Diya Tale Andhera #14

The human mind wanders either in the past or in the future; and life is here and now. Life is always in the present. We miss life for the simple reason that the mind is never where life is. Where life is, the mind is never there. You either think of what has already happened, or of what will happen. What has happened is nowhere now; what will happen is also nowhere yet. Only what is now, here, in this very moment, truly is—neither what has happened nor what will happen, but what is happening.

Miss even for an instant, and you go astray. For the present moment is very narrow. It is the gate to the Infinite, but the gate is narrow. Jesus said, “Narrow is the gate.” Though it opens into the Infinite. If you leap into it, the eternal life is yours. If you hesitate, moving this way and that, you are left with the transient. This is the paradox: enter the present and you meet the eternal; miss the present and you are left with the ephemeral.

The present seems so small—that is perhaps why you neglect it. The past is vast, the future also appears vast. There is a delusion that if you add past and future you get the eternal. So the mind says, “Go into the past, go into the future; what is there in the present? Where is there any room in it? It is barely a point—by the time you become alert to it, it’s already gone. As soon as you notice the gate, it has receded.”

Only those who hold not a single thought may enter there—those so empty that there remains no reason to miss; even one thought will make you miss. The gate to the present is narrower than thought itself. All meditation is but one effort: how to bring you back from behind to here; how not to let you run ahead; how to help you stop here, become still, become thoughtless—so that the gate becomes visible. And the gate is always open; it is only your eyes, veiled by thought, that cannot see it. This is the essence of the Sufi tale.

Let us try to understand the story. When Sufis tell a tale it is not for storytelling’s sake—not for entertainment or pastime, but for freedom from the mind. This is the difference between ordinary stories and Sufi, Zen, Hasidic stories. The ordinary story amuses the mind; the religious story is a device to free you from it.

Three travelers fell in together on a long and weary journey. And what journey is longer and more wearisome than life itself? How long you have been walking! On such a long road, whoever falls in with you becomes your companion. Who is your wife? Who your husband? Who your brother? Who your mother, who your father? Fellow travelers, met on the way for a while!

Even if you live together for years, it is only a roadside companionship. Even if you walk with someone your whole life, you remain alone. The other is with you for his own interest; you are with the other for yours. Both exploit each other. In the world, companionship is little more than a mutual arrangement of exploitation.

Hence, it is in sorrow that you know a friend, not in happiness. Everyone is willing to share your joy. Who is willing to share your pain? As sorrow deepens, friendships break away. The more profound the pain, the more friends recede. The sorrowful person is left utterly alone. Thus sorrow is a great revealer. If aloneness is the truth, sorrow reveals it. In happiness you wander, because there are companions—and companions create the illusion that you are not alone. In sorrow, is anyone truly with you?

Understand this: happiness lies on the surface and can be shared; sorrow cannot be shared, for sorrow is a lack. You may share wealth, but how will you share poverty? Poverty is only an absence—how to share absence? Sorrow is such an absence. Hence in sorrow you suddenly stand alone. Even if someone stands near, he cannot share your pain. He may express much sympathy, give you much consolation, but no one can truly share your sorrow.

Therefore sorrow is precious; don’t waste it for nothing. In sorrow you discover that you are alone. No one is with you. That is why it is in sorrow that you remember God; in happiness people forget. Because in happiness you find companions here; why call the great Companion? In sorrow you become so alone that prayer begins to arise.

Junnaid used to say, “O God, do not give me happiness, for in happiness I often forget You. Keep giving me sorrow, for only in sorrow do my life-breaths flow toward You.”

But if, in sorrow, prayer turns toward God, even then you have begun seeking a companion. You have found an imaginary companion. All the ones you had were imaginary anyway—who is wife? who is husband? What is relation? Nothing but imagination. Will seven rounds around a fire or an exchange of garlands make someone husband and wife? These are formalities that breed illusion, that make you feel the bond is solid. Even if the court affixes a seal, the bond is not real. It is only an outer device to induce the feeling, the delusion of permanence: “A seal has been affixed; society has declared us married.” But it is born only of imagination.

What is your love? From where does it arise? If you look, you will see it arises from your imagination, from your dreams. You know nothing of that love which springs from truth—for you know not the truth; you keep missing its gate.

