Kahe Kabir Diwana #4

Man has two dimensions of consciousness: one, stupefaction; the other, non-stupefaction. Stupefaction means: to live while asleep; to live without awareness. Non-stupefaction means: to live with awareness; awakened, discerning. Stupefaction means: the inner lamp is extinguished. Non-stupefaction means: the inner lamp is lit.

In stupefaction the light is outside. Man moves only by outer light. Wherever the senses drag him, he goes. The desires of the senses become his own desires—because he has no sense of himself. Whatever the mind suggests becomes the style of life—because there is no awareness of one’s own nature. Whatever people explain, whatever society says—he follows, because he has no roots in existence and no sense of his own being. Who am I?—there is no clue at all.

Then life is as if a piece of wood is floating in the river. Wherever the waves carry it, it goes. Wherever the gusts of wind push it, it reaches. No individuality of its own, no privacy, no personhood. Life is a drifting.

Certainly, in such drifting no destination can ever be reached. A destination has to be completed by well-considered steps. There can be much wandering, but there cannot be a journey. A journey means: you know who you are; where you are; where you are going; why you are going. Only with awareness can there be a journey. Only with awareness can there be pilgrimage. Hence the wise have called awareness itself the true tirtha.

An unstupefied, awakened mind lives in an utterly different way. The arrangement of his life is radically different. He does not move because of others; he moves because of himself. He listens to all, but he obeys the inner. He is not a slave. He brings only the inner freedom into life. However many obstacles there are, he travels only on the path that will bring arrival. And however many conveniences there are, he does not go on a path that leads nowhere.

For what is the meaning of convenience then? The road may be very beautiful, may be free of thorns and robbers, fully secure and comfortable—but if it leads nowhere, what will you do with its comfort and beauty? If the road is thorny, full of bandits, there is fear of wild animals—but if it truly leads somewhere, it is worth taking.

The life of the unstupefied person is not a drift; it is a well-planned journey. But who will give that planning? Society cannot give it. Society is a crowd of the blind. It is a gathering of stupefied people. If you listen to society, you will wander in darkness. A crowd is not full of the awakened. It cannot be. At times, once in a while, one among the many attains awakening—but the crowd is not of Buddhas.

The unstupefied person discovers the method of his life within himself. In his awareness he discovers his conduct. He walks by the light of his inner being. However small that inner light may be, it is always enough. Even if it be so little that it reveals only one step, it is enough. Because no one in the world ever takes two steps at once.

Even the smallest lamp shows at least one step clearly. Take one step, then the next will be revealed. Step by step, a journey of a thousand miles is completed.

The unstupefied person is a rebel. Each moment, every instant, he tends to one thing alone: that nothing be allowed in him which deepens stupefaction, which thickens sleep. Remember, drop by drop water falls and rocks are cut through. Drop by drop of awareness falls, and the rock of your sleep—of lifetimes upon lifetimes—breaks. But the drops must keep falling.

Thus the unstupefied person’s effort, moment to moment, is to use each instant to gain a single treasure: that the discernment within deepen, awaken.

The stupefied mind has three states, which we know.

One, which we call the “waking” state—but the word is not appropriate. How will a stupefied person be awake? His waking is in name only. Merely a so-called waking. The sun rises in the morning; animals and birds wake up; plants wake up; you too wake up. Are animals and birds awakened? Are plants awakened? You are not either. Only the body’s rest is completed; so you get up, you walk, you sit. It seems as if you are awake. But it is only seeming. It has hardly any relation to real awakening.

I have heard: a rustic acquaintance, a farmer, sent a chicken as a gift to Mulla Nasruddin. Naturally, when the man brought the chicken, Nasruddin welcomed him warmly. He had chicken soup prepared. He served him the soup. The man was very pleased. He went to the village and spread the news: the man is wonderful, he treats a guest like a god.

Then people from the village began coming. The very next day a second man appeared. Nasruddin asked, "Who are you?" He said, "A distant relative of the one who sent the chicken." Nasruddin welcomed him too. Whoever comes to the house—no matter how distant the relation—still a relation of the one who had sent the chicken.

