Hari Bolo Hari Bol #4

The search for oneself, the recognition of one’s own being. Man alone in creation has self-awareness—the alert sense that “I am.” Animals, birds, trees—they certainly are, but they have no awareness of their own being. Without the sense of being, the second question cannot arise: “Who am I?” Man alone knows “I am.” Inevitably, the second question arises: “But who am I?” I am—true; but who am I? And in the life where this second question has never arisen, that being is neither animal nor truly human—stuck somewhere in between, neither here nor there. Such a person will have neither the animal’s peace nor God’s peace; suspended like Trishanku in midair, ever restless.

Animals are peaceful—untroubled, not agitated—because they lack the degree of awareness needed for worry and restlessness. They live in a kind of stupor, a sweet unconsciousness—there is a certain peace, a stillness, a kind of intoxication—stuporous, yet beautiful.

Hence when you go near nature, you feel beauty; when you come close to nature, everything settles into silence. Come near human beings and restlessness increases. Stand in a crowd and you feel tired—even if you do nothing, you get exhausted.

Haven’t you noticed returning home from a crowd—you come back diminished, as if something has been taken from you, as if you’ve been robbed. You feel in need of rest—worn out, broken. Man is so restless that his ripples of restlessness set your mind rippling too. And when you are surrounded on all sides by a crowd of restless people, how can you protect yourself?

Mahavira and Buddha left society for the forests for no other reason—what is the point of living amidst a crowd of disturbed, sick, deranged people? In the forest they befriended trees, bonded with animals and birds, and broke their ties with man. Think what a great insult to man that is! Consider it: animals and birds bested you, plants and mountains bested you; they did not disturb Mahavira or trouble Buddha. But standing among you had become difficult.

In the life of animals and plants there is an ecstasy—stuporous. In the lives of Buddhas, of the enlightened, there is an ecstasy—conscious, awake. There is intoxication there as well, but in that intoxication the lamp of awareness burns. That is the whole difference. The difference between nature and God is only this: nature is God asleep; God is nature awakened. The one in between—understand his predicament. That is where you are, where everyone is—the in-between man, on neither this step nor that, on neither shore, the boat stuck midstream, being pulled both ways. One part of the mind says: turn back, become animal again. Hence so much violence in the world. That one part says: go back, be like the animal.

What is the lure in violence? If two people start to fight on the road, you drop a thousand errands, set your bicycle aside, and stand to watch. What is so tasty there? Two people are fighting—what will you gain? Yet a great excitement arises. There is a relish in violence. Even if you don’t do it yourself, if another does it, watching gives you pleasure. You slip into the animal world. You slide below the human plane.

And have you seen—if you stand there a while and the quarrel goes on with abuse but no blows, or someone intervenes, or the police arrive, or sense returns to the two—you walk away a little disappointed, as if something that was supposed to happen did not. The fun got spoiled.

When you go to a movie—if there is no violence in it, no bashing and slashing, no murder; if there are no surging waves of sexuality—you won’t go. The more uninhibited the sex, the more murder, the more violence, theft, and robbery, the more a film attracts you. These are longings to return to the animal realm.

Or when you drink alcohol—what are you doing? You are saying, “This little awareness I have, O Lord, take it away from me. I cannot bear this awareness. Make me unconscious; take me back.” The old shore is pulling you. But whatever you do, you cannot become an animal again. There is no possibility of returning to the past. Travel backward does not happen. No matter how much the young man wishes to be a child again—he cannot. No matter how much the old man wishes to be young again—he cannot. No matter how much the dead wish to live again—now it cannot be. Where we have passed, we have passed. We will never go there again. Yet the longing persists. That is why people, though they become young and then old, still sing songs of childhood: “Ah, how lovely were those days!” This is foolishness. If childhood was beautiful, what were you doing with the rest of your life? Why did you not refine that beauty, cultivate it, give it new dimensions and new heights? What were you doing all those years? People say: childhood had such joy! Then what did you do with the remaining time? You came with the treasure of happiness; it had to be augmented, made subtler. You did nothing of the sort; instead you squandered it. So the backward yearning remains—let me be a child again, let those days return. Hence people keep reminiscing: how sweet were the days that are gone! The days that have passed always appear golden—Rama’s kingdom, the age of truth.

People sit and talk of bygone times—this is the longing to go back. The drunkard does the same, only in a cruder way. He says: I cannot manage to return on my own, but with alcohol I will go back. I’ll drink and forget my humanity, forget the human worry, the quest, the troubles, the webs; I’ll fall back—collapse into the gutter, become like a stone, or like a tree, or like plants. For a little while I’ll live as nature. But he has to return; the alcohol can only unconscious you for a while; then you must come back to your senses. For a short time there may be oblivion; the reality does not change. You are back again in midstream.

Therefore man’s real quest is only one: how to reach the other shore. One thing I know—that I am. How shall I know the other thing—who am I? From the search for that second thing all religions are born. If the answer to “Who am I?” is found, everything is found; because in that very answer the experience of God happens.

You are God—tat tvam asi. You yourself are Brahman—asleep, lost, deluded, estranged from yourself. You have been running outward. The path inward is forgotten; the doors, left unopened for so long, have rusted; the keys are lost, the locks won’t open. Or the inside has become so dark—because for who knows how many centuries you have not lit a lamp there—that now you are afraid to enter.

“Who am I?”—this is man’s sole question, his single quest. From this search flow the springs of bliss. The day this search is fulfilled, you receive all that animals, trees, the moon and stars have—and something more that they do not: light, awareness. Therefore this state we have called Buddhahood—bodh, awakened knowing.

The Buddha abides in the very bliss in which nature is immersed. But nature is in a faint; the Buddha is filled with awareness. And the bliss of awareness differs in quality. Suppose someone gives you chloroform and carries you on a stretcher into a garden—you are wheeled around; fresh breezes come; birds sing; perhaps, muffled by the faint, a few broken notes reach your ears; the fragrance of flowers touches your nostrils; maybe a thin trace of memory slides inward. You passed through the garden—but is that really “being taken”? Then one day come to the garden fully conscious—dance with the trees, sing with the birds, befriend the flowers; let your nostrils be filled with fragrance; the fresh air sway you; dance in ecstasy in that garden; let the cool breezes cool your body and mind—will there not be a difference from the earlier passage? You were brought on a stretcher, under chloroform; you passed the same way. But now you pass filled with awareness. The place is the same, the state is different.

Thus Patanjali says in his Yoga Sutras that there is only a slight difference between deep sleep (sushupti) and samadhi. In both states a person is merged in God. Each day, in your deep dreamless sleep, you merge into the Divine; that is why sleep refreshes you. You touch the source and take a dip in God. Although the dip is unconscious—you know nothing of what is happening—yet in the morning, if the night has been deep and dreamless, you rise and say: great bliss! great freshness! a new vitality! As if you have been re-created; all fatigue gone, all weariness gone, all sorrow gone—as if you have returned new! Who made you new? What magic renewed you? You don’t know. Now awareness returns and you recall only this much: the night was deep sleep, dreamless. If dreams were absent, it means the mind was totally quiet—no thoughts arising. There was “samadhi”—but an unconscious samadhi.

