Jyoti Se Jyoti Jale #1

Kalai eva Brahma!—art itself is Brahman. So speak the seers of the Upanishads. But which art? The seers of the Upanishads would not be speaking of sculpture, nor of painting, nor of theatre. Which art did they call Brahman?
There is an art that chisels and reveals the statue hidden in stone. There is an art that frees the metre imprisoned in words. There is an art that awakens the music asleep in the veena. And there is an art that raises the Brahman asleep in man. It is of that art they speak.
In the clay of man nectar is hidden. In the mud of man the lotus lies concealed. Whoever learns that art—that one knows Dharma. One does not become religious by being Hindu or Muslim or Jain. One does not become religious by worship and prayer in temples and mosques. Until the conscious is discovered within the earthen body, one is not religious. Until one’s own body becomes the temple of that Deity; until the treasure and the kingdom are found within oneself—one is not religious.
Religion is the greatest art, for the greatest discovery in this world is the discovery of Brahman. Only those who find Brahman are truly alive; all the rest are in delusion—in the delusion of living. Much running, much hustle and bustle—but where is life? Life visits only a few, its nectar flows only in a few—those who find what lies hidden within, who come to know ‘Who am I?’
The Upanishads even define art: ‘Kalayati nirmayayati svarupam iti kala’—that which fashions, brings forth the intrinsic form is art. Then it is rightly said: Kalai eva Brahma. Art is Brahman. Art is religion. Art is the vital thread of life.
Sundardas is among those few artists who have known this Brahman. Yet to know Brahman is one thing, to make it known is another. Not all who know can make known. Among millions perhaps one knows; among hundreds who know, perhaps one can make it known. Sundardas is among those few wise ones who poured the unsaid into words; who defined the indefinable; who brought the invisible into sight, gave form to the formless. Sundardas is among the rare sadgurus. Do not take his words as ordinary. In each syllable embers lie hidden. And should even a tiny spark fall into your life, you too can flare up in the Fire of the Divine. The Vast can manifest within you as well. The Vast is already there, only a kindling spark is needed.
In flint stones fire lies concealed; strike two stones together and the fire appears. Such is the creative striking between guru and disciple. From that collision the flame is born. And only one whose lamp is lit can kindle the lamp of one unlit. We bring the unlit lamp to the lit lamp. The unlit lamp has the potential to flame, but it needs a living flame. From the lit lamp the flame is received. Nothing is lost to the lit lamp; the unlit gains the whole, gains all.
This is the secret between guru and disciple. The guru loses nothing; the disciple gains the All. The guru’s kingdom in no way diminishes. To tell the truth, the kingdom expands; the light grows greater. As the disciples’ lamps begin to glow, the guru’s radiance magnifies.
Here the ordinary laws of life’s economics do not apply. Ordinary economics says: if you give what you have, it will lessen—hoard, save. Ordinary economics teaches miserliness. In the realm of the spirit, whoever hoards is ruined; whoever scatters increases. There, charity is the way to increase. There, giving and sharing is expansion. There, withholding, accumulating, becoming miserly—is death.
Therefore, in those whose life births light, they distribute, they lavish. Kabir has said: pour it out with both hands. Lavish! You have reached the Infinite Source; by giving nothing will be exhausted. New streams, new springs will arise. When one lamp is lit, many lamps are kindled. In Sundardas’s satsang, many lamps were lit. From flame to flame!
Do not hear these rare utterances as you hear other talk. If you hear them like other talk, then you heard—and you did not hear. They are to be tasted! Do not hear only with the ears. Fasten your heart behind your ears—only then will you truly hear. Once heard, awakening is not far.
Unwritten letters many
were seen;
Unspoken words many
were learned;
Many brimming vessels
found empty;
We ourselves could not ripen—
we passed, unblossomed!
Most pass away like this.
We ourselves could not ripen—
we passed, unblossomed!
All come bearing the seed of becoming Brahman—and die as seed. Then what is the difference between a seed and a pebble? Only if the seed becomes a tree is there a difference. If the seed does not become a tree, what difference is there between seed and stone? The seed can become a tree—that alone is the difference.
In this world, the one who knows the Paramatma hidden within—only that one is full; the rest depart empty. And those who go empty must return again. They must return, for the Divine does not accept empty vessels. At His door only filled vessels are received. Do not go to His door like an unlit lamp, an ill-omen. Go as a lit lamp. Go as a filled vessel. Go as an overflowing vessel. Go as a perfect vessel. Go as a kumbha, only then will you be received; otherwise you will be sent back.
Go like a seed—and you will be turned back. Thus the round of coming and going continues. On the day someone arrives like a flower, acceptance happens. That is why we take flowers for worship at the temple. They are symbols. In the Supreme worship of that Paramatma, go as a flower—go as a burning lamp.
‘Firaq, you are the traveler, you are the destination too—
Where are you going, wounded by love?’
And remember: you are the seed, you are the tree. You are death, you are nectar. You are manifest, you are unmanifest. You are form, you are the formless.
‘Firaq, you are the traveler, you are the destination too.’
And the destination is nowhere outside. It is not distant or other than you. It is a matter of groping within your own heart. But man searches everywhere else—only not within. Therefore most live like beggars and end like beggars.
Sovereignty is your destiny. Do not settle for less than being a sovereign. Only the one who becomes sovereign has known the art—who can proclaim to the world: ‘Aham Brahmasmi!’ Only that one can say: ‘Kalai eva Brahma!’
Brahman is art—the ultimate art. What greater art could there be than that the unpolished within you be refined? That the rough diamond in the mine of your being be cut and faceted! That the light suppressed in you surge forth! That the song for which you were born be sung! That the dance hidden in your feet be revealed! That the fragrance you have brought be poured into the winds!
The day you become capable of spending yourself like a flower into the breezes, that day liberation flowers. That is Samadhi.
This world goes on as it goes on. Whoever recognizes this inner art, whoever connects even a little with the Brahman hidden within—then the world goes on as it goes on. The world does not change because you change. But then it no longer affects you.
The same form,
the same hues—
The mind’s Samadhi
is not disturbed!
