Ka Sovai Din Rain #9

This is a tavern, yes — but where now that shared delight?
Where that passing of the cup — that caravan of the thirst-intoxicated?
No melting in the minstrel’s breast, no fire in the reed-flute’s song —
Where is the careful tending of the assembly’s sweet restlessness?
Here the wine-jar lies empty; there the goblet too is bare!
Where those mornings and evenings of wine being poured through the gathering?
Some footprints remain — as if erased — yes, and yet…
Where are the fleet-footed friends of longing on the path?
The voice of the times scatters many a blossom, true — but
Where is that life-soothing message — love’s graceful missive?
What shall I do, Akhtar, with love’s evening fragrance?
Where now the unhurried gait of desire’s dawn-breeze?

There were satsang-taverns. The wine of Truth was decanted. People drank — and awakened. They were lost in intoxication — and came to their senses. Those days have passed.
This is a tavern, yes — but where now that shared delight?
The taverns still lie there — but empty now. Who goes to temples anymore? Who still has a living bond with mosques? Gurdwaras and churches have withered. And those who do go — where do they go? They go, and come back.
Some subtle filament has snapped. A certain quest that for centuries kept human breath in ferment is suddenly lost. Man has become entangled in the futile. He has lost the courage to seek the meaningful, to lift his eyes toward it. He is shackled to the known. The adventure of the Unknown no longer dares his life-breath.
This is a tavern, yes — but where now that shared delight?
There is indeed a tavern — but where are those drinkers now?
‘Woh raksh-e-jam…’ — that passing of the cup from hand to hand…
‘Woh raksh-e-jam woh rindān-e-tishna-kām kahān?’ — where now the drunkards, the drinkers, those thirst-driven lovers of the cup?
‘Gudāz-e-sīna-e-mutarib…’ — there is no longer that ache in the singer’s throat,
‘Gudāz-e-sīna-e-mutarib na soz-e-naghma-e-nai’ — nor that yearning in the instrument’s song.
‘Woh beqarāri-e-mahfil ka ehtimām kahān?’ — where the care that tended the assembly’s holy restlessness? Where the gathering of drinkers, its intoxication, the blossoms that opened there, the atmosphere of that company? Something has been lost from the earth. Temples are lost; mosques are lost. They stand — yet they are only buildings now; within them no wine is pressed, no wine is poured. The art of wine-making is lost.
‘Idhar tahi hai subū…’ — here the wine-jar lies empty —
‘…us taraf tahi sāgar!’ — and there the goblet too is empty. Just so are your temples and your mosques now.
‘Idhar tahi hai subū, us taraf tahi sāgar! Woh bāda-rezī-e-mahfil ki subho-shām kahān?’ — those mornings and evenings replete with wine, fragrant with wine — they are no more. Those assemblies are gone.
Something immensely precious has broken off from the earth — it must be created anew. The temple must be raised again. Without a temple, man cannot be man at all. And until the rasa of the Divine flows into life, we may live — yet not truly live. We live — and yet it is as if we do not. We live uselessly — in dust and debris, not in bliss and celebration. We breathe, the chest beats, we eat, sleep, rise and sit — like a tree whose leaves sprout and branches spread — but flowers never bloom.
‘Mite hue-se hain kuch naqsh-e-pā zarūr magar…’ — though the taverns lie in ruins, though temples have been finished off, though priests have murdered the temples and pundits have robbed man of his search for Truth — for the pundits have given so much useless knowledge that now everyone feels: what need to seek Truth? It will be found in a book — why enter life’s experiment? Why take such trouble?… Yet even if priests and pundits have killed religion, the footprints have not vanished. Where men of awakening walked — where Kabir stood and sat — there remain some footprints.
‘Mite hue-se hain kuch naqsh-e-pā zarūr magar’ — some footprints are faint, erased — and yet, they are. If one searches attentively, they can be found.
‘Rahe talab mein woh yārān-e-tez-gām kahān?’ — though now there are no fleet-footed lovers hastening along the path of search, still, some footprints remain upon Time’s sand.
My purpose in speaking on the words of the saints is just this: that these naqsh-e-pā — these footprints — become clearer for you; that you remember there is another way to walk, another way to live; another manner, another style. This that you call life — this is not life. It is only a convenience, an occasion. Here, the real life must be pressed out.
Grapes are not wine. Grapes are only wine’s convenience. True, without grapes there can be no wine — but grapes themselves are not wine. Wine must be made. The process of making wine from grapes is called sadhana.
Understand these sutras.
‘Kahwān se jīv āil, kahwān samāil ho.’ Dhani Dharamdas says: From where did you come? From which loka have you come? Remember the Source — for the Source is the final goal. Where we have come from — there we must arrive — only then is the circle complete, the journey fulfilled. The first step and the last step are one. From seed a tree arises, and within the tree the seeds appear. Then the seed falls back into the earth — to where it came from. From Gangotri Ganga flows, enters the ocean, rises as clouds, rains upon the Himalaya, and re-enters Gangotri — the circle completes there.
