Kahe Kabir Main Pura Paya #2

Well, now nothing can be done! You’re a little late. Had you spoken a little earlier, something might have been done. Once you begin to become empty, nothing needs to be done—nor can anything be done. Because emptiness is the door to the Whole.

Only when you are empty can the Divine enter you. You are filled with yourself—that is the obstacle. But emptiness feels frightening. Your question is meaningful, apt.

Whenever emptiness approaches, the life-breath trembles; fear surrounds you. Emptiness seems like death—more than death. The wise have called it the great death, because in ordinary death only the body dies; in emptiness, you die. In emptiness, the very sense of “I” melts; no “I-ness” remains.

You ask, “I am becoming empty; what should I do?” There is nothing to do. Let emptiness come; welcome it; honor it; hang festoons at the door; celebrate. For emptiness alone is good fortune. What other good fortune is there?

In this world, those who dissolve are blessed. Yet in dissolving, fear will arise. Even the word “to be erased” seems cutting.

Even while dissolving, a person tries to save himself. Till the very last moment you will clutch the shore—yet the other shore has called. The boat stands ready at the bank—the sail has been raised. That, indeed, is meditation—raising the sail. That is surrender—raising the sail. That is sannyas—raising the sail.

The winds have filled the sail; the boat is eager to cross, and you are clutching the shore! You won’t unchain yourself from the bank! You cry, “Save me! I am losing my hold on the shore!” And all this time you had been trying to leave this very shore, because on this shore you found nothing but hell.

What have you ever gained by being somebody? What has “being” given you? The very race to be has been the world. You have run enough—surely you are tired. Where have you reached? You are covered in dust and debris—where is the destination? You have walked long on the path, yet even from afar the goal is not in sight.

Are you still not tired? Do you still tremble at the thought of becoming empty? You found nothing in being—now dare a little to be not. Learn the art of non-being. Look also into non-being. For all who have found, have said the same: by becoming “no one,” they attained.

Emptiness is samadhi. Certainly, you disappear—but that is only one side of it. As morning dawns, the night fades—that is one side. The sun is rising; morning is happening; the sky is filling with light; new colors are appearing in the clouds; birds have begun to sing; trees are awakening; life-energy is flowing. Will you see this too—or will you keep looking only at the night that is breaking, the night that is passing, clutching night to your chest?

Of course, when there is light, darkness will go. You are darkness; you cannot meet the Divine. Only in your non-being is the meeting.

Has darkness ever met light? You have heard the saints say: the Divine is light. But have you ever asked: if God is light, then who am I? Surely you are darkness. And when light comes, darkness will shatter—and that shattering is auspicious.

Kabir has said: there is no event greater than becoming empty. He called that state the “natural state of emptiness.”

There is a very lovely word the saints have used often, in two senses at once—hence its charm. The word is “khasam.” In Sanskrit it carries one meaning; in Arabic (and in the vernacular) another. The saints used both together—and created a marvel. In Arabic, “khasam” means husband. And the Divine is the Husband—the Beloved, the Lord; Krishna, and the devotee his gopi; existence is the rasa, the dance.

The saints used the word in this sense too—the Divine as the beloved husband—and wrought a wonder.

In Sanskrit it has another meaning: kha-sam—like the sky, sky-like emptiness. Kha means sky; that is why birds are called khag—kha (sky) + gam (to go): those whose movement is in the sky. So in Sanskrit, “kha-sam” means the great void; and in Arabic, “khasam” means the supremely dear one. The devotees joined the two. They said both are true—because the supremely dear is found by becoming sky-like.

Become “khasam” in the Sanskrit sense—sky-like emptiness—and the “khasam” of the Arabic sense—the Beloved—meets you.

You are afraid. You ask, “What should I do? I am becoming empty.” Do not be afraid. Enter it. Enter these steps of emptiness; see where they lead.

There will be fear. Enter despite the fear. That is why I say: courage is needed in the search for truth. The false has to be dropped—that is where courage is needed. Darkness has to be left. Body has to be left. Mind has to be left. Everything has to be left.

When nothing remains to be dropped, when you are only an empty bridal bed, in that very moment the Beloved descends. When nothing at all is left to be given up, in that supreme emptiness the union happens.

So do not fear. Do not try to save yourself. The moment to become empty comes with great difficulty. This is what we have been seeking.

Now this happens here every day. Those who haven’t known emptiness ask how to experience it; and when it begins to happen, the same people come and say, “Now it is happening—now stop it.” Because you are not clear that the experience of emptiness brings supreme bliss; but before the supreme bliss you must pass through supreme pain.

You like to hear only about happiness. You heard that samadhi is supreme bliss, and greed arises—“Let me attain samadhi.” But you didn’t consider that a price must be paid for the bliss of samadhi.

Religion is not cheap; you have to pay with your very life. Without paying the price, nothing—nothing at all—is obtained.

You have heard that in samadhi a thousand-petaled lotus blooms; great fragrance; great dance; great celebration—and you are filled with desire. You did not think that on the path there are thorns aplenty. If you go to pluck the rose, the bush has a thousand thorns. When the thorns prick, you will cry out. Yet it is a necessary part of the journey.

You will tire, you will break, you will be erased. Many times you will try to save yourself. You will turn back again and again. But one who has set out on this path cannot truly return; at most, he can delay a little.

You say, “I am becoming empty...” If you wish, you can delay. If you keep clutching the shore with all your might, it will take longer. But you can no longer settle on this shore. What has begun will surely be fulfilled. You cannot dwell here again, because you have already lived here and found it futile. It was from the suffering of this shore that you began to seek emptiness. And now emptiness is coming!

You stole the butter, you did lighten the milkmaid’s load a little—
But tell me, my Shyam,
What will become of this empty pitcher now?

For ages and ages the churning-stick of life turned,
Only then did a sheen appear within the pot;
When every breath rose crying, “Beloved! Beloved!”
Only then was the little earthen jar filled.

One small pebble from your hand—
Who knows from which direction it came?—
In the blink of an eye it looted
The savings of many, many births.

Seeing the moment ripe for entry,
Every pitcher set out upon the path—
Only I, upon my own threshold,
Timid, shy—stalled, astray.

No milk remains with me now—
How shall I come to your Gokul?
Amid so many milkmaids,
How shall I save the honor of my empty pot?

Either fill it again,
Or shatter it into a hundred pieces.
When the formless has become form,
What will become of this pageantry?

You stole the butter, you did lighten the milkmaid’s load a little—
But tell me, my Shyam,
What will become of this empty pitcher now?

We have ancient ties with our pitchers. We have known only the pot. By the pot we have known ourselves. The pot is our experience, our knowledge. And one day Shyam comes and, with a pebble, breaks the pot—and loots the butter.

That which you churned and gathered over birth after birth—that very churning, that amassed cream—that is the mind; that is the butter. One day Shyam steals it; the pot breaks.

A broken pot brings great pain to the mind, because you had identified yourself with it. You had thought, “This is me.”

