Kahe Kabir Diwana #3

There is a knowing that comes by learning, and a knowing that comes by unlearning. Whatever is gained by learning is rubbish; what comes through unlearning alone is precious. By learning, only that can be learned which is poured in from the outside. By unlearning, that is born which has always been hidden within you.
If you make the journey a pursuit to acquire knowledge, you will end as a pandit, a scholar. If you make it a quest to lose knowledge, prajna is born.
Punditry is a burden; it will not free you. It binds you even more. It is a noose around the neck, chains around the feet. Punditry becomes a prison surrounding you. Through it you become blind. Your doors and windows close. For the moment the illusion arises that by knowing words one has known, ignorance hardens like stone.
Seek that knowing which is not obtained from words but from the wordless; not by thinking and brooding, but by becoming without thought. Seek that knowing which is not in the scriptures, but in oneself. That alone will free you; that alone will fill you with a new dance. It will make you alive. It will lift you out from over your own grave. From it the flowers of life will bloom; and from it, ultimately, the light of Paramatma will be revealed.
The pandit knows, and does not know. It seems as if he knows. Just as a sick man, instead of taking medicine, begins to study medicine; as a hungry man reads cookbooks.
If you are hungry for truth, then do not, even by mistake, get entangled in theology. There much is said about truth, but truth is not there. For when has truth ever been said? Who has been capable of saying it? That is why the guru does not give knowledge; in fact, he takes away even the knowledge you bring. The guru does not make you, he unmakes you. He does not increase the storehouse of your memory; he empties your memory, your store. When you become completely empty, Paramatma fills you. Becoming shunya is the way to receive the Poorna.
Some twenty years ago I lived a year in Raipur. In the house where I lived, an old man lived next door. He sold tooth-powder. When I had come to know him, I asked, “You do not have a single tooth. Who buys tooth-powder from you? You could not save your own teeth and yet you put up a board in the marketplace: ‘This powder strengthens the teeth; prevents them from falling out.’ You have not a single tooth. Who buys from you? And with what courage do you sell it?”
The old man, a little annoyed, said, “What difference does it make? Many men sell women’s blouses, saris, bangles.” I agreed; then he added, “People are interested in their own teeth, not in mine. They look at the tin of tooth-powder; who cares about my teeth? You are the first to raise such a doubt.”
Have a little concern for the pandits’ teeth. What they are selling has not saved even them. What they explain to you has not awakened understanding in them. What they give to you has given them nothing. Examine their lives a little. You will find sadness there, a void, a heaviness. You will find them weighed down—but you will not find that dance of which Kabir sings: Paibo re, paibo re Brahmajnana—“I shall attain, I shall attain Brahma-knowledge.”
When the first ray of knowing descends, the heart breaks into dance. Have you seen the peacock dance? In the first days of Ashadh, clouds gather in the sky, the peacock spreads its tail and dances. So too does the knower of Brahman dance when the clouds of Paramatma gather in his life. The day of Ashadh arrives. The rains near. The chest that had been thirsty for lifetimes—clouds have gathered, the day has come, the mind-peacock dances. Have you heard the cuckoo sing? She calls her beloved; she calls and keeps calling.
Such a fire of longing burns the seeker until the lover is found. Upon union, a profound peace, a deep bliss.
The knower’s being changes; the pandit’s memory merely fills. Memory is only a mechanism; it has no value. Let your whole being be filled with wonder. Let every pore begin to offer thanks. Let the light of that Paramatma enter through all your doors and windows. Let the all-pervading Divine surround you on every side. Let you be filled to the brim. Let a flood come so vast you do not know how to thank. Words fall away; nothing remains to be said. Your entire being begins to speak. Speech is too small. Bliss is the hallmark. Satchidananda is the hallmark. The pandit’s own teeth are fallen, and you are learning from him.
Make bliss your touchstone; otherwise, you will be deceived. There are many lords of words—seek the lord of bliss. In whose life all has become silent and fulfilled; who has nothing left to gain—only such a one can give. Only such a one can be a guru. The pandit is with you; he knows a little more, you a little less. If you labor a little, you too will know a little more. Between you and the pandit there is no qualitative difference—only quantitative. Between the knower and you there is a qualitative difference.
Imagine two men asleep: one dreams he is a thief; another dreams he is a saint. Do you think there is any qualitative difference between them? Both are asleep; both are dreaming; neither holds truth in his hands. A third man sits nearby, awake. Awake, not dreaming. Between this man and the two sleepers there is a qualitative difference. His state of consciousness is different; he is awake.
