Kahe Kabir Diwana #7

Toward life there are two ways of seeing: the philosopher's and the religious. The philosopher's gaze can touch the circumference; it never penetrates to the center. He looks from the outside. Think as much as he may, speculate as much as he may, thought never reaches the center. Only the state of the Great Void reaches the center—where there is no thought, not even a ripple of thought. Not thought, only dhyana reaches the center. Not thought, only Samadhi has access to the center.

The philosopher thinks too much, builds systems, composes scriptures; yet all his scriptures will be incomplete. And all scripture—however deep its words may seem—will remain shallow.

The religious person does not think—he abandons thought. He does not argue, does not brood and philosophize; he stills all those ripples. The religious person endeavors to be steady at the center. In that stillness, the door of life's total mystery opens. Samadhi is the door.

And what the religious one comes to know is most strange. It seems like an inversion, because we are all influenced by the philosopher. Understand this well.

On our minds the philosopher has left a deep imprint. The so‑called thinking people have dominated us. Naturally, their arguments appear persuasive; on the strength of their logic, their doctrines engrave deep lines in our minds. That is why the utterance of people like Kabir sounds like reversal—'What upside‑down things is he saying?'

It sounds reversed because you are standing on your head. When a man is doing a headstand, the whole world seems upside down. He is puzzled—why is the world upside down? The world is not upside down; he himself is inverted. Existence is always straight and clear; you are askew. Existence is not crooked anywhere. Its story is utterly plain, lucid; its secret is an open secret. The doors are not even closed. If you cannot enter, your eyes are sealed by words—buried under ideas and scriptures.

And especially in this land, a great misfortune has happened. Thousands of years of pedantry have given you clear grooves—you cannot even consent to anything that falls outside those grooves. So in the pundits' city of Kashi, Kabir began to appear 'upside down.' People began to say: 'You quote Kabir? Have you gone crazy? These are ulatbansis—reversed sayings, riddles that cannot be solved.'

What is the riddle in Kabir? He sees the whole; you see the fragment. You see the half. On the basis of the half, you imagine the whole. You are a slave to the line; and once a man becomes a slave to the line, there is no end to that bondage.

I have heard a joke—even if it is not true, it feels true. Because of the explosion of mice, the government became very anxious and distressed. Five mice consume as much food as one man—and there are many times more mice than men. At least twenty‑five times more in India. Panic is natural. But to raise a discussion on as 'important' a subject as mice is also dangerous—there is no measuring the logic of this country's intellect.

So I have heard that Indira Gandhi gathered all the nation's 'thoughtful' leaders: 'First let us think, then we will act.' And Indira said: 'Now it is absolutely necessary to kill these mice. A grand campaign: every mouse eliminated.'

At once an uproar, a pandemonium started—as in all Indian parliaments and assemblies, so there too. For a few minutes no one could tell what was happening.

With difficulty it became clear: Shri Atal Bihari Vajpayee was saying, 'This can never be allowed. The mouse is the vehicle of Lord Ganesha. Do you want to deprive Ganesha of his vehicle? How will he move without it? This is rank irreligion. It is the murder of Hindu Dharma. We will never tolerate the slaughter of mice.'

Suggestions were sought: 'Then what to do?' He said, 'As we are doing for humans, promote family planning. On every mouse‑hole, write: We two, ours two. They must be persuaded and educated. Killing cannot be allowed.'

But just then Jayaprakash rose and said, 'Never. In the land of Gandhi and Vinoba, family planning? That is the path of immorality. People will become corrupt; corruption will spread. And the dread is, you will propagandize to mice, but even Lord Ganesha might get corrupted, hearing family planning! For family planning means: the woman no longer fears childbirth. Upon that very fear your whole civilization stands—upon that fear your morality stands. If the woman is free of fear, if she cannot be caught should she relate with another, then what rule will restrain her? The mice will go astray, yes—but we fear even Ganesha may go astray.'

Jayaprakash said, 'The Sarvodaya people will never tolerate this.' Asked, 'What shall be done then?' He replied, 'Instead of a family‑planning campaign, teach brahmacharya. Gandhi and Vinoba both say so. Instead of placards for family planning, write vows of brahmacharya—the celibacy that is life.'

Someone timidly said, 'But the mice are illiterate.'

Jayaprakash said, 'I do not intend to go into details. We are Loknayak, not administrators. We give direction for Total Revolution. The details you must think. It is the government's duty first to educate the mice, then teach them brahmacharya. We have stated the principle; the rest is the government's responsibility. Otherwise, what is the government for?'

That assembly must have ended as all assemblies in this land do—on lines. Touch the line once and people lose their wits. It is enough to say, 'The mouse is Ganesha's vehicle'—after that no sensible talk is possible. It is enough to say, 'What do Gandhi and Vinoba say? This is Gandhi‑Vinoba's country'—as if it belonged to them and to no one else.

The man bound to a line is blind in every way. And everyone is tied by lines of thought.

The deepest line of thought in this country is: the world is maya. It is true. It is the supreme experience that the world is maya. But it is not a doctrine. It is the realization of one who is siddha. If you take it as a doctrine—that the world is maya—you will be in trouble. Then you will begin to fight; and that with which you fight is none other than the Divine. Your whole life will get snarled.

All our scriptures say: one must rise above duality. Go beyond the two. Attain the One. Attain Advaita. That alone is the Supreme Truth. It has set like a groove in your mind. So whenever you wish to condemn something, you say: 'But this is within duality'—and the matter stands condemned.

