Kahe Kabir Diwana #5

I see that no great mountain stands between you and truth. There is only a thin streak of smoke. If you will, it can vanish in a single instant; if you will not, it can drag on for lifetimes. Between you and your own nature there is nothing except a tenuous wall of thought. And thoughts are bubbles of water. What a difference there is between their being and not being!
But that much of a wall — like a line of smoke, like a water-bubble — has made you wander far and wide. And if you were to total your wanderings, it would look as if a whole Himalaya were standing in between.
A tiny grain of sand in the eye is enough. But the eye closes, and existence stops being seen. No need to drop a mountain into the eye. Just a little grit — and the eye shuts. On your inner eye there is nothing more than such a little grit. Only trust is needed to rise. Only courage is needed to awaken. By your very resolve this line of smoke will break. Perhaps nothing more is needed. If simply this much dawns in you — that the obstacle is very small, and you are very vast — the obstacle breaks.
But you have accepted that the obstacle is immense and you are very small. Your so-called religious leaders also keep explaining to you that you are very small and the obstacle very great. They murder your self-confidence. They condition you that you are a sinner; they pull the ground from beneath your feet. They teach that you are a criminal, that you are ignorant; they pile upon you the burden of sins and karmas of many births. How can anything happen in a few moments then?
They describe a journey hard to bear, almost make the whole affair so impossible that you lose heart. And whoever has lost courage — for him, the wall becomes very big.
Because he has become utterly small.
And your being is dependent on your conception of yourself. Think yourself small and you will become small. Think yourself vast and you will become vast. Your very conception is your limit. Think yourself an atom and you will become atom-like. Think yourself Brahman and you will become Brahman-like.
Those who have truly known dharma cry at the top of their voices: You are Brahman — verily Brahman. Tat tvam asi. They cry out that the Atman is Paramatman. They say you have no boundary, no definition. You are infinite, beginningless.
But the priest — the manager of temple and mosque — the pundit who lives off a storehouse of words, he makes you small. He declares you inferior. He condemns you. He has condemned you for so long that when someone says to you, Wake up! You are great, you are vast — you cannot trust it.
His condemnation has a motive — understand this — because if you are Brahman, then neither temple nor mosque is needed, for you yourself are the temple. If you are vast, then neither idol nor worship is needed. You yourself are the worshipful one. You yourself are the priest. You yourself are the worship.
If you appear in your real form, where will the guru stand? What will become of his trade? The whole secret of his occupation is hidden in your condemnation. If you are a sinner, the pundit is needed. If you are a sinner, the priest is needed. If you are a sinner, mediators are needed between you and Paramatman. But if you are yourself Brahman, what mediator is required? Middlemen become meaningless.
Therefore all sects live upon your condemnation. First they declare you a criminal, a great sinner. First they shrink the very life within you. And when you are so contracted that you cry out in anguish and beg for a way, a path, then they begin to prescribe methods.
First they create the disease, then they hand you the medicine. The disease is false, so the medicine cannot be true. The disease does not exist at the foundation. How to come to the insight that all remedies are futile? How will you awaken? What can you do so that awakening happens?
The first thing to take to heart is this: the wall is as good as not. It is very delicate. Like a veil drawn over a bride’s eyes — nothing is seen. Slide it a little, and everything becomes visible. But you have assumed it is very difficult. You have accepted it. Behind your acceptance also stands a reason — the priest, the pundit — for if he declares you to be Brahman, he becomes redundant. He has no use left. He will live upon your condemnation.
You too have a reason for accepting. What could be your reason? You look around you and see people much like yourself — petty, small. Seeing them deepens your belief that the distance between man and God is great. Because you do not glimpse God in man. The devil you see often. A saint you rarely see, and even if he is there, you do not see him — because your trust in the devil is so strong you cannot believe a saint could exist.
Within yourself too, apart from ailments and labels, you see nothing but hatred, jealousy, envy, greed, lust, anger. You do not see yourself at all, only these things.
And you see them every day. You experience them every day. So your inner experience also tells you that the priest must be right. Then even if you meet a saint you do not trust — because your eye sees only what you have known within. Keep this aphorism well in mind: you can see only what is your experience. What is not your experience will not be visible to you. If the saint is simple, he will appear foolish to you. Simplicity will not be visible. You will think him a simpleton — because you know stupidity; you do not know simplicity.
If you meet a saint who sits silent and still, you will think he is lazy, slothful, lethargic — because that is what you know within. When you sit idle you are sluggish, inert, tamasic. So if the saint sits doing nothing, you take him to be indolent. Your language will remain your own. His silence will not be seen by you. You have never known silence; you have always been filled with words. Your experience will decide for you. You will spread yourself out and see yourself in the other. The other is like a mirror.
Many years ago, when I first came to Bombay, a celebrated Gujarati writer — very cultured, from an aristocratic family, deeply educated, refined — was influenced by my ideas and took me to lunch in a hotel. I did not know his eyes were weak, that without glasses he could not see anything close, could not read. He had forgotten his glasses at home. He lifted the menu lying on the table and kept looking for a while. I did not know, and perhaps he did not want to say that his eyes were so weak that he could not read without glasses. I thought he was reading. Just then a waiter came with water; he said to the waiter, Read out this menu please. The waiter looked at him and said, Brother, like you, we too are unlettered.
What our condition is, that alone we can see in another. Another’s condition remains unseen — there is no way to see it. Hence Buddhas move among you and do not even become part of your history. They turn into myth. Doubt arises whether such people ever were.
No one doubts that Genghis Khan existed; no one doubts Nadir Shah existed; no one doubts Hitler existed. But a thousand years from now it will be doubtful whether Ramana Maharshi ever was. They do not become part of history. You make history. You write history.