Where will the circle complete? Where we have come from — there we must arrive. There is our home. Apart from that — all is wandering. And we have altogether forgotten from where we came.
‘Kahwān se jīv āil…’ — this is the fundamental question: From where have we come? What is our original arising? What is our Source? From what seed has this tree of life grown?
If we search on the surface, as the materialist does — the one who believes only in matter and body — the journey can reach only so far as the meeting of your mother’s and father’s germ-cells in the mother’s womb. But from there only the body was formed — from where did your consciousness come? You are not merely the body. If only you were body — what was there to fear? What worry? What fear of death? Who would die? If only you were body, you would be a mechanism — no awareness, no pain. If only body — all trouble would be finished.
But you are not the body. The body is your garment. You dwell in the body. Who is this indweller — from where has it come? He who has not asked this question has not yet become truly human. And there is fear in asking it. One wishes to avoid it. It is dangerous — a question that can unhinge. To raise it means upheaval — an earthquake, a storm. Until the answer arrives, there will be storm upon storm — and you, like a straw in the wind.
So people do not raise fundamental questions. They raise trivial ones — because trivial questions have answers. A significant question has no answer. That is the distinction between the trivial and the significant. A significant question is not answered — it is experienced. Experience itself is the answer. The trivial question has answers.
People busy themselves with absurd puzzles — filling crosswords, solving riddles — while the riddle of life lies knotted within. Unsolved themselves, they rush to solve others. There is no risk in solving the other’s questions — nothing to lose or gain — and you remain outside the real questions.
A daily miracle happens here. Psychologists and psychoanalysts come from the West — who all their lives have solved others’ problems. When they come to me, I ask: What have you been doing? You are renowned, you have treated thousands — then their eyes drop. They say: We solved others’ questions, but our own remains entangled.
How can it be that your own is tangled and you will untangle another’s? And to what end will your untangling be? Your help will only tangle further. And that is what is happening — the threads of man are becoming ever more snarled — because those whose own knots are not open have gone to open others’.
Why such eagerness to solve another’s questions? Because in solving the other, one can avoid one’s own. One forgets one’s own question.
A religious person is one who takes this trouble, enters this disturbance, and says: First let me solve my own question.
And what is the question? ‘Kahwān se jīv āil?’ — From where have you come? It frightens. Who am I? The mind wants to answer with a name: A, B, C; to give a village, an address, something cheap — woman, man, young, old, famous, infamous — something to get it over with.
Are you your name? Are you your village? Your address? Whom are you deceiving? These are surface stickers. Will they resolve the problem of your life? Will they bear fruit as Samadhi? Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jain; Indian, Chinese, Japanese — what are you answering? What is learned from that? Nothing at all.
When a child is born, he is neither Hindu nor Muslim. No child arrives with sacred thread, nor does God perform any child’s circumcision. A child is not Indian, not Pakistani. He has no language — no Hindi, no English, Marathi or Gujarati. Who is this? What is this consciousness? This stainless mirror? From where does it arrive? This unwritten book — upon which nothing yet is inscribed; soon an identity card will be made, a passport, a name, address — he will be put into a category: doctor, engineer, shopkeeper, this party, that party; communist, socialist — a thousand things. Member of this club, a Rotarian, a Lion — who knows what else! Layer upon layer of untruth will be pasted around him, and in them he will be lost — and perhaps never will the question arise within: Who, after all, am I?
People fear to ask this question. Yet it is the most important. Whoever has not asked it has not accepted humanity’s challenge. Animals cannot ask — they are excused. Trees cannot ask — they are forgiven. But the man who can ask and does not — that is his unpardonable sin — the original sin.
Christians speak of the original sin. I call this the original sin: You do not become what you can become. You do not ask what you must ask, in which alone your destiny is hidden. And you store cheap answers — two-penny answers — and then you even fight over them. ‘I am a Hindu’ — swords are drawn. ‘I am a Christian’ — wars are waged. ‘I am Indian, I am Pakistani’ — millions die. You do not know who you are. Yet you are stubborn about these tags — because you are afraid: if these loosen, doubt will rise — I do not yet know myself! A volcano will smolder within — and that must be avoided. The simple trick is: keep the flag high! Fix your eyes upon flags. Let flags fight flags. Do not ask: Who is holding the flag?
These are all flags — Indian, Hindu, Muslim, Christian — and in their quarrels you are lost.
‘Kahwān se jīv āil, kahwān samāil ho.’ From where have you come — and into what have you merged? From where has this bird arrived — now sitting in the cage? This swan — from where did it come? What is its path? How did it enter the body? How did it accept bodily narrowness, fall into the prison of form, these chains on its hands and feet? This bird belongs to the sky. It is the Homa bird — dweller of the far sky, the Infinite. The sky is its home.
Sky — meaning the formless. Sky — meaning the boundless. Sky — which has no death, no beginning, no end. Worlds arise and dissolve — the sky remains. Suns and stars appear and vanish — the sky remains. Men come and go; civilizations rise and fall — the sky witnesses all. When nothing was there to be seen, the sky was; when nothing remains, the sky will be. It witnesses creation and dissolution. From that sky our coming occurs. We are parts of that sky.
