Kahe Kabir Main Pura Paya #1

Hard roads
that have become a snarl of tangled threads, a skein,
care not for the fierce downpour of colors—
that wild rain which, in the pre-dawn dark,
dances on the trembling white lips of a temple-maiden.
Their destination is not that evening of grief which,
with a soiled platter in hand,
crawls from traveler to traveler, begging—through tears—
for a drop of blood.
Blazing stars, tender prayers, distribute alms
from quivering hands.
Hard roads that step forward, strike a pose—
and turn back;
turn back and change their side.
The dense night stands lost, wrapped in her black shawl—
she thinks:
On this blind earth, dull-eyed and veiled by eddies,
may some straight white path emerge and shine,
so the night’s traveler may leap toward it.
This traveler of the night,
flowing with the current of time,
has taken on the shape of a whirlpool—
surrounded by a thousand roads.

It is night—dark night. And the roads are all badly entangled.
Man is trapped in this tangle. He knows not from where he comes, nor where he goes. He knows not which road to choose, or how to choose. No touchstone in the hand. No companioning light.

Hard roads that step forward, strike a pose—and turn back;
turn back and change their side.
And sometimes a road looks right; but after just a short distance it changes—turns; its side changes. What was, becomes something else.

Hard roads
that have become a skein of tangled threads—
the more you try to untie, the more the skein snarls; no way to set it straight seems to exist. And the night is very dark.

The dense night stands lost, wrapped in her black shawl,
she thinks—
On this dull earth, blind-eyed with whirlpools,
there is not a hint of light. The seeker gropes and collides; his eyes have filled with tears.
On this dull earth, blind-eyed with whirlpools,
if only some straight white path would rise and gleam,
the night’s traveler would race that way.
If only a white, straight path could be seen. If only a simple corridor would appear, the traveler would leap.

This traveler of the night,
flowing along the current of time, has taken on the shape of a whirlpool,
surrounded by a thousand roads!

Nor is it that this traveler has begun only today—he has been walking for births upon births. Who knows for how many lives! From beginningless time he has walked. In the walking he has been entangled. He has walked so far, on so many roads, that the aggregate result of all those roads has become, within him, a skein of tangled threads.

This is true: the night is dark and the roads are tangled. But the other thing is also true: however dark, however blind the earth may be, if you lift your eyes to the sky, the stars are always there. Man may not carry light in his hand, but light is forever in the sky. One should raise the eyes upward.

So it never happens—indeed it cannot happen; such is not the arrangement of existence—that however hidden Paramatma may be, he sends hints. And even if Paramatma is not visible, those who truly wish to see, see. Those who have resolved to seek—seekers with total shraddha, sankalpa, and samarpan—find their way. To begin the journey once with total trust, resolve, and surrender is to cease wandering. The path appears. The very descent of such paths upon the earth is what we call the presence of a saint—of the Sadguru.

For some days now we shall journey with a supreme Sadguru—Kabir. Kabir’s path is utterly straight and clear. Few have a way so direct. Twisted talk does not please Kabir. Hence the name of his path: Sahaj Yoga—the Yoga of the simple, the effortless. So simple that even an innocent child can walk. In truth, so sahaj that only an innocent child can walk it. The pandit will not manage, nor the so‑called “knower.” Only a stainless heart, a blank page, can move upon it.

This first thing about Kabir must be understood. There, scholarship has no meaning. Kabir himself is no pandit. He has said: “Masi kagad chhuyo nahin, kalam nahin gahi haath.” He never touched ink and paper, never held a pen. “Likha‑likhi ki hai nahin, dekha‑dekhi baat,” says Kabir. He spoke only what he saw. He said only what he tasted. Nothing borrowed.

Kabir’s words are unique; not a trace of staleness. A star as radiant as Kabir is rarely found.

Among saints, none can be set alongside Kabir. All saints are lovely and wondrous; yet Kabir is wondrous among the wondrous—without peer.

His supreme uniqueness is precisely this: not the slightest borrowing. He speaks from his own swanubhava. Hence the path is straight, clean. And because Kabir is not a scholar, there is no entangling in doctrines.

Kabir does not traffic in grand words. He uses the small words of life—so all may understand. But with those small words he has built such a temple that even the Taj Mahal pales.

One who once falls in love with Kabir will find no other saint to his taste—and if one does, it will be because there is an echo of Kabir in him. One who has recognized Kabir will not forget that face.

Thousands of saints have been, yet they all seem like reflections of Kabir; Kabir appears as the original. Others have spoken from knowing; Kabir too has spoken from knowing—but the mode of his saying, the swing, the ecstasy—are unparalleled. Such fearlessness, such courage, such a rebel’s voice—belongs to none other.

Kabir is a revolutionary—Kabir is a blazing image of revolution. We shall walk with Kabir these few days—and again we shall walk with Kabir. Kabir cannot be exhausted. However much you speak, there remains more to say. He has not spoken in knots; he has spoken simply and plainly. But it often happens that the simple and plain is the hardest to understand. We have become skillful in grasping the difficult—because we are owners of words, of shastras. It is the simple and plain we miss. We miss it because we fail to fulfill the first requirement for understanding the simple: that we ourselves be simple and plain.

The complex we can understand, for we are complex. The simple eludes us, for we are not simple. You can only understand that which you are; otherwise, how?

So I speak on Kabir again and again; I choose him over and over. I shall keep choosing him ahead. Kabir is like an ocean—draw as much as you will, it makes no difference.

A few things about Kabir will be useful to grasp.

First, it is not settled whether Kabir was Hindu or Muslim. And this is immensely significant. About a saint it can never be settled—Hindu or Muslim. If it is settled, he is no longer a saint; he is worth two pennies.

When you say, “A Jain saint has come to the village,” or “A Hindu saint has arrived,” you insult saintliness. And if the “Jain saint” himself accepts that he is a Jain saint, he is not yet a saint. “Saint” and an adjective? Jain, Hindu, Muslim? Even as a saint will you still carry such petty labels? Will you never come out of boundaries? You left home, left society; but the samskaras given by society you did not leave. The house of your birth was Jain—you left it; but you remain Jain—even after becoming a saint! Somewhere the arrow missed the mark; your labor went in vain.