This very samadhi came to the Buddha, to Meera, to Kabir, to Dadu, to Rajjab, to Sundardas—but consciously. They entered the same state—waveless, thoughtless, mindless—the no-mind state—yet awareness remained. They stayed awake, watching what was happening. Thoughts came and went—they watched. Thoughts diminished—they watched. Thoughts ceased—they watched. Nothing appeared, yet the seer remained. No object remained, the screen was utterly empty—yet the witness stayed awake, awake, awake. They dove to the last depth, reached layer upon layer of profundity—yet remained awake, watching, watching. When they returned, they returned as Buddhas. All worry was gone, all restlessness vanished—because they were no longer in midstream.

Man is in between. Man is a state of transition; hence the tension. Tension simply means man is becoming. He is on the way to being something. He is not yet complete; the journey is on, the goal not yet attained. So you ask: what is the ultimate quest? Call it first or last, the quest is one: man wants to know—Who am I? What is my intrinsic nature (swabhava)? Knowing that nature, destiny becomes clear—for nature itself is destiny. Knowing my original source, my destination is known—for ultimately the source itself is the goal. And the one who has known “Who am I,” in whom the lamp of self-knowledge is lit—he has known bliss, sat-chit-ananda: being-consciousness-bliss.

“Come into my embrace, that I may truly live.
Let me live for a few days in joy.
Pour me a goblet of the wine of ecstasy, O cupbearer.
Life is mortal—let me make it everlasting.”

Life is momentary—here now, gone the next. Death keeps approaching; and we do not know ourselves. Hence the fear of extinction; death shakes our steps.

What is man’s search? The search is: how to know the immortal.

“Life is mortal—
let me make it everlasting.”

How shall I render it deathless?

“Come into my embrace, that I may truly live.”

Only when God is in your lap and you are in God’s lap does life happen; otherwise life is in name only, not in essence—much noise, no meaning.

“Come into my embrace, that I may truly live—
let me live for a few days in joy.
Pour me a goblet of the wine of ecstasy, O cupbearer—”

The seeker, the devotee, says to God: pour a little, let a little of the wine of Truth slide down my throat.

“Pour me a goblet of the wine of ecstasy, O cupbearer—”
give me a cup of life to drink.

“Life is mortal—let me make it everlasting.”

What I have known so far is transient, a bubble on water—here and gone. I will not be able to hold it; no one ever has. I want to know That which is nectar—the deathless—That which never vanishes.

And to know That, do not wait until death. Know it in life, know it now, know it here—do not even postpone it until tomorrow, for tomorrow is never certain. Does tomorrow ever come? Tomorrow only deludes—and people keep postponing to tomorrow.

In the scriptures there are such stories: that someone took the name of the Divine at the moment of death and was liberated. You know the story of Ajamila, of course: as he was dying he called out, “Narayana, Narayana.” And he wasn’t even calling the Divine—his son’s name was Narayana. But the Narayana above was fooled. He died calling “Narayana” and went straight to Vaikuntha.

What kind of tricksters, what dishonest people must have cooked up these stories? What swindlers? And these swindlers have planted this notion in your mind as well.

In the beginning you will certainly feel restless—because you had been living in a dream. But this restlessness is better. It is better that the dream break. It is better to do something now. Call him into your arms now. Seek his lap now. Ask of him now—while the tongue can still ask, before it begins to falter. While the heart is still beating, open your doors and invite him in.

Do not think you’ll spend your whole life doing something or other and at the moment of death you’ll chant the name of the Divine. At the moment of dying, the essence of your entire life rises to your throat. The one who has sought wealth, at death remembers only wealth. People aren’t wrong when they say the rich, the miserly, die and sit as a snake upon their buried treasure. There must be some truth in it. Psychologically it seems right. The man who all his life guarded his hoarded wealth—you think, after death he will leave it so easily? For eighty years he practiced only one thing: keeping watch over his money. An eighty-year habit won’t break all at once. The imprint of eighty years—no wonder the story seems meaningful. He will return as a snake and coil up on his treasure so no one takes it.

You have done one thing your whole life, and you think at the last moment you will be transformed? You couldn’t change while you had strength, and when all strength is ebbing, then you will change?

I have heard: there was a man in a village, Champu the barber—he did champi, head massage; hence the name Champu. Then independence came, he became a leader. The whole village respected him—he had massaged everyone, after all. So from Champu he became Champalal. When he won the election he became Babu Champalal-ji. Then death, too, arrived. The elders gathered. His breath was rattling; someone shook him and said, “Babu Champalal-ji, now is the time to remember God. Say a prayer now to the Divine. Say something, hear something—life was squandered anyway. First in massaging, then in leadership. That too is a kind of massaging—there too only ‘spoons,’ chamchas, are of use. Thus life was wasted in champi and in chamcha-giri. Now at least remember God.”

Someone shook him; with difficulty he opened his eyes and said, “Listen, listen, listen—O son, listen! In this champi are many great virtues!” What he had sung all his life—do you think at death the name of Hari will arise? A lifetime’s practice does not vanish in a moment. When he said, “Listen, listen, listen,” people thought perhaps he was addressing God.

A man cannot be transformed at the moment of death. Transformation is not so cheap. One has to stake one’s life.

You say you have become “disturbed.”
Good that you are disturbed. God grant that you do not plaster over this disturbance with explanations and consolations and erase it. If you are disturbed, it is a blessing—do something. Do not leave this world without knowing “Who am I?”

As for “going”—that is not in your hands. When you have to go, you will go. I am not saying that when the moment to go comes, you should say, “I have not yet known myself—how can I go? I will go only when I have known myself.” No one will listen. Death will take you. Death will not even ask you. Death doesn’t send notice; it simply arrives. There isn’t even a moment’s interval between its coming and its taking you away.

No—when I say, “I will not go without knowing myself,” I mean that the moment which is in my hands—now, while you are alive—devote this very moment to the search for the Divine. And don’t imagine that “the Divine” is some person sitting in the sky. The Divine is your own highest state hidden within you. The supreme state of the atman is called Paramatman. To know the self is to know the Divine. And he who does not know himself—what else can he know?

Give me—
luscious lips, an innocent brow, beautiful eyes,
that I may once again drown in colors;
let a single glance of yours take my being into its embrace,
so that in that bargain I may be safe forever;
by the light of Beauty may I never return to the world’s darkness;
may the stains of bygone longings be washed from my heart;
may I be freed from the worry of sorrows yet to come;
may my past and my future be utterly effaced;
give me that one glance, an everlasting glance.

