Kahe Kabir Diwana #1

Kindly explain its meaning to us.

Your life is like a dark night — where the sun’s ray is impossible, where not even a small flame of an earthen lamp remains. Had it been only this, it would still be bearable; but living continuously in darkness you have begun to take darkness itself as light. And when someone is far from light and mistakes darkness for light, the whole journey gets blocked. If at least this much awareness were alive — that I am in darkness — then one searches, thirst arises for light, one gropes, falls, rises, seeks the path, seeks the Guru. But when one comes to take darkness as light, the journey is finished. If one takes death itself as life, then the door to life is closed.

There is a very ancient Greek tale. Astrologers told an emperor — among the children born this year, one will be your slayer.

Such stories are found in many lands. A similar tale clings to Krishna, and to Jesus. Yet the Greek tale has no equal.

The emperor had all children born that year thrown into prison — he did not kill them. He thought — one among them may kill me; but if I kill them all, that would be a great sin. So tiny children were locked in cells with heavy chains for life. They grew up bound in chains. They could not even remember a time when their hands were free of fetters.

They came to take the chains as a part of life itself. They could not even remember that they were ever free. Slavery was life — hence slavery never pinched them. For suffering arises only when comparison is possible. There was no way to compare. They were born slaves, raised as slaves. Slavery was their all-in-all. There was no comparison with freedom. And they were bound to the walls with terrible, strong chains.

Their eyes became so accustomed to the dark that they could not even look back to where a world of light was. The moment they saw light their eyes would shut — light pricked them, light brought pain. They had become so content with darkness that their eyes could no longer be content with light. Only in darkness would their eyes open; in light they would close.

You too have seen — step out from a quiet room into the full blaze of noon, the eyes flutter. Newborn children live nine months in darkness in the mother’s womb — not a single ray reaches there.

And when the child is born, the foolery of doctors knows no end. In hospitals the delivery rooms are flooded with harsh light, so the child’s eyes are scalded, wounded for life. A child should be born in candlelight — there is no need for thousand-candle bulbs. Half the weak eyes in the world are the responsibility of the hospital doctor.

It is convenient for him in more light — he can see what is happening, what to do or not do. But his convenience is not the question — the convenience is the child’s.

Those who have lived their whole lives in darkness — not nine months, but a lifetime — cannot even look back. They kept looking only at the wall. The shadows of passersby moving on the road, past windows and doors, fell upon the wall before them. They believed those shadows to be real. These are the real people, they thought. That shadow-world they took for the world.

Hindus have called this shadow-world Maya. The real is not seen — only the reflection of the real is seen. To see the real, one needs eyes — capable eyes that can remain open in the light, that can face the sun. Eyes addicted to darkness cannot see truth. Truth is not hidden. Truth is manifest, naked. Your eyes are weak — they cannot see truth.

Slowly they stopped even trying to look back. To look back meant tears in the eyes. It was a world of pain.

You too have stopped seeing truth. And whenever anyone shows you truth, it hurts. Bliss does not arise immediately — first there is hurt. Whenever truth is spoken, pain is felt.

But one man dared — because suspicion arose in him. These are shadows indeed. Speak to them — no answer. Touch them — nothing in the hand. Try to grasp — nothing is caught. Doubt arose in one person — some sage, some buddha.

He began, slowly, to practice looking back. Years passed. Much pain was there. Whenever he looked back, his eyes flinched, tears fell. Yet he continued his practice. It was a great tapas. Little by little the eyes became willing. And then he was astonished — what a prison we are in, and we have taken shadows to be truth. He became capable of looking back. His neck could turn, his eyes began to see the colors outside — trees and their blossoms, people passing on the road. The world outside was colorful; the shadows were colorless, dull. Outside there was celebration; in the shadows no festival could be caught. Children danced and sang outside; the shadows were utterly mute — no voice, no articulation. Outside — hidden behind them — was the real world.

He began to speak of it to the other prisoners. They laughed — your mind is deranged. We have always heard that what is before us is the truth. And when we look back, we see nothing but darkness. When the eye closes, nothing is seen but dark.

It is not necessary that darkness is there. It may be simply that the eye is closing. But no one takes the blame upon himself. No one will accept that my eye may be closed, hence darkness. People declare — there is darkness, hence darkness. Can my eye be closed? Is it possible? We take our eyes to be ever open, our hearts ever full of love, our intelligence ever aflame, our soul ever awake. This is the root of our delusions.

And there were many prisoners — he was alone. Democracy stood with the prisoners. The majority was theirs. They said — if this is so, let all counsel. He did not get a single vote. They laughed much, mocked much. Slowly they took him to be mad.

Kabir says the same —
The whole world has become wise; only I am the mad one.

Had he remembered Kabir’s song, he too would have said — all are wise, I alone am mad. And he alone was wise. But where a crowd of the blind is, the one-eyed becomes a lunatic. Where fools thrive, the intelligent is called mad. Where disease is taken as health, the healthy man will be seized and treated.