Now, drop this pot. Forget it. Lift your eyes toward the direction from which the pebble came. In the direction from which Shyam hurled that pebble—turn your eyes there. Walk in that direction. Leave the past.

“To be becoming empty” means: the past is slipping from your hands. But what is the point of clinging to the past? What is done is done; what has gone has gone. Now look toward the future.

Fix your gaze on the other shore. This shore has become useless. You have lived enough here—now we will live on the far shore.

Courage will be needed—an adventurer’s daring—because the distant shore is not clearly visible. This shore is perfectly clear. Though here you found only suffering, it is familiar, known. Here you have lived. The other shore is far, veiled in mist. Whether it is there or not—that too is a matter of trust!

Someone comes from the other shore and says, “I have been there”—a Kabir, a Nanak. Trust arises. You cannot easily doubt them. Why would Kabir lie? He is not the sort to lie. There is authenticity in his eyes. There is power in his words. Around him is a fragrance of another world—not of this world, certainly not of this shore. He has a drunken ecstasy that no one else has—not emperors, not the wealthy—only this fakir has it.

So he has something. He has seen something; he has had some glimpse, some touch. He has been somewhere. His very garments carry a scent—unfamiliar, alluring, magical. He has drunk something—that is certain. His ecstasy says so. His intoxicated eyes say so. His gait says so. His color and manner are different.

A man like this does not belong to this shore. There are many on this shore—but he has traveled from the other shore. So trust comes; reverence arises.

Yet the other shore is not visible. It is far. That is why we call it the ocean of becoming—bhavsagar. It is not like a river where, standing on one bank, you can see the other. It is like the ocean. From here you see only this shore; the other is not seen at all. As far as the human eye can reach—waves, and waves, and waves. That is why faith has such value.

What is faith? Only this: standing on this shore, the other shore cannot be seen; if you trust someone’s word, then the journey can begin.

But the journey must be made—because on this shore, nothing is found. You have dug and dug yourself to death, and no treasure has come to hand. You have only heaped up piles of earth—searching for gold. Not even in dreams did you see gold.

So this shore has been tested; it is vain. The journey of the ego has borne no fruit. The egoless saints say, “Come—to the other shore. There is bliss there. The eternal dwells there forever. Nectar rains there. There is only light there. And there the unstruck sound resounds. Come.”

One must set out with faith. That is why faith is not found in the weak, but in the strong.

People generally think the faithful are weak. Wrong—absolutely wrong. Only the faithful are strong. It takes great courage to trust the unknown, the unfamiliar. The courage of a great gambler is needed. And you must set out. What is known must be left behind—what is familiar must be dropped. All of it will fall away. And you must go in search of what you have never known.

That moment has come near. Your chains to this shore are breaking. Now do not uselessly restrain yourself. Go. Keep faith.

Join this emptiness with faith. This very emptiness will become a boat. It will take you across. This same boat of emptiness has ferried many across. Whoever has crossed—has crossed in this very boat.

First, make the distinction between a religious leader and a Satguru. A religious leader is, more often than not, hollow. The pope is a religious leader. If you call the pope a religious leader, then don’t call Jesus a religious leader—that would be an insult to Jesus. For Jesus use another word—Satguru.

The Shankaracharya of Puri is a religious leader. But don’t call Adi Shankaracharya a religious leader; otherwise language loses all meaning. Adi Shankaracharya is a Satguru.

Kabir is a Satguru—first thing—not a religious leader. A religious leader is part of an already running tradition; a Satguru is the founder of a new current.

A religious leader has old credit; his shop is old; he is the heir to an old establishment—whether or not he has any inner wealth—yet in the marketplace he has prestige.

A Satguru stands on his own feet; he begins from A B C. He has no inherited prestige. Therefore a Satguru faces difficulty; he has to set everything up from scratch. It is like standing in the bazaar with not even a penny to your name and starting a business—that is the Satguru’s difficulty.

If your father dies and leaves you millions in his will, and then you open a shop, naturally you have advantages—your father’s credit, the shop’s name, market connections, well-known people, everything already running, organized—you simply sit in your father’s chair.

A religious leader is made by inheritance; a Satguru by experience. Buddha is a Satguru, Krishna is a Satguru, Christ is a Satguru, Kabir is a Satguru.

So first understand the difference: they are not religious leaders. And the irony is that a religious leader has no religion at all—only reputation. A Satguru has religion, but no reputation.

A religious leader has organization, an established sect, followers. A Satguru has no one—only God. He must begin his work solely with God’s wealth: the wealth of experience. He must search. He must find disciples—ones ready to learn, who are worthy vessels. And naturally it is not easy to find disciples, because these disciples already belong to some sect or other.

Now, you have gathered here around me: someone is a Hindu, someone a Jew, someone a Muslim, someone a Jain, someone a Buddhist, someone a Sikh. You are bound to some tradition, born into some tradition. To draw you out of your tradition is an obstacle. To come out of it yourself feels difficult to you—there are a thousand vested interests.

A gentleman came to me some days ago and said, “I want to take sannyas, but let me get my daughter married first.”

I asked, “What has your daughter’s marriage to do with sannyas?”

He said, “The connection may not be visible from the outside, but it’s there inside. If I take sannyas, it will become difficult to marry off my daughter. Then my community and sect people will be offended. It’s only a matter of six months. Let me somehow complete this marriage, and then I’m free, then I have no fear.”

There are a thousand such hidden fears: a son’s marriage to perform, a daughter’s marriage to perform.

Step outside the circle of a sect, and the sect does not just let you go. It troubles you, it punishes you. It creates entanglements in every way. The conveniences that come from social connections, all that will be cut off. Those who were your own till yesterday will become outsiders—and angry!—and they will harm you, because no society tolerates someone leaving its circle. Its numbers are reduced, its power reduced, its capital reduced, its strength reduced.

Hence it is not easy to step out from under the flag you stand beneath.

Then there are the limits of your life, its hindrances and complications. The job may be lost; relationships may break; obstacles may arise. In sorrow and joy the society stood with you; all that will end.

Because of all these obstacles, a person cannot go with a Satguru; he has to remain with a religious leader.

So Kabir was extraordinary; but naturally, not as many people went with Kabir as went with Tulsidas. Tulsidas is a religious leader; Kabir is a Satguru—both are unique in their own ways.

As far as poetry and literature are concerned, Tulsidas is as unique as Kabir. But as far as the wealth of experience is concerned, Tulsidas is traditional; Kabir is revolutionary. Tulsidas is a line-follower; Kabir is a rebel. Tulsidas stands on the inheritance of forefathers; Kabir stands on his own feet, spreading his own roots.

Naturally Tulsidas will find more lovers. Hence the Ramcharitmanas reached every household. Kabir’s sayings did not reach every household. The real wonder is that they reached as many as they did—that too is no small wonder—because Kabir’s word is like fire.

