Kahe Kabir Diwana #10

Religion is the search for the limitless, the search for the beginningless. The quest for that inexhaustible stream of life which never began and will never end.
Existence is seamless. But man’s little mind cannot see the seamless. And whatever man does manage to see will always be a fragment. To know the whole, the heart must be empty. Only when the seer is utterly gone can vision be pure. As long as the seer remains, as long as there is an inner point of view, that very view will become a frame.
As when someone peers at the full-moon night through a window—the frame seems set upon the moon. On the moon there is no frame, no border; the sky is boundless. But if one stands within a window, only as much sky appears as the size of the window.
Whatever is seen from within the senses is framed by the senses. The larger the instrument, the vaster the vision. Then within there are perspectives; every perspective divides and breaks. And what is, is indivisible. Therefore whatever we know through the senses will not be the truth; and whatever we know through the mind will not be complete. Mind itself is incomplete.
Hence those who have spoken of the world by thinking and reasoning—what they say cannot contain the whole truth. What they say reveals less about Truth and more about themselves.
Therefore a sage like Lao Tzu has said: the truth cannot be said; the very act of saying makes it a lie. Because the frame of words is too small. Truth’s expanse is infinite. In the effort to fit it into petty words, truth becomes rigid—it dies.
It is as if someone tried to fill the sky in his fist. How will you hold the sky in your fist? Your fist itself is in the sky. How will you contain the sky in it? And the harder you clench the fist, fearing the sky might slip out, the more empty your fist will be. The tighter the fist, the emptier it is. There will be no sky in it. There is only one way to hold the sky in the fist: do not clench it at all. In an open hand, the sky is.
So too, in an open mind, truth is. Where all frames have been dropped—doors and windows removed—where you stand beneath the open sky, there you are in Truth. Remember this; I repeat it: you will not be able to contain truth within you—it is bigger than you. Vast—immeasurably vast. If you want a relationship with truth, then you must dissolve into truth.
Hence Kabir says: “Avadhu, gagan mandal ghar kijai.” Make your home in the vast emptiness. Dwell in the sky. Open your fist. The sky is within you and without you. Do not remain closed.
When you are open, free—that is the state of meditation. When the mind does not see through any standpoint, any concept—when it does not stand behind conclusions already taken—when between mind and existence there are no scriptures, no words.
Religion is the boundless. Wherever you find boundaries, there is politics. Religion joins; politics divides. Therefore the real enemy of religion is not science; the real enemy of religion is politics.
Science—if not today, then tomorrow—can become religious. It will. If the search is for truth, how long can it remain away from religion? And science has been coming closer to religion day by day. As science has known more, it has sensed that there is substance in religion’s truths. And even if science as a whole is not close, the great scientists have the same music vibrating in their hearts that has sung in the hearts of the great saints.
The resonance in Kabir’s heart is the same resonance in Einstein’s. On his deathbed Einstein said: the more I have known, the less the world’s truth seems to end in matter. The imprint of God is visible everywhere.
Another great scientist, Eddington, wrote: when I began my scientific journey I thought matter is all. I thought thought itself is a form of matter. But now, as I reach life’s final station, my vision has utterly changed. Now I think matter too is a form of thought, a mode of consciousness. Things no longer appear as things; they seem condensed patterns of thought.
Sooner or later science will come to the door of religion. The enmity is with politics. It can never come close to religion; its entire mode is to divide. The earth is one. Is there anywhere on earth a mark where India ends and Pakistan begins? In examining the earth itself, will you reach a place where you can say: India ends here and Pakistan starts here?
No—earthly investigation will not reveal it. Earth is seamless. If you must search, you will have to look at the maps politicians made. They are false, man-made. The earth itself knows not where Hindustan ends and Pakistan begins. Hindustan enters Pakistan; Pakistan enters Hindustan. The whole earth is one.
Not only the earth—the earth is tied to moon and stars. Nothing is alone in this existence. All is together.
The sun is a hundred million miles distant from the earth, yet the colors you see in flowers are of the sun’s rays. Without the sun, colors would vanish from the earth. Wherever you see color, life, breath—it is all the sun’s. A hundred million miles away; its rays take eight to ten minutes to arrive.
And the ray speeds swiftly—one hundred and eighty-six thousand miles per second. It takes minutes to come from the sun. A great distance. But the sun is still very near. And there are stars; from the nearest star, a ray takes four years to arrive, at the same speed—one hundred and eighty-six thousand miles per second.
Beyond that are stars from which a ray takes a hundred years to reach earth—then a thousand years, then ten thousand, then millions, then billions of years. Scientists have traced stars whose rays began their journey before the earth was formed and have not yet arrived. The earth is four billion years old.
And even that is not the end. Beyond them too is the cosmos. Existence spreads—ever spreads. That is why the Hindus called existence Brahman. The meaning of the word Brahman is: that which keeps expanding. Whose expanse goes on and on. You will never arrive at a place where you can say, “The expansion is complete.”
There is no more beautiful word than ‘Brahman’ for existence in any language, for it means: expanse… and more expanse… and yet more expanse. Ever expanding. Nowhere any boundary. All is connected, conjoined.
You may not see it—you are connected to the sun. If the sun were to go out, you would go out. The little lamps in your eyes would instantly be extinguished. Without the sun, there can be no life on earth. Without the sun there can be nothing—only a vast cremation ground remains. No flowers will bloom, no fruits ripen, no bird will sing, the lamps of the eyes will go out. A great cemetery.
