Jas Panihar Dhare Sir Gagar #5

In solitude and in gathering, you have met me time and again,
Have you not seen—I can no longer smile.
Despair has entered my very nature,
Even if I force myself, I cannot hum a tune.
What did you see in me that you began to boast of love?
I am of no use, not even to myself.
The songs of love’s madness give breath to the soul, yes—
But those songs once sung, I can no longer sing.
I have seen the scene of the shattered instrument of love—
Now I cannot lift the lute for any new movement.
My heart knows the intensity of your feeling,
Yet I cannot free my cloak from my own emotions.
Even if you become mine, you will still find me a stranger;
Even becoming yours, I cannot dissolve into you.
From the sincerity of my heart I have sung love’s songs—
Now, even with pretence, I cannot sing them.
How shall I make you my companion in life?
I cannot even bear the weight of my own life.
Let me sink into the dark waters of despair—
I can no longer fan the flame of the candle of longing.

There is such an hour of fortune—or misfortune—when all of life turns futile. Wherever you had seen value, there you now see ash. Wherever you had seen flowers, there thorns. Where you had thought beauty resides, there a dream. Where you had counted wealth, there is nothing at all.

Like a man who wakes at dawn and the palaces and enterprises he had seen in his dreams fall to dust—so too there is an hour, fortunate or unfortunate, when in life a man is suddenly bewildered. What he had thought right collapses into vanity, and beyond it he has no news of anything meaningful.

I use both words thoughtfully—fortune or misfortune. For this hour can be a blessing—and it can be a calamity. If the doors of your consciousness are shut, if you have already made disbelief your belief, unfaith your faith, if negation and nihilism have become your way, then this hour is a misfortune. Then you will fall into deeper and deeper darkness, and be lost in the abyss. Then it is a time of utter despair. Then life will seem meaningless to you, a senseless madness.

But this hour can also be a blessing. If you have not closed the doors of your awareness, if negation is not your style, you can still lift your eyes and see. That this life has proved futile does not make life futile. That this life is futile only opens the doors to a different life. That this wealth turned to dust does not prove wealth is dust; it launches a search for new treasure, a journey to a new richness.

What is seen has withered—this does not mean all has withered; it means the pilgrimage toward the unseen has begun. Hence I used both words together—an hour of misfortune or of grace.

He who moulds his life in negation—who sits convinced that life is futile; who sits convinced there is no Paramatma; who sits convinced there is nothing beyond what is seen, though he has not searched, not journeyed, not lifted his eyes; who believes there is nothing within though he has never looked within—such a one has come to a bad hour. A moment of grave crisis has arrived. Beyond self-destruction he will see no way. “Let me erase myself, finish it”—this will be his only thought.

But one who has not hardened himself in negation; who says, “Perhaps there is another life. Perhaps Buddha and Mahavira, Krishna and Kabir, Nanak and Dadu are right. I will search, then I will decide”—for him this hour is not of suicide but of self-transformation. From here either one begins to erase oneself, or begins to awaken oneself.

This is a great crossroads. And every life comes to this crossroads—if not today, then tomorrow; if not tomorrow, then the day after. You must arrive where two choices stand: either drown in despair, or allow a new song of hope to break forth. Either, having declared all futile, accept defeat, or set out on the adventure that there may be another victory.

This hour came in the life of the wealthy Dharamdas. He had everything—wealth, position, prestige, fame. Heaped upon heaped success. And one day he awoke to see it is all pointless. For whatever I have gathered, death will snatch away. What do I have that death cannot steal?

The day this question arose, sleep broke. From that very day another search began. In this search a Sadguru is indispensable. For when you set out to seek the unknown, you must find one who has gone into that unknown. When you sail for the ocean, you must find a navigator who has crossed. And when you climb a mountain, you seek a companion familiar with the heights.

This is utterly natural. In the journey to the unknown one needs a hand. In the pilgrimage to the invisible one needs a companion—someone who can give you tidings of that other shore. Words are poor; exact news cannot be given, yet pointers can be.

And even pointers are of great value. They work. For the path is bewildering, mysterious; not easy, but rugged. A thousand moments will come when you will be stuck, the way will vanish. A thousand moments will come when you will take the wrong path. A thousand moments will come when your mind will say, “Turn back. Ahead nothing is seen—only darkness. Our old world was fine—good or bad as it was. Turn back; at least it was familiar. We knew where we were going. The geography was in our hands, the map in our hands. What jungle is this you are losing yourself in?”

Terrifying hours of fear will come when it will seem that this is not a search for life, but a deliberate courting of death. Let me repeat: in the search for the Supreme, that hour surely comes when you feel, “I have died.” Out of that very death the sprout of your new life emerges. Only when the seed breaks does the tree arise. Only when you disappear does something new begin within you.

Who will hold you that day? Who will support you? Who will assure you, “Do not be afraid; it happened to me as well, and yet I am. In truth, ever since it happened, only then did I come to be; before that, where was I?”

The seed will tremble. It needs the company of a tree that says, “Do not fear; only by breaking does being happen. Only by disappearing is it attained. In losing is the gain. Blessed are they who lose themselves, for they alone become the masters. They alone attain all. Mount this cross.”

If some hand gives support, assurance, and the radiance of his eyes and the light of his life stirs trust in you, then perhaps you will climb even the cross. And by mounting the cross the throne is found.

In such a difficult hour the Guru is needed. Dharamdas found a Guru like Kabir.

There are two kinds of gurus: first, those we may call traditional gurus—who have not themselves known, but have memorized the account of those who knew. They have read the scriptures, analyzed them, sifted them—dove into scriptures, not into Truth. Their skill is with the scriptures; they are masters of words, adept in doctrines.