To be a saint is to belong no more to Hindu, nor to Muslim, nor to Christian. Saint means: you have become of the Truth—how can you belong to a sect? Saint means: you have become of Dharma—how can you belong to paths and cults?

Regarding Kabir the matter is very clear: nothing will sit down as settled—Hindu or Muslim. Hindus claim: he was Hindu; Muslims claim: he was Muslim. This is delightful. Whenever a saint appears, it will be so: Hindus will claim him, Muslims will claim him, Christians will claim him. Christians will see Jesus in Kabir; Muslims will see Muhammad; Hindus will find Krishna; Buddhists will glimpse the Buddha.

A saint is a mirror: whatever feeling-state you bring, that it will reflect. This is the case with all saints—and should be. But Kabir’s very birth is wrapped in mystery. Sweet stories abound. Perhaps concocted, yet still meaningful.

Hindus say: a widow touched the feet of Saint Ramananda. Ramananda, in his ecstasy, did not notice who touched his feet. A woman, veiled perhaps; he neither saw the face nor the clothes; and he gave a blessing. Saints bless without looking—he who blesses after seeing is no saint. He who gives when asked is no saint. The saint is benediction. His very being is a blessing. Blessings keep raining around him. He blessed: “May you be son‑bearing.” But she was a widow—now trouble!

The story is sweet. Whether it happened or not is not the point. History has no value for me. For me, what matters are the eternal truths.

The eternal truth here is: a saint does not bless only when asked; nor does he bless by discriminating. A saint blesses as he breathes. Besides blessing, he has nothing to give. Blessing is his light. Blessing is his fragrance. Blessing is his very breath.

He blessed the widow: “May you be son‑bearing.” That blessing too has meaning. Until a woman becomes a mother, something remains incomplete. For a man, becoming a father changes little—it is formal, institutional. A woman’s becoming a mother is not formal; it is vital. The man’s role in birth is distant, almost negligible; but the woman’s is not. She carries the child in her womb; she pours out her life. Then she raises him. A long sadhana.

So when a woman does not become a mother, something is incomplete; a certain emptiness persists; a fullness is lacking. Hence in this land saints have blessed, “May you be son‑bearing!”

He blessed without noticing that she was a widow, in white garments, without bangles, without the mark upon the forehead. He could have at least looked!

The story continues: when a saint blesses, it must come to pass. A saint’s blessing cannot go empty. This too is to be understood.

Every sound that rises from Truth cannot go in vain. The arrow loosed from Truth will hit the mark. And if a saint utters it, existence must fulfill it—because the saint speaks not from himself, not from ahamkara; he speaks from egolessness. Indeed, the saint does not speak; Paramatma speaks through him. The saint is the flute in the hands of God.

She was a widow; she could not marry. The saint had blessed, so a child was born. Hence the name “Kabir.” Hindus say: because the child was born by the widow’s hands—through her “kar”—he was called “Kar-vir,” later Kabir. Mere symbolic event—do not take it as history. Children are not born from hands!

As for Jesus—born of the Virgin Mary; no one is born of a virgin biologically. Yet it may be that Mary was so pure, so immaculate, that her virginity is of the spirit. The announcement touches her inner innocence. Virginity means untainted feeling.

And for one like Jesus to be born, an ordinary mother will not do. A rare woman is needed. The fruit reveals the tree. By Jesus we can sense Mary’s uniqueness.

Thus unusual stories gather around all saints. The stories are not the value; but the saint is so extraordinary that we cannot accept he was born as others are.

These stories bear witness to that ache.

We cannot accept that Jesus came the same way as everyone—or Kabir either. Kabir must arrive differently. Kabir is so unique, his advent must be unique. We cannot accept that Kabir came by the well-trodden paths of others—hence the stories.

But Muslims have their own tale. And the word “Kabir” seems more meaningful there than the Hindu “kar-vir.” That latter appears a reverse‑engineered invention. In the Qur’an, “Al‑Kabir” is one of Allah’s names. So Muslims say: Kabir is a name of Allah—not “kar-vir.” This man is the living image of Allah—therefore Kabir.

Be that as it may, Kabir’s birth lies veiled in mystery.

Neeru the weaver and his wife Neema… They were returning. Neeru had just brought his bride home and was on his way toward Kashi. Near the Lehartara pond, he stopped to wash his hands and feet, and heard the sound of crying in a nearby thicket. He ran and found a child.

Neeru had never seen a child so beautiful. Eyes like jewels—such light in those eyes! And around him a halo of radiance. The ordinary thicket seemed filled with a strange bliss, deep peace and joy.

Neema was afraid: “There will be trouble, what will people say?” But when she saw the child, her heart melted. They took Kabir home. Perhaps here the two stories meet: perhaps he was born to the widow and left near the pond; and Neeru and Neema, Muslims, raised him.

It seems Kabir was born in a Hindu household and reared in a Muslim one. A unique confluence arose—an exquisite harmony.

Hindu and Muslim cultures blended in Kabir in a way even the Ganga and Yamuna do not quite manage at Prayag; there their waters still seem distinct. In Kabir no trace of separation remains.

Kabir’s confluence seems deeper than Prayag’s; in him Qur’an and Veda dissolved—no line remains.

The tale is mysterious, and more strands attach. Ramananda must have had a hand—either his blessing brought forth the widow’s child, or the child was born and Ramananda’s compassion fell upon the widow and the child. Though perhaps the child was abandoned, Ramananda kept him in his care inwardly. Thus Neeru and Neema provided the full breadth of Muslim culture; and Ramananda’s juice preserved the Hindu flavor. The two merged and became one.

When Kabir came of age, naturally he wished to be Ramananda’s disciple. But there was a hitch, for the world took him to be Muslim. How could Ramananda initiate a Muslim? Ramananda’s disciples objected strongly. Then comes a sweet incident: Kabir found a way.

When a disciple truly seeks the Guru, he finds him. Arrangements, formalities, etiquette, social rules—all fall aside.

