Diya Tale Andhera #15

There was a Sufi fakir named Muhammad Sayyid. He was a disciple of the famed saint Furqan. Shah Jahan respected him, and Dara Shikoh was among his devotees. Aurangzeb, for that very reason, was displeased with him. When Aurangzeb came to power, the first thing he did was throw Muhammad Sayyid into prison, torment him, and in the end, have him crucified.

Muhammad Sayyid used to sing a song. Its meaning was: I am a devotee of devotees. God is too far; how could I recognize him? If I can at least recognize his devotees, I am content. The song also had lines like: I am a Jew, a Muslim, a Hindu; and the Black Stone in the Kaaba is the same as the idol in the temple.

These were dangerous statements. The mullahs were angry, and Aurangzeb too was angry; then the gallows become very easy. On the day Muhammad Sayyid ascended the cross, he sang again. That was his last song.

Its meaning is: “I know you very well. Come in any guise, you will not be able to deceive me.” Lifting his eyes toward the sky he said, “O my Beloved, my Friend, today you have come in the form of the gallows. But be assured, you are not deceiving me. I see you hidden behind the cross. And this cross is my supreme good fortune, because this body, which was the obstacle between you and me, will fall. Union will become eternal. The drop is about to fall into the ocean.”

What is the meaning of sainthood? Sainthood means that wherever the eyes fall, the Divine is seen. It does not mean a God hidden somewhere far away in the sky. Sainthood means that nothing remains anywhere where God is not seen. God becomes your very vision. He is everywhere. In every gust of wind, his breath; in every ray of the sun, his light. However life may hide itself, your eyes become so deep that you can find the Divine there; you cannot be deceived. Even if the Beloved comes in the form of a cross, you recognize him.

God is a way of seeing. The world is the same—for the theist and the atheist, for the wise and the ignorant. The world is the same for the one dancing in ecstasy and the one rotting in misery.

The world is your interpretation. If your interpretation is deluded, it appears like hell. If your interpretation is right, this very world becomes heaven. Heaven and hell are not geographical locations; they are not places you go to. They are your ways of looking.

Therefore, everything can change in an instant. If the way of seeing changes, God manifests everywhere, here and now. He already is present; the error lies in your seeing. You do not see him. As if a man stands in the pouring light of the sun with his eyes closed—that is how you stand, eyes closed, in the showering stream of the Divine. As if one stands with his back turned to the Beloved—so you stand with your back to God, and then you ask, “Where is God?”

Suffering is a wrong interpretation of life. Happiness is a right interpretation. And bliss is freedom from all interpretation; that is liberation.

So first, before we enter this parable, understand this: if you are in hell, no one else has put you there. You have made that hell with your own hands. You are its creator. God may have created existence, but you created hell. Hell is your way of seeing. It is your philosophy, your worldview. If you observe carefully, you will find how you turn life into hell.

There are people who, standing next to a rosebush, cannot see the flower; they only count thorns. And if someone counts thorns, soon his eyes will be filled with thorns—because what you look at enters your eyes.

Be very mindful of looking. It is a dangerous business. What you look at imprints itself on your eyes; it becomes a film over your vision. If you have counted thorns, thorns will fill your eyes so much that you will not be able to see the flower. The flower was also there. And the irony is that if there were thorns, they were there only to protect the flower. Yet you picked the thorns—so many thorns that seeing the flower became impossible.

You must have seen people who look at the flower; the flower fills their eyes. When the flower fills the eyes, there remains no room to see the thorns. The eye can either see the flower or the thorns.

Attention can dwell either on suffering or on joy. Either it will be on the false, or on the true. And once attention is filled with one, the doors close to the other. Attention is very narrow. Jesus said, “Narrow is the gate.” The gate to the kingdom of God is very narrow. If you have filled yourself with thorns, the place for the flower is finished. If you have filled yourself with suffering, you left no space for joy to enter—not even a slit remains.

You know, the eyes are small; once they are filled with one thing, where is the space for its opposite? If eyes are stuffed with thorns and a flower somehow appears, even then trust will not arise. First, you won’t see it. By some accident if you do, trust will not come. Your logic—logic filled with thorns—will say, “How can there be a flower where there are so many thorns? I must be seeing a deception. Surely it is a dream. Some fantasy has seized me.”

If in life you sought only bad people and your mind became full of the bad—then even if a Buddha stood among you, would you recognize him? First, you wouldn’t even see him. By some mistake if you did, you wouldn’t trust.