Even when
the human mind
pierced the atom’s core,
when the point
of the void’s mystery
was cleaved—
Unruly cyclones blew,
planets and moons
wavered;
The unfathomed heart
of ocean split,
mountain peaks cracked,
wore thin;
Histories altered,
new ages rose;
Leaving the Rik, the seer
sang folk-notes;
The earth turned,
greens broke open,
Dawn’s crimson spread
in the east;
Even then—
the same form,
the same hues—
The mind’s Samadhi
remained unshaken.
Once the inner flower blossoms, nothing can agitate it. You live in the Eternal. The world keeps transforming. History keeps turning. Earths are made and unmade. Creation is woven and dissolved. This wheel keeps turning—this potter’s wheel we call the world. But at the centre you are unmoving, steady, untouched. To discover that Samadhi—this alone is art.
Man does everything else but does not learn this one art. He undertakes a thousand projects, travels thousands of journeys, searches to the horizon and beyond—only not within. The reason is simple: our eyes open outward, our ears open outward, our hands stretch outward. The five senses open outward, so a delusion arises: whatever is, will be outside. Light comes, apparently from outside. The sun rises outside, the moon rises outside. Breath seems to come from outside. Thirst—water is outside. Hunger—food is outside. Love surges—beloved is outside. Everything outside. Naturally the thought deepens that whatever is, is outside—what could be within?
Outside is everything—save one: except the Paramatma. Outside is everything—save one: except you, the Self. How can the being of the Self be outside? It sits behind all the senses. It is beyond the senses. With the hand we can grasp all things; we cannot grasp that which is hidden behind the hand—the one who grasps with the hand. With the eye we can see all else; we cannot see the one who stands behind the eye and looks at the world through its window. With the ear we can hear all else; we cannot hear the hearer. With the nose we can smell all else; the smeller remains unsmelled.
This outward seeking has become so intense that we even build the temple of God outside. Even for pilgrimage we go to Kaaba and Kailash. The refinement of man is forgotten. The inner journey is obliterated.
‘If someone would take away these religions and in their place give
the grace of manners, the poise of a true human being—
What is deadly poison is nectar too, O unknowing one—
You do not know the art of drinking.’
If someone would take away all these religions—there would be no harm.
‘If someone would take away these religions and in their place give
the grace of manners, the poise of a true human being.’
Kalai eva Brahma! The one who knows the art of being Brahman—that one is the well-poised human being. And only the one who has known within is truly cultured. Civilization comes from without; culture wells up from within. Civilization can be taught; culture is attained through sadhana. Civilization is learned from others—parents teach, teachers instruct, schools and colleges train. Civilization is learned outside. Culture? Culture is born within—from one’s own awakening, one’s own inner flame kindled, one’s energy recognized, Self-experience. It is an inward refinement.
Civilization beautifies the man from without—puts fine clothes on him, teaches him to sit and move with polish. Etiquette, modes of speech, skills of conduct—it teaches all. But within, consciousness remains unrefined. Within, the savage remains savage. That is why civilization never goes deeper than the skin. Scratch a little, and out comes the jungle-man.
Let a Hindu–Muslim riot erupt—Hindus were very civilized, Muslims were very civilized. A moment before, wholly civilized. Singing sweet songs: ‘Allah–Ishwar, Thy name; grant wisdom to all, O God.’ Then riot and mayhem—civilization washes away like a cheap dye in the rain. The inner savage emerges, rivers of blood run. Death’s frenzied dance begins. Friend hacks friend. Neighbor kills neighbor. Mosques and temples burn in flames. It takes no time for our civilization to fall. Civilization is makeshift, worth two coppers.
The cultured man is another thing. It means what he lives outside rises from his innermost core.
‘If someone would take away these religions and in their place give
the grace of manners, the poise of a true human being—
What is deadly poison is nectar too, O unknowing one—
You do not know the art of drinking.’
This life is brimful of the Divine—
‘You do not know the art of drinking.’
It is brimming with the Paramatma. Within and without, He waves. Waking, sleeping, rising, we are in Him. ‘You do not know the art of drinking!’
Kabir spoke truly: I laugh when I see a fish thirsty in the ocean. The fish has gone mad—thirsty in the ocean!
‘You do not know the art of drinking.
What is deadly poison is nectar too, O unknowing one.’
In this life there is not only death; nectar is hidden too. In this life not sorrow upon sorrow alone; supreme bliss is hidden too. In this life not only clay upon clay; beyond the clay dwells the luminous.
‘You do not know the art of drinking.’
Learn a few arts of drinking from Sundardas. Even your lit lamp can be snuffed out—such contrivances abound in life; but there are very few places where your unlit lamp may be lit. In such a device we are engaged here. This is satsang. Its meaning is only this—go from here illumined, go as tongues of flame.
But all depends on you. This flame cannot be forced upon you from without. Your cooperation is needed, your trust, your companionship. Otherwise, Buddha comes, Mahavira comes, Krishna comes, Muhammad comes, Kabir comes, Sundar comes, Dadu comes—come… keep coming! The messengers of God keep descending—and man remains as he is. The darkness as dense as ever. This night of no moon never ends. Dawn never breaks.
‘Thousands of Khizr have been born of Adam’s race—
Granted all this, still man keeps wandering.’
How many Khizr are born! How many angels descend! How many times the Quran, how many times the Gita, how many times the Dhammapada—descend. How many Riks manifest. How many Vedas take birth. Yet some excellence is in man—such a sleek pot—that even when it rains he does not get wet!
Get drenched! Light dances about you on every side, even so you do not catch fire. Man remains as he is. Why? What can Krishna do? Buddha has said: I can show the path; walking, you must do. Do not think that if someone shows the path, the walking is done. If someone speaks of bread, is your hunger satisfied? Nor does talk of water quench the throat. Talk of water can at best lead you in search of water. Talk of food can at best intensify your hunger, inflame it—so intensely that you leave all and set out in search of food. This is the purpose of satsang.
If you have come to me, remember—you have come for this: that in you may be born such an extraordinary longing to find the Paramatma, such a vast hunger that all other desires are immersed in this one desire. And when all desires become the desire for the Divine—that is prayer.