One ambrosial vision! Ask for it—it is yours. Your due, your right. If you do not ask, it will not be given. If you ask, it is always given. If you do not seek, it will not be found. If you seek, it is right here. The more urgently you seek, the nearer it will be. If you seek with total urgency, it can be found this very instant. The soul is not far; there is nowhere to go. No pilgrimage to distant mountains—just close your eyes a little. Slip into a little pause. Take refuge in a little rest. Cultivate a little silence. Withdraw yourself from the net of worries and look within.

May my past and my future be utterly effaced.
Say to the Divine: Take from me my past and my future—drown them both!
What else is your mind?
Memories of the past, projections of the future.
Beyond these, what wealth does the mind have? There is no life in memories now—gone; and the imaginings have not yet happened. Both are nothings. You sit sunk in this trash.

May my past and my future be utterly effaced.
Give me that one glance, an everlasting glance.

Only one glance is needed—one seeing. One eye that can recognize the nectar. Both are here. Here is death, and here is the nectar. Death is on the circumference. Death is in your body; in you is the nectar. The pot is fashioned of death, the vessel is of death—because it is made of clay. Clay means mortality. But within the mortal is filled the immortal. It is a matter of changing the seeing. If you keep looking only at the pot, you will keep dying. If you see what is filled within it, death ends. And where death ends, know that knowledge has descended. There know that you have known: Who am I?

Amritasya putrah! You are the children of immortality. Within you the Divine flows, moment to moment.

In the body’s bud of the nine rasas—
a sensation of Beauty:
like the coolness of shade;
in the heart’s delicate beating,
an unseen thought,
like the sound of approaching footsteps;
in the night’s darkness
the lamp of Union burns—
as though the dawn should suddenly break open.

This dawn can break now. This morning can happen now.

In the body’s bud of the nine rasas!
This body of yours is a temple. The Divine resides within it. Where else are you searching? Which Kashi, which Kaaba? Do not get lost in futile running about. Probe within a little.

In the body’s bud of the nine rasas!
This flower of the body—within it beauty is hidden. Beauty has descended to earth taking support of this.

A sensation of Beauty—
like the coolness of shade:
walk a little within and the supreme experience of beauty will arise. Enter this flower of the body, enter this lotus within. It is a thousand-petaled lotus. You must pass beyond all its petals—petal by petal. Inside you will find that vast silence, that void—which is your soul. You will find that fullness—which is the Divine.

A sensation of Beauty—
a supreme experience of beauty will be.

Like the coolness of shade—
you have lived long in the sun, long in the running and scrambling, long in the hustle and bustle. You are drenched in sweat, utterly tired. For how many births have you been walking! How much dust has gathered on your face! Have some care for your eyes—how much grit and grime.

In the heart’s delicate beating
an unseen thought,
like the sound of approaching footsteps—
slide within a little! Begin to see the Unseen! Begin to recognize the Unrecognized.

In the heart’s delicate beating—
in this soft, gentle beating of the heart, the Divine’s own heartbeat is contained. You are not beating—He is beating.

Like the sound of approaching footsteps—
slip within a little, and his footfall will begin to be heard.

In the night’s darkness—
granted, there is darkness, and much darkness; but the darkness is only outside. Within there is only light. Within it is always dawn. Outside it is always night. Outside the new moon; inside the full moon.

There is a lovely story in Buddha’s life: that he was born on the full moon day, attained enlightenment on a full moon day, and died on a full moon day—the same full moon of Vaishakh. Whether it happened so or not, the point is meaningful. Be born in the full moon, live in the full moon, awaken in the full moon, and dissolve in the full moon. This can be. To the one who sees within, it becomes certain.

In the night’s darkness
the lamp of Union burns—
granted, there is much darkness; yet within a lamp is lit—shamme visal, the flame of union, the light of embrace.

In the night’s darkness
the lamp of Union burns—
as though the dawn should suddenly break.
As though the clouds suddenly part and the sun appears—such a suddenness can happen within you. The search for this suddenness is man’s ultimate quest—first and last. And until this happens, do not consider yourself a man. Do not fall into the delusion of calling yourself a man. Say only this much: I am seeking to become a man. I am on the path; I have not yet arrived.

Only a few have been truly human—the Buddhas, the Krishnas, the Kabirs, the Christs, the Mohammeds. Only a few have been men; the rest are counterfeit, a show, a costume. Inside there is nothing. Without experience, there is nothing. What is—if it is not known—counts as not being.

A diamond lies in a beggar’s pocket, and he begs, and he knows nothing of the diamond. Will you say he possesses a diamond? It would be meaningless to say so. If he knew he had a diamond, his beggary would end.

The one who has seen his inner light does not remain a beggar in this world. He asks for nothing—neither position nor prestige. He asks for nothing. The question of asking no longer arises. He begins to give. He shares. Within him an inexhaustible spring opens. He shares light, shares bliss, shares love, shares meditation—shares the real wealth.

Good—an omen has come. Use it. A ladder has appeared before your eyes. A door has opened. There are things that can be seen with open eyes, and there are things that can be seen only with closed eyes. What can be seen with open eyes has no great value. The value belongs to what can be seen with closed eyes.
Those who truly recognize me will do so with closed eyes. Those who have looked only with open eyes will see my body. The eyes belong to the body; their reach does not go beyond the body. If you touch me with your hand you will not touch me, you will touch only the body. The hand’s capacity cannot go beyond the hand. If you listen to me with your ears you will only hear my words; you will not hear my emptiness, my silence. That is not in the ear’s capacity.

The eye can see, the ear can hear. The ear cannot see, the eye cannot hear. In just this way, some things appear with eyes open, and some things appear only when the eyes are closed. What appears with open eyes is gross. What appears with closed eyes is subtle, it is the essence.

Relate to me with closed eyes; that is the real relationship. Listen to what I say; also listen to what I do not say. See what I seem to be; also see what I do not seem to be. Only then will you be able to see within yourself that which is not visible, and to hear what cannot be heard. That is how the journey into the unfathomable begins. Good, Kabir.

You say: “Kabir has not understood, it has not been resolved.”
This is not something to be understood. If you go about it through understanding, you will miss. This is a matter for the lovers, the mad. Do the clever ever close their eyes? They keep their eyes open, eyes wide. The clever believe only what the eyes can see. They say: what cannot be seen, we do not accept. They say: what can be touched is real for us; what cannot be touched we do not accept.

That is why the clever have denied God. They have denied the soul. They have denied love, denied beauty. Whatever in life is truly precious—they have denied it all. The outcome of the clever is that the world has become a garbage heap. Because garbage can be grasped. Go, stand near a rose. Someone says, “How beautiful!” You say, “Where is the beauty? The red is visible, yes; the flower is visible, yes—but where is beauty? I will take it to a scientist, a chemist, have it analyzed.” Have it analyzed; the chemist will extract all its juices, tell you how much earth, how much water, how much sun, how much air—he will tell you all that. He will separate the five elements. And when you ask, “Where is the beauty?” he will shrug his shoulders. “There was no beauty in it anywhere.” And if that still bothers you, weigh them. Weigh the flower first; weigh all the extracted components—both will weigh the same.

