

The world is like the morning star, says Sahajo—it does not stay.

This symbol is very lovely. The world is the morning star. Have you ever risen at dawn? All the stars have set, only the last morning star remains. Now it will go—now it will go. One moment—and a moment later you will search and not find where it vanished. Just now it was, now it is not.

The world is like the morning star, Sahajo—it does not stay.

This world is like the last star sinking at dawn. It does not stay. Now gone, now gone. Before you can gather your wits, it departs. Before you arrive, the moment of farewell comes. Before you can be, death grasps you.

The world is like the morning star, Sahajo—it does not stay.
Like a pearl of dew, like water cupped in the hands.

Like a dewdrop on a blade of grass at morning, looking like a pearl. Pearls appear pale beside it. The rising sun—dewdrops sparkling on grass—put pearls to shame. Like a pearl of dew! Like a pearl to sight only; in truth, a dewdrop. And how long does it last? One puff of wind—the dew dissolves into soil. One ray of sun—the dew evaporates. Like a pearl of dew; like water in cupped hands! Or like trying to hold water in your palms. It seems you have filled them…and it begins to spill—slipping through your fingers. Not a moment passes and the hands are empty. So too: just when it seems you have gained it all, before you can, the hands begin to empty.

The world is like the morning star, Sahajo—it does not stay.
Like a pearl of dew, like water cupped in the hands.

See transience with careful eyes. That is the first step toward seeing the eternal. Whoever recognizes the transient obtains the touchstone to test the eternal. One who does not recognize the transient will never recognize the eternal.

The training must be in the transient.

Look closely at all that comes and goes. That which happens and is no more. That which forms and dissolves. The flower that blooms in the morning and withers by evening. Look closely at the transient. Beauty is here now; tomorrow it won’t be. Youth was here—now gone. One who has observed the transient carefully will gradually see this clearly: to seek truth in the transient is madness. How can truth be in that which never stays? The definition of truth is that which is always. The definition of truth is that which is unbroken, which is never negated, for which no opposite ever happens. That which is always as it was—uniform, without breach. But to know this you must first see the transient carefully. As you recognize the transient, the recognition of the eternal begins to emerge. Seeing the inessential again and again, you begin to catch the scent of the essential. There is no other way. And keep one thing in mind, because this mistake is frequent. If I say the world is transient, do not accept it in haste. If Sahajo says, “In a single moment of dream, fifty years pass. When the eyes open, all proves false—so too this dwelling in the body,” do not accept it hurriedly. For one who accepts quickly is deprived of his own experience. Only if it becomes your experience will it lead you to truth. Borrowed experience will do nothing.

You too have heard that the world is transient. But this has not revealed the eternity of truth to you. You have not seen transience; you have heard of it. You have not recognized it; you have accepted it. Someone else says so. It is borrowed, stale. Scriptures say it; saints say it. But it has not manifested through your experience. It is unripe. You have not ripened into knowing—you have believed. Belief does not give knowledge. Knowing makes knowledge. Belief at most covers ignorance; it does not erase it.

The world is like the morning star, Sahajo—it does not stay.
Like a pearl of dew, like water cupped in the hands.

We build castles out of smoke, we make our mind a kingdom.
In shadow-worlds, O Sahajo, nothing ever becomes true.

This entire play of the mind—we build a fortress of smoke. Sometimes you must have seen clouds in the sky. How many forms they take, how many shapes. It may seem a cloud has become an elephant. But watch carefully a little—it disperses before you can keep looking. How long can a smoky elephant last? Sometimes clouds seem like a fortress, a grand palace. But even as it seems so, it is already dissolving.

We build castles out of smoke, we make our mind a kingdom.

All the mind’s kingdoms, its dreams—imaginings, longings, desires, thirsts—are castles of smoke.

Sahajo’s symbols are very untouched—virgin. Unhackneyed. She must have taken them from her own knowing. She is not a poet; she is a mystic. She is not writing poetry—she is poetry. Words mean little to her. What she has known in silence and the void, she sets afloat on the paper-boats of words so it can reach you. Words are only the boats of paper. She has placed the experience of emptiness into them and sent them to you. Words are messengers, postmen. Decorating them much is not the point. The symbols are very virgin.