This is why faith is so difficult—because you have made distrust so easy. You are so ready to distrust, so thirsty for it, that even without an occasion you impose distrust. You are fully trained, expert at it. Doubt has become your nature. In a nature filled with doubt, where is room for faith? And even if a Buddha appears, you think, “This cannot be. Impossible. Such beings exist only in scriptures and stories, not in real life. I must be mistaken; I must not be seeing clearly. My eyes are deluded.”

The opposite happens with one who chose rightly and filled his eyes with the flower. Thorns stop appearing to him.

The law is the same. Gradually a moment comes that even if a thorn is seen, trust does not arise in the thorn. How can there be thorns on the same plant that bears a rose so soft? Such opposites—the greatest of opposites—on one plant? If a thorn grows on the same plant, drinks the same sap as the flower, then somewhere deep there must be friendship between them, a musical accord, a rhythm—otherwise it would be impossible.

Wherever you see opposition, if you look deeply beneath it, you will find unity—because how can both grow in the same life? The one who filled himself with flowers, his life fills with joy. The one who filled himself with thorns, his life fills with sorrow.

Whenever something pricks you, you think someone else pricked you—you are mistaken. Whenever something pricks you, it means you have become so skilled at seeing thorns that everything has turned into a thorn and everything pricks.

There was a Sufi fakir, a woman—Rabi‘a. She saw nothing bad in anyone. That is the sign of a saint! Even if she saw a thorn, a song of praise would arise from her. Her friends, her disciples, other fakirs were greatly troubled. However bad a thing, she would still see a flower blooming there. One day a fakir, Hasan, said, “Rabi‘a, we bring you all kinds of news; you still see something good. Do you see anything good even in Satan?”

Rabi‘a’s face lit up as if he had uttered not Satan’s name but God’s. She said, “Thanks to Satan! If he did not provoke my passions, restraint would never have been born in me. If he did not challenge me, I would never have journeyed to God. Thank you, Satan! And Hasan, you must admit there are qualities in Satan that even saints don’t have.”

Hasan said, “Which qualities? I’ve never heard. They’re not written in any scripture.”

Rabi‘a said, “See, he is engaged in the impossible—defeating God. What could be more impossible? Yet he never despairs. You are engaged in attaining God—what could be easier?—and still you lose heart and get dejected. Admit Satan’s patience and perseverance; if you must learn, learn from him. From eternity he has been trying to defeat the Divine—which cannot be. And you are trying to attain that which should happen this very moment, because God is your nature; what difficulty could there be in finding what is within you? Not even a single step is needed—just open your eyes. Yet you are defeated and tired. And Satan is set on defeating Nature itself—which cannot be defeated. For if nature is defeated, what would win? Nature means the eternal law; nothing can be contrary to it. He is engaged in the impossible, yet his patience, his dedication, his labor—these are worth learning.” Rabi‘a said, “I reached God by learning from Satan; and the day I found God, I offered my first thanks to Satan. Without his support, this journey would not have happened.”

Even if you were to meet God, you would stand there with complaints. You would have a long list of grievances ready—if God ever meets me, I’ll read out the list. Perhaps for fear of that, he doesn’t meet you.

I’ve heard a Jewish tale. A certain man had the habit of long, boring sermons. He was a rabbi, the priest of a large synagogue, but so tiresome that the whole town was fed up. One morning, on the holiest day of the year, he rose and said in his first prayer, “O God, enough is enough. Today you must meet me. Long has been the waiting, the effort, the prayer—now it suffices!”

God said, “My brother, today is a holiday. At least today, forgive me. Let me rest, just today.”

Your list of complaints is so long. You carry a garland of thorns. If God were to meet you, you’d place that garland around his neck; perhaps for that fear, he avoids you.

I’ve heard another story. A ship was on a voyage. A saint and a sinner were aboard, along with others. A storm came; the ship was about to sink. Everyone fell to their knees and began praying. What did the saint do? He went and stood in front of the sinner, shielding him. He didn’t pray, he simply covered the sinner. The sinner said, “Brother, what are you doing? O God, save us!” The saint whispered, “Speak softly! If he finds out you’re here, no one will be saved. I’m standing to hide you.”

As you are, God will dodge you. If he learns where you are, he departs from there. He may be somewhere, but not where you are. That is why you undertake pilgrimages. Someone goes to Mecca, someone to Kashi, someone to Girnar. Why? Is God not where you are? Because of your own fear, you think he is hiding somewhere—at Girnar, at Kashi, at the Kaaba. And you go there with such crowds—be sure, he must have slipped away long ago.

With a heart filled with complaints—with a mind that has chosen thorns—there can be no meeting with God. What is prayer? A heart empty of complaint. Shout God’s name at the top of your lungs if you must—but he is not deaf. He can hear the quietest stirrings in your heart; he knows the feeling contained in your breath. What could you hide from him? There is no need to shout.

