Diya Tale Andhera #10

A few things before the tale. One: trust is the key to reaching truth. But if trust means getting bound to a single person, a single scripture, a single sect, then such trust is false—because true trust frees; it liberates. Trust cannot become a prison.

You may have crossed a river once from a particular ghat, but that does not make the other ghats useless. In fact, once you learn how to cross from one ghat, all ghats become crossings for you. If you have trusted one person deeply, you will know the depth of trust itself—and that depth will give you the capacity to trust all the crossings where the river can be crossed. One who has recognized one master has recognized all masters.

You get bound because you have not truly recognized even the one. Bondage always announces ignorance. And trust is not ignorance; it is not blind belief. Trust is the opening of the eye of the heart.

Once you have recognized in one place, you have learned the art of recognition. If you have seen Buddha and trust has arisen in your heart, is it possible you meet Jesus and cannot trust? Impossible. One who has seen Buddha will be able to see Jesus too, will recognize Mahavira as well. Anywhere in the world, in any corner, however the enlightened one may look—whatever the form, color, garments—having recognized the flame, will you be confused by the shapes of clay lamps? Having recognized the flame, you will recognize it everywhere—whether it shines in the sun or in a small lamp flickering in the dark.

Trust is in the flame, not in persons; in truth, not in words; in the inner hidden light, not in outer coverings. Unless trust is like this, know it will not take you to the Divine—on the contrary, it will obstruct the way.

Wrong trust is even more dangerous than non-trust. The non-trusting may someday become rightly trusting. But how will the wrongly trusting become rightly trusting? He already thinks he has trust; so he stops searching for it.

The ordinary mind makes this very mistake. When you love a person, the person becomes important; love becomes secondary. That is the mistake. When you love someone, let love be primary and the person secondary. The person is only a pretext. And if the person becomes merely a pretext and love the goal, love will not bind you. Then you will be able to love many; the more you love, the more boundless the capacity for love will arise in you. One day you will be able to love all; a day will come when nothing in existence remains deprived of your love. And the day such love happens, that very day the Divine happens—never before.

The same mistake occurs with trust. You go to a person; trust stirs. From his fragrance, his presence, the shine of his eyes, the poise of his movements and gestures, you sense something of the unknown—some song seems to hum around him, a hint touches your ears—you are startled, filled with trust, you bow down. But let not the person become important.

The person is a pretext, an indicator. Keep your attention on trust, not on the guru. Let trust grow so vast that no guru in the world remains outside it. If you truly enlarge trust, those whom you call gurus will, of course, carry you across; but even those you never imagined could be gurus will also become your bridges. Trust carries.

Those you thought were enemies—if your heart is full of trust—they too will carry you across. What you took as hurdles on the path will become steps. Then nothing in the world will fail to help you reach. Everything leads toward God: the doorway of the courtesan, the bottle of wine—if only the heart be trusting, from every corner His glimpse, from every door His image, in every form His abode will be seen.

But your “trust” becomes bondage because your attention clings to persons. You do not use the person as a pretext to enter vaster trust. Instead of making the person a door, you make him a wall—then you go on banging your head there. And know: if the person becomes important and trust secondary, you won’t be able to trust even that person for long.

If trust is important, you will be able to trust all; unbelief will vanish from within; you will simply be trusting. The question “In whom?” will become meaningless. Trust is an inner quality; it has no outward object. Even when you lift a stone, you will lift it with trust—then every stone becomes a deity. As of now, even when you sit before a deity, it is but a stone. The difference between deity and stone arises from a trusting heart. This very world becomes divine when the art of seeing with trust arises.

If you get bound to persons, your trust shrinks; and trust is so vast that if shrunken it dies. You cannot shrink it. It is infinite expanse; filthy corners of small houses cannot be its home. It needs the open sky. If you try to keep it in dark corners, it becomes lifeless. Then you carry it like a burden, but it will not become wings to fly.

This is what has happened. A Muslim cannot bow before a temple; a Hindu passes a mosque as if there were poison there—he would like to tear it down if he could. What kind of trust is it that bows to the Gita but feels like kicking the Quran? Then even your bowing to the Gita is not true. If your head bowed to the Gita, it would bow to the Quran too—because in another language it is the same. Form has changed, color has changed, manner has changed; the inner life does not. The greatest mistake in life is to bind love to a person, to bind trust to a person. Then your flow to the ocean halts; you become a stagnant puddle. This first thing must be understood.