At dawn by the riverbank, Kabir lay wrapped in a blanket upon Ramananda’s path. In the dark, nearing five in the morning, Ramananda came for his bath. His foot struck someone in the way—someone cried out. From Ramananda’s mouth the words sprang: “Ram Ram!” Kabir seized his feet: “You have given the mantra—now bless me!” Thus he took the mantra. This is called being a khoji—a true seeker, a mumukshu!

The Guru was evading; the system was unfavorable; society was opposed. Yet he had to receive the mantra, the Guru’s word, the Guru’s blessing.

In Egypt there’s an old saying: until the disciple is ready to steal from the Guru, nothing is gained. With Kabir it is strikingly apt: he stole from the Guru. Ramananda said “Ram Ram” carelessly—his foot had hurt someone; who knew who it was? “Ram Ram” must have slipped out. But Kabir caught his feet: “Now give the blessing—since you have given the mantra!” Thus Kabir was initiated.

Kabir has said: “Kashi mein hum prakat bhae hain, Ramananda chetae.” That much mantra—and Kabir says, “He awakened me!” No more concern. Enough—Ram Ram. One “Ram” would have sufficed; he said it twice—what more is needed? He awakened me. “In Kashi I was made manifest; Ramananda awakened me.”

The debate trailed through Kabir’s life: Hindu or Muslim? Muslims worshiped him; Hindus worshiped him. But the small intellect keeps quarreling. It went on and on—till death.

When Kabir died, the body lay covered with the shroud. Hindus said, “We will cremate.” Muslims said, “We will bury.” Think—people could remain with one like Kabir and still miss! Even blindness has a limit—yet people break even that. They were with Kabir, they loved Kabir, and still did not understand! They bathed in Kabir’s confluence all their lives, and no filth was washed away. At the time of death, the quarrel flared. The body lay there and the disciples wrangled—burn or bury? When the shroud was lifted—Kabir was not there; only flowers remained.

This too is a symbolic tale. I do not say it happened. I have no insistence on miracles. But the tales have meaning—more value than miracles. Miracles do not polish your intelligence; they cloud it. Do not get caught in miracle-talk. Understand thus: a saint’s life is like flowers. He leaves flowers behind—he leaves fragrance. That is all.

A saint’s life is subtle, not gross. Not like stones—like flowers: here now, gone now.

To understand a saint, understand the state of a flower: how delicate! And yet how alive! It lasts a moment, yet in that very moment gives you a glimpse of the eternal. It is for a moment—now here, now finished; morning—no evening. But in that little while it becomes a symbol of the Divine; it flashes the beauty of Paramatma.

A few flowers remained. After every saint, some flowers remain. Do not quarrel over flowers. What is a quarrel over flowers? Fill your nostrils with as much fragrance as you can. Carry those flowers into your very life-breath. For the one who carries them within, his inner flower will bloom. Do not engage in hollow disputes.

But man is man. They divided the flowers. “No matter—there must be partition.” Half the flowers were burnt, half were buried. Flowers should be neither burnt nor buried. That is abuse of flowers—but that is what happened.

These are tales of man’s blindness and folly. To this day, in Maghar, in that small place, half is a grave and half is a samadhi. In the same little house, Muslims made a grave where they buried their share of flowers; Hindus made a samadhi where they burned theirs; between them stands a high wall.

Kabir joined—his disciples split. Kabir united Ganga and Yamuna—his disciples re-divided them.

If you would understand someone like Kabir, then with all the stories attached to him, search for their psychological meaning—not historical. Seek what inner element they might convey.

The pandits of Kashi were offended. Tell a pandit, “Pandit vad badante jhootha”—that scholars’ disputations are false—if they do not get angry, what else would they do? That they are jabberers—caught in futile debate and word-pulling, in hair-splitting. Hindu pandits were angry; Muslim maulvis too.

Together they petitioned Sikandar Lodi, then king, that Kabir be punished. The offense was the same as saints have always committed. Sikandar asked, “What is the crime?” They said: he claims he is God. “Kahai Kabir, main poora paya”—he has attained the whole, not a grain left out. He proclaims as the Upanishads proclaim: Aham Brahmasmi! As Mansur proclaimed: Ana’l‑Haqq!—I am the Truth!

They inflamed Sikandar Lodi. You will be surprised to know: the pandit and the politician have always had an alliance. The priest—pandit, maulvi—and the ruler have always colluded in a single conspiracy: somehow Religion should not take root upon the earth. For Religion burns up the ego—of priest and politician both. Before Religion can burn them, naturally they are ready to burn Religion.

So the story goes: Kabir was thrown into fire. Sikandar consented; Kabir was cast into flames. The fire could not burn him. Know only this: Truth cannot be burned. As Krishna says in the Gita: “Nainam chhindanti shastrani, nainam dahati pavakah.” No weapon can cut me; no fire can burn me. Understand thus. Do not think Kabir did some conjurer’s trick. These are symbols.

To be thrown into fire does not mean logs and oil. It means: they hurled abuses, heaped insults, spread slanders—flames of every sort. They surrounded Kabir with those blaze-like rumors. All were offended.

And the irony is: all get offended by saints—precisely those who should be delighted. They chop at their own feet.

Do not imagine they piled wood; the “fire” means they tried every way to burn him—somehow Kabir would be agitated, would blister within, would become angry; he would answer abuse with abuse—then they would win. But Kabir’s peace remained unbroken; his silence uncut. The flow of his love moved on. His prayer was not disturbed.

They say a mad elephant was unleashed upon him. But before him the elephant halted; bowed in namaskar. Mad elephants are less mad than your so‑called sensible people. Understand only this.

Nor is this story new, or attached only to Kabir. It is attached to others too—even to the Buddha. The meaning is only that mad animals are more intelligent than your so‑called scholars, priests, politicians, kings—and than you.

They let loose a mad elephant; he stopped short. He must have seen Kabir—this luminous presence, this flame, this light, this fragrance, this supreme beauty, this blossomed lotus—and he halted.