Tulsidas is only ash—an extinguished ember. Perhaps once there was a live coal somewhere, but not in Tulsidas—he is traditional, orthodox, old-path—what is written in scripture is right; not a trace of rebellion.

Kabir speaks against the Vedas; he speaks against the Quran; against the Hindu pundit; against the Muslim mullah. And not some mild, formal, polite opposition.

Kabir’s blow is straight—breaks the head. To endure Kabir is no easy matter. Only a few truly courageous will manage it. Although what Kabir speaks is precisely what the Vedas speak, what the Quran speaks; yet Kabir is his own witness—he does not borrow the Vedas as witness; that would be a borrowed testimony, false.

So understand the second point: if a saint walks the beaten track, he will gain more disciples. If a saint leaves all tracks, naturally only a few rare adventurers will be able to go with him. Going with him is not without danger. Going with him is dangerous.

And there has never been a more blunt, rough-hewn saint than Kabir in the history of humankind—one who speaks in two-edged words: whether it kills or saves—he does not care. A direct strike! He can cut you into pieces. Take one blow of Kabir and you will remember it your whole life; you will not forget. Either you will bow down and go along, or you will run away for good and be afraid even of Kabir’s shadow.

Satguru—and revolutionary—rebel! And then there was this obstacle too...

As you ask, “one foot in Islam and one foot in Hinduism...”

It seems as if he had a base in two religions. He should have gotten followers from both. He did—but very few. Why? The Hindus said, “He is a Muslim; be careful of him.” And the Muslims said, “He is a Hindu; beware!”

The Muslims devised this: “He is a Hindu—avoid him! What is this talk of ‘Ram-Ram’? He is singing the praises of the Hindus. He is a hidden Hindu, a crypto-Hindu. It is a ploy of the Hindu conspiracy—to infiltrate the Muslims and corrupt people. Beware of Kabir! He is a spy of the Hindus.” So said the Muslims.

And the Hindus said, “This man is a Muslim; he was born in a weaver’s house. Don’t get caught in his words. Don’t be ensnared in his talk of the name of Ram. ‘Ram-Ram’ is only on the surface; inside Rahim is hidden. ‘Keshav-Keshav’ on the lips; within Karim is concealed. Beware! Keep your distance!”

Both looked at him with suspicion.

Such is my own experience. Because I was born in a Jain home, the Jains say, “Beware of this man! He has betrayed the Jain religion; he has rebelled. He must be an enemy of the Jains—otherwise why would he speak on Jesus? Why would he speak on Mohammed? Why on Krishna? Why on Buddha? Why on Kabir, Dadu, Nanak? Has any Jain ever spoken in this way? He cannot be a Jain. He is deluded. He is deceiving people. It is a device to corrupt Jains. So Jains should beware.”

And the Hindus are naturally wary: “He is a Jain—be careful. Inside he must be a Jain, whatever he may say on the surface! On the surface he may take the name of Kabir or Nanak, but the ulterior motive will be that once you are caught in the net, he will make you a Jain.”

Such was Kabir’s situation. Both viewed him with suspicion. With me it is even more tangled, because it is not just a matter of two. I speak on the Jews and on the Christians, on the Buddhists too—so the tangle is greater.

People try from every side to protect their darkness—whatever excuse they can find.

So you ask rightly, “Kabir did not have as much impact as he should have.”

But has anyone ever had as much?

Do you think Buddha had as much impact as he should have? Do you think Mahavira had as much as he should have? Lao Tzu? Zarathustra? Who had it?

If it had been as much as it ought to have been, this earth would be a different place—heaven. No one’s impact has been “as much as it should have been.”

These people bring great light, but we are lovers of darkness! We stand with our eyes squeezed shut. Even when the light comes to the door, we deny it; we negate it.

They bring great nectar, but we keep embracing death! We have married death! We cannot muster the courage to divorce death.

They bring great truth, but untruth is our interest—our vested interest. Even hearing the word “truth,” we are startled.

Friedrich Nietzsche has said: Do not take away a man’s lies, because a man cannot live without lies; he will die. Man lives by lies.

Do not take away a man’s lies, because man cannot bear truth. Truth is hard, bitter; man wants the sweetness of lies. If it is poison but sweet, man will drink it. If it is nectar but bitter, man will not drink it.

Then, with lies, a man has somehow built a dream-world. Your ray of truth arrives and his whole world trembles—like a house of cards you have built, and you fear the gust of wind. Let no gust come! With how much labor you built this house—now it will fall; in a moment it will be dust.

In the same way man has built countless houses of cards out of lies; he has floated unknown numbers of paper boats made of lies. A gust of wind—the boat will capsize; the paper house will fall.

You begin to fear the wind. You shut doors and windows. You sit locked inside yourself—even if it is scorching hot and you are drenched in sweat—and outside the fresh breezes are waiting; but you do not open the door.

It is just like that. Man has made great lies. What is your life except lies upon lies? You have “accepted” someone as wife. Accepted—that’s all. Who is whose husband? Who is whose wife? Someone accepted as son; someone accepted as father; someone accepted as friend; someone accepted as enemy; someone as “mine,” someone as “other.” You have made countless lies. All lies. Nothing but lies. Agreed-upon notions.

Death will topple all these houses of cards. It topples them every day, yet you do not wake up. But when death topples them, there is nothing you can do; you do not even survive to do anything. Death comes—you yourself fall. Then even if your house of cards collapses, you do not care.

A saint does the same work that death does—while you are still alive. He begins to bring down your houses. He says: These are houses of sand; pull them down, there is nothing in them. Do not get lost in these dust-huts. Your real mansion is there—beyond, across. Your empire is there—in the sky. Not here; you are not citizens of this earth. Here you are wayfarers. Here you are strangers. Your real home is not here; do not take this more than an inn.

Now, naturally, when a saint says, “Do not take this world as more than an inn,” the wife will be frightened—that the husband might listen to him!

Wife—an inn! The wife thinks she is the householder. An inn? She is the home.

And the husband fears that the wife might hear that these ties and relationships are all imagination. These seven circumambulations around the fire—this is all a mesh of imagination, a trick to persuade the mind. There is no one who is “mine,” no one “other.” We come alone; we go alone. What “mine”? What “thine”? No one came with us; no one will go with us.

There is no one to go with you. You will depart alone. You came alone. In between there is companionship for two days. It is the coincidence of river and boat—do not give it too much value.

When a saint begins to speak in this way, you become frightened. Your vested interests tremble.

A saint wakes you exactly where you are deeply anesthetized and asleep. Someone is running after wealth; tell him, “You are mad. What is there in wealth? All are potsherds.” He will be angry. He will say, “You snatch away my only relish! The only juice in my life is money! To accumulate wealth is my sole ambition. You are pouring water on it! You are stealing my dreams. I live by those dreams. Without dreams how will I live? Stop your nonsense. Let me go my way.”