We cannot be away from the sun for even a moment. Its light is giving us life. It is linked to every pore of you. Where do you end? If you think at the skin, you are mistaken. Without the sun you could not be. If you must think about skin as your boundary, then at least admit it reaches to the sun. Till there your skin is joined.
Through your skin you breathe at every moment. There are thousands of pores. Scientists say you do not breathe only through the nose—you breathe through every hair, every pore. In fact, hairs are apertures for breathing. If you were allowed to breathe through the nose but the entire body were painted over, all pores sealed, you would die in three hours. Leave the nose open; breathe as much as you like through it, but if the pores do not breathe, death will come in three hours.
Where is your skin’s boundary? Without air you cannot live a moment. Air keeps your life kindled. And the atmosphere extends two hundred miles around the earth. If you must search your boundary, search in air. But then you become larger than the earth.
But even the air is filled with prana, because the sun’s rays are ceaselessly creating it. So if you must draw a boundary, draw it at the sun. But the sun itself depends on great suns. If they did not feed it with fire, it too would have gone out long ago.
Understand a very important truth. There are three kinds of experiential stances of consciousness. One: when a man feels dependent—paratantra. Two: when a man feels independent—swatantra. And third, the supreme: when a man experiences interdependence—interdependence. That is the highest state.
When you feel dependent, you are tied to the other in the web of politics—the other is the enemy. When you feel independent, you have rebelled against the other. Freedom has happened, but not friendship. Both stances are wrong. For in truth no one is dependent, and no one independent. Reality is interdependence—everything depends upon everything else.
Without you the tree cannot be; without the tree you cannot be. All day you breathe—you drink in oxygen and release carbon dioxide. Trees drink your carbon dioxide and release oxygen. So you feel fresh sitting near trees.
And that is why your cement-concrete cities feel like cremation grounds—trees have disappeared, no one to return life. The mutual exchange is broken. A concrete road does not return breath. The concrete high-rises, the sky-scraping buildings, return nothing. Dead.
With a tree it is a give-and-take. You exhale, the tree drinks your carbon dioxide. What is poison for you is life for the tree. What is useless to the tree—oxygen—is life for you. Hence sitting near trees you feel a flood of life. Going to the mountains, you feel a surge of energy. You become new, fresh. Just seeing greenery something within cools, becomes soothed. Your eyes are thirsty for greenness—and sooner or later science will discover that greenness is thirsty for your eyes, for existence is interdependent. When you look at a tree with eyes full of love, something trembles in the tree too.
The research has begun. In the West there is a great thinker and scientist, Backster. He has done many experiments on plants. He says, when someone approaches filled with love for plants, the plant dances in body and soul. There are scientific ways to test this.
Just as a doctor takes your cardiogram—wires attached, the machine graphs how your heart beats, whether it beats well, whether you are healthy or ill, happy or sad, filled with life or sinking toward death—the whole report appears on the graph.
In the same way Backster made graphs for trees. He wires the tree. Then when a person who loves plants comes, the wires begin to signal, the graph begins to draw: the tree is very happy, very delighted, filled with welcome. It does not speak your language; in its own it is filled with welcome. Every fibre is quivering, thrilled, joyous.
Then comes a man who is the tree’s enemy—who, even sitting on a lawn, pulls up grass for no reason.
People come to see me—so I had to stop meeting them on the lawn. For whoever came would spend the whole time pulling up grass. For what? They have no awareness of what they do. There is a restlessness inside eager to destroy anything. Even if you stop them, in a moment they begin again. They have no need to pull up the grass, but their inner agitation is destroying life. They are fit only to sit on cement floors. On a living surface like grass they are dangerous.
If such a man approaches a tree, the tree’s life trembles—“the enemy is coming.” Panic begins. The graph reports: the tree is very frightened, perturbed, the enemy is near. When you look at a tree with eyes brimming with love, not only do you turn green within—you give greenness to the tree too. You gift life.
All is linked, conjoined—nowhere does an end come to your being. You are as vast as existence. Not a jot less. If you take yourself to be even a fraction less, you will be miserable, in hell. How can one be happy in untruth? Untruth is suffering. But all politics fractures you.
People come to me and say, “I am a Hindu.” Being a human was enough. Not very much, but better than being a Hindu. Hindus are two hundred million. Humans are four billion at least—you would have been a little larger! But if you inquire further he will say, “Even among Hindus, I am a follower of Rama, not Krishna.”
Politics cuts further. Now he is not even entirely Hindu. He no longer identifies with the two hundred million; only with a hundred million. Such a man keeps breaking. Then there are thousands of sects—house to house sects, denominations—and man becomes smaller and smaller.
At least connect with humanness. Even that is not very big, for the earth is tiny. The sun is sixty thousand times bigger. And the sun—a very middle-class entity—there are suns thousands of times larger. The earth is hardly a speck.
And on the earth there are only four billion humans. Think just a little of the mosquitoes—how many billions! Humans are four billion. Then think of all the insects and worms. What status does man have? When you were not, mosquitoes were. If politicians have their way, you will not remain for long—before this century ends, all may be finished. Mosquitoes will still remain; their song will go on. How many creatures there are!