Such beauty appears sometimes. Man does not see it—because man is Hindu or Muslim or Christian or Jain. Curtains of doctrines cover his eyes. The elephant is not Hindu, not Muslim, not Christian. No scripture sits upon his head; no web of words. Innocent eyes—hence he saw, hence he recognized.

Often animals recognize—and men do not.

Around Saint Francis many stories run: animals recognized him, men did not. For animal means: simplicity; man means: complexity. Man may not appear mad and yet is mad; the animal may be mad, yet retains some sanity.

Meditate on these stories. Do not take them merely as stories.

There are two kinds of people. One says, “Yes, it happened.” Naive—they insist on history: an elephant truly was released and truly halted. I am not pleased with such. They miss the dignity of saints and get entangled in trifles. Because of them a second camp arises: “How could such be?”—and then the useless dispute.

I want to take you beyond this dispute. These stories are pointers—bodh‑kathas. They hide great symbols; open them, and you will taste their nectar. The nectar is this: man is madder than mad elephants. And also: the crowd was maddened—stirred up by priests, inflamed with cries of “Hindu Dharma is in danger; Islam is in danger; scriptures will be drowned; this man dares to claim he is God!” Such people were incited; the mob heated—this is the meaning.

Think on it—and feel ashamed. See whether it is not happening in you too. These are eternal tales—hence they recur in every saint’s life.

Western scholars grow puzzled: how can the same story occur in the lives of Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna, Christ, Socrates? They conclude the stories are false, invented. But I tell you: the same thing happens with every saint—not the story, but the pattern. For man has not changed. The bullock cart is gone; the jet has come. Man walks not only upon earth but upon the moon—but man is the same. If Buddha came, you would again abuse; if Jesus came, you would again crucify; if Socrates came, you would again give hemlock. Your consciousness has undergone no qualitative revolution. Your surroundings have changed; you have not. Hence the tale is the same—because man is the same.

Now understand Kabir’s utterances—

“Pandit vad badante jhootha.”
He says: disputations are false.

Ordinarily we think: if two are disputing, one is right, one wrong. The one who agrees with you is right; the one who does not is wrong—as if you are the touchstone of truth! If Hindu and Muslim quarrel and you are Hindu, you say Hindus are right; if Muslim, then Muslims.

But Kabir says: the very disputation is false. When two quarrel, neither disputant is right. The quarrel is wrong. Only the blind and unwise dispute. Dispute means tugging at words; weaving nets of logic—as if by arranging words and marshaling arguments we could decide Truth.

Truth is experienced; it is not decided. Truth is not a puzzle of mathematics. Truth is an experience of life—like love.

What dispute can you raise about love? If a man says, “I love this woman—there is no woman more beautiful,” do you argue? Do you say, “Hold on! With my wife alive, how can you say such?” No—you understand. He is not proclaiming a scientific proposition; he is saying: “As for me, none appears more beautiful.” He speaks his experience. It is a poetic truth, a taste.

If someone says, “To me the rose is most beautiful,” you do not object: “But look at the lotus! I will not let such falsehood pass.” You say, “All right—matter of taste.”

But when someone says, “No one is dearer than Krishna,” you leap to fight: “I am Muslim, I am Jain, I am Buddhist. What is there in Krishna? Look at Mahavira! Look at the Buddha!” There you commit the same mistake. Kabir says: truth is not reached by disputation. Hence the wise do not dispute.

The energy you spend in disputing could know Truth. The labor with which you become a pandit could give birth to prajna. The effort you pour into collecting scriptural junk—by less than that, Paramatma could arrive at your door.

Not panditya, but prayer. Not argument, but experience.

“Pandit vad badante jhootha.
Ram kahya duniya gati paave,
…khand kahya mukh meetha.”

If saying “Ram, Ram” brought liberation—if mere repetition of “Ram, Ram” gave moksha—then saying “sugar” would sweeten the mouth.

“Pavak kahya paanv te daajhai…
…jal kahi trisha bujhai.”

If saying “fire” burned the feet; if saying “water” quenched thirst… We know it does not. In fact, saying “water” can stir thirst you had forgotten.

You are listening now; you may not remember thirst. If someone says, “Cool water,” thirst will not vanish; it will arise.

Repeating “Ram, Ram” does not bring Ram. At most it can awaken thirst: “I have not yet found Ram; what shall I do? How can I find?” Thirst can arise; thirst cannot be quenched.

But there are people who imagine that chattering “Ram, Ram” will reach the goal.

“Ram kahya duniya gati paave…”
Then the whole world would be liberated. For what does it take to say “Ram”? It costs nothing. You can mutter anytime.

People keep a mala; run a shop and run the mala too. Hide the mala in the bag lest someone’s evil eye fall! One hand turns the beads while the other picks pockets—Ram on the lips, knife in the armpit! Saying Ram costs nothing; effort is little; it becomes mechanical.

“Bhojan kahya bhukh je bhajai…”
If saying “food” removed hunger, all would cross.

Then it is very cheap. No step required; no change in life; no need to beautify life or purify it; no sadhana.

Kabir says: do not spread such falsehoods, O pandits! Do not teach people, “Just chant Ram, Ram and all will be done.” You have invented such tales that Ajamila, dying, called out to his son Narayan—his son’s name was Narayan—and the Narayan above thought, “He calls me!” Dying while calling his son—he attained liberation! This is the limit!

“Pandit vad badante jhootha.”
Even falsehood should have limits. Have a little shame. You have even deceived God! And Ajamila was a sinner, a thief, a murderer—everything was washed away. And he did not even call Ram; he was calling his son—for what, who knows? Most likely to instruct him in the tricks of theft and murder. A man, dying, tells what he knows. He had sinned all his life—so he would pass the keys to his son. “I got caught once—do not repeat that mistake. If you steal, beware. If you kill, leave no prints. I was trapped—or nearly. Be careful.” He would reveal what he had hidden: where the king’s treasure is buried; which enemies he failed to kill—“Son, you must finish them. Fulfill my ambition.”

