Kahe Kabir Diwana #8

Love is life’s ultimate Samadhi. Love is the summit of life-energy. That is Gaurishankar. One who has known love has known all. One who remained deprived of love remained deprived of everything.
It is necessary to rightly understand the language of love. It is necessary to rightly understand the scripture of love. For love alone is the pilgrimage. Only through it have the few arrived. And those who have not arrived, have not arrived because they colored life in some other hue that was not love’s.
Love means: a condition of surrender, where two dissolve and one remains. Where lover and beloved lose their boundaries. Where the distance between them becomes, in its totality, zero. It is not even right to say that the lover and the beloved come close; for nearness too is distance. They do not merely come near; they lose themselves into one another. Even in nearness there is a gap. Love does not tolerate even that much gap. Love makes two into one. Love is Advaita.
Let us understand this love a little.
You too have loved. It is difficult to find a person who has not loved. Perhaps in a wrong way, perhaps with a wrong beloved, but one cannot escape loving. For love is the spontaneous expression of life.
There are three kinds of love—let us understand them.
The first is the one in which ninety-nine out of a hundred get entangled. It is love of things—of money, of property, of houses, of safes. Love of objects is the greatest deception in the name of love.
Yet it has its charm; that is why ninety-nine out of a hundred fall into it. And its charm is that toward things you need not surrender. You make things surrender to you. Your car is your car. Your house is your house. You are saved from surrendering. And you feel as if the objects are surrendered to you. A kind of nonduality seems to be achieved.
You hold a rupee in your hand. The boundary of the rupee and your boundary seem to disappear. The rupee does not obstruct the melting of boundaries. Nor does it force you to surrender. The rupee is surrendered. Do what you wish: throw it into a river, give it to a beggar, buy some goods, or lock it safely in a strongbox—the rupee has no mind of its own. The rupee is wholly surrendered.
Having made objects surrender, you get the feeling that nonduality has been attained. This feeling is false. For the surrender of objects has no meaning. Objects are not conscious. Their surrender or nonsurrender is all the same. You are in illusion.
The rupee is as surrendered to you as it will be to the beggar to whom you hand it. Throw it into the river—it is surrendered to the river. Put it into the safe—it is surrendered to the safe.
Money is a prostitute. It has no surrender. It is surrendered to whosoever holds it. It has no soul. Yet, having made something surrender, an inner delusion arises that nonduality has been achieved.
Ninety-nine out of a hundred live and end in this so-called love—love of things. It is convenient too. For money and wealth do not create situations of quarrel. You need not fight with them. There is no struggle. Great quiet prevails. The safe sits silently. When you command, it becomes active; if you do not command, it waits in silence for you. Wealth is a perfect servant. Therefore ninety-nine out of a hundred take the gaining of wealth to be love.
Moreover, there is security in wealth. Love a friend—who knows if tomorrow he will still love? Who knows about tomorrow? In a single moment the wind can change, the season can change. The one who was loving a moment ago may be full of anger the next; the friend may become an enemy in a flash.
Hence you cannot rely upon a friend. What trust can there be in a wife? What trust can there be in a husband? Even if love could be trusted, how about death? Money never dies. Money is immortal. Persons die.
Only yesterday a young woman asked me: she loves a man, but there is a great gap in their ages. She is about thirty. The man is about fifty. Love between them is deep, yet she is afraid: what if he dies early? Then the end of life will be widowhood. Life will end filled with sorrow, with pain. Hence she holds herself back.
There is the fear of death. People die; objects do not die. And when persons die, they cannot be replaced. No other person can fill their place. For every person is unique. If a Fiat car dies, another Fiat car can be put in its place. There is no difference. There are millions of cars of the same kind.
But if a person dies, there is no other person anywhere in the world like him. To lose him is to lose him forever. No one else can fill that place. The place remains forever empty. And the empty place in the heart aches, pricks, becomes a wound. There is danger in falling in love with persons. There is danger in loving a man of fifty; but there is danger even in loving a man of thirty—men of thirty also die.
Death is always present. With persons there is no security. Either people can change; or even if they do not change, they can die.