If you wish to be larger—and though you suffer from smallness you still don’t wish to be large. Smallness hurts you as if a grown man were made to wear a child’s clothes—that is your pain. Wearing a little child’s underwear, you stand. It hurts, it constricts, yet the urge to be smaller persists.
All sects are politics because they divide. Hindu, Jain, Buddhist, Christian—all politics, because they divide. Religion unites.
First religion will join you to humanity; then it will join you to life—prana. Join with life. Then it will join you to existence. When you are joined with existence, only then do you attain knowledge of Brahman. Then you are as vast as this total is—no whit smaller.
Only then did the seers of the Upanishads declare: “Aham Brahmasmi.” I am Brahman. This is not an announcement of ego; it is the supreme proclamation of egolessness. When the seer says aham brahmasmi, he is not speaking of an I. It is a compulsion—he must use your language. Therefore he uses the word aham: “I am Brahman.” Otherwise, there is no “I.” As long as the I remains, Brahman cannot be known. Aham Brahmasmi means: I am not; Brahman is.
As long as I remain, I remain small. You will have some boundary somewhere. You will end somewhere. You will have a definition. To become one with the indefinable, the boundless—that alone is supreme bliss. All the wise point to this: you have become a small pond, a little stagnant pool, rotting needlessly, when you could flow toward the ocean.
So the first task: flow. And the second: drown in the ocean.
You too feel this pain, whether you understand it or not. Who likes to be small? Not even little children. They too climb onto their father’s chair so that when their head rises above the father’s they can say, “I am bigger than you.” Who likes to be small? Smallness is painful. You are poor—you don’t like it; you want to be rich. Why?
You want to be a little larger. Let the income bracket rise—ten thousand a year become a million. Let there be some largeness. You live in a small hut—you want a great mansion. You do not understand what your life-energy is saying: “We need space. A larger space. Some scope to expand.” It is saying: “Being small is pain.”
But you do not understand. However much wealth you earn, you will remain small. However much you gain, a boundary remains. Whether the boundary is small or large, a boundary is a boundary—and a boundary hurts. If it is ten thousand or ten million—it makes no difference. Once ten million is reached, the mind will say ten billion. Be a little bigger. Spread a little more.
Everywhere you try to expand. Without understanding, every man is religious. Some are religious with understanding; some with unawareness. Those who are unaware wander and do not arrive. Those who walk with understanding do not wander and arrive. The same energy is spent in wandering as in arriving—perhaps less is needed for arriving, for you do not go by useless paths.
If you look closely into your desires, you will find the essence of all is one: you do not want to be small. If someone steps on your foot you stiffen—the spine straightens—you reach your full height and say, “Do you know who I am?” You are saying you are not so small that anyone can walk over you.
You want to say: the other has taken you a bit too small; you are not that small. You boast—you show even what you are not. You spread rumors that you have wealth you do not have. A guest comes and you borrow the neighbor’s sofa. What you do not have, you display. Daily you eat plain food; when a guest comes, you cook sweets and puris. It is not for the guest—you are cursing him within: “Why did he come?” The one you curse, why feed him sweets? You want to show that life is in celebration, in joy, with great spread—no lack.
I have heard: a guest came to Mulla Nasruddin’s house. The wife was annoyed; Nasruddin too unhappy—but sweets and puris had to be made. Then he had to insist the guest eat more while inwardly the curses flowed: “The wretch keeps eating, not even saying no.” At last Nasruddin said, “One more puri?” The guest said, “No, enough now.” Nasruddin said, “How can it be enough? And who is counting? You’ve eaten only twelve—and who is counting?”
The mind counts—and still wants to show that it does not. In all your cravings you want one thing: to be big. And everywhere you find difficulty—you cannot be big. Everywhere a boundary arises.
Wealth has a limit. How much can you earn in seventy years? Earn all you can. Remember what the richest man of his time said while dying.
In America there was a great wealthy man, Andrew Carnegie. He died leaving ten billion in cash. No one had such cash wealth. As he was dying someone asked Andrew Carnegie, “You must be dying satisfied—leaving such immense wealth.” Carnegie opened his eyes and said, “Satisfied? My plan was to leave a hundred billion. I am a defeated man. A failure.”
Andrew Carnegie was born poor. In a single lifetime he gathered ten billion by his own effort. But there was no contentment—only pain. For ten billion too becomes a boundary. Ten rupees set a boundary; ten billion set a boundary. A little bigger—so what? As long as there is a boundary, you will feel small; the pain will continue.
There is only one instant when your pain departs utterly—the day you become one with the Vast which has no boundary. That is awakening in religion. That is entrance into Brahman. That is the river losing itself in the ocean.
Kabir points to that from all sides.
Hum to ek ek kari jaana.
Kabir says: We have come to know the One as One. We have erased duality. As long as the devotee has not become God, duality remains. Even if the devotee reaches God’s feet, there is no fulfillment.
Truthfully, the thirst increases at the feet. Separation becomes more intense. The burning becomes deeper: so near—what now obstructs the leap to become Paramatma? Therefore, the heights Hindu Dharma touches, Islam, Christianity, Judaism do not. They remain one step behind. Christianity or Islam bring you to the feet of God, but the courage for the last leap does not happen. The last leap is to become God. Settle for nothing less. If you settle for less, you will remain miserable. Even at God’s feet you will be in hell, for a boundary remains. Until you become God, the line of pain remains.
Hum to ek ek kari jaana.
Kabir says: We have known the One as only One. There is no duality left now. We are not other. You are not other.