Naturally — people take themselves as the standard. And when the majority — not only the majority, unanimity — stands with them, except for that one man, how will doubt arise? They laughed, they mocked, they called him insane, they insulted and neglected him.

Gradually they stopped speaking with him — for he created restlessness. Because sometimes a doubt also arose within them — what if this man is true? For if he is true, their whole life has gone to waste. A great stake! He must be wrong; otherwise their whole life becomes wrong.

No one wishes that his life be proved wrong — it would mean you wasted it, lost the opportunity, you are foolish, ignorant, comatose. Ego is not ready to accept this. Ego says — who is more knowing than I? Who is more sensible than I? Thus the ego guards ignorance. Ego is the sentinel over ignorance; as long as it stands, the fort of ignorance will not be defeated or demolished.

They ignored him — even talking to him was disturbing. He always spoke of colors — none of them had seen color. He spoke of music floating behind — none had heard music. All their senses had become crippled. And he began to say — these are chains you take for ornaments. For even the prisoner needs consolation. He takes the chains for jewelry. He has to live; he calls the prison home. Not only calls it home, but decorates it within, so that a full trust may arise — it is ours.

They had carved flowers and leaves upon their chains. They polished the chains, kept them shining. For the brighter the chain, the wealthier one was thought. The stronger the chain, the richer he seemed. The heavier the chain, the greater his property — naturally. If a chain began to weaken, they repaired it. For the chain was their life, and they never accepted it as a chain — it was an ornament, their only adornment.

Slowly it dawned on that man — not ornaments but chains. He had begun to have a slight glimpse of freedom’s world. A ray had entered the darkness — a message of the sun had come. To live now in this dark house, this dark prison, became difficult. He gradually made arrangements to break the chains.

The real question is the breaking of the inner chain. The outer chain is very weak. If you are bound, you are bound by the inner chain — the chain of taking the chain itself as ornament. Once it is understood — this is not ornament — half the liberation has happened. From that day he stopped polishing the chains, stopped cleaning and decorating them. People concluded — he has become depressed with life.

This is how the worldly judge the sannyasi — poor fellow, turned gloomy. In their feeling there is a touch of pity — he has failed in life, perhaps found the grapes sour, could not make the leap, was weak. We always knew he was weak; today or tomorrow he would tire and drop out of the struggle. A coward! He has stopped decorating the chains which are ornaments. He goes about undecorated. He even stopped keeping his wall neat and clean. Now his madness is complete.

But he slowly found ways to break the chains. When the inner chain breaks, the outer prison is already broken — half has fallen, the foundation has shaken. And as the message of the world behind, the hidden world, came, an infinite call began to call him. A thirst entered every pore — to enter the real world.

He broke the chains. When thirst is intense, even the weakest person becomes powerful. When thirst is not intense, even the weakest chains look steel-strong.

Thirst grew and grew. The world behind became clearer. As the eyes cleared, the world of truth became clearer. One day he broke the chains and fled the prison. His ecstasy knew no bounds — he danced: the sun, the birds, trees laden with blossoms, real people — not shadows, music, color, fragrance — he was transported. He danced.

But rumors spread in the prison — we knew it, sooner or later he would flee from life’s struggle — escapist, runaway, deserter! The worldly have always called the sannyasi the same. Not only ordinary sannyasis — even Mahavira and Buddha were called fugitives. They ran away!

It is a way to save oneself — to console oneself that we are not cowards. And you are a coward — that is why you are where you are. It is a trick to reassure oneself — we are no escapists; we will wrestle with life.

And you have not yet even known life. And that with which you wrestle is only the world of shadows. Those who truly wrestle, wrestle with life itself. Your quarrel is no more valuable than dreams; its existence is in your sleep alone. It exists nowhere else. It is your dream, your darkness, your deep sleep and stupor.

If all are asleep and one awakens — even if the sleeping ones are seeing frightful dreams, tortured in hell — they will still call the awakened one a runaway. He fled, left the struggle of life. They will turn over and sink back into their dreams.

For a few days there was talk; then they forgot. But in that man a new unease arose. The more he knew outer freedom and bliss, the more a great, indomitable compassion was born — to go back to the prison and give the news. For a few days he reasoned with himself — they will not listen. The majority is theirs. They will laugh again, they will not trust. By dwelling in darkness, people forget Shraddha. Shraddha is a quality of a luminous mind. Those who live in the dark become skilled in doubt. Doubt is part of darkness; Shraddha of light. Therefore all the wise have called Shraddha a bridge — from darkness to light one must cross the bridge of trust.

One trust is needed — meaning, what I have not yet known may also be. If you think that only what you have known exists, then there is no question of a journey. It is finished. Even if a Buddha comes and beats his head and says — I have known a little more than you — you will not accept it.

