Jas Panihar Dhare Sir Gagar #3

It is only in love that this miracle is seen:
whoever lost something, that very one attained something.
Dharmdas was rich, yet he was poor. He was a trader, yet a beggar. When he squandered everything, became a beggar, he turned into an emperor. Becoming destitute, he became truly wealthy.
The grip belongs to the poor. Wherever there is grasping, there is poverty. The measure of your grasp is the measure of your poverty. Poverty has nothing to do with what you have or don’t have. Nor does wealth have anything to do with possessions. Poverty and wealth are names for the degrees of your clutching. The poor man clutches hard, frightened lest it be snatched. His very breath trembles—what if it slips away? He has staked his whole life upon shells. The rich one is he from whom the fear of loss has fallen away; the one who opens his fist—that one is rich. The fist opens only when the inner treasure is found. When the inner wealth is found, outer wealth becomes pointless on its own. When the greater treasure is found, the lesser falls away by itself. When real coins are in your hand, the counterfeit becomes two-a-penny. Until there is even a glimpse of the Real, the counterfeit remains your grip.
So remember: I do not tell you to drop the fake. I say, find the Real—and the fake will drop by itself. I do not say, escape from the world; I say, invite the Divine into yourself—and the world will escape from you. You will remain in the world and yet the world will not be within you. This is the sign of the wealthy. It was such a moment that Kabir called his disciple Dharmdas—Dhani Dharmdas, the wealthy Dharmdas.
Dharmdas was a great merchant, his business ran in lakhs. Naturally, when the supreme treasure arrived, the merchant spoke in a merchant’s tongue. Our language stands upon our experience. Jesus speaks as a carpenter’s son would speak. Kabir speaks as a weaver would speak. Meera speaks as a woman’s heart would. Buddha speaks as an emperor would.
The experience is one for all. What is known is one. But what is said is very different. Because the language of saying is born of different backgrounds. Even if Buddha tries with all his devices, he cannot speak like Kabir. He left palace, kingdom, family; but how can he leave the language born in palaces? Those words learned in royal halls, that refinement, that culture—how can that fall away? He must use it.
The ultimate event of knowing is one. But because there are so many expressions, great difficulty has arisen. People think as if each has known a different truth. There are no different truths to be known. In the moment of knowing, neither are there many truths nor is there a knower separate from the known. In that moment, the knower dissolves. But when he returns from that summit, from that Kailash—back into the world—to tell you, to awaken the sleeping, to call the lost, to point out, to say, I have found, here is the path, here the way—then naturally he uses his old mind, his old conditioning, his old language.
So as Dharmdas can speak, none other can. Buddha cannot say, We are traders of Satnam. He never traded. How would he say, We are traders of Satnam? This idiom belongs to Dharmdas.
And it is beautiful, auspicious, that all the saints speak differently. How much variety! The more variety, the more flavor. If in a garden all flowers were alike, it would feel desolate. However lovely roses are, if the garden were only roses, how long would you linger? But in the garden all kinds of flowers bloom—rose and lotus, juhi and jasmine—all drawing sap from one soil, all revealing one beauty, yet each in its own way. That which is white in jasmine is red in the rose—the same One; remember this. Then Dharmdas’s language will be easy to understand.
But the attainment that happened to Dharmdas did not arrive just so. These sweet words, these heart-touching words, are not found lying by the roadside. They must be born in the agony of the soul. They must be refined by weeping.
We passed the night in tears;
it is upon tears that this hue has come.
Even tears gather color. Even tears take on value. A man’s worth seeps into his every utterance. The same words used by another remain ordinary; upon Dharmdas’s lips they became extraordinary. Listen!
We are traders of Satnam.
He says, our business is Satnam. We sell Satnam alone. We have nothing else to sell.
I have heard a Punjabi story. A faqir—surely a trader of Satnam—went from village to village crying out: Take the Name! Whoever wishes to take, take the Name. Don’t miss—two or four days more and I’ll move on. Crying thus, a rich man heard him.
“Naam!” In Punjabi, naam is also a kind of ornament. The rich man’s daughter was to be married; he had been thinking of having ornaments made—and here this man had come to sell naam. He thought, This fellow must have jewelry to sell. Do you see how words change their meanings! The faqir cries: Whoever wants, take the Naam, we will stay two or four days. Life is but a moment. O foolish mind, beware! Whoever wants, take the Naam. We won’t remain long in this settlement.
The rich man thought, Good—someone is selling naam—an ornament. He sent a servant to take the address; in the evening, closing shop, he went to the faqir’s house. The faqir wasn’t home. His daughter was there, a ten- or twelve-year-old girl. “I’ve come to take naam,” he said. “I heard your father shouting. Where is he?” She said, “Father is out. But I can give the Naam.” The girl had watched her father giving the Naam. “I will give it,” she said.