And your so‑called gurus teach you the opposite. One who teaches the opposite, know, is not a guru. They say, remain bound to me alone; go nowhere else. If you go elsewhere, it means your trust is false. They speak like husbands to wives: “I, your only husband, am your god.”

A woman once told me: “I want to come, but my guru says it would be like a wife leaving her husband to go to another man.” Husbands are foolish; they may say such things—that can be understood. But gurus! Is the guru–disciple relationship like husband and wife? Between guru and disciple the relationship is of the infinite, not of the world. If a guru binds a disciple—“Stick with me; let your trust fall nowhere else”—he is killing the disciple. He is a shopkeeper, afraid his customers may go elsewhere. He is extending worldly business; he has no news of God.

One who has glimpsed God not only becomes free himself, he begins freeing others. The sign of liberation is that it liberates others. Only prisoners are eager to imprison others. The man locked in a cell does not want anyone to fly in the open sky; he will want to keep others locked too. But one who is free—how can he keep you bound? He will cut your chains.

The supreme guru ultimately frees you so totally that you no longer need a guru—only then is his work complete. If the need for a guru remains, dependence remains; bondage remains. A piece of the world is still intact. The day you become such that the guru becomes utterly useless, that you can even forget him, that you need him no more, that you are so self‑reliant you can walk on your own feet and let your own heart beat, that you need no crutch—that is the whole effort of a guru.

But the gurus and their shops spread all around strive to keep you from walking on your own—only with the guru’s crutch. Gradually they make you so crippled you cannot stand on your own. They fill you with fear...

Remember: anyone who wants to bind you will create fear. Without fear, binding is difficult. Chains are cast from the metal of fear. One who wants to free you will make you fearless. He will say: “Don’t be afraid. There is nothing to fear. The only thing to fear is fear itself.” He will not ask you to fear even God.

Because whatever you fear, you will avoid; how will you come close? Fear creates enmity, not friendship. From fear, hatred can arise; how will love arise?

Where there is love, fear dissolves. If you even fear love, where will fearlessness bloom? The true guru frees you from fear—even from fear of God. The false guru fills you with fear of God and with fear of himself: “Without me you cannot reach; do not listen to anyone else.”

You must have heard the story of Ghantakarna. A man believed in one guru, but in his village there were many. So that guru tied bells to his ears so that as he walked around, he would not accidentally hear another guru. The bells kept ringing; nothing else could be heard. But remember, he could no longer hear his own guru either, because the bells do not know whether you are with your own guru or another—they just keep ringing.

Remember: the guru who holds you to himself and blocks the four vast directions of this world—his disciple will stop hearing him too; he will remain near but become like the bell‑eared one.

If you can understand me, then understand Buddha too, Mahavira too. The ways of saying differ; the essence is one. The song is one; the flutes are many. The bamboo differs; the melody does not. If I were to tell you, “Beware of Buddha, Mahavira, Muhammad—listen only to me,” one thing would be certain: not only have you not known, I have not known either. The bamboo is important to me; I know nothing of the music. The idol is important; I have not glimpsed the formless. And what I have not known—how can I lead you to it?

The mark of a true guru: from the first moment he frees you—so that in the last moment supreme freedom can happen.

Flee from whatever binds you. You are already bound enough. Why add more? Husbands and wives have bound you plenty—why seek husband‑and‑wife gurus too? Life is already burdened—why add another stone on the chest? Stones have to be removed; non‑attachment is needed; new chains are not to be forged; the old are to be broken.

Bear this in mind. And then understand: it would be one thing if only gurus were binding you; you could run away. The greater danger is that you want to be bound. That must be understood; only then will this tale make sense.

Man wants to be bound because he is afraid of freedom. Erich Fromm wrote a famous book—its title is very significant: Fear of Freedom. Man fears being free. You may say however much that you want freedom, but you have not understood—man fears freedom. Why? Because freedom has consequences.

First: freedom means the courage to be alone. You don’t have it. You want a hand to hold—even if the other is blind. You are blind too, but holding hands gives you courage. People say even a straw is support enough for a drowning man—he will clutch it, thinking it might save him. Man is very afraid of aloneness. What is your fear of being alone?

