Kahe Kabir Diwana #6

Life is an earthen lamp; yet the flame in it is not of clay, it is of consciousness. The lamp is of earth, the flame of sky; the lamp is of matter, the flame of Paramatma. The lamp is a wondrous confluence.
Understand this well, because you too are an earthen lamp. But that is not your completion. And if you decide you are nothing but a clay lamp, you will miss the very meaning and truth of life.
The lamp is needed, but only so the flame can be. Without the flame, what meaning has the lamp? If the flame is lost, what value has the lamp? If there is no flame, what will you do with the lamp?
Let the remembrance of the flame remain; let the flame continuously rise toward the sky—then the lamp becomes a ladder, and you can be grateful to it. Whoever has known the Atman has been able to be grateful to the body. Those who have not known the Atman either kept taking the body to be all, forcing the flame to follow the lamp and falling ever deeper into unconsciousness and swoon; or, not knowing the Atman, they began a futile struggle with the body, with the lamp—what could have been a companion they turned into an enemy.
Those whom you call worldly are the first kind—the inner Paramatma following the outer shell; they have harnessed the bullocks behind the cart, and the bullocks, dragged, scrape along with the cart. They put the trivial in front and the vast behind; should sorrow fill such lives, it is no wonder.
These worldly ones are those you call pleasure-seekers. Opposite them stand the so-called yogis, the religious. Remember, I say so-called, because they are yogis in name only. They have set up conflict between cart and bullocks, enmity between lamp and flame; they have fabricated a quarrel between Atman and body, staged a struggle.
The bhogi is deluded; but your so-called yogi is no different from the bhogi. Who then is the real yogi?
The real yogi is the one who uses the lamp’s cooperation to kindle the flame; who neither makes the lamp an enemy nor follows the lamp; who neither ties the bullocks behind the cart nor creates strife between bullocks and cart; rather, he attains harmony, brings forth a collaboration.
Surely, harmony is most difficult, because the flame goes toward the sky. It belongs to the sky, and rises skyward. The lamp is of clay, it remains lying in the clay. Their dimensions are very different, their journeys far apart. Yet, lamp and flame meet. To create such a meeting is yoga—between body and self, between mrinmaya and chinmaya.
Lotus arises from mud. From the mud of your body will arise the lotus of your soul. Do not make the mud an enemy, or the lotus will not be born. However much opposition appears between mud and lotus, within there is a deep cooperation. However muddy the mud seems, where is any relation visible! The lotus—beautiful, wondrously beautiful, incomparable, soft as silk! And the mud—foul, fetid! Where the lotus’s fragrance, where the mud’s stench! No connection seems visible.
And if you did not know, and someone placed a heap of mud and a heap of lotuses, and asked: do you see any connection between these two? You too would say: what connection—where mud, where lotus! Yet you know: lotus is born from mud. In the earthen, the conscious awakens.
If lotus arises from mud, it means a lotus is hidden in the depths of the mud, else how would it arise? It means the mud merely appears dirty on the surface; inside it must be lotus-like. It means the stench is only the outer introduction; the fragrance is the inner introduction.
If you have only looked at the body, you have stopped at the mud and remain unacquainted with the lotus. If you became hostile to the body and began to crush and ruin it, even then you will be deprived—because from such conflict the lotus will not be born. Lotus is born through the cooperation of mud.
This cooperation itself is the art of yoga. Yoga is the art of finding the One amidst the duality of existence. Wherever two appear—extreme, opposed—there too to see the bridge of the One, the joining of the One—this is the supreme vision of yoga.
Hence I say again and again: the Kam hidden within you will become the Ram within you. The very urge for union, the longing of sexuality within you, in the ultimate flowering of your being, will become your Samadhi. Your mud is destined to become your lotus.
Do not fight; transmute. Otherwise you will begin cutting and beating. Cutting and beating is a kind of violence. And cutting and beating is a kind of deep ignorance. For existence creates nothing in vain. However useless a thing may seem to you, existence does not know how to create the useless. That is why we call existence Paramatma—because existence is not a blind accident; it is a well-orchestrated pilgrimage. Existence is not a blind race; it is a destiny. A supreme rhythm, a supreme law is at work. Here nothing is in vain.
Your Kam, your sexual longing is not in vain. Those who told you so are uncomprehending. Your sexual longing is not your supreme life either; if you stop at it, you will wither; if you fight it, you will perish. You have to go beyond it—and you have to go beyond by using it as a step. You have to go beyond—by taking its cooperation. Rest your hand upon its shoulder! Certainly go beyond, cross over, transcend; but not by struggle—by the most loving, most artful ways.
Yet often your understanding will whisper: what use is anger? Cut it off!
If you ask physiologists, they too say there are many things in the body that have no use. They do not know. A doctor removes the appendix so easily! He plucks out the tonsils as if they had no need at all—and medical science has not yet discovered their precise need. But if they are, there must be a need, otherwise existence would become a mere accident. And doctors keep cutting tonsils; whose tonsils they cut, to that one’s son again Paramatma gives tonsils. Doctors keep cutting appendices; yet again his son develops an appendix.
Something so useless could not recur. Surely there is a secret we do not see. As far as our understanding reaches, it appears useless. You go to a doctor: first he sees whether to remove the appendix, or the tonsils, or the teeth—he is bent on removing something.