Prayer is not flattery of God; prayer is the absence of the mood of complaint.

When will that happen? When you have chosen flowers in life. The one who chooses flowers is filled with ah!—gratitude. Gratitude is prayer. The feeling of being graced is prayer. A continuous thankfulness: that what has come to this undeserving me is more than enough, boundless. What I have received is his prasada, not my merit. What I have gained is beyond my need. This ah! is prayer.

But if whatever I have received feels less than my merit, that is complaint. Complaint means you have chosen thorns. Prayer means you have chosen flowers.

And life contains both—flowers and thorns, joy and sorrow, good and bad, sinners and saints—because life is woven of duality. Hence you face three options. One: choose sorrow and live in hell. Two: choose happiness and live in heaven. Three: choose neither and be free of both joy and sorrow—that is the supreme state, union with God.

This story of Ryōkan is very precious—very short and very meaningful. Let us try to understand its every word.

Saint Ryōkan lived in a small hut at the foot of a hill. His life was utterly simple.

Simplicity has a very special meaning in the Zen tradition. Understand it well, because the simplicity you call “simple life,” a Zen fakir does not call simple.

What does “simple life” mean in your mind? You think of a man in a loincloth, eating one meal a day. In your mind, simple life means anti-worldliness. Zen says: from opposition to the world, simplicity does not arise. What you oppose casts a shadow inside you; you must keep your enemy in mind.

Thus, one who enters simplicity through effort—his life will look simple on the surface but will be very complicated within. Simplicity cannot be achieved by effort—whatever must be achieved by effort cannot be simple. If you must strain to achieve it, your life is already complex.

A man can stand naked; even his nakedness can be complex. This is subtle and delicate. A man stands naked: how will you know if his nakedness is simple? Mahavira stood naked; Diogenes stood naked; the Sufi I mentioned—whom Aurangzeb crucified—was also naked. There are hundreds of naked men: in Hinduism, an order of naked ascetics, the Naga sadhus. How will you know whose simplicity is truly simple? What is the touchstone?

If you visit the Hindu akharas of naked sadhus, you won’t find more complicated people anywhere. Go to a Kumbh just to see them; it will be useful.

These naked men who stand at the Kumbh—strange people! At home they wear clothes; outside they are naked. In their own akhara they wear clothes; when they come to the fair, they become naked. Their nakedness is a display—exhibition. Otherwise it could be the reverse: one could be naked at home and wear clothes outside—since nakedness is not to be exhibited!

Remember, psychologists consider exhibitionism a disorder. In every country there are laws against those who use nudity as exhibition. Many of you know the type: someone waiting by the road, wanting someone to see his naked body. In a secluded spot, to a passing woman or a child, he will suddenly expose himself and run away. His urge is to display nudity.

Your urge is to display clothes. When you go out, you dress up. See how long it takes—especially women; they are great exhibitionists. Even choosing the sari is a problem—which sari today? Then adornments. Then all kinds of colors and powders—as if every woman is on a stage, as if there’s an audience in the marketplace and you must put on a show, as if everyone is invited to gaze at you!

And the irony—if people look intently, that very woman gets angry. This is the mind’s complexity. The one who looks intently we call a lout—luchcha—meaning: one who looks with keen eyes. Luchcha comes from the same root as lochan (eye). Alocak—critic—also from the same root; it means one who looks intently, examines. If someone looks intently…

Scientists have even set a limit—three seconds. If you look at a woman longer than three seconds, you’re a lout. Up to three seconds is tolerable—casual glance. Beyond three seconds you are courting danger. And the fun is, the woman has spent one or two hours to get ready—for the louts. And when the louts arrive, she is disturbed.

The mind is complex. You want something and also want to show you don’t want it. If a woman passes through the market and no one looks, imagine how depressed she returns.

Once I was in a university, sitting with the vice-chancellor. A girl came to complain—very angry because a boy had thrown a pebble at her. The vice-chancellor was indignant: “This is not acceptable. Call the boy.” I said, “Wait. First ask the girl: she will be here for six years—if no one ever throws a pebble at her, will she be happy or sad?”

He said, “What do you mean?” The girl fidgeted.

I said, “Think. No one throws a pebble for nothing. Man and woman always share an inner connection. What women desire, men do. What men want, women do. There is a deep coordination—and on the surface everyone pretends it isn’t so.

“I ask you—if no one throws a pebble, no one writes you a love letter, no one scribbles your name on walls—what then? Sad or happy?”

She said, “What do you mean? Are you encouraging such people?”

I said, “I’m not saying that. I ask about your inner state.”