Doubt means only this — truth ends with me. What I have known is the boundary of truth. My experience and truth are equal. This is doubt. Shraddha means — my experience is small, truth can be vast. My courtyard is small; the courtyard is not the sky. The sky is immense. My window-frame is small; but the window is not the sky. Granted I see only through a window — even then, the window is not the sky.

He who becomes suspicious of his suspicion — the greatest suspicion — becomes Shraddhavan. When one grows doubtful of one’s very habit of doubting, Shraddha arises.

Shraddha means — much remains to be known. I have gathered a few pebbles on the shore of the sea — this does not exhaust the shore. I have collected a handful of sand — but along the ocean there is infinite sand. My fist has a limit; the ocean has none. My intellect has a boundary; truth has none. However much I may gain, there will always remain more to be gained.

This is the meaning of calling the Divine anant — infinite. However much you gain, still more remains. You will tire of gaining; it will not be exhausted. Your vessel will fill and overflow, yet the clouds will keep raining.

We are but a particle. When the particle imagines itself the whole, Shraddha dies. Shraddha is the courage to take a step into the unknown — to enter the unfamiliar, the uncharted; what I have never been, that too may be.

Many times compassion surged in him — compassion is the inevitable fragrance of bliss.

When someone asked Buddha — what is the full definition of Samadhi? He said — definition I do not know, but two things are certain: mahajnan and mahakaruna — great knowing and great compassion.

The questioner said — is saying great knowing not enough? Buddha said — no, incomplete. It is one side of the coin. The other is mahakaruna.

Whenever knowing is born, compassion is born. Why? Because energy that till now was turning into desires — where will it go? Energy is never destroyed. Till now it chased wealth, position, myriad ambitions, innumerable cravings of enjoyment — all the energy was engaged there. With the lighting of awareness, with the arising of knowing, all that darkness — indulgence, lust, ambition — dissolves like darkness before a lamp.

What of the energy? Energy that used to become lust, anger, jealousy, envy — what of that pure power? It becomes compassion. Mahakaruna is born. And that compassion is more indomitable than your lust — for your lust is divided among many desires. Ambition here, money there. You even postpone lust — wait ten years, let me earn wealth properly, then I will marry. The desire for wealth is not alone either; position is there. You sacrifice wealth in an election to become a minister. But ministership too is not the final desire — as a minister you again run after women; even the minister’s chair is put at stake.

Your desires are all incomplete, and the energy is scattered. But when all desires drop, the entire energy is freed — you become a source of an indomitable force, a deep power. What shall that power do?

When bliss is born, when Samadhi flowers, when the sky of truth opens, you instantly feel — those who remain behind must also be brought into this open sky. Your whole life turns to freeing the bound, to giving open skies to the imprisoned, to oiling the rusted wings so they may fly again, to giving life back to the legs gone numb — so the lame may walk, the blind may see, the deaf may hear.

And you are lame — you have not walked. You have traveled much, but until there is a pilgrimage to the sacred, there is no journey at all. You are deaf — you have heard much, but no sound other than desire has reached you. Desire is no music; it is a commotion where music is absent. Music is that which fills you with infinite joy, where all restlessness disappears, where the flute of peace is played — and such a flute that never ends.

You are blind — you have seen much, but what you have seen is only outer form. The inner truth you do not see. The body is seen, the Atman is not. Matter is seen, Paramatma is not. The visible is seen, the invisible is not — and the invisible is the very foundation of the visible. Paramatma is the base of matter. Without the soul the body does not live even for a moment — the bird flies and people carry the body to the pyre. Yet you have seen only the body, not the Atman — blind you are, crippled.

In whose life Samadhi blossoms, he runs to awaken the sleeping. But then too difficulty arises.

For some days he held himself back — he knew they would laugh, he knew they would not listen, he knew there would be no welcome, but insult and contempt. He knew what has always happened would happen again — he would be welcomed with stones and thorns, not garlands. But compassion is indomitable — it cannot be held back.

The story is — when Buddha became enlightened, he sat silent for seven days. A sweet story. What did he do sitting silent? Again and again compassion arose with irresistible force — go, so many are wandering, all are wandering. Share what has come to me. Yet something kept restraining him…

Even one like Buddha could not muster courage. Before you, even Buddha is defeated. Buddha was afraid of you. The one for whom no fear remains, who is not afraid of death, fears you.

For seven days Buddha resisted himself. He argued within — those who are going to awaken will awaken without me; those who are not, even if I break my head, will not listen; why make futile effort?

The tale says — the devas of the sky became anxious, a great restlessness spread among them. Rarely, after millions of years, does someone attain buddhahood; if he remains silent, what of the wanderers searching in the dark with an unknown longing? They will welcome the shower of truth with stones — but still, since eternity the seed sleeps in them; it has not sprouted because the soil was wrong, no sun reached, no one watered, no one cared. But the seed is there — what of them?