The doctor’s mind-set is the same as your religious teacher’s. Go to him, and he is immediately ready to tell you: separate from anger, renounce sexual desire, drop greed, abandon violence—he too is cutting. Surgery is being done on the body, and on the soul as well. But those who have gone deep are against this. Islam is against cutting any organ of the body, because in Islam there is a very significant notion—it is also a yogic notion; perhaps it reached Islam from yoga, for Islam is new, yoga very ancient.
Islam holds that when you go to God, He will ask: have you returned whole? If you return incomplete you will be punished. As much as He had given you, at least return that much; if you cannot return more, you may ask to be forgiven, but do not return with less.
This has many dimensions. Surely, at least return as much as Paramatma gave you. Do not cut it. If you can enhance it, good. A seed was given; if it could become a flower, good; but at least return the seed.
There is an ancient tale of Jesus. Jesus often repeated it: A father wished to distribute his wealth among his three sons but could not decide who was worthy. The three were born twins, so age could not decide. All three were equally intelligent. He took advice of a fakir, who gave him a device.
He said to the sons: I am going on a pilgrimage. He gave them some seeds—flower seeds—and said: keep them safe; when I return I will ask them back.
The first son thought: children may snatch these, some animal may eat them—lock them in a safe. He locked them in an iron safe. Now he felt secure. Iron safe! Why fear thieves? And what thief would break an iron safe to steal seeds! He relaxed. When father comes, we will return them.
The second thought: if I keep them in a safe, the seeds may rot; father gave fresh, living seeds—how can I return them rotten? That would not be returning. What to do so they remain alive? He decided to sell them in the market and keep the money in the safe. When father returns, I will buy seeds and return them.
The third thought: the meaning of seed itself is possibility. Seed means that which is ready to become, in whose heart something is eager to happen. If father gave seeds, the meaning is clear: whoever merely stores them is unwise. They were ready to grow, ready to become flowers, and from one seed a million seeds were ready to be born. Who knows when father returns; the pilgrimage is long, the journey may take years—he sowed the seeds.
Three years later the father returned. He asked the first son, who handed the key. The safe was opened; almost all seeds were rotten. No air, no sunlight, and for three long years no one had paid attention to them in the iron vault.
Seeds are not to be locked in iron safes! They need the open sky, the thrill of air, light—only then can they remain alive. They had all rotted. And where the exquisite fragrance of flowers could have been, from that safe came only a stench—the stench of rotted seeds!
Father said: you guarded them, but could not preserve them. You cannot be heir to my wealth. You are unwise. As much as I gave, you could not even return that. These seeds are finished. There is not one living among them now. If you sow them, nothing will sprout. They are ashes, and I had given seeds. They had life, they had the potential to become much. All potential is lost; they are mere ashes. They are graves!
He asked the second son. The second ran to the market with the money, bought seeds—exactly as many as the father had given. Father said: you are somewhat skillful, but still not enough; to return only as much as was given—what kind of returning is that? A dull mind could do that. You showed no intelligence and did not understand the secret of seed. Seed means that which could have become more. You stopped it; you did not allow it to become more. You are worthier than the first, but not sufficient.
He asked the third: where are the seeds? The third took the father behind the house where the entire garden was full of flowers and seeds. He said: here are the seeds! You had given them—I thought if I merely kept them safe, they might die. Selling them did not seem right, because you had asked to keep them safe. And then you wished that the same seeds be returned. From the market, other seeds would return; they would not be the same. And they would be only as many as you gave. So I sowed them. Now they have become trees. They have borne so many seeds, so many flowers. I return them to you a thousandfold.
Naturally, the third son became heir to the father’s wealth.
Islam says: as much as Paramatma has given you, at least return that much. If you can enhance it… all the more! And on this basis Islam does not like surgery.
I heard a unique story; whether literally true or not, it touches a deep truth. In British times there was a great surgeon in Lahore—an Englishman. And Pathans are absolutely against operations. If even a finger is cut off, they keep it carefully. When a man dies, they join the finger back in the corpse’s hand, because Paramatma will ask: whole! A finger is missing—where did it go? You have not returned as much as was given. Crippled, incomplete, fragmented—how did you return? Only the whole will be accepted at God’s gate!
Pathans are simple, unlettered people. They took the notion in a very literal way. So even if a finger is cut off, they preserve it.
A Pathan’s leg had gangrened with a terrible disease; if it was not amputated, the whole man would rot. The surgeon explained much, but the Pathan said no; I would rather die—as a cripple I will return incomplete, what will Paramatma say? And there will be great laughter. Other Pathans will be present on the day of reckoning and will say: Arre! Being a Pathan, and half a leg!
To persuade him, since the Pathan could not understand, the surgeon said: do not worry, I will keep your leg safe. In his laboratory he had kept various organs preserved. The Pathan was assured. He said: when I die, kindly return my leg; my family will come, give them the leg, for I do not want to go incomplete.
Simple Pathan! They have grasped a very important idea in their simple way. The operation was done. Every year the Pathan came to see if the leg was preserved. It was. Slowly the doctor too felt a tenderness for his simplicity. At first he had said it casually, but then he actually kept it safe.
By chance, a fire broke out in the laboratory and everything burned. He tried much at least to save the Pathan’s leg, because that simpleton could appear any day and create a scene. But it could not be saved. The leg too was lost; the whole lab burned down.