Therefore when Kabir uttered these words, great difficulty arose.

Kabir says: Only that rare yogi has tasted the earth's supreme nectar.

He who has tasted the great essence of the earth is the great yogi.

But your yogis keep saying: earth, the earth's relish, matter, the relish of matter, body, the relish of the body—all are to be renounced. Leave them. They are maya. And Kabir says: He who has tasted the earth's supreme essence is a rare yogi—unique indeed.

You have always heard that matter must be dropped. Kabir says: in matter a supreme essence is hidden. In matter, the Divine is hidden. Do not abandon matter—know it. Do not run away from matter—live it. The bodiless is hidden in the body. Do not cut and corrode the body, do not annihilate it. The body is a temple; the idol of the Divine is enthroned there. It is the throne; upon it the Lord sits. Recognize the body, know it, live it. Enter the depths of the body. Not only its circumference—let its center be attained. The day you know the body's center to be none other than the Divine, you will find great nectars hidden in the body too. Nothing is to be rejected.

Do not renounce taste, and do not cultivate tastelessness. Live taste with such totality that the tastelessness hidden within taste reveals itself—and then it is not tastelessness; it is the Supreme Taste.

In Gandhi's ashram, among the eleven vows, one was 'aswad'—tastelessness. 'Eat in such a way that taste does not arise.' So ruin the food—do not add salt. And if the zeal of yoga climbs too high, mix in a chutney of neem so that the food is spoiled and taste cannot arise. Without neem chutney, Gandhi would not even eat—it was an arrangement to spoil the food. He thought this was aswad.

This is not aswad; it is merely killing the tongue. Aswad was attained by those rishis who declared in the Upanishads, 'Annam Brahma'—they knew that Brahman is hidden in food. They attained aswad. They received food so totally, so with Samadhi, that they began to glimpse the Brahman hidden in food—'he tasted the earth's supreme essence'—they are the supreme yogis. They did not abandon the earth; they tasted the earth's great essence.

For the One who created existence cannot be other than his creation—he cannot be an enemy to it. He cannot be in opposition. Creation has been made to become a staircase. The Creator is hidden in the creation. The doer is hidden in the deed, the poet in the poem, the dancer in the dance. He is not other. The Divine is hidden in every leaf. Even that which you condemned is the Divine—and by condemning the Divine you will not attain him. Yes, you have made a doctrine‑god of your own and worship him in a temple. The real, living Divine you condemn, and the false, man‑made god you worship.

Have you ever stood with folded hands before a living green tree? When a tree is laden with flowers, dancing in the winds, have you ever knelt there in prayer? When the sky is studded with stars, have you lain upon the earth, filled with hymn to the Unsayable? Have you seen his eyes glinting in the stars? His fragrance rising in the flowers?

No—you are utterly blind. You run toward temple and mosque: 'There we must worship God.' And here, who is all around? Who is singing in the throats of birds? Who has become the blossom in the trees? Whose murmuring is in the cascades? These are the many expressions of the one Omkar, the One taking countless forms. Where are you running? Whom are you going to worship? Wherever you are, he is. He has circled you on every side.

The Upanishads say: The Divine is farther than the farthest, and nearer than the nearest. Farther than far—if you seek him in temples. Nearer than near—if you open your eyes and look around. He is nearer than the nearest—for you too are that. It is he who breathes within you. Mohammed said: He is nearer than your jugular vein. Try to live without breath for a while—you will see, without him you cannot live. Without him there is no life at all; he is the essence of life.

Then by condemning life, none will reach him. All religions have condemned life—only the truly wise have not. They have sung the glory of life. In truth, their praise of life is their praise of the Divine.

Therefore, food is Brahman. Taste is his. The body is his. Kama is his. Rama is he as well. The day you cease to create duality and begin to see him in both, that day Advaita will be attained. Advaita is not a doctrine you understand by reading Shankaracharya. Advaita is a way of living—such living that no conflict arises between two. Between two, no two‑ness intrudes. Even between two, the One shines. That is why Kabir's sayings sound like reversed speech; they are the straight flute.

'When the sky rains and the earth is drenched—this everyone knows.'

We know the clouds gather in the monsoon, the earth is soaked, fulfilled. But that even the blind, the foolish know. Knowing that will not make you wise. The knower says—

'When the earth rains and the sky is drenched—this only a rare one understands.'

The earth also rains. Life is a deep unity. Here you cannot only take; there is a balance between taking and giving.

You have seen the clouds rain from the sky. But have you seen the earth's clouds rain back upon the sky? These trees that have turned green—the earth is returning water through them. They are clouds that rain back to the sky. From every leaf, vapor rises each moment; otherwise where would the sky get clouds to rain? From rivers and streams the vapor rises; climbing the sunrays, vapor gathers in the sky. The earth returns.

In the fragrance of these flowers—who is going back? From the throats of birds—who is raining upon the sky? From every side, the earth returns; and the more she returns, the deeper it comes back. It is a circular process: the sky gives to the earth; the earth gives to the sky. The earth is not small; the exchange is always equal.

Balance is the law of life. Otherwise balance would break: if one only gives and one only takes, both will end up impoverished. One will die a miser; one will die a pauper. Life is exchange—moment to moment life maintains the balance. As much as the earth receives from the sky, so much returns.