There is an ancient Sufi tale. In it I add a little. In a song of Jalaluddin Rumi: a lover knocked at the beloved’s door at midnight.
From within, the beloved asked, “Who is there?”
The lover said, “It is I, your lover. Do you not recognize my footsteps? My voice?”
Inside, silence. No answer. The lover was restless. “Why do you not open?”
The beloved said, “There is not room here for two. Either I or you. In love’s house there is no space for two. This door will remain shut—until you come back as One.”
The lover went away. Days came and went, seasons passed, years rolled by. He practiced deeply, refined himself, passed through fire, became gold. Then one full-moon night he knocked again.
The same question: “Who is there?”
The lover said: “It is You.”
Rumi says: the door opened. Islam is satisfied here. Up to here the story ends—fine.
Islam says: let the devotee say to God, “Only You are, I am not.” The journey is complete. But look closely: as long as the feeling of “You” remains, the “I” cannot be uprooted. For what is the meaning of “You” without “I”? The meaning in “You” is due to “I.” Before “You,” there is “I.” And when the lover said, “It is You,” who said it? Within he knows: I am saying it. Only an “I” can say “You.” If there were no I, who would say You?
So Rumi’s poem completes itself: the door opened. But I would hold the door shut a little longer. If I were to meet Rumi I would say, “Let the poem go a little further. Let the beloved say: ‘As long as You are, I am too. And the door cannot open for two.’ Send the lover back once more. Now the dross has burned, gold remains—let the gold also vanish. Impurity has gone, purity remains—let purity go too. Sin is gone, virtue remains—let virtue go as well.”
And then I say there will be no need for the lover to come—the beloved herself will come. No need to bring him again to knock. Twice is enough. Now the lover will not return; wherever he is, he is lost in bliss. The beloved will seek him out, come and embrace him.
The day the devotee dissolves utterly, God comes. And I say to you: how can the devotee reach God? You know neither His address nor His whereabouts. Even if you write a letter—where will you send it? Where will you go? How will you search? And even if you meet Him—how will recognition be? For you have never known Him before.
No—you cannot go. You disappear; He comes. He himself knocks at your heart’s door. He himself arrives. The day the devotee is ready, that day God comes in search. For God was always present—around you, surrounding you, your very climate, your very breath, your very life. You were so crowded with yourself within there was no space. “Avadhu, gagan mandal ghar kijai.”
When you become empty, fullness descends—just as a drop disappears in the ocean. If you become zero, you become worthy of the Whole. You disappear, and Paramatma happens.
The beloved herself must have come searching. She must have seen the lover sitting beneath some tree, danced around him, embraced him, and said, “I have come. Now you are utterly gone. Neither You remains nor I—both go together, for they are two sides of one coin. What meaning has You if there is no I? What meaning has I if there is no You?”
Kabir says:
Hum to ek ek kari jaana.
There is no I there, and no You. We have come to know the One as only the One.
Doi kahai, tinihi ko dojak…
Those who say “two,”—hell is for them.
Doi kahai, tinihi ko dojak…
Hell for them. Two is hell; One is heaven.
…jin nahin pahchana.
It is they who have not recognized who say “two.” And those who say two remain in deep hell.
Boundary is hell. The felt experience of being bound is pain. Pressed from all sides—that is suffering. As long as something remains to be gained, it is hell—till everything has been attained. Let nothing remain outside. Spread so wide you cover the whole like the sky—let flowers bloom in you, let the moon and stars move in you.
Swami Ram used to say: I myself made the moon and stars. It was I who first touched them with my finger and gave them life and motion. And the moon and stars revolve within me. People thought he was mad. The wise have always been taken for mad; their speech sounds like madness.
When Swami Ram went to America and spoke thus—India is very familiar with madmen—there such talk somehow passes. For thousands of years we have heard madmen; even those who are not mad are familiar with their language. We accept it—even in unawareness we neither accept nor reject. But America’s situation is different. When they heard Ram say, “I move the moon and stars,” they thought him absolutely insane. People asked, “You? And within you the moon and stars revolve?” People like that in the West are sent to psychologists for treatment.
Just yesterday an Italian seeker told me that ever since she began meditation an energy flows through the body. Whenever the subject of meditation arises, or God is discussed, or whenever she meets me, or meets anyone in whom life’s flowers have begun to bloom—her whole body fills with a jolt as if lightning flashed. She said, “Here it is all right; people think Kundalini is awakening. What will I do in Italy? If it happens there, they will send me to a psychiatrist. They will medicate me—perhaps give me electric shocks—thinking something has gone wrong.”
Here we are familiar; America is very new—a child of a country. When Ram spoke thus, people thought him mad. He always referred to himself as “Emperor.” He never spoke otherwise. “Emperor Ram!” When he wrote a book, he titled it “Six Orders from Emperor Ram.” Farmans! Emperor!
Even the American President came to meet Ram and said, “Everything is fine, but why do you call yourself emperor? And nothing is visible with you.” Ram said, “You have recognized perfectly. Precisely because nothing is visible—no boundary—I call myself emperor. The limitless! The moon and stars revolve in me, for I end nowhere. That is my emperorship. You have recognized well.”
The President said, “We define it differently: one is an emperor who has a lot.” Ram said, “We say: the one who has nothing has all. The one who leaves the courtyard—his is the sky. The one who leaves one house—every house becomes his. The one who drops his ego here—everyone’s life becomes his life.”