Such a traditional guru can untangle a theoretical knot. If you have doubts and queries about the scripture, he will resolve them. These traditional gurus come to you from birth. If you are born in a Jain home, a Jain muni is your guru. Born in a Hindu home, some pundit is your guru. Born in a Muslim home, some maulvi is your guru.

They come from birth; you need not search for them. They search for you. They catch every child by the neck. Before the child grows and his understanding awakens, they seize his neck. For after understanding awakens he will not fall into their net.

Therefore your so-called religions are terribly anxious: how to impart religious education to children? By religious education they do not mean Dharma. They mean: before awareness arises in the child, how to bind him with doctrines? Before his own intelligence functions, the poison of belief must be poured in.

A Hindu father wants his son to become Hindu. A Muslim father wants his son to become Muslim. These are politics; they have nothing to do with religion. The wish that Muslims remain more in number—that is politics. That Hindus remain more—that is politics. There is power in numbers. The Muslim fears, “What if my son becomes a Hindu?” The Hindu fears, “What if my son becomes a Christian?” Fear—lest our numbers dwindle. In numbers lies power; in numbers lies politics.

From this fear every father wants his son initiated as early as possible—into his own religion. Whatever beliefs he carries, he wants to put the same into his son.

Such a guru given by tradition is no guru at all, but a pose. The real Guru must be found. The real Guru is met by discernment, not by belief. For the real Guru one must search. For the real Guru one must care, must pass through a holy fever.

And in finding the real, your false gurus become obstacles—because the real Guru is not bound to scripture; he is awake in Truth. He speaks from Truth. If his words tally with scripture—fine. If they do not—he does not care. The real Guru is not a part of any tradition. The real Guru is the reappearance of Truth itself, a new edition. The real Guru has seen with his own eyes—he does not depend on others’ eyes. He says what he has seen.

Kabir has said: I do not speak what is written on paper; I speak what I have seen with my eyes.

When one has seen with one’s own eyes, the proclamation of his Truth is rebellious, revolutionary. God—the Paramatma—is the greatest revolution in this world. God is not tradition, for God is not old. God is ever-new. Scriptures grow old; dust gathers upon them. On God, dust never gathers; He is eternal life.

Today’s dawn was not a repetition of yesterday’s dawn. The birds sang songs today that were never sung before. The clouds that will float this evening have never floated like this before. In existence, everything is new every instant—ever-fresh.

When you open your eyes and see Truth, the New will strike you. And the music that will arise on the strings of your heart—such music never arose before. Mahavira’s heart-string sang one song. Buddha’s sang another. Kabir, a third. Whoever has known has his own song—his distinct, unique, unmatched song.

Tradition repeats the same old songs, again and again. Tradition is like a picture.

A lady, mad for Picasso, said to him, “Yesterday I saw one of your paintings in someone’s house. It was so lovely that I could not help myself—I kissed it.” Picasso said, “Kissed it—my painting? And then? Did the painting return the kiss or not?” The lady said, “What are you saying? How can a painting return a kiss?” Picasso replied, “Then it was not me. It must have been a picture—paper with colors. Not me.”

Scripture is a picture. You may kiss it; it will not kiss back.

When you meet a Kabir or a Buddha or a Mahavira—or someone like the wealthy Dharamdas—your meeting is not with a picture; you are meeting living Truth. You will kiss—and a response will come.

Guru is one who responds. Scripture is that from which you may, if you wish, extract answers—but those answers are yours; the scripture gave nothing. When you read the Gita you imagine you understand Krishna. How will you understand Krishna? How could you? When Krishna stood alive before Arjuna, even he found it so difficult to understand. How will you? Krishna is not present to answer—alive. Arjuna’s mind still arose with thousands of doubts.

Yours will arise too. You will also resolve them. But you yourself are framing the questions and providing the answers. Krishna is silent. He is like Picasso’s painting—no answer comes from there.

Scripture is dead. Remember these two words: Shastra and Shasta. Shasta means the living Master from whom scriptures are born. Seek the Shasta. To rummage among what is already codified is to search among garbage. The meaning you will draw from it is meaning you yourself have poured in; it is your own color. No response has come from the other side; there is no one there.

Where now is Krishna in the Gita? Where now is Buddha in the Dhammapada? How can books be alive? To seek the real Guru through scriptures is to seek the living Shasta through dead shastras. Seek the original spring from which scripture is being born now. Once written, it becomes tradition. Catch hold of someone in that very hour when scripture is being born. If you can seize the feet while the Veda is being born, you are blessed. You will be filled with benediction.

But our misfortune is that people clutch after scripture is born—because people are impressed by prestige. Prestige takes time. While Buddha is alive there is no prestige. Prestige takes years: Buddha must die, legends must be woven, scriptures compiled around him, puranas formed; centuries may pass—then prestige comes.

People are influenced by prestige. While Kabir is alive, prestige cannot be. Drawing a line across a living life takes time.

Hence it takes a very alert eye to find a Guru. A very deep thirst. And he who finds the Guru has completed half the journey. Half he is already in God. He has found the companion who is connected to God—one of your hands has already reached into God’s hand. He who has held the Guru’s feet, unknowingly has held the feet of God.

Seek the Shasta, not the shastra.

And remember: all Shastas eventually become shastra. And remember also: every shastra was, in the beginning, a Shasta. But when will you catch hold? Catch when scripture is being born, at daybreak, while the descent is happening, while the Divine is landing—then catch! Once it has descended, only pictures remain, statues, doctrines. You may bang your head a thousand times before those statues—nothing will happen. No kiss returns. Your question echoes in the sky—no one to answer.

Guru means: you raise the question and a living answer can come—to you, for you, with sensitivity to your questioning, with you in view exactly.