The devas descended. They placed their heads at Buddha’s feet — do not sit silent now, arise. Enough delay.

Deva means — consciousnesses that are supremely auspicious in outcome — where the inauspicious has dropped, only the auspicious remains. They are not yet fully liberated — only when even the auspicious is gone is there total freedom. Deva means very pure consciousnesses, not yet free. First are consciousnesses bound in impurity — demons, asuras, hell-beings. Then are the pure, dwelling in heaven, benign, wishing well — but desire remains. In hell the chains are iron; in heaven the chain is gold — studded with gems, yet a chain.

The free one is he in whom neither auspicious nor inauspicious remains, whose iron and golden chains are broken, in whom duality is finished — good-bad, night-day, heaven-hell, pleasure-pain — all gone.

The devas, being pure and happy, naturally trembled — they are nearest to the free ones. Those in hell did not even sense someone had become a Buddha.

People on earth are in the middle — neither hell nor heaven. They are like Trishanku — swaying between good and evil. In the morning deva, an hour later devil; then again smiling, looking decent; a little later ready to cut a throat. The middle world, the sages said — swaying between heaven and hell — one foot in hell, one in heaven, yet nowhere. Therefore you do not know who you are. In hell one knows clearly who he is; in heaven, too. For both are in the same boat.

Those aboard the boat of auspiciousness felt their life-airs quiver — Buddha is silent; if he remains thus, the searchers are lost.

They put their heads at his feet. Brahma himself said — speak. If you delay, speech will be lost. Do not drown inward; you have attained — now have compassion for those who have not.

Buddha said — those who are to attain will attain even without me; those who are not, will not even with me. Between them are a few — very few — who will not attain without help but will with help. Even if it be only one, still it is worth the effort — for one person attaining buddhahood is such a great event that you must not remain seated.

Buddha had to bow — not to their argument, which only cracked his resistance; inwardly compassion was ready to flow.

That man too suffered — unrest arose. He began to remember those he had left in prison — will they end like this, bound? Born in darkness, lost in darkness? Will their eyes never see light? Will they go on gazing at shadows on the wall? Will they keep taking chains for ornaments? Will they never receive wings of freedom?

No. His heart grew heavy. Like a cloud when ripe must shower, his life-breath became heavy — ready to rain. Like a flower when full of fragrance opens and pours its scent into all the worlds, so his being was ready to open. Some inexorable impulse pulled him back.

Knowing there would be no welcome, he returned to the prison. They laughed — we told you, there is nothing there, only shadows — the place you went. Come back to your senses, take up your ornaments. This is the only world. The shadows on the wall are truth.

These colors and lights are dreams, fantasies. And you are not alone — many of us too have had such dreams and fantasies. Poems of other worlds, of realms of truth, of liberated souls, siddhas — all fantasies, all nonsense. Tricks devised by cunning men to suck the fools.

He must have been stunned — doors are shut. He has come to free them — they take prison as life. Still he tried. And what always happens happened again — the more he tried, the angrier they grew.

Their anger is also natural. You are trying to reduce their life’s stake to dust. You say — for sixty years you lived in vain. You say — you are so unintelligent that for sixty years you remained in darkness and did not even suspect it is dark; rotted bound in chains and did not feel they are chains; you saw shadows on the wall and took them as truth.

This is unbearable. If this man is true, then all the people of that prison are wrong.

The crowd is wrong, if the Buddha is true. If I am true, you are false. The only way for you to be right is for me to be wrong. You can arrange that easily — the crowd is yours, the numbers are yours.

He was alone, a stranger among the unfamiliar. His language had become different, theirs different. Dialogue was difficult. He tried his best to explain, but none was ready to understand. His speaking itself became a burden for them. And what always happens, happened — they stoned him and beat him with chains and killed him.

You did the same with Jesus. You did the same with Socrates. You did the same with Mansoor.

This story is very ancient — and very new. Oldest of old, newest of new. It has happened in the past, it is happening today, it will happen in the future. It is ever-fresh, ever-ancient. Plato, the great Greek sage, has mentioned a part of this story in his books — but the story is older than Plato, as old as man, and it will remain as long as even one person is bound.

Now let us try to understand Kabir’s sutra. Then you will see why Kabir says — Kabir calls himself a madman. Otherwise you will not understand why he calls himself mad. What a senseless world — the wise are taken as mad, and the foolish as learned; those who know nothing, who have piled up the garbage of words, stuffed their skulls with scriptures, they are scholars, pundits.

Kabir lived all his life in Kashi — the world of pundits. Naturally they must have said — madman! Kashi — the biggest crowd of the blind, where every sort of fool is prestigious, those who have nets of words — Vedas, Upanishads, Gita, Puranas — who have memorized them. Beyond words they know nothing. They have collected the shadows on the wall — with great labor and skill. They are adept in logic and words. But words are only shadows of truth. And logic is mere consolation.