‘I will find myself by finding You, for I am lost in You—
It is Your quest—therefore it is my own search.’
Beware—do not take the search for the Divine as the search for the ‘other’. Do not be misled by the ‘para’ in ‘Paramatma’. The search for Paramatma is not the search for something other; it is the search for the Self. It is the search for Atman. It is an inward search. Here the eyes must be turned within, reversed. Here the ears must be inverted. The whole journey must become inward. Eyes open we have searched much; now we must search with eyes closed. We have heard many outer musics—perhaps they sometimes beguiled the mind a little, entertained the mind a little—now the mind is to be disenchanted! Now the inner music is to be heard. Now the anahata nada is to be listened to.
Sundardas’s sutras:
‘Deh tau pragat mahim jyon ko tyon hi janiyat,
Nain ke jharokhe manhi jhankat na dekhiyai.’
The whole of the Paramatma is seated within you—utterly whole! Those who know do not say you are a part of the Divine; those who know say: you are the whole of the Divine. Where would He have parts, fragments? The full moon rises. In thousands of lakes, ponds, seas, rivers, pools, its reflection is formed. All are reflections of the full moon. It is not that because one lake has received the moon’s reflection, how will another receive it? It is not that fragments are formed—one piece in this sea, one piece in that sea. All reflections are of the whole moon.
Just so—you are the whole Paramatma, for you are the reflection of the whole Paramatma.
Brahman is one; infinite are His reflections.
‘Deh tau pragat mahim jyon ko tyon hi janiyat’—
He has appeared within you wholly, as He is. And if you will, you can know Him as He is. Not a moment need be lost. Yet the miss happens. The miss happens because—
‘Nain ke jharokhe manhi jhankat na dekhiyai.’
You try to see Him through the windows of the eyes. Through the windows of the eyes you will not see Him. Through the eye one sees the ‘other’, not the ‘Self’. The Self sits behind the eye.
Do you think a blind man cannot attain Self-knowledge? The truth is—the blind one gains it sooner than the seeing. For this reason this land has always honored the blind, calling them Surdas—with reverence. Their outer eyes are not; the energy that used to flow out through the eyes may now be flowing within, for the outer door is closed. The blind have been honored here for one symbolic reason: the knower becomes like the blind. His outer eye is closed. He sees nothing outside; he begins to see within.
Our very miss is this: we set out with eyes to find the one who stands behind the eyes. We set out to find the one who is searching. How will that search be fulfilled? You ride a horse and go out to search for the horse itself!
Sometimes it happens—people wear the very spectacles and set out to search for the spectacles. And the spectacles sit on their ears. Exactly such is the error.
‘Nain ke jharokhe manhi jhankat na dekhiyai.’
As one stands at the window and sees the sky and the stars, so you stand behind the window of the eye and see the world. But you are standing behind the window—that is why you can see. Who is the seer?
Search the seer—and you will find the Divine. Remain entangled in the seen and the wheel of the world will go on turning, turning. The shift from the seen to the seer—that is the art. That is the art the seers of the Upanishads call: Kalai eva Brahma.
‘Nak ke jharokhe manhi naik na subas let’—
His fragrance you will not receive through the window of the nose. The nose receives only outer scents.
‘Kan ke jharokhe manhi sunat na lekhiyai.’
If you set out to hear Him through the ears, you will not hear. Whatever you hear through the ears will be something else. To hear Him, speech is of no use—silence is needed. Quiet is needed.
The wise have always said: He cannot be spoken. And they have said another thing: He cannot be heard. Not to be spoken; not to be heard. If said, it becomes false; if heard, it becomes false. He is beyond saying and hearing—for He is the one who says, and He is the one who hears—therefore beyond.
I am speaking to you. In what I am saying, He is not; but in the one who is saying, He is. I am saying to you; in what you are hearing, He is not; but in the one who hears, He is. When the speaker and listener meet, speech and hearing cease—and that meeting is satsang. So long as spoken-heard continues, it is conversation, not satsang.
Satsang is a kinship of silence, a bond of quiet. When the bridge of silence forms—satsang happens.
The most precious moments with a sadguru are not of words but of the wordless. Whoever listens to the guru’s words with stillness, with silence—the words come and go upon the surface, but the current of the wordless begins to flow within. Words are like a shell; they deliver the wordless to you. Words are merely the occasion. Riding on the occasion of the word, the wordless reaches you.
While listening, do not worry much about what is said; be concerned with the one who says. And do not worry about what you hear; awaken to the one who hears.
‘Kan ke jharokhe manhi sunat na lekhiyai.’
‘Mukh ke jharokhe main bachan na uchar hot,
Jibh hun kau shatrasa swad na visekhiyai.’
He is essence of rasa—‘Raso vai sah’. But His taste will not be on the tongue. His rasa will not be captured by the tongue. He is the enjoyer of rasa. Sundar repeats this again and again from all sides so the blow may become clear within you—where to seek? In which direction?
‘Mukh ke jharokhe main bachan na uchar hot,
Jibh hun kau shatrasa swad na visekhiyai.’
‘Sundar kahat kou kaun vidhi janai tahi’—
Then Sundar says: by what method shall we know Him? If He could be seen by the eyes, we would see. If He could be heard by the ears, we would hear. If He could be grasped by the hand, we would grasp. If He could be reached by the feet, no matter how far—climbing mountains, crossing seas—we would reach. Now how shall we reach? We have no method. By what method know Him?
Abandon all methods—then He is known. He is known by renouncing method itself. There is no method to attain Him. Method always leads to the other. Methodless, without device…
You have heard the word ‘nirupaya’. You know one meaning: helpless. Its second meaning is: without method. Nirupaya—now there is no device.
When the seeker sees there is no device, no method to attain Him—because all methods are tied to my five senses, and these senses are only windows and He sits behind them, wholly—
‘Deh tau pragat mahim jyon ko tyon hi janiyat,’
But He is within—and all the senses rush outward. How will the meeting be? If I move through the senses, I will never reach Him. Through the senses I will go farther away. He is beyond the senses. By what method, then, attain Him?