Kabir was such a Guru. Now see what difficulty arises. I say, “Kabir was such a Guru.” A young man came recently to take sannyas. I asked, “How did this urge arise?” He said, “I am a Kabirpanthi, and you have spoken on Kabir in a way no one has. So I have come for sannyas.” I asked, “Will you stay a few days?” He said, “No, I must take it and go—tonight itself.”

“Will you meditate a little? Understand something? Merely dyeing your clothes will not make you a sannyasin. Will you come down into meditation?”

He said, “I already meditate. I read Kabir’s scripture and meditate. And you have yourself said that everything is in Kabir.”

Remember, everything was in Kabir; I cannot say is. For Kabir has now become shastra. The very scriptures Kabir rebelled against—Kabir himself has become such a scripture. Where now is the Shasta? Kabir had opposed the Vedas, and now this Kabirpanthi clutches Kabir’s Bijak exactly as once someone clutched the Veda. What difference?

All Shastas today or tomorrow turn into shastras. When they do, set out again to seek a Shasta. Catch the living descent. Understand it this way: I tell you, do not cling to avatars; hold the avtarana—the descent itself. When God is descending—fresh, warm, breathing, with a beating heart—catch hold then. Only one with that courage finds a true Sadguru.

Otherwise people lug books. The coward carries books; the courageous find the Sadguru. Cowards are crushed under the burden of books and die. The courageous, supported by the Sadguru, become weightless and fly.

The wealthy Dharamdas flew high. With a Guru like Kabir, a man flies into the sky without wings. These sayings are the sayings of such flights—utterances from those new skies. Understand well.

“Tell me, how many days will you live? What are you so proud of?”

Dharamdas says, How many days will you live? Think it through once, clearly. You strut with pride over this life! Chest puffed, walking stiff! What are you so proud of?

“How many days will you live?”

How many days will this stiff chest remain? Breath has come now, the next moment it may not. Where is the certainty? One thing is certain: one day it will not come. Death is certain. In this world, only one thing is certain—death. All else uncertain, may be, may not—but death is sure.

Have you noticed? For five thousand years man has been discovering medicines—systems of healing: Unani, Ayurveda, Homeopathy, Allopathy—yet the death rate is unchanged: one hundred percent. No difference at all. Birth rates change; death does not. As many were born, as many died—then, and now. One thing absolutely certain—one hundred percent die. Sooner or later, yes; death cannot be abolished.

Death is the central truth of this life. Therefore all true Masters make you aware of death. You do not like it when someone reminds you of death. It feels inauspicious: “What are you saying! We are alive, we are young.” The Master’s word seems sharp, bitter. Dharamdas has said, “too bitter.”

Why bitter? Like poison. Because the first thing the Master reminds you of—is death. The journey of religion begins with death. When the thought of death begins to arise, one must become religious; one cannot remain irreligious for long. When death begins to shadow you clearly, your life-values will change.

Will you still gather wealth in the same madness—still fight, grab, strangle? The mind will say, “For what? Soon death will come and everything will be left lying. Perhaps she is already at the door—who knows when she may knock!”

“How many days will you live? What are you so proud of?”

This body will lie in the dust. How many bodies like ours have walked upon this earth—where are they now? Scientists say that where you sit, at least ten corpses lie buried beneath. So many have lived that the whole earth is a cremation ground. Do not distinguish between graveyard and city—the whole earth is a charnel ground. Where cities stood, graveyards stand; where graveyards were, cities have come. The whole earth is a cremation ground.

So many have died; every patch of earth is a grave. Every clod has been a part of some body. Bones and corpses scattered everywhere. You are in the cremation ground. Look closely and corpses will be visible. You walk upon the dead. Ten bodies lie beneath as you step. Tomorrow yours will be among them. Others will walk on you.

“What are you so proud of?”

And yet such conceit—parading the flag: “May our flag fly high!” Sheer stupidity. But all of us carry our flags high. To build a house a little taller than the neighbor’s—we stake life on it. That is your flag. To buy a car bigger than the neighbor’s—that is your flag. To marry off a daughter with such pomp that in the village no one has seen the like—that is your flag. In a thousand ways you do the same: “May our flag fly high.” Better take a pole, tie a flag to it and stroll. That would be simpler and honest.

I lived in Jabalpur some twenty years. There was a man—his mind a little unhinged—who always roamed carrying the tricolor. Perhaps he had once been to jail; since then he had gone mad, and since then that flag never left his hand. Independence arrived; his habit persisted. People called him mad. He would sometimes come to me; I was his friend. My hosts would say, “You even talk with a madman!” I would say, “He is straightforward. He says, ‘May our flag fly high—finished!’ He has tied it to a pole; there is no quarrel in it.”

You are doing the same, only your flags are subtle. You are greater madmen. He is simple—“Why all the hassle? Where to build a big house, earn money, show the world who I am? Fight elections? Why this trouble? I took a bamboo and tied a rag to it—‘May our flag fly high’—so easy.” No one quarrels with him; and he enjoys himself thoroughly.

Look within people; what is the lifelong effort? Only this: to prove I am special; I am something extraordinary; there is none like me; the earth is blessed by my being. If I were not, who knows what would happen to the world! If I am not here, who knows what will happen!

Dharamdas says, Think a little! How many days will you keep this flag high? What are you proud of? The ground is slipping beneath your feet. Death draws nearer every moment. You are dying daily.

Since you were born, only one thing have you done regularly: dying. Morning and evening, you go on dying. After birth, death began to happen. A one-day-old child is one day dead already. A two-day-old child, two days dead. A twenty-year-old man, twenty years dead. Death is approaching.