Is whatever comes onto the scales the whole of reality? A living man was there; he dies—weigh both; the weight is the same. Something eludes the scales. Just now he was speaking; now he does not speak—the weight is the same. Just now he moved; now he does not move—the weight is the same. Just now you were ready to keep him at home as a guest; now you tie him to a bier. Something has changed. Some bird has flown from within—but a bird with no weight, beyond weight. Some consciousness has departed.

Not everything ends with weight. Not everything is visible with open eyes. Cleverness cannot catch all. And when we try to grasp everything by the measure of cleverness, make cleverness the sole criterion, then whatever is important is missed; whatever is meaningful is missed. If today people feel life is futile, no one else is responsible—our so‑called clever ones are responsible.

So, Kabir, drop worrying about cleverness. I am not here to give you cleverness anyway. You are already clever enough; if I can make you a little “not‑so‑clever,” that will do. You are already intelligent enough; if I can make you a little mad, that will do.

Here, the mad will understand, and the clever will be left outside like madmen. This is a settlement of lovers, of the mad. Do not bring the arithmetic of cleverness here; that touchstone is of no use here.

You say: “Kabir has not understood.”
You cannot understand—because this is not a matter for understanding. If you cling to understanding, you will miss it. If you want to catch this, drop understanding. That is why trust has such value. What does shraddha (trust) mean? That there is something beyond understanding. There is the invisible. There is the unmanifest. What else does shraddha mean? Only this: I do not end existence with intellect; I accept that existence extends beyond intellect, even though I will not be able to prove it—for only what lies within intellect can be proven. I accept even the unproven. I have trust even in what cannot be decided by logic.

Can you prove love? Yet love is experienced. Can you prove poetry? Poetry cannot be proven; science can be proven. But science gives man machines—and makes him machine‑like. It gives him mechanicalness. Poetry gives man wings—it invites him to fly into the sky. Poetry gives man the wave of the supernatural.

What happens with closed eyes is poetry. What goes on with open eyes is knowledge and science.

A little window opened with your eyes closed. Do not try to understand, or the window will close. These windows are very delicate. They cannot bear the stone of cleverness. They are as fragile as flowers. If you pick up the stone of argument and hurl it, the flower will be destroyed. And do not think that what perished was worthless and what survived is meaningful. The trivial always survives; the essential is destroyed. The more precious a thing is, the more quickly it can be lost, the more delicate it is. In this world nothing is more delicate than trust. It is very touch‑me‑not. It can vanish in a moment. A little doubt, a little argument—and trust disappears. To sustain trust is the most difficult art—and whoever learns it is religious.

So, Kabir, do not try to understand.
And you say: “Kabir has not understood, not resolved.”
There is no question of resolving it. This is not some tangle to be untied. This is a mystery to be entered, to be dived into.

To look at life as a problem is not right. If you are listening rightly—then the mistake lies in making life into a problem. Life is a mystery—to be lived. Dance! Sing! Hum! What is there to resolve? What will you resolve? Philosophy has been trying to resolve for ten thousand years—what has it managed to resolve? Nothing. In truth, it has entangled things further. In trying to resolve, it has created more knots. The very intention to resolve carries an acceptance—at least one acceptance—that the world is tangled and you must untangle it.

I want to tell you: nothing here is tangled. Everything is already resolved, simple and clear. But if you want the amusement of resolving, then you will first have to create tangles. Then you will have to raise such questions as will tie life in knots. Then you are caught in a game: you tangle and then you untangle. And there is no end to it. Once you form the habit of tangling, you will keep tangling. Every new answer will raise ten new questions.

Do not take this life as a problem at all. Life is a gift, not a problem. A benediction from the divine, prasad, grace. Receive it. Take as much as you can! Drink it! Digest it! Let it dissolve into your flesh and bones. Let it permeate every pore of your being.

Hence a religious person is one who does not want to resolve life—who never enters the tangle of resolving. A religious person is one who lives life. When the moon rises he rejoices with the moon. He does not worry about what is on the moon—soil, stone, lakes, mountains? When the sun rises he bows in delight. In surya‑namaskar, he salutes the light. Light has arrived; he rejoices. The night is over. When darkness comes he experiences its peace. When there is light he experiences its clarity.

Whatever happens, he experiences it; he takes it within. And he does not make it into a problem, does not put a question mark on it. Not placing a question mark on anything is the mark of a religious person. He does not ask “why.”

Understand the difference.
A man of philosophical bent comes to me and asks: Is there God or not? Is there a soul or not? Is there liberation or not? A man of religious bent comes and says: How do we live God? How do we dissolve in God? If you don’t want to use the word God, don’t—say, How do we dissolve into existence? How do we merge with what is? This longing is very different. It is not a matter of solving. He only wants to learn the art of diving into this vast existence.

What is there to solve? Where is the time to solve? This small life—if you keep solving and solving, you will be wasted. Death will come and you will still be surrounded by questions. Let the questions go.

Whenever a new person came to Buddha and asked a question, he often said: Stay two years. Don’t ask for two years. Sit with me, move with me, live with me—without asking. Meditate, be still, be joyful, be blissful—but raise no questions. After two years, then ask.

One day it happened. A famous philosopher named Maulunkaputta came to Buddha and said, “I have some questions whose answers I have been seeking; my whole life has gone into it. I have gone to many great saints; none could answer. At last, as a final hope, I have come to you. If I do not find answers with you, I will be very disappointed, because all the rest have failed—great ones have failed.”

Buddha said: “Maulunkaputta, stay two years. Sit silently. Live me. Be near, experience my presence. Drown in meditation. Be quiet. Then after two years ask. Whatever you want to ask then, I will answer. I give you my assurance—I will certainly answer.”

Maulunkaputta thought—two years! For answers! And Buddha said, “Those you went to earlier gave you answers on the spot. You received nothing. I do not want to give you on‑the‑spot answers; otherwise you will again receive nothing. Stay—have that much patience.”

Thinking it over—“I have wandered everywhere anyway”—Maulunkaputta agreed. “All right, let these two years go too. It’s a gamble. And who can guarantee that after two years the answers he gives will be of any use to me, that they will satisfy me?” While he was thinking this, another disciple of Buddha, sitting blissfully under a nearby tree, burst out laughing. Maulunkaputta asked, “What are you laughing at?” The monk said, “If you want to ask, ask now. I was given the same trick. Two years passed—if you want to ask, ask now. I too came like this two years ago. I was fooled.”

But Buddha said, “If you want to ask, ask now.” The monk said, “That is my difficulty: in these two years the questions have disappeared. There is so much joy in life.”