‘Sundar kahat kou kaun vidhi janai tahi—
Karau pirau kahun dwar jatau hun na pekhiyai.’
A great quandary arises: none of the methods will do. What then shall we do? Yoga, tapas will not help. Vows and fasts will not help. But in the very seeing that there can be no method to attain Him—all methods drop. The seeker becomes helpless, without device—he halts, stands still. Where now to go? All going is wrong going. Go—and you miss. Now there is no going. In that very state the first touch of Him happens. Call it sthiti-dhih—the state in which all methods have gone, the fascination with methods is gone, even the possibility of methods is destroyed.
Therefore the wise say: He is attained ‘sahaj’—spontaneously. Sahaj means: without method. ‘Sadh, sahaj Samadhi bhali!’ It is called sahaj Samadhi. Sahaj Samadhi is not a technique—it is the perception of the futility of all techniques; the perception of the futility of all senses. Suddenly everything becomes still. The eyes close, the ears go deaf, the hands go inert, the feet’s movement is arrested. Where to go? There remains no way of going. In this nirupaya state a man suddenly finds: I am within. Suddenly he finds he has come home—without going anywhere, he has arrived home. No journey done, no search in any direction. This unprecedented event happens like a miracle. In methods one wanders. In methods one gets caught in riddles. Becoming methodless one arrives home. For Paramatma is our very nature. Nothing needs to be done to gain Him. What must happen is the seeing that all our doing becomes a barrier. In non-doing the Divine is found.
‘Sundar kahat kou kaun vidhi janai tahi,
Karau pirau kahun dwar jatau hun na pekhiyai.’
No one has ever seen Him—whether He is dark or fair. No one has ever seen Him leaving the body. Even when death occurs, He is not seen going. No one has seen Him coming, no one going. He simply is—neither comes nor goes. When you pass through death, He neither comes nor goes—only His connection with the body is severed. The bulb broke—do you think the electricity went somewhere? The electricity remains where it is—only the relation with the bulb ceased. Now there is no light. He does not come, does not go. He has no transmigration. To attain Him there is no need of coming or going.
‘O Firaq, finding Them we say this in our hearts:
Think it through and it is difficult; see it—and it is easy.’
Understand—this is only to be seen. If you think, it is difficult. If you get caught in thought, great difficulty will arise. See—and it is easy. What I am saying to you, try to see. The Truth I speak of is not to be thought; it is not accessible to thought. It is beyond argument, beyond reason. Not within understanding—outside it.
See. Just see this truth: that which is within—how could it require going outside to gain it? That which has been within me since birth—how could any method be needed to gain it? That which is my very nature—how could it be lost, how could it be gained?—I am it already. Not Kashi, not Kaaba—nowhere to go. Not mantra, not tantra; not yoga, not renunciation; not vows, not fasts—these are inventions of the mind. Then what shall I do?
In doing lies the mistake. In doing the doer, the ego, arises. In doing, the journey begins. Doing means: journey—moving to do something.
Sit quietly. In the twenty-four hours, for a few moments—just sit, do nothing—nirupaya, methodless, helpless. Let the eyes close by themselves, the ears close by themselves—be as if lifeless. Thus it was that Ramana attained Samadhi.
Ramana’s Samadhi is worth understanding. You will understand this sutra thereby. He was not much in years—had he been older, perhaps Samadhi would not have happened. As years pile up, the rubbish of experience accumulates; to drop that rubbish becomes difficult. As years pile up, people become ‘learned’ without knowledge—and one who becomes learned without knowing is worse off than the ignorant. As years pile up, through hearing people become pundits, parrots. They recite Upanishads and Vedas. And the more the Vedas and Upanishads become memorized, the more understand—distance from the Divine is growing. Your own Veda will no longer be born; now you are bound by borrowed Vedas. Your own Upanishad will not be born; you have caught hold of others’ Upanishads.
Ramana was seventeen. Someone in the family died. He saw death happen. Just now the man was; just now—no more!
‘Karau pirau kahun dwar jatau hun na pekhiyai.’
No one saw dark or fair; no one saw anyone coming or going. All was as it was: nose, mouth, eyes, ears, hands, feet—everything the same. A moment before—he was; a moment later—he was not. What happened? Who went? Where did he go? From where had he come?
An insight came to Ramana. Children often have such insights. While the family was busy wailing, he went to the next room and lay down on the floor just as the dead man had lain. He let his limbs become slack as the corpse’s were. He closed his eyes. He made an experiment of death: Let me see what happens within me; if I die like this—does anyone come or go? Does anyone remain within? He let the body relax. He must have been a very simple-hearted child—so simple that soon it felt as if death was happening. Hands and feet dried; for a while thoughts circled, then they ceased; for a while outer noises and sobbing were heard, then they faded away somewhere—ears as if closed. For a while breath seemed to go on, then distance arose even from that. Death seemed to happen. And when after an hour Ramana opened his eyes, he was another being. A miracle had happened. He had seen within that ‘what is’ has no death. He went to the family and said: your wailing is in vain. No one goes anywhere; no one comes anywhere.
And that very day he left home and set out toward the forest. In this world there was no meaning left. The meaning of all meanings had been found within. The treasure was found—what remained to seek? In this world we go on seeking treasure. When the treasure is found, when one becomes rich, what is there to seek here? He set out. And such a taste arose in this art of dying—that people say wherever Ramana sat he sat for days. He closed his eyes, made the body a corpse—and sat, drinking the rasa.
‘You do not know the art of drinking.’
Days would pass. No concern for food, no sense of thirst. But an aura began to show, a halo manifested. A fragrance spread all around. People began to serve. Some brought food, some massaged hands and feet, saying: return, eat. Someone brought water, someone bathed him—otherwise he would sit unbathed. Swarms of flies would sit on him—and he was intoxicated, enraptured. People asked: What do you do? He said: I do nothing. There is no need to do. This remained his message all his life. Whoever came and asked: What shall we do to attain the Divine?—he said: There is no need to do—just sit. Sit empty. Sitting empty, sitting and sitting—one day such a tone will tune by itself that what is within will begin to be felt. The mind will turn from the outer; the inner will be experienced.