We build castles out of smoke…

This web of mind—one who looks closely finds it is smoke. How many dramas it stages. What is not, it makes you believe is. What is, it forgets. And every time it loses, yet it doesn’t wake up. All the desires you have ever had—you have been defeated in all—and still you don’t awaken. Astonishing! You do not wake because mind builds another fort each time. It says, “The previous one went wrong—no worry. People did not let it become true; enemies were many; circumstances were unfavorable; fate didn’t support; effort was not complete. That is why it collapsed.” Mind always says your failure in desire was not because the nature of desire itself is to fail—no. It supplies other reasons. “For these reasons you failed. Had you put your full strength, you would have won. You used less force; you did not labor enough; the competitor was cunning, crafty. You were straightforward; you too should have schemed; you too should have played worldly games—then you would have won.” The mind finds a thousand excuses why you lost. It never lets you see the one thing: the very nature of desire is to fail—desire is never fulfilled. It tells you pretexts. “Next time don’t make such mistakes—enter the struggle prepared.” But no one ever wins. Alexander and Napoleon depart empty-handed. The wealthy die poor. Those sitting on thrones remain beggars within. They become great scholars, know much, still the inner darkness remains, and under the lamp it is always dark.

We build castles out of smoke, we make our mind a kingdom.
In shadow-worlds, O Sahajo, nothing ever becomes true.

As someone looks at the moon reflected in a lake: the moon is true, but the moon in the lake is not. Or one looks at his own face in a mirror: however beautiful it appears, it is not real. In shadows, Sahajo—never is there truth. This world is the divine’s shadow. Wherever you find something that is not true, yet seems to be—it means it is a shadow. You run; your shadow runs behind you. If I try to catch your shadow, I will never catch you—even though the reverse is true: if I catch you, your shadow will be caught automatically.

I have heard: a little child was playing in a courtyard. He was trying to catch his own shadow. It was morning sunlight, winter days. He slithered and stretched to catch his shadow, but could not. Because when he moved forward, the shadow moved forward. He moved harder; the shadow went further. The child began to cry. Tears fell from his eyes. He was defeated. His mother tried to explain that a shadow cannot be caught. But what does a child know of shadow or maya? He said, “I will catch it. If I cannot, you catch it. But I must catch it.” He would not accept defeat. A fakir came to the door to beg. He watched. The child tried to catch but couldn’t. The fakir came in. He said to the mother, “Wait.” He placed the child’s hand upon the child’s own head and said, “Look.” The hand rested on the head, and the hand also fell upon the shadow. The child burst into giggles—he had caught the shadow.

There is no other way to catch a shadow. If you must catch the shadow, you can only catch it in the shadow’s way. Your politicians, tycoons, the “important” people—those who seem to have caught something in the world—have merely kept their hand upon their own head. It appears they have seized the shadow. In your Delhi, in your London, Paris and Washington, people sit with their hands upon their heads. The shadow seems to be held. Those who can’t manage it, weep—they are trying to seize the shadow directly. Both are follies. The child’s crying was folly. Now the child is delighted, laughing that he has caught it—this is an even more dangerous folly. Because in the first failure there was at least a trace of truth; in the second “success” there is none at all.

In shadows, O Sahajo, never is there truth.

The shadow has a truth—that it exists—but only as shadow, not as truth. Do not get busy trying to catch it.

I have heard it was Ramadan, and Mulla Nasruddin was walking down a lonely path. Muslims were troubled, anxiously looking for the moon. If they could sight it, the fast would be complete. He stopped at a well to drink. He lowered the bucket. The moon was in the well. “Ah,” he said, “this is the mess. They are looking up at the sky, but the moon is entangled down here. If no one pulls it out, millions will die hungry.” He forgot about drinking water and began trying to capture the moon in the bucket. A difficult job: when the water moved, the moon scattered. That is the trouble with the world—try to grasp things and they scatter. Tighten your fist and it behaves like quicksilver; it slips away. He made great effort, moved and adjusted the bucket carefully, and finally there came a moment when the bucket was filled just so that the moon’s reflection appeared in it. “Done!” he said. “A meritorious deed. Now to pull it up.”