Someone is running after position—that he may become prime minister. And if a saint meets him on the road, he says, “You are mad! Seek the supreme state; going to Delhi will give you nothing. With that much energy you could find God. Even if you reach Delhi—what then?” But the one going to Delhi says, “Forgive me. Do not put obstacles in the way right now.” He will hear and not hear. He will make his ears deaf. He will say, “Come another time. For now let me go.”

You can observe it: when a politician in Delhi loses, when he is no longer in office, he starts going to sadhus and saints. As long as he is in office, he does not go. Why should he? Then dreams seem true; the dreams look very real. When the dreams break—time breaks them, the gust comes uninvited and uproots the whole arrangement of your life—immediately the man begins to look for saints. Why? Because now he thinks: “These worldly dreams proved futile; now there is no meaning in this hustle and bustle. The whole market has been uprooted; this shop is ruined. Perhaps the saints are right—seek the other shore.” But this comes in defeat, in pain, in loss!

The words of saints hurt, because saints say what is—and you do not want to see what is.

You want to see what you want to be. And saints say what is. The two do not match.

Therefore not as many people understood Buddha as could have. Ask me—how many could have! If all people had shown a readiness to understand, there would have been no reason for even one to be left behind.

The sun has risen. How many can see it? As many as open their eyes. It is not that because the sun has risen and ten people have seen it, the eleventh cannot see—that the twelfth cannot see—that the sun is used up because ten have seen!

The capacity of the sun’s light is infinite. As many as open their eyes—whoever opens their eyes—will see. It is not that a thousand have seen, so how will you see now? A thousand have seen, so the sun is exhausted.

Neither the sun is exhausted, nor Buddha, nor Kabir. This capacity is infinite. Truth is infinite. The bliss of truth is infinite. The light of truth is infinite. Whoever opens his eyes will see. And it all depends on you.

If all people keep their eyes shut, the sun may rise and no one will even know. That is how it is.

You have formed deep bonds with darkness, forged great self-interest with it; you are betrothed to darkness—so you get angry with whoever brings news of the light.

You do not get angry with the religious leader, because he is as blind as you are, and he too lives in darkness like you do.

You get angry with the Satguru. The Satguru is like the blade’s edge—he cuts you to pieces. The Satguru is death.

Because of the religious leader, even the word “guru” has been insulted. Connected with the religious leader, the gravity of the word “guru” has been lost. Slowly such a majestic word has become distorted.

Yesterday I was reading a poem. The poem is called “Guru-worship.”

It used to happen before
It happens even today
Guru-worship
Only the meanings of “guru” and “worship” have changed
He is a “big guru”
He won’t obey without worship!

“Guru” has come to mean almost “goonda”—a thug. People say, “He’s a big guru!” And “puja”—worship—has come to mean “a beating.”

It used to happen before
It happens even today
Guru-worship
Only the meanings of “guru” and “worship” have changed
He is a “big guru”
He won’t obey without worship!

With the religious leader the word got distorted—because the religious leader is a sham guru, a false guru.

“Guru” got linked with falsehood, so it became spoiled, dirty.

Kabir is a Satguru. Satguru means: one who has known. Not only known, but who is capable of making others know. Not only seen himself, but who can kindle in others’ eyes the longing to see. Not only lived it himself, but who can tickle other hearts—so that those sleeping in darkness, even among them a few may rise and set out on the journey—even if the journey is arduous; even if it is harsh; even if it is a mountain climb; even if it is on the blade’s edge.

Guru means: one who has tasted God and in others’ throats arouses such an aching thirst that they cannot sit without tasting God too. They must rise, must walk—no matter how long the journey and how many deserts must be crossed.

“Satguru” is a most glorious word; “religious leader” is two a penny.

And let me repeat: a Satguru has religion. A religious leader has neither religion nor gurudom.

A religious leader is a priest, a parson, a mullah. A religious leader is part of a profession. He is tied to the world, to the marketplace.

A religious leader does not change you; he consoles you. A Satguru breaks you, kills you, cuts you; he takes up the chisel and refines you; he sifts you. Slowly, slowly, a moment comes when, being purified and purified, you become emptiness.

The one who takes you to zero—that is the Satguru. But how many people want to go to zero! That is why there is never “too much impact.”