We are all standing in a queue; it shortens. People move out from the front. Whenever someone dies, your death comes nearer—one more person less ahead. You move toward the window. Soon the ticket will be in your hand. You cannot run; there is no escape.

A Sufi’s disciple went to the market. A juggler was performing; he joined the crowd to watch. Someone placed a hand on his shoulder; he turned. A black, terrifying shadow! He trembled: “Who are you?” “I am Death,” she said. “I came to forewarn you. What are you doing here? This evening your death arrives. I will come for you tonight. And you are watching a juggler?”

No more juggling! Death left; he ran—ran to his master. “We are done for! Save me!” The master said, “We told you long before; now it is late. How far is evening from morning?” But the youth was so terrified he thought, “No point in wisdom now.” He ran to the king. “Save me!” The king said, “Take my swiftest horse and go. As far as you can by evening. The horse is unmatched.” He took it and fled. He did not stop for water, nor for food. By sunset he reached a garden outside Damascus, tied the horse, patted it, “You marvelous horse, you brought me hundreds of miles. My thanks.”

A hand on his shoulder—the same hand. He turned—Death stood laughing. “I too thank the horse,” she said. “I was worried—your death was fixed for Damascus this evening, and you were far away. How would you arrive by dusk? I was troubled. Our meeting here was destined.” Later Death told the master, “I did not frighten him; I myself was frightened to see him at the market. His death was fixed in Damascus by evening—who would bring him? The king’s horse did the job. He reached just as the sun was sinking.”

All your life you go—arriving exactly where you must die: Damascus. Some on a swift horse, some on a pony, the poor on foot; some by airplane—everyone according to convenience—but all are going to Damascus. And when, at dusk, you tether your horse, your pony, your donkey, your plane—and step down—the very hand you fled will rest upon your shoulder.

When this remembrance comes, pride shatters.

People ask me, “How to drop the ego?” I say, there is no need to drop it. Let understanding of death dawn, and ego falls away. When death is seen, what ego remains?

Therefore Dharamdas says: What are you so proud of?

“A cage of raw bamboo are you, and within it a little wind.”

What are you? A cage of unseasoned cane. Not even seasoned bamboo—raw. A little breeze has entered the cage; the chest beats, breath comes and goes. What are you proud of? There is nothing of value here. And in this life, what have you obtained?

In brief, the tale of life is this:
We sought flowers—and found thorns.
We searched for roses, and gathered only spines. What have you found besides thorns? What have you found besides sorrow? Happiness is only a hope; sorrow is experience. You live on the hope that maybe tomorrow, perhaps the day after—perhaps, perhaps. Neither tomorrow will it come, nor the day after. Where is happiness found? Finally only death arrives. Life gives sorrow, and finally, slipping, you dissolve into death.

See how raw your bamboo is. Scientists say, it is a miracle that man lives at all. Look at the narrow borders of life. Two or three or five minutes without breath—and gone. A raw bamboo cage. If fever climbs to one hundred and ten—gone! The span is ten, twelve degrees. So long as it stays around ninety-eight, you live; at one hundred and ten—gone. Twelve degrees is your life.

“A cage of raw bamboo are you…”

So long as a certain measure of oxygen enters the breath, it is fine; then one cold night you close the doors and light a brazier, smoke fills the room—morning, the verdict. A little smoke—and gone. Two drops of poison on the tongue—and gone. Not even seasoned cane that could hold a bit longer, struggle a little. And how many illnesses hide within! It is a wonder we live. Such a tiny span—between ninety-eight and one hundred and ten: a play of twelve degrees. A slight deviation in breath, and gone.

What a complex web! Let the blood pressure rise—and gone. Sugar rise—and gone; or fall—and gone. From every side, departure surrounds you. A small island our world, amidst an ocean of death. Darkness of death everywhere, and a small lamp glows. One gust—and it is out. The lamp is clay.

“A cage of raw bamboo are you, and within it a little wind.”

Just a little air. Life is air; a passing gust. What pride? Pride over what? Perhaps because there is nothing worthy of pride, we pride ourselves. Understand this.

Psychologists say: Man boasts precisely when he feels his inner inferiority most clearly. Pride is a way to forget inferiority, a device to avoid the inferiority complex. Look within and you will feel utterly small. What is there? One hiccup—and gone. One skipped heartbeat—and gone. Death is so near. What is the distance between you and death? A paper wall.

And perhaps that is why we invent new ways to be proud. For a man to live, some excuse is needed. If one saw life as it is, all excuses to live would evaporate. So he does not look. He never looks at himself. He keeps running—running and running. No time, no face-to-face encounter with oneself. Morning he runs; at night he falls exhausted into bed; morning again, he runs. No leisure; not a single hour to reconsider his life—this is man’s account. He runs and runs.

What is the meaning of meditation? It means: in twenty-four hours, sit at least one hour. Reconsider life. Save one hour from the frenzy. Think a little about yourself—what is the matter? What am I doing? Is this worth doing? Even doing it, what will I gain? What will be the final outcome? To this he points:

“Tell me, how many days will you live? What are you so proud of?
A cage of raw bamboo are you, and within it a little wind.
What trust in the bird—he may fly off in a moment.
A jar of unbaked clay are you, kneaded with a few drops of sap.”

An unbaked earthen pot—held together by a smear of sexual fluids. Who can say when it will crumble? By law it should have crumbled long ago. That it has not yet crumbled is itself a miracle.

Look carefully. You have accepted the reverse. When someone dies you say, “How did he die? How could he die now? Untimely!” You speak the opposite. Truly, seeing a living person you should say, “Incredible—still alive? How are you alive? What magic!” Each morning you should think, “Amazement—I am still alive! The night passed and I am spared again!” Fill with wonder.