Hence Kabir says of himself —
Kabir says: the mad one.

Listen, try to understand each word — because mad ones like Kabir are rare. They can be counted on the fingers. And their madness is such that you should call yourself blessed if even a drop of wine from their pitcher touches your throat. If their madness even brushes you a little, you will be healed. If their madness seizes you a little and you too begin to dance and sing like Kabir, there is no greater blessedness — that is the supreme good fortune; only the fortunate gain it.

When I was lost, O brother, my Satguru showed the jugat.
I dropped the rites, the codes of conduct; I left off pilgrim-baths.
The whole world has grown wise; I alone have turned mad.
When I was lost, O brother…

What is the forgetfulness? What have you forgotten? You have forgotten yourself — everything else you remember. Vedas by heart, doctrines, scriptures — only one you have missed — yourself. And without knowing that one, all knowledge is futile. To know that one is to know all Vedas, Quran, Bible. Missing that one, everything is missed.

For that one is the source of consciousness in you; by that one you are linked to Paramatma. As the sky comes in through your window to fill your house, in that one the sky — Paramatma — enters to fill you. That one you have forgotten.

Your back to that one — your eyes to the world. You run gathering knowledge, gathering wealth. One thing you forget — who is he for whom you gather? Who is gathering? Who is reading scripture? The scripture remains, but who is reading? Who is the witness of all? Who is the source of consciousness within?

When I was lost, O brother, my Satguru showed the jugat.
Kabir says — when I was lost… forgetfulness is ignorance. Therefore you will not remove ignorance through knowledge but through remembrance. Understand well. Forgetfulness is ignorance — you have forgotten who you are. What is needed is re-cognition, remembrance. Information will not help.

It is not that you lack some information and adding more will bring knowledge. The mind already stores thousands of bits; make it ten thousand — your ignorance will not break. You will become a great pundit — your stupidity will remain, for stupidity and scholarship have no necessary relation. Stupidity is forgetfulness; thus through remembrance you will recall who you are.

Kabir can be condensed into two words — forgetfulness and remembrance — what he calls sumiran, surati — an apabhramsha of the Sanskrit smriti. When smriti comes, remembrance comes. But people are strange — I know Kabir’s followers who roll beads; ask them — what are you doing? They say — sumiran. They have made remembrance into rote.

Sumiran means remembering — what Gurdjieff called self-remembering, what Buddha called samyak-smriti — right mindfulness, what Mahavira called vivek — remembrance.

But how will you remember? You have forgotten. Someone must remind you. Alone you cannot do it.

At night you sleep. You must rise at five to catch a train — what do you do? You need a device. You set an alarm. Alone you will not awaken at five — someone must wake you. Even a clock can, but you will not by yourself. Or you tell a neighbor — wake me up.

Only someone awake can awaken you. Do not tell someone asleep to wake you — he is snoring already. Tell him — brother, wake me at five — it is useless. He himself needs a waker. One awakened is needed.

The entire meaning of yoga is — jugat, a device. The word jugat is lovely. In English — device, tactic. Thousands of devices have been used to wake man. But if you do it by yourself, there is a danger.

I have heard — Edison, the great American scientist, was forgetful. Those who think too much often forget — thinking crowds the head. He began writing things down. He would write on slips, but they got lost. Someone suggested — why not a diary? He made a diary — it got lost. If the man is forgetful, what difference does it make whether you write on slips or in a diary? He said — the slips were better; if one was lost, others remained. But the diary carried all and vanished. When the basic quality is the same, one cannot cross beyond it.

Therefore a Guru is indispensable in spiritual life. Guru means only this — someone who has awakened, someone who will not let you forget, who will lash you, shake you, not allow you to turn over and slip into dreams again.

Your whole past is a preparation for sleep. Even with a Guru, it is not certain you will awaken; without a Guru it is certain you will not. Yes, you may dream in your sleep that you have awakened — that too happens. You have dreamt sometimes that you woke up.

Even the alarm may not help — the clock rings, you sleep on, you dream there is a prayer in the temple — the bell is ringing. You end the clock with a dream. Sleep finds a trick. If there is an alarm, you must wake — so sleep weaves a dream — what a sweet arati is happening, what a bell rings in the Lord’s temple — you can sleep now, the alarm is explained. In sleep you can even turn the clock off. The clock is dead.

Hence methods alone do not work — a living Guru is needed. Methods are available — Patanjali’s Yoga Sutras contain them all. But if you adopt them from a book, they will be like an alarm clock — mechanical. You will do them — but the doer is you, asleep. Kabir will say — remember; you will rotate the rosary.

A living Guru is needed. All religions die. The day their living Guru dies, they die.