He tried to pull it, but the rope snagged on a rock inside the well. He hauled with great force—it wouldn’t budge. “My God, it’s heavy! Alone I can’t do it. No one around. I will have to do it myself. More strength!” He pulled even harder. At last the rope broke—as it always does. The rope snapped and he fell with a thud onto the well’s parapet. His skull was hurt; the eyes opened; he saw the moon above. He said, “Well, so I got hurt—no matter. At least you were freed. Millions of lives are saved.”

But such fortune is rare—that you get hurt, the rope tangles, you fall, your skull stings, your eyes lift to the sky, and the real moon is seen. Only when life’s defeat is total does the remembrance of the divine begin. When life is completely routed, when you are flat on your back, then your eyes rise to the heavens. Otherwise, man goes on trying to catch the moon in the well. When he can’t catch it, he thinks he needs a little more skill.

But the moon of reflection is not the real moon. It appears; therefore the wise called the world maya—illusion. The divine is truth. The world is the shadow of truth; the shadow of truth is called maya.

We build castles out of smoke, we make our mind a kingdom.
In shadow-worlds, O Sahajo, nothing ever becomes true.

The formless and the formed are one God—I have seen, understood, and considered.
The true Master gave me eyes; I have looked with certainty.

The formless and the formed are one God—I have seen, understood, and considered! But until the first step of the journey toward the divine is complete, the divine remains only a matter of words. Until the world becomes meaningless, the divine cannot become meaningful. Two days ago a friend came to me with his son. He said, “My son is very intelligent. He has taken sannyas—good. But we should manage both—this world and renunciation too. He should succeed in this world and in that world.” From above, the statement seems right—succeed here and there. But as long as success in this world appears as success to you, you will not even strive for success in that world.

I agree there is no need to escape the world. In the world you can be perfectly sannyast. But even while living in the world, you must awaken to one thing: worldly success is not success. It is the moon in the well. It is shadow. While living in the world one can be renounced. There is no other way. Where would you go? The world is everywhere. Wherever you look, the world is spread. Where will you escape? There is no place to run. There is only the place to awaken. To awaken means to see that the chase in the world is for a false moon. If you must go along for the sake of convenience, go along. If the crowd moves there, stand with it—no harm. Why needlessly make the crowd angry? They see success there. This is what the fakir did by placing the child’s hand on his head. The child is a child—why make him weep? With that much he is satisfied that he has caught the shadow. So a small device was used: the hand on the head—the shadow seemed caught.

But you must awaken: worldly successes are not success. All success there is squandered labor. All success there is lost time. All success is selling yourself to buy rubbish. One day you will find the marketplace you bought is in your house, and you yourself have been lost in the market. You did not remain, and everything else remained.

The formless and the formed are one God—I have seen, understood, and considered.

When the transience of the world becomes clear, then the eyes rise toward the divine; they open. And with such eyes—the formless and the formed are seen as one. The God of Hindu, Muslim, Christian—one and the same. Those who see different gods—know they have not yet lifted their eyes toward the divine. For the divine is one. The moon is one—the wells are many. In a thousand wells, a thousand reflections arise. Some well belongs to a Muslim—it shows a Muslim reflection. Some to a Hindu—it shows a Hindu reflection. In some the water is dirty, in others clean—so the reflections differ a bit. Some well is built of marble, another of raw clay—the reflection differs a little. But the one whose reflection they are is one. Reflections can be many; truth is one.

The formless and the formed are one God…

Call him with qualities if you like—for all qualities are his. Call him without qualities if you like—for one in whom all qualities are, has none. One who has all qualities is beyond qualities. Say his hands are utterly full—true. Say his hands are utterly empty—true. For the empty and the full are two names of the same state. If you wish, see him in every greenery, recognize him in every flower, glimpse him in every star. Or if you wish, behind every green, behind moon and stars and mountains—seek him in the hidden formless presence. Seek him either in expression or in essence. In his essence he is formless; in his expression he is with form. See his garments—they are lovely, many-colored. Enter within—and all colors vanish. Immense emptiness is found.