There is an even greater danger: the persons you love today—perhaps tomorrow they still love you, but you may no longer love them. Then they will become a burden. Then it will be difficult to set them down. It will be impossible to break those chains. Where will you run? How will you run? And the promises given by your own lips will become strong fetters around your feet. Words spoken in the breeze of love will seize your throat. Where will you go? The danger is immense.
In the love of things there is no danger. There is great security. Things do not die. Even if they are lost, they can be replaced. And if your love fades, things do not become chains. Once you greatly loved a car; today your fancy is gone. You sell it in the market. The car does not weep or wail, it does not raise a commotion, it does not beg for pity. It departs silently. That is why ninety-nine percent of people...
Surrender is convenient with things. You need not surrender yourself; the ego remains intact, and things go on fattening the ego.
In love, the ego will be lost. In love of things it remains—and grows. The more your wealth, the more your ego rises. Love of objects is not truly love; it is a counterfeit of love. Yet it is the first love into which ninety-nine percent fall. Therefore the Buddha is against trishna—craving. For trishna is the name of love of objects. Mahavira is against parigraha—possessiveness—because parigraha is love of objects. All the wise are against hoarding. For hoarding means your love is travelling on a wrong journey.
Look at the person mad after things. Have you seen a miser? Have you ever studied his face? If you yourself are a miser, have you ever looked in the mirror and seen the image of your miserliness? There is no one more ugly than a miser.
That is why, if someone calls you stingy, it hurts deeply. You may well be a miser, but if someone calls you one, it wounds—even the miser feels hurt. There seems no greater abuse than to be called a miser. Why?
Because a miser means you are enamored of objects. Objects are lower than you. You are a soul, a being. You have fallen in love with something beneath yourself. And no one is ready to accept that he is in love with things. Love of objects means your soul is bowing down. It means you are losing your soul. For where your love is, there your soul will be. Where your love is, there your heart will beat.
One who loves things slowly becomes like things. For love is a great transformer. You become like that which you love.
Have you noticed that if two people love each other, slowly each begins to show the other’s image? If a woman has loved a man with a single-pointed heart, you will slowly find in her walk, in her eyes, upon her face, the imprint of that man appears.
If a man has loved a woman, you will find the sweetness of that woman enters his voice. In their gestures, their postures, they enter one another. If they have truly loved, even in a crowd you can pick them out: they seem each other’s lovers. For each other’s image has slowly entered them. Lovers slowly become alike.
Physiologists have pondered long: how does this happen? A child is born—sometimes the child shows the mother’s image, sometimes the father’s; sometimes neither, sometimes a mixture of both; sometimes altogether the image of some third person who has no obvious connection.
Physiologists have been perplexed: how does this come to pass? If the child is formed by the energy of man and woman, the happening should always be the same. But it is not so. Psychologists have reached a strange insight: if the woman truly loves the man, loves fully, only then will the father’s image shine in the children. Because that image gets absorbed into her, it permeates every fiber of her being.
If the woman loves herself and not her husband, and the husband is merely a servant, then only the woman’s own image will enter the child. And it can also happen that the woman is someone’s wife, and the child is conceived with someone else, but the feeling in her heart is for yet another man—then the image of that man will enter the child.
For the image reflects in the mind—in the mirror of the mind. If a woman loves one person and the child is born of another, still the one she loves will shine forth in the child. Thus the image is not formed by the body; the image is formed by the mind.
When two people love each other, slowly they begin to become alike. Their ways, their habits, their behavior. In the last moments of life you will find they have become one. Their duality has gone.
One who loves things becomes like things. Hence there is no one more ugly than a miser. For a vast soul was there, and in love with the mean, it became small. You will always find the miser small. Always petty. He does not even pass the test of humanity, let alone the test of the Divine. You will find he is not even fully human. On him things weigh more; consciousness is less. Awareness is less, load is more. In the miser’s face you will see the violence hidden in wealth.
Wealth is born of deep violence. It is intense exploitation. There are marks of blood upon wealth. Wealth cannot be free of it. It has been snatched from someone. Some force has been used against someone. Someone has been erased—even if the manner of erasing is highly refined, even if the erased one does not know, even if the eraser does not know—it makes no difference. The stains of blood are on wealth.