‘Sundar kahat kou kaun vidhi janai tahi’—
Not by method, by unmethod it happens. Therefore even children may have it if they wish. The healthy may have it; the ill may have it. The one in the marketplace may have it; the one in the Himalayas may have it. The beautiful, the ugly, the poor, the rich, the literate, the illiterate—anyone may have it. For it is only a matter of letting go of all and dipping silently within for a little while.
And when this happens, then speak a little. Otherwise people’s heads are already full of trash—do not fill them more.
The greatest sin running in this world is—speaking by those who have no experience. They keep filling minds with rubbish.
‘Boliye tau tab jab bolibe ki sudhi hoi’—
Speak only when the remembrance of Him has arisen—when awakening has dawned, when the flame has lit within, when speaking becomes inevitable, when the call cannot be restrained, when it goes beyond your control—just as a flower must bloom and fragrance must spread, just as a cloud must rain. Speak when you are so brimming that you must.
He must have been saying this to his disciples. First he told them how to awaken, to become luminous—and then he said: when you are luminous, speak; before that, do not speak.
There is great relish in speaking. The ego finds great satisfaction in advising others. Those who know nothing of God preach to others that God is. Those who know nothing of the soul argue to others that the soul exists. In explaining others they sometimes forget they themselves do not know. And when you do not know, what on earth will you explain? Unlit lamps go to light unlit lamps! Corpses go to give the gift of life to corpses.
Nanak and Kabir both have said: ‘Andha andha theliya, donu koop parant’—
The blind push the blind—and both fall into the well.
The blind are becoming leaders of the blind. And there is one reason—because the language of the blind suits the blind. The language of those with eyes does not suit the blind. It irritates them. Sometimes they become very angry. They stone a Buddha. They crucify Jesus. They cut off Mansoor’s head. The blind are angry—the language of the seeing does not gel with them. The blind man’s language suits them well—there is an easy harmony.
Therefore you will find crowds gathering around dead, lifeless sadhus. You will see worship of dung-Ganesh. People install lumps of clay and worship them—bowing to their own handiwork.
Sundardas says: speak when remembrance has dawned. ‘Sudh’ is a lovely word—it means memory, recollection of who I am; awakening of surati.
‘Boliye tau tab jab bolibe ki sudhi hoi.’
Just now you are unconscious, fainted. You know not who you are. Not even a ray has been touched—do not talk of suns; else you will wander in darkness forever, your no-moon night will never break. Do not discuss fragrances now, for what you know is only stench; do not mistake stench for fragrance. Do not talk of flowers now, for you have known only thorns; do not be so unfortunate as to take thorns for flowers.
This has happened. People have taken scriptures for truth. They have made words and doctrines their very life. Stones are being worshipped. Satsang is held around the dead. Andha andha theliya! Then, naturally, if both fall into the well, there is nothing to be surprised about. They console one another there, explain to one another.
Man is so dishonest—perhaps compelled by life’s miseries; he must be dishonest. Life has so many pains that if he did not console himself, living would be difficult. He says: this is not a well, it is a pilgrimage. I have not fallen into a well; I have reached a holy place. Such a fall is what happens when you reach a shrine.
Then man consoles himself. You go to the temple, you worship, you recite—but remembrance of Him never dawns. How long will you go on with these rituals? How long will you stay entangled in the words of those in whom the void has not manifested? How long will you sit worshipping at empty pots?
I have heard a Sufi tale: a man, very thirsty, very sick, death near—he cried for water, but there was no one to hear. Though the bazaar was full—who listens in a bazaar? People cannot even hear themselves; who will hear another? There was much noise. In that room lay an empty decanter. Hearing the man’s talk of thirst, the empty decanter forgot it was empty. The talk of thirst—and the thought: I am a decanter.
Truth be told, till wine fills it, it should not be called a decanter. An empty pitcher—what pitcher? But in makeshift speech we call even an empty decanter ‘decanter’. There is no sura in it, yet ‘surahi’. The poor decanter was deluded by words; if men get deluded by words, what wonder if a decanter does?
Great pity arose in it. Somehow it crawled to the man and said: Drink—drink as much as you want. The man, thirsty and dying, heard such mockery! He lifted the decanter and smashed it against the wall. It shattered into pieces.
Sufis say: be careful—until you are filled, do not go to quench anyone’s thirst. Otherwise the fate of the decanter will be yours.
‘Boliye tau tab jab bolibe ki sudhi hoi,
Na tau mukh maun kari chup hoi rahiye.’
Otherwise remain silent. Cultivate a deep silence, for from silence remembrance will awaken. From remembrance fragrance will arise. From remembrance a lake will form. Then you will surely quench others’ thirst. And you will not need to go, as the empty decanter went. When you become a lake, the thirsty will find you on their own—coming from far-off lands, far-off directions. Those who truly seek will find the lake. But first become the lake.
Whenever someone becomes filled with consciousness, then those whose lives truly long no longer fret about God; they do not even raise the topic of God. They move toward the one filled with consciousness. For where consciousness is, there the news of God is found. Where awakening has occurred, where a little light has descended from the sky—in that light we too will bathe.
‘In short, love had to come to its senses—
Let us behold Thy madmen here; let them not go far.’
When someone awakens, filled with remembrance, what more will he say?
‘In short, love had to come to its senses—
Let us behold Thy madmen here; let them not go far.’
Then there is no need to go anywhere. If you have seen even one awakened lover of the Divine, you have seen the Divine. But a great difficulty has arisen because of those who, without knowing, keep explaining; without any inner experience, keep praising doctrines and scriptures.
Here in a hundred voices ninety-nine are false. Delusion abounds. How shall an ordinary person search? Whom to take as true? How to believe? The bazaar of falsehood blazes!
Remember, counterfeit coins have one peculiarity—they drive genuine coins out of circulation. If in your pocket there are two coins—one false, one true—you will first spend the false one. You will pass it to the betel-seller somehow. First you try to get rid of the false; the real will always pass anyway. Those who hold fake coins all try to pass the fake first. Thus when fake coins fill the market, the genuine go out of circulation.