That is why I say: only a Buddha, a Christ, a Krishna can love; you cannot. For love is possible only in the supreme state. As yet you only dream—like a beggar dreaming he has become an emperor; and in the dream it all seems true.

Your companionship is a dream. When sorrow shatters it, you weave a new dream—that God is with you. Even if no one is with me, the Lord is with me. That too is your fantasy.

God’s company is found, but not through imagination. It is found when all imagination drops. When you come to rest; when the mind goes nowhere—sets out on no journey—where all journeying stops, instantly the companionship is found. But it is unique, for there are not two in it. This is the criterion: as long as there are two, the companionship is imaginary. When only one remains—either you remain and God does not, or God remains and you do not—when only One remains within, then the companionship is solid; then none can sunder it. When only One is, who can separate? As long as there are two, separation is possible; you will separate again and again. When happiness comes, you will fall away from God; when sorrow comes, you will cling to Him.

There is a bond that never breaks—the bond of nonduality.

The three travelers on a long and weary journey agreed to share everything—provisions, joys and sorrows. This is what we say to each other: we shall be companions in happiness and sorrow. In truth we are companions only in happiness. The claim to share sorrow is only a pretense, for none can share another’s sorrow. Sorrow is utterly private. One can apply balm, offer comfort—that gives some relief, but relief is not liberation.

The three said: “We will share joy and sorrow, we will divide everything; we are not alone.” After many days they realized only a morsel of bread and a mouthful of water remained. That very day the companionship came to the breaking point. While all was well, there was friendship; now came the great trouble. Till now they seemed to care for one another; now it was clear each cares only for himself. It is in sorrow that you recognize who your companion is.

Therefore the scriptures say: none is your companion except the guru. Because your bond with a guru happens only when you fall into the utmost sorrow. None seeks the guru in happiness; people seek him in sorrow. When sorrow becomes overwhelming—when your ordinary relations give no solace—when you find yourself utterly alone in a crowded marketplace, surrounded by people yet hollow within—then you seek a guru.

These three had traveled together till now. Today came the snag, for only one bite of bread and one swallow of water remained—they must have been in a desert, with no way to find more. They began to quarrel over who should get it. It could not be divided among three. Had there been love, all three would have tried to let another take it. The sign of love is giving. Where life is at stake, love seeks to save the other first. Love can sacrifice itself; love is sacrifice. But in this hard hour it was revealed that each was trying to save himself.

Look into your own life: those with whom you have friendship, companionship, love—if a hard hour comes, will they strive to save themselves or you? Will you strive to save yourself or them? If the house catches fire, husband and wife both run out. In that moment the husband forgets to take his wife along; the wife forgets the husband. Only outside, afterwards, do they remember. In fire you seek to save yourself. Sorrow alone will show whether your life has risen above ego or not. Happiness will never show it, for happiness is a deep sleep.

That day the three began to consider each saving his own life. Only one could be saved, and even that for one day. But even a day’s hope is big. Each tried to argue why he should be the one.

When that failed, they tried to divide the bread and water. But there was too little to divide—if divided, none would get enough. Still they could not reach a conclusion.

What was the dispute? Each said, “I am more deserving; let me be saved.” That is what is happening all over life. Every man is busy saving himself. Think: if such a choice were given—that either the whole world perish and you be saved, or the world be saved and you must perish—your heart would whisper: save yourself, let the world go. At the cost of the whole world too, you want to be saved.

Mahavira and Buddha call this violence: to save oneself at the expense of another. Nonviolence means: at any cost, strive to save the other. Nonviolence is a hard event, nearly impossible. Only those who reach where “dying dies” can be nonviolent—those who know, “Lose all, yet nothing is lost—I remain.” As long as you fear perishing, you cannot be nonviolent. Straining water before drinking, walking as if on tiptoe, fasting at night—none of that will help. All these devices, if you look closely, are strategies to save yourself: fear that you may have to rot in hell; hope for heaven and future pleasures.

Understand this: as long as you desire happiness, how will you be nonviolent? The day you agree to sorrow—the day sorrow no longer appears sorrowful—the day all the dream of happiness breaks and you see it is ashes, only then can you be truly nonviolent. Hence the “nonviolence” you see around you is mostly a deception.

I have heard a Jewish tale. There was a very religious cat. Cats are generally clever—and clever people turn religious, for their religiosity is a great cunning. Outwardly you say it is otherworldly; but if you look closely, your religion is an extension of your worldly business—a larger shop, a long-range arrangement of self-interest.