We usually ask, “How to get rid of suffering?” as if suffering has tied you up, as if someone else has loaded it upon you. No—nothing of the sort.
You are the one clinging to suffering. You don’t let it go. Haven’t you seen? The very first question was, “I’m becoming empty; what should I do now?” Panic…!
The mind stays full of suffering; it gives the feeling that there is something, that you have something.
A person gets very frightened when suffering begins to slip away. The panic is because suffering keeps life busy; it feels like something is being done, something is happening.
And suffering also keeps the ego alive. Remember this: if you want to preserve the ego, it can be preserved only in suffering. Suffering is the manure of the ego.
A happy person’s ego disappears. Happiness cannot happen without the loss of ego. As long as the stiffness of “I” remains, there will be suffering.
You must have experienced it: when you are joyous, there is no ego; when you are sad, the ego is stronger.
That’s why your so-called ascetics and monks stay gloomy with long faces. It’s a trick to protect the ego. They are telling the world, “We are doing something very great! You are all sinners; we are the virtuous. You are rotting in hell; we are heading toward heaven. We are special! We are pure! We are superior!”
You see it: go to your monks and they will look at you as if you were insects. There is no respect for you. How could there be? There is contempt. And if these monks are unhappy, it’s no surprise. They will be unhappy.
When joy comes, you forget that you are. In laughter the ego is forgotten; in crying it condenses. Test this, recognize it.
Observe: when you laugh, you are not. When laughter truly spreads through your whole being, when every fiber is filled with laughter, in that moment you are not—you cannot be. Because the tension needed to hold the sense of being is not there. Where is tension in laughter?
That is why I say a sannyasin should be laughing, dancing, joyous—only then will he be egoless.
You ask, “How to be free from suffering?”
Understand: you are holding on to suffering. You are taking certain profits from it—the profit of ego. Through suffering you feel, “I am special. Look how much I endure!”
Suffering gives you the pleasure of being a martyr, as if you carry the burden of the world’s pain.
The husband walks as though he is carrying the burden of his wife and children. The wife sits in sorrow, thinking she is managing the husband—otherwise he would have gone astray long ago—managing the children, managing the home.
“It is only because of me that the world is not in chaos”—this kind of ego makes you miserable.
And then there is its own thrill in fighting suffering. But to fight, suffering must be there. People take great relish in combat because there is the hope of victory.
If there is no suffering, whom will you fight? And if you don’t fight, how will you win? And if you don’t win, where will the prestige of the ego be? Understand this whole arrangement. One suffering goes, you create another. You have a thousand rupees and you say, “If only it becomes ten thousand; then I will be at peace.” What are you doing?
You have a thousand rupees; you are not enjoying the thousand. You are creating nine thousand rupees’ worth of suffering. You say, “If only I had ten thousand…” You just created nine thousand of lack—because ten thousand is not there; only one thousand is. “Nine thousand are missing”—this suffering you have created.
You didn’t enjoy the thousand; you produced nine thousand worth of misery. And this misery is nowhere but in your imagination, your desires, your craving. Now you begin to run: “How to make it ten thousand?” One day it may become ten thousand, but then you will say, “Now it can’t work without a hundred thousand. Prices have risen; life has moved on!”
Naturally, the person who had a thousand could at most desire ten thousand. He knew that desiring more would be unrealistic.
Remember: the poor have poor desires. A poor man doesn’t sit under a tree dreaming of becoming an emperor. It feels too absurd, too foolish—impossible. He doesn’t even have a clay pot; what meaning would there be in talking of an empire? It solves nothing.
The village beggar thinks at most, “How can I become the richest beggar in this village? There are a hundred or a hundred and fifty beggars—how can I become their chief?” Beyond that he doesn’t aspire. “How can I be the biggest beggar?”
The poor have poor aspirations; the rich have rich aspirations. And here’s the fun:
When the poor man’s ten thousand arrives, he becomes rich—and now he dreams of a hundred thousand and creates ninety thousand’s worth of sorrow.
That is why the rich fall into more suffering. As wealth increases, the courage of desire increases. He thinks, “If I earned ten thousand, why not a hundred thousand? I have the power; I’ll show what I can do. See—I multiplied by ten from one thousand to ten thousand; I can multiply by ten again.”
But where will it stop? When a hundred thousand comes, he will think of a million! Each day you will fabricate new suffering, and each day it will grow larger, spreading wider. One day, if you find yourself surrounded on all sides, drowned in a sea of suffering, no one else is responsible. You have produced suffering as the shadow of your own cravings.
If you want to be free of suffering, there is no direct method to be free “from suffering.” Understand desire. And stop multiplying desires.
There is a way to happiness: enjoy what is; do not worry about what is not.
There is a way to suffering: do not care for what is; worry about what is not.
Suffering means: focus on absence and forget the presence. The wife in your home—don’t bother about her; what’s special about her? Your wife! The neighbor’s wife—that’s the beautiful one.
There is an English proverb: the grass on the other side of the fence always looks greener. It does look greener—from a distance the other’s lawn is lush; your own does not look so green.
The other’s house looks beautiful. The other’s car looks beautiful. The other’s wife looks beautiful. The chase continues.
The formula for happiness is: whatever you have, give thanks to God. What is, is enough.
A man once tried to commit suicide. As he was about to jump from a cliff into the river, a fakir meditating nearby stopped him. The fakir said, “Listen to me—what’s the matter? Why are you dying?”
The man said, “I have nothing. I have tried everything; I have failed. God is angry with me. Nothing works; whatever I touch turns to dust. Wherever I go, defeat meets me. There is a limit! I’m fed up with this life. I have nothing; I want to die.”
The fakir said, “Before you die, do me a favor. You’re going to die anyway; let me gain a little.”
“What favor?” asked the man.
The fakir said, “The ruler of this region is my friend. He’s a whimsical man with eccentric tastes; he likes collecting strange things. I can sell your eyes to him—at least a hundred thousand rupees. Then you can die. You’re dying anyway. If he is in the mood, he’ll buy your ears too, your teeth as well. He’s that kind. Come with me.”
The man had just declared he had nothing and was going to die, so he couldn’t protest. But the moment he imagined that his eyes could fetch a hundred thousand, a thought arose: “Then I’m not entirely poor!”
By the time they reached the ruler’s palace, he had decided this was not right—selling one’s eyes? He forgot about dying. The fakir went inside and convinced the ruler. They called the man in. The ruler said, “Good. We’ll remove the eyes. Take a hundred thousand.”
The man said, “What do you take me for? Sell my eyes?”
The ruler said, “If you want more, say so. Two hundred thousand—fine. Ask as you like.”
The fakir had prepared him: give whatever he asks.
“A million? I’ll give a million. We’ll buy the ears too, the teeth too. We’ll buy your hands, your feet. And you were going to die anyway!”
The man said, “I don’t want to sell at all. What man in his senses would sell his eyes?”
The fakir said, “But you were saying you had nothing and were going to die. In dying, the eyes would die, the ears would die, the hands and feet would die—all would be gone. And you said you had nothing. Now, when a million is being offered just for the eyes! Sell more of your ‘belongings’—I’ll get you crores.”
The man stood silent, then burst out, “You people are murderers! What kind of talk is this?”
The fakir said, “Then what about dying?”
“I cannot die now,” the man replied. “For the first time it occurred to me that I have eyes I wouldn’t sell for a million—not for any price. And yet I never once thanked God for these eyes. I only kept crying that I don’t have this, I don’t have that. My life has been a long litany of complaints. You have woken me up.”
The fakir said, “That’s why I brought you here. Now do as you wish.”
From that day the man’s life changed. Complaints ended, prayer began. He went to the temple and gave thanks: “Lord, how compassionate you are! You gave me eyes I would not sell for a million—for any price! You have given me so much, and I have no worthiness. Why you gave, I do not know. Out of your love, your joy, your overflow, you gave—because you have so much. Thank you! Many thanks! I want nothing more. What you have given—is that not enough?”
And from that day the unhappy man became happy.
Start looking at what is. You have so much. Sit down sometime and think: for how much would you sell your eyes?
Life is priceless. You would not agree to sell it for any price, yet you never once gave thanks for this life.
You are hearing the song of birds—if you had no ears, how much would you pay to hear birdsong? This green of the trees—if you had no eyes, how much would you pay to see this green?
But have you ever truly seen the green—though you have eyes? Have you ever watched a flower bloom? Have you taken any taste in the birds’ songs? Have you run your gaze over the moon and stars? Have you ever felt the ecstasy of this endless expanse, this infinite play of God?
If you were blind, you would complain, “O Lord, why did you not give me light? What is my sin? Why did you deprive me of colors? I long to see your rainbows, to behold your sun!” You would certainly say this.
Ask the blind—they say so. Ask the deaf—they weep, “We never knew sound; we never knew music. They say music is an extraordinary thing! But we have not known it.” Ask the mute—he cannot speak. How he weeps and writhes inside: “If only I could speak! I too have something to say, a song to hum, a fragrance to release, something to create. I can’t even say to someone, ‘I love you.’ O Lord, why have you made me so deprived?” Yet you have never thanked for your voice.
Start thinking: how much you already have! You will be astonished—so much that no amount of gratitude will be enough.
And all of it is unearned. You did not acquire it. It is a gift. It is God’s grace. And for this gift you have never even said thank you.
Now you ask, “How can one be free from suffering?”
You are manufacturing suffering. Remove your attention from lack and see the presence. Look at what is. Why worry about what is not? What is not, is not.

I adorn myself with thorns as with flowers,
I play with life itself.
For life is a colored dance of sun and shade,
the morning’s brightness, the world’s golden face.
The body is a dream in which the bird of life
weaves, from straws of breath, an exquisite nest of death.
Therefore, smiling, I accept even death,
and I make of poison a stream of nectar.
I know that flowers will stay upon the path only a few days,
that perhaps only today the wind is favorable.
A dream rests in the eye for but a single night;
tomorrow dust will settle on these pupils.
Therefore I string every flower into a garland,
therefore I honor even dust.