So did Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna, Christ really exist, or are they only a fanciful imagining? If you think rightly, they will appear mere fables. How could such a man be? For the definition of man is you. These are not credible. Some people have woven dreams, written stories. But in reality a man like Buddha cannot be. How is it possible that people crucify Jesus, and hanging on the cross Jesus prays to God: Forgive them, for they know not what they do? How can this be? Has such a thing ever arisen within you — that while stones are hurled and insults showered upon you, you pray: O God, forgive them, they do not know what they are doing? If even a small glimmer of this has happened within you, you will understand that Jesus could be. But if it does not happen even when they throw stones, how will it happen upon the gallows?
Whoever throws a clod at you, your very life wants to throw a rock back. Whoever abuses you once, your soul is filled with a thousand abuses for him. Whoever pricks you with a thorn — for him no flowers arise in you. And you are all you know. So Jesus is suspect. He cannot be. It must be a story, a myth.
That is the difference between purana and history. Those you cannot trust, for them you wrote myths. Those you can trust, for them you wrote history. History does not prove that those men existed; it only proves they were like you. And purana does not prove they never existed; it only proves that there is no alignment between you and them. They do not come into your language. They fall outside your range. Even if you concede, it is not from the depth. What you really know is: this cannot be.
Therefore when a knower says to you, You are God, how can you trust it? You see the devil; you do not see God. And when a knower like Mansoor declares, I myself am God, you are enraged: this man is going beyond even the limit of decorum. You might have forgiven it if he had told you that you are God; but this man is saying that I am God. Now you cannot forgive.
When Mansoor or the rishis of the Upanishads say, I am God, you feel deep down that this man is egotistical — because you know only ego. And this is ego in its extreme. You too have made ego announcements: No one more beautiful than I; no one more powerful than I; no one more intelligent than I. But a man is proclaiming, I am God, and all your egos look worthless. He has made the ultimate proclamation. Even you could not gather such courage. So he must be the supreme egoist. When Jesus said, I am the son of God, naturally difficulty arose. Mansoor was killed by the Muslims because he uttered the heresy: I am God — Anal Haq. He was saying exactly what the rishis of the Upanishads said — Aham Brahmasmi. Not a hair’s difference.
You will not be able to understand the knower.
So you have two tasks. You have to be free of the priest, and you have to be free of yourself. To be free of the priest is not so difficult; to be free of yourself is very difficult. They are two sides of the same coin. You must be free of sects, because they exploit you. And you must be free of yourself, because you make yourself exploitable through them. Two sides of the same coin.
Where will you begin? If you try to be free of a sect but cannot be free of yourself, then no sooner are you free of one sect than you will be entangled in another. The root seeds will remain within; they will send up new shoots. A Hindu becomes a Christian, a Christian becomes a Hindu. Jains become Buddhists, Buddhists become Jains. It makes no difference. The names of the diseases change. What difference does it make whether you call a disease consumption or tuberculosis? Does the name make a difference?
Call the disease Muslim, Hindu, Jain — it makes no difference. All diseases depend fundamentally on your belief that you are the devil. And this is the most irreligious state of mind. And it is strengthened because you look within and see anger, hatred, enmity, hardness, violence. You see only ailments. Their sum total you call the devil.
But I tell you, you are not the sum of these. In truth none of these is your limb. Anger, greed, attachment, maya, envy — they may be around you, but they are not you.
You are that which knows. The one who knows anger has come. The one who knows anger has gone. The one who knows that delusion rose and that delusion subsided. The one who knows lust arose and that now lust has departed. Hunger came, satiety happened. Thirst arose, thirst was quenched. The knower is you. You have taken yourself to be that which may be close to you, but is not your nature or essence. Nearness breeds confusion.
The rishis have always used this image: if a bit of glass is placed near a sapphire, the glass too becomes filled with blueness, reflections arise. It becomes difficult to decide which is the sapphire and which the glass. From nearness, a stain of color appears.
These are all very near to you. They are pressed against you. Anger, greed, attachment, lust — so near that a stain falls upon you. And you are the sapphire. Their stain falls upon you, your radiance falls upon them. From nearness, a certain identity arises. That identity is what is misleading you.
All that is needed is to break that tiny identification. It is like sleep; it can break in a single shake. It is like darkness; it can be lost in the flame of a single lamp. You have never been even an inch below God — this cannot be, there is no way. You have tried in many ways. You tried hard to become animal, but you cannot. You tried hard to become the devil, but you cannot.
Buddha once initiated a murderer into sannyas. The disciples were not willing, because the murderer was terrible. He had killed thousands; his only relish was killing. When Buddha gave him initiation, even Buddha’s closest disciples felt that Buddha was erring. This man is not right. More demonic than this is hard to find.
Ananda said to Buddha, Wait. Let him be acquainted for a few days. Do not hurry. This man is a dreadful killer. Even emperors tremble at his name. Buddha said, But I know he is a brahmin. That he is a killer makes no difference; the inner Brahman is never touched. It is forever pure. What he has done is a dream. What he is is the truth.
I say the same to you: what you have done is a dream. What you have thought is a dream within a dream. Your Brahmanhood is not stained by even a grain. There is no way to defile it. Its virginity cannot be corrupted, for virginity is not an outer event; it is its very nature. However many sins you have committed — countless.
Buddha says rightly: he is a brahmin. And what is Buddha’s definition of brahmin? You are all brahmins. Buddha says: whosoever has Brahman within is a brahmin. Plants, animals, birds — all are brahmins.
How could a shudra be born in God? And if a shudra is born in God, then God must be shudra — for without a cause, how will fruit arise? The devil is a dream; Brahman is existence. A thin line of delusion.