Dreams do not harass him; dreams come only in deep torpor. When you are unconscious, then dreams arise. The awakened one is not plagued by desire, for desire is a dream. The awakened one is not harassed by greed, for greed is a dream. The awakened one is not tormented by sin, for sin is a dream. And I tell you: the awakened one is not troubled by merit either, for merit too is a dream. The inauspicious does not trouble him, nor does the auspicious. The awakened one does not desire to be a devil, nor to be a saint. The awakened one is simply awake; he has nothing to do with these dreams.
And when life awakens beyond all dualities, only then can someone, like Kabir, stand beneath the clouds and sing: Paibo re, paibo re Brahmajnana.
This is the greatest happening. Its hallmark is bliss. Wherever you perceive bliss—even if that person lacks scholarship—run after him. He carries a fragrance. And however much someone is stuffed with knowledge, if on his face and in his eyes you do not see the thrill of bliss, the sense of mystery, the taste of something significant that cannot be said; if you do not feel an intimation of a depth that fills the heart to the brim but cannot be brought into words; if sitting near him you do not taste a still lake; if his presence does not feel like sunlight; if by him you do not receive the coolness of the moon, the fragrance of unknown flowers; if by him some unknown veena does not begin to sing and the strings of your heart do not begin to answer—
Do you know? Musicians speak of a wondrous experience. Place a veena in the corner of a room, untouched. Let a master musician play another veena; then a strange thing happens—the first veena, in the corner, slowly begins to sound the same melody. But a great master is needed. He plays one veena; the resonance that rises touches the strings of the other; the wave strikes the second, and slowly its strings start to tremble. A delicate shiver runs through them. There are tales of Tansen and Baiju Bawra: the second veena repeats exactly what the first is doing.
And now science has researched this and found it true. They call it the law of synchronicity. When something vibrates in a certain pattern, it creates a mesh of waves around it; anything of similar nature within that field begins to vibrate in the same way.
The knower is one in whose presence the veena of your heart begins to vibrate. His note is awake; his veena is being played—by the infinite hands of Paramatma. Come close to him and the strings of your heart begin to ring. This is no relationship of intellect; it is of the heart. Its alignment is more with love, less with knowledge; more with trust, less with thought. Your alike-in-nature soul begins to vibrate. The veena within you awakens, stirs, rises.
Guru is one by whose side the disciple begins to be transformed.
Let us try to understand Kabir’s words with great care.
“Now I shall attain—now I shall attain—Brahma-knowledge.”
Even the words are sweet: “Paibo re.” Now I have found! Now I have found!
“In effortless Samadhi I dwell in bliss; the rest of countless aeons is attained.”
The event has occurred which is called sahaj Samadhi—effortless Samadhi.
Samadhi is of two kinds. One is born of effort, of striving, of arrangement, of labor. Such Samadhi cannot be called complete.
Why? Because whatever has come through your effort will retain something of you. How can your effort go beyond you? Whatever you do will bear your imprint, your signature. Your effort is you. Samadhi born of your effort cannot transcend you; it cannot reach Paramatma.
One Samadhi ripens through effort. Yes, you will become a little quiet, a bit free of tension. Sleep will become sound. Your life will gain some balance. Distraction will lessen. Greed and anger will have less pull. Lust will not be as thick as before. But still, modified, somewhat transformed—you remain the old.
As someone renovates an old house. He tidies it up, repairs here and there, adds a few new stones, paints the walls, gives it a fresh look. But within, the house remains time-worn.
So is the Samadhi that comes by effort: a renovation of the old. It is not a new edifice. Its continuity with the past is not broken. However you adorn it, inwardly it remains dilapidated.
Let the old break utterly; let the new be born in totality. Let the continuity snap; let there be no bridge between the old and the new. Here the old goes, there the new arrives—with no link between them. Only then is Samadhi supreme.
But how will you bring such Samadhi? If you bring it, the continuity remains yours. Your Samadhi—brought, contrived—however much it quiets you, will not fill you with rapture and bliss. Bliss belongs to Paramatma; man’s utmost possibility is silence. Beyond that man cannot go.
And even such silence can be broken, any time. For where bliss has not poured, silence is not trustworthy. Silence is a negative state. You have become less unquiet, so you appear silent. But no lamp has been lit; there has been no rain of bliss.