The time for his retirement came; he retired and returned to London. The memory of the Pathan faded. Still, if he ever saw a Pathan on the street, he remembered. Not only remembered, a pang arose in his heart: who knows, perhaps the Pathan is right and Paramatma does demand a whole man—then I am at fault.
He was a scientist; he had little faith in such matters. Yet the conscience—no matter how scientific you become, the conscience remains human. However far the net of logic spreads, inside the heart still feels like that of a child. Anxiety caught him. Sometimes on seeing a Pathan he wondered whether he had done good or bad—uncertain.
One night, he slept; around two in the morning someone shook him awake. He opened his eyes: the Pathan stood there. He was terrified. The door is locked! Bolts are on! How has this Pathan entered! And the Pathan, very angry, gestured: my leg! And pointed to his amputated leg.
The doctor was at a loss. Then he remembered: a leg, in his new laboratory he had just built—eight or ten days earlier someone’s leg had been amputated; that will do. He took the Pathan by the hand, led him to the lab, stood him by the leg. The Pathan’s face brightened, he smiled. He approached the leg. But a mistake: his right leg had been amputated, and this was the left. He lifted the glass jar, hurled it down in anger, and stormed out of the house.
The doctor was shaken. In the morning he thought it must have been a dream—how could this be! But when he reached the lab and saw the broken jar and the leg on the floor, it became difficult to decide whether it could be a dream.
It is possible he himself smashed the jar in his dream. Possible. That is why I say: it is not sure how literally the story is true. He may have flung it in his sleep. Or—this world is very strange—it may also be that the Pathan did come.
He then inquired and learned that the very night he saw the Pathan, the Pathan had died. So it is entirely possible that the Pathan’s consciousness, so intense in its longing to regain his leg, became present, awakened the doctor.
One thing is clear: Paramatma has created nothing in you without cause. From my own experience, there are some points I will tell you. Perhaps someday physicians may find them useful. For, one day medical science, surgery, will also touch the innermost layers of man.
As far as speaking and ordinary consciousness go, tonsils seem to have no use. But regarding silence, tonsils have a use. And the person whose tonsils are removed finds it difficult to become silent; this is my experience. He cannot fall utterly quiet. Perhaps he can speak more easily, because tonsils are an obstruction to speech. In colds, tonsils enlarge, rub against each other, swell; speaking becomes painful.
But quite the opposite, when someone descends into silence, I have not seen one without tonsils able to descend deeply into silence. There must be some deep connection by which tonsils assist silence. Those who remain in silence for years—their tonsils come very close, so close that if they were speaking it would become difficult—like Meher Baba.
If someone remains utterly silent for three years, the tonsils draw very near. Then the energy used for speech, the flow of thought, no longer moves upward; that same energy starts falling toward the heart, and the tonsils assist in this descent. Someday surgery may know.
Those whose appendix has been removed… and doctors are eager to remove it.
I heard about a very famous surgeon: one morning his wife saw that pages were torn from her English book. She asked: who tore these pages? He said: oh, forgive me! I saw the word appendix on them. I quickly removed them. It slipped my mind.
Doctors are prompt!
Among those whose appendix has been removed, certain difficulties begin. One: it becomes very hard to take the soul outside the body—what spiritual people call astral projection—traveling outside the body. For those whose appendix is removed, this becomes difficult. They cannot get out. Those whose appendix is healthy can leave the body easily—just as though the appendix helps the subtle body go in and out.
I give only indications; much research has not been done in this field. But in my experience—thousands have meditated near me—many experience going outside the body. Whenever someone reports this, I always ask about the appendix. I have always found: those whose appendix was removed do not have such experiences; only those whose appendix is intact and healthy do.
And this is a very precious experience. One who goes out of the body and sees his body lying there, his bodily trance is broken forever. It seems the appendix is a bridge, a link; when that link falls, the subtle body’s going out and coming in becomes difficult. Hence yoga too is not in favor of cutting any organ of the body.
And what is true of the body is even more true of the mind.
Have you ever heard of an impotent person attaining Brahman-knowledge? The history of humankind is long—at least five thousand years are certain. In these five thousand years not one impotent man has attained Paramatma. What does this imply? That Kam and Virya-energy are indispensable in the attainment of the Divine. Without them it is not possible.
Therefore none is more pitiable than the impotent. His misfortune is not merely that he cannot have sexual union; the deeper poverty is that he cannot attain Samadhi. Fortunately, literal impotence is rare. If a thousand men imagine themselves impotent, perhaps only one is so; all the rest are only imagining, obsessed.
Yet impotents exist—and they cannot attain. There is no energy by which the journey can be made. There is no mud—how will lotus arise? No lamp—where will the flame abide, where will it dwell, where build a home?
And I tell you: those who have taken Brahmacharya to mean a kind of impotence also do not attain Paramatma. What is needed is a torrential flow of energy, an exuberant surge, a wealth of Virya like a river in flood—only then can you rise. He who cannot go down to the depths—how will he ascend? Consider a little.
To go down requires little strength. Throw a stone from a mountain and it falls on its own toward the ground. To go downward you need no power. He who cannot go deeply downward, who is impotent—how will he go upward? He finds even the descent difficult; he has not that much energy. Then the deep, passionate waves of sexual longing, upon whose crest one has to ride upward—how will he go?