But then things went beyond limits. Relatives of the relatives began to come. Friends of the relatives of the relatives began to come. Friends of the friends of the relatives of the relatives began to come. His wife grew restless. She said, "This chicken has proved an ill omen. We should have refused it. The whole village is arriving." Nasruddin pondered deeply. Something must be done. Next morning again a man is standing there. "Who are you?" He said, "A friend of the friends of the relatives of the one who sent the chicken." Nasruddin said, "Come. You are welcome."

But the man was astonished when the meal served to him in the name of soup was just lukewarm water. The man said, "Everything else is fine, but I had heard so much praise of your hospitality—and this is lukewarm water." Nasruddin said, "Forgive me. It is not lukewarm water. It is the broth of the broth of the broth of the chicken soup."

Your waking is only the broth of the broth of the broth of the chicken. If the awakening of Buddha is awakening, then your waking is the friend of the friend of the relative of the relative. A long distance. We have called Buddha “the awakened one.” The very word “Buddha” means: one who has awakened, become filled with awareness.

If Buddha is the measure of awakening, then what will your waking be? A counterfeit coin that looks like a coin but is not one. A lie that claims to be truth but is not. A dead corpse that looks exactly like a living man—features intact—but no life within. An extinguished lamp in which everything is there—lamp, wick, oil—but no flame.

There are three forms of stupefaction. One, which we call waking; utterly false. For even when you are awake, you are not awake. Even when awake, what you do declares that you are asleep.

A thousand times you have decided you will not be angry again. And then someone insults you—or you think he has insulted you. Or in a crowd someone steps on your foot—and it does not even take a moment, not even a fraction; the fire flares up. And you had resolved so many times not to be angry. You have sworn a thousand oaths. You have repented a thousand times. Where did all that repentance go? How does memory vanish so quickly? Had there been awareness, it would have stayed. In unconsciousness, how can memory remain with you? In a flash the fire is ablaze. Again the same anger stands there. You will repent after a while; but neither your repentance has any worth nor your anger. Your repentance is as false as your anger. For how many times have you repented—still you cannot stop. Stop now.

A man came to me—about sixty-five years old. He said, "All my life only one thing has tortured me—my anger. My whole house is afflicted by it—my children, my wife. My life is a long story of quarrel. But this anger won’t leave me. Even now, death is approaching—yet anger shakes me like fire.

"And I have repented thousands of times. I have sworn oaths in temples, laid my head at the feet of sadhus hoping for their grace. I swore in temples with God as witness. That too doesn’t work. When anger possesses me, even God’s power is of no use. In that moment I forget everything. For a moment I am not even there. As if some ghost enters me, and what I do—I myself cannot understand it. Looking back I don’t feel like believing I could have done such a thing. What shall I do? Be my witness. Make me take a vow."

I said, "I will not commit the mistake others committed with you. I ask only one thing of you: give up repentance. Let anger continue for now. Can you do at least this much—that when anger arises, you will not repent afterward?"

The man laughed. "That I can do. What difficulty is there in that?" He didn’t know: he who cannot drop anger, cannot drop repentance either. Dropping is of awareness. I said, "The day repentance drops, come. That very day I will help you drop anger too."

After a month he returned and said, "You deceived me. Repentance doesn’t drop either. There should be no difficulty in this—no scripture has asked me to give that up. This, at least, I should be able to leave. The whole world is against anger; no one is against repentance. You ask me to drop repentance." He said, "No. Now I understand what you wished to show me. I have seen: I cannot drop anything. I am not."

Until you awaken, you are not. Your being is only a hallucination, merely a thought—rootless. Only a dream—without substance, without particle, without force. You cannot drop repentance; you cannot drop anger. You say you do things—it is not even right to say that you do. It is more accurate to say: they happen. You are mechanical. Otherwise you would drop them.

Whatever you do, you can drop—this is the rule. What you do not do—how will you drop it? That which happens of its own—how will you abandon it? You press the button and the light turns on. Is it in the hands of the bulb not to glow—or to glow only when it wishes—or to say, "I am resting now"? No. The button is pressed, the bulb glows. Perhaps the bulb even thinks within: I shine, I go dark. It is mistaken. You neither shine nor go dark.

Someone abuses you—the button is pressed—you are aflame! Someone comes and says, "What a godly person you are!"—you are pleased! Someone says, "What a beautiful statue!"—flowers bloom inside. And someone says, "Just look at your face in the mirror; such an ugly mug is nowhere"—and fire erupts. Buttons! You are not.