Buddha initiated him. The emperor of that land, Prasenjit, heard the news. He too was exhausted by this murderer, Angulimala — so called because he killed people and wore a garland of their fingers. One man he killed, and one finger of his went into the garland. He had taken a vow to kill a thousand. When Buddha initiated him, only one finger was missing — nine hundred and ninety-nine were already strung. Prasenjit was tired. No one could handle this man. Armies had tired; soldiers were afraid to go where the rumor spread that Angulimala had arrived.
Prasenjit heard Angulimala had become a monk, a bhikshu of Buddha. He came to see this dangerous man — what manner of man he now was. His own mother was afraid to go near him, he was so unpredictable; he could even cut her.
When Prasenjit came he looked around; there were thousands of monks. He could not recognize him, nor could he have — for Angulimala was seated next to Buddha. He said, I have heard Angulimala has taken initiation and become a monk. It is hard to believe this man could be a monk. I want to see him. Where is he? Buddha said, You will not recognize him now. Even so Prasenjit said, I want to know him. He did not know that Angulimala sat beside him listening. Buddha said, If you must know — this monk sitting near me is Angulimala.
At the very name, Prasenjit’s hands and feet trembled. So close! He might leap and cut my throat, who knows? This man is unpredictable. The story says Prasenjit shook, sweat came. He said, Is this the man? Buddha said, Do not fear. He has now re-attained his Brahmanhood. The dream has broken.
Next day the news spread through the city. When Angulimala went for alms, people closed their doors. Afraid, they climbed to their roofs and began to shower him with stones. Angulimala fell in the road, bleeding from all sides.
The story says Buddha came and asked him, Angulimala, you have proved you are a brahmin. What arose in your mind when people were stoning you?
Angulimala said, From the moment you said what I did was a dream, whatever others do is also a dream.
When that which you have taken as life you begin to understand as a dream, then you will know that which is true — and which now has become a dream. It is a matter of a shift of vision.
Withdraw a little from your actions and thoughts. The sapphire is very close. The process of withdrawal is simple and direct; there is no complexity. Abide in the witness. Abide in the seer. Whatever is seen is alien, other, outside. You are the seer. Do not be entangled in the seen. Abide only in that which sees, the seer, the witness.
If even for a single moment you abide in the seer, transformation happens, a revolution. And there is only one revolution: to turn back from the seen to the seer. Just one revolution. The distance is next to nothing. One step back from the seen, and be established in the seer.
You are listening to me now. Your attention is on what I am saying. This attention needs to be turned around a little and put on the one who is hearing. You are looking at me. Your attention is on my form. Withdraw it just a little and take it to the one who is seeing. The distance is a mere fraction. A thin line of smoke. A delicate veil.
Hence Kabir says: 'Lift the flaps of the veil, and you will meet the Beloved.' Just lift the veil a little. The Beloved is hidden behind the veil.
Kabir’s words are of great import.
Avadhu, make the sky your home.
Understand this.
This sky is spread out. In this sky everything exists. In this sky planets are born and dissolve. Suns are created and submerged. Moons and stars take birth and vanish. The whole creation arises in the sky and disappears; yet the sky is neither born nor does it die.
All scenes arise in the sky; the sky witnesses every color, but is dyed by none. Rainbows form, clouds arise, lightning flashes, but the sky remains untouched. After lightning, no blackened streak is left on the sky. Clouds come and go; the sky remains as pure as ever, whether clouds are or not.
Let this entire creation be lost — trees, plants, animals, birds dissolve. It happens at the dissolution. All returns to seed. Only the sky remains. The sky always remains. Everything happens in the sky; yet nothing happens to the sky. Therefore the sky is the symbol of the witness. Everything happens before the witness; nothing happens in the witness. The seen arises and subsides. The play forms and disperses.
You go to see a film. For an hour you forget yourself. On the empty screen the play of sun and shadow moves. You are absorbed. You remember only what is happening on the screen; you do not remember yourself. The scene becomes all in all. People know it was an empty screen when they entered; moments later they forget. They know well it is all the magic of light and shade; there is nothing there.
Yet when someone is being murdered you get gooseflesh. When a poor, miserable person is dying your eyes fill with tears. You forget. The non-substantial begins to affect you. The sapphire has come very close. Scenes begin to look real. If, in the film, a car is racing along a dangerous cliff and the police are in pursuit, you too sit up straight, spine taut. The situation is perilous. The breath stops. The eyelids forget to blink.
Then the screen returns to being a screen. The game is over. The end comes. You get up and leave for home.
The witness was there before you entered. The witness returns when you come back home. In between the play of light and shadow went on. The world is no more than what happens on the screen — only bigger, upon an immense screen. You cannot find the edges. The scenes are countless, numberless. But it is all the play of light and shadow. Nothing else is happening.
One thing alone is true: your element of seeing. That is the sky.
Avadhu, make the sky your home.
Make that sky your very dwelling.
Anything less, and you will remain miserable. Anything less, and you will remain afflicted. Anything less, and you will be in hell. For no one can be blissful in anything less than his nature. Nature is bliss. Then you have come home.
Make the sky your home.
Build no other home elsewhere. Every other home will prove an inn — a resting for a single night. In the morning you will have to move on. And make no relationship your home — wife, husband, sons, daughters, friends — all are meetings for a moment, a chance gathering of travelers on the road, a river-boat-meeting. Then it will part. On the journey of the infinite, who knows how many homes you have built? It is hard to count. Who knows how many love relationships you established — countless. How much you cried, how much you laughed — but all vanished like bubbles on water. Everything is lost. Only one remains. That one Kabir calls: Avadhu, make that One your home.
Make the sky your home.
And what is the sky like? Emptiness. Sky means the supreme emptiness. That is why everything disappears and the sky does not. How can emptiness be destroyed? That which is already not — how can it be destroyed? There is no way to destroy emptiness. Therefore emptiness is the essence of existence. It is eternal. Emptiness alone is everlasting. Everything will be made and unmade; names and forms come and go. Emptiness remains.