What shows itself in flowers, trees, mountains, streams—the rustle in the gusting wind—is but a small reciprocation. But when a son of the earth—a Buddha, a Kabir—blooms, when a thousand‑petaled lotus blossoms in his sahasrar, and when his entire life‑energy flows toward the sky, then the great giving happens. Clouds mass upon the sky—the clouds of Buddhas. The state Buddha named for the ultimate—he called it 'the cloud‑Samadhi': like a cloud, the earth rains upon the sky.

Kabir says: 'The earth rains and the sky is drenched.' Kabir says: 'We have seen the reverse too. We have seen the earth raining and the sky getting soaked.' The Creator has given much to creation—nothing special in that. But we have also seen creation returning to the Creator. The Divine has made all, has poured himself into all—but we have seen something else as well: we have seen clouds ascending from creation toward the Divine. We have seen not only the earth dancing, encircled by clouds; we have seen the Divine dancing as well.

When the Buddha‑cloud returns toward the Divine, then the Divine also dances—he is Nataraj. What to say of his joy in those moments!

Thus the story in Buddha's life: when Buddha attained enlightenment, flowers bloomed out of season upon the trees. Such a great event occurred—how could the Divine not dance? If nature danced then, nothing strange. Dry trees became green; new shoots burst forth. It was no season for flowers, yet at midnight flowers blossomed. Before the sun had risen, while Buddha was moving toward that ultimate state—the last morning star sank, and Buddha attained the supreme cloud‑Samadhi. In that instant the earth's gift is one even the Divine will remember for centuries—he must.

And if you look closely, the earth's gift seems greater than the Creator's. The Creator had given only an ordinary child; the earth returned him as Buddhahood.

'When the sky rains and the earth is drenched—this everyone knows.
When the earth rains and the sky is drenched—this only a rare one understands.'

The Divine's debt must be repaid. You have heard of the debt to the ancestors, the debt to the guru—but have you ever thought of the debt to the Divine, who made you? Who made all this nature, who is the Creator behind this whole play? That debt too must be repaid. A Buddha repays it; a Kabir repays it.

In that moment when a consciousness filled with glory returns toward the Divine—'the earth rains and the sky is drenched'—that day even the sky gets wet. The sky getting wet seems impossible, because the sky is empty—shunya. But Kabir says, even the shunya gets soaked, becomes moist. Even the shunya is no longer hard or indifferent; it trembles, it is flooded.

That the earth gets wet is understandable: in scorching heat, under the sun's blaze the earth cracks and thirsts. So when the rains come, a satisfaction pervades every hair, every breath of earth; a sweet, earthy fragrance of fulfillment rises and spreads. That is understandable. But the sky is not the earth. The sky has no cracks. The sky is the Great Void, mere openness, vacancy—how can it crack?

But Kabir is right; I agree. The sky too cracks. Even there, Buddhahood is awaited. The earth must blossom and rain upon the sky; only then does this play continue. This play is not one‑sided. The duality of earth and sky, body and soul, matter and the Divine, creation and Creator—this duality is not conflict between two; it is deep harmony between two.

Hence we call it Leela—a play, not hostility. If earth and sky go far apart, it is to come closer. If a difference appears between matter and the Divine, it is only the waiting for nearness, the preparation for coming close.

Have you ever experienced this—if you have loved? I say 'if you have loved' because very few attain even love—prayer is far away; life is deprived even of love. If you have ever loved, you will have felt a rhythm in lovers: they go far, they come near—a certain cadence. For if you remain always near, the savor is lost; and if you remain always far, love breaks. There is a rhythmicity: lovers withdraw in order to approach; when they approach, they withdraw again.

If you have ever loved, you will have found this journey continuous—of going far and coming near. They quarrel—to create distance. They grow angry so that faces turn away, backs face each other. But that very anger brings them nearer: when the storm of anger passes, what to say of the silence that follows! Then the sweetness of love blossoms. After two lovers have fought, love becomes new again. After every quarrel—another wedding night; and after every wedding night—another quarrel. Lovers fight; there is a secret in the fight.

If lovers never fight, know that love has ended. No need to go far because no longing to come near remains. Now they merely tolerate each other; they do not fight—love is finished. Those husbands and wives who never quarrel—know that love was never there.

Yes, where there is constant fighting, there too love is absent. Those who are ready for battle twenty‑four hours a day, who have turned it into a battlefield—Dharmakshetra Kurukshetra—there is no love. Love is alchemy: they fight a little so a gap is born; in the gap, savor arises.

In the burning days when the sun pours fire, the earth is preparing to be quenched by the rains. Then she will be drenched to the brim; rivers will flood; waterfalls swell; every pore soaked. The earth again prepares for the sun—to dry, in order to be wetted; to be wetted, in order to dry.

One who understands life's music has no 'conflict' between earth and the Divine—there is play. Between Atman and body there is no struggle—only an unbroken cadence of coming close and moving away. Yoga is the art of the supreme music. It is no enmity. Therefore, do not fight with the body. Do not deem the earth rejectable. Do not call matter vain. Do not call the market worthless—between market and Himalaya a rhythm is moving.

Thus I say again and again: those sannyasins who fled forever to the Himalayas will attain nothing; nor will those householders who are lost forever in the market. A cadence is needed: sometimes you sit in the market, far from the temple; and sometimes you sit in the temple, far from the market—very close to the temple. If you can maintain this rhythm, you will understand the meaning of my sannyas; otherwise my sannyas will remain a Kabir‑like reversed saying.