Therefore the pace of Buddhas does not take hold of you—they are genuine coins. The priests and pundits are the counterfeits—but the counterfeits always push the genuine out of circulation. Only one goes to search for the genuine who has decided to seek—who has resolved: I will not leave this world without finding the Paramatma.
Unwritten letters many
were seen;
Unspoken words many
were learned;
Many brimming vessels
found empty;
We ourselves could not ripen—
we passed, unblossomed.
Who has resolved: we will not pass like this. This life must be fulfilled. We have come many lives and gone away empty; this time we will not go empty. In whom such resolve has awakened—only that one will find.
‘Boliye tau tab jab bolibe ki sudhi hoi’—
And when truly His remembrance rises, songs sprout on their own. On their own! Speech blossoms by itself.
The Jain scriptures speak rightly: they do not say Mahavira spoke; they say: speech showered from Mahavira. This expression is lovely and near truth. Others speak; Mahavira does not speak. From Mahavira speech showers—like light showers from a lamp; like water showers from the sky and clouds—so from Mahavira, speech showered. From fullness it showers. So filled that showering must happen. It is no longer a question of speaking.
‘You were One—You became a thousand in my verses;
From this one lamp how many lamps were lit.’
When the One descends within you, a thousand songs are born within you.
‘You were One—You became a thousand in my verses;
From this one lamp how many lamps were lit.’
And then the chain does not stop. From this chain truly tradition is born. True tradition is the name of this chain. There is a false tradition—the one received at birth. You are born in a Hindu home, so you believe ‘I am Hindu’—this is a false tradition. Is this a tradition? Does tradition run through blood, through bone, flesh, marrow? Have your blood drawn, have it tested—not a doctor alive can tell whether it is Hindu or Muslim. Does blood come Hindu–Muslim? Go to the cremation ground, lift someone’s bone, have it examined—does birth bear any relation to religion?
There is a living tradition—one lamp is lit from another. A chain is born. When you search and reach a sadguru, and surrender happens within you—you become part of a tradition. This is the birth of real religion.
‘You were One—You became a thousand in my verses;
From this one lamp how many lamps were lit.’
When His realization descends, its relish is such, its bliss is such—it longs to be shared.
Have you noticed? Sorrow contracts; it does not want to be shared. When you are in sorrow you want to lie under a blanket. When you are very sad, you close doors and windows: ‘Do not disturb me. Leave me to myself.’ You do not wish to meet even your dearest. ‘I am sorrowful—leave me.’ You want to remain in the dark. But when you are filled with joy, you seek friends. When you are blissful, you do not want to be alone; you seek companionship.
Have you noticed? The scriptures have been dishonest here—for they were written by the wrong people. They say Mahavira left the world—this they record; but they do not tell that after twelve years Mahavira returned to the world. They tell of Buddha leaving the world—the count of elephants and horses and the great kingdom is given detail by detail—but when after six years he returned, no one speaks of it. The story is half. Complete it. When Mahavira was sorrowful, he fled from the world; when bliss blossomed, he returned. He had to return—he had to seek people, for joy must be shared.
When Buddha was sorrowful, he slipped away into solitude. When the lamp lit, with it was born an extraordinary compassion—that those who are unlit too may be lit; that those who seek may be shown the path. Not that: ‘What is it to me?’ Such indifference does not happen. Buddha said: compassion is the unavoidable shadow of wisdom. Where there is no compassion, know—there is no prajna; there is scholarship. Joy will want to be shared.
‘Seas heave,
break their banks;
Streams, ever-flowing,
words unbound.
This alone is life,
this is the movement—
the successful, supreme metre;
This the aim,
this the truth,
this the supreme bliss!’
When supreme bliss wells up, it will burst into a thousand thousand songs, flow in a thousand thousand streams. From the Himalaya are born uncountable rivers—Ganga, Yamuna, Sindhu, Brahmaputra—countless. When one reaches the supreme summit of consciousness, from there too uncountable Ganges are born—the rivers flow in all directions.
‘Like a fragrance
spring settled
upon uncounted lips!
Sun and shade on every pore—
flowers smiled;
On the body’s branch
the cuckoo of mind
hummed songs—
cool and hot;
Saffron-dyed, verdant—
intoxicate, beauty-mad—
Dancing and dancing
upon the river’s waves—
Like a fragrance
spring settled
upon uncounted lips!’
When spring is born in one life, spring’s saffron spreads upon endless lips.
‘Today I will not paint a picture—
Today…
Banners and finials of ascending and descending notes
I will raise upon the temple of speech;
I will adorn its gopuram
with clusters of metre;
The drums of sonic grace will resound!
Today…
Bowers of exuberant realizations
will spread shade;
In the lake of felt-being
will ripple
the untouched reflections
of mind-born images;
Gusts will rise of vernal breeze
upon the natural pink—
Every limb of life’s beauty
will tremble and sway!
Today I will not paint a picture—
Today…
Banners and finials of ascending and descending notes
I will raise upon the temple of speech;
I will adorn its gopuram with clusters of metre;
The drums of sonic grace will resound!’
Whenever a Buddha is born, wherever remembrance awakens, wherever the grace of remembrance swells—speech bursts forth, the Veda is born, the Upanishads descend. But until such time—remain silent. Let the Upanishad mature in silence. Silence is like the womb. In silence the truth grows in the womb. When the nine months are full, when the hour of manifestation arrives—then all happens of itself.
Therefore Sundardas says:
‘Boliye tau tab jab bolibe ki sudhi hoi,
Na tau mukh maun kari chup hoi rahiye.
Joriyeun tab jab joribaun jani parai,
Tuk chhand arath anup jamai lahiye.’
Compose only when something has composed itself within! ‘Joriyeun tab’—only then join words, make a song—‘jab joribaun jani parai’—when it is felt that now there is something worth saying, worth singing. Now let me pluck the strings of the veena, now let the mridang sound!
Mahavira remained silent for twelve years; then speech showered. In those twelve years speech ripened; truth grew. The infant of truth grew in Mahavira’s womb.