The wise marvel at life. Fools marvel at death. That is the difference between wisdom and foolishness. The fool says, “How could he die! Was this a time to die?” The wise man says, “You are alive? How are you alive! This clay pot has endured so many rains and still lives, has not melted! This paper boat has gone so far, still not sunk!”

Thus the knower each morning, astonished, gives thanks to the Divine: “Wonder—I still am! Today I am again! A few moments more are given—though, by rule, they ought not be. There is no reason seen by which such a clay jar goes on living. Death is not the accident; life is the accident.”

“What trust in the bird—he may fly off in a moment.
A jar of unbaked clay are you, kneaded with a few drops of sap.
A sugar-bubble in water—melting in a moment.”

Have you seen dropping a sugar-bubble into water? It does not take long. Here you drop it, there it melts.

“Man is a bubble upon the water—
Upon the flowing surface he breaks, he sinks,
Then rises again and flows once more.
Neither the ocean could swallow him,
Nor could histories break him.
On Time’s palm he flows—
Man is a bubble upon the water.”

A wonder is man! He goes on flowing. Have you ever watched a bubble on water? You think now it will burst, now, now—and still it floats on. You too grow eager watching it. If it lingers a little, you are astonished—“Ah, it remains!” It grows larger, thinner; as it grows, the delicate film becomes more delicate, more transparent.

As a man’s ego grows, his being becomes an even greater wonder—for the balloon grows that much larger, that much nearer to bursting. Yet the marvel goes on.

He who sees this rightly, a revolution happens in his life. He no longer hoards the things of this world. He does not build his house here—not that he runs to the jungle, for the jungle is part of the same world. What will happen going there? Not that he sits in a cave, for the cave is made of the same clay as your house. Here even mountains turn to sand; everything here must be erased. He does not flee anywhere—but within, he starts searching for that which is eternal.

“A sugar-bubble in water—melting in a moment.”

The reality of the world is only a show—
To say “all this is” means “nothing is.”

Only in speech is there house, spouse, children, relatives, friends. Only in speech is there everything. With one last breath—all becomes futile.

Before the breath leaves, awaken. Before the breath leaves, taste a little Samadhi. Life is given as an opportunity for this, and you are wasting it. You were sent to a mine of diamonds, and you are picking pebbles. Soon a message will arrive that your time is up. Then you will repent—but death does not grant time. You may beg for twenty-four hours; she will not yield. When she comes, she comes—no reprieve.

Alexander wanted twenty-four hours more—only to keep his promise to his mother: “When I conquer the whole world and return, I will lay the empire at your feet.” Returning from India, having conquered what was then the known world, he was twenty-four hours from his capital when physicians said he could not be saved. He pleaded, prayed. He had never remembered God; for the first time he remembered. The whole army prayed; hundreds of thousands pleaded: just twenty-four hours, no more. He wanted only to place the world at his mother’s feet, something no son had ever done. But even that did not happen.

Even Alexander did not get a day more. When death came he saw—“I missed. I wasted this life in gathering the pointless. I found nothing meaningful that I could say before God, ‘This I have discovered.’ I return bereft. I die a beggar, not a king.” These were his last words.

There is a way to die like a king, and a way to die like a beggar. Most die as beggars.

Dharamdas died like a king; therefore Kabir named him the wealthy Dharamdas—wealthy in spirit. Which wealth did he gain? The wealth of meditation. He died having found the Divine, knowing the Self, recognizing the eternality of life. Then there is no death. For he who recognizes the ultimate truth within, he recognizes the Nectar—Amrit. Then there is no death. Death happens only while we are connected outwardly. Death breaks us from the outer—and we are attached outwardly. As soon as we are bound inwardly, death cannot break us.

“A paper boat I am, but the string is in the Lord’s hand.
Whatever dance He makes me dance, I will dance that very dance—
Why this pride?”

These words are very sweet. Dharamdas says:

“A paper boat I am, but the string is in the Lord’s hand.”

The boat flows; it is paper. Even a paper boat, when it floats, swells with pride. It says to the currents, to the waves, “Look at my majesty, my speed.” It struts beneath the moon and stars. But the string is in the Lord’s hand. The boat is not sailing by itself.

You are not living by yourself—“the string is in the Lord’s hand.” What have you done by yourself? Even breath you do not take by yourself. It goes on; that is the string. The day it does not, try a million ways—nothing will work. You will not draw even one breath, however much you bang your head. What are you proud of?

“How many days will you live?”

If it is understood that the string is in the Lord’s hand, you have grasped the thread of the Master’s whole teaching.

“Whatever dance He makes me dance, I will dance that very dance.”

Say no more, “I am.” Only He is. If He makes me dance—I dance. If He saves—I am saved. If He drowns—I am drowned. If He creates—I am created. If He erases—I am erased. The moment you see that by His gesture all happens, the “I”-sense dissolves; pride falls; arrogance melts. You become simple, humble, empty. And only into emptiness does God descend.

Emptiness is the cross of which I spoke. And into emptiness the Whole descends—that throne. Become empty and you have mounted the cross—you have crucified the “I.” Now you say:

“A paper boat I am, but the string is in the Lord’s hand.
Whatever dance He makes me dance, I will dance that very dance.”

Now Thy will. As Thou makest me do, so shall I. Thou art the doer, not I. Thy life, Thy death. Thy defeat, Thy victory. Thy beauty, Thy ugliness. All Thine—the bad Thine, the good Thine.

Keep this in mind—the merit Thine, the sin Thine. If Thou make me a thief—then theft. If Thou make me a sadhu—then saintliness. If Thou say, “Be Ravana,” how can I be Rama? If Thou make me Ravana—Ravana; if Rama—Rama. This is a deep realization. This is a play; whatever part Thou assign, I shall fulfil.