So if you understand me, Brahmacharya is the very opposite of impotence. Brahmacharya blossoms from the attainment of supreme Virya. By cutting and pressing down, by dissolving the body, none reaches anywhere. The more you can make the body healthy, proper, balanced, calm, ojas-filled, full of energy, complete—the more ease there will be. The higher you can rise.
As I said yesterday: whenever sexual desire arises, forcefully throw the breath out, let the belly go in—the Mulabandha will lock, the Muladhar will contract. When a vacuum is created above the Muladhar, energy rises into the vacuum. If you keep doing this, if you make it a constant practice—and no one will notice; you can do it standing in the marketplace and none will know; you can do it sitting in your shop or at your office desk and none will know—
If a person just three hundred times a day, even for a moment, applies Mulabandha, within a few months he will find: lust has vanished. Sexual energy remains, lust is gone. And three hundred times is not very difficult. I am giving you the easiest path to the attainment of Brahmacharya.
There are harder ways for which one must leave the whole life behind. No need. No one can see when you expelled the breath—at your shop, at your desk—when you quietly drew the belly in. In one instant energy flashes upward. You will find that for the next hour, half hour, you became utterly quiet, light, a new freshness descended.
Yoga is not a suicide; yoga is a deep process, an art. Step by step, if you keep moving, everything is hidden within you. You have brought all; it is only a question of manifestation. You are the unmanifest Paramatma—just a little manifestation is needed. All the instruments are present; only the fingers need a little training, and song will arise from the veena. As the fingers are trained, deeper music is born.
And a moment comes when even the veena is not needed; even the fingers are not needed—then the supreme music is heard which surrounds you everywhere. Only the capacity to hear is lacking in you. The entire existence is filled with its resonance. That resonance we have called Omkar.
Om is the resonance of existence. It is not a word, nor a sound; it is Anahata Nada—the unstruck sound. No one produces it; it is the very way existence is. As a river flows from the mountain, there is a gurgling; as birds sing; winds pass through trees and a rustle arises—so Omkar is the way existence is. No one produces it. For its being produced there is no need for two things to collide; hence Anahata—unstruck. Clap—there is a struck sound; two things strike—sound is born. Omkar is not born of collision. Therefore Omkar is nondual. Whatever is born of collision needs two; a clap cannot arise from one hand. Omkar is the clap of one hand.
Zen masters in Japan tell their disciples: go and find how the clap of one hand sounds. They are sending them to seek Omkar—to seek the unstruck sound. Their way of saying it is: how does one hand clap? The clap always arises from two hands.
A sweet tale in Zen: a small child used to come to serve a true Master. Great seekers also came. He would sit quietly and listen.
Here too you may have seen, a little Siddharth—a seeker like that. He too asks for appointments. He comes, greets me properly, spreads his mat and sits. As long as strength remains he stays awake, then sleeps; yet he comes for darshan.
In the last camp small children were kept outside; he protested much. Finally he sent his protest to me: this is our home, no one can separate us from here. Compelled! I had to allow him in. Naturally, behind him other children also entered.
Like Siddharth, that little seeker came to the Master. He would spread his mat, listen to what the Master said to others.
One day he came, spread his mat, bowed at the Master’s feet: give me too a method of meditation. The Master must have smiled. In that realm great grown-ups are like little children. A small child! But when asked so simply, one cannot refuse. The Master said: then do this—try to listen to the clap of one hand.
He bowed formally, went away, and was greatly puzzled. He sat. He tried to listen from all sides. Evening stillness, crows returning from their day’s journey and fatigue, cawing. He thought: surely, this is the sound of one hand.
He ran next morning to the Master. I found it—the sound of crows? The Master said: no, not that. Seek further.
He went, sat in the stillness of night; crickets chirped. He thought: surely the sound of silence—this is it. Next morning he came: the sound of crickets? The Master said: no. You are coming close, but search a little more.
For some days he did not return. He searched deeply, then one day he realized: the wind moving through ancient ashram trees, a subtle rustle—so delicate as to escape. He thought: this must be it. He came: the wind in the trees, a rustle? The Master said: no. You are coming close, but still far. Seek.
For months the child did not come. The Master grew concerned: what happened? He went to look. The boy sat in meditation beneath a banyan tree. His face itself showed he had heard the sound. All tension had gone. He was Buddha-like—as if he were not.
The Master raised him and asked: what of the sound? The little child said: once it is heard, speaking becomes difficult, telling impossible. I have been pondering for many days—how to tell, how to say! The Master said: there is no need now.
That little child too attained Buddhahood.
Omkar is that sound. When you become utterly silent, when you are not, when you dissolve, when your dwelling becomes in the void of the sky—then that sound is heard, then the resonance of Omkar is everywhere. That is the primal existence. Everything is woven from that root.
Layer upon layer of Omkar congeals as rock. Layer upon layer of Omkar congeals as trees. Layer upon layer of Omkar sings in the throats of birds. Layer upon layer of Omkar is you—the root! The primal element.
Scientists say the world is made of electrical energy; in the East we say electricity is only one style of Omkar. It too is one stroke of Omkar.
Existence is not made of electricity; it is made of Anahata Nada. Electricity too is one way, one style, one form of the unstruck sound. And there is much possibility that sooner or later scientists will agree with yogis. They will have to, because their search is outward, the yogi’s inward. They search at the circumference; the yogi searches at the center. They will have to bow. Sooner or later science will bow before yoga. There is no other way.
Now, try to understand Kabir’s words.