This cat was very religious, spinning her rosary day and night. Vegetarian by day; carnivorous by night. In the nights she killed the neighborhood mice—out of compassion, she reasoned: “If I don’t kill them, the neighbors will suffer greatly from mice.” An irreligious mind remains irreligious—even under the cloak of religion it finds accounts to suit itself. Purely in service of the neighbors, she would kill mice at night. In her own house she would not kill a mouse, lest a stain remain, some trace betray her irreligion.

Those you call religious also have a circle in which they are religious—and outside it, they are not. Look at them in the temple: fingers flow over the beads; in the shop, they pick pockets, and more deftly than their rosary. Their face in the shrine you wouldn’t recognize in their shop.

Her household too believed, because they saw only the daytime face. The neighbors also believed they had never seen such a religious cat; she was honored, people bowed to her.

Then trouble came. The family brought home a parrot. They were confident the cat was religious and vegetarian. The parrot began to sing as soon as he arrived; the cat grew angry: “This nuisance has come into the house! Now my rosary, meditation, chanting—all will be disturbed. This parrot seems irreligious. Not only irreligious—his shameless songs! He sounds lewd. The devil has seized him; it is the devil who produces such lust through his throat.” By night she had convinced herself: “To end him is in his own interest—without freeing him from this body the devil will not leave him.”

At night she pounced. She tore out the feathers, blood splattered the room. In the morning the cat was severely beaten. She had eaten the parrot. She repented—but not for eating the parrot; that was a religious act.

This is what the religious of the world do. Muslims kill Hindus; Hindus wish to kill Muslims. Christians to kill Muslims; Muslims to wipe out Christians. All religious—if you understand their jargon, it is the cat’s talk. A Muslim wants to kill a Hindu so the irreligious man won’t rot in hell; it is necessary to make him religious—if in life, good; otherwise at least let him die on the path of religion. We must free him!

The cat repented—not for killing the parrot, but for leaving feathers strewn and stains of blood on the costly floor; that, she decided, had angered the family. She resolved to remember next time.

They brought another parrot. At night she attacked again—but swallowed the whole bird; neither did she pluck feathers nor drop a single bead of blood on the floor. Now she was pleased: “The family will be delighted! And freeing parrots from bondage is a cat’s duty. One soul released from this hellish body; had it remained, it would keep sinning; now no sin remains.”

In the morning she was beaten again. Now she understood: it wasn’t the feathers or the bloodstains—the family is against killing the parrot at all. Next time: “Don’t touch the parrot.”

A third parrot came. The cat smiled at him—the same false smile the so-called religious wear. With bead in paw she bestowed benedictions—again, the kind you hear from fake saints. She tried hard to explain herself: “Let it be; he is hellish; he will stray on his own. What do I lose?” But at night, she went near the cage. She had firmly resolved not to kill; still, “at least give him some counsel.” She said, “Listen, your songs are lewd; your skyward prattle obscene and irreligious.” For to the religious, joy always seems irreligious; song always seems sinful; music looks like the gate of hell. Long faces, dreary tears, funereal people—this they take for religion.

Seeing the cat close, the parrot began to tremble and flutter. “No harm in fluttering,” the cat said. “But change yourself. If you are afraid, that is a good sign—for only those who fear God reach Him. And I will assist you a little.” She slipped a paw inside so the parrot would flutter more. “I have decided not to kill you; but there is no harm in shaking you.” She shook him so much he died. Then she thought: “The family is against violence, against killing; but there can be no harm in eating the dead.” And she ate the parrot.

A similar event occurred in Buddhist history. All Buddhists should read this story of the cat. It’s surprising: Buddhist monks everywhere eat meat. Buddha himself was not in favor of meat; he did not want monks to be meat-eaters.

A monk went for alms. From the beak of a flying kite a piece of meat accidentally fell into his bowl. He was troubled, for Buddha’s rule was: whatever people put into your bowl, accept it without choosing. The rule was good—otherwise the monk would choose sweets and throw away rough food. “No choosing; accept what comes from four or six houses.”

The monk asked Buddha, “What shall I do? A piece of meat has fallen into my bowl. Should I eat it or throw it away?”