Where the rain of bliss happens, the possibility of restlessness ceases. And where bliss blossoms, one is not merely silent—for silence is a passive state, negative. He is filled with affirmative bliss. His Samadhi dances. There is a song in his Samadhi; a continuous flow; a creative, active energy. His Samadhi is not the removal of disturbance, but the descent of bliss. It is not merely the disappearance of disease, but the arrival of health.
Kabir says:
“In effortless Samadhi I dwell in bliss; the rest of countless aeons is attained.”
Those endless imaginations, torments, alternatives—all rest. They have gone. Now nothing harasses—no greed knocks at the door, no attachment, no passion, no anger. Countless alternatives have vanished.
“In effortless Samadhi I dwell in bliss...”
A great bliss has descended. But that descent happens only in sahaj Samadhi. The Samadhi born of effort is not sahaj. Sahaj means self-arising; it descends by itself.
But how will this be? If it comes by itself, nothing remains for you to do. What will you do? You will, of course, have to strive for the non-sahaj Samadhi. Silence must be brought; bliss comes. Silence is only the preparation so that bliss can descend. One must make room. All of yoga leads up to silent Samadhi. Hence those who have known the supreme Samadhi say: by the guru’s grace, by the grace of the Divine, as prasada. For the other Samadhi you cannot bring; it comes.
Just as the sun has risen outside and you sit inside with doors closed. The sun cannot enter. Nature, Paramatma, is non-aggressive. It will not even knock. It remains outside. Its rays will not shake your door; they will not warn you: “We have come. Open.” Nor will the rays pierce the wall to enter. If you choose the dark, that is your freedom, your choice. No force can be applied.
Open the door—the sunlight enters. Opening the door is the Samadhi born of effort. But the entry of the sun does not happen by your effort; the sun comes on its own. You do not drag the rays in; you do not drive them inside; you do not invite them at the threshold. You simply open the door.
Meaning: do not be a hindrance; do not raise resistance. Open the door; the sun comes in of its own accord. That coming is effortless; you need do nothing for it.
Yoga means: the Samadhi of effort. Hence Patanjali’s Yoga Sutras can take you to savikalpa Samadhi. Nirvikalpa Samadhi will happen. The door opens through savikalpa; nirvikalpa arrives. The moment you are ready, Paramatma delays not even for a moment. You opened the door—He is present. He enters. And when Paramatma enters, naturally you had done nothing to obtain Him. How can you say, “It came because of me”? The chain of cause and effect breaks. Kabir will say this again: the chain of cause and effect breaks. You can no longer say, “Because I opened the door, the sun came in.” You can only say, “Had I not opened the door, the sun could not have entered.” By the opening of the door, only the door opens. The sun’s coming is not caused by the door opening. The sun was already coming; only the obstruction was removed.
Step out from the middle. Paramatma is showering every moment. There is no need to await Ashadh—the clouds are forever gathered. It is not a season that comes and goes. Ever-present, the sky is ringed with His clouds. The day you open the doors of the heart’s curtain, that very day sahaj Samadhi will happen. But for sahaj Samadhi nothing can be done.
Then what will you do?
Make a deliberate effort to become quiet. All the so-called meditations are only the opening of the door. Strictly speaking, even to call them meditation is not right; call them the preparation for meditation. As a gardener pulls out weeds, clears the ground—yet this is not the planting of a garden. The gardener may uproot the weeds, clear the soil, and still never sow; the garden may never arise. Clearing weeds, preparing the soil, removing stones is only preface. Now the seeds must be sown. You prepare the ground; the seeds are sown by Paramatma. You ready the heart; the rain comes from Him.
An ancient Egyptian book says: take one step, and Paramatma walks a thousand steps toward you. But the first step you must take—for Paramatma is non-aggressive. Show your thirst, your longing; rise and take one step, and instantly you will find the Divine a thousand steps nearer. You prepared the earth, and the seeds began to arrive; you opened the door, and the light came.
“In effortless Samadhi I dwell in bliss...”
By “bliss,” Kabir is not speaking of what you call pleasure. For in that you cannot dwell. It comes only to go. It can hardly arrive before it starts leaving. You were just seeing that its face was turned toward you—before you recognized it, its back had already turned.
How will you dwell in pleasures that vanish in a blink? The moment awareness comes, the moment is gone. And when your so-called pleasure comes, the mind is still filled with sorrow—because you know it will not last. Even then, a deep sadness pervades within. You know well it has come like a wave and will go like a wave. This wave is not going to stay at the shore. As it came, so it will go. The tide will soon be ebb.