Therefore stains will appear upon the miser’s face. And you will see drool at the miser’s lips. He is always crazed for things, mad. He sees only objects. He sees nothing else. For him, the world is not a festival of persons, it is only a marketplace of things. Buy, accumulate, die. Not live.
A miser does not live; he only prepares to live. The preparation is never complete. The moment to live never comes. He merely arranges that someday he will live. He postpones living. How can I live today before I have a palace? How can I live before the safe is full? Before arrangements for all tomorrows are made, before the future is fully secured—how can one live? Fools can live, says the miser; how can the intelligent live? When worry for tomorrow turns into certitude—there is the safe, the bank balance, all comforts—then I will live.
Such a moment never comes. It did not come to Alexander; how will it come to you? It has not come to anyone. Such a moment never comes when the arrangement is complete.
Those who want to live must always live with half arrangements. Those who want to live must live with half preparations. They must live today. Those who want to laugh, to dance, do not worry much whether the courtyard is uneven. There is a saying: I cannot dance because the courtyard is crooked. The art of living does not come, and people say the courtyard is crooked; first let us level it. It never seems leveled. They die, and the courtyard remains crooked.
Upon the face of the accumulator you will see the staleness of money. As money slips from hand to hand, it becomes stale. The dirt of every hand gathers on it. The craving of every being saturates it. Money travels from one hand to another, thousands of hands.
There is nothing more defiled in this world than money. Leavings! How many hands it passes through. How much filth it crosses. How much journeying. It gets rubbed and worn. The same rub and staleness you will see in the miser’s eyes and on his face. You will not see freshness there, not the dew of morning. You will not find the fragrance of newly blossomed flowers. You will see the rubbed and worn look of money.
A miser is never original. He is always borrowed. In his life there is never energy like a morning. There is always fatigue. He is always bored.
Naturally, with wealth, dance has never come into anyone’s life—nor can it come. Boredom comes. Therefore you will find the rich man bored, weary. Look closely at his face—you will find he is tired. He needs rest. He cannot rest; for there are still too many things yet to be gathered.
Slowly, the miser becomes like the things he loves. There is little difference left between him and his goods. Little difference between him and his house. For lovers become alike. Therefore never love the mean; otherwise you will become mean. You will become that which you love.
The lover of wealth and objects comes to despise persons. For every person is a threat to his wealth. Every relationship with persons frightens him. To relate with a person means to find a partner in one’s wealth. The miser wants to avoid people. He wants to stay away from people. He keeps a distance—lest someone’s hand reach his pocket, lest someone approach his safe.
The miser—the lover of things—is filled with contempt for people, and with indifference towards God. Therefore the real atheist is the miser—the lover of objects. Even if he goes to the temple to worship, behind his worship is hidden the demand for wealth. He does not ask for God; he asks for more wealth.
Even if God were to appear and say: Ask for one boon—he would think of everything except God. Shall I ask for a Rolls-Royce? Or the president’s chair? Or the world’s wealth? One thing will not occur to him: to ask for God. For even the very thought is outside his horizon.
One who is encircled by objects will despise persons and neglect God. And the irony is that these are the very people you will find sitting in temples and mosques. These fill the temples and mosques. Because of them religion has died. They go there only to beg for things. How can their safes grow larger? How can their kingdom spread? They go to God to ask only for this.
And remember, whoever goes to God asking for anything other than God, never reaches Him at all. The knowers say that only those reach who do not even ask for Him. Who do not ask at all. Whose asking has disappeared. Who stand at His door without asking. Unasked, pearls are given. He showers upon them.
But that is a far-off thing. Some Buddha stands at that door without asking. But in the world you live in—the world of beggars—at least do this much: ask for God.
This is the only difference between bhakta and jnani. The bhakta asks for God; the jnani does not even ask that. Hence there is nothing higher than bhakti. Therefore bhakti brings you to the door. But in the last moment bhakti too has to be dropped. Only then the union is complete. When even the demand for God is dropped. For even that demand would remain between you and God. Not even that is needed.
The atheist is the one encircled by things. Hence the West is atheistic. Not because they do not believe in God. More of them go to church than you do. Hindus have no arrangement to go to temples—go or don’t go, as you please. But among Christians there is an arrangement: on Sunday one must go.