But by my saying so you will not know — nor by Dhani Dharamdas’ saying, nor Kabir’s, nor Nanak’s. You must descend into the inner sky — only then will you know.
As you have raised a wall in your courtyard and imprisoned the outer sky, so within each body, in its small courtyard, the inner sky is confined. As there is a sky outside, there is a sky within. That inner sky is what we call the Atman — or whatever name you choose.
‘Kahwān se jīv āil…’ — From what far loka has the coming occurred?
Why does this question arise? It arises — and to the honest it must arise. This is the measure of honesty. I do not accept your two-penny definition of ‘honesty’ — that someone returned two rupees he had borrowed — so honest! Iman means dharma — iman-dar — one who knows dharma. It is a precious word. What have two rupees to do with it?
Whom do I call honest? The one who raises existential questions, grapples with them, takes them head-on, seeks resolution. The honest person raises first: Who am I? Everything else is second.
People come to me and ask: Where is God? I ask: Have you asked the first question? They say: Which is the first question?
You run to seek God — but you have not asked who the seeker is! You set out on the far journey without searching the near. He who does not know himself will never know the Divine — for the Divine is the vast form of the self. He who is not familiar with the small sky within his courtyard — how will he know the vast sky? He whose wings do not flutter even in the small cage — how will he fly in the sky? The first flight must begin with the fluttering of wings in this cage.
‘Who am I?’ — that flutter of wings. Why does it arise? And to the honest it must arise. It arises because any thinking person soon feels: I am a foreigner here. Nothing here seems to truly satisfy. It seems I have drunk other waters — no water here quenches. It seems I have known another kind of love — no love here fulfills. It seems I have seen other flowers — these flowers are pale, colorless. It seems I have once experienced the Eternal — but here everything is momentary, bubbles of water. Perhaps I do not remember; perhaps that loka was lost long ago; the Homa bird, falling from the sky, has come down to earth…
Imagine the swan of Mansarovar has flown and sat in a dirty pond. Nothing will delight him. He will drink water — thirst compels — but with wrinkled nose. Even if Mansarovar is forgotten, still a sense will trouble him: something is wrong. As it ought to be, it is not. As it is — it does not satisfy. A restlessness, a torment seizes him. He who has drunk Mansarovar’s clear water sits in a pond into which the village’s filth drains — there will be stench, filth, unease. Thirst will compel drinking — true. Mansarovar is not present; he must drink what is. A man may even drink from a gutter to avoid dying. If there is nowhere else to live, he may live in mud. But some voice will whisper: This is not my home. I am a stranger here.
Has this not arisen in your mind? You loved a woman — and found something lacking. You loved a man — and found something lacking. Which man has ever fulfilled a woman? Which woman has fulfilled a man? What does this mean? It means our measure of love is vast — hence no fulfillment. We expect a beauty that is not found in man or woman. It is not their fault. If the pond is dirty, what fault of the pond? It never claimed to be Mansarovar. But what fault of the swan if his heart does not fill with the pond? He will console himself — he will look at the ducks around, enjoying the mud — and he will fret: Something is wrong with me. Look how the ducks revel.
See — trees are not restless. Animals and birds are not restless. Only man is restless. Stones are not restless. In man alone there is a deep tension — ‘As it should be, it is not.’ From this tension two paths open — of politics and of religion. If ‘as it is’ is not, then man thinks: I will make it so! — and politics is born. Convert the pond into Mansarovar, clean the mud, make it pure — socialism, communism — all political doctrines. The hope is: somehow we will set it right, make it as we long for.
But a pond is a pond — it cannot become Mansarovar. Hence politics always fails. It can influence multitudes — but is bound to fail.
No effort can make earth into sky. No courtyard wall can pour the wine of liberation. The cage — gild it with gold and jewels — is still a cage. At best — you will flutter more. Flutter too much — and you will break your wings. Where is the joy of the open sky?
Whoever has a little honesty sees soon: Whatever I do, I harvest the same dissatisfaction. I run after wealth, gain it, and find — nothing. The chase for wealth is a chase for freedom.
Understand: by wealth man seeks freedom — moksha. He deludes himself that with wealth he will have freedom: I will buy what I wish, wear what I wish, marry the woman I love, live in the house I desire, drive the car I like. With wealth, freedom — the luxury of choice.
The poor man’s pain is: no choice. He must live in this hut. He may wish to change it — cannot. He must wear these clothes. He must eat thus — perhaps once a day. No convenience, no freedom.
In the hope of wealth, man thinks freedom will arrive — I will do as I wish. The race for wealth is a mistaken quest for freedom. Wealth arrives — freedom does not. What arrives? A kind of freedom — to choose which misery you will bear. The poor man’s misery is fixed — the same each day. The rich man’s misery changes daily — that’s all. The poor man suffers in the same clothes; the rich man suffers in new clothes each day. The poor bangs his head with the same spouse; the rich bangs his head with new ones. You gain a negative kind of freedom — to choose which poison-bottle to drink. A thousand bottles — colorful — but the poison the same.