A man came to Buddha and said, "Give me some teaching. I want to serve the world." Buddha became sad. The man asked, "Why did you become sad?" Buddha said, "Because you are not yet. Who will serve the world? And in the name of service you will begin to torture others. Do me a favor: first serve yourself. First, be."

Gurdjieff—the great Western mystic of this century—used to say: the soul is not in everyone. There is a little truth in his statement. Because the soul is in those who are awakened. The rest are clay dolls—only matter. In them the soul has not yet manifested.

There is truth in it. To be soul-ful means: you have become your own master. Now what you choose will be. You are no longer a leaf trembling in the wind—trembling when the gust comes, and however much you wish, not trembling when it doesn’t. You are no longer mechanical. You are a man. Man means: now your actions arise from within you; they are not produced by outside events. Circumstances are not decisive; you are of value. Only then are you ensouled. Otherwise, “soul” is mere theory.

Sometimes, in someone, the soul is. In you, soul is like the tree in the seed—whether it is or is not is the same. It may be, but it is not yet. And there is a great difference between “may be” and being. It is only the possibility of the seed—that if it finds the right soil, right nourishment, right protection, right water, right rays of the sun—then the seed may become a tree. But many conditions must be fulfilled; otherwise the seed will die as a seed, and the tree will not be.

Most live as body and die as body. Their seed is lost as such. The opportunity comes and goes. To be soul-ful means: awareness, discernment, awakening. Your actions begin to arise from within. As yet your “actions” are not actions; they are reactions. If someone loves, you love; if someone hates, you hate.

Jesus said: Love even your enemy. What does it mean? It is not a moral teaching. Men like Jesus have no interest in mere morality. It is the deepest formula of religion. Jesus says: Love your enemy. He is saying: to love a friend is reaction—anyone can do it. To hate the enemy is also reaction—everyone does it. He who has loved his enemy has become the master. He has broken the chain of reaction. He has become the lord of his act.

The enemy is trying his best to make you hate him. But you have broken his effort. He was pressing the button of your anger; you have brought forth a stream of love. If you can love your enemy, instantly you are freed from mechanism. Your reactions drop. Now you are a man of action.

And it is a great wonder: reactions bind; actions do not bind. In truth, it is from reactions that the chain called karma is formed. When a person acts with awareness, no bondage is created out of it.

Have you ever done anything in your life with full awareness? To act with awareness means: not what the body-mechanism wants to do, but what your awareness within wants to do. Has it ever happened? The body was saying, "Be angry"; the mind said, "Be angry." Abuse had arisen in the mind; the hand had lifted the stick. Has it ever happened that the stick remained in the hand, the abuse remained in the mind, and you inside remained untouched, untainted? That the flame of your being was not shadowed even by the stick; that the sting of abuse did not reach the flame; that your inner light remained unstained—like a lotus, upon which water cannot cling?

If you have ever done this, you will for the first time know what non-stupefaction is, what awakening is, what awareness is. In that very moment you will be filled with supreme joy. You are free. Now no one can drive you. Now no one can push you. Now you are your own master. This is the lordship we have been seeking. Now you have become an emperor.

As long as you are bound by mechanism, you are a beggar. Your waking is only nominal. A counterfeit coin. The first form of stupefaction is waking—the waking you know from morning to evening is only on the surface. Inside, sleep continues. Have you noticed? Close the eyes and sit for a little while—instantly you begin to dream. Open, the eyes were seeing trees, people, roads, shops, the market. Close the eyes—and the dream begins!

I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin was mad about football. As often happens, when a flood comes it keeps no boundaries—his craze overflowed. Cricket fans, if their team loses, smash the radio on which they were listening to commentary. Hockey fans go mad. Nasruddin was a football fanatic.

His wife was distressed—he would sit in the chair by day and keep kicking—football! At night, in sleep, he would kick and create an uproar. She went to the doctor: "Enough is enough. Now this football mania must be treated." The doctor gave a tranquilizer. "Give him one pill at night; he will sleep peacefully."

She came home and said, "I have brought this pill. You will sleep in peace. Take it at bedtime." Nasruddin said, "If I don’t take it today and take it tomorrow—any harm?" She asked, "Why? What is the matter today?" He said, "Tonight is the final match—in my dream."