Naturally, when pleasure comes, you sense: going… going… going. How can you dwell in it? Pleasure comes and you are filled with grasping. Dwelling becomes difficult; you clutch. “Let me hold it a little longer, just one more moment.” In the very clutching, the moment that could have been lived is lost. Pleasure arrives, and the worry arises that it may slip away. When there is pain, you are tormented by pain; and also tormented by the worry: how to get rid of it. When there is pleasure, you are tormented by the worry: how to keep it. “Now it is going… now it is going. How to bind it?”
How will you dwell? To dwell in bliss is possible only when bliss comes and does not go. It arrives, and then is never about to depart. It becomes your nature, not a modification of the mind. A mental modification is like a wave—coming and going. The bliss of which Kabir speaks is a state of being; it is the mood of the soul. Nature does not depart.
Bodhidharma went to China, a great sannyasin. The emperor asked him, “Anger comes, greed comes, restlessness comes—what should I do?” Bodhidharma said, “Close your eyes. Tell me—right now, is there anger?” The emperor said, “Not now.” Bodhidharma said, “What is not twenty-four hours present is not your nature. That which comes and goes—how can it be you? You are the one who always is. Can you say you sometimes are and sometimes are not?” The emperor said, “I am always, whether there is anger or restlessness or peace or pleasure or sleep or waking.” Bodhidharma said, “Then care for that which is constant. Know that. What comes and goes is only an outer wave—it touches the shore and returns. Do not give it much attention.”
Neither your pleasure nor your pain is valuable. You gave them too much attention; hence your entanglement. They are not even worth attention. Except for indifference, no other attitude is needed. If pleasure comes, be indifferent—it is going anyway. If pain comes, be indifferent—how long can it stay? Pain never stays forever. Why be so troubled? Let it be a while.
A bird has flown into your room—of sorrow or pleasure—it will flutter a moment and fly out the other window. None has come to stay. Through one window a bird enters, flutters a little, and flies out again on its endless journey. You are the house where for a while it flew—the emptiness, the empty space. Make your identity with that; then you will understand what bliss Kabir speaks of—the one that comes and does not go. It comes, and then takes no name of going. It is no guest—this is you. Not a guest, but the host. It is you. Not a wave touching the shore, but the shore itself.
“In effortless Samadhi I dwell in bliss; the rest of countless aeons is attained.”
“When the compassionate guru showered his grace, the lotus of the heart bloomed.”
By one’s own effort the ground is prepared. Those who mistake their effort for the all go astray. One’s effort is like trying to lift oneself by one’s own shoelaces—some hopping and skipping may happen for a moment; you might jump a foot or two—but how long will you remain in the air?
How great is man’s power? Very small. With such small power if we set out to find the Vast, we will color the Vast too; it will become as small as us. That is why all our gods have shrunk. How can the small man have a great God?
If you make a Rama, you will make him in your image. However many bows you give him, however beautiful the statue, it remains a human image—your projection. You read the life of Krishna—what will you read? You will read yourself. Look closely at Buddha, at Mahavira—either your own face is cast there, or your aspirations, at best your desires of what you would like to be. But nothing can go beyond you. Whatever you do, you encircle it. It will be your echo.
Hence Kabir says:
“When the compassionate guru showed his compassion, the lotus of the heart bloomed.”
Guru means: one who has awakened. He can become the link between you and Paramatma.
Understand this a little.
The guru is a door—nothing more. On one side of that door, you are; on the other, Paramatma. You are unable to understand the Divine—its language is utterly unfamiliar; its form unrecognized; its music unheard. Your ears are not ready for that music, your heart not ready for that touch. Your field is full of weeds. Even if those seeds fall in you, they will not sprout.
Moreover, you stand with your back to the door. You are not oriented toward Paramatma, you are dis-oriented. The more you face the world, the more your back is toward the Divine. You can face only one way at a time—either toward the world or toward Paramatma.
Sannyas means only this: to turn your back to the world and your face to Paramatma. A householder means: back toward the Divine, face toward the world. Merely a slight difference in posture. Turn one hundred and eighty degrees—and the householder becomes a sannyasin. In a single moment. And in a single moment, the sannyasin can become a householder.