What is the difference between poor and rich? Only this. Neither is happy. This is proof: this earth is not our home. We come from elsewhere — from far away. Perhaps we have forgotten our home — but somewhere, in the depths of the unconscious, memory remains. Somewhere, in a hidden depth within, an old remembrance flickers — a small lamp burns — and by that lamp we measure.
Whenever someone falls in love, the beloved appears Divine. As you come closer, trouble begins. Very close — and it is known: ordinary human, with the same mistakes, lack, limitation, mischief. Another love fails. But what is this longing of yours for the impossible? Whoever understands this longing becomes honest. Then begins revolution within.
Politics tries to change the world; the religious one seeks within for the measure hidden inside. In that measure lies the secret of your whole tale. Your true autobiography is there. If, descending step by step into the well of your being, you reach that place where your measure lies — how beauty ought to be, how love ought to be, what you call bliss, what would fulfill you — what is its basis within you, the scale, the balance — when one discovers that inner balance, he is astonished: at once the memory of home returns.
‘Kahwān se jīv āil, kahwān samāil ho.
Kahwān kail mukām, kahān lapatāil ho.’
Where has the soul halted? Where taken lodging? In this life, does anyone feel we have reached the destination? It always seems — just another halt; tomorrow morning we must move.
Did you ever feel you arrived? Wealth, office, status — even then, did you? Everything is attained — the destination is not. Only the sense remains — tomorrow we must move again. A wayside inn — a night’s pause — at dawn, onward. The journey continues. Things are gained, the journey never ends.
Dharamdas says: Reflect — from where you came; where you got entangled; where you made your lodging… ‘kahān lapatāil ho?’ — with what have you bound yourself? Where have you put down roots? Are you stuck in some pond? Is it because of the pond that you have forgotten Mansarovar? Remember! Search in your memory! Go within. If you look closely you will understand.
‘Mujhe khud bhi khabar nahin, Akhtar —
Jī rahā hoon ki mar rahā hoon main.’
One cannot even tell whether one lives or dies — what are you doing? Out of fear man avoids this question. When it raises its head by itself, man runs to hide — to the cinema, to drink. To avoid the real wine, he drinks the fake. He sits by song and dance, turns on the radio, reads the newspaper, gossips with friends — the same gossip repeated a thousand times. He laughs at what is no longer laughable, hears the same things, repeats them, entangles himself somehow, drops tired at night to sleep, and in the morning again sets out to the market.
You must do just this — otherwise the question will arise: Am I living or dying? The fear is that if I look closely, the dreams I have built will be uprooted.
‘Chaman apna, na gul apna, na koi bāghbān apna —
Tabīyat bujh gayī — ujda khushī kā gulsitān apna.’
One fears it may be known: this wife is not mine, these children are not mine, this house is not mine — all will go! I have needlessly imagined, ‘mine.’ He fears that if such thoughts arise, a great melancholy will seize him. Better not to raise such questions.
Hence people fear going to a Satguru.
In Mahavira’s life it is mentioned: in the town where he spent the monsoon one year, there was a famed thief. A thief — so naturally, he told his son: Beware — do not go to Mahavira. Our ancestral profession and his path are enemies. If, by mistake, you pass where he speaks, close your ears and run. He is dangerous; his words make people sad; they lose interest in life; those who have heard him — their lives stagger. Do not enter this trouble.
He was right — many youths grew interested in Mahavira, took sannyas, set out upon the strange quest.
And if ever, by accident, you pass and words fall into your ear — quickly cover your ears. One small word fell — and a life changed. He was passing while Mahavira spoke of yonis — species — and mentioned deva-yoni and preta-yoni. As this thief’s son passed, he heard: the gods cast no shadow.
A beautiful meaning — shadow is cast by density, by opacity. Stone has a shadow; the purest glass has none. Stone is dense, opaque — light cannot pass — hence a shadow. Shadow means: rays could not pass; they were blocked; darkness forms behind. Glass — the more transparent, the less shadow. If it is utterly pure — no shadow, for the rays pass through.
This principle is profound — whether gods exist or not is not the issue — but wherever one becomes godlike, there is no shadow — for deva means consciousness made transparent.
He heard just this — covered his ears, ran. Meanwhile the king, troubled by the father and son, laid a trap. They lured the son with wine, took him unconscious to the palace, placed him in a special chamber — exquisite women, flowers, fragrance, soft light. Half-awake, he asked: Where am I? They said: You can see — you are in heaven. Another added: As yet you are at the gate; when you give the account of your deeds — all will be forgiven — God is compassionate. Dictate your record quickly and you will enter within.
He began to dictate — and remembered: Mahavira had said, the gods cast no shadow — and these ‘goddesses’ cast shadows. He sprang up, sobered, laughed, saw the trick. Then he dictated a long list of his virtues — donations, charity houses — lies. Once free, he told his father: Forgive me — I break my ties. I go to that man whose one chance word saved me. He became one of Mahavira’s great sannyasins.