Sikh Dharma was alive while the ten Gurus lived. The day Guru Gobind Singh decided that the Guru would be the Granth hereafter — no living Guru — that day it died. With the ten living Gurus the beauty was different — no mechanism, a living man.

When the twenty-four Tirthankaras of the Jains lived, a living stream flowed; then the Jains decided there would be no more Tirthankaras beyond the twenty-four — with Mahavira the door closed. Dead since. Islam lived with Mohammed; with the Quran it is a corpse, though the Quran is Mohammed’s book — it changes nothing.

I stand with a stick — you sleep. I rouse you with the stick. Not the stick awakens — I awaken. Your eyes open; you do not see me — you see the stick touch you. You grab the stick with gratitude — how graciously it woke me. You leave the stick to your children — keep it safe, it awakens. The jugat has died. It was not the stick awakening — a living hand was behind it. What will a stick do alone? The alarm remains; you keep it as an heirloom — it will ring and you will sleep.

All scriptures become sticks. You worship them, memorize them. And it is not that no one ever woke through them — they did, but a living hand was behind them. Nanak was behind the stick. The vibration in the stick was not the stick’s — it came from the living hand. Now you go on — keep the five Ks, tie the hair, wear the kara, carry the kirpan, the kachh — do what you will, but these are sticks; nothing will happen now.

A jugat is alive only when a living hand is behind it. While I am, use my stick. After I am gone, you will practice Dynamic Meditation — nothing will happen. And you will surely do it after I am gone — I am certain — because you have the old habit.

Why so? Because methods do not frighten you; they do not threaten your sleep. So you are ready to do methods — but a Guru is dangerous; with a living man, how long can you sleep? He will make you drop sleep. How long can an awakened man bear your sleepy state — your dull face, mud-filled eyes, drooling mouth, sprawled like a corpse, babbling nonsense in sleep? Sometimes trembling with fear, sometimes smiling with false joy — all in dreams, all lies. Your sleep must be broken.

When I was lost, O brother, my Satguru showed the jugat.
So my Guru awakened me, gave me a device, a method. And when a living Guru gives a method, all old methods become useless naturally. What use are old ways then? You drop the old paraphernalia. If till now you kept a shrine at home and worshiped Shiva, you wrap it up and consign it to the river. No need remains. If you used to go to the temple and ring the bell daily, the game ends. What need has one who is awake to keep an alarm clock and worship it? He gives it to someone else, or throws it into the river.

When I was lost, O brother, my Satguru showed the jugat.
What is that jugat — by whose grace…

I dropped rites and rituals and conduct-codes;
I left off pilgrim-baths.

All the kriyas dropped, the karmas, the ascetic code —

…and I left bathing at the tirthas.

Ganga becomes an ordinary river. No tirtha remains.

Kriya-kanda means — those devices whose living hand has departed. They all become ritual.

Meditating with me is one thing; doing it without me is kriya-kanda. You may do it to perfection — breath right, jump right, but it will be playacting, exercise; there may be some bodily benefit, but you will not awaken.

I dropped rites, karmas, conduct;
I left off pilgrim-baths.

I left the ascetic behaviors — no eating at night, filtering water, not eating this or that, certain clothes, nakedness, ashes on the body, sitting in the sun with fires around, roasting and tormenting the body, lying on thorns — no more.

I dropped rites and codes; I left pilgrim-baths.

When the Satguru is found, all falls away — there is no need to force a renunciation. Thus all organized religions will be against a Satguru — because they stand on old rituals, old methods, old temples and pilgrimages. Whenever a Satguru is born, all dharmas turn against him — for those who go with him drop the old kriyas, stop going to tirthas. A new tirtha is born — living — who goes to dead tirthas? A new, living method is given where fire still burns — not ashes.

So who will search for old methods whose embers are long dead? Only ash-heaps remain, cold — no life. You will simply drop them. Not that you force — they drop.

Therefore remember — whenever a Satguru appears, all religions turn against him. They should do the opposite — support him — for he is doing what their founders once did. Yet he appears an enemy.

If Nanak appears, a new religion is born. Hindus refuse him, Muslims refuse him, Jains refuse him — because one who followed Nanak would drop Jain nakedness and wear clothes, a Haj pilgrim, hearing Nanak, would turn back mid-journey; one would throw away the rosary; another would stop worship and ritual. The mosque and the temple both become enemies.

And now the same happens — Nanak’s religion is as dead as Hindu, Muslim, Jain were in his time. If a Satguru appears now, the followers of Nanak will stand against him — for someone will stop going to the gurdwara, someone will close the Guru Granth — forgive me — the Satguru always appears as the enemy of sects. He is not the enemy of Dharma — he re-establishes Dharma — but he is the enemy of sect.

Sect means dead religion — like keeping your father’s corpse in the house and worshiping it because he was dear in life. A sensible man does not do this. He loved his father; he weeps, beats his chest — yet he lays the bier and carries him to the burning ground. Dear he was, the bond was deep — but he died — the matter is over.