If someone from Mars were to audit your temples, they would always find them empty. Or sometimes an odd person coming or going. Someone’s wife is ill—he had to come. Someone is near bankruptcy—he had to come.
But in churches people are found in crowds. Because on Sunday, by rule, one must go. It is a social formality. But the West’s race is for objects. Therefore the West cannot be theistic.
From this, do not conclude that you are theistic. Often, when someone says the West is atheistic, you become pleased. You think: we are theistic. You too are not theistic.
To be theistic is a great revolutionary event. It has nothing to do with East or West. It is not a matter of geography. To be theistic is the ultimate revolution. Seldom does a person become theistic. No society has yet become theistic—not Hindu society, not Jain society, not Indian society, not Chinese society. No society, no nation has yet become religious. For a group is made of the ninety-nine percent—the lovers of objects.
The second love is love of persons. Love of persons is higher than love of things. At least you love one of your own kind, of the same species. At least you love a consciousness. Granted, it is as full of darkness as you. Yet it has the possibility to awaken, as you do. Love of persons is above love of objects. One who loves persons becomes indifferent towards objects, and remains neutral towards God.
Understand these words rightly. For in the dictionary indifference and neutrality are given the same meaning. That is wrong. One who loves persons becomes filled with indifference towards objects. He can give away things, can donate easily. His grip loosens.
For one who has loved a person, who has tasted the higher nectar of love, immediately sees that nothing will ever be received from objects—receiving is from persons. Therefore he has no difficulty giving things to persons. He can share. He can be charitable. He is no longer a miser. His miserliness is gone. He knows there is no security in love of persons. But love of persons is alive.
Love of things is dead—secured. Just as there is security in a plastic flower. There is no fear of withering. A real rose will bloom in the morning and be gone by evening. There is fear of its fading. But will you roam about with a plastic flower for that reason? Life carries risk. Plastic carries no risk. For years it remains the same. Dust it whenever you wish and it looks fresh.
Real flowers bloom and fade. The very relish of real flowers is that for a moment they rise between life and death. Their reality is that for a moment they transcend death. Surrounded by death on all sides, like a lotus they rise above for a moment. For a moment the proclamation of life rings forth.
This proclamation never happens with plastic flowers. Love of objects is love of plastic flowers. And one who finds real flowers throws the plastic into the trash. He need not renounce things—if love of persons happens, things begin to drop by themselves.
Love of objects was a substitute for love of persons, a makeshift.
One who loves persons does not remain a miser. There is no boredom in his life—there is thrill. There is a zest. A certain swing comes into the step. A small song begins to arise in the throat.
You see the birds singing—these are love’s songs. What has happened to man’s throat? Why can man not pour a koel’s melody? Why can man not call like the papiha? Why…? Tiny birds sing without lessons, without entering any music school, without years of service at a master’s feet. Birds sing—what has happened to man’s song?
Man’s song has been smothered beneath objects. The throat of man is stuffed with things—song cannot pass. If there is love of persons, the blocks at the throat break. A thrill comes, a passion arises. Life feels meaningful. Weariness drops, and it seems life has a savor.
But even love of persons can never be complete—it cannot be. How can two egos dissolve? Each strives for the other to dissolve. The lover wants the beloved’s ego to break and for her to surrender to him.
All lovers are saying that which Krishna said to Arjuna: Mamekam sharanam vraja—abandon all, come to my sole refuge.
Krishna said it; there it is fulfilled. For there was one without ego—void, a great Void. So when Krishna said, abandon all and come to my refuge, there is no obstacle—because Krishna is a great emptiness. Arjuna can drown.
But two lovers also say the same—mamekam sharanam vraja. The husband says to the wife: come to my refuge. The wife says: you come to mine. A thousand strategies go on—hidden, open, conscious, unconscious—so that the other bends and dissolves. Hence love becomes a struggle. Love of persons becomes a struggle.
Therefore you will find a little peace in the life of a miser. But in the life of a lover you will not find peace. You will find thrill, but behind the thrill there will be restlessness. And you will see a continuous struggle—who will dissolve? No one wants to dissolve. No one is prepared. Without surrender, love cannot be complete. Without dissolving, the supreme experience cannot be.