This is the state of feeling that is needed.

I adorn myself with thorns as with flowers;
I play with life itself.
Therefore I honor even dust.

Even dust is wondrous, for from dust we are made, and tomorrow we will dissolve back into dust. Dust is our mother—so welcome even dust.
Life exists because of death. If death were not, life could not be. Therefore thank death as well.
Just think: you are born once and then remain forever—never able to die. Have you ever considered it? If you had to remain eternally, for an infinite time, do whatever you might and yet never be able to die—would you not panic, grow bored, become tormented, exhausted? And suppose there were no way even for suicide: drink poison—and not die; fall from a mountain—and not die; shoot—and the bullet fires, yet you don’t die. It would become very difficult.
Death gives rest. After seventy or eighty years, you are tired. You have seen life, known life, lived life—then rest is needed. As after a day, night’s sleep is needed, so after a life, death is needed.
Sleep is a small death, and death is a great sleep. As in the morning, after sleep, you rise fresh and new, ready for life—so after death you will also arise—fresh again, new again, a new womb, a new life, a new cycle.
If you see life rightly, even death will be accepted.
Here there are flowers, and there are thorns. The whole matter depends on whether you choose to see only thorns or only flowers. Both are here.
Some count only thorns. Take them to a rosebush and they will count every thorn—thousands! Counting thorns, they will be pricked, bleeding, angry. In such rage and enmity toward thorns their eyes will be so blind that even if a flower blooms, they won’t see it.
There is a story from the life of Ramdas. He was writing the Ramayana. Word spread. Hanuman heard that Ramdas was writing about Rama and came out of curiosity to see whether what the man wrote—events of long ago—was true or false.
Hanuman was amazed: the narration was so true, as if seen with one’s own eyes! But at one point, it snagged.
Ramdas wrote that when Hanuman went to Lanka, to the Ashoka grove, he saw white flowers blooming everywhere.
Hanuman stopped—forgot himself! He had been sitting wrapped in a blanket in disguise so no one would recognize him. He threw off the blanket and stood up: “That is wrong; everything else is fine. I am Hanuman. Correct it. Amend it. The flowers were not white; they were crimson, red.”
Ramdas said, “Stop your nonsense. Put on your blanket and sit quietly. It is not your place to decide whether the flowers were white or red. What Ramdas has written, stands. Ramdas does not amend.”
It became a tussle. “This is too much,” said Hanuman. “I am the witness! I am Hanuman! I went there. You never went. You never saw the Ashoka grove. You call me a liar and refuse to correct it!”
Ramdas said, “Sit quietly. If you have come to listen, listen; otherwise, take the road.”
When it went too far, Hanuman grew angry: “Then we must go to Rama. You come.”
He seated Ramdas on his shoulder and took him to Rama so Rama could decide. “He’s a good man,” Hanuman said, “and everything else is right. I enjoy listening to his Ramayana; memories come alive. His tale is vivid. But he is stubborn. I say the flowers were red.”
Rama said, “Hanuman, don’t get entangled in such things. Ramdas is right: the flowers were white. Leave it; this is not your work.”
“This is injustice,” said Hanuman. “He says it’s not my work; you say, too, it’s not my work. Whose work is it? I was there. Neither of you went, nor did he. Ask Sita; she was there. She is the only witness.”
Sita was asked. She said, “Hanuman, don’t get caught in this. The flowers were white. But you were in such fury that your eyes were filled with blood—you saw them red. The flowers were white. But you were losing your mind; your Rama’s Sita had been abducted. You were beside yourself, not in your senses. Your head was agitated, your eyes bloodshot, ready for revenge and destruction. Through those revenge-filled eyes, the flowers did not appear white. Otherwise, they were white. Ramdas is right. Rama is right. I am the witness; I was there for months. You came only briefly. The flowers were white.”
It depends on the eyes. If you count thorns, your eyes will turn red, bloody; then you will not see the flowers.
If you count flowers, slowly you will find that the thorns are not the enemies of the flowers; they are their protectors. Loving the flowers, you will find love rising even for the thorns.
You will learn to love the night if you love the day. You will love the dark if you love the light. Death will seem like a friend if life is seen as a friend. Everything depends on you.
To be free of suffering, there is nothing to do—only to see. Right vision.
Everything is here. The meeting of opposites is happening here. There is suffering and there is joy.
There can be three states for a person: the state of suffering, the state of joy, and that which is beyond both.
We call the first hell. The second, heaven. The third, liberation.
Most people live in hell. Do not think hell is somewhere below the earth. Hell is within you; it is a name for your way of living. The wrong way of living—hell. The habit of picking thorns—hell. The habit of holding to suffering—hell. Looking at what is not and not seeing what is—this distorted mentality is called hell.
To see what is; to have no concern for what is not. To feel gratitude for what is. No complaint about what is not, no demand.
Count the flowers; do not count the thorns.
That is heaven—and only from heaven can it one day be seen that heaven and hell are two sides of the same coin. One side says “suffering,” the other “joy.” The same bush has thorns and flowers. It is true that those who see only thorns are wrong. But from a higher vantage, those who see only flowers are also wrong, because both visions are partial. Understand this.
If you are in hell, I say your vision is wrong. Right vision will bring you to joy. When you come to joy, right vision will take you higher still. It will say: seeing only joy is also wrong. For here both sorrow and joy are present. Choosing either is wrong.
Non-choice—choosing nothing; becoming without alternatives.
Joy is outside, suffering is outside. Both come and go. I am separate from both, distinct, different—a mere witness. That state is supreme bliss.

Come, let us reconsider our relationships:
a little quarrel,
a little love.
Who knows whether we are bad or good?
Like others, we too
have grown in adverse conditions.
Come, let us remove the controls on the mind,
keep a little silence,
and make a few words strike true!
Why want only the “good” all the time?
Why only flower-strewn paths?
Why not have paths with thorns as well?
Come, let us play hide-and-seek with our dreams,
let a few desires be autumn,
a few be spring.
Why think only of each other all the time?
There is a little stir
even within the mind itself.
Come, let us descend from attachment into detachment,
be a little sad for a while,
and celebrate a few festivals.
Come, let us reconsider our relationships.

One tendency is to cling to suffering; another is to cling to happiness. But clinging itself is wrong. The second is better than the first, but clinging is still wrong. Then the third: the capacity not to cling. Do not cling to anything. If there are thorns, let there be thorns. If there are flowers, let there be flowers.

Let a few desires be autumn,
a few be spring.
Be a little sad for a while,
and celebrate a few festivals.