“Good,” said the rich man, “you give it. What will it cost?”
The girl said, “Wait a moment, you’ll know.” She went inside, brought a knife, and began to put an edge on it. The man peered through the window, wondering what she was doing so long. She was sharpening the knife. He was startled—what sort of people are these! He asked, “You’re sharpening a knife, and I’m sitting here for naam.” She said, “Without a sharp edge, how will you receive the Naam? Whoever comes, my father says: Until the head is severed, the Naam cannot be given.”
A child’s understanding! She had heard her father say: Give your head and the Naam will be given. She did not know what the Naam is; but she knew that whoever gives his head receives it. The rich man cried out, gathered the neighbors: “These are not faqirs, they are murderers!” They seized the father when he returned. He laughed and said, “You have gone mad.” He told his daughter, “Child, it is not sold so cheap. This outer head being cut does nothing—why were you sharpening the knife? This knife won’t do, nor will this head. The inner head must be cut—you do not know. It is a costly bargain.”
We passed the night in tears;
it is upon tears that this hue has come.
You may be surprised to hear Dharmdas say, We are traders of Satnam. But he speaks truly. Yet this trade is a unique trade. In it, much is given, nothing is taken. It is all sharing, all distribution. In ordinary trade, you take more than you give—that is profit. Profit means: more taken than given—the margin left is gain. But the giver of Satnam only gives. Even if you want to give him something in return—what will you give? What do you have to give? No price can be paid. Yet still, you must give something.
Understand that “something.” It is what you do not possess, yet you imagine you possess it. That you must surrender—what you do not have but believe you have. You must give your ego. And the ego is not yours. You must give ignorance. And what is ignorance? Only darkness.
Darkness has no substantiality! It is but the name for the absence of light. It is only a word. It has no existence. Therefore you cannot push darkness out by shoving it. Nor can you fetch darkness from the neighbor’s house and bring it into yours. Yes, you can borrow light from the neighbor. You cannot borrow darkness. Nor can you drive darkness away by force. But if you extinguish the lamp, darkness “comes.” To say darkness comes is only a manner of speech. Darkness neither comes nor goes; only the lamp comes and goes. Darkness has no being; it is absence.
So is ignorance. When you awaken, ignorance disappears. When you sleep, ignorance is. In your presence—knowledge; in your absence—ignorance. The Master asks from you your absence. He says, Give me your non-presence. Give me your unconsciousness. Give me your sleep. Give me your dreams. And dreams are no things! Yet, if you can give the Master what is not, then the second miracle happens—that which has forever been yours, is given back to you. These are the two miracles of the spiritual life: to leave what is not, and to receive what is.
This sounds senseless: why leave what is not, and why receive what already is? But so it is. You have gripped the Not; by that grip the Is has slipped away. Your eyes have fastened onto No, and thus have turned away from Yes. This I call atheism—eyes fixed upon the Not. The man who says God is not—this too is but a form of No. The atheist is one whose vision is caught by negation—who cannot see the Is in life and world.
Who is the theist? Not merely the one who believes “God is.” That is one expression of Yes. The Is is vast. The theist is the one who unhooks his grip from No, drops his bondage to negation, and enters the ocean of Is. Within whom the music of Is begins to swell, in whom arises the feeling of total acceptance—tathata. Let sorrow come—there is a Yes even to sorrow, not a No. Let death come—there is a welcome to death. When death comes, go with it as one goes with a beloved, as one takes a friend’s hand and walks. To accept whatsoever comes—that is theism. Only then can one know God.
And to find No within all that is, to sniff negation in everything—there are such people. Take them to a rosebush and they count only thorns; such are the atheists. It is not that thorns are not there—they are. But the rose is also blooming there. He who counts thorns is deprived of seeing the rose. And the one who sees the rose—what thorns! Even if thorns prick him, he hardly notices. Thorns are there, but for the eyes filled with the flower, even thorns become flowers. And for eyes pierced by thorns, even flowers seem thorns. It is the matter of your eye. Vision is creation.
The day is full of light—day brims with radiance;
night too is not dark—
let there be some beauty in the eye,
then every thing is beautiful.
If only the gaze be attuned to beauty, the whole world overflows with beauty. On every leaf, in every flower, beauty is dancing. In every stone, the Divine is hidden. Everywhere, his rhythm, his song, his dance. But—there must be some beauty of vision! It is a matter of the eye.
Theism and atheism are not questions of doctrine—they are matters of vision. It may be that one professes atheism while his eyes are theist—then he is a theist. And this too happens, and you’ll find it daily—so-called theists who are not theists at all, for their eye is atheistic. Though they go to temples, worship, pray—their eye is complaint. Their eye is full of grievance, not acceptance.