You don’t know the misfortune of the girl at whom no one throws a pebble. She gets ready daily, hoping someone will. And when someone does, she goes to complain. We want to show—and also to show that we are not eager to show.

Man is complex. Wearing clothes is a show; being naked can be a show. Where there is show, there is complexity.

Simplicity means: not determined by another’s gaze, but by your own natural ease. As long as the other’s gaze is valuable, your life cannot be simple. If you stand naked because others will honor you, your nakedness is not simple. That is why in countries where naked ascetics are honored, there are naked ascetics. Where there is no honor, there are none. What people honor, the ego is ready to do. If fasting is honored, people fast.

If self-flagellation is honored, Christian sects arise where fakirs flog themselves in the streets, bleeding. They keep count—how many lashes. One ascetic gives himself three hundred lashes daily—great! Another can do only thirty—he is small.

What is happening? Why? A Digambara Jain monk plucks out hair by the roots, not cutting. A grand festival when the hair-plucking happens—thousands gather to watch. The spectators are also a bit sick—someone is plucking his hair; why crowd to see? You wouldn’t let someone pluck hairs in peace? He is plucking his own, not someone else’s! Why gather? Because tradition has taught you to honor this as greatness. Does hair-plucking make one great? Is greatness so cheap? And the man waits until all arrive, the band plays—then he plucks. It is a performance.

You’ll be surprised how words carry stories. We have a phrase—“nanga-luchcha”—a naked-lout. It was coined first for Jain monks: naked and hair-plucking. But what value is there? Why not pluck hair in private? Why this noise? This is not simplicity. Where there is exhibition, there is no simplicity.

Simplicity means: you live as if you were alone on earth. No one is watching; no urge to show. You live in the way that feels natural and convenient. The name of that ease is simplicity. Then if you need two loincloths—fine; if you need four garments—fine. It is your decision; no one else’s eyes are to be considered.

Zen fakirs say: simple life is the greatest life. “To be ordinary is the most extraordinary thing.” To be simple is to be exceptional. There is no greater extraordinariness than being ordinary.

Why? Because everyone wants to be extraordinary—that’s why there is so much showing off: so that in the other’s eyes, I am something special. Search even the most foolish person—he thinks himself extraordinary. The desire to be special is utterly common. Everyone wants to prove he is special.

What does simple life mean? The one who has dropped the effort to prove himself extraordinary. He has accepted: I am as simple as flowers, leaves, streams, stones, rocks. In this vastness I have a small place, a simple place. I am not special. This is revolutionary. When a man accepts, “I am not special,” that very moment he becomes special. The moment you understand you are ordinary, you become extraordinary. And as long as you strive to be extraordinary, you remain ordinary—because the desire to be special is very common. The feeling of being ordinary is very rare.

Simplicity means you have no urge to display yourself, nor to be unseen. Be careful, there is subtlety here. You can also try to do it where no one sees; but if your eye is on others, life is not simple. Whether someone sees or not is no longer a consideration. You might say, “Fine, I’ll pluck my hair—but where no one sees.” Still, your eye is on the other—either to be seen, or not to be seen. You are not yet simple.

To be simple means: a natural life. A natural life is effort-free. The unnatural must be achieved; you must arrange yourself from all sides. Restraint leads to the unnatural. There is also a restraint of naturalness—but that is another matter.

I’ve heard: Mulla Nasruddin took his wife to the airport. There was a ticket to circle the village in an airplane for a hundred rupees. Many people flew and left; the pilot noticed that Nasruddin and his wife kept pondering, could not gather courage—a hundred rupees! When no one was left, the pilot came down and said, “I’ve seen misers, but you two… The time is up.”

Husband and wife looked at each other. Such a desire to fly just once; but to let go of a hundred rupees!

Finally the pilot took pity. He said, “Do one thing. I’ll take you for a ride free, but on one condition: you must not utter a single word. If either of you speaks, you’ll pay a hundred rupees.” Nasruddin agreed—“Done!”

They sat in. The pilot flew dangerously—upside down, dives, rolls—amazed that through all the danger they stayed silent. They landed. The pilot said, “I admit defeat, Nasruddin—you win! But… where is your wife?”

Nasruddin said, “There came a moment when I almost spoke—but restraint is a great thing. My wife fell out. I was on the verge of speaking, but restraint is a great thing—so say the scriptures. I held my breath, closed my eyes, and kept restraint. And the fruit of restraint is always sweet. Double benefit: saved a hundred rupees and the trouble of the wife ended. The fruit of restraint is sweet.”