The formless and the formed are one God—I have seen, understood, and considered.

But this is attained through seeing—through experience. If it could be attained by thought alone, thinkers would have attained it. Many think about the divine; their thought leads nowhere. Thought is a web of mind. What the mind can grasp is the world. Trying to catch the divine with thought is like trying to catch a shadow; thought itself is shadow. With that shadow, how will you catch truth? The mind must be silent, no-thought. This is the meaning of meditation. No one ever reaches God by thought. By meditation—yes. Meditation is the state of no-thought. When all waves in your mind are stilled, no thought arises, the lake is completely quiet—deep silence—then connection happens.

…I have seen, understood, considered.

Sahajo uses three words: seeing, understanding, considering. Some try to attain through considering—thinking. They do not succeed; they become philosophers. Philosophy is born. They weave great metaphysics. If you talk to them of thought, they spread an enormous net of ideas—but the fish of the divine never falls into their net.

Then there are those who try to attain through understanding. Understanding comes from experience of life—countless experiences. The essence of all those experiences is called understanding. The young want to attain the divine through thought; the old, through understanding. They say, “We have seen life.” But the world is shadow. How will experience of shadow lead to truth? You must be free of thought—and free of understanding too. Thought comes from reading and writing; that’s why when someone returns from the university, he is full of ideas. Elders laugh at him: “Wait a bit—see life—and then you’ll know.”

I’ve heard: in Delhi a man received a doctorate in agriculture. For his final practical test he was sent to a village—to make a full report on a farmer’s field—so it could be known whether his knowledge was practical. He made every report—how many trees, how much yield, how many acres, how much per acre, how much seed is sown, how much crop emerges—he arranged all the figures. One thing he could not grasp. The farmer laughed at his ways and gave no help. He said, “You are the expert.” Looking at a tree, the doctor said, “In this tree’s condition, I think apples won’t grow this year.” The farmer said, “That’s certain to me too—apples won’t grow—because it isn’t an apple tree.” So he laughed at his account. In the hut there was an old goat—with a beard. The young man had never left the university; he had learned agriculture from books; he had spent his life in the library. This animal he couldn’t identify. A beard…and…So he asked, “Who is this?” The farmer said, “You tell me—who is this? You are the expert. We are poor farmers—what do we know?” He wired the university: “Old, with a beard—who is he? Inform me.” The registrar replied, “Fool, he is the farmer.” He couldn’t recognize even the farmer—beard, old—so the registrar thought: He can’t even tell who the farmer is—this is too much!

There is a life of books; there is a life of experience. From books you may get ideas, but not understanding. Understanding comes through the bittersweet of life. That is the difference between knowledge and wisdom—between ideas and understanding. But if the divine were attained by understanding alone, then all old people would have attained it. If by thought—then all thinkers would have. But neither the young with thought, nor the old with understanding, attain. Another third thing is needed…seeing, understanding, considering—use thought and understanding, but use them only to come to seeing.

The true Master gave me eyes; I have looked with certainty.

The Master does not give thought; and if he gives thought, he gives it so your shut eyes may open. He does not give understanding; if he gives that, it is only as a support so your eyes may open. The essential thing is: the eye must open.

There is one eye for seeing the world, another for seeing the divine. However skilled you become in knowing and understanding the world, with that same eye you will not know the divine. The dimension is different. Only when the eye opens can anything happen. How will the eye open? From the world you can get negative support—failure, melancholy, suffering. Through suffering, melancholy, failure, a longing may arise in you to seek that which is beyond the world. That is all you can get from the world. From thought you can get doubt toward the world; you will not get trust toward God. But if doubt toward the world arises, it becomes easier to move into trust toward the divine. At least by clearing the useless you make space for the meaningful. Like someone preparing a new garden—first he uproots weeds, removes useless growth, digs a few feet deep and pulls out roots. Doing that doesn’t plant a garden—but it makes the planting possible. If you keep the weeds and sow your seeds, the garden will be destroyed—because the false has great capacity to smother the true. If you leave the weeds and sow flowers, the seeds will vanish.