Life is the solution itself.
That is why we call the supreme state of meditation samadhi. Samadhi and samadhan (solution) come from the same word. The solution is not in answers to questions. The solution is in that samadhi‑state of consciousness where no questions remain, where the thoughtless state flowers.

Maulunkaputta stayed. Two years were completed. Buddha remembered. Exactly on the day, Buddha said, “Maulunkaputta! Two years are complete; now ask.” Maulunkaputta began to laugh. He said, “You tricked me too. That monk was right. Now I have nothing to ask. The mistake was in the asking itself. All the answers I received were correct—but the error was in the asking.”

One who asks will never attain the answer. Therefore, Kabir, do not say that it is not resolved. There is no question of resolving here. Here we do not even accept that anything is tangled. Everything is already resolved. Do you not see how the moon and stars move with such order? How the seasons come with such order? How life moves so silently, so planned, so musical? Do you not see this immensity—everything is resolved here! Where is the tangle? From the cuckoo’s cooing to the moon and stars—everything is resolved. If there is a tangle, it is in you.

And what is your tangle? Your first assumption—that life is a question. There the mistake begins. When the first step is wrong, the whole journey goes wrong.

Return. Come back! Take back the first step. Let the questions go—and the answers will come. And this is the miracle: as long as there are questions, answers do not come. When questions are not there, answers come. Answers come—no, it is not even right to say answers come: the Answer comes. Because there is only one Answer.

In the West there is much talk that life is boredom, meaningless, futile, without essence—insubstantial. The very result of that talk has been that people have gradually accepted that life is futile and insubstantial. People have become sad. They have lost their roots in life. They are merely going through the motions—almost as if they are just waiting to die. The exuberance of life has disappeared.

And although there is a little truth in what Western thinkers say, it is only a half-truth. Only half. Life is boring, life is futile, life is insubstantial. Our sages have also said that life is futile and insubstantial. But they did not stop there. That is only half a statement. This life is insubstantial because there is another life that is essential. This life is insubstantial, but life as such is not only insubstantial. This life is futile, but there is another dimension of life that is meaningful.

It is a half-statement to say life is insubstantial. You can call life insubstantial only if there is somewhere an essence. Otherwise, how will you even say “insubstantial”? In comparison to what? You can call someone poor because the rich exist. If there were no rich at all, whom would you call poor? You call someone beautiful because there is the unbeautiful. If there were nothing unbeautiful, whom would you call beautiful? And if beauty did not exist, then what meaning would the word “ugly” have?

The Western thinkers’ pronouncements are incomplete. To say that life is meaningless—this is not enough; it is unfinished. In comparison to what? With what expectation? Against what background? Eastern sages also speak of the background. There is a possibility of bliss for man; therefore this life is suffering. This life is a thorn because a flower can bloom. And naturally their emphasis is more on the flower—why emphasize the thorn? You know the thorn already. The thorn is already piercing your chest. The wounds are already there in your life. What more is there to say about that? Why rub salt into your wounds?

The Eastern sage speaks of the other realm—of meditation, of love, of bliss, of celebration—so that you remember that the life you have taken to be life is not enough. Much remains yet; go a little further. He speaks of what lies ahead so that you will move ahead.

There is a Sufi story. A woodcutter cut wood all his life. A fakir would see him every day chopping wood. Whenever the woodcutter passed by the fakir, he would, in the customary Eastern way, touch the fakir’s feet. The fakir would say to him, “Go further.” The man was puzzled: this fakir seems a bit off. I greet him with “Ram-Ram,” and he says, “Go further!” Is that a reply? But the answer began to bother him. He would leave, yet think, “Go further—what kind of answer is that? I merely bowed; what does ‘go further’ mean? This man is mad.” Yet his curiosity kept growing—perhaps there is some meaning after all! One day he caught hold of the fakir’s feet and said, “Master! Please explain what ‘go further’ means. I don’t understand at all.”

The fakir said, “Will you keep cutting wood your whole life? Go further! Move ahead a little. You always stop here—cut wood and return. Go a little further today and see.”

The man went further. He was astonished. He found a copper mine. Now, selling a day’s worth of copper in the market, he could rest easy for a fortnight or a month. He was very grateful to the fakir. He would come daily to bow, but the fakir still kept saying, “Go further!” One day he said, “What further now?” The fakir replied, “Don’t stop there, you fool! There is still forest ahead—go a bit further.”

He went further—and found a silver mine. And so the story went on, with the fakir saying, “Go further!” One day he found a gold mine. Now what was left to say? He even stopped coming to greet the fakir. What need was there now? Gold—he had found the final thing. But the fakir was the same. From the day the woodcutter stopped coming, the fakir began knocking on his door: “Go further!” The man said, “Forgive me. I don’t want to go anywhere now. I have enough—more than enough for generations.” But the fakir kept coming and saying, “Go further!” At last curiosity stirred in the man—how long will this go on? Just as I keep saying to you every day—how long? Go further! One day he thought, Let me try once more. After all, up to now this man has been right. Who knows… He found a diamond mine. Then he was very sad: Why didn’t I listen sooner? But the fakir was still the same—he kept saying, “Go further!” By now the woodcutter had built a great palace. He lived like an emperor. Still, the fakir kept coming.

One day the woodcutter said, “What could there be beyond this? The matter is finished.” The fakir said, “Beyond that is me. The matter does not end with diamonds. It ends with the Divine. And until you find the Divine, I will keep saying—go further.”

Eastern sages speak of bliss because that is where one has to arrive. There is little point in dwelling on your suffering. They remind you just enough so that you remember you are in suffering. You have forgotten that you are suffering; if you did not forget, you could not sit so easily. You sit in your shop, forgetful. You sit at home, forgetful. There is much sorrow. Someone asks, “How are you?” You answer, “All is well.” But where is “well” to be seen? “Everything is fine.” What is fine? Nothing is fine. But it is a social ritual. One is supposed to say “All is well,” so you say it.

Thus Eastern sages remind you a little that not everything is well—everything is wrong as yet. Go a little further; a time can come when all will be well. All can be well, but it is not so now.

In the West, the influential theistic thinkers of this century speak only of this: this is futile, that is futile. Naturally, if everything is futile and there is nothing meaningful anywhere—and nothing will ever be meaningful—then the very juice of human life is drained away. Then why should one live? Why not commit suicide? What purpose is there in living? Why carry this burden if it is utterly pointless? If no harvest will ever come of this field, if no flowers will ever bloom in this garden, if this song will never take shape, if this veena will never play—then what is the point? Why not break it? That question, too, has arisen.

Albert Camus wrote: Apart from suicide, there is no other truly philosophical problem. There is only one real philosophical question: Why should a man live? And in the West suicide has increased—greatly increased. The numbers rise daily. And not only are individual suicides increasing; in some unconscious process the whole of mankind is organizing a collective suicide. Your atom bombs, your hydrogen bombs, your nitrogen bombs—what are they? An arrangement for collective suicide—the arrangement to destroy this earth.