Where is your face? To be turned to the Divine is sannyas. But your back is toward the door… and that which spreads infinitely beyond the door does not fit your definitions. Nothing you have known matches it. Your knowing is useless. Guru means: one who once was like you, standing with his back to the door, and then turned his face to it.
Guru means: one who knows your language well, who has come from among you, whose past was like yours but whose present has become different; in whose life some ray of Paramatma has descended. He understands His language a little. He can do the work of translation.
The guru is a translator. He understands the Divine and its language. He understands you and your language. He brings Paramatma into your language; in a form you can bear. He filters it for you. So that a taste may catch you; and not so much that its impact destroys you. He prepares you gently.
A small sapling needs protection; once it is grown, no fence is needed. The guru guards your little plant. If heavy rain falls on a little plant, death can happen; one must protect it even from the clouds. If too much sun falls on a small shoot, it can die. The sun is life-giving, yet for a small plant it can be death—too much. It is not ready to receive and assimilate.
The guru’s whole effort is only this: to make Paramatma suitable to you, and you suitable to Paramatma. He must restrain the Divine a little: “Wait a little, not so fast. Do not shower so hard; the man will be gone.” And he must prepare you: “Do not panic; wait a little. The rain is close. If one drop has fallen, the whole cloud will fall. Do not fear.” He prepares you to receive more; prepares the Divine to give less. And when a balance is established between the two, the guru is no longer needed.
The guru is only a door. Doors do not stop anyone. You pass through. He does not obstruct. He is the middle link. Without a guru, your condition is like this: you speak Hindi, the other knows Japanese. He speaks Japanese; you speak Hindi. No communion happens. A man is needed who knows Japanese and Hindi—who can bring harmony. The guru brings harmony.
But Kabir says:
“When the compassionate guru showed his compassion…”
Even the guru’s grace must be earned; it cannot be had for free. Nothing can be had for free. Those who try to get for free remain beggars. Nothing—least of all religion—comes free. There, you must put your whole being at stake.
What does the guru’s grace mean? Kabir’s words are wondrous: “The guru, who is compassion itself, when he bestowed compassion…” Why this seeming repetition? The guru is compassion, anukampa, karuna. Yet even that compassion can shower upon you only when you are ready. The guru is always grace, but if you are an upturned pot, even if compassion showers, you will not be filled. You won’t even know.
Buddha said: When people come to hear me, I know some are like upside-down pots. Pour as you may—nothing reaches within, for the mouth rests on the ground. Some are like cracked pots; their mouth may be upright, but whatever is poured escapes at once. Some are like wobbly pots—trembling, fickle: something stays, something spills; never the whole. And some are steady, straight pots—neither cracked, nor overturned, nor shaky. In them, whatever is poured is safe, and because of their steadiness it grows—put in a seed and it sprouts. It never diminishes; it develops.
Kabir says: “The lotus of the heart blossomed.” When the compassionate guru bestowed grace. The guru is compassionate—it is always raining. But until the disciple consents, there is no connection with grace. The moon has risen, you sit with eyes closed.
What preparation is needed to receive the guru’s grace? All religions have called it shraddha—trust. The meeting of the disciple’s trust and the guru’s grace—when trust is complete, grace becomes complete. On one side, shraddha; on the other, kripa—then the lotus of the heart opens.
Trust is a rare happening; difficult—almost impossible. That is why I call religion the impossible revolution. For doubt is natural to the mind. Trust appears unnatural. Doubt seems safety; trust seems risky—who knows? And you do not know. With whom you go—will he lead you or mislead you? The hand you hold—how to trust it without experience? But religion says: without trust there is no experience. It appears impossible: “How shall I trust?”
All life long we are trained in doubt. In the world, trust and you will be looted. Doubt is self-protection. Hold on to your pocket; lock your safe; lock your door. Doubt every man as a thief. Take everyone as an enemy, competitor, rival. Do not take anyone as a friend. The scripture of this life is Machiavelli and Chanakya. Machiavelli wrote: never trust even a friend so much that you tell him everything. Speak to your friend as you would to a future enemy. A friend can become your enemy; then you will regret it. And do not speak of your enemy what you could not speak of your friend—for who knows, tomorrow the enemy may become your friend.
The scripture of the world is cunning. In Delhi the politicians built a quarter and named it Chanakya Nagar—rightly so, for all the cunning gather there. Chanakya is India’s Machiavelli. These two are to the world what Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna, Christ, Mohammed are to religion—world-sages: trust no one.
