Ka Sovai Din Rain #3

I never understood the dusks and dawns of life.
In wonder I kept gazing at the sun and the moon.
Who is this Unseen One revealing such splendors?
I find my eyes becoming restless, fevered with search.

Neither do I know the goal, nor do I know myself.
For ages I have been watching, waiting upon Your path.

The bud of my heart never opened—yet even today
I keep watching the breeze of dawn with longing.

Look at the state of my mad love:
Even when I bow in worship, it is at my own threshold.

From turning back again and again to look, he grew compelled;
Now I find my own glance becoming victorious.

Whose footmarks are these that have held my steps?
Mistaking the roadway for the goal, I sat down.

Granted, today there is no one to gift me a smile—
And still, I keep testing someone’s gaze.

Man is a search. Whose search—this is not exactly clear. But search—this much is certain. Some Unknown One stands as a question upon the deep unconscious floor.
Man is a question, a curiosity. Whose—this too is not exactly known. What the question relates to—this is not clear either. But there is a question—this much is certain.
“I never understood the dusks and dawns of life.”
What is morning in this life, what is evening—I do not comprehend. Where is the beginning, where the end—I do not comprehend.
“I never understood the dusks and dawns of life—
In wonder I kept gazing at the sun and the moon.”
From where this moon, from where this sun? This vastness, this cosmos—who hides behind it? What is its secret?
“Who is this Unseen One revealing such splendors?”
Who is hidden behind this entire celebration! Who is secreted behind this whole mystery! Whose hands are these! Whose signature! Whose songs are these that are being sung! These flowers—by whom were they wrought!
“Who is this Unseen One revealing such splendors—
Who keeps, hid from sight, unveiling mysteries!”
“And I find my eyes becoming restless.”
Until it is found, the eyes keep searching. They will go on searching. The thirst will go on burning. You can make as many upper-level consolations as you like; sooner or later they crack. Each time, sorrow will be your lot.
To satisfy this deep curiosity man spread out the entire world. Not knowing what he seeks, he starts seeking wealth. Not knowing, he starts seeking status. One day, even after winning wealth by a long chase—he finds his hands empty. Status too is gained—after staking away much life—and he finds his palms filled with ash, life wasted.
Yet the one who goes in search of wealth is a seeker still. The one who hunts for status is also a seeker. Hard to find is the one who is not searching—because man is search, he is curiosity. Until the arrow of curiosity is fixed towards Paramatma, the wandering continues. Like an oil-pressing bull, we circle the same path.
“Who is this Unseen One revealing such splendors—
I find my own glance becoming restless.”
“Neither do I know the goal, nor do I know myself.
For ages I have been watching Your path.”
We have no idea what the goal is, where to go, from where we came, for what we came, for what we must go. “Neither do I know the goal, nor do I know myself.” Not even is it known who the seeker is! Who is this within me, fevered? Who is this within me, restless? Who stands within as an unending question! Give me wealth, status, prestige, fame—give me all—and who is this bowl within me that never fills, remains empty! Then eyes grow restless again. The heart grows uneasy. The search begins anew.
Hence, one desire no sooner ends than another begins. For the search will continue until the Right One is found. That Right One is what we call God, Paramatma. What name you give does not matter. Within you, when the right question is born—that is religion. The right question is one, the wrong ones are a thousand. Until the right question is forged within you, you will certainly ask something—asking is man’s nature and destiny. You will certainly seek—there is no escape. Deny God—you will still have to search; you will seek something else: a better society—socialism, communism; a beautiful future; a classless society... something. But the search will continue. You cannot escape searching.
Only one freedom exists with search—if it is a wrong search, then there can be a thousand searches. If it is the right search, then it is one.
Health is one; sicknesses are many. When I am healthy, when you are healthy, when anyone is healthy—health has no distinctions. So never ask foolishly whether Buddha and Krishna and Christ and Muhammad are different. In health there are no differences. Differences are in disease: your disease is yours, mine is mine; one carries TB, one cancer, another something else. But health is one; it has no adjective.
If someone says, “I am ill,” you ask, “Which illness?” But if someone says, “I am healthy,” do you ask, “Which health?” The question is absurd. Health is simply health. Therefore, one who has arrived is not a Hindu, not a Muslim, not a Christian—these are the names of illnesses. The religious man is simply religious. What does it matter where he was born, from which well he drank water? The thirst is quenched. The source is one; there may be many ghats, but the spring is one. Which vessel held the water—golden or earthen, whether one sat facing east or west—what difference? Whether you called the Divine Allah or Ram—no difference. Names are ours; the Divine is Nameless.