Hence the wise have defined Brahman through shunya. Shunya is its form. So the Upanishads say: neti-neti — not this, not that. They say: neither this form nor that form. At most we can say: it has no form. Nirakar. Formless — that is, shunya.
Buddha did not even use the word 'Paramatman', because it creates confusion in you. The moment 'Paramatman' is used, you remember a Rama with bow and arrow, or a Krishna playing the flute. The very name of God begins to create form in your mind. However much you say God is formless, the word is personal and so it gives form. Therefore Buddha did not use 'Paramatman'. He said only: shunya. Nirvana.
'Nirvana' is a sweet word. It means the extinguishing of the lamp. When the lamp goes out, what remains? Where does the flame go? Where is it lost? You will not find it. The flame merges into shunya. The day your lamp goes out — the lamp of delusion, the lamp of ego, the lamp of darkness — that day only shunya remains behind. This very shunyata is what we call the sky.
Avadhu, make the sky your home.
Which means: dwell in shunya. Delight in shunya. Shunya-ramana is the one meditation. Wherever you find form, withdraw yourself from there. Wherever you find shape, know a cloud has formed; it will pass. I am that which is seeing. Do not even form so many words within as 'I am that which is seeing', for even this is a form. Be only the seeing.
Slowly no words will arise, no thought will form. The veil lifts. It is only the layer of thought. This much only is the line of smoke, the cover. The grit falls from the eye.
'Lift the flaps of the veil, and you will meet the Beloved.' But the word 'Beloved' can mislead. As if someone sits within waiting for you. No — shunya itself is the dear one. Because apart from shunya every other thing brings suffering. That is why shunya is called the Beloved — the one and only Lover — because only in shunya does bliss shower. Outside of shunya there is only suffering.
'Amrit showers, bliss arises; drink the nectar through the subtle channel.'
Once your home is in shunya —
'Amrit showers, bliss arises; drink the nectar through the Sushumna.'
Then drink from the Sushumna the stream of nectar forever. It does not run out. Time poses no hindrance. Whenever you become shunya, you will suddenly find something beginning to pour within. Some spring has become active. Until now the sources were covered with stones; the stones are gone; the spring begins to flow. The river sets out for the ocean. The drop’s pilgrimage begins to lose itself in the sea. Instantly nectar will begin to shower.
Even now, unknowingly, whenever a little tinkling of happiness happens within you — whether you are aware or not — it happens only when, by some coincidence, you become shunya.
You are standing at dawn. The sun rises — and thump! your heart stops for a moment at the sight of that beauty. For a moment the chain of thought breaks. For a moment there are no thoughts. A small junction with shunya occurs. Nectar flows. You will say: by seeing the sun, happiness came. That is your misunderstanding. You forgot. You did not grasp the root cause. Happiness did not come because of the sun; the sun created the occasion. It was the means for a momentary stop. You were struck speechless. Such dense beauty — the rising sun, the waking light, the fleeing night, the birds’ morning hum — for a moment you were lost. Your ego dissolved. A little door opened, a little curtain shifted, the veil moved a little; your inner shunya flashed for a moment. Because of shunya, happiness came. But you say: by seeing the sun, happiness came.
You go to the mountains, see snow peaks, eternally draped in white. Sunrays sparkle upon them; the whole mountain turns to gold. For a moment everything falls still. Never known before. Never seen before. The unseen seen. An encounter with the unfamiliar — for a moment everything stops, because the mind takes time to adjust. At the sight of the familiar the mind does not stop — it already knows who it is. At the unfamiliar...
I was in Kashmir. Friends with me had waited years to go with me. They had not gone earlier. They were thrilled. We stayed on Dal Lake. When we had become familiar with the houseboat owner, on the last day as we were departing he caught my feet and said, I have just one longing — to see Bombay. Grant me this grace. Take me with you. In two or four days I will be fulfilled. But I do not want to die without seeing Bombay. Dal Lake is empty.
My friends were from Bombay; they had come to see Dal Lake. It was new; it shook them. For the man who had tended houseboats for years — Dal Lake had become dead, familiar.
Whatever becomes familiar no longer shakes you. That is why the woman upon whom you were enchanted on the first day — that day it seemed heaven had rained — the same woman you bring home in marriage and hell arrives. Where did heaven go? In the unfamiliar there is a halt. One falls awestruck before the new. Your old mind cannot compute; it had never known this; it stops. The next time it will know; the mind has an account now: the same as before. The second time you see Dal Lake, there will be nothing special. The third time you will not even look. The mind will say, All seen, all familiar.
In unfamiliar moments shunya peeps in. That is why any unfamiliar moment showers happiness. But it should be caught unawares. Sometimes, listening to music, the melody binds you — so binds you that thoughts stop. If thoughts remain, the melody cannot bind.
I have heard of a great musician. A Nawab invited him to Lucknow. He had strange conditions. One was: when I play the veena, when I sing, no one must nod his head. If anyone nods, his head will be cut off. It disturbs me.
Nawabs of Lucknow — crazy as ever — he agreed. He said, What is the problem? We cut heads anyway.
A proclamation went out in the city: Whoever comes, come with thought; do not regret later. Nodding the head is strictly forbidden. Whoever nods will be beheaded.
The Nawab posted soldiers with naked swords. Thousands would have come; they did not. A few chosen came — those who could not restrain themselves, who were ready to gamble life. A thousand or fifteen hundred came. They too sat carefully, like yogis, fixing themselves in siddhasana lest the head move by mistake. Not for music should it move — what if a fly came and the head moved; and this Nawab is mad; then it would be hard to prove it moved for the fly or some other reason. So they sat guarded, breath held. The Nawab placed men all around with naked swords to note whose head moved, to cut it later.