I heard of a man about to die. A great troublemaker, court was his temple—he lived for litigation, suing the whole village. As he lay dying, he called his sons close. The older three stood far; they knew their father. The youngest, naive, came near: “Speak—we will certainly fulfill your last wish.” He whispered, “These three are scoundrels. My blood flows in them and they do not bow—do not come near. You are my true son. Do one thing: when I die, cut my body into pieces and throw them into the neighbors’ houses. My soul will be delighted to watch them bound in chains, dragged to court. Throw the limbs; file a report that my father has been murdered. When they are all tied and taken, my soul will ascend to heaven rejoicing: ‘See, they go!’”

Ajamila must have been such. Expect no more. But the pandits crafted a lovely tale—and on such fables they deceive men. They offer toys.

The pandit cannot give the real—Truth he cannot give; Ram he cannot give. He can give the word “Ram.” Only one who has known can give Ram.

Nabhaji writes in the Bhaktamal about Kabir: “Aarudh dasha bhai, jagat par‑mukh dekhi nahin bhani.” Kabir spoke only seated in that state. “He did not repeat others’ words, nor others’ visions. He himself was established in that dasha—then he spoke.”

The pandit is not established there. He is as far as the sinner—often farther. I have searched for a tale that a pandit, like Ajamila, was saved; none could invent it. A sinner—perhaps; but no pandit was imagined to attain by calling his son “Narayan” and being mistaken by God. Even pandits lacked courage to invent such—Ajamila they somehow dispatched, but not the pandit.

In my view, a sinner may perhaps arrive; the pandit never. Because the sinner may some day repent; it is unlikely a sinner will never repent. When you sin, your inner being always whispers: Don’t! Even while sinning you are never wholly in it; your innermost remains outside, pleading: Stop! Although its voice is faint and your habits thunder loudly; whether you hear is another matter. But the inner always warns: you will regret.

No sinner is so lost he hears nothing—Paramatma keeps hope in you: today or tomorrow you will awaken. He keeps calling.

But the pandit does not repent. Why should he? He imagines he has done great merit—immersed in scriptures, chanting Ram. How will he repent? And the one who will not repent will not reach—because he will not bow; he will not surrender.

The pandit is filled with ego. What pride can a sinner have? He has no temple built, no mosques, no dharmashalas. He has plundered and killed—what ornaments for his pride? His ego bears wounds, not decorations.

The pandit is well-adorned. So the tapasvin, the sadhu—he is decorated. To be freed from a decorated ego is very difficult.

So I am ready to grant that Ajamila might have been saved—but a pandit? Never.

“Pandit vad badante jhootha.
Bhojan kahya bhukh je bhajai, to sab koi tiri jai.”

“Nar ke sang suva Hari bolai, Hari prataap na janai.”

You have seen: living among men, even a parrot learns to say “Hari, Hari.” It repeats what you repeat. But by repetition, the parrot gains no sense of Hari’s majesty. A parrot may chant “Hari, Hari” for a lifetime—it does not become a saint. Have you heard of any parrot becoming a Buddha?

And the pandit is a parrot—nothing more. He knows nothing of Hari’s pratap—only the one who enters that state knows; only one established in samadhi; only by taste does the glory unfold. Then it grows denser; however much you dance and sing, it is not exhausted; expression fails. An incomparable rain of amrit pours. But this is known only when you enter Hari and Hari enters you. Remaining a parrot—it will not happen.

“Nar ke sang suva Hari bolai, Hari prataap na janai.
Jo kabahuin udi jaye jangal mein, bahuri na suratain aanai.”

And if by chance the parrot escapes the cage into the jungle, it will not even remember to say “Hari.” Why should it? What has it to do with Hari?

“…bahuri na suratain aanai.”
No remembrance—no smaran. Sitting there it will not say “Hari, Hari.” It got caught in human affairs—so it repeated.

So with the pandit—entangled in shastras, repeating “Hari.” Mechanical. But such externally induced effects are worthless if they do not become your own radiance. Mere samskaras will not liberate you.

“Binu dekhe, binu aras‑paras binu, naam liye ka hoi?”

This word is very dear. “Binu dekhe”—without seeing, how will you know his glory? Your eyes must be filled—with him; your heart must be filled—with him; there must be touch—aras‑paras. Without darshan, nothing will be. Do not sit resting on belief; belief is a deception. “Pandit vad badante jhootha.” Know—experience. If you rest on belief, you will lament.

People come and say, “We believe God exists.” What will believing do? Your believing itself shows you do not know. We “believe” precisely what we do not know. What we know we do not say, “We believe.” You do not say, “We believe these green trees stand here.” You say, “We know.” The sun is risen—you do not say, “We believe the sun has risen”; you say, “We know.” Only a blind man will say, “We believe the sun has risen.”

Belief belongs to the unknown; knowing is the point. Why do you believe God exists? Mostly from fear—of death, of helplessness. From fear prayer does not arise; from fear lust arises. Where there is fear, there is no bridge.

In temples and mosques people are praying, bowing. Look within: only the body bows; the ego does not. It may even be that while bowing they look to see who sees them—how devoted they appear. “I perform five namaz a day; these sinners barely manage one—I have not missed for years. Let the crowd see how much I worship!”—ego again.

“Your fragrance bewitches the mind,” someone said to a flower. “Such a sweet scent—none in the world can be more perfumed than you.”

The flower replied, “No, not so. The earth’s scent is far superior. I am nothing. Whatever little fragrance is in me comes from the earth—and there, fragrance is endless.”

Asked thus, the earth said, “What am I? Nothing. The real fragrance is in the cloud. When the cloud rains, his scent soaks into me. Without the cloud, I am dry—desert. Look at the monsoon clouds that gather in the sky—if you want to see fragrance, see theirs! What is there in me?”

The cloud, when asked, gestured to Indra: “What am I? His command! All happens at his signal. In his finger is such fragrance that when he points, scent spreads.”

Indra pointed to Vishnu: “He holds all; he sustains me too. Whatever fragrance is—his.”

Vishnu referred to Brahma: “What could I sustain if Brahma had not created? He created all; all fragrance is his.”

When Brahma was asked, he said, “The most fragrant must be man, for my glory is only that I created man. What other glory do I have?”