Nasruddin’s neighbor bought a house. Nasruddin’s garden was beautiful. The neighbor too wanted to plant one. He asked Nasruddin, “I’ve sown the seeds; sprouts have emerged—and weeds too. How shall I tell which is which?” Nasruddin said, “Simple trick: pull up both—whichever grows again is weed; whatever does not grow back—was the seed.” Weeds don’t need to be sown; they grow on their own. Pull up both; then you’ll know. Preparing a garden is negative work—uprooting weeds, removing roots, cleaning the soil. But that is not the garden; it is the beginning. Seeds still must be sown.

Through thought and understanding, this much is possible: doubt toward the world. Even this much is good fortune—because ninety-nine out of a hundred don’t even come that far. Often it seems understanding misleads even more. The young may still feel a little pull toward renunciation; the old are more entangled. As death comes near, they think, “A few more days—let me enjoy; four days more—why God now? We’ll see later. Life has gone; in the days that remain let me grab a little more comfort.” The foolishness of the “wise” is beyond measure. Sometimes a young person has the courage to set out on the path of renunciation; the old cannot muster it.

That is why you will be surprised: great renunciates became so when they were young. Buddha and Mahavira were young when they left home. Can you name any old men who became renunciates like them? Not one. The old are so experienced in the world that their very experience drowns them.

So neither through thought, nor through worldly experience, does one arrive. Both are useless. At most they create the sense that some eye within you is shut; the third eye is closed. If it opens, perhaps some glimpse of the divine may be—perhaps a bridge may be built.

The true Master gave me eyes; I have looked with certainty.

How does the Master give eyes? This is subtle and delicate. How does he give eyes? First, he gives you opportunities to see through his eyes—as if placing a child upon his shoulders and saying, “Look.” Seated on the shoulders a child can see far; standing below, he cannot. The Master first lifts you on his shoulders and gives you a few chances to see through his eyes; he places his eye before you, saying, “Peer through this.” As I am speaking, I do not intend to give you ideas—what would be the use? You already have more than enough. I speak so you may look a little through my eye. This too is an eye. It is possible to see this way. If a glimpse comes to you through my eye, a spark will begin in your own. Once you look through another’s eye—another’s eye cannot become yours—but the very recognition of another’s seeing begins the blessed opening of your own.

It is like lightning flashing. Night was dark. In that instant everything is revealed—the path, trees, mountains. Darkness returns even thicker. But now you know there is a path. You will have to grope, search; there is fear of falling—but at least the path exists. From seeing with the Master’s eye, a trust arises that the path is. In the Master’s presence, gradually, his fragrance fills your nostrils and the feeling arises: what has happened to him can happen to me. What is possible for one is possible for all.

In the presence of Buddha or Mahavira or Krishna or Sahajo, the joy of their life becomes contagious. Sometimes, despite yourself, your eye will open. Unbeknownst to you, they will shake you awake; you will open your lids a little and glimpse; confidence will come. A small child walks—his mother gives him her hand. The child must do the walking. But the hand gives assurance: “Now I will not fall; mother is here.” Still he will fall, many times. But each time he rises, his chances of falling diminish. And the mother assures him, “Come—do not fear. As I walk, so will you.” The Master gives such a hand. He knows the capacity is hidden within you—only a little experimentation is needed. Perhaps you are frightened. Lifetimes you have not opened the eye that sees the divine. You may have forgotten. Even if someone reminds you suddenly, you can’t recall. But in someone’s company, in satsang, some time or other the blow will fall upon the center within you. A constant knocking is needed; thus satsang is a continuous process.

The true Master gave me eyes; I have looked with certainty.

From the mind only doubt arises—thought upon thought. Nothing certain. Even your “firm convictions,” if you look behind them, hide doubts. Often you proclaim your conviction precisely because you yourself know you are shaky. You become ready to kill and die for your opinion—this too betrays that inside you are wavering. Certainty is a bigger thing. Certainty means there is no doubt. And doubt ends only where thought also ends. I have looked with certainty—there, there is no thought. There is seeing. It appears. There is vision. You do not think. A blind man thinks there is light; one with eyes sees it. The blind thinks; the seeing one beholds.

The true Master gave me eyes; I have looked with certainty.