Even their prayer is filled with complaint. They go to advise God: Do this, do that. This is not right; that is not right. They even take such trouble as to go to the temple to hand God their wisdom. But there is no tone of acceptance. For where acceptance is, petition falls away. When prayer becomes demand-less, the Divine pours down. As long as you demand something, you remain distant from God. For so long as you have asked for something else, you have not asked for God himself.
A strange longing, a unique thirst:
from You, I want only You.
Prayer bears fruit only on that day when, except for the Divine, you want nothing else. If God were to offer you the empire of the world, you would say: What shall I do with it? You are enough. If he were to offer you moksha, you would say: What will I do with it? Let me become the dust of your feet—that is enough; my liberation is done. What liberation else? To be bound to you is also moksha. Without you, even in moksha I would remain in bondage.
No need from anyone, no dealings—
I am concerned only with my own concern—
with your remembrance, your thought,
your memory, your Name.
In prayer there is no request. There is remembrance, there is concern, there is memory—profuse. A shower of tears comes. Songs surge.
No need from anyone, no dealings—
I am concerned only with my own concern—
with your remembrance, your thought,
your memory, your Name.
And then such a state arrives—memory becomes so dense, self-forgetfulness so total—
What ecstasy of self-forgetfulness! I have written
your name in place of mine.
Then one forgets who is who—who is the devotee and who the Divine. When such a moment descends, Satnam is born—in that self-forgetfulness.
Now understand today’s sutra:
We are traders of Satnam.
Satnam means: the Nameless—the one of whom all names are, and yet who is un-nameable. Lao Tzu said, I do not know his name; therefore I will call him Tao. Workable, provisional. One says Bhagwan, another Ishwar, another Tao, another Dharma, another Rta, another Allah, another God—but these are all names of the One who has no name.
Among the Sufis God has a hundred names. Ninety-nine are enumerated; one is left unspoken. Ask the Sufi faqirs, Why? You say there are a hundred, but the list has only ninety-nine. They say: Ninety-nine are pointers—toward the hundredth. That one cannot be uttered. The Real cannot be spoken. It is beyond words, beyond qualities. Beyond form, formless. Words are too small. They cannot contain That which contains all. Words are finite—how to speak the infinite? So ninety-nine names point to the One who has no name. For the Nameless, one must, for purposes of talk, give some names. Conversation must happen! The awakened must speak with the asleep.
Remember, when two awakened ones meet, no conversation occurs—cannot occur. There is nothing to say. They look into each other’s eyes, mirror reflecting mirror—the matter ends. Here is emptiness, there is emptiness. Here the hundredth sits, there too the hundredth sits—no need to raise the ninety-nine. Whoever raises it is a fool.
It is said Kabir and Farid met. For two days they sat silently, gazing at one another. Sometimes they smiled, sometimes tears flowed. Their disciples were gathered and perplexed—eager to hear—say something! But not a word was spoken.
When they parted, Kabir’s disciples asked, and so did Farid’s: What happened to you? You speak so much—why did you become mute? Farid said: Whoever spoke first would have proved himself ignorant. On the other side sat one who knew as much as the one on this side. We looked into each other’s eyes and recognized. We knew each other’s hue—then nothing remained to be said. What was there to say? Whoever spoke first would have been the loser.
When I read this story, I remembered a Chinese incident. The first Westerner to reach China arrived at a port and saw an odd scene. A crowd had gathered; two men were preparing to fight. Preparing—not fighting. Leaping, crouching, coming close—yet not touching. Shouting, screaming—a harsh noise; Chinese tongue, and then the shrieks! The Westerner watched, his heart pounding: something will happen. But nothing happened. Both were aflame, eyes reddened—what was this matter! In such time elsewhere a murder would occur. There was full preparation for murder—but not a scratch.
He asked the man beside him, What is this? What is going on? The man said: They are Taoists. They are provoking each other. Whoever is provoked, whoever strikes first—has lost. The crowd will disperse. The one who strikes first has lost. They are Taoist fakirs. They are inciting each other to see: how deep are you? A competition of depth. Whoever is first to lose control, to attack—has lost.
Remember: the weak become angry first. The weak strike first. The weak must strike first; the weak lose control first. Farid said truly: Of the two of us, whoever spoke first would have lost. So speech could not be; there was silence. Looking at each other, we rejoiced, were thrilled; tears of bliss flowed.
Kabir too said to his disciples: What could be spoken? What was there to say? We are both dumb—both have tasted. We both know that taste has no way of being said. Then why speak? The other one too has tasted. I have drunk; he has drunk; what is there to talk about? Why raise discussions about taste? When two knowers meet, there is no discussion.