Naturally, the painter’s glory is his painting, the poet’s his poem, the sculptor’s his sculpture. “Look at man—there fragrance dwells!” said Brahma.

When man was asked, he stiffened with pride: “Fool! Can any be more fragrant than I? I am the supreme fragrance!”

Now you can tell where fragrance lives. Fragrance is always in egolessness. It was in the flower, in the earth, in the cloud, in Indra, in Vishnu, in Brahma. Man became odorless—with the ego that shouts, “I am the supreme fragrance!” Pride stinks; egolessness perfumes. If your worship, prayer, tapas only ornament your ego, they are hollow.

“Pandit vad badante jhootha.
Binu dekhe, binu aras‑paras binu…
…naam liye ka hoi?”

You must see the Beloved. Eyes into eyes—you must see. His form must sink inside—into every pore, every heartbeat—so you can say: I have known; I have seen. Without touch—aras‑paras—what will mere “Ram, Ram” do?

“Ram kahya duniya gati paave, khand kahya mukh meetha.”

“Pandit vad badante jhootha.”

Empty chatter. Saying “Ram, Ram” will not do—knowing Ram will. You may shout “Ram, Ram,” yet your heart shouts something else. If you love wealth, outwardly you say “Ram”; inwardly the call is for gold—your touch is with money. “Ram” is a wasteful babble—perhaps with the hope that chanting Ram will bring more wealth. Even Ram’s prayer is for money, for fame! The day you pray to Ram for Ram’s sake, your prayer will bear fruit.

A man died and reached the iron gate of heaven. He knocked. An angel appeared and asked his name.

“Mulla Nasruddin,” he said.

The angel said, “We have no notice of your arrival. There must be some mistake. Still—what did you do on earth? Tell me about yourself so I can check the register.”

Mulla said, “I was a junk dealer, sir—used to buy and sell old iron.”

“Wait here,” said the angel. “I’ll check and return.”

When the angel returned, Mulla was gone—and with him, the iron gate.

A junk dealer is a junk dealer! All his life buying and selling old iron. The angel thought he could leave him—but what a chance: leave heaven, run off with the gate!

What matters is your innermost. That is decisive. Do not be deceived by the surface. Outwardly you may say “Ram”; inwardly something else goes on. That inner alone will decide your life’s course.

“Binu dekhe binu aras‑paras binu, naam liye ka hoi.
Dhan ke kahai dhanika jo hoto, nirdhan rahat na koi.”

If saying “wealth” made one wealthy, none would be poor. People say “money, money” enough—but to be wealthy, you must earn. Ram too must be earned—then one belongs to Ram.

“Sanchi preet vishay‑maya soon, Hari bhagatan soon haansi.
Kahai Kabir prem nahin upajyau, bandhyau Jampur jaasi.”

Their true love, these pandits with much talk of Ram, is fixed on the senses and Maya—wealth, position, prestige. They can be bought easily: give them their desire, and they will say whatever you wish. They come to your house for a hundred rupees a month to perform your worship. Whom are you deceiving? You even outsource worship! It is as if you hired a servant to love your child: “I have no time; you pat his head for me; embrace him for me.” It sounds absurd—but this is what people do with God. “You come daily and perform the ritual; I am too busy to ring bells, to prepare the plate, to wave the arati—do it for me; you take your fee, I’ll take the fruit.”

Whom do you cheat? The pandit wants only the money. Tomorrow if he finds a better offer, he’ll leave you. If someone richer hires him, he may leave Hinduism for Islam, Islam for Christianity.

You see how many have been made Christian—by allurements: food, jobs, schooling, housing. So a man becomes Christian. How many made Muslim—by the sword! A great joke: by the sword a man becomes religious! He fears death—“Better to save my life.” He becomes Muslim. Your Hindu, Muslim, or Christian—has it arisen from your heart’s experience, or from such externals? Perhaps you did not bow to sword or bread, yet your religion is only the accident of birth; your parents fed you Hinduism; they had none either—borrowed goods passed on. Hollow.

Hence Kabir says:

“Pandit vad badante jhootha.
Sanchi preet vishay‑maya soon…
Hari bhagatan soon haansi.”

He tells the pandit: your love is not for Ram; it is for wealth and rank. Look at the court case in Allahabad—it runs for years: two men claim the Shankaracharya’s seat. How strange: a court will decide who is the true Shankaracharya! Do these men have anything to do with Shankara? They crave the seat—there are millions there, honor, power—politics. Religion, nothing. If tomorrow someone offered the papacy in the Vatican, they would go—“What is this small matter? The pope’s glory is vast—half the earth Christian—immeasurable riches.” They would go. What have they to do with dharma?

I heard of a priest who preached daily. The town’s oldest, most respected, wealthy man sat in front—and dozed within minutes, snored loudly. The priest was troubled. The old man came with his young grandson. The priest found a trick: he took the boy aside, “Wake your grandfather whenever he sleeps. I’ll give you four annas each time.” For three weeks it worked; the priest rejoiced. On the fourth, the old man snored and the boy did not wake him. The priest gestured; the boy looked away; “Come here,” the priest said later. “We pay you four annas—why don’t you wake him?” The boy said, “Grandfather now pays me eight annas—he told me not to wake him.”

What you truly want—that governs all.

“Sanchi preet vishay‑maya soon, Hari bhagatan soon haansi.”

Kabir speaks from experience. He lived in Kashi—in the houses of pandits—in their midst they must have mocked him: “Kabir is mad; his lineage unclear—Hindu or Muslim? Corrupt—raised in a weaver’s house—a shudra.” They must have mocked Kabir’s devotees too: “Where do you go? To whom?”

So Kabir says: your hearts are tethered to Maya—“and at devotees you laugh!”

Always the pandit has laughed at the bhakta. The bhakta is of the heart; the pandit lives in the skull. The skull always laughs at the heart. Hence people say love is blind—who says it? The skull says it. Love arises from the heart. The skull warns: “Don’t be led by the heart; listen to me if you would succeed—earn wealth and position. The heart will ruin you—emotion is blind. The world does not run by feeling; here you need calculation, logic, cleverness, cunning, politics. Remove love; if you bring love, trouble will come!”