People come to me: 'What kind of sannyas is this? People have wives and children, sit in shops, go to offices—what kind of sannyas?' For sannyas they know is the one who has fled forever—that is a sannyasin. The one who remained forever in the market—that is a householder. My sannyasin is a cadence between householder and the old renunciate: sometimes he leaves everything and withdraws, absorbed in meditation; sometimes he returns to the market. There is no opposition between market and temple.

As your breath goes out, then comes in—then goes out again—there is no enmity in breathing. Had you tried to manage breath according to scriptures, you would be dead by now. If you hold the breath inside, you will die; if you hold it outside, you will die. Let breath come in, let it go out. Breath accepts no prohibition; it moves on both shores.

Going out is the world; coming in is sannyas—in the old definition. If you fix it only inside, sannyas; only outside, householder. I say both die. The old householder has died—rotting in markets and shops; his life lacks the fragrance of the contrary; he is dying because his life knows only heat—summer, only fall. And the old sannyasin has rotted too—you will find him rotting in temples and ashrams. If you have even a little capacity to sense fragrance, you will smell his stench. He is rotting because he too has arrested breath—tied himself to one shore.

True sannyas is in the middle—nirati and surati—in awareness, not at the extremes. It is not in fleeing, not in changing circumstances, but in changing your consciousness. There is a very sweet music that can be tuned between Himalaya and market, between temple and shop—a very sweet music.

Go far, so you can come near. Come near, so you can go far. Only then will you be a living part of this Vast Play. Only then will you be a vibrating string on this veena; otherwise you will be lifeless.

'When the sky rains and the earth is drenched—this everyone knows.'

Thus Kabir never left the market. Kabir continued to weave cloth. He was a weaver and remained a weaver. Disciples pleaded, 'Now it does not befit you.'

Kabir said, 'What befits the Divine—why should it not befit me? He is not abolishing the market—if he wished, it would have been gone long ago. He is not abolishing the world—each day he keeps remaking it. New children are being created; new shops open; new markets arise; new villages are settled. He removes the dead—the decayed—and sends the new, the fresh, those who will again fall into desire, whose ambition will flare again, who will hoard wealth again, be greedy, be angry, will love—the whole play will arise.

And from the understanding of greed, anger and lust, they will awaken toward dhyana. The sorrow of life will lead them to the bliss of Samadhi. The music will be tuned again. He removes the 'clever,' the 'understanding' ones. The Divine seems to be against the clever. He sends the simple; removes the 'wise'—because they become too clever, and life's music begins to be lost. Their cleverness turns to rigidity; they cling to one thing—either grab the householder or the renunciate stance. They do not remain simple like small children.'

Have you understood the secret of the small child's simplicity? Look closely at a small child: a moment ago he was angry—his toy broke; he screamed, was aflame with rage. You could not imagine he would ever be calm. A moment later the toy is forgotten—he is quiet, sitting in a corner; eyes closed; dozing. You cannot imagine he was ever angry. He sways so simply from anger to non‑anger, from disturbance to peace. A moment he is loving—'I cannot live a moment without you'; a moment later he is annoyed—'Just die! I have no need of you.' A moment later the anger is gone; the hatred is gone; he is in your arms again.

What is the child's simplicity? Why was Jesus enchanted by children? Why did he say: Only those who are like small children will enter my Father's kingdom?

He who moves simply between the opposites is simple. Your sannyasins are complicated; your householders are complicated. They have stiffened. One has bound breath only inside; one binds it only outside—both are dying. Let breath move in and out.

Breath is a deep symbol. As breath moves in and out, so let your consciousness move out and in. Then your consciousness will be alive. Those who close their eyes to the world and, with the harshness of Hatha Yoga, try to remain only within—their lives become beggarly and poor. You will not find grandeur in their lives; you will not find creative power.

Have you heard that these eye‑closing, inward‑turned people—introverts—have given the world any beautiful song? Any beautiful painting? Any fine sculpture? Found new cures for disease? What have they given to the world? What is their creativity? They are dead. Whether they exist or not makes no difference. They shut themselves in; their life will rot. They have become stagnant ponds, no longer a river that flows. From them stench will rise.

India's maximum stench is due to India's sclerotic renunciates—and they are many, in the hundreds of thousands. They sit upon this country's chest—stiff. Their influence is heavy, because they are revered. For centuries you have worshiped them, touched their feet; you still go on worshiping—worship of corpses. They will turn you into corpses too.

The West's misfortune is the opposite: there people live only outside; so in their lives there is wealth and plenty, but no inner peace. They create many songs, but no inner note sounds within them. They make many statues, but their statues seem as if made by madmen.

Look at Picasso's paintings: however artistic, they are not beautiful. However much labor has been invested, no 'ahh' arises from within; no grace showers. They narrate a tragic tale of life—full of sorrow, of derangement—portray the picture of a madman. No image of Buddhahood emerges from them.

In the West there is much creation—things keep increasing; houses become beautiful; roads better; clothes improved; machines manufactured. But within, there is great turmoil; no inner peace. In the East there is inner peace, but dead.

Both are incomplete—and both stand against the Divine. The Divine wants you to inhale and exhale; to love the sky and love the earth, with no opposition between your loves. Let both longings become limbs of one great longing—two notes of one vast music. Otherwise you will be one‑legged and lose balance.

'When the sky rains and the earth is drenched—this everyone knows.
When the earth rains and the sky is drenched—this only a rare one understands.'