Restraint means force. Your mind wanted royal clothes and you forced yourself into a loincloth—this is not simple life. There is effort, ambition, a struggle. You will have to keep imposing the loincloth upon yourself; your mind longed for finery. Out of temptation for heaven, for God-realization, yoga, nectar, you donned a loincloth.

Remember, restraint is always a mask for greed—you want to get something, therefore you force yourself. Simplicity is freedom from greed. A simple man is one who delights in wearing a loincloth—no restraint. There is no inner fight: the mind wanting royal garments while you force a loincloth. A simple man does not fight within. Whoever fights is complex.

Your so-called sadhus are not simple; they are in a great fight—twenty-four hours a day. You can read that fight written on their foreheads, see it in their faces, in their ego. You don’t see because your eyes are blind with the same fight. Neither you are simple, nor are your sadhus. You are tilted one way; they are tilted the other. You are two extremes, in opposition.

Zen says: the simple one is he who finds joy in simplicity. There is no restraint—what question of restraint?

Then simplicity begins to emit a fragrance, for he is not tense within.

Such was this fakir, Ryōkan. In a small hut at the foot of a hill. A life utterly simple. One evening, a thief entered his hut. He found nothing.

This is priceless: if a thief enters a saint’s hut, he will find nothing—because the things a thief’s eyes can see are not there. Ryōkan was there, an awakened one was there. His vibrations filled that hut. The greatest wealth that can happen on this earth was in that hut. No palace is so fortunate. The hut was blessed in those moments. Where Ryōkan lived, sat, opened his eyes, slept—where the flower of Ryōkan had bloomed. But the thief could not see that. He sees only what he desires. He felt the hut was empty—no money, no gold, no jewels.

You see what your craving is. If your craving is for jewels, even at the feet of a Buddha you will look for jewels. If you find them there, you’ll say, “This man is something.” If not—“What is here? The hut is empty.”

Ryōkan was there—what more could be needed? There is no greater magnificence. Ryōkan was one of those of whom Kabir said, “Mahima kahi na jaye”—their glory cannot be spoken. No greater emperors exist. Their empire is very subtle. The fragrance around them requires preparation to catch; the light around them needs clear, pure eyes to see; the unstruck music that is always sounding—so that it may reach your heart, many stones in between must be removed. Your heart is almost a stone—how can music reach? It kills music.

Keep this in mind. It is very important that the thief entered the hut but found nothing. How could a thief see anything? Even in God’s palace a thief would seek what he desires.

I’ve heard: a dog sat under a tree, eyes closed, delighted—dreaming. A cat up in the tree said, “Brother, something delicious must be happening—what are you seeing?”

“A dream,” said the dog. “Don’t interrupt—you’ve spoiled it. A marvelous dream—bones were raining from the sky. Instead of water, bones—nothing but bones!”

The cat said, “Fool! We too have read the scriptures and heard from the elders that sometimes it happens that, instead of water, mice rain from the sky—but bones? No scripture says that.”

But dogs have their scriptures, cats have theirs. All scriptures are scriptures of your cravings. Think—if you reached God, what would you want to see? If I stood you at God’s door and asked, “What will you see inside?”—you would not find yourself different from that thief.

What will you see there? Thieves have written the images of God. Read the thieves’ scriptures—and you will get a glimpse of the mind’s complexity. Surely thieves wrote the tales where God lives in a palace of gold; where the roads are studded not with pebbles but with jewels; where even trees bear not flowers but golden blooms. God would be mad! What meaning has a golden flower—dead, lifeless. There are no roses and lotuses there, only golden flowers. Thieves wrote these things. If the Divine appears utterly simple—where trees bloom as here, where houses are as here, where streams flow as here—thieves will feel there is nothing. What appears to you depends on you.

And I say to you: this is why you miss God. He is present here. But you are waiting for golden flowers; he blooms in ordinary flowers. You wait for rivers of milk and curds; he flows in these ordinary rivers. You miss.

You are obsessed with your own cravings and want to see the Divine in those colors. The Divine is here in all colors, and until your preconceptions fall, you will feel: the house is empty—there is nothing here.

Even standing before Ryōkan, the thief felt: nothing here. He entered the hut and saw: nothing here.

Everything was there. What value have pebbles, jewels, gold and silver? Only consciousness has value. The real treasure is the soul. And there was a soul—an incomparable flower that sometimes blossoms in the human race. The supreme poetry of life was resonating there. But the thief felt: nothing here.

Meanwhile, the saint returned. He saw the thief leaving and said, “You have come a long way to see me; it would not be right to send you back empty-handed. Please, take my robe as a gift.”

Understand these words.

“You have come a long way to see me…”

He had not come to see him. He came precisely when the saint would be away. A thief never comes to meet a saint.