And for whom should one dissolve? Should the husband dissolve for the wife, or the wife for the husband? Society has tried much. Men have told women a thousand times that the husband is God. Husbands have said it. Men have said it: you are a slave. They even write in letters: your slave. But the feeling is nowhere—only the signature at the end. They call the husband master, but their behavior shows nothing of it—only formality.
Man’s effort has been that the woman should bend; woman’s effort has been that man should bend. Man has adopted aggressive means; woman subtler means. They are not aggressive—they are deeper. Man wants to push the head down directly; woman wants to bend by holding the feet—but bend she wants.
And neither feels assured until he or she gets the firm sense that the other has been bent. The danger is that if the other truly bends, the other becomes like a thing. The person disappears.
Therefore, if the wife surrenders utterly to you, your relish in her will be gone. This is why relish in wives goes. If the wife truly bends as you wanted, she becomes a thing.
Hence Hindus said the wife is property. They must have bent her. Those who wrote this had the experience that if the wife bends, she becomes property. Then she is like a cow or an ox—tie, untie, do what you will. Command, she obeys. And when she dies, you bring another wife. The gap can be filled; her place can be replaced. She becomes a car, a house—but no longer a woman. Her person is gone.
A great dilemma. If she does not bend, there is quarrel. But as long as she does not bend, there is attraction. For she is a person, a soul, self-possessed, with her own strength. She has her own individuality. The moment she bends, there is peace—but the attraction to other women rises. And the woman who is hardest to bend seems the greater challenge.
The same is true of man from woman’s side. If the man bends completely, he no longer seems a man to her—he loses status. If he does not bend, the struggle to make him bend continues. For until he bends, she does not feel assured that she has won. There is a struggle for victory with persons. Bending does not fulfill, for with bending the person becomes an object. The very point is lost. And if there is no bending, struggle continues; surrender does not happen.
But one who loves persons becomes indifferent to objects. This is a great happening. He is not possessed by parigraha. And his stance towards God becomes neutral.
Neutral means: he is open towards God. He has not yet decided whether God is or is not—but he is open. In the West this is called agnostic—unresolved. His decision is free. He stands open. He says: it may be so, it may not be so; by searching I will know; I will go and recognize when the time comes.
This is a subtle point; understand it rightly.
In love with persons two states arise. If the person does not bend—there is struggle. If the person bends—he becomes a thing. Neither option is worth choosing. Hence, two things will happen in the lives of those who love persons.
As a young person, one loves persons. By old age, one of two events will have occurred. Either he has been defeated by persons and has begun to love things. Or, based on the little nectar found in persons, he has started the search for God. Either he rises above persons into love of the Great Person, the Whole—or he falls below into love of objects.
These two happenings occur because love of persons always contains two options. In love of persons there is also relish. And there is also struggle. There is pain and there is joy. Love of persons is double. Lovers give joy and they give sorrow too. You all know—if you have loved, both have come through it.
Now it depends on you. If, from persons, your attention dwells on the pain, slowly you will fall into love of things. If your attention dwells on the joy received through persons, slowly you will set out in search of the Great Person. Here begins the need for a guru.
For the miser, a guru is of no use. The miser is afraid of the guru. For to a guru one must surrender—and that is precisely the miser’s fear. He cannot surrender. Therefore if the miser even comes to a guru, he does not surrender himself—he brings a mango, two bananas. This is a trick to escape. He is saying: Take this, Master, leave me alone—that is enough.
You bring bananas and mangoes to a guru! Think a little. If you must bring something, bring yourself. Otherwise, do not come. Nothing less will do. Those gurus who are content with less are just like you; they are not gurus. They are third-rate folk, also in love with things.
A guru wants you. Nothing less will do. Bring only your head. Kabir has said: Whoever has the courage, come—place your head and take all. But placing the head is the condition.
A guru is a death because a guru is a rebirth. Only after death is there rebirth. A guru is a death because a guru is a birth. What fault is it of the banana? What has the banana done to you that you are offering it? Man has always offered other things—sometimes animals, sometimes fruits, sometimes flowers. This is only a contrivance to avoid offering oneself.