Before dying Ramakrishna Paramahansa developed cancer of the throat. Great pain. Eating became difficult—even drinking water. Any passage through the throat hurt—there was a wound.
One day Vivekananda said to him, “Your body suffers so much—why not ask Mother? The Mother of the world has always heard you. Say at least this much—why give such pain to the throat? Even eating is difficult.”
Ramakrishna said, “Since you say so, I will. It hadn’t occurred to me.”
After a while he opened his eyes, laughing. “I asked—and Mother said: ‘Crazy one! How long will you be bound to this one throat? Take food through all throats!’” Ramakrishna said, “I understood. This throat was blocked so that all throats could become mine. Now I will eat through your throats.”
One throat is blocked—all throats open. Here one ego extinguishes and the ego of the whole—that ego of existence itself—that is Paramatma—speaks through Krishna: “Sarva dharman parityajya, mamekam sharanam vraja.” Abandon all dharmas; take refuge in Me alone. Who spoke? Who is this “Me”? It is not some Krishna standing there. It is the very ego of existence, the ‘I’ of the Whole. Your little I is the obstacle, for because of it you cannot unite with the great I of existence.
Rabindranath has written a reminiscence dear to me. One full-moon night he was on a boat on the river. He had lit a small lamp and was reading a book. A flickering little light; outside the full moon—light everywhere. Inside the room the lamp flickered; its soiled light soiled the space. He read till midnight; grew tired; blew out the lamp and closed the book—startled, he stood and began to dance. Something unique happened—unimagined. Till now the room was filled with a yellowish light. As he blew out the lamp, through doors and windows and every crevice of the boat the moon entered and began to dance. Rabindranath danced.
That night he wrote in his diary: “How mad I am! The whole moon stands outside. A wondrous night waits. The moon stands at the door, at the window, at every crack—waiting: when will you blow out the inner lamp so that I may enter within? And the small lamp is a barrier; because of it the room is filled with a dirty light that tires the eyes, does not cool them. As soon as the lamp was blown out, light rushed from all sides. Inside there was empty space—emptiness. The moon entered dancing.”
Rabindranath said: “That day a door opened in my mind—until the lamp of ego burns within me, God’s light will stand outside. The day I blow out this lamp, that day it will dance within. Then all is dance, all is festival—of this great festival there is no end.”
Hum to ek ek kari jaana.
Doi kahai, tinihi ko dojak, jin nahin pahchana.
Those who say two are in hell. Kabir’s saying would please the modern Westerner Jean-Paul Sartre. He said famously: “The Other is hell.” His reasons are different—but he too grasped something: the other is hell. The presence of the other is hell.
What to do then? Flee to solitude where there is no other—no wife, no husband, no son? Many have tried—fled to Himalayan caves to be alone—because the other is hell. But even if you flee you will not be alone, for your I will go with you. You may leave the You here; the I will go with you. And remember: where there is I, there is You—the coin is together. You cannot leave half. If the I goes with you, the You goes with you. Soon you will begin talking with yourself in two halves.
Alone, people start talking to themselves. I and You—both appear. Alone, people play cards with themselves—laying out both sides. They play from this side and from that. Not only that—they cheat from that side and from this. Whom are they cheating?
Alone, people live with imagined figures—converse with them—You appears.
The crowd will go with you if your I goes with you, for I is the center of the whole crowd; the crowd is the circumference. Wherever you go, you will be in a crowd. You cannot be alone. The Himalayan solitude will not be emptiness—only loneliness. And loneliness and aloneness are very different. Loneliness means the craving for the other is present; thus you feel lonely: “I am alone, I am alone”—the craving for the other, the desire for the You remains. You want someone to come.
Sitting outside your Himalayan cave you will keep your eyes on the path—perhaps some pilgrim passes by to Manasarovar; someone brings news from the plains: “What happened? Did Jayaprakash Narayan’s total revolution happen?” Perhaps someone brings a scrap of newspaper—and you will read it like Vedic scripture. Your mind will wander in the plains where the crowd is.
Ramakrishna used to say: one day he sat outside the temple at Dakshineswar and saw an eagle take off with a dead mouse. Now, however high the eagle flies, its eyes remain on the garbage heap where dead mice lie, scraps of meat are thrown, fish discarded. It flies in the sky, but the eyes are on the dump. You may sit in the Himalayas—no difference; your eyes will remain on Delhi’s garbage, on dead mice. You will take yourself with you; you are your seeing, the way of your being.
Ramakrishna saw the eagle flying with the mouse—many eagles and crows attacked. Great commotion in the sky. The eagle tried to save itself, but more vultures came—pecking from all sides. It fled, wanted to be safe; blood came upon its wings. In anger it attacked a vulture—and the mouse fell from its beak. As soon as the mouse fell, all the tumult ceased. They were not after the eagle; the vultures, eagles, and crows were after the mouse. The moment it dropped, they all left the eagle and went for the mouse. The exhausted eagle sat on a tree. Ramakrishna says, “It seemed to me perhaps it understood a little. The mouse had brought the whole crowd.”
Your “I”—go to the Himalayas; it makes no difference. The whole crowd will come. Your I draws the crowd. Drop the mouse of I. Sit in the marketplace—the Himalayas will be there. Your shop will become your cave; your office your temple. Let that mouse fall—and no eagle attacks. No vulture comes. No one has anything to take from you. Your I is the cause of all the uproar.