“Whatever dance He makes me dance, I will dance that very dance.”

We are not. Thy will is all. In such a state of surrender, the Divine descends. You do not need to go searching for Him. He who understands—“the string is in the Lord’s hand”—need go nowhere, not to the Himalayas. Where you sit, God arrives—only let this string begin to show.

“I, Dharamdas, a merchant—ran a false marketplace.
But my Master, Kabir, is a caravaner—trading in Truth.”

Dharamdas says, I did a false trade. I am a trader. I earned wealth by lies, position by lies, fame by lies. I spent counterfeit coins. That which you call the world is a market of falsehood. There, truthful men lose; liars win. There, lying is art; the truthful are thought fools; the liar is skilled. Remember this.

Often you are startled that the liar succeeds—but the world trades in lies. There only liars can succeed, for only that language is understood. The simple man who speaks truth is out of the game. Success there belongs to the crooked. But what is their success? They will die, and all their success will lie useless; of no avail.

“I, Dharamdas, a merchant—ran a false marketplace.
My Lord Kabir—he is a caravaner, trading in Truth.”

And with Kabir I understood—there is another trade. A real bargain is elsewhere. With this caravaner Kabir, that true trade happened.

The word banzara—caravaner—is beautiful. It means: one who has no home here. Like the nomad—whose home is upon his shoulder. He lives in a tent—pitches it today, uproots it tomorrow. He builds no permanent house. He does not make this world his destination, only a halt, like an inn—rest for a night, in the morning, move on. So Dharamdas says:

“My Lord Kabir—he is a caravaner, trading in Truth.”

With Kabir I learned there is another commerce. I was busy in futile bargains, seeking wealth in dreams. Real coins exist here, real treasure—yet for that treasure one must journey within.

“Beloved Satguru, come to my land; I stand waiting on the path.
The wise saints bring news of that other country.
I wash the saints’ feet; body and mind I offer.”

Mark this: suddenly the wealthy Dharamdas begins to speak as a woman. Until now he spoke in a man’s tongue. Now he says: “Satguru, come to my land—I stand waiting on the path!” Suddenly!

Here the student becomes a disciple. The moment the student becomes a disciple, he becomes feminine. The student is masculine; the disciple is feminine. Mark it well. The student seeks, searches—seeking is masculine. The disciple receives; he does not search. He accepts, opens himself, welcomes; he is feminine.

As a woman receives—she is womb. The man seeks a womb. The woman waits. With an ahobhav—receptivity—she accepts. Therefore, if a woman chases a man, the man becomes afraid; such women are not loved. They are no longer women. The grace of woman is that she waits, with patience. She does not take the first step. She may love you deeply, yet she will not come and say it. She will wait. And even when you say it, perhaps she will say “no”—you must read her face and see that her “no” is a “yes.”

The woman who goes and declares, “I love you,” lacks the feminine essence; she lacks softness—she is aggressive.

Man is aggressive; woman is receptive.

So too between student and disciple. The student looks actively for knowledge. The disciple has found the one near whom the happening can occur; he opens all his doors and windows; he becomes feminine.

This is the meaning of gopis dancing around Krishna. It does not mean there were only women dancing. Whoever danced around him became feminine—hence men too are depicted as women.

In a disciple, manhood does not remain. Love fills him—feminine love. Surrender arises.

Thus suddenly the language changes. Dharamdas says:

“Beloved Satguru, come to my land; I stand waiting on the path.
The wise saints bring news of that other country.”

Now he says, I have opened the door of my heart for you. Come into my land—dwell in me.

“I find no rest anywhere without you.
I wander desert to desert, distraught without you.”

There is an hour when one searches and searches. Then eyes meet—somewhere a color matches, strings connect.

“I worship you in my thoughts;
I perform my devotions in silence.”

Then even saying ends. Worship becomes silent. Only waiting remains—the road, the path.

“Beloved Satguru, come to my land; I stand waiting on the path.
The wise saints bring news of that other country.”

Those who bring tidings of the other land—only they are saints. Those who have been to that other land—only they are saints. Those who return fragrant with that other shore—only they are saints.

Enter a garden: touch the flowers, speak with them, dance around the trees—and return home. You may not bring the flowers—perhaps they cannot be brought. And even if you bring them, in a house where flowers were never seen, who will recognize them? Yet some fragrance will come with you—fill your clothes, your being—a freshness, a delicacy, an atmosphere.

That atmosphere surrounds the Sadguru. Sit with him, and if you breathe his fragrance through your nostrils, you will understand there is something beyond this world—something distant, unknown to you.

Look into the Guru’s eyes—you will find a door opening into the unknown.

At such a moment the student becomes a disciple.

“Who knows when that hour came,
When I was laid at your feet.”

One cannot even tell when the happening happened—but a laying down occurs, a being-offered.

For that hour one must wander. Through which door a doorway becomes the Guru’s door—who can say? To predetermine is impossible.

And those who set out with a fixed decision—miss. Only an openness is needed. Each person must find his own Dharma. Dharma is not given by birth. It cannot be inherited. It is not in the blood, nor in bone, flesh, or marrow. Not from father or mother or custom or schooling.

Dharma must be found—by thirst, by burning, by longing. And when a thirsty one searches and searches, one day the event happens:

“Who knows when that hour came,
When I was laid at your feet.”

A lake appears—and all is done.

And it is not necessary that your lake be another’s. Thirsts differ, eyes differ, persons differ. He who is Guru for you need not be Guru for another. Do not impose your Guru on anyone. Nor hasten to accept another’s. Search—an intimate search. And if you search rightly, you will surely find. The one who seeks finds; those who do not seek alone miss. And the day you find, seeking stops; manliness—aggression—drops. That day the woman is born within.