Where there is beholding, there is certainty; where there is thought, there is confusion. With thought flows a stream of uncertainty. Beholding is needed. No one thinks God; either you see the divine—or you do not. It is not about belief; it is about “darshan”—direct seeing!

Sahajo: The Beloved is of many colors—he is both manifest and hidden.
No difference between water and frost—just as between sun and sunlight.

Very lovely lines.

No difference between water and frost…

Is there any difference between water and dew, water and frost? None.

…just as between sun and sunlight.

Is there any difference between the sun and the sunlight? So between the divine and the divine’s creation—any difference? Just as between sun and sunlight. The same one. Concentrated at the center he is sun; spread out he is light. This canopy of light is his expanse. This vast existence you see is his spreading out. Is there any difference between creator and creation? Any difference between dancer and dance? Singer and song? One is manifest, one hidden. The song is manifest; the singer is hidden. The dance is manifest; the dancer is hidden. Creation is manifest; the creator is hidden—yet present in every particle.

Sahajo: The Beloved is of many colors—he is both manifest and hidden.
No difference between water and frost—just as between sun and sunlight.

By the grace of Guru Charandas all doubts departed.
All arguments and disputations fell away; an effortless flow began.

By the grace of Guru Charandas…All who have known have always said: we did not know by our effort—we knew by grace. Upon knowing, it becomes clear: our effort is so small—the hand trying to clutch the sky! Our effort is so small—a drop trying to become the ocean! If it depends only on our effort, it can never happen.

Understand this rightly.

If God is attained by your effort alone, then he can never be attained. Even your effort will go wrong, because you are wrong. You will go down the wrong path. Wrong desire fills you within. Whatever you do will be wrong because you are wrong. How will the right come from the wrong? If the right could come from the wrong, there would be no need to be right at all. What man does cannot attain it. Two ways remain: either the divine’s compassion descends; but we don’t even know the divine. Even if grace rains upon us, we don’t know how to make use of it. Even if he lights a lamp in our home, we are such fools we will stand with eyes closed. He knocks at our door; we say, “Must be a gust of wind.” We cannot recognize him.

Divine grace is indeed raining upon us. But we fail to recognize and catch it—like the fish that could not see the ocean. That is why the guru becomes so important in the search. Guru means one whom we can see. Guru is a miracle: in one sense he is like you; in another, not like you. The divine is utterly other—no bridge forms. He is unmanifest; you are manifest. He is infinite; you are finite. He is without thought; you are thought. He is everywhere; you are somewhere. No coordination. He is so vast; you are so tiny—how to connect? How can the drop meet the ocean? With the guru, a miracle happens. He is like you, and not like you. From one side the guru is a drop; from another side he is ocean. Therefore the guru is the most unique phenomenon in the world. On one side human, on the other side not human. From one side he has walls like yours; from the other side his doors and windows are utterly open—the open sky.

With the guru, a relationship can form. And with his help, slowly, a relationship with the divine can form. That is why Sahajo says: even if I forget the Beloved, I cannot forget the guru—without him, there would be no connection to the Beloved.

By the grace of Guru Charandas all doubts departed.

Doubt does not go by your thinking. You can think and think as much as you want! Your thinking is like trying to lift yourself by your own shoelaces. However much you try—you may do a little hop—but you will find yourself still on the ground. Another hand is needed to support you—one like yours whom you can recognize, and yet who belongs to the Vast, whom you can recognize and still not fully know. A bit you grasp, a bit remains beyond.

The guru is a mystery. You understand him and yet you don’t. Those who think they have understood the guru are mistaken; those who think they have not understood him at all are also mistaken. Relationship forms with those who feel, “A little I understand, and a little is beyond understanding.” What you understand gives you assurance. What you don’t understand carries you beyond yourself; it leads to transcendence.

By the grace of Guru Charandas all doubts departed.

Vision came. Eyes opened. Looking through the guru’s eye, the world fell away and the truth appeared. After that your own eye begins to function. Once it starts, once someone introduces you…

All arguments and disputations fell away…

Then there remains no “ism”—no atheism, no theism; no Hindu, no Muslim.

…an effortless flow began.