Close your eyes and you will find who knows how many kinds of matches are going on in dreams. The moment you close the eyes, the dream begins to run. It was running anyway. Only the eyes were open and you were entangled outside; so you weren’t aware. Dream is a symptom of sleep—because without sleep there can be no dream. Remember this as a sutra: dream is a symptom of sleep. And if even while awake the dream goes on within you, it means that within you there is only sleep. On the surface, a thin layer of waking. It’s makeshift. Through it neither Atman will be attained nor Paramatman found. The light is so dim it cannot break the dense darkness enveloping your inner depths.

It is like a firefly. It sparkles, but by a firefly’s light you cannot read a Gita! Such is your waking—like the glimmer of a firefly. How will you see the inner God in it? In it nothing is clearly visible; not even the firefly is seen—what else will be seen? Just a flicker. Only so much is your waking. That too a momentary flicker. The firefly opens its wings—glow. Wings close—glow gone. Thus, moment to moment, you sleep and wake. You catch awareness, you lose it.

The second state is your dream-state. Dream is a great wonder—for what is not, appears real in a dream. How deep must be your stupor! And you have seen no new dream. Every night you see them. If a man lives sixty years, he will sleep at least twenty years. Eight hours a day—one third of life. If he lives sixty years, he will sleep more than twenty years. Each night you sleep. Each night you dream. And each night in the dream it seems real to you. Your awareness is utterly absent. The very first time you dream, it may feel real—because you had no familiarity. But every morning you awake and discover the dream was false. For twenty years you sleep and wake; every time you find the dream was false. Yet again you sleep—and again the dream feels real.

What kind of awareness is yours? What kind of experience is your experience? Do you gather any experience at all—or does nothing gather? Does knowledge form—or not?

When a child errs once, we say: let him be forgiven. If he makes the same mistake again, we say: he is a child. But the third time we begin to think something must be done. But you have made the same mistake millions of times. Each evening when you go to sleep, you know that what appears at night is false. In the morning you know it is false. But for eight hours at night it becomes true—for you. So your knowing does not go within. Even a thorn pricks deeper than your knowing; your knowing leaves no scratch upon you at all.

In the Mahabharata it is told: the five Pandavas wander in the forest. They come to a lake. They are thirsty. The youngest brother is sent to fetch water. As he bends to fill it, a Yaksha—the lord of the lake—calls: "Stop! The rule of this lake is: only the one who answers my three questions may take water. And if you fail, or answer wrongly, you will not return alive."

Nakul was thirsty, his brothers too. He said, "I agree to answer." He could not answer. He fell. The second brother came, the third; four brothers did not return. Then Yudhishthira came searching. The four bodies lay by the shore. He was shocked.

The voice came as he bent to drink: "Stop! What happened to your brothers will happen to you. A challenge. Three questions. Answer them. For when I receive answers to my three questions, I will be freed from this Yaksha-hood. This form is a curse upon me. I am seeking answers. Until I receive them, I will not allow drinking. Drink—and you will die. Try to run without answering—and you will die. Answers are needed." Yudhishthira said, "Ask."

The very first question he asked is the most important. "What is the most wondrous thing you have discovered in human life?" Yudhishthira said, "That man, even after knowing, does not know; even after learning, does not learn. Man does not learn."

They say the Yaksha accepted: this is the most amazing thing in human life. However much experience, its essence—the butter—is not gathered.

How many times you have dreamed—yet you will still be deceived. Tonight again you will dream. And when you dream, the false begins to feel true. If that to which falsity appears as truth—again and again, in spite of knowing—is your “awareness,” will you call it awareness? It is deep unconsciousness. Dream is the symptom of unconsciousness—the deepest symptom. Lines and pictures etched on the mind appear real. Even absurdities seem right in dreams.

A friend is walking toward you—in the dream. Suddenly he becomes a horse. Yet no doubt arises in you that he who was a man a moment ago has suddenly turned into a horse. In dreams doubt does not arise. The greatest skeptic also does not doubt in a dream. And one who doubts in a dream—his dream breaks. He is out of the dream.

For truth, faith is needed; for dream, doubt is needed. Truth is attained by the one who has faith. Dream dissolves for the one who doubts. You do exactly the opposite. You doubt truth and you have faith in dream. You are standing on your head.