Has anyone ever pushed you? No—your I has been pushed. Has anyone ever insulted you? No—your I was insulted. Has anyone ever praised you? No—your I was praised.
As soon as the I goes, the entire crowd of slanderers and praisers, friends and enemies, one’s own and strangers, drops away. The Other is hell, says Sartre. Think a little deeper: the other is because you are. The ego is hell. On deeper analysis, you find the other exists because of you. Why call the other hell then? He appears like hell; in truth, the I is hell—ego is hell.
Doi kahai, tinihi ko dojak, jin nahin pahchana.
Ekai pavan, ekahi pani, ek jyoti samsara.
The same wind everywhere—Kailash or Kaaba. The same water—Ganga or the “Ganga-water” kept in your home.
Ekai pavan, ekahi pani, ek jyoti samsara.
And the same flame—whether in a little clay lamp or in the great suns. Recognize this One. Live this One. Bathe in this One. Chant only this One. Practice only this One. Make only this One your meditation.
Ekai pavan, ekahi pani, ek jyoti samsara.
Ek hi khak ghade sab bhandey, ek hi sirjanhara.
The same clay—out of which all pots have been shaped. The potter spins the wheel—the same clay takes on different forms. The forms differ, the names differ; the essence does not differ at all. In being there is not even a trace of difference. One is woman, one is man—within all are one. One is fair, one dark—within all are one. One is Hindu, one Turk—within all are one.
Ek hi khak ghade sab bhandey… and… ek hi sirjanhara.
The same One is creating; the same One is the Maker.
Jaise badhi kasht hi kate, agni na katai koi.
A great sutra. In those days, even in Kabir’s time, fire was produced by rubbing wood. That was the only way. Fire is hidden in wood. When the carpenter cuts wood, only the wood is cut—the fire is not cut.
Kabir says likewise: the One is hidden in you. When death strikes you, it is only the wood that is chopped—the fire is not chopped. When illness seizes you, it seizes only the wood—not the fire. When the young grow old, only the wood ages—the fire does not grow old.
That which is hidden in you—though you may not know it, for you have never rubbed yourself enough to know it. Those who rubbed came to know. Rubbing means: sadhana. Those who brought the inner form out came to know—recognized the inner fire. Then they know: in all woods the same fire hides. The forms of wood may be many and different; the color and mode of fire are one; the nature of fire is one. The one who recognizes from the surface thinks, “All are different.” The one who recognizes from within knows: all are made of the same clay.
And the pot hidden within the clay is worth understanding. Lao Tzu spoke much of it. He says: What is a pot? Is it the earthen wall or the emptiness within? The earthen wall is not a pot—for what will you fill in the wall? It is already full. The utility of the pot lies in its emptiness.
Lao Tzu says: a house has a door. Is the house the wall or the empty space inside? For how will you live in the wall? One lives in the empty space—the inner void. The wall stands only around the void as protection.
One lives in the sky—whether outside or inside. The sky is one—outside the same, inside the same. Does the sky in your house change because it is enclosed by your structure? Is the sky of the hut poor and the sky of the palace rich? Is there any difference in quality? Yes, the wall differs—here it is grass and thatch; there, stone in palaces. The wall differs; the inner emptiness does not. The inner emptiness is one.
If your vision is fixed on form, difference will appear. Then you will live in politics and die in politics. If your vision goes within, the formless will appear.
I was reading a book by a Black thinker in America. I was amazed—such things happen in the twentieth century. This Black thinker was in prison. In prison there is little to do; no work, nothing to read. The dark cell—lying there. A politician—no saint to meditate or else prison would become temple. He was restless. Desires arose in the mind. Another prisoner gave him a picture of a film actress. He stuck it on the wall—glanced at it sometimes; a beautiful woman’s picture, as all prisoners do.
Leave prisoners aside—people keep such pictures in their homes: the “respectable,” what to say of the unrespectable!
But trouble came when the guard knocked and said, “Take that picture down. You cannot put it on the wall.” He was surprised. “Why? Everyone keeps one and no one is made to remove it.” The guard said, “That is not the point. If you want to keep a picture, keep one of a Black actress—you cannot keep a white woman’s picture.”
A white woman’s picture and a Black woman’s picture are different! Being Black, you keep the picture of a white woman? Remove it—it insults the white people. If you want one, keep a Black woman’s picture. Even pictures differ? A piece of paper with a little ink—one becomes a white woman, one a Black woman. Even in pictures—distinctions! There is no limit to stupidity. Only two things in the world seem limitless: the expanse of God—and the expanse of stupidity.
If you look at form, one is fair, one dark; one beautiful, one ugly; one young, one old. If you look at the formless, the one is everywhere.
Jaise badhi kasht hi kate, agni na katai koi.
As the carpenter can cut wood—so death can cut you—your form; not your formless.
Sab ghati antar tu hi vyapak, dharai sarupe soi.
In every pot, within every vessel, You alone are pervasive—like empty sky, You are spread. You alone have taken on all forms. All is Your play. How many kinds of waves rise in the ocean—have you ever counted? Small, large, great, towering—so many modes, so many forms—but one ocean takes all forms. You do not get deluded seeing waves. One ocean in the small wave and in the large. One Paramatma in the poor and in the rich. One Paramatma in the beautiful and in the ugly. One Paramatma in the small and in the great. One Paramatma in the wise and in the fool. One Paramatma in the virtuous and in the sinner.