Then man devised many devices. He offers a coconut—because it looks like a human head. It is a substitute. It has eyes, beard, mustache—hence in Hindi it is called khopra—skull! He offers that in the temple.
Take your skull.
Man smears vermilion—it is a symbol of blood. Give your blood—what will vermilion do?
Man seeks symbols to save himself.
One who honors these symbols is part of your world. He is a third-rate lover. Guru and disciple both are in the same boat—and both will drown: Sinking himself, the priest also drowned the devotee. The gurus were already drowning—and you climbed aboard!
For the second kind of person, the one who loves persons, the possibility of a guru begins. If only he finds a guru! Otherwise there is danger he will fall into the third, lower love. There was still a chance for him to rise to the first love—the highest. The guru will teach him that the quarrels were not because of love. The quarrels were because of ego. The pain you received from lover or beloved was not because of love; it was because of your ego.
From love you received only joy. That you received any joy at all, despite so much ego—this is the miracle. But because of love no one has ever received sorrow. If you think sorrow came because of love, you will turn to love of things—where there is no sorrow.
But if you understand that the sorrow came because of ego—then how will you surrender ego to another ego? The other ego obstructs surrender; the other ego demands surrender. Only God does not demand surrender.
Where there is no demand, surrender is easy.
From love you received a little joy; if you could surrender wholly, a rain of infinite joy would fall. Clouds of joy are already gathering—they have gathered. Let your heart be a little empty of ego—then the rain will pour.
One moves toward God who has recognized the joy in love—and who has also recognized that the obstacle was himself—his ego. Now he will seek that point where he can drop his ego. With persons how can it be dropped? They are like you—standing on the same level as you.
One is needed who is Vast—so vast that your head can at least reach his feet. If even that happens, it is a great journey begun. One is needed like a Void, who makes no demand, so that you can surrender silently. One who does not say “Bow.” For the moment anyone says “Bow,” your ego begins to resist. It says: Do not bow.
If someone says bow, pride stiffens. Why should I bow? Who is this one to make me bow? Why should I bow before anyone? The strength of ego increases; resentment rises. God does not say to you: Bow. He is a great Void—like the sky. You bow if you wish. And it is easy for ego to bow where there is no demander of bowing.
The third kind of love is love toward God. That love is complete love. For there you bow down. There is no one beforehand to make you bow. God is not a person! If He were, man would never be able to bow. God is the very name of not-being. God has no presence. God is the Absolute Absence. That is why you cannot find Him. Run as you will, fly to the Himalayas, climb Kailash, search in Manasarovar—you will not find Him anywhere. God is a great non-presence, an absence.
He is such that He seems not to be. His being is like non-being. His being is void-like. He is like the sky.
This is why Kabir uses the word akash—sky—again and again. It is God’s nature. Shunya—emptiness—is His nature. He does not make you bow. If you are bowing, no one smiles there—for even that much smiling would stop you. If you are bowing, no one pats your back—for even that much and your stiffness will return: Ah! here too someone is present. Your stiffness will return. The struggle will start again.
There is no way to wrestle with God. He is so hidden—how will you fight? There is no way to attain God. There is only the way to lose yourself. Those who lose, find. Those who set out to gain, never find.
People come to me and say: We want to find God. I tell them: Search, but you will not find. They ask: Why? What is our fault?
The question of fault does not arise. The seeker never finds. The one ready to lose finds. Losing is the way to find Him. For He Himself is lost. Become like Him—and the union happens instantly. Become absent. Let your ego go. Become a nonentity. Become as if you are not—and the union happens in a flash. The inner sky merges with the sky without.
Then the supreme radiance of love manifests. Then love’s Gaurishankar rises. Love is moksha. For love frees you from yourself. Love is the supreme light. For other than your ego there is no darkness. All around the sun has risen—only you have your eyes closed. When they open, there is only light.
When does such a realization dawn? When you have known love of persons and also its failure. When you have known love’s joy and also its pain. Therefore I say again and again: love. Without that love, how will you move toward God? That very love will flavor you for the journey toward God. And that same love will grant you the ease to be free of persons. Love is a very unique art.
But do not love things—otherwise you will be stuck. Love persons. For love of persons will give you taste—yet not let you be satisfied. That is its beauty. Love of persons will moisten your throat—and will not quench the thirst. Rather, thirst will flame more intensely.