“Neither do I know the goal, nor do I know myself.
For ages I have been watching Your path.”
But still the path is watched: He must be coming! Who? We do not know clearly. How could we, with whom we never met; we never saw Him even for the breadth of an eye; never conversed; never spoke two words; no acquaintance. Yet there is yearning, there is search, there is longing.
“The bud of the heart never opened—yet even today
I keep watching the breeze of dawn with longing.”
This bud of the heart has not yet opened—still, the morning breeze will come and coax my bud to blossom, to flower. The sun will rise, and in the sunlight my fragrance will be strewn, and I will be fulfilled—this yearning sits deep. That yearning is you.
Know your yearning precisely. Give it the right direction—that is the work of religion. Who will give this direction? How will it be found? From where will it come?—therefore, Satguru.
Today’s sutras are about the Satguru. Satguru means: one who has attained; one who has arrived at the goal. Satguru means: whose longing has become fulfillment; in whom no question remains. Where there is no question, there the answer can be. As long as there is question, how can there be answer? If the answer had been, why would you be asking? If even a trace of question remains, know the search continues.
But a carefree moment arrives when all questions drop. The process of dropping questions is called meditation. Meditation is not an effort to obtain answers; it is an effort to bid farewell to questions, to render the mind questionless. When there is no question in the mind, that means no thought—for every thought is a question, whether or not it bears a question mark; thoughts only arise due to ignorance. When there is knowing, thoughts cease. Or, if thoughts cease, knowing happens. They are two faces of one coin.
One whose thoughts have ended, within whom silence has descended—no ripples arise within, nowhere to go now, no more sitting by a road watching for arrival; his road is complete, his waiting is over, he is fulfilled, within him the rain of supreme contentment has fallen—he is called Satguru. He carries the answer.
To find such a one is essential—make friendship with him, tie your knot with him. The very bonding triggers transformation. To be near him is satsang. To be bound to him is disciplehood.
Today’s sutras were written when Dhani Dharamdas found Kabir. But difficulties came—those he faced.
“People laugh at me.”
People laugh.
Dhani Dharamdas was a successful businessman. He had wealth, prestige, respect. And one day, suddenly, he went mad with Kabir. He never returned home. He sent word: “Distribute what is mine—I own nothing now. I am not coming back, for what I was seeking has been found. Why return? I have found those Feet I groped for through births. Now I have bowed there; having bowed, why rise?”
Truly, the one who bows there never rises again. People must have laughed, thinking him deranged. Naturally so; theirs too is natural.
Lao Tzu has a famous saying: When Truth is spoken, those who understand rejoice; those who do not understand laugh. If those who do not understand do not laugh, know the truth has not been spoken. Their laughter is necessary—for they have taken the false to be true; to them the true will appear false.
We weigh with what we cling to as truth. Someone has taken wealth to be truth; you sink in meditation, he will think you mad. His scale is wealth; if you run for wealth, you are wise. Another is fevered with ambition, his only worship and prayer—“On to Delhi!” If he sees you going elsewhere, he calls you mad: “The whole world goes to Delhi, where are you going? Are you sane?” And if you were in Delhi and now you leave—for him you are certainly mad. His logic, his language is position; that is his yardstick. The one who leaves position is mad.
People will laugh. Laughter is their self-defense. If they do not laugh, how will they defend themselves? You take sannyas, and the market folk do not laugh—you put them in great difficulty. Then how will they be shielded? Unarmed, disarmed—if you are right, they are wrong; and no one can live knowing he is wrong. Even if wrong, one must declare oneself right—only then can one live.
Remember: you can live only with truth. Even when living with untruth, you must take it for truth. To know untruth as untruth and then try to live by it is impossible. If you realize the boat you sit in is paper, how long will you remain? If you refuse to admit it is paper, you can sit a while longer. You built a house upon sand; you will not want to admit it—if you do, you will have to run out; danger! Whoever tells you “It is sand,” you will call mad. Surely the crowd will be with you, for they too built upon sand. Their vested interest lies with yours—if you are wrong, so are they.