Thieves fear — the dishonest fear — those who have built on sand fear listening to one whose words awaken the memory that the house is built on sand and will fall; who makes it clear the boat you sit in is paper and will sink — any moment.
‘Chaman apna, na gul apna, na koi bāghbān apna —
Tabīyat bujh gayī — ujda khushī kā gulsitān apna.’
Listening to the Satguru, you will remember: what you call ‘mine’ is not yours; what you think is ‘my’ — is not. You do not even know who you are — how can you know what is ‘mine’? The ‘mine’ is God — you have mistaken the world for ‘mine.’ The error is that you do not know the ‘I’ — hence you have raised a false ‘mine.’
False religion will tell you: renounce, run to the mountains — drop the ‘mine.’
True religion says: Know the ‘I’ — then what worry about ‘mine’? Knowing the ‘I,’ the real ‘mine’ appears — sky, moksha, the Divine. And as the real ‘mine’ is seen, the false ‘mine’ drops. Yet people fear — whoever shakes your sleep will anger you. Whoever breaks your dreams — and what do you have but dreams?
‘Chandnī, mausam-e-gul, sahn-e-chaman, khilvate-nāz —
Khwāb dekha tha — ki kuchh yād hai, kuchh yād nahin.’
A day will come when you understand — it comes to all — but some understand so late that nothing can be done, no time remains — the hour of death.
‘Chandnī, mausam-e-gul, sahn-e-chaman, khilvate-nāz —
Khwāb dekha tha — ki kuchh yād hai, kuchh yād nahin.’
He who awakens while energy is strong, life is in hand — he can do, he can transform.
‘Nirgun se jīv āil, sargun samāil ho.
Kāyā gaḍh kail mukām, māyā lapatāil ho.’
Simple words of a simple man — yet profound. Truths are always simple — and deep. Lies are complex — and entangled.
‘Nirgun se jīv āil…’ From that Vast Source we have come — where there is no form, no color, no fragrance, no taste; where there are no gunas — neither rajas, nor tamas, nor sattva; where no light, no darkness; no day, no night; no boundary; no epithet; no definition. We have come from the indefinable — from the ocean calm before waves arose; from the Kshirasagar — the ocean of milk.
‘Nirgun se jīv āil…’ We have come from the Divine —
‘…sargun samāil ho.’ — and we are lodged in a small body. A ray descended from the sun and settled in a tiny cave, dancing there.
Have you seen? Sometimes a crack in the tiles lets a ray enter a dark room — it dances in the dark. So is our state. We have come from the Great Sun, lodged in a dark cave. Many births have passed in this cave; we have forgotten from where we came, where our home is, our original abode. We have made this dark cell our home.
‘Nirgun se jīv āil, sargun samāil ho.
Kāyā gaḍh kail mukām…’ — and this body, this inn, this hostel we have made our destination. We think: we have arrived. We cling to the body, spend life adorning it, take it as our all. Yet it is a cell — and from it we harvest only sorrow: disease, old age, death — what else? What has come with this body?
‘Kāyā gaḍh kail mukām, māyā lapatāil ho.’ We halted in the body, took it as ours, became entangled in ‘mine’ — māyā. He who does not know the ‘I’ becomes trapped in ‘mine’: my wife, my child, my house, my money, my status. My-my — and he dies.
Māyā — a meaningful word — means magic. ‘Magic’ derives from māyā — where that which is not, seems to be.
Have you seen a magician’s trick? He plants a mango pit in a pot, covers it, drums, banters with his boy — lifts the cloth — a sapling! More banter — lifts again — fruit on the tree! Māyā is what does not exist, cannot exist — yet appears. And daily we nourish these appearances.
You fall in love with a woman; you arrange a marriage — the magic begins. You know she is not ‘yours.’ Now a delusion must be created: that she is mine. Bands play, the procession moves, you ride a horse — daggers at the waist, peacock plumes on the head — hypnotic devices to instill the suggestion: a great event is happening, an unbreakable knot tied, seven circuits round the fire, mantras recited. The whole society witnesses, and slowly a deep suggestion is embedded: you two are each other’s forever — only death can separate you. You were never together — now death will separate you! You come home. Now you live in the delusion: I have become a husband; she is my wife. This is magic… ‘Will the boy eat the mango?’ The cloth is lifted — behold, mangoes!
And the whole society supports it. You cannot even think of separation — you are bound in joy and sorrow — bound in all circumstances. The belief is driven deep: the wife is mine; the husband is mine. Who is whose?
Then one day a child is born. Neither wife nor husband was yours — on those two lies you add a third: ‘this child is mine, ours.’ All is God’s. How can it be yours? Children come through you — they are not yours. You are only a passage. The sender is someone else. The maker is someone else. Yet the delusions grow: my son! My son’s honor — my honor; his insult — my insult. Then you strive to shape the son so that he feeds your ego. You will go, but people should remember: he left a son behind. The owls died, leaving owlets behind!