And the irony: you are alone—whether you fear or not. Make husbands, wives, friends, build homes, society, nations—no matter how much the crowd, you remain alone. Aloneness is your nature; there is no escape. You are born alone; you die alone. At both ends you are alone; in the middle too, you are alone. Crowds create the illusion that you are not alone.

The seeker’s first courage must be to know this truth: I am alone; there is no way to erase it. You have tried—through countless births and so much time—and still continue. Let it go: aloneness cannot be erased, because it is not accidental; it is your inner essence. And it is God’s great compassion that you cannot erase it—for in aloneness lies life’s fragrance. If you could erase it, there would be no redemption. What is against nature never succeeds; ultimately nature only succeeds.

Good that you don’t succeed—otherwise you would succeed in wrong things. You are so blind that if you reach your goal, you will be in trouble beyond measure. It is good your goals do not materialize, for the wrong finds the wrong. Blind eyes wander into trouble. However much you wander, one thing you can never lose is your aloneness. How could you? However close someone comes, you are alone and so is the other. Nearness is possible; oneness is not. Lovers suffer the most: they come very near and still find they haven’t reached. They sleep together, sit together—bodies meet; inner aloneness remains unchanged. The distance remains.

By denying this fact, man fears aloneness. And freedom means becoming alone—free of dependence on the other. Freedom is to be as you are: alone. No companion, no support, no hand in your hand.

At first there will be fear; your very breath will tremble. Passing through this trembling is tapascharya, austerity. You will want to run and hide—plunge into some relationship and forget, find some companion.

Do not run. Stand your ground. Say, “What is true, I will know it. Hiding and denying it won’t help.” Gradually you will find the fear has gone. It was your habit—always to have company. You gained nothing from it, yet it felt “okay.” Your hands are empty—no pebbles, let alone gems. Still, because there was company, there was the delusion of not being alone.

Breaking old habits is hard. Psychologists say even long illnesses are clung to. If someone had a headache for twenty years and suddenly it disappears, life feels empty—the headache filled it; there was something to do, something to talk about. Suddenly gone—what now? People grasp even at old diseases.

Pavlov in Russia discovered the “conditioned reflex.” Anything that stays together for a while gets linked. He fed dogs, ringing a bell each time. After eight days he stopped the food and only rang the bell; saliva began to drip. Bell and saliva have no real relation, yet association formed.

Mulla Nasruddin read about Pavlov. He bought a dog. No bell at home, so he kept food at a distance, out of reach, and he barked—himself—so the dog would learn: when you want food, bark. Seven days he did it. On the eighth day he brought the food; the dog sat and did not bark. The dog hadn’t read Pavlov. Mulla was upset, came to me: “It’s a mess! Even if I put the food down the dog won’t eat.” I said, “You bark; the association is formed. The dog believes it may eat only when you bark.” When Mulla barked, the dog ate. Years have passed; now it’s hard to break.

Your habits are of many births. Good or bad is not the point; conditioning is attached. You say you want freedom, yet inside you fear it. A husband often thinks, “If only this wife were gone.” The wife too wonders, “Where did I get into this man’s trouble!”—a wish for freedom. But if the husband dies, the wife is “free,” and she beats her chest and weeps: “What has happened? I am alone!” Until she finds another entanglement she will not be at ease.

Because you fear freedom, you drop the house and clutch the temple. You put away the ledger, open the Gita or the Quran. You must hold onto something. You let go worldly gurus and grab spiritual ones.

But I tell you: the very habit of grabbing is the world. If you clutch at gurus, you repeat the same illusion. Yesterday you were dependent on husband, wife, children, father; now you depend on these. Yesterday their moods were your joy and sorrow; now it is these. Yesterday you feared their displeasure; now theirs.

People make you dependent because you want to be. Dependence has a convenience: responsibility shifts to the other. Gurus don’t do it for free; they say, “We take your burden upon our shoulders; stop worrying. Leave it all to us. We and God will settle it.” They offer dependence and take your responsibility—a bargain. As long as you want to hand over responsibility, you will remain dependent.