Buddha was silent awhile. He thought, “If I say throw it away, it will create a precedent—that a monk may reject things. While I am here, I can keep it straight; but after me this rule will remain, and monks will choose sweets and tasty foods, discarding the rest. Food will be wasted, and monks will become attached to taste.” Then he thought, “A kite dropping meat is not an everyday affair; it is unlikely to recur. Better not break the rule.” He said, “There is no need to break the rule. Kites don’t drop meat every day. Whatever comes into the bowl, take it.”

Meat-eating thus began. Now the monk goes for alms; if you give him meat he accepts it. People begin to give meat; and the monk goes only to those houses. Then Buddha said, “To kill and eat is violence; but to eat a dead animal’s flesh is not violence.” True enough: the violence is in the killing. If an animal is already dead, where is the violence in eating it? Today in Buddhist lands—China, Japan, Burma, Ceylon, Siam—meat shops display signs like our “Pure ghee sold here,” except they read, “Only meat from animals who died naturally is sold here.” But so many animals don’t die on their own. What does the monk care? The signboard says so; it’s the shopkeeper’s business how he brings it. Where does so much meat come from? Millions eat meat; the whole of Buddhism is full of meat. A small kite did what Buddha could not prevent.

Man finds justification everywhere. The cat thought, “No harm in eating the dead.” Beware: the arguments and excuses you make—do they not arise from your unconscious drives? If they do, recognize them with awareness: they are merely excuses, not true reasons.

These three men began to argue: “I am more important to the world; it is in the public interest that I be saved. If I survive, more good will come to the world than if you survive; therefore give me the last bread and water.” No decision could be reached, for all thought the same. Everyone in the world thinks: “My survival is essential for the welfare of the world.” The simple truth is: you want to survive. Don’t surround it with excuses. The will-to-live hides in every being—from worms and insects to man.

Mahavira says this will-to-live is the root of bondage. But you invent excuses: “I live not for myself—my desires are ended, but the small children must grow; my wife—who will look after her? The good works I do will stop if I die; therefore I am dragging on.” As if you have made life a duty—a service for the public good. Ask politicians holding office—they say they must remain in power to serve you; without power, how will they serve? The lust for power is the truth; “service” is the excuse.

The three argued, but reached nowhere—who was to decide? They themselves had to decide.

As night fell, one suggested, “Let’s sleep. In the morning, whoever has had the best dream will decide.” No other way appeared. “We’ll sleep, and tomorrow he who reports the finest dream will decide.”

At sunrise the three awoke. Watch how dishonest the mind is: the dreams they recounted they had not seen; they fabricated them in the morning.

The first said, “This was my dream: I was taken to indescribable realms—as though I had journeyed to heaven. So wondrous and serene they defy words; and I met a wise man who said, ‘You deserve the food, for your past and future life are worthy and laudable.’” A hungry man cannot dream of heaven; he does not meet sages in his sleep. This dream is false—manufactured, and clearly an excuse: taken to heaven, had visions beyond words—and even there the wise man says he deserves the food because his past is glorious and his future holds great promise.

Remember: whatever your mind desires, you will find even in heaven; whatever you crave you will hear even from the mouths of the wise. What has a sage to do with your bread? Yet you interpret even sages’ words to suit your cravings; you turn them into lies. This dream is invented—to claim the food.

The second said, “Strange! In my dream I saw my entire past and future—and in my future I met an omniscient being who said, ‘More than your friends, you deserve the bread, because you are more learned and patient. You must be properly nourished, for you are destined to be a leader of men.’”

The third said, “In my dream I neither saw nor heard nor said anything.” This third man is truthful. “I experienced an irresistible present. I was compelled to rise and look for bread and water—compelled to seek out the food and drink that remained, and to partake of it immediately—and that I did.” He has already eaten; he left nothing to decide. This third man is the one who will savor God. Your life should depend on the irresistible present—not on the past that is gone, nor the future that is unborn.

Sages you meet in dreams are not very wise—they are your desires speaking. Otherwise, would a Buddha or a Mahavira talk about bread? After touring heaven, your mind still clings to bread! Your dreams will be yours; all who appear in them—even Buddha-like figures—will speak with your desire behind their lips.

Sufis, yogis, Zen masters have studied dreams for millennia. Freud only recently opened this door in the West; Sufis have always emphasized dreams. They say: your dream is truer than your waking life—for in waking life you wear many masks—lies and deceptions—so many faces that you yourself don’t know which is the real one. Only in dreams are you true.