And if a thief ever does come to meet a saint, it is only when the saint is a master-thief; otherwise not. When both meet somewhere. You are after wealth, and the saint promises: through my blessing you’ll get wealth. You desire progeny and the saint gives you a talisman—tie this, you’ll have a child.

If you want to see thieves, go to Sathya Sai Baba—you’ll find the nation’s thieves gathered there. For there the longing is not for the soul. What has the soul to do with ash, talismans and watches materialized in the hand?

The search for the soul is not a search for miracles. The search for miracles is of desire. Hope arises: something is happening here; anything is possible. If a talisman can appear in the hand, why not the Koh-i-Noor? Just serve the guru; if he is pleased someday, everything will appear. A thief seeks a thief.

This thief had not come to meet Ryōkan—Ryōkan was too simple and guileless. In truth, people didn’t even know he was a saint.

There is a famous incident about Ryōkan. The emperor of Japan wanted to choose a guru. He sent envoys across cities and ashrams, but none satisfied him.

Whenever an emperor seeks a guru, one thing is certain: the ordinary things that impress ordinary people will not impress him—he already has all that: palaces, wealth; he is bored with it. He wants to escape the ashes—that is why he seeks a saint. All that has become ash—palaces, beauty, health. And now what is the point of collecting more ash?

He found no one satisfactory. Then his envoys said, “Only Ryōkan can satisfy you.” The emperor asked, “Why didn’t you mention him before?” They said, “He is so simple that people don’t even know he is a saint. If these big names don’t touch you, then only Ryōkan…”

The emperor went to Ryōkan’s hut. But he was an emperor; old habits don’t vanish at once. He had a robe made for Ryōkan—priceless, impossible to find its like, studded with jewels—worth millions. He also had a dazzling crown made. He offered them to Ryōkan.

Ryōkan burst out laughing. “You will make a fool of me,” he said.

“What do you mean?” asked the emperor.

Ryōkan said, “There are no people here in the forest—only wild animals. These wild ones believe neither in robes nor crowns. Seeing me in this robe and crown, they will laugh—monkeys will laugh, owls will laugh—and you’ll make me a fool. You did well to bring them; but take them back, because I don’t live in the town of men. Here is nature. Everything is so colorful already—what need of a gaudy robe? And my friends are simple wild creatures; they will laugh and say, Ryōkan has become corrupt in his old age!”

This was certainly a simple man.

The thief went to his house—he must have gone only when he knew the saint would not be there.

You too go to saints only when you know the saint won’t be there. For to be in a saint’s presence is to risk danger. To approach a saint is to play with fire. Jesus said, “I am fire; come near and you will burn.” He also said, “Remember, whoever avoids the fire will avoid the kingdom of God as well. Burn, and you will be saved.” This is the essence of all saints: only if you die will you be saved.

The thief had come to take something else—but whatever you come to take, a saint believes you have come to him. A saint cannot even think that you have come for anything else. To think that would insult you. He has seen that all else is junk. To think you came for ash, talismans, babies, wealth—that would insult you.

So Ryōkan said, “You have traveled so far to see me. It is not right to send you back empty-handed.”

And had the man not been a thief, he would have returned not just with full hands, but with a full soul. All thirst would have been quenched; all running ended. The truly worth having could have been had. The moment had come; the opportunity was there—Ryōkan stood before him. But the thief must have become restless.

Desire is always restless; and the craving for things never frees you of guilt. You will remain a criminal as long as you crave things. The day you drop things and long for the soul, that day sin will fall. Suddenly you will find all sin, all karma’s net, gone. You are free. The longing for the soul liberates.

He must have trembled, afraid—what to do? Seeing his trembling, his restlessness, his childishness, Ryōkan said, “Then at least please accept my robe as a gift.”

The thief was obviously a thief. A chance was given. He could have fallen at Ryōkan’s feet, and Ryōkan would have filled his bag with consciousness. But he kept quivering in guilt. He had stolen from many houses; never had anyone been eager to give. Because those were the houses of big thieves. For the first time he stood before one who was not a thief—so he became very uneasy. Ryōkan read his face; your eyes do not lie. You may say something, but you look at what you want. You may stand in a temple with folded hands praying to God, but your eyes are on the woman nearby. That prayer, if addressed to the woman, would be more honest! Women pray in temples but their eyes are on the clothes and jewels of other women. It would be better to kneel before jewels—at least it would be authentic.

Ryōkan must have seen he was not looking at him at all, but at his robe. So Ryōkan said, “At least take my robe.”

The thief was astonished.