Avadhu, the yogi is other than the world.
The yogi is utterly other than the world.
In the world there are two kinds of people: bhogi and tyagi.
Avadhu, the yogi is other than the world.
He is different from the bhogi, for he does not take the body as all; he is different from the tyagi, for he does not grant the body so much value that renouncing it could be meaningful. Do you ever renounce what has no value? Do you go out daily shouting that you have renounced the garbage of the house? See what a great donor I am! When you throw out the trash no one announces it. If you announce, people will think you mad.
When a tyagi announces that he has kicked away millions, he is still a bhogi. For the value of millions remains. He still thinks there is some substance in it. Earlier he clutched to enjoy; now he has dropped it—but the grip of value has not dropped. Kicked away millions—if the kick had landed, would he keep an account of millions?
The yogi is neither bhogi nor tyagi—Avadhu, the yogi is other than the world—he is different from both. He is a unique being. Somewhat like the bhogi, somewhat like the tyagi. He finds harmony between enjoyment and renunciation. He finds music between them. For Paramatma is in enjoyment and in renunciation too! Paramatma is hidden in the bhogi and in the tyagi. He has found this secret; he has seen that enjoyment is one bank, renunciation the other, and Paramatma is the current flowing in the middle.
Avadhu, the yogi is other than the world.
He is different from both banks; he is the midstream. He stands in the middle; he finds balance. Balance means sanyam.
The bhogi is immoderate. And I tell you, so is the tyagi. Immoderation means: one who has gone to an extreme; he loses balance. Sanyam means: one who stands in the middle; the midstream, who sees both sides but has found the pure midpoint. He bends neither here nor there; neither follows the body nor tries to kill the body; neither lives for taste nor imposes tastelessness on the body; rather, he discovers Brahman in taste—and then taste and tastelessness become two names of one thing.
The yogi knows how to use the banks. The bhogi clings to one bank, the tyagi to the other. Both obstruct the current. Can a river flow from one bank alone? Paramatma too cannot flow from one bank; He too had to let the current run between duality. How then will you flow? Even Paramatma had to create duality; between these two the nondual current flows.
The bhogi errs, the tyagi errs. Both try to live from one bank. This is ego.
Avadhu, the yogi is other than the world.
Mudra nirati, surati as his instrument; the stream of Nada flows unbroken.
What does the yogi do? What is his art? Kabir gives the essence: mudra nirati. Nirati means: one who does not go to extremes. Mudra nirati—the gesture of standing in the middle—what the Buddha called the majjhim nikaya, what Confucius called the golden mean—the exact middle—nirati!
Mudra nirati—the very mudra of the yogi is to stand in the middle. All other mudras are children’s games. No other mudras carry such value. Nirati is the deepest mudra. He does not choose—what Krishnamurti calls choicelessness—nirati! He makes no choice. He does not say: this side or that side. He says: the middle—neti neti—not this, not that. Either both, or neither—let me be in the middle. This is his uniqueness.
Mudra nirati—he never goes to extremes. He neither overeats nor undereats—he eats rightly.
The bhogi overeats. He eats more than the body needs. Then diseases arise; then he treats diseases. The bhogi does not take proper food. Nor does the tyagi; he becomes fixated on eating too little. He says: we will eat only once. But eating only once is not in tune with the body’s nature. If one must eat once, there are complexities to understand.
Animals who eat once are carnivores—like lion, tiger—they eat once in twenty-four hours. If a monkey eats only once, he will die! The monkey is purely vegetarian.
Vegetarianism means you cannot do with a little food; the body cannot get enough energy from little.
So the monkey keeps chewing all day. When you chew betel leaf you are proving Darwin’s theory—that man came from the monkey. Chewing tobacco—if nothing else, talking! That too is a monkey habit.
But man is vegetarian, as the monkey is. Darwin’s point contains truth. Now even physiologists agree: man has never been naturally carnivorous, because his intestines are not like those of carnivores. Carnivores have very short intestines—look at a lion’s belly, how small! He is a carnivore, eats heavily, yet the stomach is small! The intestines are short.
Wrestlers try to shape a lion’s belly. They forcibly puff the chest and draw the abdomen in. It is a kind of violence, because a vegetarian cannot have such a small belly. The vegetarian’s intestines are long—must be—because he needs much food. To accommodate so much, long intestines are needed—many feet long, coiled within.
Hence the monkey eats slowly and often. The cow is vegetarian, keeps grazing. The buffalo—supreme vegetarian—keeps cud-chewing; what it chewed, it brings back and chews again!
If man is vegetarian, one meal is excess. If man is vegetarian, he should eat two or three times—a little at a time, not much.
Thus you will notice a curious thing: Jain Digambara monks eat once a day. Their bellies you will always see large. Strange—when I see their pictures I am amazed: why is the belly so big in a man who eats once? He is overeating, because he must fulfill twenty-four hours’ diet in one sitting. He is overburdening the intestines; the intestines protrude.
Jain Digambaras do not look beautiful; they look awkward—as if afflicted by a stomach disease, or like pregnant women. The body loses proportion; they are committing an extreme.
The rule for a vegetarian is: two or three times—or if possible, four or five times—eat a little each time. A little—just a fruit—and done! Let it digest, then after two hours, another fruit. No load on the stomach, no excess—then food is right.