How strange! Nothing is more unreal than dreams; yet in them you are most real. How false you must be when your only truth shows in the most unreal thing! Awake you smile; in dreams you weep. Awake you act one way; in dreams, the opposite.

Dreams reveal accurate news, for in them all social controls, education and conditioning fall away. You do not “arrange” your dream; it is free. Suppressed desires arise; the hidden becomes manifest. What you have repressed blossoms in the dream-sky.

Freud built psychotherapy on dreams, saying: without studying dreams, your maladies cannot be treated. What you say when awake cannot be trusted, for reality is often the reverse; your behavior too is often reversed.

A son who overacts respect toward his father does so because hidden within lies rebellion. To suppress it, he exaggerates respect. But in his dream you might find him murdering his father—poisoning him. He kills his father many times in dreams; and on waking he shows even more respect—the dream has frightened him.

You tell your wife a hundred times a day that you love her—have you noticed she never appears in your dreams? It is other women—neighbors—whom you meet in dreams. Why? Why not your wife, whom you “love” so much? Because what you avoid by day reveals fear within; what you proclaim too much reveals its absence. In dreams you are caught coupling with unknown women—that is your reality. Without understanding your dreams, your mind cannot be known.

In the Far East there is a small tribal people—perhaps the oldest dream-readers on earth. They study the dreams of even the youngest children and have, through dreams, solved great questions of life.

When psychologists first studied them, they were amazed. The tribe is unique: in three thousand years of history they have never fought a war, never committed murder, no theft, no adultery or rape. So peaceful, gentle, simple—none like them on earth.

The reason? From childhood every dream is studied. Not only studied—life is shaped in accord with the dream’s signals. Each morning the elders gather; over breakfast everyone recounts their dreams. If a small boy says, “In my dream I slapped the neighbor’s boy,” the elders send him with sweets and toys to the neighbor’s child: “Because you slapped him in the dream, it means the urge to hit him is hiding inside. Go, apologize; give him these sweets and this toy.” This may seem foolish to us, but it is deeply scientific. The child goes, apologizes, offers gifts. Because he “hit,” mere apology is not enough—some gift is needed; love must be expressed. The whole village hears of it; they thank the boy: “You did right.” Even enmity in dreams must not be allowed, or it will grow. If someone dreams of making love to a neighbor’s wife, next day he will go to the husband and to the wife, apologize, offer gifts, touch their feet; the whole village will know. Dreams are public property.

The result is unique:
- In that tribe, people dream the least on earth. Today science can measure dream-time; theirs is minimal.
- And whatever they do dream, they remember completely in the morning—down to the last detail. Elsewhere people forget, because we wish to forget what is painful. But there, dreams are fully recalled.
- And, most interesting, after acting in accord with a dream’s indication, that same dream never repeats—the seed is destroyed.

You may notice certain dreams recur all your life. That means your unconscious keeps demanding, and you keep suppressing. Each recurrence waters the seed; the sprout grows. If you dream of murder night after night, one day you will commit it—for within, the water is heating; an explosion will occur. Often very “quiet” people murder; you cannot believe it. You don’t know their dreams. They sowed the seed there; the harvest must be reaped.

In this country we have always said: not only your acts matter; so do your thoughts and feelings. Not only by doing, but by thinking, it is done. You merely intend—and the deed is. The law cannot try you for murdering someone in a dream; but before God, before existence, the sin has occurred. Whether you did it outwardly is secondary; the intention was there. Thought brought into act becomes a crime; left as thought, it is sin. That is the difference between sin and crime. Society worries about crimes; religion worries about sin. Sin is the subtle crime—the seed; crime is the tree. To uproot the tree, the seed must be destroyed.

Modern psychology has worked well. If we can solve humanity’s dreams, only then can we solve the human being. Otherwise telling him “Don’t steal, don’t cheat” is useless; if he restrains in the day, he will do it at night—the sin has happened. Whether by day or night—what difference does it make? Whether the cat kills in her own house or next door—what difference? Whether she kills for “service” or for food—what difference? In both cases, the meal is taken.