Hence the world argues so much. Why the need for so much dispute? Without it, living becomes difficult. The Hindu fights that his book is right; the Muslim fights that his is. Everyone struggles to prove his idea right. Why? The more one fears his view may be wrong, the more aggressively he fights. It is compensation. The more fear within, the more loudly one asserts he is right. Whoever asserts violently, know that doubt has arisen within him; he shouts to convince himself. He will gather a crowd, for with many behind him he gains confidence: “So many cannot be wrong; I alone may be.”
That is why people join crowds—Hindu crowd, Muslim crowd, Jain crowd, Christian crowd. You do not stand alone as an individual “I am.” You attach yourself to society, group, club, party, religion, something—because alone doubts arise; how to suppress them? Out of fear of being wrong, one becomes part of a crowd. Then worries end—crowds hypnotize, mesmerize; there is a psychology of the mob. When someone moves against it, the crowd laughs, mocks, rejects—it must; without it, what will become of the crowd?
When Buddha left the palace and his kingdom, the kings of the lands he entered came to counsel him—not only friends, even enemies. Then Buddha was amazed: those with whom my father warred lifelong, they too came to persuade me? They should be happy—this family is ruined. The only son has fled; the family is finished; the state can be seized. But no, they too came. Why? Because Buddha created turmoil in royal hearts: “Are we doing right, sitting on thrones? Have we wasted life? Perhaps this runaway Siddhartha is the one who is right!” Doubts arose—deep doubts. To smother them, the only way was to coax him back. He became a question mark to them.
They said, “Come to my house. If you do not get along with your father, no worry—consider this your state. My daughter is of age, marry her; she is my only child; you will own this kingdom. It is twice the size of your father’s.”
Buddha laughed: “It is not a question of small or big kingdom. The kingdom itself is futile. I have no quarrel with my father, with anyone. So-called comforts, so-called prestige have been seen through as vain. Shall I exit one ditch to fall in another? Forgive me. Thank you for your kindness.”
But those kings would not have slept that night; thoughts churned—what if he is right? And why not? For what have they gained? The evidence is with Buddha; the crowd is with the world. The evidence favors religion; the crowd favors the world. The evidence favors meditation; the crowd favors money. You know by your life—what have you gained in relationships, success, running, haste? You lost something; what did you gain? But if you declare “There is nothing here,” then... if a thief declares he will become a saint, the other thieves laugh: “He has lost his wits.”
“People laugh at me.”
Dharamdas says: Why do they laugh at me? I have done no harm.
“My heart is attached to the Satguru; what is that to anyone?”
My heart has fallen in love with the Satguru. Why should people laugh, neglect, oppose? I am attaining supreme joy. Whether my guru be right or wrong—what concern is that of yours? I had been attached to wealth—no one laughed then; no one warned, “Wealth leads to evil.”
Yet wealth leads to evil. The poor man is generally good—one needs means even to do evil. Power leads to evil. Those without power—what evil can they succeed in?
Lord Acton said: Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. I agree... and do not. He is right and not. He is right in that whoever goes into power gets corrupted by it. But it is not the fault of power; this is where I diverge. These were corrupt men already; only they lacked power; hence they appeared saintly. Without power, a man can be forced to be virtuous; to be vicious needs facility.
If you remain only with your wife at home, no great wealth is needed. But to visit a prostitute—wealth is needed. If you wish to live quietly, little is required. But to trample chests, to cut throats, to push others down—power is needed. Why does one seek power? Because with power, the hands obtain the capacity to enact what one always wanted but could not. Power does not deform; the deformed seek power.
In this country you saw it happen. In 1947, when freedom came, those who entered power were “saints,” good men: khadi, spinning wheel, vegetarian, bhajan-kirtan—“Allah-Ishwar Tere Naam, Sabko Sanmati De Bhagwan.” But entering power, they changed. The hidden desire was something else. Their “Ram-Ram” was merely a veil to hide the knife beneath the arm.
This repeats. Each time power shifts, new men arrive; when on the way up, they look saintly; on the throne, saintliness dissolves. Power reveals the concealed rogue.
Money too brings out the hidden bad. Money is marvelous—give money to a man to know him; his reality will surface. The poor must suppress their reality—compulsion.
Evil requires some prosperity. Evil is risky; one needs strength—if you do evil, others will too; you need power so that others dare not answer you.
Acton is right that power deforms—but look deeper: it is the deformed who seek power. Power is not at fault.
No one laughed when Dharamdas made money. No one said: wealth will be misused—and it always is. But today, Dharamdas has joined Kabir—and they laugh, asking for a thousand answers.