From one delusion to another, we build a palace of illusions — māyā.
‘Kāyā gaḍh kail mukām, māyā lapatāil ho.
Ek bund se kāyā-mahal uṭhāwal ho.’ From a tiny drop — the meeting of ovum and semen — how vast the spread!
‘Bund paṛe gali jāy, pāchhe pachhtāwal ho.’ And just as this web is raised — one day it is gone; the mangoes vanish, the plant cannot be found — it never was. A delusion — nourished by all.
What delusions! ‘My country!’ People die for ‘country’ — we worship them for centuries — feeding the delusion. ‘On the pyres of martyrs, fairs shall gather each year!’ We stretch delusion further. First we persuade people to die as martyrs; then we promise: do not fear — if you die, your pyre will be a place of worship. My country! My caste! My religion! Just whisper: ‘Islam is in danger’ — and people move; ‘the Hindu dharma is in danger’ — and they move.
Are dharmas ever in danger? Is dharma a thing that a sword can cut? A thing that fire can burn? Remember Krishna: ‘Nainam chhindanti shastrāni, nainam dahati pāvakaḥ’ — who will burn me, pierce me with weapons! Dharma is never in danger. But incite the fire and the quarrel begins.
Dharma is not imperiled — people’s lives are. Yet people are ready to lose their lives — one reason only: life has no essence for them; any excuse to lose it will do.
I have heard: an English politician, before the war, visited Hitler — on the third floor, Hitler showed off. A bodyguard stood behind. Hitler ordered him to jump — he cried ‘Heil Hitler!’ and jumped. The minister sweated — such men are dangerous. Hitler ordered a second — he jumped. The minister grabbed a third: Brother, why so eager to die? He replied: Better to die than to live under Hitler. What is kept in living?
People sit ready to die — only a pretext is needed: Hinduism in danger, Islam in danger, India-Pakistan quarrel, India-China — any excuse. Life — such an immense treasure — ready to be thrown away for trifles — because they do not know its treasure. What they take as treasure is delusion; nothing comes of it.
Your ‘wealth’ becomes calamity. Your property becomes adversity.
‘Bund paṛe gali jāy, pāchhe pachhtāwal ho.’ Later you will repent as the palace raised on a drop collapses. What does death do? It cannot take what you are — that is eternal. Death takes only what you are not — the delusions you erected — the magic you wove — those it removes.
Death will take your ego, not your soul. It will take your body, not the indweller. It will take your status, not you; your riches, not you; your ‘mine and thine,’ not you. You will regret as one by one the buildings fall — upon which you spent a life. But then it will be late. He who awakens early does not build illusions; having nothing for death to take — he is the wise one — the one who has that which death cannot steal.
Yet we savor illusions.
Within us is a web of desires. Through them we project meanings into things that are not there.
‘Ek tūfān-e-sabāb — and upon it this storm of love —
In the sea of affection I can see no shore.’
One madness upon another —
One storm of youth — and then the storm of beauty — and then of love —
‘No shore appears to this sea of love.’ Swim and swim — drown — what comes of it?
‘The day of union — and so short —
Days were counted for that day.’
Moments come — what do you gain? After such waiting, such prayer, such arrangement — what falls into your hand? Not even a drop. Yet man cannot admit ‘Nothing comes’ — for that wounds deeper — ‘then my life has been foolish?’ So your prime ministers and presidents cannot tell people they have gained nothing.
Like the tale: a thief, fleeing after murder, chased by police, came to a swollen river. He could not swim. He threw his clothes into the water, smeared ash upon himself by a meditating monk, and sat with eyes closed. The police bowed, asked if anyone passed. The monk was silent; the thief-monk said: No one. They went. People began to bow to him. He thought: I am a fake saint — yet people worship me. Why not become a real saint? The fake is so worshiped — how much more the real!
Slowly even the king bowed. His thief-friends came — they knew he was a thief. They asked: What has happened? He could not admit that nothing happened. He watched only the piles of money while feet were being touched. He said: Great peace, great bliss — the joy of Samadhi is incomparable! What is there in theft? All is futile. And the thieves, hearing, began to sit by fires — they too ‘felt’ such taste. A whole sect arises — and no one is willing to admit: I have found nothing — I have not changed — for then what meaning remains?
If the world’s politicians gave one honest statement — which they cannot, otherwise they would never have become politicians — it would be at the end: ‘We have gained nothing.’ But prestige would suffer. Outwardly they pose as saints; within they burn with anxiety, envy, violence.
You see those out of power behave like hooligans in parliament; in power they preach discipline. The same men, out of power, lead strikes, chaos — the trick to reach power is to create so much disturbance that people are forced to seat you — to be rid of you.
Clever teachers make the most mischievous boy the captain — peace descends — he knows all the tricks.
Those who have gained wealth do not admit honestly whether anything has been gained — for it seems life has been spent in stupidity. Thus the charade continues.