You commit many sins “for the good of others.” Then the sting of sin is less; it feels like service. Kill a man alone and you feel guilt. But in war between India and Pakistan you shoot a hundred Pakistanis and return with your chest out—no sin, only merit. The president pins a medal on you. Kill one man—it is sin; kill a hundred—it is valor. Strange, isn’t it?

What is the case? Murder is murder—whose it was makes no difference. Only one difference: in war you kill for the nation. Whenever you commit sin for a “virtue,” it seems fine. If Hindu-Muslim riots break out, kill each other—no harm, for it is “in defense of religion.” Humanity has committed the greatest sins in the name of defending religion. But think: if a religion needs sin to defend it, is it worth defending? Can religion be protected by sin? If sin can protect religion, then sin can protect anything. When even religion must take the help of sin to defend itself—what kind of religion is this—impotent!

Give a man a good excuse, and he enjoys doing what he wanted to do anyway—nation, society, religion—the “good of others,” and you are ready to destroy others.

The Sufi story is profound. All three wanted to save themselves. Two were dishonest; the third was honest. He simply admitted: “I had no dream; I saw no one; no sage appeared; I was not taken to heaven; no assurance that I will be leader of mankind came to me. I felt an irresistible hunger. My whole being said, ‘Get up and eat.’ So I ate.”

First meaning: this man is truthful. Where there is truthfulness, someday the Truth is found. He does not lie. He accepts the body’s hunger as it is. He does not deny his desires, nor dress them in fine clothes; he does not put the words of sages in their mouths. He accepts the nakedness of his desire: “I was hungry, so I did not sleep. How could I dream? And my hunger was so intense I could not wait till morning. I have eaten.”

First: accept your desires in their nakedness. Don’t shift them around with excuses; don’t decorate them. The one who accepts his desires as they are, and admits he follows them, becomes humble. For the first time he becomes egoless.

The other two were egoists—making even wise men in heaven argue for their bread. This man was simple and straight.

Second: desire has a mark—its demand is in the present. When you are hungry, you want to eat now; when thirsty, you want water now. All desires live in the present. The mind lives in past and future. Desire is closer to truth than mind is. Your body is nearer to truth than your mind. The mind is farther away. Remove the mind. But people do the opposite: they suppress the body’s desires and polish the mind’s desires.

This is the difference between my religion and the so-called conventional religions. I say: the body is not to be broken; it is beautiful, part of nature and truth. What sin is there in hunger? What sin in thirst? The longing for love is also hunger, also thirst; there is no sin in it.

Sin begins when the mind starts spinning webs—when you clothe desire, seek excuses, do what the body wants anyway, but behind the cover of scriptures. Then you are in trouble, in an intractable tangle.

Buddha and Mahavira do not break the body. Look at Mahavira’s image—what a glorious body! Does it look like he was against the body? That he slept on stones or on thorns? The body is so beautiful; clearly he was not anti-body. But look at many monks—no harmony with Mahavira; something has gone wrong.

Mahavira’s whole sadhana is to quiet the inner mind, to make it empty. There is no sin in the body. The body is beautiful. Its hunger and thirst are simple, straightforward. Like a car needing water and fuel—no sin there. The body is a vehicle to reach God. Give it its food, its water, its comfort—there is no sin in that.

The obstacle starts with the mind. You are far from God because of mind, not body. Not because of desire, but because of thought. When you repress desire, it enters your thoughts; then the trouble begins. There is no sin in sex. But when you think of sex all day, disturbance begins. There is no sin in hunger. But when you think food all day, something is wrong. A healthy person eats twice and forgets about it. An unhealthy mind thinks of food constantly. Food ceases to be the body’s need and becomes the mind’s—and the mind has no need of food. The trouble starts there. Desire is always in the present; thought is always in past or future.

The other two were thinkers—one about the past, one about the future. The third was simple, clean, natural. He got up and ate: “The hunger was irresistible; I could not help it.”

If spiritual life is to be attained, first be natural. Nature is close to God. If you suppress, distort, pervert your nature—and your nature has been perverted—and you do it in the name of “culture.”

Remember three words: nature (prakriti), perversion (vikriti), and culture (sanskriti). In the name of culture you create perversion. The more you impose culture on yourself, the more perverted you become. Perversion is disease; “culture” is the cover to hide it. Perversion is a wound; “culture” is the flowers pasted over it. The man mad after culture will be perverse in his dreams. By day he is “cultured”; by night, perverted. He speaks culture outwardly; inside, perversion runs.