The disciple is feminine. Dharamdas did well—he changed his language at once.

“Beloved Satguru, come to my land; I stand waiting on the path.
The wise Satguru spoke to me of that other country.
Watching day and night, sleep fled from my eyes.”

When the Guru comes, sleep goes. The Guru is awakening. Then how sleep? How dreams? How darkness? Only light remains.

“What do I know whom I await today?
Even a single blink is disagreeable to me.”

And when living Truth stands before you, how can you blink? What if you miss a message, a gesture, a glance?

“Watching day and night, sleep fled from my eyes.
Body and mind and wealth I forgot; the body grew restless.
The lover calls in separation; tears tremble in the eyes.”

“Body, mind, wealth”—if in someone’s feet you do not forget all, know those feet are not the Guru’s for you. Where you can still save something, know those are not the feet. Where nothing can be saved...

Remember: not saving does not mean you go and pour your house at his feet. It does not mean you destroy your family, your shop. It means: if only his hint were to come, you would be ready to lose all; you would not hesitate. Though a true Guru never hints thus.

Beware—no Guru demands that you give all. Great harm has come from misreading these utterances. If their meaning is not rightly understood, great hypocrisy arises. Understand this line rightly:

“Body and mind and wealth I forgot; the body grew restless.”

The disciple is describing his state: I forgot everything—body, mind, wealth. The whole world became a false tale. Only the Guru stood true before me.

But hypocritical gurus have said, “Until you give me all—body, mind, wealth—you are no disciple.” I warn you: if the disciple has forgotten all, money is worthless to him—but what relish could the Guru have for such money? If a Guru asks for it, the disciple may still be a disciple, but the Guru is no Guru. If a Guru makes a show: “A sign of a true disciple is that he forgets all—bring all your money to me,” then that Guru is still trading in falsehood.

This is the disciple’s inner state. If this is the disciple, what will the Guru be! He does not even know. From his side, no demand can arise.

Much confusion has occurred. Buddha said: for one on the quest, giving is natural. What did monks make of it? They began to persuade people to give, saying only then are you true disciples.

Hindu priests have done the same. The feeling of giving arises in the disciple—true; but this does not mean someone should exploit it. Priests do exactly this. Beggars too.

You have seen beggars catch your hand and say, “Greed is the father of sin; giving is the root of religion.” They mean: give. If you do not, you are greedy. He who asks is not greedy, of course! If you give—you are generous, religious.

He flatters your ego. He says, “If you do not give, in the marketplace your name will be stained—people will say you are a miser, cannot give even a coin.” Beggars catch you where you fear defamation—in the square. In private they will not; there you might slap them. You do not give out of compassion—you give to save your image. And if you do not, the beggar looks at you as if you are bound for hell. If you give, he mutters to another, “We fooled him well”—and waits for you next time: if you give, you are a fool; if you do not, you are a sinner.

People have drawn strange meanings from the words of the wise—meanings for their own profit.

Remember, the meaning here is not that any Guru will ask you to surrender all. It means: seeing the Guru, all that was yours becomes meaningless; you lose taste for it.

“Body and mind and wealth I forgot; the body grew restless.
I have come to drown in the ocean of love—
But the world calls me back in fear from the shore.”

When you go to the Guru and you begin to forget body, mind, wealth—the whole world will pull you back: “Return! You are in danger.” The world likes you to go to the priest—by all means: temple, mosque, gurudwara. The world approves. A religious person should do this—Sunday church, sometimes the Bible, sometimes the Gita, sometimes Satyanarayan katha. But go to a Guru—if you meet a Kabir, a Buddha, a Krishna—the whole world will oppose you. For it is another trade. Falsehood on one side, truth on the other—these two are in deep conflict. I tell you: if going to someone the whole world opposes, know then you are on the right path. So many cannot be wrong! When the whole world is against you, something must be happening. Be cautious, and seek with alertness.

Wherever, in the name of religion, the world does not oppose you—there is nothing in it. It is part of the false market.

A Jain woman said to me—her husband attends my talks—“Explain to him not to come so much.” What was the matter? “If he must hear religion, are our Jain monks bad? Let him go to the temple.” I said, “If you have no objection, why does it matter to you where he goes?” She said, “Everyone objects when he comes here—the family, the children. They say, ‘You will lose your husband.’ If he goes to the Jain temple—what harm? It is religion, after all.”

She was saying: the Jain temple we have made part of the marketplace. This place will take time to be made part of the market; in the meantime, something may go wrong.

When the world opposes you in going somewhere—when the entire world stands against—know you are approaching a place different from the market of lies. Else why would so many oppose?

When the wealthy Dharamdas went to Kabir, all this uproar arose. All opposed. While he had done Satyanarayan katha, temples, yajnas, havans—no one opposed. The whole village said, “Ah, a religious man.” Going to Kabir, they said, “Now he is corrupted, his mind is spoiled. Going to Kabir—what is this?” Take it as a sign.

“Body and mind and wealth I forgot; the body grew restless.
The lover calls in separation; tears tremble in the eyes.”

And where your eyes fill with tears—no conceit, but the tears of love: from the temple you return puffed up—made religious. From a true knower you return humbled—your life’s dust seen. From a false knower you return with more information. From the true, even your information drops—you return more ignorant, feeling “Who is as ignorant as I?”

From the true knower you return weeping—over your life. Two kinds of tears: for the past wasted—repentance; and for prayer—that the Beloved may be found. Tears for the past, and tears for the future.

“The patron Guru of Dharamdas made him blessed in a moment.”

Where there are tears, where there is capacity to lay down all, where the feminine disciplehood has arisen—then the Guru does not delay. He delays because of you. Let me say it again—he delays because of you; otherwise, the thing happens in a moment. You yourself create the obstruction; you do not allow it.