If you eat once, naturally you will eat enough for twenty-four hours. Meat is then all right, because a little meat suffices. Meat means pre-digested, prepared food. Another animal digested it for you and prepared it. You will eat fruit, then digest it, and from that digested fruit make flesh. Another animal ate fruit and prepared flesh; you ate the flesh. Meat means digested food; now you need do little. So short intestines suffice. Others have done the work for you; hence meat is exploitation—taking others’ labor. As far as possible, do your own work. Even digestion taken from another is exploitation! Therefore meat is not appropriate. You can do it yourself.
Meat-eating is an excess, because your intestines are not built for it and your body is not designed for it; if you eat meat you will remain bound to the earth, for meat creates such heaviness that you will lose the capacity to fly into the sky. That is why all the wise ones became opposed to meat—not for any other reason. It is not that if you eat meat some great sin happens. The soul does not die; you have taken someone’s body—those were worn-out clothes; no great sin happens. The reason for opposition is different.
The reason is: you will not be able to fly to the sky; ‘Avadhu, make your home in the sky’ will not be possible; Avadhu will remain flat on the ground. Avadhu will become so heavy he cannot grow wings. Vegetarian food gives wings. It is not compassion to others; it is compassion to yourself.
I too am in favor of being vegetarian—for your sake! Not to save animals or birds. Who are you to save? He who creates will save; He who creates will destroy. Who are you to thrust your gratuitous ego in between? No, not for that reason.
I am in favor of vegetarianism for your sake—otherwise you will never fly into the sky. Your capacity to fly will be broken. Vegetarian food will lighten you. Right food will make you so light that the body will not feel like a burden. As if, if you are given wings, you could fly this moment. The earth will not drag you; the sky will lift you.
Mudra nirati—therefore Kabir says: there is but one mudra—nirati. Non-excess, non-extreme—standing in the middle.
Neither overeating, for that will bend you to one side; nor undereating, for hunger will torment from the other side. Food kills, hunger kills; exactly in the middle is fulfillment. Stop at that fulfillment.
Whoever begins to recognize his fulfillment—only he is alert; otherwise you eat without knowing where to stop. You have lost awareness; you do not know where to stop. Animals stop; you cannot. The animal’s belly is full; put food before it, beat drums, paste advertisements, however you entice, that food is highly nourishing, bring film actresses to promote it—the buffalo will not listen. Finished. Even a buffalo seems more aware than you.
Notice: if left free, a buffalo will not eat all grasses. It will eat its own grass, leave the rest. What is not its food, it will not eat. Only man eats everything. No animal eats everything, because each species has its own design—what suits it. Only man eats everything, everything.
I have been searching to see if there is anything in the world that man does not eat. No—everything. There are people who eat ants, people who eat termites, snakes, scorpions, dogs. I have yet to find a thing that some human group does not eat—though others laugh at them.
The Chinese eat snakes. In China, snakes are among the most delicious dishes. In Africa, termites and ants; people collect them in sacks, fry them and eat. There are people who eat scorpions; even the mole is not spared. There is no creature man does not eat. No fruit man does not eat. No poison he does not consume. People keep snakes, let them bite the tongue—the intoxication lasts an hour or two.
Man is a dangerous animal—there is none more dangerous. And he is immoderate; he has lost all balance. He does not know what is food, what is not. Even small animals eat their own. Man eats everything. It seems we lack a natural discrimination. Scientists have searched why this is so in man, not in animals. They found a deep cause: we force small children. We compel them to eat anything, hence the disorder.
At Harvard University they experimented on small children: all kinds of foods were placed, and small children—very small—were left free to eat what they wanted. The experiment would run for six months. They were amazed: children eat only what is appropriate to eat. You will be surprised; no mother will agree this is true, because children ask for ice cream—which is not appropriate; sweets—which are not appropriate. But they ask because you forbid them. The children themselves do not ask.
The Harvard experiment is revolutionary. Six months showed: children eat only what is necessary, what is useful to the body. Another unique thing was discovered, unimaginable: a child when ill does not eat. Parents force: eat, otherwise you will weaken. No animal eats when ill; fasting is useful in illness. The body is already sick; to burden it with food and impose digestion is unjust. It is like placing stones on a sick man’s head and asking him to carry them.
An ill person naturally will not take food. If you listen to children, they will not eat when ill. The child has a cold, he does not want to eat; parents say you must, otherwise you will weaken. No one in the world weakens by not eating for a day or two. A man can live without food for three months; after three months death becomes likely. The body stores food for three months. There is no hurry. If a child does not eat for two or four days, no harm. Let him follow his nature.
One discovery: children do not eat during illness. Another, even deeper, no one had imagined: if a child has a cold, he will eat those foods by which cold diminishes; if he has malaria, he will eat those foods that oppose malaria. How does the child know? He knows neither malaria nor dietetics; only his pure nature, which is right, leads him to what is proper.
Children are drawn to sugar, because they need it—a lot. Their bones are being formed; and they run and labor so much in a day as no adult will ever do; they digest that sugar. You cannot understand why they ask for so much.
Have you noticed? In a small Indian village you get very sweet sweets. In Bombay, the least sugar; in Calcutta, the least; go toward small villages, the sugar content rises. In a rustic hamlet sugar alone remains—the rest is pretence. Why? The villager needs more sugar; he labors more, digests it. You eat that much sugar—you will get diabetes. The villager eats and stays healthy; no diabetes. No animal gets diabetes; cannot, because it digests as much as it eats.