Machiavelli’s The Prince so influenced Europe that all kings were impressed. Yet no one wanted to appoint Machiavelli as a minister—“This man knows too much of cunning; he is dangerous.” He died poor, jobless. But his book had great effect. People used what he taught, and then said to him, “Forgive us—we cannot bring you near.”
Doubt is the world’s scripture; the mind is trained for doubt. Schools, colleges, universities teach doubt: believe only when no doubt remains. That is the world’s formula. But doubt always finds a place.
And in the inner world, the place of doubt is vast—you tread an unknown path, with no experience. Trust is demanded; it is risky. If you carry on the mind of doubt, trust will not happen.
Only the supremely daring can trust—not merely bold, but reckless in the highest sense—those who have tasted all the colors of life and found only ashes in hand: tried doubt, tried cunning, considered the world the enemy and found nothing but dust; whose sadness has ripened, who have seen the impotence of doubt, and are ready to leap into trust. To the doubter, trust looks blind. But the one ready to leap, who says, “At worst I will die”—and life too has been nothing but deaths; “I will be annihilated”—and life has been nothing else; “Enough. Now I am ready to be blind”—for eyes took me nowhere; “let me walk with eyes closed—perhaps I’ll arrive.”
And the wonder is: the one willing to walk with closed eyes finds that the inner eye opens at once. To doubt, trust seems blind; to experience, there is no greater eye than trust. It is vision itself. But it comes only to the one who jumps.
Your condition is like this: you stand on the riverbank. I say, “Come down. Learn to swim.” You say, “First let us learn to swim; only then will we enter the water. Who knows what the water will do? It is risky.” You are right. But how will you learn to swim without entering the water? Slowly, carefully—enter. Place your steps with care, but enter. Once in, learning to swim is not difficult.
In truth, the guru teaches very little. If you have courage, the guru’s teaching is minimal: he helps you remember swimming. Everyone knows how to swim; you have not tested your potential. Enter the water, you will begin flailing your hands and feet—that is swimming, a little unskilled. In a few days you will stroke with skill. The movement is the same: the difference is only of order and trust. On the first day there was no trust—you flailed in panic. Now you are trusting. You know that by stroking you are saved. It does not matter whether the water is ten yards deep or ten miles—once the art is known, even stroking is not needed; you can simply lie back and float. What has happened? Trust has deepened. You know you cannot sink.
Strangely, a living man who does not know how to swim drowns; but once he is dead, he floats. The dead know how to float; the living sink. The dead man’s doubt is gone, his panic has ended. What more can the river do? What more can the ocean do? At once the river lifts him. Your body holds enough air for you to float; you are lighter than water. But you do not remember. Those who drown, drown not for lack of the art, but for excess flailing; water fills the mouth, breath is blocked, life departs. Everyone is born knowing how to swim.
This is why I say: you are born knowing meditation. Samadhi is your nature. Only remembrance is needed. Trust a little—and go to the one who calls you to the ocean of Samadhi. Drop doubt. Long enough you have been bound to the bank by doubt. Enter the water. Upon entering, trust will grow. But even to enter, a little trust is needed; then it deepens. A moment comes—you will laugh and say, “This could have happened without the guru too.”
In my village, the man who taught swimming was not much of a swimmer himself. He taught me as well. His whole method was to pick up the child and throw him into the water. He threw me in; he stood on the bank, so there was no fear. I flailed and returned. He threw me again; trust grew. He never entered the water, never held my hand. He sat on the bank washing his clothes or oiling his body, threw the child in, and watched him return. The mere assurance that someone is there to save you is enough.
When trust is born within, the guru’s grace is ever-present. When grace and trust meet, the spark of revolution is struck. The impossible revolution happens. I call it impossible only because it is supremely arduous—almost impossible. Yet it happens. The impossible too is possible.
“When the compassionate guru showed his compassion, the lotus of the heart bloomed.
The illusion fled; all ten directions were seen;
Supreme Light shone forth.”
In a single instant the whole deception cracks. The ten directions become clear. The Supreme Light is revealed. The happening is instant—like striking flint and the fire leaps out. The two stones might have lain together for millions of years without fire; not because time was needed, but because the strike was missing. When trust and grace strike, they are two flints—instant fire!
“The dead arose, bow in hand; Death took to flight.”
That which lay dead till yesterday is resurrected, filled with supreme energy, armed with the bow; and beholding that life-energy, Death flees.
“The sun rose; the night took to its journey.”