Stand on your feet. Doubt the dream. The day you doubt the dream, the same day you will find that to have faith in truth becomes easy—instantly easy. You are standing on your feet. As soon as doubt arises toward the dream, the dream breaks. Even if, in the night, it comes to you that "this is a dream"—in that very moment it will break. For that much awareness is enough to kill the dream. The dream is false.

The second state of the stupefied person: dream. And the third: sleep. Your waking is false anyway; in dream even that faint semblance disappears. In waking, a little seems to remain—a shadow, an echo. In dream, not at all. Then what will be left in sleep, when even the dream is gone? Then you become like a rock lying on the road. You are not.

Sleep means dreamless sleep. Then you are not. Your being vanishes entirely. The lamp is completely out. Now not even the firefly glimmers. In waking there was a firefly. In dream, the firefly was there but the wings were closed—no glow. In sleep, even that ends. Not even the closed-winged firefly remains.

These are the three states of the ordinary, stupefied mind.

What is the state of the unstupefied mind? It has no states. Because an unstupefied person never dreams. For him, dream cannot be. How can dream deceive one who has awareness? How can the false appear as true? As darkness disappears when the light is lit, so dreams disappear when awareness arrives. The unstupefied, awakened, enlightened person is free of dream—and of sleep too.

This does not mean he does not sleep. He sleeps—but sleeps awake. Just as you, while awake, sleep—so he, sleeping, remains awake.

Krishna has said in the Gita: the yogi remains awake even while it is night for the bhogi—the pleasure-seeker. When the bhogi sleeps, even then the yogi is awake. This does not mean Krishna did not sleep. The body will rest—the body is a mechanism; it gets tired and it rests. For the body’s renewal, rest is necessary. Only the body sleeps; within, the lamp keeps burning. The body sleeps; the inner Purusha remains awake.

The awakened person has no states. Awakening itself is his state. He is awake in waking, awake in sleep. Wakefulness is his nature. Therefore all Yoga trusts a single key—and that key is: awaken. The day the key of awakening fits the lock of your sleep, the doors open.

In Kabir’s utterances this very key is being discussed. Understand them.

Man re jagat rahiye bhai.

O mind, remain awake, brother.

The sleep is very deep. It will break only by repeated awakening. Only by continuous, continuous practice will it melt. Only by persistent struggle will it be cut through. Let the effort continue—even if tiny—one day the rock will break, drop by drop.

Rahim has said:
Rassi aavat jaat hai, sil par parat nishan.

The rope’s strength—what is it? Yet as it keeps moving over the well’s lip, drawing water, it leaves a mark on the hardest stone. If the rope of your awareness keeps sliding over the ghats of your life, however deep your stupor, today or tomorrow the mark will remain.

Man re jagat rahiye bhai.
Gafil hoi basat mati khovai, chor musai ghar jayi.

Live inattentively, live heedlessly, live unconscious, live intoxicated—and the One who abides within, the inner master, you will never come to know. The One who abides within your house.

In Sanskrit, in Sankhya and Vaisheshika, the soul is called Purusha. The word purusha is very lovely. It comes from the same root as pur—city. Kanpur, Nagpur—pur means city. And purusha means the one who resides in that city—the inhabitant.

Kabir calls him "basat"—the One who dwells within. We call a village a "basti"—a settlement—the abidance.

Gafil hoi basat mati khovai...

If you move in unconsciousness, then the One who dwells within—his intelligence, his shine, his aura—will be lost to you. His clarity will be dulled. Dust gathers on the mirror; vision is lost. So, within you, on the indweller—if you go on layering sleep over sleep—his intelligence, his brilliance, his radiance will be lost.

Gafil hoi basat mati khovai, chor musai ghar jayi.

And when the inner Purusha, the inner lamp, is covered by darkness, lost in deep night—when the inner brilliance sleeps, is not awake—then thieves begin to enter the house.

Buddha has said: even if there is no one in the house—but a lamp is burning—thieves are afraid. Even if no one is there, if the lamp burns, thieves keep away. Because the burning lamp hints: perhaps someone is at home! The day the inner lamp is lit, thieves do not enter.

Who are the thieves? All those forces that drag you into reaction—these are the thieves.

Someone abuses you—and you are affected. The thief has entered. Now harm will be done. It is a strange thing: the one who abused you could not harm you and could not have—the thief was outside. What could he do? But you invited him in. You became angry. Now the damage begins.