The first task is to become natural—spontaneous, simple. Whoever becomes natural, accepting life as it is, accepting hunger and thirst, reaches the gate of nature—because nature always lives in the present. Trees know nothing of past or future. Birds have no memory of the past, no imagination of the future. Saints return to that state: neither past nor future; only this moment.

First, become natural, for society has perverted you. Regain attunement with nature. The second step is not difficult: if you are in tune with nature, God is very near—nature is His creation; He is the Creator. Nature is His dance; He is the dancer. Draw near the dance and you draw near the dancer; enter the dance and you enter the dancer—they are not two. If you fear the dance, you will never find the dancer. If you fear creation, how will you find the Creator? He is hidden in creation.

Jesus said, “Split a stone and there I am; cleave the wood and you will find Me hidden there.” God is hidden in nature. Let your nature become calm, still; do not force it; allow its spontaneous flow. Become like a small child, not yet perverted by “culture.”

Thus the saint becomes childlike—the same tenderness and beauty, the same innocence in the eyes. He becomes simple and natural—like animals and birds, like trees and mountains. He has accepted all.

This third man is a Sufi fakir—one who accepts nature. He has no urge to change what is; what is, is embraced. This is the mark of faith, and the supreme path of practice. Buddha called it tathata—suchness. What is! If there is hunger, hunger; if thirst, thirst—accept it. Do not fight; by fighting you will go nowhere. If you fight nature, you go far from God—for He is hidden there.

Attune with nature; become one with it. Drop the nonsense of repression, the idea of fighting. Flow—don’t try to swim upstream. The goal is not far. But first become simple.

Society makes you unnatural, even in the name of religion and culture—producing perversion in the name of health. You were born healthy—just as you were.

Zen masters say: regain the face you had before your parents were born. As you were in the mother’s womb—be that simple. Accept irresistible nature. Hunger is hunger; thirst is thirst—don’t fight. All fighting is ego. Trying to conquer thirst, hunger, sex—is ego’s journey of conquest. Don’t fight. There is no victory to be won.

I have heard of Ibrahim, king of Balkh, who later became a fakir. He bought a new slave—who was himself a Sufi, a fakir. He had been traveling the desert when some men seized him—he was beautiful, healthy, strong. He did not resist, for he flowed with life’s current: “What is, is.” He held out his hands for chains. They were surprised—he could have flattened four of them. Then he asked, “Which way shall we walk?” and went along. On the way they said, “What is your case? You didn’t fight or quarrel. We have made you a slave; don’t you understand? Are you sane or mad?” The fakir said, “If your brains are sane, we are mad; if ours are sane, you are mad. Both cannot be alike. Who will decide? No need to decide. But you are carrying the useless weight of these manacles—I am ready to walk along, for going-along is my way.” They didn’t understand, but saw he was simple; they removed the chains. He walked with them.

In the slave market, Ibrahim bought him—he had gone to buy a slave; his previous one had died. The fakir was splendid. Ibrahim brought him home. The fakir was naked. Ibrahim asked, “What kind of clothes do you prefer?” The fakir said, “What wish has a slave? Whatever the master wills.” “What food do you like?” “What desire has a slave? Whatever the master wills.” Ibrahim said, “Say whatever you need, I’ll arrange it. On the way to the palace I have become fond of you. Whatever you want, I will arrange.” He replied, “Arrange as you please, for I have no will other than to flow with His Will. Whatever the Master wills. You are the master; I am the slave.”

They say Ibrahim rose and fell at his feet: “Become my guru. What you are doing with me—if only I could do that with God! This is the essence I have sought. That such a key would come from a slave—I never imagined. I have wandered after egoists, thinking them gurus. That it would come from a slave—I never thought.” Ibrahim later became a great fakir, but this slave was his first guru.

Be with nature’s will. However hard it seems, don’t worry; it’s not a bad bargain. At first it may feel difficult, for society has erected obstacles; society is nature’s enemy. You be with nature; first be natural—only then, by coming close to the dance, will you merge with the dancer.

Whoever has purified his nature enters God’s gate. Nature lives in the present; mind lives in past and future. Recognize your irresistible nature—it is here and now. And here too is God’s gate. To be in the present moment is all. Miss it, and you miss everything.

Enough for today.