Even the Nawab was astonished. Music began; soon some heads began to nod. He had thought none would. Ten or fifteen began to nod — driven by some deep helplessness. When the performance ended, twelve were caught. Before the Nawab could have their heads cut, the musician said, Stop. These are the ones I was looking for. Dismiss the rest. Now I will play for them alone.
The Nawab said, I do not understand. He asked those madmen, Why did you nod? They said, It would not be right to say we nodded. We were not there. We do not know when the heads nodded. The melody happened. Thought vanished. And with thought, your edict vanished too that heads would be cut. We were not there. A moment came when we disappeared.
The musician said, Now I will play only for them. Because those who cannot dissolve cannot understand music. For music’s ultimate secret is not in music; it is in dissolving, in becoming shunya. Music is only a device.
All methods of religion are devices. There is no religion in them. If the device works, it works because of your shunya within.
So in a sudden moment of love... an old friend appears after years on the road, and thoughts halt — what delight fills the heart! Overflow! Whether by accident or by design, whenever a little window opens within and shunya peeps, the stream of nectar begins.
That is why I say: even in the moment of sex the stream of nectar sometimes begins — because sex is an electric shock, a terrific jolt to the whole system. If the jolt is enough that you are lost in it for a moment, then sex too can bring a glimpse of Samadhi.
Even in death sometimes the glimpse of shunya is seen. As if you fall from a mountain — the moment you fall you take it for granted that you are dead. The moment you accept you are dead, thoughts stop; thought is the business of life. If one is dead, there is no time for thinking — for whom to think? The whole enterprise breaks; relationship with the world snaps. Thought was your connection with the world. You fall, you take it you are dead. Just a moment before the rocks show beneath; a collision — and gone! In that one moment, if you survive...
It has happened many times that people have fallen and yet survived — by chance. They said, We knew the greatest bliss of life — because in that single small moment, between falling and the pit, how much time is there? But in that one moment thought stopped; the window of shunya opened; nectar showered.
Nectar can shower even in death, in music, in sex, in sudden beauty, in sudden happenings. But whenever you taste delight, whatever the apparent causes, the root cause is one — a touch of shunya.
Who understands this ceases to worry about coincidences. He seeks shunya directly. Why go fall off mountains? Sitting, he can sink into shunya. Once it is understood that the stream flows from shunya, who bothers about little means? He dives straight into shunya. That is yoga.
Hence I say: yoga is the essence of all the experiences of the bhogis. This may sound hard. But whatever the bhogis have known in tiny particles, fleeting glimpses for which they have yearned for years and once in a while tasted a grain —
The essence of all the bhogi’s experiences is yoga.
The yogis tested and examined and created a whole science: the real thing is shunya, and into shunya one can go directly. No via media, no intermediaries are needed; time is wasted in them. So the yogi seeks shunya directly.
Avadhu, make the sky your home.
'Amrit showers; bliss arises...'
'Sada!' — that is the true definition of bliss. That which is sometimes is not bliss. That which is sometimes is not peace. That which is sometimes is a disease; there will be a kind of fever in it.
Look: you will find people excited even in their happiness. Excitement is fever. Excitement is not pleasant. Often it happens that someone wins a lottery and dies. So excited by happiness — years waiting for it, then it comes; they had never thought it would; they desired it but knew it was not in their fate — yet it came, and they could not handle the happiness. Such an excitement that the heart simply stopped. If only thought had stopped — good; but the heart stopped too. The blood raced; the pressure rose; vessels burst.
Happiness kills. Then your happiness does not seem very much like happiness. It is given in tiny doses so you manage. Take a pinch of poison daily and you will not die. Even if you die, it will take thirty or forty years of daily pinches.
A man smokes. Scientists say that if the nicotine a man consumes in twenty years — say six cigarettes a day — were given all at once, he would die. But from six cigarettes a day, one does not die. Pinch by pinch. One becomes habituated; through habit one becomes immune. Give pure nicotine to an unsmoker and he will die quickly; the addict — smoking is a kind of hatha yoga — breath in smoke, breathe it out — pranayama of smoke — the addict will not die so easily.
Your happiness is a pinch-by-pinch poison. And behind every happiness of yours pain hides. Your every happiness brings pain along. Sooner or later happiness will go and pain will appear. Your happiness is not eternal. That happiness which is eternal we call ananda. 'Sada sukh upjai' — when there is no pain between two happinesses, then 'ever-happiness' arises. Then you do not even know when happiness came. Its coming is known once; its going is never known. Slowly such a state arrives that the ever-blissful one does not even know he is blissful.
If you ask Buddha, Are you happy? he cannot say, I am happy — because 'I am happy' is the awareness of one who also becomes unhappy. Just as one who is always healthy will not know he is healthy; the sick know health. The ever-blissful one does not even know bliss.
Therefore Buddha is not seen dancing. Bliss is so constant — why dance for it? It is like breath — flowing. It is in the very nature. It is raining. Why dance? Why laugh? Why make a fuss that I am happy?
When happiness is constant it transforms into peace. When ananda is complete it becomes like shunya. Just as a full pot makes no sound, when happiness is full there is no sound.
'Amrit showers; bliss arises; drink through the Sushumna the nectar.'
And keep drinking its juice as much as you wish. The essence does not end. The drinker may tire; the giver does not.
'Bind the root; the lake becomes the sky; Sukhmani touches even the body.'
How does the yogi bring about this great bliss? What does he do within? How does he drown himself in the sky?
'Bind the root — the pond merges into the sky...'
This is the process.