From that day movement becomes easy, natural. Earlier everything was tangled, upside down. Now the flow is effortless. Nothing needs to be done now. Whatever happens is worship, prayer. “Whatever I speak is the story of God,” Kabir said. “Whatever I eat and drink is service.” I eat and drink—that too is now service of the divine. Now he is within, he is without. “As I walk, I circumambulate”—now one goes around no temple or mosque; simply walking is his circumambulation.

All arguments and disputations fell away; an effortless flow began.

Understand “effortless flow” rightly—it is religion’s last flower. Natural samadhi. You are not even natural in the world; there too you are complicated: you are one thing, you display another; you are one thing, you explain another. You go to the temple—there too you are not natural. Even there you shed false tears, you carry showmanship. Even your worship, your prayer—there is no truth in them, no naturalness. Hypocrisy everywhere. Everywhere you try to project what you are not. Effortless means: you are as you are. You have become fully at ease with your being. Now you neither hide nor display. If you are good, good; if bad, bad. If beautiful, beautiful; if unbeautiful, unbeautiful. As you are, a harmony has happened. Because you have known: to be natural is to be with the divine. The more unnatural you become, the further you fall from him. The more you strive to become something, the more you stray from being real.

Lao Tzu says: those who are utterly ordinary—none are more extraordinary. So ordinary they don’t even know whether they are ordinary or extraordinary.

A Zen fakir, Bokushu, was asked: “Now that enlightenment has happened, what is your practice?” Bokushu said, “I carry wood from the forest. I draw water from the well. When hunger comes, I eat. When sleep comes, I sleep. That is all—nothing more.” But that is enough. This is effortless flow.

For you it will be difficult—your obstacle is ego. Because of your ego you have woven grand halos around your mahatmas too. You insist their hands must perform miracles, talismans should appear. You will not accept your saints unless they also become conjurers. And if they want to be accepted as saints by you, they must be ready to play the conjurer. There is collusion. You say: until you become a conjurer, we won’t accept you as a saint. If they want your acceptance, they must become conjurers. Then a mutual arrangement is established. You are false; to be your gurus, they must accept your conditions. You are hypocrites; you make your gurus hypocrites too. A great wonder happens in this world: sometimes disciples follow the guru; more often the guru follows the disciples. You lay down the rules for how a guru should behave—when he should wake, when sleep, what he should eat, drink. You decide. The lay followers decide the monk’s conduct.

A Jain monk wanted to come see me. He wrote: “I long to come, but the lay followers won’t allow it.” “They won’t allow you?” I said. “This is too much. You are the guru? They are the disciples? The disciples won’t allow the guru?” There must be a reason. I had him asked to search carefully. “Disciples cannot stop you; the reason must be something else. There is one condition: if you follow us, we will follow you. As long as you follow our dictates, we are your lay followers. The day you stop, the relationship ends. And you are weak. You are a cheap guru. You want to come learn meditation from me—do you not even have courage for that? Your disciples say no.” The disciples feel: if our guru goes elsewhere to learn meditation, then what are we doing calling him our guru? So before the disciples, the guru must declare: “I am meditative—I will teach you meditation,” even when he knows nothing of it. He lacks even this much courage and integrity—to seek meditation, and if needed, to drop his gurudom for its sake. You teach the world to renounce money and wealth; what are you clinging to?

I told him, “Leave it. Meditation is greater. Disciples will come again. If not, what harm?” He replied, “You don’t understand—I have been a monk since childhood. I am uneducated. I cannot earn a living. For forty years I have done no work. If I leave today, I will be in trouble.” So it is a matter of food-arrangement. Neither you are a guru, nor they disciples. They know they give you bread—therefore they are your masters. You too know that they give you bread—so even if you sit above them, that is mere show. You preach to others: renounce the world; but you do not have the courage to renounce this security. Fine—dig ditches on the road, you will earn bread. So many do. But even that courage is gone. Your gurus become impotent—no strength remains. You set them up above, but they are mere dolls—strings in your hands. They dance as you pull; they speak as you prompt.