…dharai sarupe soi.
Maya mohe arth dekhi kari, kahe ku garbana.
Maya means: taking the infinite to be finite, taking truth to be bound, taking truth as a doctrine. Taking the formless as form, taking the outer circumference as the inner center—that is Maya. Maya is taking the waves to be the ocean.
Maya mohe arth dekhi kari, kahe ku garbana.
And you strut so proudly—puffed up—when you have nothing but ash in your hands. Nothing worthy of pride. You are a beggar. But even in a beggar’s bowl a few coins clink—he swaggers by them, thinking, “I too am something.”
What do you have? If you live bound to form and name, your pride is vain—there is nothing to be proud of.
Now this is the amusing paradox: you have nothing worthy of pride and you are swollen with pride; those who truly have something—who attain God—become utterly free of pride. Those with nothing are full of pride; those with everything become humble. This paradox too has its psychology. Why are the empty so puffed up? In that pride they hide their poverty. In that strut they intoxicate themselves so as to forget their emptiness.
Mulla Nasruddin was traveling with me. Suddenly he startled and said, “It seems I have lost my ticket—and not only the ticket, the moneybag too—with the ticket and money together.” I said, “First look through your pockets properly.”
He has many pockets for different things. He searched them all—once, twice. I noticed one pocket on his chest he kept avoiding. The others he checked two or three times. I said, “Nasruddin, why do you keep forgetting this one?”
He said, “Don’t even mention it! I am not forgetting it; I remember it well.” I said, “Why not look in it then?” He said, “It’s my only support—my one hope. If I check there too and don’t find it—we are finished! I am holding to that pocket—I cannot dare look. It is the one bridge of hope: maybe it’s in there. If it becomes certain it’s not, we’re ruined!”
He is right. This is the human mind. You do not have it, and you hide behind pride. Understand this formula: whatever a man boasts about—that is precisely where he is inferior. That is his inferiority complex. If a man struts about his beautiful body, be sure he doubts it; he fears he does not have it. Before someone says it, he declares it. Before someone touches the wound, he declares, “I am handsome.”
The one who fears he lacks intelligence displays it—memorizes some things and repeats them before others to appear knowledgeable. He doubts his knowing; his knowledge is not sure; he has not known—only pretends to know.
You will find ugly women wearing more jewelry. A beautiful woman needs none. The ugly woman covers her ugliness with ornaments. Ugly women will be draped in costly garments—covered in diamonds and jewels—to induce the delusion of beauty. The beautiful needs none; she does not even know she must announce her beauty. Announcements are for the poor. The one who has, remains silent. Those who know will know; those who do not—won’t know even if you announce. Why announce? The knower becomes humble; the scholar swells with conceit. The rich live in simplicity; the poor cannot. Only the rich can live simply.
I have heard, Henry Ford came to England. Before his arrival, photos had appeared in the newspapers—everyone recognized him. He went to the airport inquiry office and asked, “Which is the cheapest hotel here?” The clerk looked closely—he seemed the same man whose photo was in the morning paper—Henry Ford. “Excuse me—are you Henry Ford? I saw your photo this morning.” “Yes,” he said. “Then, being Henry Ford, you are seeking a cheap hotel?” Ford replied, “Because I am Henry Ford, it makes no difference whether I stay cheap or expensive—Henry Ford is Henry Ford; the whole world knows.”
The clerk said, “When your sons come, they always look for the most expensive hotel.” Ford said, “They are not yet assured—I am. They cannot be. I earned the money; they are freeloaders—how can they be assured? They want to show—biggest hotel!” The rich man begins to live simply.
I have heard: it so happened that Henry Ford, Firestone—the first owner of Firestone tires—and the poet Henry Wallace, all three went on a journey in an old Ford Model T. They stopped in a village to fill petrol. Ford himself was driving; Firestone and Wallace sat in back—three bearded, dignified men.
Ford said casually to the attendant, “You cannot imagine whose car you’re filling—I am Henry Ford—the owner of the world’s cars.” The man looked and said, “Hmph.” He could not believe Henry Ford would come to such a small village; if he was, why tell? He kept filling. Ford was surprised. “Perhaps you don’t know the one behind me is Firestone—the owner of tires.” The man looked back and grunted, “Hmph.” As soon as Ford began, “You cannot imagine who the third man is…” the attendant picked up an iron rod and said, “Don’t you dare say he is the God who made the world. I’ll crack your skull. Everyone is here—only God is missing!”
Henry Ford was so simple that no one could recognize him from his clothes—or his car. He always traveled in the first Model T he had built. Better models came, but Ford rode his old Model T all his life. He looked like a sadhu—hence not believable that Henry Ford would be in that village in that garb. Santa Claus perhaps—but Henry Ford?
The simple man. The truly rich become simple. No wonder Mahavira and Buddha—princes—became beggars. Only princes can become beggars. Beggars want to be princes. You want to be what you are not; what you are—the urge to be that vanishes. That is why you strut with pride—for all that you are not. Inside you hide wounds in your pride.
Whatever a man prides himself on—know that is his inferiority. Touch it and the wound will ooze; he will be angry. Do not doubt the scholar’s learning or he will fight. Do not raise suspicion about the poor man being rich—accept it—that is etiquette: “Certainly—who could be richer than you?”