But know: your responsibility only you can take; no one else can. No guru can take it. He can show you how to be free of all responsibility. He cannot carry your load; he can only show you that you are needlessly carrying it—put it down.

A wayfarer trudged along, a poor beggar with a small bundle on his head. The emperor had lost his way while hunting; his chariot halted and he invited the fakir aboard. The fakir shrank into a corner, fearful—never sat in a golden chariot—still kept his bundle on his head. After a while the emperor laughed, “Brother, why keep the bundle on your head?” The man said, “Your grace in letting me ride is already too great; how can I burden your chariot further with my bundle?” Whether on your head or in the chariot, the weight is on the chariot.

A guru will explain: you carry weight needlessly. Even if you keep carrying, it makes no difference—the support beneath is God; all weight is on Him. If you think you shouldn’t add to God’s burden and should carry your own, you are as foolish as that fakir. The guru does not take your weight on his head—if anyone claims that, he is no guru. Why should he? The Emperor would be mad to say, “If you won’t put it in the chariot, put it on my head.”

A false guru says, “Put it on my shoulder; I take responsibility—will deliver you to heaven’s door; don’t worry.” He takes responsibility and sells you dependence. Then he tells you, “Don’t go anywhere else; the real stuff is sold only here.”

A true guru will teach you how to recognize the real—he won’t say where it is sold. He gives you the touchstone to test gold, not the gold itself. Where God speaks through Jesus—there is gold. Through Buddha—there is gold. Wherever He speaks, there is gold. Where it lies still buried in earth, there too is gold—hidden. The true guru gives you the stone: test wherever you go; accept the real, reject the false. If you use the touchstone rightly, one day you’ll find it’s all gold: somewhere concealed, somewhere revealed; somewhere mixed with mud, elsewhere pure; somewhere dull, elsewhere shining. Because nothing exists but God. The bad too is He. When you know this, throw away the touchstone—no more needed. Methods are useful only until the Divine is seen; once seen, all methods are dropped.

Now, to this astonishing story.

On a dark night, on a deserted road, two men met.

Night is always dark—for the way you live is with closed eyes; there is never day for you. Day is not about sunrise; it is about open eyes. Eyes open—everywhere light. Eyes closed—everywhere night.

The road is always deserted. However crowded, life is utterly solitary.

The first said, “I am searching for a shop people call the Lamp Shop.”

He seeks light—but seeks it in shops. Is there any shop of light? Can light be bought? Is there a shop where truth is sold? Yet we have made shops—temples, mosques, gurudwaras—our shops.

I heard in Nasruddin’s town a shop turned a hundred years old. The owner held a celebration, boasted: “Is there any older shop in this town?” Nasruddin stood up: “Wait. My shop is older.” The man said, “Your shop? Aren’t you the mosque’s mulla?” Nasruddin said, “That is our shop—fourteen hundred years old.”

He isn’t wrong. Temples and mosques have become shops. What’s the difference? In a shop you remain the same; you buy goods. The stock changes; you don’t. If you go to a temple and bring back some new furniture for the mind—doctrines—and you don’t change, it’s a shop. A temple is where you change, not your collection. Where a revolution happens within, you become different. It depends on you whether the temple remains a shop. If you go to buy, you’ll buy and return; if you go to be transformed, you can be.

The man said, “I am looking for the place where light is sold.”

Hearing him, the second understood: this man knows neither lamp nor that you cannot find light in shops; it is sought in temples—within.

The second said, “I live nearby; I can show you the way.”

Only those who live nearby can show the way. When you go to a guru, don’t look at what he says, or his clothes, or his food—these are worldly things. See if he lives near God. How recognize? The one near the world shows anger, greed, attachment, ego. The one near God is humble, egoless; not angry, not lustful, not greedy. He will be quiet, joyous, fresh—like a flower ever bathed; his mirror clean. Look into his eyes; sit silently near him—do waves from him touch you and enter within? When he looks in your eyes, does lightning flash within—do you begin to vanish and something new arise? Taste him.

What he says is not decisive; parrots repeat the sages’ words; actors imitate their conduct. How to know? Sit quietly with eyes closed and experience. Through one near God, you will glimpse God. We have called such beings “Bhagwan” only to say: they are so near that through them God reaches us. They are transparent.

He said, “I live nearby and can show the way.”