Scientists say: Now we have enough capacity to destroy this earth seven times over. Yet the preparations go on; they still increase. The piles of bombs keep mounting. There is no need now—we can kill each person seven times. How far can a man survive? He dies the first time; man is not such a powerful thing. We can kill each person seven times—we will not leave even ghosts alive. Why the preparations now? Isn’t it enough? But the preparations go on. The stockpiles keep growing. The explosion could happen any day. This whole earth seems filled with an unconscious urge for suicide. And behind it is the hand of such ideas—the ones that say: There is no essence to anything. If there is no essence, then fine—what is wrong with dying?

The East has also said that there is no essence in this life—but only to say: there is another life. Buddha said: Life is suffering. Now the amusing thing is that Buddha says life is suffering, and have you seen anyone more blissful than Buddha? Buddha says life is futile, and have you seen a life more meaningful than Buddha’s? Buddha says there is nothing here, and have you seen greater richness than his?

When an Eastern sage says life is insubstantial, he says it so that you may turn inward. The Western thinker says life is insubstantial—and stops. And half-truths become more dangerous than untruths. Why is this life insubstantial? Then why are so many people living? Even in this, they glimpse some essence. As the moon is reflected in a lake: however false that reflected moon may be, one thing is certain—it is giving a hint of some real moon. If there were no real moon, the false moon could not be reflected in the lake. Granted that when you stand before a mirror the image in the mirror is false, it has no existence—but without you that image could not be. You are, and the image announces your presence.

The heartbeat surged in the flutter of your lashes;
A secret may remain hidden, but in time it is revealed.
Gathering up its rays amid the commotion of the journey,
When the moon descends into dew, it begins to wane.

On a blade of grass a drop of dew is poised; the full moon is racing across the sky on its journey, and the moon is reflected in that tiny drop. The moon is real, the dewdrop is momentary; yet in the dewdrop the moon is reflected—such a lovely moon.

Gathering up its rays amid the commotion of the journey,
When the moon descends into dew, it begins to wane.
But the drop slips, slips; a breeze comes, it slips, falls to the earth, and is lost. The moon that was reflected in that drop also sets. But the real moon has not set. The real moon is still in the sky. Smash the mirror—you will not shatter.

Whatever essence we have glimpsed in the world is a reflection of the Divine.

The world is insubstantial. Whoever takes this itself as the essence falls into error. But it is a pointer toward the essential. The one whose reflection falls here is true. The world is a mirror. Therefore we speak of the mirror too, and of its suffering; but mostly we speak of that Divine whose shadow is falling in this mirror. We want to free you from the shadow. That shadow is what is called maya. And we want to lead you to the owner of the shadow.

Eastern thought sets you in motion on a journey. Western thought startles you, tires you out, and makes you sit down halfway. Western thought leaves you listless; it steals the movement from your feet. Dancing is out of the question—you even forget how to walk. Eastern thought not only teaches you to walk; it teaches you to dance. The same feet that knew only walking begin to dance; anklets begin to ring in them; when a Meera begins to dance—then Eastern thought has borne fruit.

The East trusts in supreme bliss; therefore it says that life is suffering. One who takes only that much and goes on will get into trouble. The West has not yet heard the whole.

Let me repeat: half-truths are more dangerous than untruths, because they carry a core of truth. Because of that truth they have power. But an incomplete truth misleads and confuses people.

Nowhere did my gaze find them again; who knows where they went?
But with them, the wheel of evenings and mornings went along.
So utterly pointless seemed every spectacle of life,
Wherever my gaze turned, it returned wounded.
Come, you who sulk with me, see—without you
My day has passed, my night has passed.
Each glance is remorseful in its own fashion;
The world, flinging up its blood, has grown so radiant.
Even the words torn from the script are drunk with grief, O Nadeem:
What fate could not spoil has been made beautiful.
Whether it be dewdrops, the Milky Way, the stars, the flowers—
Whatever came before you, it was made resplendent.
“Baqi”—it was only a matter of the sorrowing heart steadying;
Then everything settled into its proper place.

It is only a matter of the sorrowing heart steadying.
“Baqi—it was only a matter of the sorrowing heart steadying;
Once the heart filled with sorrow is steadied,
Then everything settles into its proper place.
Within you, the mind’s movement stops—and outside, everything stops. When the mind stops, the whole world stops. When the mind stops, you stand outside change; you stand outside the flow; your link is made with the eternal. That eternal is the Divine—ever is, ever was, ever will be. In linking with that Ever, the rain of bliss descends.

In the fleeting there will of course be sorrow. Love bubbles, and bubbles burst; you will regret and weep. Attach yourself to what is transient—how long will you be able to hold back tears? Tie your bond to what is passing, and you will repent; pain will arise; wounds will open again. Relate yourself to that which neither comes nor goes, which always is—only that bond is the real bond.

“Baqi—it was only a matter of the sorrowing heart steadying;
Then everything settled into its proper place.
Whether it be dewdrops, the Milky Way, the stars, or flowers—
Whatever came before you became resplendent.”

And once the connection with the Eternal is made, then everything becomes radiant. Even thorns become flowers. Nights become days. In death itself the vision of the nectar is revealed.

Even when people live in the same century, they are not necessarily of the same century. This is the twentieth century, yet not everyone belongs to the twentieth century. Even today, you can find people in the forests living as humans lived five thousand years ago—indigenous tribes. They still live as people did five millennia back; you cannot call them part of the twentieth century. Their religions, their ideas are not of this century; they are five thousand years old. If I were to go and talk with them, I could not speak to them the way I speak to you. I would have to speak in their language, in their manner. I would have to translate into the idiom of five thousand years ago; only then could they understand.

That is why different religions were born in different countries, under different circumstances. Hinduism is five thousand years old—perhaps even older. Five thousand years, at least, is certain. But this land has churned over religion for thousands of years. It has reflected deeply, refined greatly. Even five thousand years ago the Vedas reached heights that later religions could not reach, because those later religions were not born in so refined a culture.

The people to whom Mohammed had to speak would not have understood if he had spoken in the language of the Upanishads. He had to speak in their tongue. Where Islam arose, the culture was not refined; it was crude. People were rigid, superstitious. Mohammed’s whole life passed in this struggle. He brought a message of peace, yet he had to keep a sword in his hand because that was the only language that could be understood there. He had engraved on his sword: “Peace is my message.” Peace had to be proclaimed upon a sword.

The word “Islam” means peace—the religion of peace. The news to be delivered was of peace, yet the people were combative, fierce, knew little beyond war—killing and being killed; that was their language. Mohammed spent his life fleeing, saving himself.

Consider: nothing like this happened with Buddha—running with a sword, hiding from village to village. If Buddha had had to face that, he could not have spoken what he spoke; he would have had to speak Mohammed’s language. And had Mohammed found people like those around Buddha, he would have spoken Buddha’s language. It depends on whom you are speaking to.