Life is energy, shakti. Ordinarily your life-energy is flowing downward; hence in the end your entire life-energy becomes sex. Sex is the lowest chakra. Your energy is falling; and slowly all energy gathers at the sex-center. Therefore all your strength becomes sexuality. The more powerful you are, the more intense will be your sex-energy.
Hence monks get frightened. They eat less, because if you do not take food, no energy will be produced; if no energy, then no sex-energy will arise. Monks set about drying themselves up. They try to take only so much food as keeps the daily body going. No energy remains.
But is this monkhood? It is impotence. Is this sadhana? If there is no energy, what meaning, what value has your brahmacharya? None. What worth is the celibacy of a weakling?
Millions mistake weakness for brahmacharya, disease for health. They wither the body. Energy is not produced, so the sex-center dries up. They think they have attained. Give them proper food — within a week sex-energy begins to flow again. Passion arises again. This is no freedom; this is deception — self-delusion. A knower like Kabir will not value such monkhood a farthing.
Monkhood does not mean finishing energy; it means transforming it. Not wasting energy, not drying it — changing its state. That which is flowing downward must begin to flow upward. The descending energy must become ascending. What is now like water must become like fire. Water flows down; fire always rises. The day your energy becomes fiery, that very day an incomparable brahmacharya is born — not out of weakness, but out of supreme vigor.
'Mool bandh' — bind the Muladhar, the root chakra where energy becomes sex-energy. Contract it. Hence yoga, Patanjali, hatha yoga have discovered many processes to bind the root. When the root is bound, energy begins to rise by itself, because the lower door is closed, the gate is blocked.
Try a small experiment whenever lust arises — slowly you will see the path. Whenever you feel passion seizing the mind, do not be afraid. Sit silently. Throw the breath out strongly — exhalation. Do not draw the breath in — because the moment you inhale deeply, the incoming breath pushes sex-energy downward. When lust grabs you, exhale. Throw the breath out. Pull the navel in, draw the belly inward, and push the breath out as much as possible.
With practice, slowly you will succeed in throwing all the breath out. When all breath is thrown out, your belly and navel become a vacuum — empty. And wherever a vacuum happens, the surrounding energy begins to flow toward it. The void attracts, because nature does not tolerate a vacuum; it moves to fill it.
You draw water from a river into your pot; the moment you fill the pot and lift it, a hollow forms in the river where the pot was. As much water as you took, that much hollow appears; water rushes from all sides to fill it.
If a void happens near your navel, energy rises from Muladhar toward the navel instantly. You will taste a great juice. The first time you experience a deep energy arrow rising into the navel, you will find your whole body-mind filled with health, a freshness. This freshness will be exactly opposite to the sadness after sex. After the spilling of energy a weariness seizes you — a sickness, a melancholy, a sense of defeat, a fatigue; you want to sleep.
Many use sex only as a sleeping pill. They get exhausted; in the West doctors advise the sleepless to use sex — you will be tired, broken, sleep will come by itself. But that sleep is not healthy; it is the sleep of fatigue. It is not rest; it is exhaustion. There is a big difference. In rest, energy relaxes fully; in fatigue, energy is not. Worn out, broken, you drop.
Just as after sex you feel melancholy, so when energy rises to the navel you feel joy. A radiance surrounds you. Transformation of energy has begun. You will feel more powerful, more harmonious, more exuberant, active, tireless, restful — as if you have awakened from deep sleep. Freshness arrives.
Therefore those who activate energy from the Muladhar need less sleep. It is not needed. They become fresh in a few hours — even two hours make them as fresh as you are not after eight — because your body has to produce energy, manufacture it, fill itself. And what madness! Every day the body fills, and every day you spill it. Thus life is wasted: eat, fill the body with energy, then spill it and throw it away.
The ascent of energy is a rare experience. The first experience is the transition from Muladhar to the navel.
This moolbandh is the simplest method: throw the breath out, the navel becomes empty, energy rises to the navel; the gate of the Muladhar closes by itself. That gate opens by the push of energy; when energy is no longer at the Muladhar, the push ceases and the gate closes.
'Mool bandh; the lake merges into the sky...'
If you learn just one thing — how to bring energy to the navel — the rest is not your worry. Whenever lust arises, collect the energy at the navel. As energy increases at the navel, it will rise upward by itself, as water rises in a vessel as it fills.
The real thing is the sealing of the Muladhar. The hole at the bottom of the pot is closed; now energy will gather; the pot will fill by itself.
One day, suddenly, you will find that slowly energy is coming above the navel. Your heart will be flooded by a new sensitivity. You say you love; but you cannot — because there is no energy in the heart. Say what you like, but you cannot love — love happens only when energy reaches the heart chakra. Before that, it does not happen. You may convince yourself that you love, but you have loved no one — not your wife, not your son. At most you love yourself, and even that is very weak, not deep.
The day energy comes to the heart chakra you will find yourself filled with love. Wherever you move, a breeze of love will begin to flow around you. Others too will feel that something has changed in you. You are no longer the same. You bring another ripple — the depressed become cheerful; the miserable forget misery for a while; the restless grow calm. Wherever you sit, whomever you touch, a little rain of love happens — but only when energy comes into the heart.
As energy grows, it rises from the heart to the throat; then a sweetness comes into your speech, a music, a beauty. You will utter ordinary words and there will be poetry in them. You will say two words to someone and he will be satisfied. Even if you remain silent, your silence will carry a message. Even if you do not speak, your very being will speak. Energy has come to the throat.
The songs of the Upanishads must have burst only when energy reached the throat. Buddha’s words must have issued only when energy came to the throat. The words of the Koran are ordinary words — but when Mohammed spoke them there was something else in them; they came from another realm.