Whenever a thief meets a saint, he is astonished. Meeting thieves makes no difference—the same club of thieves, small and big. Some are in jail in handcuffs; some sit on the throne in Delhi. Small and big thieves—that is the world. Some are taken away by the police; some sit as magistrates—different forms of the same thing. In this world there are only two ways to be—saint, or thief. There is no third.

There are many kinds of theft. One is legal—according to social order, within the law. One is illegal—against order, against the law. The clever thieves steal according to law. The foolish thieves break the law and steal. The rest is not different. Wealth itself is theft; hence whatever you do there, theft will be. When a thief stands before a saint, he is in difficulty, for the first time meeting a stranger—language does not match, conduct does not match, the unknown one we have never known.

Have you noticed: when you meet someone who doesn’t speak your language, you feel uneasy. If he is not of your religion, uneasiness increases. If he is not your color—you are a Negro, he is white—uneasiness grows. If he is not your politics—you are a communist, he is a capitalist—still more. As distance grows, strangeness grows; uneasiness increases. If he is Hindu and you are Hindu; he is communist and you are communist; he is white and you are white—uneasiness ends. He is “our own.”

But before a saint, no relation remains. Not only the common language but the very language of existence differs. If he were Muslim and you Hindu, that would be understandable—different creed, but at least he believes in something. But a Muhammad Sayyid says, “I am Jew, I am Muslim, I am Hindu; the stone in the Kaaba is the same as the idol in the temple”—now it’s difficult! Before a saint, you experience the greatest uneasiness in the world. And it remains until either you somehow prove the saint a thief and be done with it, or become one with the saint. Hence before a master, a dreadful state arises—you tremble, you fear. The master seems like death. Understand the thief’s difficulty—know it from your own, for there is no other way.

The thief, greatly embarrassed, took the clothes and quietly slipped away.

It is very telling. He took the robe with shame. Every time you take something out of desire, you feel shame—yet you take it. Therefore you find yourself continually falling in your own eyes. It’s hard to find a man who has self-respect in his own eyes. Others may respect him, but he has none—because he keeps doing, in shame, what he knows within is not right.

To take the only robe of a fakir who has nothing else—great embarrassment. But desire is strong. Desire thinks, “The cloth has value; I can sell it; it will be useful. I’ve come so far; it wouldn’t be right to go empty-handed. Whatever I get will do.” Desire always thinks in relation to itself. Compassion thinks in relation to the other—that is the difference.

The thief must have thought, “Granted it feels shameful; sweat beads on the forehead; but if I forgo this out of shame, I’ll regret it all my life—who knows what it was worth! Better to drop the shame than the robe. Cast off the hesitation, do it; it’s only a moment—once outside, the trouble ends!”

If only sin ended so quickly! It follows you all your life. In births upon births, wherever you felt shame yet acted—that is your karma. The day there is no shame and you act without hesitation, there is no bondage. Understand this formula: any act you can do without shame, in wholeness, binds not at all. Without inner division, without even a grain of inner opposition—total! Then there is no bondage of karma. A total act is beyond karma.

But your acts are all halves—shame, hesitation. You want to do and you don’t want to do. Desire says, “Do it.” Inner knowing says, “What are you doing?” Everything divided—then you are bound. Then you weave the net of karma.

The thief, with great embarrassment, took the robe and disappeared into the night. He may disappear from the world, but how will he disappear from his own eyes? He will regret it all his life. There had been an opportunity to receive the gift of consciousness—lost. There had been an opportunity to say to the fakir, “No. How can I take your robe?”—his soul’s dignity would have risen, if he could have said even that.

I’ve heard of an event. A Sufi, Bayazid, was once captured by thieves. He was a sturdy, strong, healthy man. The thieves said, “He’ll be useful.” Bayazid was a man of ease, simple; he did not resist. “All right, let’s go.” The first night they went to steal. Bayazid was strong, so whatever money they collected, they left in his keeping—made him the treasurer—believing he would fight hardest if someone tried to snatch it.

They entered the first house—perhaps a house like Ryōkan’s—nothing there. They searched every inch, opened every door—found nothing; returned disappointed. Outside the village they said, “Tonight was a waste.”

Bayazid said, “Who said waste? I felt such pity for those people that the money you had entrusted to me—I left it there. They had nothing at all—nothing even for thieves to take. In what misery they must be living! What you gave me, I left it there.”

One saint, what he had, leaves; and a thief, even what the fakir does not have, takes and disappears into darkness. If a saint steals, he leaves; if a thief comes to pray, he will at least swap the shoes outside the temple. At least that much he will do.

Even here people steal shoes—here. A thief is pitiable. He comes seeking one thing; takes another. And one who steals shoes here—could he have understood what I said? Impossible.

Saint Ryōkan was now naked, and sat naked, gazing at the moon.