Mohammed had immense difficulty in conveying his message. In a sense, Mohammed’s effort is more precious than Buddha’s, because Buddha could speak plainly—and his listeners were capable of hearing plainly. You know that in this land we have never crucified a Buddha. We have never killed such a one; it is not the language of this land. The result of five thousand years of continuous thought and inquiry is that a certain openness has arisen in thinking.

Those among whom Mohammed lived were not open—harsh people, fierce people. Yet despite their harshness and fierceness, they had one virtue that such people often have: the more primitive a person is, the more straightforward and simple he tends to be; the more refined a person is, the more complex and cunning he becomes. We did not kill Buddha, because this is a refined country—but we tried to eradicate him with refinement.

Understand the difference.

Hindus crafted a story about Buddha. They accepted him as the tenth incarnation—like Krishna, like Rama. They were very clever to say, “Buddha is our tenth avatar, an incarnation of God!” But the tale they spun went like this: God created the world, created heaven and hell; but people committed no sin, so no one went to hell. Hell lay empty. The Devil sat on his throne with his minions—nobody coming, nobody going. Centuries passed and the Devil grew troubled. He said to God, “What is the point of maintaining hell? If no one sins and no one is punished, then release me—we are being punished for nothing. What shall we do sitting there? The office doesn’t function. Close it. End this account.”

God said, “Wait. I will soon incarnate as Buddha and corrupt people. When people become corrupt, there will be such a rush to hell you will not be able to handle it.”

Do you see this story? They did not cut off Buddha’s head—but how cleverly they did it. They killed him with words, with argument. They even acknowledged him as divine. They were so refined they could not outright deny him—the man was magnificent! Yet he stood contrary to their whole religion, to their rituals, to their sacrifices and oblations, to their punditry and priest-craft. The man was precious, yet he was their opposite. They could not deny that there was something significant in him, so they admitted he was an avatar of God—and then added this story through the back door: do not follow Buddha, or you will go to hell. Buddha is God’s avatar—see the trick? And thus they uprooted Buddhism from India.

People chased Mohammed with swords, yet they could not uproot him. In India no one chased Buddha with swords—and we uprooted him. Cunning!

The more cultured a person becomes, the more cunning he becomes. He grows sly.

Mohammed lived among harsh people, yet they were straightforward, guileless. Primitive people are often simple. Both traits coexist: if they fight, they fight with the sword; if they bow, they lay their necks bare. They fear neither killing nor being killed, and they speak the direct language of life. No arguments. They know only one argument—the direct logic of nature. So Mohammed had great difficulty: he had to deliver the news of religion among utterly undeveloped people. And yet, on the other hand, there was great simplicity.

So Islam is an unrefined religion. In that sense you are right, Firoz: though only fourteen hundred years old, it seems much older. Hinduism is far older, yet it does not feel as ancient. For example: someone steals—cut off his hand. That is grotesque. It sounds like something from a very savage age. And this is being done in Pakistan today: if someone steals, his hand is cut off; if someone commits rape, he is beheaded. Punishment is fine, but this is a bit too much.

One of my sannyasins was in Iran, Kamal. She did not know Iranian customs—she was a Western girl, raised in the open air of the West. She was bathing merrily in a mountain stream, with no one around, when four or five Iranians came and raped her. They were caught. When they were caught, Kamal became very disturbed. She wrote to me from there: “Please tell me quickly what I should do. If I say I was raped, these five men will be hanged.”

This is a bit too much. The very girl who was raped was writing: this is too much. They should be punished, but hanging! And if five men are executed, I will never be free from the guilt; I will feel responsible.

I wrote back: do what you feel is right. In court she denied that she had been raped.

This is a trait of a refined culture. She had been raped; she was angry—greatly wronged, the worst that could be done had been done to her. Yet, as a sign of refinement, she denied in court that any rape had occurred: “This report is false.”

The thought of five men being killed did not sit right with her. She could not believe it. If they had been given two or four years in prison, fine. But to be stood on the road and beheaded—she was terrified that the image of those beheaded necks would forever haunt her. She felt, “My hand is in it.” The crime was not that great.

Islam is fourteen hundred years old, but if you consider its unrefined state, it seems older than the Hindus; older still than the Buddhists; older than the Jains, much older—because where is Buddha’s compassion, and where is cutting off a thief’s hand?

Tao has a five-thousand-year-old tradition in China. I have always loved this story; I have told it many times. Once Lao Tzu was made a judge. The first case came: a man had committed theft—he had stolen from the richest moneylender in the village. Lao Tzu heard the case and sentenced both the moneylender and the thief to six months in prison.

This is a 2,500-year-old incident—leaving Marx and others behind. The moneylender could not understand: “What is this? Are you in your senses? My house was robbed and I am being punished?”

Lao Tzu said, “Yes—because you have accumulated so much wealth that if theft did not happen, what else would happen? This man is guilty number two; you are guilty number one. You have hoarded the village’s wealth—of course theft will occur. You are the source of theft. You should feel blessed that I am punishing you equally; otherwise you should be punished more. This man has merely stolen a little—what else can he do?”

The appeal went up to the emperor. The emperor, too, found the point appealing, but dangerous: if it is true, the emperor himself is a thief. He folded his hands to Lao Tzu and begged forgiveness: “Please, depart. This is not your work.”

But see the refinement! Two and a half millennia ago Lao Tzu is saying what leaves communism, socialism behind. China is a refined country—Confucius and Lao Tzu refined it. For thousands of years before Lao Tzu, China had been refining itself. Can you name anyone in Arabia before Mohammed? No name. With Mohammed the history of Arabia begins. Before him, not a single name. In this land, if you start counting names, you will go on counting—without end. And even after Mohammed, there is hardly anyone who rises to his height. In this land, Buddhas upon Buddhas have appeared, each surpassing the other—shining suns—an unbroken line.

Mohammed had to fight a very ancient darkness—and deliver the message among very primitive people. Therefore the language of the message is very crude.

People ask me why I don’t speak on the Quran. I avoid it. Because if I spoke on the Quran, I could not be honest. I would have to omit some things—I could not say them. I would also have to oppose certain things. As I can be in complete agreement with the Upanishads, I cannot be in complete agreement with the Quran—because the people I am speaking to are of a different kind.

Mohammed is like a teacher in a primary school; to speak in this country means to speak to the final class of the university. So, Firoz, you are right to ask: why does Islam, though only fourteen hundred years old, feel so ancient? It is unrefined. And then a kind of rigidity set in, because the followers were rigid. Those who fought him were rigid; those who followed him were rigid. It was a gathering of rigid people. Those who came along were rigid. They clung fanatically to whatever Mohammed had said. No ordering, no improvement was attempted thereafter.

You will be surprised to know: commentaries are not written on the Quran. Here we keep refining. Every century we write fresh commentaries on the Brahma Sutras, the Upanishads, the Gita—because something has advanced in each century; we have to draw the Upanishads forward to this century; we have to absorb the century into them.