Love does bring trouble—true. But love brings bliss too. To avoid trouble, people have bound love; therefore life has become joyless—like a desert. Not even an oasis. Dry, sapless people through whom no stream of rasa flows.

“Sanchi preet vishay‑maya soon, Hari bhagatan soon haansi.
Kahai Kabir prem nahin upajyau, bandhyau Jampur jaasi.”

Kabir says: know this well. Nothing will happen by the skull’s play—by logic or thought or mere knowledge. Only by love. If love does not arise, if feeling does not awaken, then, remember: soon Yama’s messengers will come and carry you to hell. For only love leads to heaven—only love can become prayer; prayer alone can take you to the feet of the Divine.

Blessed are those who can love. Only lovers will escape death. Love is the single glimpse of amrit in this realm of death. In this dark night of tangled paths, love is the lamp.

Listen to love. Obey love. Whatever love asks you to lose, lose. What is lost for love is gain. What is gained by cleverness will prove, one day, to be loss.

Drop cleverness. Drop so‑called wisdom. There is great sweetness in holy foolishness. Be ignorant, for ignorance is innocent. The stiff pride of knowledge will drown you. So long as the stone of knowledge is tied to your chest—you will sink.

“…bandhyau Jampur jaasi.”

“Chalan chalan sabko kahat hai, na janai Vaikunth kahan hai.”

This pandit urges people: “Come, come—seek God; seek heaven; travel toward moksha.” And he himself knows not where Vaikuntha is! He has not seen with his own eyes; had he seen, his life would testify. His life gives no proof that he has seen the Divine.

One glimpse—and a man becomes different—an alien to this world. He is here, but not of it—he is a symbol of the beyond. And once the lightning flashes, it is never quite forgotten; its memory abides.

In ordinary love it is so—what need to speak of the love of God?

Listen to this song—

For some days now, close to the heart is that day
when suddenly, here, a face
smiled into my eyes.
For a single instant—that face
was something—I know not what—both false, and true,
perhaps a mistake—perhaps a recognition.
For some days now—deliberately—I have begun to feel
that this face has risen
only for me.
For some days now—consciously—
I feed on this sweet delusion.
Each day, at this crossroads,
a face now waits for me—
leaning on a wall, every morning,
still as a statue, gazing, single‑pointed—
it waits for me.
I pass—it looks at me;
I do not look—yet it looks.
The hard planes of that face, the thirst of the gaze,
parched yellow lips,
the cracked redness of the eyes!
Feet sinking into varnished light;
waiting, waiting—sad, sad—
just this one face—for a single instant—
I know not what it was—but now this
“mistake” refuses to be forgotten.
That image—I saw it once.
For some days now, close to the heart is that day.
For some days now the passing days
empty themselves into that one day.
Now the days pass as if
my whole life were only a portion of that day.
The life has passed—this day has not.
Wherever I go—wherever I look—
hidden from me—yet right before me—
one face—the same upon the paper of time;
one face—the same within the frame of the heart!

This song is of ordinary love. If for a single moment you beheld a face—one moment the beauty of a face overwhelmed you; one moment when thought stopped, when no ripple stirred in the mind; one moment when the gates of heart stood open; in that moment the image descended and sat within—it does not let you forget.

“One face—just for an instant—
I know not what it was—but now this
mistake refuses to be forgotten.
That image—I saw it once…
The life has passed—this day has not.
Wherever I go—wherever I look—
one face—the same upon the paper of time;
one face—the same within the frame of the heart!”

Then what of Paramatma! One touch—aras‑paras—one glance—and what births of shouting could not do is done.

“Binu dekhe, binu aras‑paras binu, naam liye ka hoi.”

“Chalan chalan sabko kahat hai, na janai Vaikunth kahan hai.
Jojan paramiti parmanu janai, baatani hi Vaikunth bakhanai.”

Ask the pandits—they lay out maps: here is heaven, here hell, seven hells, seven heavens—they give boundaries, measures. They have been nowhere; they have experienced nothing. Mere talk.

“Baatani hi Vaikunth bakhanai.”

Vaikuntha is not outside; it has no geography. It is an inner state—antar‑dasha. Moksha is not outside; it is your swabhava. No map can exist. All such maps are false.

“Pandit vad badante jhootha.
Jab lagi hai Vaikunth ki aasa, tab lagi nahin Hari charan nivaasa.”

Understand, O pandit: as long as you hope for Vaikuntha, you will not dwell at the feet of Hari—for this very hope becomes a barrier. Asking for the feet is one thing; hoping for Vaikuntha is another. It is again desire for pleasure. Here you wanted wealth; there also you want wealth. Here status; there status. Here mansions; there mansions. Whatever you failed to get here, you want there.

As long as there is hope for Vaikuntha, there is no dwelling at the feet of Hari.

Only he finds Paramatma who says: let all else be taken; I want only you—only your feet. Hence the bhaktas said: keep your heaven—we want not Vaikuntha. Keep your moksha—we want not that. Let us become the dust of your feet. Let us lie by your feet—that is enough. In that lying alone is moksha. He who desires moksha will miss it, for moksha means: that which comes in desirelessness. The desire for moksha is desire. Moksha is the absence of desire.

“Kahai sunai kaise pataiyiye, jab lagi tahan aap nahin jaiye.”

Kabir says: by speaking and hearing how will conviction arise? Until you yourself go there, nothing will be accomplished. Tell a blind man, a thousand times, “There is light”—will conviction arise? Tell a deaf man a thousand times, “There is music”—will conviction arise?

“Kahai sunai kaise pataiyiye,
Jab lagi tahan aap nahin jaiye.
Kahai Kabir yahu kahiye kahin?
Saadh sangat Vaikunthahi aahin.”

Kabir says: To whom shall I say this? The pandits have distorted people’s minds. Not the companionship of scriptures—Saadh‑sangat, the company of the realized. There—Vaikuntha is.