Love of persons will give you such a dilemma, will set you at such a crossroads, from where one road goes toward love of things—where the possessor falls and wanders; that is hell. And the other road goes toward heaven—toward God.
I tell my seekers continually: remember one thing—prayer will not begin until your love ripens; until you have known love—and knowing love means knowing its hell and its heaven both. Love’s hell will raise you above love of persons; love’s heaven will take you into love of God.
Now let us try to understand Kabir’s sutras.
Love has fastened upon Your Name; not for a moment is it forgotten.
Turn Your glance of grace now; meet me, O Lord.
When one rises above love of persons and the love of God awakens, then: Love has fastened upon Your Name. There is only news of the Name; as yet there is no news of Him. As yet that Beloved has not been seen. If He were to come, one would not even recognize Him. Recognition would not arise. As yet there is only news of the Beloved—a whiff on the wind has arrived.
Love has fastened upon Your Name...
As yet only the Name is heard. Even that through Ramananda. But such a happening is happening around Ramananda that trust arises that the Name must belong to someone indeed. One will have to seek Him.
Someone asked the Buddha: Will enlightenment happen by hearing you? By understanding you? Buddha said: No. By hearing the Buddhas only thirst arises. Enlightenment happens by meeting Truth—by meeting God. Near Buddhas, only pain arises, separation arises. The heart fills with sobbing. Tears glisten in the eyes. An unknown call, an invitation whose direction is yet unrecognized; a path on which feet have never walked begins to beckon. And such a longing arises—Pal bisre nahi—not forgotten for even a moment.
Love has fastened upon Your Name; not for a moment is it forgotten.
Turn Your glance of grace now; meet me, O Lord.
Now enough. Now let a little compassion shower on this side too. Turn Your glance of grace. Let me be graced. Now meet me, O Lord. Enough of separation.
The day the first mood of separation arises—separation means: it seems that without attaining God nothing is meaningful; it seems that everything is worth staking, but God must be attained; it seems I am ready to lose myself, but I am no longer willing to go on losing You. I am ready to pay all, but union with You must happen. The day life and death are staked thus—the day we live, we live for Him; and if we die, we die for Him—on that day not even for a moment does His remembrance fade.
Even in sleep the lover remembers the beloved. Ghalib has a verse: I do not shut my eyes at night—who knows, at that very moment You may arrive? Lest I be asleep while You knock and You turn back.
Great restlessness becomes the lover’s state. Leaves rustle—perhaps the beloved has come. A gust passes through the trees—the lover opens the door: perhaps the arrival has happened. A passerby’s footsteps sound—the lover runs out: perhaps he has come.
Love has fastened upon Your Name; not for a moment is it forgotten.
Turn Your glance of grace now; meet me, O Lord.
Separation torments me; my life writhes.
I long to behold You; morning has come with the Master.
Separation torments me; my life writhes.
The life-breath writhes for You. Breath moves for You. There is no rest even for a moment. The remembrance pricks like a thorn in the heart. A sweet pain encircles—there is no way out of it. What does the one struck by separation do? He weeps, he sings. In his weeping you will find song; in his song you will find weeping. He laughs—within his laughter you will find tears. Tears drop—in his tears you will find a smile.
For in one sense he is delighted that separation has arisen—for half the union has happened. Separation is half union. It is good fortune that separation has arisen. At least the journey has begun. The path has been found. However far the temple, the golden spire gleams in the sky. Hope is born; trust comes. The devotee starts to run.
Separation torments me; my life writhes.
I long to behold You...
…only one longing remains. All desires have poured into one, as all rivers pour into one ocean—that is: the longing to see You.
…morning has come with the Master.
Morning has come. Now there is no darkness. Everything is visible. Now there is only one wish: in this light, You also appear.
This is the state of dhyana—meditation. The light has dawned, but Samadhi has not borne fruit. There is light, morning has come, but the sun has not yet risen. Night has gone; darkness is no more; it is morning—sabera—but the sun is yet to appear. His darshan is not yet.