“My heart is attached to the Satguru...”
And this matter of the heart has no argument—remember.
These sutras are precious.
“My heart is attached...”
There is no logic to it. It is not a conclusion reached by reflective process. It is love.
Mir left me a will:
“Be anything, but do not be a lover.”
Why do the “wise” say do not be a lover? Because love runs contrary to worldly wisdom. Love is unreason. If the world’s wise are wise, then love is folly. And if love is wisdom, the whole world is foolish. If love is wisdom, argument is madness. Choose—logic or love. The one who chooses love leaves logic. The one who clings to logic is deprived of love. Through logic you may gain many things—but not love. And without love, Paramatma is not found. Logic gives many things—but it loses the heart, and with it the essence of life. It gives deserts, not oases; no flowers bloom. Flowers blossom only by thought-free love.
Mir’s will: “Be anything, but do not be a lover.”
But it is difficult. It is not in man’s hands. Love happens; it is not done. So too with the Satguru—love happens. It is a happening.
“There is no force upon love; it is that fire, Ghalib,
Which cannot be lit by will, nor extinguished by effort.”
Neither by your applying, it ignites; nor by your trying, it is put out.
The “wise” have built this world loveless. Ironically, the same wise talk of temple and mosque, yet create a love-empty world. In a loveless world, temples become false—because only in a love-filled world can a temple truly sprout. In a loveless world, temples are imposed, not rooted—like cutting banana plants and propping them up: green for a day or two, but false.
Your temples and mosques are such false things—imposed upon a loveless world. The temple can rise only where love is.
“They forbid love
As if it were in our control!”
Ordinary love too is not in your control. You fall for a woman, a man, a friend—beyond you. Suddenly a rhythm matches, a music binds, a meter wells up—not in your hands.
With the Satguru this madness is greater. Love simply happens.
“We tried with ourselves much—but love’s malady has no cure.”
Even the one in love wants to be saved—because love drowns the ego. Who wants his ego drowned! The world says beware; the ego within also says beware. The world and the ego are in collusion; they speak the same language. But when the ray of love descends—then there is no device.
“My heart is attached to the Satguru...”
Blessed is the moment the heart latches to the Satguru—for it is the first and last step toward Paramatma. First and last—no other step remains. In one step, the journey is complete. For the Satguru does two things: from one side, he severs you from the world; and when you are severed from the world, you are joined to Paramatma. Nothing else binds you except your attachment to the world.
“Without love a man knows no art—
Living is great indeed; dying he knows not either.”
Without love, he knows neither how to live nor how to die. Love teaches both at a glance. When there is something in your life for which you can die—then alone do you have something to live for. Living and dying arise together.
Most people have neither a cause to die nor to live; they are dragged. No direction; they go because others are going. Do not ask them—such questions are considered impolite. Civilized people do not ask: Where? Why? For what? The well-bred walk wherever the crowd goes, quietly. The well-bred obey; they do not rebel.
Religion is rebellion. Love teaches rebellion.
“When the koel’s calls come now and then from blossoming gardens,
When a sweet song bursts from the tender strings of the heart—
At that moment, if you would lift the veils and arrive in the garden,
Every particle of my being would turn into a portrait of joy.”
There is a spring-moment—when your eyes are fresh, a dawn within. If, in that moment, you meet one who has arrived... It is a matter of grace, not of arrangement.
The Satguru comes like a guest—without giving date, therefore atithi. If you knew beforehand, you might run away. The happening is sudden. You may have gone for something else, for some other reason—you had never thought you would be caught in such a deep net. You did not go by calculation; had you calculated, you would not have gone at all.
Calculators do not go to Satgurus. Dharamdas too did not go that way. He was wealthy—and religious in the way the wealthy are: Satyanarayan story, puja, yajna, havan. For one such ritual he went to Mathura. Someone said, “Since you are here, Kabir too is here. Go see him.” He had seen many sadhus—“Let’s go see this one too.” But this sadhu was not of that kind. Your sadhus belong to your world; they console you, a sleep-inducing drug. You don’t get a child—they conduct a yajna. Religion is to arrange so that you are not born again; they arrange another birth for someone else. You want to contest an election—they do a rite to ensure victory. Religion is a process to make you lose here so that you remember God—“The defeated repeat Hari’s name!” But they make you win here. Buy a lottery ticket—and the “mahatma” will bless you.