Mahavira has said again and again: there is no friend greater than you for yourself, and no enemy greater than you. If you allow the thieves to enter, you yourself are the enemy. The one who abused is not the enemy; his abuse would have remained outside, had you remained in non-anger. If you had passed by unaffected, how could his abuse have entered within? Someone honored you—there is no danger in honor. But you swelled up; the ego arose. The thief entered. The thief enters because of you, not because of the other.

A beautiful woman passes by. She may not even know you are standing in front of the temple—or you are inside the temple, worshiping—and a woman also bows there. She does not even notice you, she has no hand in it, yet the thief enters within you. You yourself invited him. Lust arose. Passion arose. You became heedless. You got into trouble. Restlessness arose. A fever surrounded you. You lost your center. The dream began. Sleep came.

Gafil hoi basat mati khovai, chor musai ghar jayi.

The moment you become heedless, the thief enters. Your heedlessness is the real cause.

Buddha passed by a village. People abused him, insulted him. Buddha said, "May I go, if you are finished? I must reach the next village soon." People said, "What kind of talk is this? We have used the vilest of words—are you deaf? Did you not hear?"

Buddha said, "I am hearing—very attentively. I am listening as I have never listened before. But you came a little late. You should have come ten years earlier. Now I am awake. Now there is no opportunity for thieves to enter within. You throw abuse—I see it come up to me and return.

"The customer is not present. You are shopkeepers—you have brought your wares. But the customer is not here. The customer died ten years ago. In the village behind, people brought trays of sweets. My belly was full, so I told them to take them back. Let me ask you—what will they do?" Someone in the crowd said, "They will distribute them in the village—or eat them themselves."

Buddha said, "What will you do? You have brought platters of abuse. My belly is full—has been full for ten years. You have come a little late. What will you do now? Will you take these abuses back, distribute them, or eat them yourselves? I do not accept. You have come to the wrong man. And until I accept, how can you give? Giving is in your hands, but the mastery of receiving is always in mine. By your giving alone the work is not completed—that is only half the process.

"And the wonder is: if you are ready to receive, you get even without another’s giving. Someone is laughing—he is laughing for some other reason—and you feel hurt. You think he is laughing at you. Your conceit is such that you think whatever happens in the world happens because of you. People laugh—so they must be laughing at you. People whisper—so they must be slandering you. Otherwise why speak in whispers?

"As if you are the center of the whole universe—that whatever happens here is because of you. Flowers bloom—for you? The moon and stars rise—for you? Abuses come—for you? People laugh, joke—for you. You have taken the whole world upon your head. Even what is not given to you—you take."

A person of awareness, one like Buddha, accepts only what is to be accepted. It is not a question of your giving or not giving. Buddha is the master. Had it been ten years earlier, in days of slavery, he would have accepted the abuse without even knowing.

Gafil hoi basat mati khovai, chor musai ghar jayi.

Shatchakra ki kanak kothari, bast bhav hai soi.

Kabir speaks of the inner analysis—the anatomy of man’s inner being.

Yoga speaks of six chakras within which your consciousness is hidden. These six—the shat-chakras—are not parts of your gross body. They are parts of the subtle body concealed within the gross. These six are wheels of energy. Because of these six, you are vibrant with life. The strength you sense in life—the getting up, sitting, walking, working, becoming tired, and then strength returning—arises through these six dynamos that generate energy within you.

Just as a dynamo produces electricity. Have you seen electricity produced from water? In water, electricity lies hidden. But a mechanism is needed to draw it out; with instruments the latent electricity is brought forth and used.

Your soul is dense energy—infinite energy. Those who have known say it is linked with Paramatman. Infinite, inexhaustible is its power. But to make that power active there are six chakras within. By their turning—turning ceaselessly—the power of the soul is conducted into the body. Yoga endeavors to awaken these six chakras.

When these six chakras function rightly and fully, a great surge of energy appears in life. Then you live untiringly. Then there is a flood of energy within you. However much you share, it does not diminish. However much you pour out, it does not run out. You go on giving and it goes on flowing. Then your capacity becomes immense. Then your charity knows no limit. You give love—love increases. You give knowledge—knowledge grows. Whatever you choose. Once the six chakras run rightly and your instrument moves in a well-ordered way, there is never again any shortage of flood within you. Then you are never miserly. Therefore no person who has even a fragrance of the inner has ever been found stingy.