‘Joriyeun tab jab joribaun jani parai’—
Do not hurry. The ego is always in a hurry. At the slightest happening, the ego begins to announce: the kundalini has awakened, the lotus at the sahasrar has blossomed… Off to announce! Do not hurry. If you must speak, tell it to the guru. If it cannot be contained, tell it to the guru—but do not spread it here and there; otherwise the little thrill that came will be lost. Miscarriage will happen. Guard the womb!
‘Joriyeun tab jab joribaun jani parai,
Tuk chhand arath anup jamai lahiye.’
Then all is born of itself. When that unparalleled experience happens, ‘tuk chhand arath’—rhyme, metre, meaning—arise by themselves. Then you do not need to arrange the rhyme, manage the metre. The songs of the saints are not mere poems.
This is the difference between poet and rishi: the poet has nothing to say—he strings words, sets rhyme and metre. The rishi has something to say—rhyme and metre join by themselves. And if they join, let them; if not, let them not—he has no concern. Within him something is stirring, wanting to flow.
‘Gaiyeun tab jab gaibai kau kanth hoi’—
And when light has descended in your voice—then sing, surely sing! But first allow the experience of truth to come. Do not become a pundit. Pundit means parrot. Do not become a parrot!
‘Gaiyeun tab jab gaibai kau kanth hoi,
Shravan kai sunat hi man jai gahiyai.’
Speak when something has become so dense that if it touches someone’s ear, it awakens him—enters someone’s remembrance and alerts him; when it resounds in someone’s heart and his veena vibrates.
‘Sleeping fate startled awake—
Was it you who spoke, or did magic speak?’
Speak when speech carries magic—when word by word it is filled with the wordless, when every pore of the word overflows with the sap of silence.
‘Flowers open—
fragrance wafts
from earth to horizon.
How many hands,
various in hue,
lift upward—
trembling—
Gazing unblinking
at the ever-moving orb of light—
the sun-car—
Scent-born messengers,
countless,
feeling’s heralds,
from the season-rich earth—
whisper to the sky!’
See the flowers! They carry the scent hidden in earth all the way to the sky. Just so—when the fragrance hidden in your life is ready to manifest, flowers will bloom, songs will sprout, words will be born. The flute will sound—but let Krishna arrive! You do not even know of Krishna, and you sit to play the flute. The notes will not be in tune. Only His notes are ever true. If you sing, only your stench will spread. Let Him sing—sing only when it is certain: now not I, but He.
‘A vermilion drop
floats upon water—
A scale of notes is staked
between earth and sky—
upon a gossamer screen.
One Rik of the Vedas—just now—
assuming form—
descended to earth!’
When you feel something has descended from the sky into me—
‘One Rik of the Vedas—just now—
assuming form—
descended to earth!’
When you feel Infinity has chosen me; now I am instrument of the Divine—then speak. Before that, disappear. Before fullness, become emptiness. Becoming a hollow reed is the essential condition—then indeed the Riks descend.
‘Gaiyeun tab jab gaibai kau kanth hoi,
Shravan kai sunat hi man jai gahiyai.
Tukbhang chhandbhang arath milai na kachu,
Sundar kahat aisi bani nahi kahiye.’
Do not speak that which is not born of your silence.
Do not speak that which is not the messenger of your silence.
Do not speak that which is not the tone of your meditation, the gesture of your Samadhi.
Do not speak that which you speak—let the Divine speak!
‘Ekani ke bachan sunat ati sukh hoi—
Phool se jharat hain adhik manbhavane.’
Thus it happens: hearing the words of One—unearthly joy arises.
The words of the Buddhas—like jasmine flowers showering—
Jhar, jhar, jhar—and the life fills with fragrance!
‘Ekani ke bachan sunat ati sukh hoi—
Phool se jharat hain adhik manbhavane.
Ekani ke bachan asham manau barasat—
Shravan ke sunat lagat alakhavane.’
Another’s words strike as if one is being pelted with stones—harsh, ear-cutting, poisonous. The same words—on some lips become nectar, on other lips become poison.
‘What is deadly poison is nectar too, O unknowing one—
You do not know the art of drinking.’
‘Ekani ke bachan kantak katu vish-roop—
Karat maram ched dukh upajavane.’
Some words pierce the heart like thorns, like a spear thrust—leaving wounds. Another’s words heal wounds. One’s words make sick; another’s give health.
Wait! Before you set out to say something, before you advise anyone—disappear! Otherwise no one will hear your advice, nor accept it.
They say: what is given most in the world is advice; what is taken least is also advice.
Truth is: no one ever forgives the one who gives advice. When anyone advises you, have you forgiven them? Deep within you are pained. Anger arises toward the one advising. It feels as if he is taking advantage of the moment—you are in trouble and he is bent on displaying knowledge. Your wife has died and someone advises: ‘Brother, why weep? The soul is immortal.’ You feel like saying: let his wife die and then we shall see. You listen—but it is indecent. And the one who said it knows nothing of the soul’s immortality; he has no real concern. He could not miss the chance—your sorrow became his opportunity to show knowledge. Like a parrot he recited his memorized words.
Be alert—do not do this. Do not say what you have not known. If people were to stop saying in this world what they do not know—great peace would happen.
A Sufi story: a hunter went to the forest. Tired, he sat under a bush. Nearby lay a human skull. As it happens—you too talk to yourself in the bathroom, making faces before the mirror—the child in man never quite goes away. The skull was nearby; with nothing to do he said, ‘Hello! What are you doing?’ He said it in jest, to himself, with no hope the skull would speak.
The skull replied, ‘Hello!’ He was terrified. Now he had to ask something—otherwise it would seem rude. ‘How did you come to this state?’ The skull said, ‘By useless talk.’ He ran to the city in a panic—he could hardly believe it, yet he had seen and heard. He thought: I will tell the king; I will get a reward—such a strange skull; it should be in the palace. He told the king. The king said: don’t talk nonsense. He said: I am not talking nonsense, I saw it with my own eyes, I ran straight here. The king at last went with courtiers. The hunter, pleased, led them. He went and said to the skull: ‘Hello!’ The skull did not speak. Again: ‘Hello!’—No reply. He shook the skull: ‘Hello!’—Silence. The king said: I knew it. He told the courtiers: off with his head. They cut off the hunter’s head.