'The true singer never sings; without speaking, he sings continually.
Having seen the Natvar—the Dancer—he sees seeing itself; he plays the anahad veena—the unstruck lute.'

'The true singer never sings...' The one who truly sings never 'sings.' The point is subtle; thus people say Kabir speaks in reversals. The true singer does not sing—song arises from him. So long as you sing, the song is superficial; it will not be born of your soul. In China there is an ancient saying: when the musician is perfected, he breaks the vina—because the vina too betrays the learner; and when the archer is perfected, he puts down the bow.

A very old Tao tale: a man became a great archer. The emperor proclaimed: 'There is no greater archer in the realm—if any competitor believes he surpasses him, let him come. Otherwise, he will be declared supreme.' Three months' time.

The next day, an old man came. He told the archer: 'Do not fall into this madness. I know one who is greater than you.' The archer said, 'Let him come to compete.'

The old man laughed: 'The greater one is beyond competition. Competition is for children. He will not come. If you wish to learn, I can take you.'

The archer was astonished—he had never thought greatness could be beyond competition. The small crave to prove they are big, thus they compete—so that it may be certified: we are great. The great is great—self‑evident; he needs neither competition nor the emperor's certificate.

The old saying: only those afflicted with inferiority complex enter competition—the fearful, who know within they are not adequate, yet must prove it somehow. The one whose dignity is self‑proved, spontaneous, does not enter competition.

The point struck home. The archer said, 'I will come.' He followed the old man into a nearby forest. A man was there—chopping wood. 'Is this the archer?' 'Yes, this is the archer.' 'Where is his bow?' 'He does not carry it around hanging on his shoulder all day.' The archer said, 'What if a moment comes when he must fight?' The old man said, 'He is an archer—he can shoot with his hand; he does not even need an arrow.'

From afar, the archer stood behind a cover and shot an arrow. The woodcutter picked up a small piece of wood and struck the arrow in mid‑flight—it turned back and pierced the archer's chest.

The archer came and fell at his feet. 'Forgive me. I thought archery cannot come without a bow—but you are unique. How will I learn this art?' 'Stay with me, you will learn.'

Three years passed; he learned. He turned toward the emperor's palace. The woodcutter said, 'Wait. I am nothing. My guru still lives. I am just a woodcutter; I have received only his leftovers. The true archer—why would he even throw a stick? A gesture of his eyes is enough. Why the eyes? The intention in his mind is enough. Do not go yet.'

The journey seemed long—three years had already gone. He had thought himself perfected. Now there was a guru to this man as well. But there was no turning back; the taste had caught him.

He went with the woodcutter to the high peaks. An extremely old man, bent with age—more than a hundred surely. The woodcutter said, 'This is my guru.' The archer chuckled to himself—his back is bent; he cannot even take aim. But the old arrogance had lost its nerve. 'Who knows...' He said to the old man, 'We have come to learn at your feet.' The old man said, 'First you must pass a test. Come after me.'

They went to the edge of the cliff: a terrible rock jutting out over a thousand‑foot chasm; a slip meant certain death. The old man stood on the brink—half a foot over the abyss, back bent, standing only on his heels. 'Come to me.'

The archer's limbs shook. He collapsed four feet away in panic. At the sight of the gorge he became feverish.

The old man said, 'How will you be an archer? Where there is fear, there is trembling. The hand will tremble. The blind may not see, but one who has eyes will see your hand tremble. Where there is fear, there is vibration. Only the fearless is unwavering. Here you tremble so much you cannot approach this pit—how will you hit a target? Run from here.'

As he left, the archer said, 'I am unnerved. I lack the courage to go further in this training. I have failed at the first test. I will abandon the idea of being an archer. You are right—there is fear within me, a trembling.'

And surely, when there is fear within, the hand trembles—seen or unseen. And when the hand trembles, even if the world sees the arrow strike, the old master said, 'We know—you missed. The target is not there; the target is within. An unwavering heart is needed—then all else happens.'

Above them a line of birds flew. The old man made a slight gesture and lowered his hand—twenty‑five birds fell to the ground. With a gesture!

Intention is enough—if the heart is unwavering, whatever intention arises becomes reality. Thoughts become things; words become events.

Hence the blessing of the rishis had such value. People did not go to them to understand doctrine—but for grace. Let them bless—you need only extend your begging bowl, your heart; their blessings are already falling. What they say will be. What they think will be.

Therefore Buddha made a rule for meditators: before entering dhyana, gain complete control over your thoughts. For it may happen that a little capacity for meditation comes; for a moment you begin to be silent; if your thoughts are not under full control and some wrong thought passes through your sky of mind at that time, it will come true. Wrong thoughts pass through your mind twenty‑four hours a day. Someone abuses you and you mutter, 'Die!'—now there is no harm, because no one dies by your saying so. But if at a meditative moment, when the mind is a little quiet, this wave arises—he will die—instantly.

Thus all meditators—Patanjali, Buddha, the wise—placed shila, discipline, before meditation. Not because the characterless cannot attain meditation—they can—but their meditation will be dangerous. Hence shila is primary. Patanjali's eightfold discipline; Buddha's Eightfold Path; Mahavira's five great vows—none of these is directly related to meditation. Meditation can happen without them—but then meditation may produce a curse. Durvasa may be born. If ever Durvasa existed, he must have meditated leaving shila aside—then accidents can occur.