“I will find it myself,” said the first. “I have been told the way—and I’ve written it down.”

This is what followers of sects everywhere say.

Note: whoever told him lives far away—since he had to travel so much and still hasn’t arrived. The one near God makes it effortless: if you are truly trusting, no journey is needed; there is no distance. If you come utterly close to the one close to God, the journey ends—that is the meaning of trust. The guru has been called God manifest because we don’t know God; we can know the guru.

Kabir said, “Guru and Govind stand before me; whose feet should I touch?” Then he said, “I touch the guru’s feet—blessed is the guru who showed me Govind.” The one near God is the guru. How come near to the guru? That is trust. The more doubt, the more distance. Doubt is a kind of enmity; trust a kind of love. The clever remain far; the simple come close. The closer you come to the guru, the more the guru’s outline fades and God’s emerges. The day you dissolve in the guru, you are dissolved in God—the guru was only a door.

The first man’s guru must have been far—that’s why he is still traveling. He said, “I will find it myself. I have the directions, written down.” Those are your scriptures. People say, “Why listen any more? We have the Gita. We’ve read the Quran, the Bible.” You clutch written scraps and are ready to miss living masters. What you have written—you will interpret; you will derive meanings to suit yourself.

And the one who says, “I will find it myself,” is egoistic. The “I” won’t bend enough to ask. Carrying a scripture is easy; facing a living person is hard—because a dead book won’t hurt your ego; a living master will expose your ignorance.

That is why people avoid gurus and cling to scriptures. Let the guru die and his words be written, and people will cling happily—books don’t challenge you; you can treat them as you like. With a guru, it is the opposite: he will do with you as he deems fit; you must surrender into his hands. With a book, you do what you like and extract what you like.

“I will find it myself,” he said. When you say that, your emphasis is not on seeking, it is on “I.” If it were on seeking, whoever shows would be welcome.

The second said, “Then why talk about it at all?”

He replied, “Just to talk.”

Ninety-nine out of a hundred talk of God just to talk. If I assure you, “I will introduce you today,” you will say, “Give me time—I have other things to finish.” People come to me: “Show the path, but I cannot surrender. I cannot trust, but I can take advice.” Can any advice be taken without trust? The ears can hear; how will the heart receive? They want the pleasure of fine talk, not the risk of transformation.

I remember Baal Shem, the Hasid master. The richest man told him, “You are so religious, yet you talk business all day. Look at me—largest shop in town, but outside the shop I speak only of God.” Baal Shem said, “There is a principle: people prefer to talk about what they know nothing about. I know nothing about business; you know nothing about God.”

People talk of soul, liberation—do not think they long to go. Fine talk creates a good impression.

The second said, “Still, it would be better to get directions from a local.”

Because sometimes talk becomes costly—listening and listening, you may set out. By “local” he means one who has arrived—a siddha. You have taken directions from a philosopher—he handed you a paper. The knower puts a live coal in your hand—burns you to ash so the new can be born. The philosopher hands you a map.

In temples you see maps of heaven and hell. Ask the priest to draw a map even of Pune—he cannot; that takes years of training. But maps of heaven? Who will contest them? Everyone makes his own. I once saw a Radhasoami chart: their guru at the highest realm—Sach Khand; beneath him Kabir, Nanak; below them Mahavira, Buddha; lower still Krishna, Ram. By what scale? The scale is ego. If only Radhasoamis did this it would be forgivable—everyone does.

Jains say Ram cannot be liberated—he waged war, lived with his wife, enjoyed the world. Ask Hindus: is there a place in Vaikuntha for Mahavira, naked and austere? Their heaven is royal; a naked ascetic would be an embarrassment. Your heavens are so narrow that no one but you can fit. Even your heavens are worse than hells—dungeons.

The man said, “Better to consult a local.”

The second is a Sufi dervish. Sufis speak this way—obliquely—because if they speak straight, you won’t understand; through a story, perhaps a glimpse can reach.

The first man said, “What I have been told—I trust it firmly. It has brought me this far. I cannot trust any other person or thing.”

Here lies the error.

When you insist, “I trust only one,” you have already missed—because trust is your inner quality. It is like sight: if you can see, you can see all; like hearing—if you hear, you hear all. When trust overflows, you trust everywhere. To say “only one” reveals that trust has not yet been born; it is blind belief.