When two ignorant ones meet, there is much discussion—though nothing happens. Words are hurled; collisions abound; but no result—no dialogue occurs. When two knowers meet, there is dialogue—wordless. When two ignorant meet, there are many words—but no dialogue. Have you not seen—hours of talk, nothing in hand! Trash flung from here, trash flung from there—nothing in hand. Even those close to you—leave others aside—your wife does not understand you. You say one thing, she hears another. She says one thing, you hear another. Gradually husband and wife resolve: Better not to speak—why be trapped! Say something and the trouble begins. This is endless.
So you often find husband and wife sitting silently—not that they have become wise, but they know: who will speak and be caught! If one speaks, the trouble starts; the other will speak too—and understanding is impossible.
Between two ignorant there is no dialogue—only words: hollow, futile, lifeless, without soul. Between two wise there are no words—there is dialogue in emptiness, in silence, in stillness. Then where can talk be? Where can meaningful speech be? Between two wise it cannot be; between two ignorant it never has been.
Meaningful talk is possible only between a wise one and an ignorant one—if the ignorant is ready to listen and the wise is ready to speak. This is the relationship of disciple and Master. For this talk, one must find words. One must give a name to God. That Supreme, Nameless principle—we assign some word to make it discussable.
We are traders of Satnam.
Dharmdas says: Now we have but one task—to beget in others what we have known. Now we do one business alone—we sell Satnam. Buy it—whoever would. And the wonder is: the buyer’s cost is nothing. Only the diseases go; health comes. And the giver loses nothing; the more he gives, the more he receives—though not from the receiver, but from the Divine. Because the more Satnam is shared here, the more Satnam pours in.
As you draw water from a well, springs refill it. So with one established in Samadhi—his springs are joined to the Divine. The more he pours himself out, the more fresh water wells up. It never runs dry.
Some load up bronze and brass, some load cloves and betel.
He speaks here of other merchants.
Some load up bronze and brass, some load cloves and betel.
But we have loaded the Master’s Name; our cargo is complete.
We have begun to sell the ultimate commodity. We no longer peddle trifles. Of whom does he speak—those who load bronze and brass? Those who, in the name of the Divine, do not sell the Divine but something else. Some sell health in the name of God. Some sell fame. Some sell prosperity, success—that is all bronze and brass. Some sell scriptures, doctrines, words—that is all cloves and betel.
We have loaded the Master’s Name.
We have resolved to sell the Owner himself—O Master! Having found the Owner, Dharmdas too has become rich. Whoever is joined to the Owner becomes owner. Whoever is separate remains a slave. Whatever his money, fame, position—he is a slave and dies a slave. Alexander dies a slave. Without union with the Owner there is no true ownership.
Hence, in this land we call the sannyasi a Swami—Master, owner. O Master! He has joined the Owner. At least, that is the hope—that he will strive to be joined. The pointer is this: he will not now strive for his own proprietorship; he will strive that the Divine become his Master.
The day the Divine is your Master, that day you too become master—because then you are his ray, his wave. As long as you try to establish your own proprietorship you remain a slave, a beggar, petty. Separate from the Divine—that struggler is worldly. Joined to the Divine, flowing in his current—that is sannyas.
This alone is the difference between sannyasi and worldly. What difference? The worldly carries private ambitions: I will do this, achieve that—let this happen, that happen. The sannyasi has dropped private ambition. He says: Only That is—I am not other. Therefore whatever happens is right. What does not happen is also right. His will is my will. His plan is my plan. Other than that, I have no voice. I am his song; I am the flute in his hands. Whatever he plays is right.
The flute has no voice of its own, no insistence—Play this tune. The flute that insists on its own tune is worldly. The flute that understands, I am a hollow reed; the notes are his, the lips his, the melody his, the song his—let me be only a passage, not an obstruction—such surrendered consciousness is called sannyas. And the wonder: he who fights loses; he who loses, wins.
Some load up bronze and brass, some load cloves and betel.
But we have loaded the Master’s Name; our cargo is complete.
We have set out to sell the Whole. The same Whole of which the Isha Upanishad speaks: take the whole away from the Whole, still the Whole remains; add the whole to the Whole, still the Whole remains. That eternal, imperishable—that alone we sell. In this world, all are partial.
Here everything has a limit. But sometimes a window opens, and into this world a ray of that world descends.
Your face compares with none—
we roam the world carrying your image.
Whoever beholds even a glimpse of that Face roams the world carrying that image—knocking on every door: Your window can open too. Open it. Here is the picture. I have seen it—you too can see. I have known, and in knowing I am complete. Knowing, everything ended; I am fulfilled. You too can be fulfilled.
We have loaded the Master’s Name; our cargo is complete.
The capital does not break; the profit is fourfold—
we have made a great trade.
Dharmdas says: What a delightful business! The capital never breaks—there is never bankruptcy—for by giving, wealth increases. All other wealth is such that, even if you guard it, it slips away. All life you hoard, and in the end everyone goes empty-handed. You spent life preserving; life was wasted preserving, and all remains lying here.