Morning came; the sun rose; the night fled. Night did not even pause for a moment to brace herself. She did not protest: “This is injustice. I have lived here forever and you arrive suddenly today. Be a guest if you must, but do not drive me out of my home.”
There is an ancient tale: Darkness went to the Divine and said, “Stop your sun. He torments me every day. I have never troubled him. I cannot even rest.” The Divine said, “Your complaint is just, but both of you must be present together for a decision; I must hear the sun too.” Ages have passed; darkness has not been able to bring the sun to court—how could they appear together? They cannot coexist. The case remains in the files—like a Delhi file—never to be decided.
It is said the Divine asked the sun privately, “Why do you harass darkness?” The sun replied, “Which darkness? I do not even know it. I have never met it. I have roamed everywhere, but never encountered darkness. If you ever meet it, introduce me.” Even God cannot do that. He may be all-powerful, but He cannot place darkness before the sun; because darkness is the absence of the sun. Presence and absence cannot be together. Either I am on this chair, or I am not; both cannot be true at once.
The moment the inner sun rises, the night of lifetimes vanishes.
“The sun rose; the night set out. From sleep, when I awoke.”
When the guru awakened me, sleep broke; all the darkness, all night, all sin and merit, the net of karma—gone. In one instant, all directions were seen.
“I saw the Unknowable, the Unthinkable, the Incomparable—yet it cannot be said.”
What was never seen has been seen; the Unknown, the Perfect, the Whole, the Incomparable. And it cannot be said—because there is nothing like it with which to compare.
If I speak to you of a rose, and you have never seen a rose, I might compare it with another flower. But if you have never known any flower, I cannot make you understand the rose. If you have never tasted sweetness—neither sugar, nor jaggery, nor honey—how will I explain sugar? Paramatma is solitary. Those who have known, have known; those who have not, have not. Between the two, all bridges fall. Language fails. What metaphor will do? What symbol will suffice?
“I saw the Unknowable, the Unthinkable, the Incomparable—yet it cannot be said.
I gesture, secretly savoring within; the mute alone knows the sweet.”
The mute has eaten the sweet. He gestures with his hand; within he savors. Hand-signs he can make—but can signs convey sweetness? All the saints have gestured. They hint; within is full of taste, of fulfillment. They try in every way that somehow the whisper reaches your ear—for you too thirst for the same water. Someone has found the water; he gestures—the mute’s gesture. The taste is within, brimming to the throat; but how to tell?
“I gesture, secretly savoring within… the mute alone knows the sweet.”
“A tree bore fruit without flowering; a trumpet sounded without hands.”
A most secret utterance—Kabir’s ulatbansi, his upside-down song. He is saying what I said earlier: the experience of Paramatma is acausal—it does not happen through your doing. The chain of cause and effect snaps.
“A tree bore fruit without flowering…”
Normally, fruit cannot come without flower—the flower is the cause, the fruit the effect. But Kabir says, here everything is reversed. The flute sounds upside-down. I did nothing—and all happened. There was no cause, and the effect appeared. No flowers, yet fruit.
“The trumpet sounded without hands.”
If you play the trumpet, you must hold it in your hands; but the trumpet is sounding and my hands are not there to hold it. It is not happening through me. I am at most a witness, not the doer.
“The pot filled with water without a woman at the well.”
Ordinarily, a woman fills the pot—she dips it in the river. Kabir says, here I witness a strange event: no one is seen filling, and the pot is filled. The doer is not seen, and the deed is done.
“In effortless Samadhi I dwell in bliss; the rest of countless aeons is attained.”
When Samadhi ripens without the doer, it is sahaj Samadhi—happening without you.
“The pot filled with water without a woman at the well; thus the effortless was found.”
That alone is found which is found effortlessly. Because it is already given. Nothing is to be done to get it. Only the delusion of doing has to be dropped. Quiet the doer a little—that is all. Say to the doer, “Do not do so much. Sit. Your doing is causing the trouble. Do not do—rest a while.” When one abides awhile in non-doing, sahaj Samadhi begins to flower.
Akarma is meditation. Akria is meditation. To attain the state of doing-nothing is meditation. Then the rain begins. The clouds have always been gathered. Ashadh has always been present. They had not gone even for a moment. Your thirst was because of the doer, the ego. You were busy doing, showing to the Divine, “I will do it.” There the mistake happened. Drop doership. Consent to non-doing.