Also, whenever you underline, “I trust firmly,” know that doubt hides behind. Why else “firmly”? Shops that write “Pure ghee sold here”—don’t buy there. Writing “ghee” is enough; “pure” is a cover for adulteration. When there is trust, what is “firm” or “weak”? People say “my love is absolutely pure”—as if selling pure ghee, now selling pure love. Love is purity itself—there is no “pure love.”

He says, “I trust firmly—and it has brought me here.” Where has he reached? He still seeks the lamp shop. But walking long creates the illusion of nearness. One can walk far in the wrong direction. Earlier he could trust a living person; now he is so bound to that trust that even a local resident cannot be consulted. His trust obstructs; it does not help.

People come and say, “I took initiation twenty years ago—from a guru who has died. If I take initiation from you, would it be betrayal?” I ask, “Where has your initiation brought you?” “Nowhere.” Then that initiation has become poison—it prevents you from asking again.

“I cannot trust any other,” he says. “I already trusted once.”

Trust, love, are not one‑time events; they are like breathing—continuous. You do not say, “I breathed yesterday, that’s enough.” You drink water whenever thirsty. Your trust should be like breath—wherever you go, filled with it. Learn everywhere. What can be taken from you? You are like a naked man afraid to bathe because “where will I dry my clothes?” What do you have that someone can steal? People fear being cheated. How much more lost could you be than you already are?

Trust is not blindness; it is alertness. With an open, trusting heart, no one can cheat you; often your trust can transform the other. Childlike simplicity disarms exploitation; cunning invites it. You will get echoes of what you are.

The local man said, “Though you trusted a previous guide, you did not learn how and whom to trust.”

And that is the learning. Trust is an art, not a fixed decision. It is a continuous intelligence.

“True,” said the first.

The second asked, “Why do you seek the lamp shop?”

“From a great authority I was told: there they teach methods to read in the dark.”

“Right—but there is a prerequisite: to read by lamplight, you must first know how to read.”

Otherwise, even if you find the lamp, nothing will happen. This is subtle: even if you meet God as you are, you will not recognize Him. He is everywhere. Jesus said, “Lift the stone and I am there; split the wood and you will find me.” You too say “He is in every particle,” yet you do not see. Light is not enough. The book may lie before you, the lamp be lit—but you must know how to read. Meditation is the art of reading. Until you dive deep into meditation, even if God meets you, you will miss Him. The book has always been open.

“And there is another piece of information,” he said. “The lamp shop is indeed there—but the lamps have been moved elsewhere.”

This is what always happens. Around Mahavira, around Buddha, there was a lamp shop. The moment they died, the lamps were moved. The shop remains, the signboard remains, the old reputation remains; goods are sold in the name of lamps—but no flame. Temples, mosques, gurudwaras are lamp shops where lamps once were sold—now only clay lamps, no light.

He said something very precious: the shop is there, but the lamps have been moved elsewhere. The difficulty: you always arrive at the old shop—because it has prestige; by then the lamps have moved to a new shop. Life is always new; death is always old. You always arrive a little late.

“I do not know what a lamp is,” said the man.

Do you know what God is, what soul is? He said, “I don’t know what a lamp is—but clearly the lamp shop is the place where the technique they call lamp is sold.” First find the shop; buying the lamp will be easy.

It’s exactly the reverse: first a glimmer of light is needed; only then can you find the shop. A little taste is needed. Near the true guru you get taste. The one who has tasted can help you taste; the pundit gives words—precious old words—but the essence is lost.

I once heard that Pandit Nehru shocked an audience: “The finest moments of my life were spent in the arms of another man’s wife.” People gasped; then he added, “In my mother’s arms—the wife of Motilal Nehru.” Laughter, applause.

Morarji heard it, hurried to Ahmedabad, gathered an audience, repeated, “The finest moments of my life were in another man’s wife’s arms,” paused, then said, “In the arms of Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru’s mother—the wife of Motilal Nehru.” Same words; meaning ruined. Pundits repeat Krishna, Buddha, Mahavira thus—the original is lost. The shop remains; the lamps are moved. A true guru won’t give you the shop’s address; he will give you a glimpse of the lamp. If he gives the shop’s address, you’ll reach an old shop. If he gives a glimpse, you will search where a lamp is burning now.