When I traveled from Bombay, trouble arose at the station. So many came to see me off that the guard and driver would notice: “So many! Must be a saint.” Before the train could move I would be in difficulty. The guard would touch my feet: “Tell me a number.” “What number?” “You know everything—just once let me win the lottery. With your grace, all is possible!” I would explain: “Brother, I know no numbers. From me you will lose, not win!” He would say, “Mahatmas never do such things. A saint’s work is to bless. Today I will not leave without a number. Only once; I will not trouble you again. My daughter has to be married, my son has no job. I am not asking anything illegitimate!”
Your sadhus and mahatmas have done such things since Vedic times—so much so that you will be astonished. To kill an enemy—they bless that too. There are verses in the Vedas—indecent—in which Indra is implored: “Let there be no crop in my enemy’s fields; let rain not fall there; let my enemy’s cow’s udders dry, let no milk flow.” Were those prayers religious? Those who preserved such prayers, were they religious? And those who worship this book for centuries, can they be religious?
So-called religion is an extension of your world; a part of it.
Dharamdas had gone to many sadhus—giving donations, building temples. Going to Kabir, he fell into difficulty. He had gone by mistake; otherwise perhaps he wouldn’t have gone. That meeting of eyes with Kabir—and something else happened. “My heart is attached to the Satguru!”
“Was that a glance of coyness or an arrow from a bow?
At meeting of the eyes I could only cry, ‘Alas, my heart!’”
The hour of madness arrived.
“My heart is attached to the Satguru—what is that to anyone?”
Now the question of good or bad does not arise; it is beyond good and bad.
That is why you cannot persuade a lover by saying, “This will end badly.” He says: Let it. Love is so great that even the bad can be borne.
“Mounted on love’s steed, I shall ride into fire.
The path of love is so hard, not everyone can endure.”
“Let the inner be aflame without smoke appearing outside—
Who knows within, upon whose head it burns.”
“Those who caught fire were quenched; those quenched caught fire again—
Rahim says, love’s burning smolders even when it seems put out.”
“Do not praise, Rahim, a give-and-take love—
Stake your very life—whether loss or gain.”
Loss or gain is not the question. One’s very life is the stake.
The shopkeepers cannot do this—it is the work of gamblers. Dharamdas must have been a gambler; brave. He staked all. That glimpse in Kabir’s eyes was enough: until that is mine too, life has no meaning. He staked everything; he did not return. “It is over. Those I met before were sadhus in name; today I met a Mahatma. Others wanted something from me; today I met one from whom I can receive—by whom I can truly become wealthy.”
“My heart is attached to the Satguru—what is that to anyone?
Since the recognition of the Satguru has dawned upon me, no one’s force can move me.”
Once this recognition is there—no one can have sway. If the whole world stands against, it changes nothing.
“How does this knowing happen? Not by the disciple’s effort. What can the disciple do? Only this much: be present in the Master’s shade. Sit, stand, come and go—satsang. A moment of grace arrives when the meeting happens. Sitting, sitting... listening, listening... your breath becomes attuned to the Satguru’s; your thoughts gradually end; a silence settles within. In that very moment something descends from the Unknown into you. Your vessel fills—with Amrit. Once the taste is there, no one’s force can move you. If even God came and said, ‘Leave the Guru,’ you could not. You would say: ‘I could leave God, for I knew not God; I came to know of God only through the Satguru.’
Kabir has said: ‘Guru and Govind both stand—whose feet shall I touch first?’ Between Guru and Govind, Kabir must choose! Why? Because the Guru showed Govind; the Guru’s grace is greater. Without the Guru, there was no Govind. The Guru gave eyes by which Light is seen. The Light was there before what difference did that make? Govind was there—but until the Guru became the bridge, there was no relation. Whose grace is greater?
“Mother is angry, father is angry, the travelers too scorn.
With knowledge-sword I will slay the three gunas—
And the twenty-five thieves of the senses.”
Dharamdas says: I no longer worry—I have such a sword in hand that, let alone parents and friends, I will cut at the very three strands that weave existence—sattva, rajas, tamas. I will sever the root of this life. The five senses with their twenty-five thieves—I will behead them. The sword has come to my hand.
“Now such a device be made—the Satguru arranges the confluence.”
The Guru’s very work is to arrange devices—buddhakṣetra. The Gita begins: “At Kurukshetra, the field of Dharma.” That battle was Dharma’s field. Going deep you will see Krishna’s device—it is through that struggle the disciples become witnesses and instruments.