When men become truly understanding, the day a religion dies and becomes a sect, that day they will lay its bier and carry it away — so that when a new Satguru appears, people are available to him. When bound by the old, they cannot be available.

When I was lost, O brother — Kabir says —
My Satguru showed the jugat.
I dropped rites and conduct; I left pilgrim-baths.
The whole world became wise; I alone turned mad.

This is how it will be. My sannyasin will have to become a madman — wherever he goes, people will laugh — gone off his head? Did you also get into the whirl? You — such an intelligent man?

It is natural — it is their defense. They do not laugh at you — they laugh to avoid bursting into tears for themselves. In their laughter they suppress the possibility of weeping. They mock you to soothe themselves — if your oasis is true, what of me? They try to erase you so that the seed of pain you bring does not sprout in them. They will mock you, neglect you, insult and reject you. If you persist in your madness and do not care, slowly they will try to forget that you even exist. They will deny your very being, excommunicate you, pass without greeting — you will become untouchable.

All this is self-protection — to cover their poverty, to hide their foolishness. He knows his life is a desert — no oasis. He sees a smile in your life, a small oasis sprouting; he says — you too have gone mad. By saying this he declares your oasis false — for if it is true, his plight is exposed.

A young man took sannyas. His father brought him to me. He had tried everything, but the young man was truly young — he simply smiled, neither got angry nor fought nor took revenge. He remained as he was — smiling. The father’s unease grew — surely something has gone wrong with his brain — earlier, if I said something, he would fight — that was natural; now we abuse and he smiles — something is wrong — unnatural. Maybe his mind is damaged. Finally the father brought him — something must be done.

Do you not want your son to smile? Would you not prefer that he smile even in insult? This is the art of life. But the father would prefer he quarrel — at least that is natural. You have taken your darkness to be nature — your disease as nature.

I told the father — better you become like him. He said — at seventy? Seventy years invested — suddenly to discover the bank is false, the cheque book forged — terrible pain. One wants to die in peace with whatever illusion one had. He said — at this age change is not possible; I have lived my life. I said — then let him live in a new way. Did you gain anything from your way that you think he too will gain if he lives like you? Your father lived like you, his father like him; this boy has dared to step off the beaten track — why are you disturbed?

Disturbed — for it means they were wrong, their fathers wrong, their fathers’ fathers wrong; and this thirty-year-old is right — the ego cannot accept it.

Hence Kabir says — as soon as rites and rituals dropped —
The whole world became wise; I alone turned mad.

In Buddha’s life it is mentioned — for six years he performed severe austerities. Whatever the masters prescribed, whatever rules they gave, he fulfilled them with such single-pointedness that the masters were left without excuse — they could not say, you did not do it rightly, therefore nothing happened. Buddhas truly test the guru. Most gurus are scarecrows — fine for driving away birds, fine for the weak — the moment a man of doing arrives, trouble begins. Buddha made trouble. He did all. People began to follow him — he did so much yet said — nothing has happened — still followers arose. After he left his last master, Alara Kalama, five of that master’s disciples became Buddha’s disciples — they said — better this Gautam than that master. In those days Buddha would eat only one grain of rice a day. He became skeleton-like — only skin and bones — eyes alive, cheeks sunken. So weak he could not cross the tiny Niranjana river — clinging to a root he thought — what am I doing? I am destroying the body — how will the soul be found by destroying the body? There is no logic in it. So weak I cannot cross a shallow stream and I dream of crossing the ocean of becoming! It will not be. That day he dropped austerity. He came out and sat beneath the tree where he would awaken. A village girl, Sujata, came with a bowl of kheer as a vow-offering to the tree-deva — seeing Buddha she took him for the deity and offered the kheer. Any other day he would not have accepted — he took only a blade of grass, and never at night. He did not even ask caste — the girl was surely shudra. But that night he asked nothing — everything had been dropped. His five disciples heard — they said — he is corrupted, he eats kheer at night from a shudra girl — they left him.

Kabir would have faced the same —
I dropped rites and codes; I left pilgrim-baths.
The whole world became wise; I alone turned mad.

When Buddha attained that night, the disciples had left. He slept for the first time utterly at ease — no worry of the world or of moksha. Nothing remained to get. At dawn the last star was sinking — with it the old man in him sank; the new was born. Then Buddha knew — truth is not attained by doing — it is a matter of opening the eyes — awareness, remembrance, wakefulness. First remembrance was of the five disciples who had left — poor fellows, they were with me when I had nothing to give; now that I have, they have gone. He went in search and found them at Sarnath. Seeing him approach they decided — do not rise, do not greet, turn your backs — even a common guest is greeted thus; we will not even say — sit. But as he came near they grew uneasy. One by one they rose and fell at his feet. Buddha said — you had decided otherwise, why change? They said — we did not change; your presence drew us like a magnet. Those within whom there is even a little potential are drawn to a Satguru like iron to a magnet — not because of ritual, yoga or sect. Even if the whole world is against it, it feels blessed to be that mad.