It was a full-moon night. Sitting at the door of his hut, he watched the rising moon.

And then he said to himself, “If only I could have given that poor fellow this beautiful moon as well!”

A saint’s giving is infinite. However much he gives, he feels even more could have been given. Oh, the saint must have felt pain—there was nothing at home; the man came at the wrong time. If only he had sent word beforehand, I would have arranged something. He came from so far, with such hope, and he could take only a robe.

The saint must also have felt pained that there was nothing in the hut, so I unnecessarily put him in embarrassment. If he could have taken it quietly, without my giving, that hurt of shame would not have been inflicted—he will keep considering himself guilty.

And the saint sees the thief as poor. Whenever you see a poor person, you see a thief. If something is stolen from your house, the first person you suspect is the servant. Why? In the house is the wife, emptying your pockets daily; your sons are learning to steal—how could they not? You yourself are a thief; if they don’t learn, how will they fulfill filial duty? Guests and friends come and go—and friends of thieves must be thieves. But immediately you seize the servant—because you know the poor are thieves. The poor look like thieves to you.

Ryōkan called the thief poor. He said:

“If only I could have given that poor fellow this beautiful moon as well!”

No matter how much you receive, you are not satisfied; and no matter how much a saint gives, he is not satisfied. He wanted to give the moon—to give the impossible. He wanted to make that poor man the wealthiest in the world.

You want to end theft; the saint also wants to end theft. You want to end it by making arrangements against theft. The saint wants to end it by increasing the abundance of life. As long as there is want, poverty, lack, theft cannot end. As long as there are rich and poor, theft cannot end; it will continue. No matter what arrangements you make, theft will break through.

A saint too wants to end theft—but by gifting the moon! He knows that as long as people keep their eyes on the world’s wealth, there will be rich and poor. They cannot vanish, and theft will continue. There is another wealth—the wealth of the soul, of the Divine—vast and infinite. No one can hoard it. Take as much as you like, it does not diminish for others.

Remember: if by your taking, others have less, you are stealing. Seek those things which, when you take, deprive no one. Pray for the mood of prayer. Your prayer does not lessen anyone else’s; it may increase it. Meditate; your meditation does not reduce another’s. If you must attain, then long for the Divine—because your attainment does not block another’s. On the contrary, your attainment opens the way for others. Your attainment does not snatch from others; it gives them hope.

This is the difference between religion and irreligion. Irreligion seeks those things which, if you get them, others will be deprived—and if others get them, you will be deprived. Hence irreligion is violence—snatching, exploitation.

Religion seeks those truths, those treasures, which the more you gain, the more easily others will gain. The more you are filled with love, meditation, wisdom, the greater the possibility for others’ love, meditation, wisdom.

Seek only that which, upon attaining, not only you become rich but others become rich because of you. Then your journey is religious. Then you will find that the more you receive, the more you want to share. Whatever you get that you want to hide—know it is theft. Whatever you get that you do not want to share—know it is theft. And whatever you get that you want to share—know it is non-stealing. Achourya—non-stealing—is a great attainment.

Ryōkan is established in non-stealing. He gave. He tried to save the thief from stealing by giving: “I give you a gift, so that the idea of theft might not remain.”

A couple of years later the thief was caught—caught in another theft. Ryōkan’s robe also surfaced. It was famous—Ryōkan had worn that blanket-robe for years. Since it had disappeared, he had been living naked; people knew the robe was gone. They asked, “What happened?” He said, “Good that it happened. I hadn’t known one could live naked.”

The thief was caught; the robe seized. He had not been able to sell it in the thieves’ market because everyone knew it was Ryōkan’s robe—he would be trapped. So he hid it; he couldn’t wear it either. Then he was caught in another theft; in the search, Ryōkan’s robe was found.

The magistrate called Ryōkan to court. He said, “Say only this: that this man came to steal. There is no eyewitness. If you say he came to steal, that’s enough; we need no other proof.”

Ryōkan said, “He did come—but not to steal. The poor fellow was going empty-handed. This robe—I gifted it to him. This is not theft.”

A saint cannot see anyone as a thief. Even in a thief he will look for the saint. Ryōkan said, “This man has a saintly nature. I remember well; I can still see it—that when I offered him the robe, he was full of embarrassment. He did not want to take it. He felt guilt. It seems to me he took it only so as not to say ‘no’ to me—because refusing a gift is not nice. Otherwise this man is not a thief.”

The court had to release him. That day Ryōkan did not return alone; the thief returned with him.

Entering the hut, the thief said, “That day I came here and found nothing. Today I have come and found everything—my whole world is here.”

Enough for today.