When I speak on Buddha, do you think I speak only on Buddha? I include in it what has happened in the last 2,500 years. I modernize Buddha. I cannot speak on Buddha without including these 2,500 years—because I have come 2,500 years later; thus whatever has transpired in human experience and thought in those centuries becomes part of it. The Quran remains where it was—fourteen hundred years ago. The Quran has become a sealed box; the Upanishads are still a flowing stream. People still come and carry them forward. Thus the Upanishads get a new edition every day; the Quran stands where it stood.

So in one sense the Hindus, Jains, Buddhists are very old—and in another sense very new. And the Quran is new in one sense—and in another sense very old. Firoz’s question is valid. The Quran, too, needs to be brought forward—to be modernized. It, too, contains diamonds—very precious things are hidden in it. But those diamonds are uncut, like stones fresh from the mine. They must be chiseled, shaped, faceted.

You know, when the Kohinoor diamond was first found, it weighed three times what it weighs now. The weight was greater, but its value was almost nothing. Now its weight is a third, but its value is a thousandfold. What happened? The weight decreased—and the value increased. It was finely cut; new facets were opened; whatever was useless was removed.

The Quran is uncut—a diamond from the mine. It has not been faceted. And those who accepted the Quran did not have the courage to cut it. They tried to keep it exactly as it was. They preserved it—as it was—without allowing a hair’s breadth of alteration. Preservation they accomplished—but the diamond remained unshaped. It needs new commentaries, new discourses, the voices of new sages. But the Muslim does not have the courage to tolerate the voices of new sages; he gets angry, he will not endure it—let alone be grateful.

My sannyasins are everywhere in the world—except Pakistan. Friends do come from Pakistan; it’s not that they don’t—but they come secretly. Firoz has come secretly. Firoz wants to take sannyas, but cannot—because there, if he wears the ochre robe, staying alive becomes difficult; if he wears the mala, saving the neck becomes difficult.

Muslims will not welcome the emergence of new interpretations in the Quran—new branches grafted, new meanings cultivated. Instead of thanking you, they will become angry. Hence the Quran has become rigid. It should not be so.

The Quran is a lovely book—one among the very few lovely books. It contains many mysteries, but it needs polishing—much polishing. And the Muslim is not prepared for that polishing. He does not permit anyone to touch it. He says: there can be no revision in the Quran; the Quran is the final book; God has sent His final message.

God can never send a final message. His messages will continue to come, and change. Time will change, circumstances will change, people will change—so the message will change. The series is endless. That is why Islam appears old.

I began to speak on the Sufis because among Muslims only the Sufis have shown some courage. But Muslims have not treated them well. Many Muslims are not even willing to accept them as Muslims. Mansur was hanged. Sufi fakirs have been harassed and persecuted. And even the Sufis speak as if locks are on their tongues.

There is a beautiful incident—if you can understand it, it will help.

When Al-Hallaj Mansur proclaimed Ana’l-Haqq—Aham Brahmasmi, “I am the Truth”—in this land, such a proclamation would cause no panic. We know this is the supreme truth. Sometimes people reach this peak. Whether anyone reaches it or not, it is our experience—or at least our faith—that in essence we all are that, the very form of the Divine.

So when Al-Hallaj Mansur said, “Ana’l-Haqq—I am the Truth, I am God,” if he had said it in India, we would have carried him on our shoulders; we would have counted him among the seers of the Upanishads. But the Muslims created great trouble—ready to kill him. Mansur’s master was Junayd—himself an enlightened man. Junayd called Mansur and said, “Listen, do you think only you have realized Ana’l-Haqq? We, too, have known it. But we keep locks on our mouths. Keep yours shut, or you will lose your life.”

Mansur said, “If I were the one speaking, I would close my mouth. It is He who is speaking—how can I shut His mouth? When He speaks, He speaks; when He is silent, He is silent. And hearing that my master has put locks on his mouth makes me hang my head in shame.”

Junayd did not want to get into needless trouble. He would say what needed to be said to his disciples, but public proclamation was needless entanglement. Mansur began proclaiming publicly. What had to happen, happened. Junayd called him again: “You are calling death to yourself. You will be killed needlessly. It pains me—you are among my dearest, most advanced disciples. And what you say is true. But your death is near. The king has begun to send warnings to me: since you are my disciple, I will be dragged into this. He says, either stop Mansur or renounce him—declare he is not your disciple.”

Mansur said, “As you wish. But what can I do? When the proclamation comes, it comes.”

Thinking to send him away, Junayd said, “Go, circumambulate the Kaaba.”

Do you know what Mansur did? He rose and circumambulated Junayd, saying, “You are my Kaaba! You are my temple!”

Junayd renounced him—perhaps he lacked the courage. After Junayd’s renunciation, Mansur was executed—killed. A hundred thousand gathered to watch. Stones were hurled, filth thrown, abuses shouted. As they stoned him, he laughed. To show that Junayd, too, agreed with his execution, Junayd came as well—and threw only a single flower, so people would think he, too, had thrown something. As that flower struck, Mansur wept. Someone nearby asked, “You have been smitten by stones and laughed; why do you weep when struck by a flower?” Mansur said, “All the others strike in ignorance—they can be forgiven. But the one who threw this knows I am right. Even a flower hurts. Those stones did not.”

Mansur was killed in a way no one had been—not even Jesus. First they cut off his feet. Then his hands. Then they gouged out his eyes. Limb by limb—for hours. Then they cut out his tongue. Then they left that writhing body there, to die on its own.

The Greeks gave Socrates poison—but once given, the thing was done. Jesus was crucified—done. But what was this? This was persecution. Still, Mansur was remarkable. His feet were cut—he laughed. His hands were cut—he laughed. They gouged his eyes—he lifted them upward and laughed. Before they cut out his tongue he proclaimed once more: Ana’l-Haqq. He said, “After this, my tongue will no longer be there. Then I cannot proclaim; then God cannot speak through me. So for the last time: Aham Brahmasmi.”

People asked, “How can you die with such bliss? No one dies blissfully.” He said, “I am not dying—therefore I die blissfully. I know that what is within me is deathless. However much you try to kill me, you cannot kill me.”

As Krishna said: Nainam chhindanti shastrani, nainam dahati pavakah—no weapon can cleave me; no fire can burn me.

Yet Islam could not digest the Sufis. Had it done so, Islam would have become a new religion. The Sufis are Islam’s deepest souls, its highest flowers. Had Islam absorbed the Sufis, it would have remained modern—not as rigid as it is. But it could not digest them. It killed Sufis; it renounced them. Islam has fallen badly into the hands of pundits, priests, and mullahs—hence it feels old. Yet there are diamonds there—precious diamonds. If they could be polished and faceted, great Kohinoors could be born.

Enough for today.