The local said, “Lamp shop has two meanings: one where lamps are sold, and one where lamps used to be sold.”

Which are you seeking—the place where lamps were, or where they are? Your information is “authentic” but outdated. The shop may be bustling—selling only the old name.

“You cannot prove,” said the first, annoyed, “that lamp shop has two meanings.” After a long discussion he grew irritated: “People will call you a fool.”

The second too became annoyed: “Many will call you a fool—or worse. You want to send me where your friends sell lamps—your trick is clear. You are someone’s agent. You want me to wander in darkness. Otherwise why talk so much? I don’t want your advice; why keep giving it? I have my source; I have it written. I will find it.”

This is what happens. If you tell someone “there the lamp is,” he suspects you have an interest, that your friends run that shop. You cannot conceive of anything beyond self‑interest; thus even if a siddha meets you, you cannot use the opportunity. If he calls you a fool, you will call him a liar.

The second said, “I am worse than you think. Instead of assuring you about lamp shops, I would first learn whether you can read at all, whether you are even near such a shop—or whether another way of obtaining a lamp is needed for you.”

He is “worse” because he offers no promises. You like those who promise; you follow gurus who assure you they will give you everything. The true guru says, “I will take everything away.” He is not even telling where the shop is; he first wants to take away your illusion that you can read. And second, to see where you are—near or far—because the path depends on your location. The first step must be where you stand.

That reading is meditation. Sufis call it zikr—remembrance. The inner remembrance of the Divine, a continuous humming within; everything goes on outside, inside the one refrain continues. Kabir called it surati; Buddha called it smriti. That is learning to read. Otherwise the book lies open, the lamp may shine—you won’t be able to read.

It is necessary to know where you stand—near the door or turned the other way. On that depends the path. Scriptures are dead averages; even if a method is given, you cannot apply the average to the individual. Each stands in a different place; where he stands, the method begins. What is medicine for one may be poison for another; what is path for one may be your wandering. One went east because he stood in the west; are you in the south or the north? Your direction will differ.

Therefore the true guru first ascertains where you are: near or far, facing or with your back to the door. He gives each disciple a distinct method—because each is unique, with different karmas, conditionings, structures. To break each, a different arrangement is needed. The scripture is an average: as if one measured the height of a city, added and divided to get an average, say “four feet and three‑and‑a‑half inches.” But you won’t find a single person of that height. Averages have no living existence. If a clothing company made ten lakh suits of the average height, not one would fit.

Scriptures are averages; the guru looks at the person. From averages you won’t reach.

This man says: “We must see if you can read; we must see where you stand. I am a very bad man; I cannot give assurances. After examining, we will consider whether to give you the shop’s address—or get you a lamp by some other means.” There are many ways. Sometimes the guru brings the lamp himself. Sometimes indirect routes are needed.

A Sufi master was jailed by a king who had heard him say, “I have diamonds—come, take them.” He meant spiritual jewels, but the king insisted on seeing. The Sufi wrote to his wife: “Don’t tell anyone—our diamonds are buried in the field.” The letter was read; the king sent hundreds to dig the field. No diamonds. The wife was puzzled. A second letter came: “Now sow the crop. Getting the field dug was the trick.”

The guru will find a way—direct or indirect. It depends on your state: whether you walk straight or crooked, which language you catch. There are as many approaches as there are seekers. Truth is one; paths are many. Only a living master can see which path will work for you.

This story is important; it is for you. You are like the first man. You too carry written scraps; your trust is bound and stuck. You too talk just to talk. You seek what you don’t even know the meaning of, and you search by fixed routes—there is no highway to Him; there are only footpaths, and each person’s path is unique.

Just as your fingerprint is unique—out of billions and trillions, no two match—so is your soul. There can be no common road—only personal trails. Only a true guru can determine your exact path and say, “Open the door this way.” If there is trust, the door does not take long to open. If there is cunning, the distance is great.

The guru lives near God; you come near the guru. That is the meaning of trust: to come near—so near that you trust him as you trust yourself, with not a hair’s breadth in between. Then there is no delay; any moment the revolution can happen.

Enough for today.