Both are fine. Night is fine, day is fine. If sadness comes, let sadness be. If happiness comes, let happiness be.
Slowly, sitting in the feeling “both are fine, both are fine,” suddenly you will find you have slipped out of both—like a snake slipping out of its old skin. You have slipped beyond duality. You are without conflict, pure. That is the state of the witness, the state of the avadhuta. Two are no longer in your life; one has been born—the birth of nonduality.
But the journey is such that first leave suffering and come into joy. Leave hell and come into heaven. Then leave heaven, too.
First leave disease and become healthy. Then leave even health—because health too is tied to disease. Stop worrying about health; once disease is gone, why worry about health? Let that go too. Go beyond both.
First drop sin, hold onto virtue. Then drop virtue too—go beyond sin and virtue. First drop attachment, hold detachment. Then drop even detachment—be beyond both.
That third state is the goal. There, supreme peace and supreme bliss are found.

This is the longing of all sannyasins. This question is everyone’s question.
All who are connected to me in a deep love-relationship are waiting for that very moment. That moment can still come—today, even in this very instant.
I am ready; it is you who are not ready to receive it. I am trying to help your readiness grow, slowly, slowly.
Step out of your prison; or at least open the doors so I can enter your prison from within.
You are in the prison—with the doors shut; and the irony is, no one else stands guard. You yourself locked the doors, bolted them, and sit inside—anxious, afraid, afraid of existence. Inside feels safe; outside is insecurity.
And this is true: outside there is insecurity. But in insecurity there is life. To accept insecurity totally is sannyas—to decide, “Now I will not live by securing myself. Now I will live as God keeps it. Now, as His will.”
However Ram keeps you, live that way.
Now, whatever He makes me do, I will do; if He does not, I will not. If trust in oneself drops, this can happen today.

“On what day will the chariot set out, carrying me across?”
The chariot stands at the door. It is ready to depart, now.
“When will you take me, lighting the lamp?”
I am ready. Day after day I call to you—Listen! It is already too late as it is. Awake now!
“On what day will you come with flaming arrows?”
I have already come. I am knocking at the door. You do not hear. Inside you are making your own noise. You have so many instruments blaring within that how will you hear the softest tap upon the door, even if it reaches your ears?
You have made such a marketplace inside, such a crowd within you... You are not alone. You have made a whole world inside. There is great quarrel there, much smoke, great disturbance, great struggle, a great war. Moment to moment, only conflict continues. Because of that tumult you do not hear the knock that falls upon the door.

“On what day will you come with flaming arrows?
Will you trace a line across my taut heart and pass through?”
But you never open your heart! You have sealed it under countless layers. Those layers could be torn by force, but that would be a violation. And even if freedom were forced upon you, it would only be another name for slavery.
Freedom can never be given by force. It is a contradiction in terms. Freedom must be chosen, embraced.

When the revolution took place in France, the revolutionaries broke open the prison there. It was a great prison; the most heinous criminals of France had been confined there for years—those sentenced for life.
In that prison—the Bastille—the chains put on were put on forever. Only those sent there were to remain until death.
So the chains once fastened were fastened for good. No one’s chains were ever cut. Only when a man died were they removed. While alive, they were never cut.
The revolutionaries broke down the gates of the Bastille. They broke the chains of the inmates. There were thousands of prisoners. And they said to them, “You are free.” But the prisoners were not willing. They were not willing to go out. They were shocked. They could not believe it. For they had accepted a fixed pattern of life.
One had been locked up for thirty years, another for forty. There was even a prisoner who had been there fifty years. If for fifty years iron chains had gripped a man’s hands and iron fetters his feet, if for fifty years he had not left his dark cell; if for fifty years he had received his meals on time; if for fifty years he had known only one kind of life, and you suddenly break his chains and say, “You are free”—where is he to go?
He can’t even remember now—the names of those he had left outside—he doesn’t even recall. He is not sure they are still alive. He’s not sure they would recognize him. The work he did fifty years ago—how could he do it now? An eighty-year-old man! Who will give him bread? Who will give him a livelihood? Where should he go? In what direction? Whom to look for? Who will accept him?
No, they said, “Forgive us. We do not want to go out. And do not break our chains.”
But the revolutionaries were adamant. By force, pushing and whipping, they drove them out.
They had been brought in under the lash; under the lash they were pushed out. Can freedom happen like this?
By evening, half the men had returned. They said, “Where are we to go? At least let us sleep in our cells tonight!”
By midnight, more people returned. “We cannot sleep anywhere else,” they said. “Outside there is too much commotion.” And one old man said, “Without the chains on my hands, I cannot sleep. For fifty years the chains on my hands, the fetters on my feet—those were my companions. I feel naked without them. I tried to sleep, but sleep would not come! Give me back my chains!”
There is no way to make anyone free by force. And that is only outer freedom. Inner freedom is an even subtler matter.

So I stand at the door, ready to pass by cleaving your heart. But it cannot be done by force. No violation can happen. You yourself will have to drop your veils, your coverings, slowly, slowly. You will have to open your heart to me, little by little.

“Will you trace a line across my taut heart and pass through?
On what day shall I take your fire upon my head?”
As long as it still seems like “fire,” how will you take it upon your head? When these burning coals begin to look to you like blossomed roses, then...
“Before your arrows I shall lay my life bare?”
If you experience them as “arrows,” you will not be able to lay it down. The day it is no longer an arrow but a medicine...

The very same thing is poison, the very same thing is medicine. When you are afraid, it appears as poison. When you accept, it becomes medicine. On that very day, the happening happens.

But from where does the obstruction arise? It arises from your sense of I-ness, your ego.
I am used to walking through storms—
do not make my destination easy!
Flowers try to stop me, thorns make me move on;
deserts and mountains increase my longing to climb.
Truly, when difficulties are not there,
even my steps feel shy to move.
Let the winds begin to walk with me—then
turn every grain of the path into a storm!
I am used to walking through storms—
do not make my destination easy!

I have held embers upon my lips and smiled;
I have called life back from the cremation ground.
I have played blindman’s buff with fate,
and a hundred times kissed death upon the cheek.
I do not accept pity—not even my own—
do not bestow any favor upon me!
I am used to walking through storms—
do not make my destination easy!

Only with the water of toil is the road ever watered;
the torch of movement laughs only in the gale.
It is by thorns that the traveler is adorned,
and the bride-price of the goal is paid in blood.
Speed comes to the feet when the blisters are torn—
lay down burning rocks at every step!
I am used to walking through storms—
do not make my destination easy!

I would make your destination easy, but you do not agree to it. Your ego says:
I am used to walking through storms—
do not make my destination easy!
I do not accept pity—not even my own—
do not bestow any favor upon me!
I am used to walking through storms—
You have walked in suffering; you have kept fighting; fighting has become your nature. And here surrender is needed—yet fighting has become your nature. By resolve you have spun the world; here surrender is needed. You have been filled—always—with the ambition to win; here the capacity is needed to be defeated, to accept defeat—with a feeling of grateful wonder. Then the event can happen today; it can happen now.