Effortless flow means: before no one is there any show left. I am content with what I am. The day you are content with your being—immersed in your nature—you are immersed in the divine. That day the fish meets the ocean. The ocean was nearby; only merging was needed. If the fish knows herself, she knows the ocean—for the fish is, in truth, ocean. The more natural you become, the more you are accomplished. Naturalness is siddhi. But you glorify miracles. People come to me and say, “If you perform miracles, millions will come.” What will I do with millions? I am no conjurer. “We say it for the benefit of millions.” If harm comes to me first, how will benefit come to them?

Naturally, if you become natural, mad people will not be influenced by you. Only those will be touched who are themselves moving toward naturalness. The mad have their own ways of being impressed. Their mad minds must be gratified.

It happened often when I used to travel: I would meet such madmen daily. I might refuse, yet they wouldn’t accept. A man caught my feet: “Give me a glass of water from your hand. I am certain my seven- or eight-year-old stomach ache will be cured.” I said, “First understand—I too get stomach ache! I drink water from my own hand—it doesn’t cure me. How will it cure you? When I need it, I call the doctor. So drop this.” The more I refused, the more he felt I was unwilling to bless. He clutched tighter: “My life may go, but I cannot move from here. The more you deny, the more I am convinced there is something.”

I saw this was turning upside down. His faith was growing. Faith is a danger. If he drinks and it is cured—danger! If not, no harm—matter ends. Your pain is yours; I go home. But if it is cured—as I feared—so I gave him the water. As feared, he cried, “The pain is gone!”

This man is mad. His pain is false. I don’t say he doesn’t suffer—he does suffer—but his suffering is imaginary.

Two years later, when I returned to that town, I found he had done wonders. He had preserved the glass in which I gave him water, and he gives water to others in that same glass. He told me, “By your grace so many have benefited.”

This mad mind—first it creates illness, then by the same madness it manufactures the cure. It begins to see what is not. Ego is the root of all disease. People come and say, “We saw a halo of light around you.” You must have some eye trouble! Some deception! Or you have looked too much at calendar pictures of saints with halos. It has gotten stuck in your mind; you project it on me—forgive me! They say, “How can we deny? We saw with our own eyes.” Your eyes are blind. What trust can be placed on your seeing? If I deny, they won’t accept—because they can bow at my feet only when the halo appears. That is their ego’s condition. If the halo is not seen, what is the use of bowing? They can become my disciples only when they are satisfied I am no ordinary guru—ashes fall from the hand, talismans appear, Swiss-made watches are produced—then. Then their ego is gratified.

There is a troupe of madmen. They project their madness onto their gurus too. I call that man a guru who does not allow such projections. Only then can he be of help to you, only then can he take you beyond doubt. Though it would be easier for the guru, more comfortable, to say whatever you say is right. No hassle for him, no hassle for you. Both participate in a false dream. Your world is false; you have raised false gurus from your worldly mind. And you expect to reach truth through false gurus!

Seek the natural. The divine is hidden in the natural. He is absolutely natural—like plants, birds, animals, moon and stars, mountains and streams. If you find a natural person anywhere, do not leave his company. Do not worry about halos. Do not long for miracles.

By the grace of Guru Charandas all doubts departed.
All arguments and disputations fell away; an effortless flow began.

And in the natural, a flow began. Become natural—you will become beautiful. Become natural—you will become true. Treat “natural” as a synonym for the divine. When your unnaturalness is cut away, all disease is cut, all nets are cut, the world is cut. The day you become natural, an immortal rain will pour in your life:

Without clouds, showers fall; without lightning—a great light.
Without clouds, showers fall; the mind is enraptured there,
Seeing, seeing the compassion!

Just become natural, and there will be no delay. As you become natural, at once—without lightning, there is light! No lightning flashes, yet there is only light—source-less light. It does not come from anywhere; it has always been. Without clouds, showers fall! No clouds in the sky, yet rain descends. Amrit drips—nectar—because nectar is the very nature of existence. The mind is enraptured there! And then you dance in ecstasy, for no sorrow remains. Sorrow was in your blindness; in your ego; in your unnaturalness. Now it is gone. The mind is enraptured there—seeing and seeing compassion—seeing truth on all sides—you dance, you are enraptured.

Without clouds, showers fall.

Enough for today.