You too can repeat them, but wherever your energy is, that quality will enter your words. If a man full of lust sings the Koran in the most lilting way, it will still be qawwali; it cannot be Koran — for the Koran is not about words, but your life-energy. And if Mohammed sings qawwali, it will become Koran. New meanings will arise in those words, new buds will sprout, new flowers bloom.
Krishna spoke the Gita; it is the expression of energy at the throat. Many have learned it by heart; many recite it daily; many thousands of recitations they have done. But if sex-energy is falling from the Muladhar, sing the Gita as you will, it will be your Gita; it cannot be the Bhagavad Gita. For the Bhagavad Gita, consciousness must become Bhagavat.
Energy rises still higher. A moment comes when it manifests at the third eye. Then for the first time you begin to see. Before that you are blind — for before that you see only forms; the formless you do not see. And the formless is the real. The formless is hidden in all forms. Forms are seen because energy is tied down at the Muladhar; otherwise there are no forms.
Where do you end? Where is your boundary? Where do you begin? No one begins anywhere; no one ends anywhere. The whole cosmos is continuous. You are linked to trees, to mountains, to moon and stars. Shake a small spider’s web and the stars in the vast sky also tremble — for existence is one; there are not two. Yet you see many — you are blind. The Muladhar is the blind chakra; that is why we call lust blind. It is blind; it has no eye at all. The true eye opens when energy touches the third eye. When the waves of your energy begin to strike the shore of the third eye, for the first time the capacity for vision awakens within.
Therefore in this land we did not call the process of thinking 'philosophy'; we called it 'darshan'. Philosophy is the word in the West. We did not like that name, because philosophy can be born even when energy remains in the Muladhar; but darshan is not born. However much the blind wander thinking, of what value will their thought be? What will they think out?
However much a blind man thinks about light, beats his head, calculates, analyzes — what will it solve? Whatever a blind man says about light will be wrong. A blind man cannot even see darkness; light is far away.
You may be thinking that a blind man sees darkness — you are mistaken. To see darkness, too, the eye is needed. Darkness is also an experience of the eye. You close your eyes and see darkness because with your eyes open you have experienced light. The blind man cannot see darkness either. Darkness and light are experiences of the eye.
So the blind can think and set up great philosophies. Aristotle, Kant, Hegel, Bertrand Russell — the greatest Western thinkers are not darshanikas.
Darshan is a unique process whose concern is not thought but energy. Kapila, Kanad, Buddha, Mahavira, Shankar, Nagarjuna are darshanikas, not mere thinkers — because to be darshanika means the waves of energy have begun to strike the shore of the third eye. Now he sees. He does not construct hypotheses; he clothes what he sees in concepts. He does not grope in the dark; he gives words to what is visible to him — so that words may reach the blind.
When the eye comes into your life, nothing is seen but God. The whole world becomes maya; only God is true. Now maya is true and God alone is false. Say as much as you like that you believe — but you know God is not. How will you believe what you have not known or seen? Doubt remains within.
You worship in the temple, fold your hands before an idol. Watch closely — you will find the worm of doubt crawling within. Yet you bow from fear — who knows, He might be; better not regret later.
Mulla Nasruddin had a friend dying, a learned mullah, a pundit. But at the moment of death even he had difficulty, for scholarship does not help in dying. He was afraid. Until then he had said: there is God, there is this, there is that — all theory. Now he did not know what to do. Death drew near; in a moment it would be over. What will happen? What will not?
Someone said, Why not call Mulla Nasruddin? He is a great knower. The drowning clutch at straws. He said, Yes, call Nasruddin. He doubted; he had no trust. But what harm? Nasruddin came and said, Fine. Pray: O God! O Devil! Look after me. He said, What kind of prayer is this? 'O God' I understand, but...!
Nasruddin said, At the time of death it is not wise to take risks. Who knows — God may not be. And who knows — the Devil may be. Pray to both. Whoever is will help. At such an hour better not offend anyone.
Out of fear worship goes on, not out of shraddha. Trust in God comes only when energy enters the third eye. You become capable of seeing. Until then God is a lie and the world true. Then everything reverses — Paramatman true and the world false.
The capacity for darshan is not the capacity for thought; it is the capacity for seeing — for direct encounter. When Buddha speaks, he speaks having seen; it is his own experience. Words without experience have no meaning; only experienced words have worth.
I was staying in a small village. A doctor had come from the city to instruct the villagers on family planning. In the courtyard across from where I stayed, the villagers gathered and the doctor explained. I also sat and listened. After he finished, a villager stood and asked, Are you married? The doctor said, No, I am unmarried. The villager laughed; others laughed. The doctor asked, What is the matter? The villager said, How can a monkey know the taste of ginger!
But in life you have accepted things whose taste you have never known. By believing and believing, you begin to feel you have tasted too. You have never tasted jaggery, only heard the word 'jaggery'. You have never tasted God, only heard the word 'God'. You have never drunk water, only heard the word 'water'. You have never drunk God, only heard 'God'.
When energy enters the third eye, experience begins. Such a person’s words carry not the force of logic but the force of truth. There is an authenticity that comes from within the words, not from any external proofs. Such a person’s words we call scripture. Such words become Veda — from one who has known, lived, tasted Paramatman, swallowed Him, become one with Him.
Then energy rises higher still and touches the Sahasrar.
'Mool bandh; the head becomes the sky...'
'Sar' means Sahasrar. The first and lowest center is the Muladhar, the last is the Sahasrar.
We call the last chakra Sahasrar because it is like a lotus with a thousand petals — very beautiful. When it blooms, an inner sense arises as if the whole personality has become a thousand-petaled lotus, wholly in bloom. When energy strikes the Sahasrar, its petals begin to open. As the Sahasrar opens, a fountain of bliss begins to flow from the personality. In that moment Meera dances: having tied the bells to her feet, Meera danced. Chaitanya Mahaprabhu too begins to dance madly, unbound.