“The patron Guru of Dharamdas made him blessed in a moment.”

Let the state arise in your heart that arose in Dharamdas—everything futile, eyes filled with tears, eyes awake so that sleep becomes difficult, what was done till now undone in a moment. In that utmost humility, you bow at the feet.

“To wash the saints’ feet, I offer body and mind.
The round of coming and going was cut; illusions and entanglements ended.
I am stunned—my love is with those eyes.”

Love for the Sadguru is love for those eyes in which an image of God shines.

Who is the Sadguru? One in whose eyes you glimpse a little aura of the Divine—a glimmer. You have not seen God, you have no news—but one who has, some reflection will remain in his eyes, some lines afloat, some imprint. In his eyes will flicker some sign of one who has seen.

“I am astonished—my love is with those eyes.
Walking on the road I met the Satguru—such joy cannot be told.”

“Walking on the road”—the Guru is met by those who search. Sit at home—do not search—and Gurus are not found. Only the one who becomes a student becomes a disciple. He who never becomes a student—how can he become a disciple? He who one day becomes a seeker, he one day becomes a mumukshu—hungry for liberation. You must walk.

“Walking on the road I met the Satguru—such joy cannot be told.”

“On the way today I met him,
The very thing my heart feared—happened.”

When the Guru is met, you find what you wanted—and yet the heart stops. For the Guru is death and life both.

“By giving me his sight he drove me mad,
He stole away my heart.”

If, going to a Guru, your heart is not stolen—he is no Guru. In whose presence you do not lose your heart—he is no Guru.

We have a sweet word: Hari. It means thief—he who takes away. We named God “Hari.” No other language in the world calls God a thief. Only those who know can dare this.

God is a thief—He steals all. Once your gaze turns toward Him, you lose everything. The first theft happens at the Guru’s feet—deputies of that great Thief.

“By giving me his sight he drove me mad,
He stole away my heart.”

Madness will come—a frenzy, a divine intoxication, an unselfing unknown to you.

“We rose and left your gathering—but
Only the heart knows, with what heart we came away.”

Then neither can you rise, nor walk; neither can you go. Dharamdas met Kabir—and never returned home. He sent word home: “I have gone mad. Know this—and forgive me.”

“We rose and left your gathering—but
Only the heart knows, with what heart we came away.”

Madness must come. Among fakirs there is a community called Baul—bawla, mad. Among Sufis there is a state called mast—intoxicated, without worldly senses. Not all madmen are God’s beloved, but all God’s beloved are mad.

“These moments of waiting for Thee have come—
I myself answer Thee, calling in Thy name.”

Deep madness rises; the devotee even answers on behalf of God—dialogue begins within.

“These moments of waiting for Thee have come—
I myself answer Thee, calling in Thy name.”

“By giving me his sight he drove me mad.” It will be so. Like iron filings near a magnet, when they begin to be pulled, will they not go mad? Madness is natural. For births you had sought—now a first glimpse comes. If you do not lose your head, what will you do? Arithmetic is lost; logic falls aside. This is the greatest love—therefore the greatest madness.

People call even worldly love madness. If you fall for a beautiful woman or a handsome man—you go a little mad. But what is that? If you meet a Kabir, if you meet a Dharamdas—there the supreme beauty appears, the supreme music resounds. Will you not sway? Without drinking, will you not be drunk? It must happen.

“We were never great believers in God—
But seeing them, God was remembered.”

Perhaps you never clearly thought about God, never formed any concept, your search was vague. But seeing a fakir, a realized one, a siddha—for the first time a resonance! The veena hums.

“The heart is a wounded instrument—
Strings throbbing in the chest.
When struck—it rings;
When touched—it trembles.”

Till now you only knew trembling—worldly blows produce tremors. When you meet a Sadguru, you know music. Till now you heard only noise, and were charmed even by that noise. When you hear music, what then? Near the Guru, you are drawn like iron to a magnet.

“Restless eyes, blood within the gaze;
Burning in the chest, commotion in the heart—
When the distant relation is such,
What will the near be like?”

So Dharamdas says truly:

“Body and mind and wealth I forgot; the body grew restless.
The lover calls in separation; tears tremble in the eyes.
By giving me his sight he drove me mad, he stole away my heart.
The beauty of that True Vision—how can I describe it?
Moon and sun grow pale before it.
Dharamdas bows with folded hands: again and again—grant me that sight.”

What I saw in the Guru—in Kabir’s eyes—the Beloved reflected in the mirror. The Beloved Himself I have not yet seen; only the mirror. Yet even seeing the mirror, the mind is crazed. It cannot be spoken. Against that light, moon and sun are pale.

Dharamdas says: Now only one longing remains, one thirst—again and again, may that glimpse be given. May I remain worthy of it—may I be such that, again and again, in the Guru’s eyes, I may see it.

Slowly the disciple comes so close to the Guru that their eyes are not two. The day a disciple begins to see with the Guru’s eyes, that day Guru and disciple are one. Before you are ready to see the Divine, you must meet the Guru. Before you are fit for the Supreme Darshan, you must learn to see through the Guru’s eyes. Stand behind his eyes and look.

Satsang has no other meaning: the Guru lends you his eyes. The purpose of satsang is this exchange of eyes. Being together—walking, sitting—slowly it happens. It ripens by ripening.

The disciple has only one work: erase himself, wipe himself clean—become a blank paper, so that the image in the Guru’s eyes can be printed without distortion. If your paper is scratched and scribbled, the picture will be mutilated. The plate of your mind must be empty.

Emptying the plate of the mind—that is sadhana.

Enough for today.