“Glass became gold before my eyes; without words the mind consented.”
Till yesterday this body was of glass; in the Supreme Light it suddenly became gold. The impossible began to happen. And no one explained, no one consoled, no one argued—the mind agreed without words. A thousand explainers came and the mind would not agree; it raised arguments, examined doctrines, read scriptures—yet the inner doubt did not go. Today no one is explaining—the eyes simply opened, sleep broke.
“Without words the mind consented.”
“The bird flew off; I could not find it again—like water merging in water.”
The bird flew. Where? Who knows. In which direction? Who knows. This bird belongs to the void—no ego, no form, no name. Like a drop falling into the ocean, becoming one. Where to look now?
Searching, searching, O friend, Kabir remained lost:
“The drop has merged into the ocean—where can it be sought?”
“The bird flew off; I could not find it again—like water merging in water.”
The moment Paramatma is found, in that very moment you are lost. Instantly. Simultaneously. Two events happen together: your disappearance and His appearance. As long as you are, He cannot be. Die! That is the key to finding.
“The bird flew off; I could not find it again—like water merging in water.”
“I shall not worship idols again; I bathe no more in pilgrim waters.”
Long were the gods worshiped, the temples, mosques, gurudwaras visited—no more. Whom to worship now? The worshiped and the worshiper have become one. Many pilgrimages were made, many baths in holy rivers—no need now. The supreme bathing has happened; the supreme pilgrimage is found.
“Illusion fled, saying as it fled: ‘I shall not come again.’”
All delusion, all ignorance, the whole maya fled, saying, “We have come to you so many times—now we shall not return.”
Buddha’s first words after enlightenment were to his ignorance, to his desires, to the root desire called sex: “Now you can rest. You need not come again. You built many houses for me, many times. No need now. You are free. Go. Your service is over. Thank you. You gave me many bodies and many names and forms. No need now.”
Kabir says the same from the other side:
“Delusion fled, saying as it fled: ‘I shall not come again.’”
Delusion ran far, saying as it ran, “We came many times; now we shall not come.”
“Within oneself, the Self was seen; upon oneself, the Self was known.”
Nothing else remained. The seer himself, the seen itself; oneself before the mirror, oneself the mirror, oneself the image in the mirror. Nothing found but oneself. The moment you find that nothing but self is, you have found Khuda. “Khuda” is a sweet word. Here Kabir defines Khuda: to find the self so totally that nothing remains outside it—to know the self in such wholeness that all is contained in it.
“Within oneself, the Self was seen; upon oneself, the Self was known.
Oneself speaking, oneself hearing; the mute alone knows the sweet.
Oneself speaking and hearing again, upon oneself, the Self was known.”
There is no other left—one speaks, one hears.
“For the recognition of oneself, the tari descended; upon oneself, the Self dissolved.
Says Kabir: whoever contemplates the Self—his coming and going is ended.”
“Tari”—Kabir’s beloved, subtle word. Tari is that state when you are neither asleep nor awake; then “tari has come,” they say. Inside, you remain awake; outside, you are asleep. The body rests; the flame of awareness stays lit. Tari is the exact midpoint of sleep and wakefulness—where wakefulness is complete and the rest of sleep is also complete.
Patanjali says: Samadhi is like deep sleep, with one difference—sleep has unconsciousness; Samadhi has consciousness. “Tari” is Kabir’s word: fully awake, fully rested; and there is also a divine intoxication—like one has drunk the wine of God. A deep inebriation spreads.
Omar Khayyam’s Rubaiyat is a full exposition of Kabir’s tari: where Omar speaks of wine and tavern, it is a Sufi scripture. Translators have corrupted it. In the West, FitzGerald translated it and took it as worldly wine. It is not about liquor; it is about the intoxication of the Divine. Omar Khayyam was a Sufi fakir who never touched alcohol. But words mislead; and then all translations followed FitzGerald—turning it into a drinker’s song. The truth was other: a different tavern, a different wine, a different cupbearer, different drunkards—drunk on God! In Kabir’s tari there is great mystery: Samadhi—like deep sleep, yet not only the rest of sleep and the wakefulness of awareness, but a jubilant ecstasy, a sacred intoxication, a bliss, an ahobhava.
“Now I shall attain—now I shall attain—Brahma-knowledge.
For the recognition of oneself, tari descended; upon oneself, the Self dissolved.
Says Kabir: whoever contemplates the Self—his coming and going is ended.”
Enough for today.