That middle period—the time between the going of night and the coming of the sun—that sandhya has been made by Hindus the time of prayer. For it is the symbol of meditation. Therefore the Hindus call prayer sandhya—twilight. Night has gone, day has not yet come. That middle period—morning or evening—both are sandhya. Meditation is a state of twilight. Hence Hindus have named meditation itself sandhya. Rightly so. In meditation there is light, but there is not yet the vision of the Lord. The sun has not yet risen.
Kabir says:
Separation torments me; my life writhes.
I long to behold You; morning has come with the Master.
Morning has come—now appear.
The eyes yearn for a glimpse; the eyelids refuse to close.
The wound bound with longing for Your vision keeps me awake night and day.
Now in the eyes there is only one thirst, one ache—
The eyes yearn for a glimpse…
May Your darshan be. May You be seen. May the eyes, hungry for lives upon lives, be fulfilled. These eyes, parched for lives upon lives, be filled with You. May they absorb You into themselves.
…The eyelids refuse to close.
From fear the eyelids do not blink—who knows, I blink here and You arrive there; the opportunity may be missed. One is afraid even to blink. A moment—who knows, it may be the moment of meeting.
The wound bound with longing for Your vision…
The one bound by the pain of seeing—
…keeps me awake night and day.
He does not sleep. He has no convenience of sleep. He stays awake—day and night. Who knows when His coming will be! When His chariot may halt at the door! Lest He find me asleep.
The meditative state is constant wakefulness. A continuous effort to remain awake.
If now the Beloved be met, I will not part even for a blink.
Now that Kabir has found the guru, the Beloved of his life is found.
If now the Beloved be met…
These words are unique. Kabir says: If now the Beloved be met. He says: You must have met me before too. Without my knowing, You must have met. You must have flowed in my breath before as well—how else life? But I was asleep. You must have come to my door many times too—for how could You forget me? I am Yours. However far I may have wandered, like a shadow You must have followed me. But I had no recognition of You. In countless forms You must have come. I saw the forms, but not You. You must have smiled in the flower; I did not see—I was blind. You must have bloomed in the trees; I was heedless. Through human eyes You must have peered at me—but I thought only: these are human eyes. Therefore Kabir says: If now the Beloved be met…
He does not say this is the first meeting that will be. He does not say the meeting is new. We cannot be without God. Our being is His being. As fish cannot be without the ocean—born in the ocean, living in the ocean, dissolving in the ocean—so we are in the ocean of God. Consciousness is the fish; God is the ocean. Consciousness cannot be without God. We are conscious.
Therefore Kabir does not say this is the first meeting. He says: We must have met many times—but I was unconscious, asleep, intoxicated. You must have come. Forgive those mistakes.
If now the Beloved be met…
But now one thing is certain: if this time there is meeting—if now I can recognize You—if, anywhere, beside any moon or star, I catch Your shadow, I will seize You. Now I will not let go.
…I will not part even for a blink.
Not for a single moment will I be separate from You. I will not separate You. I will become Your shadow.
Now that Kabir has found the guru…
And now there is trust—because the guru is found. There is no fear now. You will not be able to hide for long. However much You conceal, You will not be able to. However many veils You wear—Now that Kabir has found the guru. I am no longer alone. Now there is One who recognizes You and is with me. There is One who knows You well, whom You cannot deceive, from whom You cannot hide. He is with me, my hand is in someone’s hand.
Now that Kabir has found the guru, the Beloved of his life is found.
Now the life-beloved is found. Consider that He is found.
To find the guru is to find the gate of God. To find the guru is to find the guru-dwara—the guru’s door. To find the guru is to find the support. Now someone has held your hand. You no longer wander in the dark. You no longer grope in the dark. There is someone whose eyes are open and who lives in perfect light.
If now the Beloved be met, I will not part even for a blink.
Now that Kabir has found the guru, the Beloved of his life is found.
Having found the guru, in essence He is found. That is why the guru has been discussed so much in this land—as if without the guru nothing is possible, as if without the guru there is no way.
Why has the guru become so important in this land? Because whoever found, found always at the guru’s door; peered through the guru’s eyes; touched through the guru’s hands; beat within the guru’s heart.
If now the Beloved be met, I will not part even for a blink.
Now that Kabir has found the guru, the Beloved of his life is found.
Enough for today.