The Guru creates the climate; the event happens within the disciple, but outside the milieu must be arranged. Thus Buddha made thousands into bhikshus—creating a sangha, a community of friends. Alone, you may not fight the world; alone, you may break; alone, you may drown. The sangha is a current of ten thousand monks—peace and celebration around. A new monk easily dives in; he mounts that wave.
“Now such a device be made—the Satguru arranges the confluence.
When saints arrive joy fills me; when they depart, disease spreads.”
Who is a saint? In whose presence the remembrance of God awakens; who invokes the inward journey; under whose shade the essential is heard and the nonessential drops. In satsang—tears stream, hearts dance. Then, parting, pain comes—“when they depart, disease spreads.”
“What entered as Light to my eyes drips like blood when you are gone.”
But slowly the need for outside satsang ends; the inner saint is born. Then wherever you are is tirtha; wherever you bow is temple.
Begin with the company of saints. But before that, find the Satguru; otherwise you cannot even recognize a saint. The fake are many; the true, rare. First let love happen with the Satguru.
“Love is paradise for man.
Love is grace for man.”
First love the Satguru—taste a little heaven! Then, having seen the Satguru, even a small ray of light anywhere you will recognize. You will begin to recognize the saint everywhere. You will shift from the world of the unholy into the world of the holy—here itself, another world: buddhakṣetra, dharmakṣetra.
“Dharamdas bows with folded hands—listen, O Liberator of the bound!
He by whose feet I am freed from prison—
He whose status is beyond the three worlds—what must that Lord be!”
For now I have known only the Guru—and already such joy! What then of the Lord—Sahib! Now I have seen only His image in the mirror—on the lake’s surface. The true moon has yet to be seen. I have seen what has happened within the Guru—what of the One by whose grace it happened!
“Sahib—such is not attained, O brother, while the mind is restless.”
What is the obstacle? The chitta is restless, it does not abide. Have you seen—when you fall in love, the mind begins to settle? You are engaged in a thousand tasks—yet the beloved flows within, a continuous stream. Day or night—her memory... A continuity is born. Only in love have you known a taste of lesser restlessness. Let this love become vast with the Guru—then the mind becomes unwavering.
“While the mind is restless, Sahib cannot be met.”
“Beads and tilak upon the chest, you dance and sing—
But do not know your own secret; and you teach others!”
You may roll the rosary, mark your forehead, dance and sing—if love has not happened, all is hollow, on the surface, mere ritual. Distinguish—ritual is rampant. You go to the temple and offer two flowers—does your heart offer itself? Passing a temple you fold your hands—do your life-breaths fold? If not, drop the ritual; it is hypocrisy. If the heart’s flower offers itself, then the outer flower too becomes meaningful. Dharamdas is not saying do not dance and sing—he himself danced and sang; his very words we are listening to. He says: be present in your dance and song; let not the lips alone sing—let every pore sing; let not prayer remain words, let it be soaked with life.
“Your imam is without intoxication, your namaz without rapture—
Pass such namaz by; pass such an imam by.”
If there is no ecstasy in your prayer—eyes un-drunken—pass it by. You returned from such a vast tavern and did not stagger? The drunkard is better—at least he reels! You do not. In such a madhushala—how come no swoon?
“The cautious pietist has taken prayer as mere ritual—
But the aim is different; pass the ritual by.”
There is ritual—formality—and there is reality—feeling. You say, “I love you,” but the heart is empty—that is ritual. Sometimes you do not even say it, and love is known—your coming speaks, your gaze speaks, your grip speaks, your intoxication speaks. Meaning comes from the life within.
People sit with ritual—keeping a Sunday religion. Pass it by. Religion belongs to intoxication, to mad lovers; a single drop and you dance. You have been nursing a pacifier—no dance has arisen. No joy, no flowers.
“You dance and sing with beads and tilak—
But know not your own secret—and teach others.”
A great fun goes on: those who know nothing keep advising others. Advising hides your own ignorance and satisfies your ego: you become the knower, the other the ignorant. Beware of erudition—pāṇḍitya is poison. Once caught, it hardly leaves. Cancer has treatment; erudition has none. Cancer kills the body; erudition rots the soul.
“Let a balm be placed on the heart’s wound,
Let my eyes at least find some touch...
Blood drips from the heart—
Let its mouth taste the relish at last.