When the king had gone, the skull spoke: ‘Hello! How did you come to this state?’
He said: ‘By useless talk.’
Be careful! Do not say what you have not known. It is delightful to speak. The urge is strong. It gives the ego great satisfaction. Nothing gratifies the ego more than displaying knowledge. But one who wishes to be a knower, to truly gain knowledge—must be free of this delusive urge.
‘Sundar kahat, ghat ghat men bachan bhed—
Uttam, madhyam aru adham sunavane.’
Sundar says: there are three kinds of speech. Adham—the lowest—is speech of one who has no experience and speaks in vain. Often you don’t even realize you are lying—because the thing said is good, beautiful. But beauty does not make a thing true. When you tell your son, ‘God is,’ pause—do you know? Is it your experience? If not, you lie. And you speak the greatest lie—for you lie regarding the Divine.
He who lies about small things—making two rupees sound like three—that is not much of a lie. But you—saying what is the supreme falsehood. And you also teach your son: ‘Speak truth, for God is. God sees. Speak truth, do not lie—else God will punish, send you to hell.’ And you are lying outright. You do not know God, nor hell, nor that God always sees. If He always sees, then right now He sees a father lying to his son. You are caught. Do not later say, if someone asks, ‘Hello! How did this happen?’—‘By useless talk.’ Do not later say it.
So much falsehood in the name of religion! Beautiful sayings. I am not saying there is no God; I am saying: until it is your experience, your word is false. Truth is truth only when it is your experience.
Adham speech is that—no experience and yet you speak. Uttam—the best—is when you speak exactly what you have known. In truth—you do not speak; experience itself speaks. And madhyam—the middle—is between the two: some experience you have, and much you add.
Drop what you add. Speak only as much as you have seen, known. Do not add even a grain. Do not mix spices. This is our habit.
Float a rumour—by evening you will be astonished. When it returns through the whole village to you, it will have grown so big even you will be baffled. You will not believe that this is the rumour you let loose in the morning. From a thread—a python!
Man exaggerates everything. Why? The ego wants big things. If not a big house, not a big shop—at least a big lie!
I was a guest in a village home. The husband, a noted lawyer, called me aside before leaving for court: ‘I leave you in my wife’s care; one thing—whatever she says, do not believe it. She exaggerates everything. A pimple she calls cancer. I have thirty years’ experience. She will tell you no one knows what. Do not get involved till I return in the evening.’ And it was true! People narrate their ailments greatly enlarged. A lady on the operating table asked the surgeon: ‘You will remove the appendix—but how long a cut will you make?’ He said: two or three inches. She said: not less than six inches. ‘Why?’ ‘My husband has a five-inch scar and struts about it. Give me six—one blow to his swagger!’ I have heard a woman say to a doctor: ‘Do some operation—anything.’ ‘Why?’ ‘Every woman has had something—tonsils, appendix—and I have had nothing. I have no topic of conversation. Everyone boasts: my operation was like this, mine like that. Remove something—so I have something to talk about!’
When a man has nothing, at least grand lies remain. The ego magnifies things—making mountains of mustard seeds. Be alert.
So: adham—no experience. Madhyam—some experience, much exaggeration. Uttam—the one who does not speak himself, but lets the Divine speak. Keep the Uttam in mind.
Most people are in the adham state. Do not get stuck in the madhyam. For the one stuck in the middle can fall to the lowest any time. A few are in the middle—and get stuck. A little happens, and they think all has happened. They stop there.
Keep the ultimate in view. The supreme goal is this: become so like emptiness that the Divine speaks, dances, sings through you.
‘Jal kau sanehi meen bichhurat tajai pran—
Mani bin ahi jaise jeevit na lahiye.’
As a fish, beloved of water, when apart from water gives up life—so shall you long for the Divine if you wish to attain Him. Nothing less will do.
‘Mani bin ahi jaise jeevit na lahiye’—
As a serpent bereft of its jewel does not wish to live—so without the Divine you should not wish to live. Only when such is your longing, such your powerful yearning—then you can disappear and the Divine will enter within.
‘Swati boond ke sanehi pragat jagat manhi—
Ek seep dusero su Chatakau kahiye.’
Be a chatak-bird! Only the chatak knows what water is, what the Swati drop is. Between one shell and another—only the chatak can discern. Its yearning is such that it distinguishes the essential from the non-essential.
When you yearn intensely for the Divine, the non-essential will reveal itself as non-essential. And whoever has seen the non-essential as non-essential has completed half the journey toward the essential.
‘Ravi ko sanehi puni kanwal sarovar main’—
As the lover of the sun, the lotus waits for the sun—‘When will the sun rise that I may bloom?’—awaiting the morning that the sun may come and wake it—so do you wait! Your night too is long and dark. You too lie in the same mud as the lotus. Await the sun. Call, invoke! The sun will come—surely comes. If the lotus’s prayer is heard, will yours not be?
‘Sasi kau sanehiun chakor jaisen rahiye’—
As the moon’s lover, the chakor, gazes fixedly at the moon—so do you, wherever you live, however you live, whether rising, sitting, sleeping—keep your gaze fixed on the Divine. Fix your unblinking eye upon the Supreme Beloved. If your eyes remain linked to Him, one day—union happens.
Here no yearning is in vain. No thirst is wasted. Before thirst—here—there is water.
‘Taisen hi Sundar ek Prabhu saun saneh jor—
Aur kachhu dekhi kahun bor nahi bahiye.’
Thus, tie your thread of love, your thread of affection, to that One Paramatma—and let the mind go to nothing else. The mind has run much, wandered much. Lives and lives it has roamed. Now channel all energy toward the One. Call the One! Let the One pervade each breath. Seat the One in each heartbeat.
Union will be. Union is certain. I am its witness. Union happens—but only to the one whose yearning is entire.
‘How long can beauty veil itself?
How long can love be veiled?
When love awakens, the Divine is ready to appear.
Spread your bowl! Ask!’
The words of Jesus are: Ask—and it shall be given unto you! Knock—and the doors shall be opened!
Enough for today.