‘Bund paṛe gali jāy, pāchhe pachhtāwal ho.
Hans kahai, bhāī sarvar, ham uṛi jāib ho.’
He who understands — this is not my home; this filthy pond is not my abode — he who remembers Mansarovar — only he is a hansa, a swan. Until then you are something else — perhaps a heron. A heron is a swan who has forgotten Mansarovar; a swan is a heron who remembers home. Revolution happens — direction changes.
‘Hans kahai, bhāī sarvar…’ The one in whom swanhood arises, who recalls Mansarovar and says: Enough — now we go — he speaks to the pond: Brother pond!
Remember, ‘brother’ is a sweet word. No enmity with earth — only that it is not our home. No enmity with the world — only that it cannot satisfy us. Between it and us — no hostility.
‘Hans kahai, bhāī sarvar, ham uṛi jāib ho —
Mor tor etan didār, bahuri nahin pāib ho.’
Now the time to fly has come. Our meeting of yours and mine — we will not find again. I will not return. I have recognized my home, my nature. I know who I am, whence I am, where my fulfillment lies — Mansarovar — there I will sit.
‘Ihwan koi nahin āpan, kehi sang bolai ho.’
And when the memory of Mansarovar comes, for the first time one knows: on this earth I am a foreigner. No one here is my own; all that you call ‘own’ is dream. Only the Divine is one’s own. In the Divine, you too become your own.
Saint Paul used to sign: ‘Yours in Christ.’ Not yours separately — yours in Jesus. Your wife is not yours, nor husband yours — but in the Divine you both are one. See through the Divine — and all are yours; aside from the Divine — no one is yours. The Divine is our own — and through that, all becomes our own. We have made everyone ‘ours’ — except the Divine.
‘Ihwan koi nahin āpan, kehi sang bolai ho —
Bich tarvar maidān, akelā hans dolai ho.’
As soon as one becomes a swan — remembers Mansarovar — falseness falls, māyā falls, Self-knowing dawns — one becomes alone in the crowded bazaar.
‘Lakh chaorāsī bharani, manus- tan pāil ho.’ Through eighty-four lakh species the soul has traveled to arrive at this puddle from Mansarovar. So we have forgotten — it is ancient.
‘…manus- tan pāil ho.’ Only in man is there the opportunity to remember. In other forms, no such opening. Man is farthest from the Divine — and thus suffers the Divine most sharply. From this farthest point, the return is possible — the sickness is so intense that one must seek the medicine.
‘Mānush janam amol…’ Hence human birth is priceless.
Animals, birds, plants — dear — but one lack: no awareness. Without awareness, how to return? It is as if they sleep deep. Not that all men are awake — but man can awaken. Plants — even if they wish — cannot. Not that all men will awaken — there is no inevitability — if one wishes, he can; if not, he sleeps. Hence many live like plants, animals, stones. When man lives as man, then we declare: Godliness has been attained.
‘Mānush janam amol, apan son khoil ho.’ With his own hand, man loses this precious chance. Once lost — who knows when again? Lose it once — a long journey; no certainty of return. Lose it again and again — it becomes a habit.
Buddha told: There is a palace with a thousand doors. A blind man is locked inside. Only one door is open. He gropes. Nine hundred ninety-nine are closed; hope weakens. When he comes near the open door, a fly sits on his head. He scratches — and passes by. That was the open door. Again nine hundred ninety-nine. Who knows when he will approach again — and what distraction may arise? Excuses are endless.
A Sufi tale: there was one beggar in the capital. The vizier said: A shame. Let us give him wealth. A fakir laughed: Giving will not do. Place a pot full of gold coins on the bridge where he sits daily — and watch. They did. The beggar came — eyes closed — feeling his way. The king asked: Why eyes closed? He said: It came to me to cross once with eyes closed — to experience how my blind friend crosses. Today I did it. The fakir said: You see? This is not coincidence. Poverty has become his habit; he misses opportunities.
Habits form. Again you will come near a thousand doors — who knows what thought will arise then? Perhaps: ‘Nine hundred ninety-nine were closed — why should the thousandth be open?’
Remember: do not lose the opportunity at hand — for any reason.
‘Mānush janam amol, apan son khoil ho.
Sāheb Kabir sohar sugāwal, gāi sunāwal ho.’
Dhani Dharamdas says: I was saved from losing — because the Master, Kabir, sang such a sweet song of Mansarovar that my memory was stirred.
This is the work of the Satguru — to sing the song of Mansarovar in your ear — to whisper to those satisfied with puddles — to remind the treasure to those gathering trash — to recall the empire to those become beggars.
‘Sāheb Kabir sohar sugāwal…’ such a sweet remembrance Kabir kindled! Such a tune he struck, such a heart-string he plucked!
‘…gāi sunāwal ho.
Sunahu ho Dharamdās, ehi chit chetahu ho.’
Awaken now — in this very mind, in this very body. Today — reach Mansarovar. Do not postpone to tomorrow. Enough postponement.
‘Sunahu ho Dharamdās, ehi chit chetahu ho.