Let the chariot of the world be as it is—
Let my heart find one life.
Why close the door of the tavern—
Let the Sheikh at least taste the breeze!
We will find Him in this world—
If only we could find the address of our own heart.”
But one does not know his own heart—yet goes to seek God.
“We will find Him in the world—
If only we could find our own heart’s address.
Let me become dust and find rest—
Let me receive one ill-wish.
You want to find me—
Come into my state, then you will.
He may be faithless, ‘Salma,’
Let him at least taste my fidelity.”
The most essential first step is to know: “I do not know; I am ignorant; my knowledge is borrowed; it is not cash.” To know one’s ignorance is the first and most important step toward knowing.
But the pundit never comes to know this. He knows everything—just like parrots know. Tell a parrot—he repeats. Sometimes the parrot is wiser than the pundit.
A pundit went to buy a parrot. He fancied one. The shopkeeper said, “I don’t want to sell this one; he is my pride.” The pundit insisted. “What is special?” “See the left leg—pull this string, he recites the Gayatri. Pull the right, he intones the Navkar mantra. This parrot is dear to both Hindus and Jains.” “And if both strings are pulled together?” The parrot squawked, “O fool! I will fall flat on my face!” Sometimes parrots are wiser—pull both legs and anyone will fall. The pundit had expected some syncretic chant.
Pāṇḍitya is parrot-rot. In the journey to truth, one must be free of scripture; one must awaken from words.
“You see the heron, white on the outside—
But its heart is filthy, brother.
Eyes closed, pretending to be a silent sage—
Yet snatching fish it eats.”
Watch the heron: Gandhian white khadi, immaculate—old leader’s clothes pale beside it. One leg, motionless, “meditative”—not even Buddha stood so still. Because if it moved, the water would ripple and fish escape. Watch your “mahatmas” carefully—are they sitting with eyes shut to hook your fish? Do they want something of you? You will be shocked—those you go to are beggars like you. Their stillness is a trick; their posture a deception. Not all are herons; sometimes a swan appears. But great vigilance is needed. Mostly the heron will appeal because he matches your expectations. He will do as you like: sacred thread if you like, particular tilak if you want. He exists to please your expectations. The Satguru will not; he will annoy you, shake you, strike you. You will swear never to return: “Dangerous man!” The Satguru cannot agree with your ideas; if he agreed, he would be useless. You must agree to him; he will not agree to you.
I was a guest in a Jain home. They greeted me as the “twenty-fifth Tirthankara.” I said: “Wait. Let me stay three days; then we’ll see.” That evening, an old gentleman came from far. The lady of the house said: “It is time for anthau—no eating after sunset. Hurry.” I said: “Let the sun set—this elder has come from afar.” She gasped: “Do you eat at night?” I said: “I eat when hungry. What has food to do with day or night? Food has to do with hunger.” “But Lord Mahavira did not eat at night!” “In his time there was no electricity; in mine there is. Had I been in his time, I too would not.” When I left I asked: “So, twenty-fifth or not?” “Now we cannot say. A Tirthankara cannot eat at night.” There went my Tirthankara-hood! They never invited me again. If I had pleased them, I would have been their twenty-fifth, but then I would have been worthless. That night I ate deliberately—usually I do not—to leave a wound. Some rules are for hygiene, not for Dharma. Eating with the sun is good for health; breaking it one night is not sin, only slight harm, if any.
“Eyes closed, pretending to be silent—
Yet snatching fish he eats.
Guile’s scissors in the belly,
On the lips pious words—
But the inner course the Lord sees—
Where will you hide it?”
The pundit, the teacher-other—he will always please you. Politics has a rule: the leader must walk behind the followers. He announces loudly what the followers whisper. He watches which way you turn, then jumps ahead of you to look as if leading. The truly astute politician senses the wind and mounts it. The Satguru is no leader, no politician. He does not say what you want to hear; he speaks what he sees. Even if you crucify him, poison him. Only with the Satguru can there be transformation. Those who walk behind you—what revolution can they bring to your life?
“The inner course the Lord sees—
Where will you hide it?”
“Beginning and end—learn of them from the Satguru.”
Just as God knows your inner movement, so does the Satguru. You cannot hide. Drop your theories and scriptures; ask him what is the beginning, what the end. Do not try to fit him to your beliefs; if your beliefs were true, you’d already have arrived. Listening through your beliefs—you will not listen at all.