Paramatma is far; we have no experience. And Kabir says nothing can happen without experience. Then what shall we do? How to go? Scriptures cannot take us; “Ram, Ram” cannot take us—parrot repetition. Debate cannot take us. Punya builds ego. Tapas builds ego. Temples and mosques are man‑made. What then? Kabir gives the way:

“Saadh sangat Vaikunthahi aahin.”

Seek the company of a Saadh—of a Sadguru. Search—surely you will find someone in whom a glimpse of the beyond appears. Take his hand; become his shadow. Say to him:

Friend,
Give me shade!
This fever of mind—
do not look away.
Do not draw only your own lines of will.
On this shore of the heart,
there is sunlight—sunlight—sunlight.
How long can I bear it?
Attend—if only a little—
to my monotone
of “shade, shade.”
Friend, give me shade!
Shade I need—
the light of dispassion has fallen;
the magic of attachment—I need that shade as well.
Friend, give me shade!

Then sit near some Saadh, some Sadguru, and ask for shade. “Just let me sit near you. You rain—leave my empty pot nearby.”

The Saadh is raining anyway. Place your empty vessel beside him. Saadh‑sangat—and slowly you will begin to taste.

You have not known—but someone has. You have not walked in the garden—but someone has. And when he returns from the garden in the cool morning, there is a hint of flowers in his clothes; the breeze, the birdsong, the wet grass underfoot—all leave a trace. If you look keenly, you will find a little greenness, a trembling fragrance, a freshness, a morning in his eyes. This is Saadh‑sangat. Be with him. He knows the garden; remaining close, one day you too will arrive.

Saadh means: one who has passed through God—or begun to live in Him. Sit near him. One hand of his is in Paramatma. Hold the other. Though you are not yet directly connected to the Divine, a contact is formed. That contact grows and one day becomes relationship with God.

“Mathura javai Dwarika, bhavai javai Jagannath.
Saadh sangat Hari‑bhajan bin, kachu na avai haath.”

Go to Mathura, go to Dwarika, go to Jagannath—without Saadh‑sangat and Hari‑bhajan, nothing comes to your hand. Learn from a pandit—and you’ll become a parrot. He has no Ram; he himself has not gone to the garden. Learn from a Saadh—and it becomes Hari‑bhajan. From the outside both may look similar; within, worlds apart.

“Saadh sangat Hari‑bhajan bin, kachu na avai haath.”

First take Saadh‑sangat; then within you, by itself, bhajan will arise. In his proximity, his ‘illness’ infects you—this disease is contagious. His wave catches you; his intoxication pours into you like wine; you sway, you become ecstatic, you dance.

“Saadh sangat Hari‑bhajan bin, kachu na avai haath.”

“Mero sangi doi jan, ek Vaishno ek Ram.
Yo hai data mukti ka, woh sumiravai naam.”

Precious words. Kabir says: “I have two companions—just two are worthy companions: Ram, and the Vaishnava—one who has known Vishnu. Two companions in the world: the Truth, and the one who has realized the Truth—the Sadguru.”

“Ram gives mukti—he is the giver of liberation. But who will remind me of Ram?”—“Woh sumiravai naam”—the Vaishnava, the one who has remembered. These are the two friendships worth making. You have made countless others and missed these two. Naturally, friendship with Ram comes later—first befriend one beloved of Ram. To reach Ram, catch Hanuman; to reach Krishna, follow Radha—cling to someone dear to him.

“Yo hai data mukti ka, woh sumiravai naam.”

First, the one who reminds you of his Name. Avoid the pandit, lest you become a parrot—jabbering “Ram, Ram.” He has no Ram; you too will have none. Receive mantra from one who has arrived; take diksha from one who is established—who dwells in Vaikuntha. He will remind you of Vaikuntha. In truth, he need not remind; merely sitting near him you will be filled with remembrance.

“Hari seti harijan bade…”

Tie this saying tight. Even weighed against diamonds it will be heavy:

“Hari seti harijan bade, samajhi dekhu man maahin.
Kah Kabir jag Hari vishai, so Hari harijan maahin.”

The world abides in Hari; existence breathes in Him. This world beats in Hari’s heart. Without Him it cannot be. And Hari? He abides in the heart of the devotee. Then who is greater? The world is in Hari; and Hari is in the bhakta. The bhakta becomes greater—even greater than God. The day Ram sits in your heart, that day you attain Bhagavatta—beyond even God. The world is contained in Ram—and Ram is contained in the devotee.

“Hari seti harijan bade, samajhi dekhu man maahin.
Kah Kabir jag Hari vishai, so Hari harijan maahin.”

As the world is in Hari, so Hari is in the devotee—Vaishnavajan.

Narsi Mehta has said: “Vaishnav jan to tene kahiye, je peer parai jaane re”—call him Vaishnav who knows another’s pain. You will know another’s pain only when you meet Ram. Then you see: the whole world is writhing for lack of Ram. Your hour has become a festival, and all around is suffering—for no reason, since Ram is available to all; it is our birthright. But only by searching within the heart can you find him—there he abides. And in Ram, the whole world.

Thus Kabir—and all saints—have sung the great glory of the harijan, the man of God.

Learn the essence from one who knows; not from one who believes. Sit near one who sits near God; not near one who has only words. Seek one in whose love you can drown—not in whose language you can excel. Seek a Vaishnavajan, a harijan. Sitting with him, Hari‑bhajan will arise.

“Saadh sangat Hari‑bhajan bin, kachu na avai haath.
Mathura javai Dwarika, bhavai javai Jagannath.”

Go where you like—Jagannath, Mathura, Dwarika, Kashi, Kailash, Kaba—without Saadh‑sangat and Hari‑bhajan, nothing will come to your hand.

“Mero sangi doi jan, ek Vaishno ek Ram.
Yo hai data mukti ka, woh sumiravai naam.
Hari seti harijan bade, samajhi dekhu man maahin.
Kah Kabir jag Hari vishai, so Hari harijan maahin.”

Beware of panditya. And if you find a Saadhujan, do not hesitate to go mad for him. If you find a beloved of Hari, then stake everything; become a gambler. This gambler’s leap is called diksha. Only the initiated can arrive.

Enough for today.