Satnamai jap, jag laḍne de.’
The excuses will be noble: So much suffering in the world — and you teach meditation? As if by your not meditating, suffering will be less! There is misery because people are not meditative; war, because people lack meditation. A woman from Japan, a communist, said: So much poverty — how can I meditate, how can I take sannyas? As if by her not meditating, poverty will end! People ask me to teach ‘service’ rather than meditation — press the feet of lepers, open orphanages. But because there is no meditation, there are the blind, the lame. Their condition is the outcome of action without awareness. If you press feet without meditation, beware — while pressing the feet you may reach the throat. All ‘servers’ eventually press throats. First they do ‘Sarvodaya’ — uplift — then they press throats. They say: We will serve — and make it compulsory.
Service without meditation is dangerous — for oneself and others. The arguments sound logical — hence Kabir’s hard counsel:
‘Satnamai jap — repeat the Name of Truth, enter meditation — jag laḍne de — let the world fight.’
This will sound harsh — but it is meaningful. If Buddha had spent his life pressing lepers’ feet, if Mahavira had opened orphanages, if Jesus had run a school, if Kabir and Nanak had set up water stalls — the world would be worse. Without Buddhas, the world becomes worse. These arguments will arise — beware.
‘Satnamai jap, jag laḍne de.
Yah sansār kānṭ ki bārī, arujh-arujh ke marne de.’
This world is a hedged field of thorns — those who insist on entangling and dying — let them. By being pricked by thorns, perhaps realization will dawn. You cannot prevent them — if you obstruct, they will be more eager; obstacle becomes challenge. Let each do what he must. He who wants to be miserable will find a way. Remember — you cannot make another happy. Make yourself happy — that is enough. From your joy, a fragrance will arise — it will reach others’ nostrils — perhaps it will give them a taste, a longing for the source of fragrance.
‘Hāthī chāl chalai mor Sāheb, kutiyā bhunkai to bhunkne de.’
When you walk like an elephant — that is sannyas — the stride of one intoxicated with the moon and stars — others will bark. Let them bark. They will laugh, oppose, ignore — let them. Do not look back.
‘Yah sansār Bhādon ki nadiyā, ḍūbi marai tehi marne de.’
Hard words — yet true. The Satguru’s words are surgery — cutting away what is useless.
‘Yah sansār Bhādon ki nadiyā…’ Those who must drown — call to them — but do not entangle yourself. Save yourself — and all are saved.
‘Dharamdās ke Sāheb Kabīrā, patthar pūjāi to pujne de.’
Dharamdas says: We have found consciousness — chinmay. Those who worship clay — mrinmay — let them. We have found the Master. We have glimpsed the Divine. Those who go to temple and mosque — let them. We see the path — why go convince? Time is wasted — and the cost is high.
Therefore I tell my sannyasins: Share the joy you have received, the peace — but never become missionaries. Do not chase anyone into meditation — you will lose your own. Do not try to convert anyone. Your heart will want to — that those you love also taste. A woman from Europe wept: she had taken sannyas, fallen in love with meditation, wanted her husband and children to enter — but the husband grew angry, refused even to utter her new name. I told her: Do not convert. Go home — pour as much joy as you can; as much love as you can. Create a new fragrance and song at home. But do not speak of me, or sannyas, or meditation. Meditate — let waves of meditation spread in the home. Do not persuade the husband — a man’s ego is tightly bound. Until he himself asks: What has happened to you? Until longing arises in him — remain silent.
It is natural to lead the beloved to where one has glimpsed the Divine — but remember Kabir:
‘Dharamdās ke Sāheb Kabīrā, patthar pūjāi to pujne de.’
Each is busy as he is — let him be. You dance and sing in your ecstasy. If someone is drawn by your fragrance, good. Do not argue — people are skilled in argument. Some things can be experienced but never argued. If you say: I experienced Light — Bliss — they will say: hallucination, hypnosis. You say: I feel great love — they say: poetry. Often, if you go to explain, you will succeed only in letting them break your inner song — they will sow doubt. It is easy to plant doubt, hard to plant trust. Hence these hard words:
‘Satnamai jap, jag laḍne de.’
‘Jabān-e-shauq pe unka hi nām rahtā hai —
Unhīn ki yād se har lahja kām rahtā hai.
Nazar ko sāgar-e-gam mein ḍubāye rahtī hoon —
Tasavvurāt ki duniyā mein khoye rahtī hoon.
Na hosh-e-hāl, na ehsās-e-hāl rahtā hai —
Bas ek sirf unhīn kā khayāl rahtā hai.
Hazār dil se ham unko bhulāye jāté hain —
Na jāne kyun woh hameñ yād āye jāté hain.
Andherī rāt mein bhi manzar-e-darakshān haiñ —
Jidhar nigāh uṭhātī hoon woh numāyān haiñ.
Sabā ke dosh pe unke salām āté haiñ —
Sitāre le ke nayā ik payām āté haiñ.’
Repeat the Name of Truth — let the world fight.
That is enough for today.