All the pomp will lie where it is, when the caravan moves on.
The capital does not break; the profit is fourfold. We have made a great trade. Not a petty profit of two or four percent—fourfold! From the four directions it comes. Throw with one hand—it comes with four. That is why we paint the Divine with four hands—Chaturbhuj—not a literal picture, but meaning: when he gives, he gives from every direction. Only we must be ready to receive. Not with one hand, but four; from all sides it comes. He is not miserly in giving; you are miserly in letting go—that is the hindrance. Move aside. Make room. Create space.
The processes of creating space within are called dhyan, bhakti, bhajan, kirtan—the methods by which you make inner room, so that when he comes from all four sides, there is sky within to contain him. It is you who are stingy in dropping yourself. Once you drop yourself, there is no stinginess on his side.
The capital does not break; the profit is fourfold—
we have made a great trade.
Dharmdas says: Before, I was engaged in futile trades—sometimes the capital broke, and if profit came, it was but a few percent, with much cheating, lying, and still all remained petty. However much money you acquire—who becomes truly rich? The race continues: more, more, more. Where is the end of more? No hour arrives when this “more” is finished.
The capital does not break; the profit is fourfold—
we have made a great trade.
Now we have become true merchants. This partnership with Kabir—and now we have made the real business. Till now we were caught in vanities. Now we have a business in which there is no loss—only victory upon victory. Agree to one defeat, and then all is victory: the defeat of the ego. If you cling to the ego’s victory—then all is loss. This is the arithmetic.
The heart will become an eye, sorrow will become joy;
with your coming, the world will be other.
But you must go—for your coming to be.
Among the millions you have made me worthy of choosing;
whichever heart you have looked at—you have made a heart.
A single glance of his—and within you all becomes gold. All earth turns to gold. Hence we called the Divine the Philosopher’s Stone—do not search anywhere else. Do not be entangled in children’s tales—that somewhere there is a stone which turns iron to gold. The Philosopher’s Stone is a name of the Divine. The one who finds the Divine—within him all clay turns to gold. Naturally then, he wants nothing else. Why would he? Whatever he wanted—he found ten-thousandfold. What he never even dreamt—came true.
Why would I desire the whole world?
Enough for me is one desire—You.
When this is seen, the Divine alone suffices. Only one thing—remember: here the journey begins or gets stuck. The “I” must be squandered; only then can you make that great trade—where the capital does not break, the profit is fourfold.
Do not build a house of love if you wish to be unscathed; this work belongs to those who squander their lives.
On one side you must be ruined—on this side you must dissolve. The longer you delay, the longer fulfillment is delayed—hurry! Life is short; beware, O simple mind.
Without his coming there is no moksha, no spring. And he comes when you are gone. This one truth all the sages have tirelessly repeated.
Let the season of autumn pass; let the season of spring arrive—
of itself the links of my chain will fall away.
There is only one spring: you move aside, he arrives. And remember: the two happen together. Your going and his coming have no gap of time. Here the lamp is lit—there darkness vanishes. Here you go—there he comes. Simultaneously.
The capital does not break; the profit is fourfold—
we have made a great trade.
The toll-collectors of the marketplace cannot stop us now—
our road is fearless.
No more tax-gatherers, no barriers—not only of this world’s octroi posts, but even if there are gates beyond, none can halt you. Now you are the Master’s. Now you belong to the Owner.
The market’s guards cannot stop us; our path is without fear.
Now all our roads are fearless; there is no fear. The more you clutch outer wealth, the more fear grows.
Understand this slight irony of man. He earns wealth to reduce fear—to lessen anxiety. If there is money, there will be no fear; if illness strikes, we can treat it. Old age comes—if there is money, someone will care. If there is money, society too will tend us. Relatives gather around.
Has the poor man any relatives? All relatives belong to the rich. Become rich and suddenly you’ll find people arriving—faces you’ve never seen. Someone says: I am your cousin, your uncle’s son. Relatives sprout like grass after rain. Become poor, lose all—those who were “yours” slip down side streets, avoid you on the road, hesitate to even greet.
If there is money, there will be friends, loved ones; if there is money, those you call “mine” will remain “mine”; otherwise even they are not. The son of a poor father is not his own; if the father has money, then the son is “his.” This world’s relationships are peculiar. If there is money, the wife is yours; without money, the wife becomes a stranger.
So man gathers wealth because it looks like security—bank balance, insurance. But the result is reverse: the more wealth, the more fear. The more wealth, the more the dread that it might be snatched. Only those who have, fear losing. Hence the rich cannot sleep. Wealth becomes an obstacle to sleep. How to sleep? A thief may enter. How to sleep? Day’s worries chase him. How to sleep? A thousand thoughts run—the trades, the entanglements, the speculations. The rich man’s sleep is lost.