What you truly have—you do not announce.
Maya mohe arth dekhi kari, kahe ku garbana.
The fearful man talks of bravery. The fearful always claims, “I am very valiant.”
Mulla Nasruddin is very fearful; he is afraid to go in the dark. If he must, he makes his wife walk ahead with a lantern. Once thieves robbed his house; he had to identify the thief in court. The magistrate asked, “Were you awake when the theft happened?” “Absolutely awake.” “Did you come down the stairs to look at the thief?” “Yes.” “Can you recognize his face?” “Absolutely not.” “Did you see him?” “I could not.” “You were awake, you came down, and the man was present?” “Yes.” “This is a puzzle—why did you not see? Was the lantern close?” “There was a lantern,” he said, “but it was in my wife’s hand. I was behind her—so I couldn’t see.”
He is a frightened man.
In a hotel people were chatting; a soldier just returned from war was boasting, “I killed countless men—cut heads like carrots and radishes.” Nasruddin said, “Wait—a time like that came in my life too. Twenty years ago, when I was young, I too went to war and one day I cannot count how many legs I cut—like carrots and radishes.” The soldier was angry: “Legs? We’ve heard tall tales, but people cut heads—not legs.” Nasruddin said, “Someone had already cut the heads. Whatever I found, I cut like carrots and radishes.”
The fearful man speaks of courage—he is encouraging himself. Do not be deluded—he is not telling you anything; he is just covering himself, clothing his nakedness, hiding his wounds. That is why you pride yourself on what you do not have; those who have everything lose pride. What is there to announce? If you announce, the Vast becomes small. One who attains God might have cause to be proud—yet he is utterly humble. And the beggars—whose pride knows no bounds.
Nirbhay bhaya kachhu nahin vyaapai, kahai Kabir deewana.
The one who has known the One as One becomes fearless. Nothing affects him. Even if death stands at his door, nothing changes. All the wealth of the world cannot tempt him—no greed arises. If the whole world insults him, no anger arises. If the whole world sings his praise and waves lamps before him, no pride is born; ego is not formed.
Nirbhay bhaya kachhu nahin vyaapai, kahai Kabir deewana.
Kabir—the mad one—says: We have known the One as One; knowing it we became fearless—all fear is gone.
What is fear? If you go to its root there is only one fear: that you will have to vanish. All other fears are shadows of this one.
You fear bankruptcy because with it you will vanish. You fear your wife may leave you because she has become half your life—you will break in half. You fear your son may die because upon him your future ambition rests—if he dies your future dies; he is your bridge; you plan to travel onward on his shoulders. Fear.
But all fear is the spread of one fear—the fear of death, of ending. Death is the only fear.
The one who has known the One—his death is finished—for that One never dies. Waves die—the ocean never dies. Rivers lose themselves—the ocean never is lost. Trees arise, animals and birds are born, man is formed—everything happens; then all depart. But the stream of life flows on—undivided, inexhaustible.
You will die—life never dies. You will pass—life never passes. If you take yourself to be only what appears in the mirror—you will be afraid, for that will die, what appears in the mirror. The carpenter will cut this—it is wood. The mirror never shows the fire hidden in the wood. You must rub—in meditation, in Samadhi—and it will be revealed. The day you see that inner flame you will say, “Let a thousand saws run—only the wood will be cut; I will not be cut.”
Therefore Krishna says to Arjuna: “Na hanyate hanyamane sharire”—the body is slain, yet That is not slain. “Nainam chhindanti shastrani, nainam dahati pavakah”—weapons cannot cleave it, fire cannot burn it. Only the body will be cut—I am not cut. Arjuna, you too are not cut. Those assembled on the battlefield—their wooden bodies will be cut; the fire is not cut.
Jaise badhi kasht hi kate, agni na katai koi.
Sab ghati antar tu hi vyapak, dharai sarupe soi.
Nirbhay bhaya kachhu nahin vyaapai, kahai Kabir deewana.
And when you see that the inner flame is unbroken, that the inner life is eternal—the lamp may go out, the flame does not; the body may fall, the bodiless remains forever. Your boundary will vanish; the wave’s boundary will vanish—but the ocean hidden in the wave is forever… forever… forever.
Whoever recognizes this—even a hint of the inner fire—his fear is gone. He will embrace death himself. He will invite death home: “Come”—for only the wood will be cut, the body will vanish; there is no more vanishing for me. When death embraces him he will experience nectar. Even in the moment of death, the stream of immortality will shower. His deathlessness cannot be stolen.
Life is the Ganga—ceaseless, unbroken. It flows on. Ghats change, pilgrims change; temples rise on the banks and fall; ruins remain. How many came and went—the Ganga keeps flowing. Life is the flow of Ganga. If you know yourself apart from it, you will be afraid. If you know yourself one with the One, fearlessness flowers.
Fearlessness is the shadow of Brahman-realization. Without the experience of Brahman, fearlessness never arises. Announce your fearlessness all you like—you are afraid, trembling like a coward inside. The sword and dagger in your hands are held by your fear.
The moment you know that death does not destroy—that nothing is destroyed—how can life be destroyed? What is, is. How can it be that it is not? Forms dissolve—come and go. Names change—Being remains.
Hum to ek ek kari jaana.
Nirbhay bhaya kachhu nahin vyaapai, kahai Kabir deewana.
Enough for today.