Small children eat sugar; they need it. You forbid it; the very prohibition intensifies their attraction. Children grow angry with God, thinking He must be upside-down; all good things are dangerous—ice cream, rasgulla—all the things a child loves; the doctor dislikes, the father dislikes, the mother dislikes—something is wrong with them. And all bad things—greens—are good; they contain vitamins. God could have put vitamins in rasgullas too; upside-down! What harm to place vitamins in ice cream?
Children cannot understand; and elders regulate children in their own way. What they fear, they imagine the child should fear. This is wrong.
The Harvard experiment showed: if children are left to their own destiny, their nature, mankind will again eat a wholesome diet. We make them stagger. What they want to eat, we do not allow. What they do not want, mother stands with a stick: eat! Because she has read a cookbook, which lists how many vitamins are in which vegetables; she goes by that! Man eats by cookbook. He loves by Kamasutra. He has lost his own intelligence. The book has become his intelligence. The inner capacity to see and understand has become dim and dull.
Mudra nirati—therefore, Kabir says, the yogi’s mudra is to be free of extremes. He neither eats too little nor too much—he eats rightly. He neither sleeps too little nor too much—he takes right sleep. He neither speaks too little nor too much—he speaks rightly. He neither works too little nor too much—he works rightly.
Buddha gave eight rules through which right living arises. All eight begin with right. Right means nirati. Buddha says: right exercise, right food, right meditation—even meditation he qualifies as right. Because some crazies meditate and meditate—and will go mad. How much can you bear?
Just four or six days ago, a gentleman came: when I meditate my legs go numb.
How long do you meditate?
Seven or eight hours.
If legs do not go numb, what else will happen! You sit in one posture seven or eight hours—are the legs at fault? Legs are not made for sitting in one posture for eight hours. Avadhu cannot reach the sky, the legs go numb.
Make the word ‘right’ your mantra. Whatever you do, keep alert that it does not go to an extreme. The mind will push you to extremes—the mind lives in extremes. The mind is excess. It will always goad you: if you sat one hour, sit two now.
I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin bought a donkey. He asked the seller: how much food and drink for it? He was told, but it seemed too much. So much food for a donkey? Even we do not take as much… too expensive. This man is exaggerating, telling tall tales: food and drink for a donkey! I do not give so much to my wife.
He decided to experiment to see how little the donkey could live on. He gave half of what was told. The donkey lived. He said: the man was cheating! He halved again. The donkey still lived. He said: that man was utterly dishonest! He halved again—now only two annas remained. Still the donkey lived. He said: amazing—this man would have ruined me! He halved again—one anna. Still the donkey lived. The next day he gave two paisa. Then one paisa. The day he gave a paisa, the donkey suddenly died. Nasruddin said: this is too much—what was the hurry? If it had lived one more day, it would have learned the art of living without food!
Just one day short and a great event would have happened—said Nasruddin—he would have lived without food. He died earlier; the experiment remained incomplete.
What Nasruddin does with the donkey, many are doing with themselves. People do all kinds of upside-down things.
Listen to nature; listen to the body. The body gives prompt news. The body is very intelligent—more than your mind. What does your mind know? The body has existed in countless forms; it has gathered great wisdom—its every pore holds wisdom. Listen to the body.
Whenever there is a conflict between body and mind, listen to the body. The mind is society’s imposition; the body comes from nature. If you listen to the mind, you will go to extremes. Listen to the body… the body speaks immediately. While eating, the body says promptly: enough, stop. The voice may be subtle, but it keeps coming: stop. But the tongue says, the mind says: the food is tasty; today eat a little more, what harm?
You listen to the mind. Listen to the mind—you will fall in a ditch. When the mind has overfed you, fattened you, made you gross—fat builds, you can neither walk nor rise—then the mind says: now fast; go to some naturopath. What is needed is natural intelligence, not natural medicine. Those who lack intelligence then need naturopathy.
But no physician can give you intelligence. He can bring you back—he will fast you, give steam baths, sweat your body, starve you, trouble you some days, bring you somewhat to the path. You will return home; in four or six days, again back—because no naturopathy can give you intelligence. You will become the same again.
What is needed is natural intelligence. Which means: the capacity to listen to the body. When the body says stop, stop—though the mind insists the food is delicious—do not listen. Otherwise this mind will someday make you a Jain monk. Then it will say: now fast. First you followed it and erred, you became a bhogi; now again follow it and err, become a tyagi.
Avadhu, the yogi is other than the world.
Mudra nirati, surati as his instrument; the stream of Nada flows unbroken.
Two sutras Kabir gives: let standing in the middle be your mudra, and let surati—awareness—be your instrument.
Surati means remembrance, wakefulness, un-trance, awareness. Standing in the middle is your mudra; keeping awareness is your instrument. Then the Nada that arises—the clap of one hand—‘the stream flows unbroken’—then there are no breaks; the current flows ceaselessly. No gaps remain. The music does not break. The rhythm does not scatter. The meter is sustained. The beat is fixed. You enter the supreme bliss forever—from where there is no return.
Mudra nirati, surati as his instrument; the stream of Nada flows unbroken.
Seated in the sky, he sees no duality; he is stationed on the watchtower of consciousness.