The richer a country, the less its sleep. In America sleep is least. If you wish to gauge a nation’s wealth, gauge its sleep. By the amount of sleep, you can judge its wealth. If you wish to measure a man’s wealth, see whether he sleeps at night. If he sleeps—he is still poor; nothing much has happened. His condition still allows sleep; not so much that he panics and cannot sleep.
You’ve heard the story: when the rich die, they become snakes and sit upon their buried wealth. Whether or not after death, in life they sit upon it—snake-like—day and night. Most frightened of all. The rich man does not invite even his son too close; keeps distance even from his wife; hides his accounts from everyone. No one knows how much he has. Fear has not diminished, but grown.
Dharmdas says:
The market’s guards cannot stop us; our path is without fear.
From the day we left outer turmoil, we became fearless. Now there is a wealth that none can steal—not even death. What then can steal it! It is immortal. All fear is gone.
Pearl-drops arise within the pot—
this is a treasure that is born within your vessel; not outside. What comes from outside can be taken from outside—remember. Only that which wells from within cannot be stolen. The inner alone is yours. The outer—you have snatched from someone, and someone will snatch from you. It is a scuffle here. For a little while it rests in your hands—only a little while. You too snatched it; it will be snatched from you. Two or four days—this is all the pomp.
Pearl-drops arise within the pot—
as pearls are born in the oyster’s vessel, so this supreme treasure arises in the innermost heart.
Pearl-drops arise within the pot—
fill your granary with virtue.
Then you can go on filling this treasure of pearls; heap up this merit as much as you will. In this supreme wealth, accumulate as much as you please—no one will snatch it. In truth, you will not hoard it; you will share it—because by sharing it grows, by hoarding it rots. The knower must share his knowing. Even he is tempted, for old habit—to hoard. When for the first time knowledge descends, he wonders: What shall I do—tell or not tell?
Shall I proclaim the secret of love to the world or not?
Shall I light a lamp in this darkness—or not?
He thinks, Why should I get into a mess? I have come out of the mess—why again? All knowers face this question. With difficulty they got free of the market—should they go back?
Mahavira spent twelve years in forests; then the supreme knowing happened. Then he went toward the market—returned to the settlements. Buddha sat beneath trees for six years; having known, he rose—and for forty-two years he went from village to village, sharing. Even Buddha pondered for seven days in silence: What is the point? Having attained, where to go?
But none can remain still after attaining, because soon he sees that this wealth grows in sharing, and rots in hoarding.
A well from which no one draws becomes desolate. Its water turns stale, then poisonous. And from a well unused, the springs stop bringing new water. Why would the springs bring more when the old is not being drawn? The more a well is emptied, the more it stays young. The more women gather with their pitchers, the more the well sings—new sources open, fresh waters flow.
Life is in the flow of the new. Let the new descend day by day—that is aliveness. What is the beauty of youth? The flow of the new. What is the sorrow of old age? The new ceases; the springs dry. None come to draw water.
A knower can remain youthful until his last breath—if he keeps sharing. And who will understand this sooner than the knower? Though at first he asks, Why get into the village again? Close the eyes and enjoy. But no one can keep the eyes closed long. Until truth is found, we must close the eyes; once found, one opens them—and searches for the thirsty.
Pearl-drops arise within the pot—
fill your granary with virtue.
We have loaded the commodity of the Name;
Dharmdas the trader sets out.
Dharmdas says: We have loaded the commodity of the Name. We have set off to sell. This caravan has set out—village to village we will go, knocking at every heart and door: Who will buy the Name?
Life is short—beware, O simple mind!
We will call, we will cry out. Jesus said: Climb upon the rooftops and shout—we have found it! Whoever wants, come and take it.
Life is short—beware, O simple mind!
Go tell people. Dharmdas went to tell: Life is very short—beware, wake up. If you do not awaken, life will pass all the same. If you awaken, you will find a life that never passes. If you go without awakening, the opportunity is lost. This life, its dreams—are momentary.
O you who adorn the windows of my dreams—
is there anywhere in your dreams a passing place for me?
Tell me with your own eyes—
is there a dawn written in my nights?
These few days of companionship—not even companionship—
become a lifetime’s ailment.
Life was always troubled;
now every breath becomes a noose.
In the sleeping chambers of my scattered sleeps,
you came like a form of dream—
now your gaze seems sometimes mine, sometimes a stranger’s—
now an image of sincerity, now unfaithful.
Love is not within my control—and yet, tell me—
should I love you or not?
Those longings you yourself awakened with your smile—
should I confess them or not?
You are a bud in another’s garment—
yet my nights are perfumed by you.
Wherever you are, by the oath of your flower-like cheek—
your lashes mount my eyes.
The warmth of your hands, the fragrance of your breath
float in the ocean of feeling.
Imagination’s arms go on seeking me—in the smoldering loneliness of cold nights.