'Mool bandh; the head becomes the sky; Sukhmani touches even the body.'
It is a strange statement — 'Sukhmani touches even the body.' Such bliss arises that the soul dances — of course it dances — but the dance becomes so deep that even the body dances in that dance. Even the inert becomes delighted.
Kabir says: in that moment consciousness dances; there is nothing to say about that — but even the dead body begins to dance, as if conscious. Consciousness rejoices — but down to every pore the body becomes blissful. Such a wave of joy flows that even the corpse — the body is a corpse — begins to dance.
Now you are so bound to the body that you have become corpselike. Then the stream flows the other way. Along with the capacity of your consciousness, the dead body too begins to dance. What you have heard — that by His grace the blind see, the lame walk, the mute speak — you have not understood. It means this: at that moment even the lifelong mute will speak. Such a vast event takes place, such a festival happens, that even the lifelong deaf will begin to hear. The whole body awakens. All sleep breaks. Not only of the soul but even in the inert body trembling is heard, music resounds there too; echoes begin to be heard there as well.
'Mool bandh; the head becomes the sky; Sukhmani touches even the body.
Lust and anger both become the fuse; there the Yogini awakens.'
In that hour of bliss lust and anger are like the fuse with which one lights the bomb. Light the fuse and soon the bomb explodes.
'Lust and anger both become the fuse; there the Yogini awakens.'
In that blissful moment — where are lust and anger? Those you knew as enemies become friends. Lust and anger both become the fuse in that supreme explosion. Their fire too is used. There is an explosion — a detonation.
'Let the mind go sit in the marketplace; it is intoxicated, soaked in the juice.
Says Kabir: the heart has no doubt; the Anahad Shabda has crowed.'
Now there is no need to seat the mind in a temple. Even if it sits in the marketplace —
'Let the mind go sit in the bazaar...'
No worry now. No need to go to the Himalayas. Even sitting in the bazaar there is no difference. Everywhere is Himalaya. In the market too is Kailash. At home too is Kaba. Now in the body itself is Vaikuntha.
'Let the mind go sit in the marketplace; it is intoxicated, soaked in the juice.'
And the mind, whose nature is doubt, is now so enchanted and linked with the essence that it no longer doubts.
When energy touches the seventh and last chakra, even those who were your enemies till yesterday become friends. Lust and anger come into service; their energy, their fire becomes the fuse in the supreme explosion. Then you know that nothing in life is useless. Everything is meaningful. Sooner or later everything will be used. No stone is to be thrown away. Every stone will be used in the construction of the temple. Do not be in a hurry to discard; do not make enmity.
God has made nothing for which a right use does not exist. Today it may be that you do not see the use. The stone you throw away today — tomorrow you will regret; tomorrow going back you will find that very stone was meant to become the temple’s image, or its spire.
Discard nothing. Keep everything carefully. Not a single speck in you is wrong. All will be used. Today it may appear wrong because your energy is too low; there is no use there. When energy rises and vision expands and eyes open, a thousand uses will appear. As for the mind — now it seems to be only doubting; but Kabir says: then the mind is so soaked in rasa, so drowned — 'says Kabir: the heart has no doubt' — that doubt no longer arises. Doubt persisted only until you had not attained.
So it means even the mind’s doubt is a companion on the way, a helper — because it keeps you awake. It says, The time for believing has not yet come; shraddha is premature; experience has not happened; the goal is still a little far. It keeps doubt alive and the journey moving. But when the goal arrives, doubt falls. The mind says, Now have faith. The mind too is a companion; there is no enemy.
'Says Kabir: the heart has no doubt; the Anahad Shabda has crowed.'
How will the mind doubt now? Now the soundless sound crows within. Truth itself crows. It was midnight; then the mind doubted — Will morning come? Now the cock has crowed.
'...the Anahad Shabda has crowed.'
Kabir says, Within, the sound of truth has begun to crow. Truth itself is crowing. God himself is crowing. What scope has the mind now? What power has it to raise doubt?
Shraddha awakes. There are two kinds of shraddha. One: the seeker’s, which he carefully keeps alive so that the journey may continue. Doubt remains, yet he travels — because if doubt becomes excessive the journey stops. Doubt will remain, so the seeker says, All right — you remain; but I will travel. I will create shraddha; I will strive. It will be partial, incomplete — but however much there is, it is good.
One is the seeker’s shraddha; the other is the siddha’s shraddha. The siddha’s shraddha is of another kind: it means doubt has gone.
'...the mind is enchanted, linked with the rasa.
Says Kabir: the heart has no doubt; the Anahad Shabda has crowed.'
God has crowed within. Morning has come.
This morning is not far. However dark your night, morning is not far. In truth, the darker the night, the nearer the dawn. The curtain is very thin. It is only a matter of lifting the veil. Awaken your trust. Stand upon your own feet. Waste no time. Already much time has been wasted. The goal is very near. One step — and the goal is near. You are needlessly tormented in sorrow.
Your condition is like someone oppressed in a nightmare. His own hands are upon his chest and he dreams he is crushed under a mountain. He places his own pillow upon his chest and dreams that a wrestler is sitting there — some Dara Singh. He cries; he screams. The more he panics, the more the inner restlessness increases. And in that restlessness the eyes do not open, the hands do not move. He feels, I am dead! I am finished!
Then the nightmare breaks. He opens his eyes and laughs at himself: my own pillow was on my chest and I was blaming Dara Singh. My own hands were tied upon my chest and I was imagining a mountain.
No one was frightening him. No one was there. He was alone. His own dream was eating him. Your dream is your maya. Wake up — from the seen to the seer, to the witness.
Avadhu, make the sky your home.
Enough for today.