And whenever it happens, it happens unannounced. There can be no proclamation, no prediction—When? It may be now, or it may be lifetimes hence.
It can happen any time, because every moment holds the possibility. Whenever the alignment is complete; whenever you consent—when not even a flicker of “no” remains within you—in that very instant it happens.

So suddenly I met you—
as a wayfarer,
without asking,
without a prayer,
finds a priceless pearl upon the road.
Such is the meeting. Such is the meeting of love. And of prayer. Of the beloved. And of the Supreme Beloved.

So suddenly I met you—
as a wayfarer,
without asking,
without a prayer,
finds a priceless pearl upon the road.

And at the uproar of parting, this is the feeling—
as if a long-tormented, tight-fisted man,
the harvest of life’s labor
is snatched away by highwaymen;
as if a pious ascetic in old age realizes
a lifetime of devotions has gone to waste.

And even after meeting, you will part many times. At first, union comes like a gust of wind and goes. A single ray of light comes and is lost. A fragrance comes drifting, trembling in the air—you cannot catch it—It came, it came—and it is gone.
Light will come many times and go many times. Slowly, slowly you will catch its thread. Slowly, slowly you will make it your eternal treasure.

So suddenly I met you—
as a wayfarer,
without asking,
without a prayer,
finds a priceless pearl upon the road.

Neither was it asked for, nor was there a prayer, nor anyone’s blessing. Suddenly—this is how it is—un-caused.

Why is it so?
Because as long as you keep trying, your ego remains. “I” am trying to attain something—then the “I” persists.
When, tired of trying, one day you are not; in some fortunate moment—there is no trying, and you are not—only emptiness is, only silence—then, in that instant:
So suddenly I met you—
as a wayfarer,
without asking,
without a prayer,
finds a priceless pearl upon the road.

And at the moment of parting, it feels like this:
And at the uproar of parting, this is the feeling—
as if a long-tormented, tight-fisted man...
as if a miser’s lifetime savings...
the harvest of life’s labor,
collected through an entire life...
are snatched away by highwaymen,
robbed by bandits.
As if a pious ascetic in old age realizes
a lifetime of devotions has gone to waste.

When the Divine comes, it feels—He came unasked. And when He goes, it feels—everything is looted. All is looted! You become poorer than before. Because earlier you had no experience, so you did not know—you could not compare—what treasure is.
Once light has entered the eye and then darkness grows dense again, the darkness will seem deeper than before. You will weep much, writhe much. All is looted. The robbers have taken everything.
So there is one kind of separation that a man feels before knowing God. It is not very deep. It cannot be very deep. If you have not seen the Beloved, have not known His beauty, not even had a glimpse, you can weep, but how deep can that weeping be?
With no experience, what will you weep for? For whom are you weeping? Are you even sure He is? That He ever was? Or is it all only fancy?

Then the experience happens. And remember—suddenly—un-caused.

But this does not mean you should make no effort. If you do not make effort, the un-caused will not happen either. By making effort, by getting utterly tired, one day you find: it does not happen by effort. You have done all that could be done. You have carried doing to its last limit. On that last boundary, rest arrives. There is nothing more to do. You sit down, relaxed. In that rest, un-caused:
as a wayfarer,
without asking,
without a prayer,
finds a priceless pearl upon the road.

But this pearl will be found and lost. Before it is yours in its wholeness, many times it will come into your hand and slip away.

Yet the preparation you must do; the door you must keep open. Fear you must drop.

Before the true Master, the disciple should drop fear. Fear is the only hindrance. Drop inhibition. Even doubt and suspicion—though they seem so natural—drop them too. Let faith be born. Let trust surge.

This event is going to happen. It will surely happen. It is on the way. But when it will happen is hard to say! Only when you allow it to happen will it happen. Without your consent, it will not.
No one can be freed by force. For force and freedom are contradictions. Liberation arises from your total acceptance. You will be free in your naturalness—not by being dragged.

A tugged-open freedom is like someone forcing open a flower bud—prying apart its petals. The flower will indeed open, but in the opening it will die; its beauty will be destroyed. The petals will have become dead already. One thing is the bud’s blossoming on its own.

So let me remain the sun. I will not touch your bud with my hands. Let me remain at a distance, like light falling upon you. Do not worry about having to depend upon me—about needing to rely on me.
And do not wait for my hands either, thinking they will come and open your bud. That would be enmity, not your welfare.
Let me remain like the sun’s radiance. Your bud will open. This longing has arisen because the bud wants to bloom.
That is why I have asked: “On what day will the chariot set out, carrying me across?”
An inkling of the chariot has begun—that is why. From afar the sound can be heard, as if somewhere in the sky the clouds were rumbling—very far away. One has begun to hear that such a chariot is approaching from somewhere. “On what day will the chariot set out, carrying me across?”
Therefore you have asked: "When will you take me away, having kindled the light in me?"
A sense of the light has begun to appear here and there. Very faint. Perhaps only a reflection. The star in the sky has not yet been seen, but the star’s image falling into the lake has been glimpsed.
"On what day will you come bearing flaming arrows?"
And I too have begun to prick somewhere like an arrow; hence the remembrance arises. A certain pain has begun to stir. A sting has been born.
"Across my heart drawn taut, will you pass, leaving a streak?"
When longing has awakened, the seed has been sown; the tree will come; fruit will set; flowers will bloom.
"On what day shall I take your fire upon my head?"
Today it seems like fire; yet there is a wish to take it. From this you too have begun to understand that what looks like fire is only appearance—no fire at all, but the scarlet of flowers.
Have you seen, sometimes in summer, when the palash forests are in bloom, it seems as if the whole forest is ablaze! In English they even call the palash blossoms the flowers of fire; from afar it looks as though the jungle has caught fire. But as you come closer, it becomes clear: they are flowers, not fire.
"On what day shall I take your fire upon my head?
Before your arrows will I open and lay down my life?"
In the mind a longing is indeed arising, an ardent yearning to open and lay oneself bare. Perhaps something still holds you back—some fear, some old habit, some conditioning. But how long can it restrain you? For longing belongs to the future, and conditioning to the past. Conditioning is dead; longing is alive. In longing there is soul; conditioning is only a track left on the road you have already traveled. Therefore whenever there is a struggle between longing and the past, the past is defeated, not longing. With longing, the future stands.
So within you the longing has arisen—a blessed longing. Nurture it. Guard it. It is still a tender sapling; give it support so that it may grow. It will grow.
All my support is with you. But I will not come and force your petals open. I cannot.
I cannot, because I love you; otherwise your own capacity to open would be destroyed forever.
A gardener does not pry open a flower. He waters, he gives manure; but he does not seize a bud and wrench it open. He gives the plant its own chance—that when the time is ripe, when spring arrives, when within the flower the capacity to open has matured, then it will open by itself.
To open by oneself is sahaj-yoga, the way of spontaneity. All of Kabir’s utterances point toward this sahaj-yoga. Understand the sahaj, and you have understood Kabir.
That is all for today.