Kabir says: 'The true singer never sings...' The real singer does not sing; song happens from him. The real singer is himself song—singing is an act; the real singer's very being is song. Go near him and you will hear music—even if he sits silent, a sweetness will hum around him; a song keeps arising from his being. A silence, yet musical—touching you, filling you.

'...without speaking, he sings continually.
Having seen the Natvar—the supreme Dancer—he sees seeing itself; he plays the unstruck lute.'

Therefore you do not hear the Divine's song—because he is not singing; he himself is the song. Until you become perfect shunya, you cannot hear that song—'O avadhut, make the empty sky your home.' As you enter the house of emptiness, that song which is the Divine will begin to be heard.

'...without speaking, he sings continually.
Having seen the Dancer, he sees all seeing; he plays the anahad veena.'

He who has seen him—the Dancer, the Singer, the Natvar, the Nataraj—has seen everything. For his dance is the entire visible world. These flowers, leaves, trees, sky, clouds—the moods of his dance. The whole of existence is dancing. Thus the profoundest Hindu image of the Divine is Nataraj—and all other images fade beside it. Nataraj is peerless—the king of dancers. He himself is not visible.

There is a Tibetan tale: a man, dancing and dancing, reached a state in which when he danced, only the dance remained; the dancer disappeared. All great dancers reach this state—then strange things happen in their lives. After years of dancing, he reached the point where at first people would see him, then he would blur, then a line of smoke would remain—and then even that vanished. Nothing could be seen—but those who could become still heard his dance; they felt it upon their bodies, for the air was rippled by his deep dance.

Nataraj means: a dancer in whom dancer and dance are not two; one who is his own dance—both dancer and dance. This whole existence is his dance. If you understand the dance, you will find the Dancer; if you find the Dancer, you will understand the dance. Know nature rightly, and the image of the Divine will emerge—or meet the Divine, and nature will be known as his gestures.

Clouds gathering in the sky gather upon his face; the stillness shining in lakes shines in his eyes—it is the depth of his gaze. All is that. The Divine is not a person—he is the essence of all. If you set out to find him, you will not meet him somewhere; do not be deluded that one day you will arrive and the Divine will stand before you, and you will bow saying 'Jai Ramji.' Never will the Divine stand before you; he is all.

'...without speaking, he sings continually.
Having seen the Dancer, he sees all seeing...
He plays the unstruck veena.'

His veena sounds without beat—unstruck. It never stops. You have only to prepare your ears; steady yourself to hear it.

'One whose saying and living arise from his own essence—this is an unsayable tale.
The earth upturned devours the sky—this is the speech of the realized.'

There are three kinds of people. One, whom we call the unholy. His speech and his living are opposed—he says one thing, does another; he moves west while speaking east. Between his saying and his being there is a terrible gap, a contradiction. He is split—fragmented. This is the meaning of duality. The unholy thinks one thing, says another, does a third. You cannot trust him.

The second is the holy man. He tries to live as he speaks. He brings a correspondence between speech and conduct. As he thinks, he strives to live. But no striving ever becomes complete. Better than the unholy—for at least he strives. Yet speech and conduct do not become one. Even the greatest holy man's speech and living are not one—that is why you see the holy man unhappy.

The unholy is unhappy—it is understandable. But why is the holy not happy? I know holy men who have been holy for sixty years; they are eighty now. As youths they renounced all. Yet their sorrow remains. Indeed it deepens as death nears, for failure appears—everything empty. Within them too there is deep pain. Good people—what is their sorrow?

Their sorrow is: they labor to align speech and living, but it does not settle; the split remains. They think non‑violence; violence does not vanish. They think compassion; they try, make the face compassionate, regulate conduct—but anger does not go. They resolve to live brahmacharya; with devotion and insistence they arrange it—but lust does not leave, often seems to increase.

He who strives to enforce harmony between speech and living will remain unhappy. Harmony by effort cannot be.

Then the third—the saint, the param‑sadhu, the rishi—call him what you wish. In this third, living and speaking are one—but not because he has enforced it from outside. Because he has known his own essence. He recognizes himself; with that recognition, a unity arrives between his left and right hand—because both are his hands.

Understand this distinction well. He knows himself; with that knowing, his speech, thought, conduct become one—because behind all three, he finds the One. This discovery of the One does not come by trying to reconcile opposites; it comes only by discovering the One.

'One whose saying and living arise from his own essence—this is an unsayable tale.'

Why unsayable? The saints have always said it—and still you have not heard; therefore it is hard to say. Unsayable not because it cannot be spoken, but because however much one says, it is misunderstood. Saints have always said: Know yourself, and unity will come between your conduct and your thought. Recognize the Self, and unity will come. You try to enforce unity, thinking that by unity perhaps the Self will be known. You yoke the cart behind the oxen.

And you too have a reason—why you do this. Understand the basis of your error. Whenever you saw a saint, his Self was invisible to you; his conduct was visible. What is visible becomes valuable to you; what is invisible—how will you value it? Mahavira attained Self‑knowledge; non‑violence appeared in his conduct. His Self‑knowledge you could not see; you saw non‑violence. That became important. You thought: Mahavira became non‑violent—perhaps that is why he attained Self‑knowledge. The matter was just the reverse—Mahavira attained Self‑knowledge, therefore non‑violence manifested. You concluded: he attained non‑violence, therefore the Self. The Self is not visible.