All humanity is miserly. The cause of miserliness is the feeling: it will be used up. What you have is so little that you are afraid. You try to save it. And there is a very complex thing here: the more you try to save, the more the process of your six chakras slows. For when there is no need—when you share, need is created. When need is created, the chakras turn, drawing more energy. When there is no need, the wheels become still, they rust; they cease to move.

The miser becomes weak. None is weaker than a miser. The greedy becomes weak. The giver expands. The greedy shrivels. It is like a well: if you draw water daily, there are springs beneath; from those springs new water keeps coming. New streams open up. You keep drawing; the well keeps filling. Its bottom remains the same. Draw as much as you will, the well fills again; and this water will be fresh. New springs will open. As much as is needed, that much energy will flow.

But if miserliness seizes a well’s owner—"This is so little water; if I draw and distribute, the well will be emptied"—he forgets the well is not a pot that becomes empty when drawn from. The well is not dead. It has a living flow. It is connected to the ocean beneath. Do not be miserly; otherwise the well will become stagnant. Its water will become unfit to drink. And it will not grow; its springs will slowly close. There will be no need for them. Silt will gather, gravel will settle. The well’s water will rot; the springs will close. Exactly this happens in a miser’s life. The moment even a little awakening comes into someone’s life, he starts sharing. He shares himself. The more he shares, the more he grows. The more he shares, the more new sources become available. The more he shares, the more he receives. Infinite power is available. Infinite energy is available.

Shatchakra ki kanak kothari...

You are a treasury of gold. Your wealth has no limit—hence "kanak kothari," a golden chamber. You are a treasure of gold. But that treasure is not dead gold—it is the living energy of God. It is linked by the six chakras.

Shatchakra ki kanak kothari, bast bhav hai soi.

And within that chamber, within that infinite wealth, dwells the Purusha—your soul. These six chakras must be activated. The more active they become, the deeper the inner entry. And at the very innermost, at the exact center-point of your being, at your very center—Paramatman is hidden. He is the true indweller. The body is a house. The mind is a house. Deeper than mind is the house of the six chakras.

Tala kunji kulaph ke lagai, ugharat bar na hoi.

Let the right key be found, let it fit into the lock—then Kundalini awakens. Energy arises. One single current of energy begins to flow through all six chakras. The energy that threads the six chakras together is called Kundalini. When the chakras function separately, you produce power only for worldly work.

When all six chakras are joined into one thread—like the beads of a mala strung on a single cord—then it becomes a mala. Separate beads are beads; power is produced, but there is no mala yet. When the six chakras are joined in a single stream, in a single rhythm—when all six together become active and between them a music is formed, a mala is woven—then that is Kundalini. And the day Kundalini awakens—"ugharat bar na hoi"—there is not even a moment’s delay in the unveiling of your God-nature.

Panch pahirva soi gaye hain, bastain jagan lagi.

And as you awaken, the five senses fall asleep. As long as the five are awake, you remain asleep. As the senses fall silent one by one, the same energy that was flowing out through them turns inward, begins the inner journey. By that you begin to awaken.

Panch pahirva soi gaye hain, bastain jagan lagi.

He who abides within has awakened; the five sentries have fallen asleep.

Jara maran vyapai kachhu nahi, gagan mandal lai lagi.

Now neither old age nor death touches you. For what is hidden within was never born and never dies. Birth and death happen only outside it. Your body is born, dies. Your mind—your forms and names—have changed countless times. But that which is hidden within—the indestructible—has always remained exactly the same. It has never changed. It was never born; it will never die. It is neither made nor can it be unmade.

Jara maran vyapai kachhu nahi...

And for one who has had its direct experience, the fear of death disappears—and the lust for life disappears too.

...gagan mandal lai lagi.

Now all his flame, his longing, turns toward the void. Gagan means the void, the sky, the formless. Call it Brahman, call it Nirvana, call it Moksha. Now his whole flame flows toward emptiness.

Your life-flame always flows toward objects—toward form, toward shape, toward wealth, toward body, toward house—but always toward objects. The senses flow toward objects. Consciousness flows toward the unconditioned, the formless, the void.

Panch pahirva soi gaye hain, bastain jagan lagi.
Jara maran vyapai kachhu nahi, gagan mandal lai lagi.

Karat vichar man hi man upji, na kahin gaya na aaya.