Your favor and grace is a reality—but what if
this reality too is but a tale?
This familiar moonlight of your eyes—
may it not be another excuse to break the heart?
Who knows what tomorrow is for my today—
intimacies grow and then blush with regret.
The colorful glances clinging to the hem of the heart—
in the looking, turn into strangers.
Life, its loves, its attachments, its relations—are dreams. Understand the meaning of dream: that which breaks. That which does not break is truth. That which is always—is truth. That which is sometimes—is dream. Dream does not mean “nonexistent”; it means like a bubble upon water.
Your favor and grace is a reality—and yet,
may this reality not be, in reality, a tale?
This familiar moon-message of your eyes—
may it not be yet another excuse to bleed the heart?
All the devices we contrive in life are but ways to waste time. This world’s love is also a dream; this world’s wealth is a dream; this world’s position is a dream. He who wakes up from dreams, attains Satnam.
Life is short—beware, O simple mind!
Today we are; tomorrow we will not be. Therefore whatever we do today should be done in the awareness that tomorrow we will not be. If we remember the death that is coming tomorrow, a revolution will occur in our life. Then perhaps you will not be mad after gathering wealth. Life is so short—what will you do with so much? Then perhaps you will search for a wealth that goes with you beyond death.
But we put off death; we refuse even to talk of it. We shove death outside the village—untouchable. We build cremation grounds and graveyards outside. When a corpse passes, the mother calls her child indoors and shuts the door.
We want to falsify death; we want to live believing—Others die; I will not. I am an exception. Somewhere within, this feeling lurks. And if I must die—surely not today—many days remain. We do not count them. How many are “many”? Seven years or seventy—what does it matter? Today or tomorrow, death will knock at the door. At that knock, all your schemes will be washed away. The hopes you strung will turn to ash. Hopes that collapse with one shove of death—how much substance have they? He who awakes from this—he alone is not a fool; otherwise all are fools.
Life is short—beware, O simple mind!
Paper-bodied puppets, with strings in the Master’s hand.
You are like paper puppets. Strings in the Master’s hand. Have you seen puppet-shows? You should, because that is your dance. Puppets dance, whirl, love, marry, fight; swords are drawn—and the strings are hidden in some hand behind. If puppets had a little awareness, they too would think: we are doing all this—this quarrel, this love, this friendship, this enmity. They too would not see the strings. You do not see—the strings are invisible.
And this body is no more than paper. As soon as the life-bird flies—as soon as the string snaps—those who praised your body, called it beautiful, will hurry to build the bier, to carry you to the cremation ground. Think a little. Your son, your father, your brother, your friends will carry your body on their shoulders. Such hurry arises as soon as one dies—hurry, because seeing a dead man makes living men uneasy. They are reminded: we too must die. Quickly dress him, cover him, load him with flowers—hide death—and he who never uttered the Name of Ram all his life—before his corpse they chant: Ram Nam Satya Hai—only the Name is true.
Take the Name of Ram from a real merchant, before these foolish ones—who never tasted the Name themselves—proclaim, Ram Nam Satya Hai. Your neighbors will chant for you—as you have done for others. Such is the custom. You yourself take the true Name of Ram while alive. Make the pearl in your own oyster. This body—
Paper-bodied puppets, with strings in the Master’s hand—
He makes many dances; the whole world dances.
Clay jars made of raw earth,
fill them, O water-bearer.
Says Dharmdas: So many dances you dance—do not imagine you are the owner. Here lies man’s delusion, his ego. The day you see: the Master makes us dance; we dance—the ego is gone.
Arjuna said: I will leave the war. I do not want to dance this dance. This is not my dance. How can I kill my own? On both sides my kinsmen stand. My guru stands there. My worthy elders are arrayed there and here. I cannot do it. I do not want this dance.
What is the essence of Krishna’s entire Gita? Only this: Paper-bodied puppets, with strings in the Master’s hand. In this, the whole Gita is contained. The string is in the Master’s hand. Krishna explains: Fool! Nothing here is your dance. The doer is He. You are only an instrument—a means. See the string. It is his will that war is being waged. Draw the sword and let war be. If his will is sannyas, then sannyas it will be—but by his will. Do not bring yourself in between.
Understand the Gita and two things become clear. Arjuna proclaims ego under the name of nonviolence. Even under the banner of ahimsa, one can proclaim ego. The words sound lovely—renunciate, ascetic, sannyasi—let it go, what is there in war, killing is sin—pleasing words. You too will find Arjuna pleasing—because you live by Arjuna, not by Krishna. I have seen hundreds who read the Gita—they parrot Krishna but obey Arjuna, without noticing what they read and what they do.