And then you abide in consciousness, in Chaitanya. Seated on the watchtower of awareness; dwelling in the sky—then you enter the void, the Akash. ‘He sees no duality’—no two appears. Then even the two banks are seen as limbs of the river. Then extremes too dissolve into the middle. Then opposites become two forms of the One.
Mudra nirati, surati as his instrument; the stream of Nada flows unbroken.
Seated in the sky, he sees no duality; he is stationed on the watchtower of consciousness.
Climbing the sky he does not abandon the seat; he drinks the supreme sweet nectar.
And within, consciousness climbs the sky; the body sits firm in asana. The lamp on the earth, the consciousness in the sky. The lamp remains settled on earth, likewise the body’s seat on earth—in every sense. The body remains grounded—right food, right sleep, right work—its seat fixed on earth. Consciousness fills with awareness, becomes more and more luminous; the flame rises upward. You become a lamp. Earth becomes your base, sky your soul.
Climbing the sky he does not abandon the seat; he drinks the supreme sweet nectar.
Even if outwardly he wears a patched quilt, within the heart he gazes into the mirror.
Twenty-one thousand six hundred threads of swan-like channels—he stills them at the nose-tip.
Even if outwardly a rag, within is diamond; the yogi may live wrapped in rags, yet within the heart the mirror becomes transparent; the reflection of Paramatma begins to fall.
Twenty-one thousand six hundred nadis are in the body. How yogis knew, it is mysterious. Now science says: yes, there are that many. Yogis had no scientific tools, no laboratory, no x-ray—only an inner eye, deeper than x-ray. They did not dissect corpses to count the channels; they closed their eyes inwardly—when energy had reached their third eye, when the inner light arose—they counted in that light. They saw from within.
The scientist examines from outside. His knowing is that of a stranger, not very deep. The yogi saw like the master of the house—from within. There is a difference. You can circumnavigate a room, examine its walls from outside; but one who lives inside sees the inner walls. In the inner light, when the lamp is lit, the yogi counted every nadi.
There are twenty-one thousand six hundred nadis. Now they are separate. You are like a heap of beads. The beads are not strung into a mala; the thread has not been passed; you are a heap of beads. The thread lies aside, the beads aside—there is no mala. Hence you are a crowd! Not one, but many. A marketplace inside; thousands of voices. One says go to the temple, another drags to the brothel. Even sitting in the harlot’s house, someone within chants Ram-Ram. In the temple chanting Ram-Ram, within the image of a prostitute forms. Thus you are fragmentary, pieces. You flow in a thousand directions. You are not one stream running straight to the ocean; you are spilt and scattered across a desert.
Your twenty-one thousand six hundred nadis have not yet been threaded; no mala has formed, for no thread has been passed. What is that thread? The name of that thread is surati. The day you see all your nadis with awareness—
Twenty-one thousand six hundred threads of swan-like channels—he stills them at the nose-tip.
One whose mudra has become nirati and whose instrument is surati—he threads all the nadis; he becomes unbroken, one is born within.
He burns the body in the fire of Brahman; the confluence at Trikuti awakens.
Then his body—his whole embodiment—is burned to ash in the fire of Brahman. In the fire of nature you have been burnt to ash many times, you have died many times, bodies have been placed on the funeral pyre. The yogi too mounts a pyre—but not of ordinary fire, of Brahman-fire.
He burns the body in the fire of Brahman…
In Brahman’s fire all the body’s potentials and seeds are burned.
…the confluence at Trikuti awakens.
Here the body is left behind; the bond with earth falls away; the flame rises, leaves the lamp. And within—this is the outer event; within—‘the confluence at Trikuti awakens.’
Trikuti is a very important word of yogis. It means: seer, seen, and seeing—the meeting of these three streams. On these three we have called Prayag a confluence and made it a pilgrimage. The sole reason for making it a tirtha is that it hints at these three. Saraswati is not visible; Ganga and Yamuna are. Saraswati is invisible! Likewise, the seen and the seer are visible; the seeing is invisible—it flows between the two. I look at you; you are visible, I am visible; but the event of seeing that happens between us is not visible—that is Saraswati, the invisible current.
When these three meet—‘the confluence at Trikuti awakens.’ When the seen, the seeing, and the seer become one, then the great awakening happens—that is Mahaparinirvana. Then there is no return. The body burns in the fire of Brahman. Its use is complete. Now no new house will need to be built; no new body will be taken; no new womb will be fallen into. The fall toward earth stops; the flame is free of the lamp; the lotus is no longer willing to dwell in the mud; no longer necessary. The lotus rises. The lotus sets out upon the journey—wings have grown.
He burns the body in the fire of Brahman; the confluence at Trikuti awakens.
Says Kabir: that alone is the Lord of Yogis, whose flame is attached to the effortless void.
Now only in the effortless shunya does the flame rest, dissolving into the void.
Says Kabir: that alone is the yogeshwar—
Avadhu, the yogi is other than the world.
Yoga is the greatest art—of life and of death. Yoga first teaches how to live, then it teaches how to die.
He burns the body in the fire of Brahman…
First yoga teaches how to employ the body, then how to be free of the body. First how to secure the seat upon the ground so the flame can rise steady; then how to leave the ground for the empty sky, how to be lost in the great void.
To be lost is to be found. To die is to be. As you disappear, God happens. As you are no more, the gate of His temple opens. You yourself are the obstacle—a thin veil.
Lift the veil, and your Beloved will be found.
Enough for today.