Naturally, you make the visible the basis, and the invisible its result. Your eyes catch what can be seen—how will they catch what cannot be seen? So you think: let me attain non‑violence first, then the Self will be attained. The arithmetic is wrong; the journey starts wrongly. You will make a thousand efforts to become non‑violent; a little outward change may appear, but the more you try, the more you will find it impossible. You can tune the instrument; it goes out of tune. Somehow you hold it; a small event ruins it. Years you manage; in a moment it crumbles. It is a house of cards. A little breeze—and gone. You try to dissolve the ego; it does not dissolve. You try to remove anger; it does not go.

Kabir says: 'This is an unsayable tale'—because as soon as it is said, it is understood upside down. We say one thing; people hear another.

'...the earth upturned devours the sky—this is the utterance of the realized.' What the realized say is just the opposite of what you have understood so far—like the earth overturned swallowing the sky, or like the ocean falling into the drop. Your rule of understanding will not work; by that rule you have wandered.

The reverse rule is this: Know yourself—everything will be set right. If you go on trying to set everything right, you will never know yourself. The Upanishads said: by mastering the One, all is mastered. Mahavira said: by knowing the One, all is known. 'If the One is accomplished, all is accomplished; striving for all, all is lost.' You are trying to manage too many things—unnecessary.

Understand: a man tries to manage anger. If he suppresses anger somehow, sexuality will increase—because the energy that went into anger will flow elsewhere. A man manages sexuality—forces a kind of brahmacharya—lust diminishes somewhat, but the energy that used to go into lust starts flowing into anger; thus brahmacharis are always angry—terribly angry; anger sits upon their eyes. It is not accidental; it is scientific. If you suppress greed, something else will increase. Your life's total will remain the same; the balance sheet unchanged.

'Accomplish the One—everything is accomplished.' If you try to manage the diseases, they are infinite; lifetimes will pass. Manage on one side, trouble begins on another; you go to fix the second, and the first starts again. You will go mad, become deranged, exhausted; lose self‑confidence. Do not be trapped in managing the many. There is one key by which all locks open.

'One whose saying and living arise from his own essence...' The sutra is this: know yourself. Hence my emphasis on meditation.

People come to me: 'We are angry—what to do?' I say: 'Do not think separately—meditate.' They do not follow: 'Will meditation remove anger?' Meditation brings understanding; anger does not 'go'—but when there is understanding, anger does not arise. Meditation increases awareness; anger does not go—but only the unaware get angry.

A lustful man comes, says: 'I am going mad!' I say: 'Meditate.' He asks, 'Will meditation remove lust? What is the connection?'

No—how will meditation 'remove' lust? But through meditation, inner contentment rises; one who is happy within does not beg for happiness from another. Kama is begging from another for joy. One who is blissful within will not find bliss in intercourse; having the great, why ask for the small? Where rupees are raining, why go collecting cowries? Having diamonds in hand, who will gather colored stones and shells on the shore?

People complain: 'We bring different diseases, you prescribe the same cure.' What can I do? The medicine is one—Ram‑ban. Your ailments are one: self‑ignorance. All other illnesses are its shadows. Who fights with shadows? Strike the root illness. Therefore all the wise say: Self‑knowledge is the only path; and for Self‑knowledge, dhyana is the only key.

Then this happens:

'...the earth upturned devours the sky...' You who seem so small are not small. You may have taken the form of the dwarf—Vamana—but the Divine is hidden in the dwarf.

In Mulla Nasruddin's town, a circus arrived. He applied for a job—no other work found. On the form he wrote: 'I am the biggest short man in the world.' The manager was puzzled: the biggest short man? He called him. Nasruddin stood—at least six feet four. 'You call yourself short?' 'I wrote already—the biggest short man; there is no bigger short man than me.'

However short you are, however Vamana you seem, the whole Divine is present in you—not a grain less. The ocean is present in the drop. The drop contains the full formula of the ocean. Understand one drop—you understand the entire ocean. What remains? Get the code of the drop—H2O—the ocean is in your hand. Break down the drop—oxygen and hydrogen—you have the secret of the ocean; you need not analyze each drop.

Thus Kabir said:

'Seeking and seeking, O friend, Kabir remained lost;
The drop merged into the ocean—how can it be found?'

This was his first utterance. Years later he wrote a second:

'Seeking and seeking, O friend, Kabir remained lost;
The ocean merged into the drop—how can it be found?'

In the first, the drop fell into the ocean—perhaps there could still be a way to draw it out. A small thing fell into a big one—one might search and find. But later the ocean fell into the drop—now what to do? Where to search?

The first is the glimpse of dhyana—what Japan calls satori. In the first glimpse it seems: the drop fell into the ocean. But when dhyana matures into Samadhi, when there is no return, when the stream flows day and night—then the second song arises: 'The ocean merged into the drop—how can it be found?' After Samadhi there is no return. The meditator can fall back; he climbs the peak for a moment—then loses it; returns to dark valleys. Again he climbs; again he falls. Satori is not Samadhi.

Buddha used two terms: the meditator is srota‑apanna—entered the stream, but may return; the bank still exists. The one in Samadhi is anagami—does not return; like the river in the ocean—no bank remains. Kabir's first is srota‑apanna; the second, anagami—the point of no return. He eats in Samadhi, sleeps in Samadhi, walks in Samadhi, speaks in Samadhi—his being is established in Samadhi. The ocean is lost in the drop.

'...the earth upturned devours the sky—this is the utterance of the realized.' Such a moment comes when the drop swallows the ocean; the part swallows the Whole; the Atman absorbs the Paramatman; the atom contains the Vast.