Krishna says something else: your nonviolence, your knowledge, your dharma, your merit—these are only your ego’s hidden declarations. You are saying, I am the controller. I want you to see clearly: the string is in the Master’s hand. Dance as he makes you dance. He makes many dances; the world dances. Today his will is war—he wants to make the puppets fight. Nothing of yours. Drop this delusion.
This delusion is man’s ego. Arjuna talks of nonviolence; Krishna of egolessness. That is all. The difference between the truly religious and the pseudo-religious is only this. The pseudo, like Arjuna, speaks lofty words; behind them stands ego. Krishna’s words do not seem lofty—how can war-making, violence, be lofty? But they are supreme—because their essence is: put aside ego. Say: Thy will. Then—his will!
Do not think Krishna insists on war alone. He says: Leave it to his will. Arjuna fought because, upon surrendering to the will, whatever his hands were made to do—that happened. It need not have been so; he might have become a sannyasi—but then the sannyas would have been authentic.
Sannyas taken by oneself is not real. Sannyas that flowers by leaving oneself in the Divine’s hands is real.
Clay jars made of raw earth—
this life is a jar of unbaked clay.
—fill them, O water-bearer.
Dharmdas says: Before it shatters—and it can shatter any moment—fill it. Fill this moment with the Whole. Invite the Philosopher’s Stone into this clay. Before this clay melts, death comes, and dust falls into dust.
Clay jars made of raw earth, fill them, O water-bearer.
Beware, O simple mind!
Touch water—and it will melt away—
Death will come, and all will dissolve. Do not spend all your time polishing the jar. Use it.
But people are busy with upkeep—hours before the mirror, adorning themselves. This or that dress, this haircut or that.
I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin went for a haircut—an alert man. First he asked, How many kinds of cuts do you make here? The barber listed them: if you want a monk’s cut—clean shaved—four annas; a Dilip Kumar cut—one rupee; and so on. Mulla said: Good—start with the monk’s. Start cheap. The barber shaved him clean. Then Mulla said: Now the Dilip Kumar cut! The barber exclaimed: Are you mad? Mulla said: Don’t worry about money. We’ll get all the cuts—we’ve only begun, with a quarter.
Man wants to live all kinds of lives: the actor’s, the leader’s, the rich man’s, the famous, the saint’s—all kinds. Behind it all, the idea is: I will last forever.
But this body is a clay jar. While you adorn it, the jar remains empty. You carve vine-work on the outside, plate it with silver and gold, inlay with jewels—and the jar is empty. Death approaches. The first shower—and the jar will fall back into clay. All your silver, gold, carvings, motifs—will lie in the dust.
Fill it, O water-bearer—before it happens.
Have you broken the mirror?
Broken, broken—
But look once at your face—
see now how you appear—
Do the same colors come into your eyes,
or do you now shy away, grow afraid?
In this very mirror you once saw that beauty,
which was hard to believe—
and you asked with such pride:
Can anyone be so beautiful?
There is no special virtue in the mirror;
when there was beauty, it appeared.
The world had found you—but
where had you found yourself?
And when you found yourself,
why did you break the mirror?
This is not even an accident—
why then have you stopped looking at yourself?
Look once at your face—
see now how you appear.
Today you are beautiful—you befriend the mirror. Tomorrow you grow old—you rage against it. But it is not the mirror’s fault; it is the way of life.
Life is a flow. Nothing is still here. The longing for the unmoving here is delusion. Before the clay jar falls back into clay—
Clay jars made of raw earth, fill them, O water-bearer.
Touch water—and it will melt away;
standing still, you will repent.
And then there will be great regret: nothing done while there was time, while there was strength, voice, wings—while the heart brimmed with energy. You did not call the Divine, did not seek the temple. You wandered the markets gathering shards.
Like a minaret made of smoke;
like houses of sand—
a wind comes and all is erased—
like a ghost’s trick.
Have you not seen? The flue-smoke making a seeming tower in the sky. Or children building sand houses. Or a magician’s illusion. Or in night’s darkness, your loincloth hanging on a rope appearing as some ghost with arms outstretched—you hung it yourself, yet your heart jumps. Such is life.
Like a minaret of smoke; like sand houses—
a wind comes and all is erased; like a ghost’s show.
A petty rill of shallow water flows here—
while nearby flows the boundless, unfathomable.
There no boat nor raft—
how will you cross?
In this shallow stream you waste your time; beside it, the measureless flows. There no boat nor raft is of use—how will you cross? This world’s skills will not help there. Learn some art of that realm: learn meditation, love, devotion.
Find a Master who is capable—
whose authority extends to the Infinite.
Find someone whose movement has reached the boundless. In his company, perhaps you too will cross.
When the Master Kabir, the True Guru, is found—
coming and going cease.
Dharmdas says: I am blessed. I have found the Master. You too, seek him.
When the Master Kabir, the True Guru, is found—
coming and going cease.
Enough for today.