I know not service or devotion; I have not rung the bell.
I have not enthroned an image; I have not offered flowers.

All dropped — to whom will one who can offer the flower of his blossomed soul to the Divine go to pluck flowers and place them on stone? Flowers on the tree are alive — you will kill them to offer to stones. On the tree they were truly offered to Paramatma — for to whom else would they be offered? Their fragrance was His, their color His, their petals His — His form. You tore them away and placed them on your man-made god. Your god is false — bought in the market — priests too bought — with noise and smoke they installed it as the real. You know it, they know it — the poor flower is sacrificed without fault.

When I was in Jabalpur I had a large garden. Temples were nearby — religious people would come at dawn and pluck the flowers. The irreligious at least feel afraid; the religious feel entitled. I had to put a board — For worship, do not pluck flowers; for anything else, pluck. Because what has worship to do with plucking flowers? They came with such arrogance — we are plucking for worship — how can one object? The flowers are sleeping on the trees — why tear them and put on stone? If the urge is irresistible, bring the stones and lay them on the flowers. At least place the dead on the living — but sects always teach the inverse.

I know not service or devotions; I have not rung the bell.
I have not enthroned an image; I have not offered flowers.
Hari is not pleased by muttering and austerities, nor by burning the body.

You think by torturing the body the Divine will be pleased? Even your own soul is not pleased — why would Paramatma be? Ask the inner Atman — the representative of God within you — it suffers. Suffering is never worship; only celebration is worship. When you are radiant, healthy, when life streams through every fiber, when you can dance, your soul is pleased — and what pleases the soul, that is worship of the Divine. Hear your soul — you have heard the Divine. If you do not listen to your soul, you are an enemy of God.

Hari is not pleased by the dhoti discarded, nor by slaying the five senses.

Will Hari be pleased if you go naked? Kill the five senses — gouge your eyes so form will not be seen and desire not arise, pierce your ears so music will not be heard and desire not arise — this is what your sages and sannyasis do. Paramatma creates — you destroy — how can you be His friend? He gives eyes and you blind them; He gives ears and you deafen yourself. Do not erase what He gave — refine it, make it sensitive. Let the eye become so sensitive that, beyond form, the Formless is seen. Let hearing deepen so that, beyond sound, the silence within sound is heard — melody is the outer wrap, emptiness is the inner life. In the flower there is form — and the formless too. In a beautiful woman or man there is form — and the formless too. Let the eye see form — fine — but let it also see the formless. Do not blind the eye — deepen it. It is true — with form, lust arises; with the formless, compassion and love arise. Expand taste; do not burn the tongue. There is no need to destroy rasa; there is a supreme rasa hidden in taste — reach that. Then you flow with God’s river; you need do nothing — the current is going to the ocean — become one with it.

Keep compassion, cultivate your Dharma; dwell indifferent to the world.
See every being as your very self — only then the deathless is found.

Two words — daya and Dharma. Where karuna arises, all else arises. Dharma does not mean Hindu, Muslim, Christian — those are ritual. Dharma means your intrinsic nature — swabhava. We say — the Dharma of fire is heat, of water coolness. What is man’s Dharma? Chaitanya — consciousness, awareness, buddhahood. He who cultivates prajna and karuna, who awakens and becomes compassionate…

He naturally becomes indifferent to the dream that is the world — but this indifference is not hatred. There are three kinds of people — those attached, those averse, and the udasin — the one beyond both raga and viraga — Mahavira’s vitarag. Your udasi is not this — you are sad because your raga fails; your joy is not joy either — it is raga succeeding. When both raga and viraga drop, indifference remains — the supreme experience. Udasinata is not sorrow — it is supreme bliss. Towards the world there is udasinata; towards the Divine there is ananda — two sides of one coin.

And as soon as these two happen — karuna and prajna — you see that the flame burning in me is the same in all. Ahimsa arises by itself. The ant and the elephant, the small and the vast — the same. Tat tvam asi, Shvetaketu — you are That — the one expressing as many.

Endure abusive words, drop disputation, abandon pride and conceit.
Then all arrogance and identity drop. Abusive words do not sting; whether someone praises or condemns — both are equal. And there is no more debate — the knower of God has no ism, no doctrine. The siddha has no siddhant — he himself is Ishwara. He does not talk about truth — truth speaks through him.

He who does this receives the True Name — so says Kabir, the madman.

Kabir the mad says — the one who leaves dead rituals and awakens to the living inner Dharma, who transforms the energy of desire into compassion, who ceases to be trapped in any doctrine or scripture, who sees one undivided flame burning in all — only he attains the Imperishable. Only he attains.

Kabir the mad says so.

Enough for today.