'Without a cup, the nectar is drunk;
The river holds the ocean's water.'

In that moment, drinking is not needed—and yet the nectar is drunk. No goblet needed, no drinking needed.

'Without a cup, the nectar is drunk;
The river holds the ocean's water.'

Then the river does not fall into the ocean; the ocean falls into the river. The man of Samadhi is filled with the infinite ocean. Take from him as much as you like—he will not be exhausted. Do not hesitate to take—

'...the river holds the ocean's water.'

This is no river that summer will dry; no sand and a few puddles will remain. No sun can dry it now; no summer will come. It remains ever full. Samadhi is an ever‑green—ever‑youthful—state.

Kabir says: That rare yogi has tasted the earth's supreme nectar.

I spoke of three types of people. The unholy, who try to taste the earth's relish, but do not know how, from where. He seeks joy—but does not know how to find it; he seeks joy, finds sorrow. Aspiration is for joy; result is pain. Aspiration is not enough—method is needed, right search is needed, and for right search, consciousness is needed—awareness. The unholy seeks joy, but where he seeks, there he finds suffering.

The holy seeks joy; he has some formulae, but reversed—like a key held upside down in a lock; the lock will not open. The holy man bangs his head; he holds the key in hand, but reversed. He tries to shove it in—sometimes he even ruins the lock; then even if you set the key right, it becomes hard to open.

Then there are the saints who hold the key correctly—who seek the One, accomplish the One, know their own essence. Then their saying and their living become one; the lock opens.

You have seen number locks that the rich use—no key to insert, just numbers to align. Only one who knows can set the digits in the exact pattern; thieves cannot make a key. It is a great mathematics; working for years one may not succeed. Knowing, one sets them at once. If you try hit‑and‑miss, after a million tries perhaps once you may hit—no guarantee.

Saying, doing and living are the digits of that lock. When they align exactly—when you are what you say, when you say what you are—when no duality remains in your being, one music pervades—then the lock opens. Saints open the lock by knowing the One. The two fall into place by themselves—no need to force. In knowing Advaita, duality aligns.

Kabir says: That rare yogi has tasted the earth's supreme nectar.

Such a one does not drink only the joy of the Divine; he tastes the great essence of the earth as well. He drinks the Supreme, yes—but also drinks nature. He delights in a flower—and you cannot delight as he does. Imagine Buddha passing by a flower—what joy he will receive you will not. The real question is not the flower—it is you. Buddha looks at the flower from his bliss‑filled heart, and the flower overflows with mystery. In the flower you see only what you are; the flower is a mirror. In the flower's mirror, Buddha sees himself—therefore the fragrance the flower gives him you will not receive.

He who has found the key to his own heart, who has opened the inner heart, has received the master key. He will open the flower; he will open the waterfall; he will open food; he will open love—and showers will fall upon him from all sides. His sensitivity becomes infinite.

Remember: the great yogi is not insensate—he is supremely sensitive. The great yogi does not live in tastelessness—he lives in the Supreme Taste. Make the Supreme Taste your vow. The great yogi is not opposed to the world; he finds the Divine's savor through the world as well.

Once your own lamp is lit, streams of bliss begin to flow from everywhere. That is why Kabir calls him a great yogi—a rare yogi.

'...he has tasted the earth's supreme nectar.'

There are yogis who taste only the Divine with closed eyes—they are not great yogis; their Divine is still only half. They are incomplete—yogis who close the eyes and taste the Divine, and fear to open them and taste the world. Their yoga is incomplete; they are afraid. Their Divine is not enough—not enough to be fearless.

The true yogi closes his eyes and tastes the Divine within; he opens his eyes and tastes the world without. Inside he tastes consciousness; outside he tastes the senses. Inside and outside he gets lost; inside and outside become one. What is outside is inside; what is inside is outside. So long as the distinction between outside and inside remains, you have not attained Maha‑yoga. The day only One remains—what outside, what inside? The sky outside your house is the same sky within your house. The sky in your courtyard is the same as the cosmic sky. Where is the difference between courtyard and sky? One alone is—its waves play outside and inside; outside‑inside are two shores; the ocean of consciousness flows between.

Kabir says: That rare yogi has tasted the earth's supreme nectar.

Therefore I tell you: do not go against relish—taste the supreme essence. Do not burn your tongue; do not blind your eyes; do not deafen your ears; do not kill your nose—awaken them, make them sensitive. Do not be afraid.

I do not believe the story that Surdas gouged out his eyes—afraid that eyes see beautiful women. If he did, Surdas is worth two pennies. I do not believe it—because his verses are filled with such relish. One whose words carry such juice—how would he poke his eyes? That tale must have been made by fools. One whose words carry such love—how would he blind himself? One who describes Krishna's form so exquisitely—how would he blind himself?

If Surdas lived, then even in a beautiful woman he would have seen only Krishna. In her ankle bells he would have heard Krishna's music. In her form he would have seen the One.

I do not tell you to kill relish; otherwise you will never be capable of knowing the whole Divine. And a half‑Divine—what Divine is that? Like saying 'half a circle'—where is a half circle? A circle is only when whole. A half‑Divine is your mental notion, a doctrine, a scripture.

The Divine is whole—nature is his limb; the body is his house. Be mindful that you attain the Supreme Essence. Let the formless be seen in form, the unshaped in shape; let the vast echo in the minute—then you will attain the state Kabir calls:

Kabir says: That rare yogi has tasted the earth's supreme nectar.

Enough for today.