Kahe Kabir sansa sab chhuta, Ram-ratan-dhan paya.

Karat vichar—this formula is most precious. In each single sutra of Kabir a whole Upanishad can be contained.

Karat vichar man hi man upji...

What Kabir calls vichar—"in-seeing"—is not your thinking. You have never truly thought. You have a crowd of thoughts, but you have never thought. Understand this distinction. You have thoughts, but no capacity for real seeing. Which of your thoughts is yours? All are borrowed. What have you seen for yourself? That which comes from outside—how can it be called insight? It belongs to another—stale, leftover, reject. Do you have any thought that is yours?

Even what you call your own—if you look closely you will find it is picked up from here and there. At most you have managed to put together the leg of one man’s thought, the head of another’s, the hands of a third—and you have made an image which looks new. But it is not new. It is also a composite of others’ thoughts. The combination may be new, but the material is old. Nothing new is in it.

Original insight arises only when meditation happens. Meditation means: when the crowd of thoughts has departed. Hence the capacity for true seeing comes only when the crowd has gone. When within remains the open sky of mind, without a single cloud of thought—then the capacity for vision arises. Then you do not think—then you see. Then thought becomes darshan—seeing.

Karat vichar man hi man upji...

Kabir speaks of that very seeing. Sitting in meditation—silent! No crowd of thoughts; the flame of life leaning toward the void, running toward the sky. In such a moment of insight—"man hi man upji"—this understanding arose within. This feeling manifested within.

...na kahin gaya na aaya.

"I have neither gone anywhere nor come from anywhere." Neither any birth has happened, nor any death.

All was a dream—birth, death, and the entire business in between—all a dream. Therefore the Hindu calls this world Maya. Maya means: to those who are truly awake it is revealed that what we call life was a dream. Neither going nor coming. I am exactly where I have always been: eternal, timeless, nitya—without even the slightest change.

You come and go—consider a little. From home you get up and come here. From here you will get up and go home, to shop, to office. But the One within—did it come? Did it go? It remains where it is. The body shifts, comes here; the body shifts, goes back. But your chitsvarupa—the nature of consciousness within—did it come? Did it go? It remains where it is.

Go to London, to Calcutta, to Moscow, to Peking—only the body will go and come. The mind will go and come. You will remain where you are. Where will you go? How will you go? That supreme consciousness has no coming and going.

Therefore Kabir says something incomparable:

Karat vichar man hi man upji...

In such a quiet, sky-like moment this arose:

...na kahin gaya na aaya.

And the very moment this realization happened—that there is no going and coming—

Kahe Kabir, sansa sab chhuta...

All doubt dropped that very moment.

...Ram-ratan-dhan paya.

In that very instant the treasure of Ram was found—the wealth that belongs to the Divine, to Brahman—"paibo re, paibo re, Brahma-jnan."

...Ram-ratan-dhan paya.

Until the jewel-wealth of Ram is found, know this: you are stupefied. That is the touchstone. That is the assay.

As gold is tested on the touchstone, so you will be tested upon non-stupefaction. If you are stupefied, you are clay. If unstupefied, you are God. Stupefied—you are of earth. Unstupefied—you are of consciousness. If stupefaction breaks from your life, nothing else need be broken.

The wise have not said, "Do not steal, do not be dishonest, do not be violent." No. The wise have said only this: Do not be stupefied. And one who is not stupefied cannot be dishonest. He cannot. He will not steal—stealing cannot happen. Violence is impossible.

Someone asked Mahavira: Who is a sadhu? Who is not a sadhu? Mahavira gave a most significant formula. He said: one who sleeps is not a sadhu; one who is awake is a sadhu. "Asutta muni; sutta amuni."

Even Jaina monks may get caught in thinking—for Mahavira could have said: one who practices ahimsa is a sadhu; one who does not eat at night is a sadhu; one who drinks filtered water is a sadhu. But Mahavira did not raise the topic of ahimsa, did not speak of day and night. He did not speak of filtering water or not filtering.

Had he raised such topics he would have remained an ordinary monk. Mahavira is an awakened man—one who has attained Buddhahood, Jina-hood. He spoke of the key, of the essence: "Sutta amuni"—two small words!

Sleeping—he is not a sadhu. Asutta muni—awake—he is a sadhu.

Kabir says the same:

Man re jagat rahiye bhai.

Enough for today.