Kabir says to Dharamdas: “Go, explain to fools—whom are you heeding? You listen to those who listen to you. A mutual conspiracy! You follow those with borrowed religion, who have read, heard—not known. ‘The blind leading the blind—both fall into the well.’ Beware the blind.”
“My heart has housed the Lord—Kabir.”
Dharamdas says: “Kabir has settled in my heart.”
“At every proud, sky-blue note—see the lamp of my heart,
A flame flashes at the sound—look at the voice!”
Hearing the voice, the word of Kabir, a spark flares within; lamps are lit. Satguru means raga of the lamp. If your inner lamp does not light upon hearing him, know you have not recognized him.
“My heart has housed the Lord—Kabir.
You are guru to the Hindu, pir to the Muslim.
Both faiths have stirred disputes—
Thus the Body of the Lord found no descent.”
Both religions quarrel; because of their quarrels the Divine does not descend—God cannot take body. They have cut God to pieces.
A guru slept at noon. Two disciples wanted to serve—“Service gives sweets,” they had heard. The guru slept; they divided him—“I will massage the left leg; you take the right.” In sleep the guru turned—the right fell over the left. The left-leg servant shouted: “Remove your leg! How dare your leg touch my leg!” “Try to remove it—and heads will roll!” They raised sticks—to beat the guru. Hearing the fracas, the guru understood and said, “Enough! Both legs are mine—who told you to divide? Who are you to claim ownership?” This entire existence is His—but you have partitioned it. The Hindu lights the mosque aflame; the Muslim breaks the temple idol. Whose idol? Whose temple? Whose mosque?
“Thus, by the quarrels of both, the Lord found no body.”
Due to these quarrels, the descent does not happen; the earth does not become God-filled.
“An ocean of modesty, contentment, compassion—
Love, faith, steady mind.
Vedas and Qur’an speak through you—
Guru of both paths.”
Kabir knew no letters—“I touched not ink or paper.” How then did he become the ocean of all scriptures? Because he learned the two-and-a-half letters of love. In those few are more than in all Vedas, Qur’an, Bible. Those texts flowed from those who knew love.
“Great benefactor of great saints—
Body deathless, ageless.”
Those who sat with Kabir and saw his deathless body—saw the Formless hidden in form—became great saints.
“Dharamdas pleads, O Lord—
Bring my boat to shore.”
The disciple can only pray. The day prayer is complete, the happening happens. Incomplete prayer gives no fruit.
The Satguru’s boat can take you across. The Other Shore is not far; the boat is ready—courage to board is needed. The world will laugh—“People laugh at me.” Ask my sannyasins—people laugh at them, calling them hypnotized. Do not worry—people have always laughed. When people worship a renunciate, know something is false, for people are so false they can only worship falsehood. When they laugh—know truth is beginning; a madman is born, an intoxication descends.
Courage to board the boat is needed. Surrender is to step in. Courage to pray—do not be miserly in prayer.
“When a bud smiles, my eyes fill with tears.
A far-off shehnai seems to play—thus comes his remembrance.
The little boat of the heart emerges from storm—
Only to drown at the very shore.
Like the Taj reflected in Yamuna’s flow—
Thus, in the heart, his remembrance.
The dawn’s new rays near the horizon—
Smile from behind a crimson veil.”
Be filled with the remembrance of the Guru; be filled with the remembrance of the Lord. Then the Lord takes you across. In truth, none “takes” you—your being full of remembrance, your prayerfulness—that carries you. The boat moves of itself. Ramakrishna said: you need not even row—only unfurl the sails; his winds will take you. But courage to sit in the boat is needed, for it sails into the Unknown—toward the Unfamiliar. Your familiar shore will be left; the other shore is hidden in mist—who knows if it is or not!
The name of the courage to journey toward That-which-may-not-be is disciplehood. Whoever dares—finds contentment. In that very daring, the rain descends.
Become a gambler! Love is gambling.
“Mounted on love’s steed, I shall ride into fire.
The path of love is so hard, not everyone can endure.
Let the inner be aflame without smoke appearing outside—
Who knows within, upon whose head it burns.
Those who caught fire were quenched; those quenched caught fire again—
Rahim says, love’s burning smolders even when it seems put out.
Do not praise, Rahim, a give-and-take love—
Stake your very life—whether loss or gain.”
Then surely, victory is certain. Defeat has never happened. Whosoever has staked—has won.
Enough for today.