Kahe Kabir Main Pura Paya #3

No; that is not true.

Ramakrishna had cancer. Ramana Maharshi had cancer. And who told you that Mahavira never fell ill? For the last six months before his death Mahavira was seriously ill—tormented by dysentery. The Jain scriptures even try to hide this. They say it wasn’t Mahavira’s illness at all; it was Mahavira’s enemy—Goshalak—who, in rage, hurled a “tejoleshya,” a fiery psychic force, at him. Mahavira, they say, digested it—as enlightened ones digest everything—and that very fire irritated his gut and brought on dysentery. The body, they insist, was not ill.

These are explanations after the fact. Then a devotee of Ramakrishna will say: yes, someone had cancer, and the Paramahansa took it upon himself—he took a devotee’s cancer on his own body. A devotee of Ramana can say the same: he took the world’s suffering upon himself—like Shiva drank the poison and his throat turned blue, Ramana’s throat got cancer because he absorbed the world’s pain.

This is all nonsense. It has no value. But one thing becomes clear: even the so‑called spiritualists are grossly body-centered, ghost‑centered, materialist at heart.

The truth is: the body is the very house of disease. Body means disease. That the body remains healthy is the miracle; that it falls ill is natural.

But our fixation is bodily. If Mahavira has known the Self, we immediately demand bodily signs—there must be marks upon the body. And then we utter foolishness like “his blood turned to milk.” If milk began to flow in the veins, the man would rot—milk sours, turns to curd. You cannot live on milk in the vessels; blood is indispensable.

And the bodies of those who have attained buddhahood become more worn and fragile than ordinary people’s. Why? Because their attachment has utterly dropped. They are in the body and yet not in it. All ties with the body are gone; all bridges broken. What bond remains? They no longer pour their life-breath into the body. So the body begins to drag—like a burden. It moves only on the momentum of past karma until it simply falls.

That is why a true master, one who has awakened, does not take birth again: the very capacity to create a body has fallen silent. Attachment to body has gone; with it goes the power to engender another.

After the supreme knowing you no longer live in a house—you live in a ruin. And since the owner has become indifferent, dispassionate, a witness—who will maintain the house now? And the house will fall today or tomorrow anyway. It begins to collapse.

But our grip is very physical. So we will portray Mahavira as if he were Gama the wrestler, or Dara Singh. Say something sensible!

If it were true that Mahavira’s body became perfectly healthy because of supreme knowledge, then all who are perfectly healthy should attain enlightenment. In that case, the animals in the jungle would easily reach buddhahood!

Among yogis too, there has been a current: somehow make the body healthy, stretch it, prolong life. If you meet a yogi who looks forty‑five and says, “I am a hundred and fifty,” you are dazzled—and conclude, “Ah, a great yogi!”

You weigh spirituality by the body. Your way of thinking is materialistic. Kabir calls such people “jogia”—those who talk spirituality but are caught in the body, who speak loftily but live on the lowest rung, entangled only in the body.

Most Jain monks have become jogia—obsessed with the body! Eat this, drink that; don’t eat this, don’t drink that; fast today; this rule, that rule—that’s all. As if there were nothing else to do. There is no time left for meditation. If only they would drop this whole rigmarole, meditation would happen.

You know the word “gorakh-dhanda”—a futile tangle—comes from Gorakhnath. His disciples started an enormous tangle: eat this way, drink that way; sit in this posture; pierce the ears thus; stand on your head like this—so many procedures, all body‑centered. Hence it came to be called “gorakh-dhanda.” When someone is lost in useless fuss we say, “What gorakh-dhanda have you gotten into?” We no longer remember the link to Gorakhnath.

“Jogia” means: you set out to search the soul but got stuck in the body; you set out on a journey but got trapped in the map—sat down on the map itself. You thought you’d reach the other shore, and you spent your life purifying this shore—finished right here.

When Kabir says “jogia,” know he is teasing, he is making fun.

Sometimes Kabir says “sadhu,” sometimes “sant.” When Kabir says sadhu or sant, he is addressing his disciples. Sadhu means one who has set out toward being a sant; and sant means one who has arrived. When addressing one who has attained, he says sant; when addressing those in training who have just set out, he says sadhu.

Sometimes Kabir addresses himself—as if one Buddha were speaking to another Buddha. There is no other Buddha present, so Kabir speaks to Kabir.

Attend carefully to whom Kabir addresses; much depends on it.

“Sādho, sabd sādhanā kījai”—O sadhus, practice the Word.

He is addressing sadhus.

Three words: sadhak, sadhu, sant.

Sadhak: one who has just begun to walk; learning the alphabet; still stammers; falls and wanders off; walks two steps right, one wrong; still prone to error; still slips back into the world; the call has come but courage wavers—prays one day, forgets the next; sits in the master’s gathering two days, naps the third; surges with zeal a few days, then tires: “What’s the use!” and falls into old habits. Some rays have begun to descend, but not yet dense enough to transform life. Yes, a sprinkling has begun, a fine drizzle.

Sadhu: now stable; no more wavering; errors stop; practice becomes unbroken, continuous. Not drizzle now—the monsoon; rain unceasing; soaked, blissful.

But still in mid‑journey—not yet where nothing remains to be reached. The search continues, but organized; discipline has come; direction is clear; the path is visible; even the shining star of the goal appears ahead. There is no way to get lost, but still one must travel. The snow‑tipped peak of Gaurishankar glows golden in the morning sun—appears near, yet is far; one must climb—that is the sadhu.

And one enthroned upon Gaurishankar is sant—the siddha. Three words: sadhak—sadhu—sant. These words are spoken to the sadhu; keep the meaning of sadhu clear.

Sadhu, literally: simple, straight, guileless, humble, unpretentious, full of trust. One who has dropped the meshes of intellect, the spread of argument, the tricks of cunning, diplomacy, politics. Like a child—holding the guru’s hand as a child holds the father’s—such is a sadhu.

A sadhak must be warned: don’t err; again and again: beware of mistakes. A sadhu must be shown how to do the right. A sadhak is repeatedly brought back from wandering; a sadhu does not wander—but needs help to increase the pace on the right path, to bring urgency, intensity; to boil the water to a full hundred degrees so that someday sant‑hood happens.

“Sādho, sabd sādhanā kījai.”

To a sadhak we say: keep satsang. To a sadhu: now go within. Satsang has done its work; you have fallen in love with Rama; now begin the inner journey.

“Sādho, sabd sādhanā kījai.”

“Shabd”—Word—means what the Bible points to: “In the beginning was the Word, and by the Word all was made.” Not the words uttered by humans, not the sounds formed by your lips, but that which is heard when you are utterly silent—the anahata, the unstruck sound.

“Ahata” means struck, produced—pluck a veena string and a struck sound arises; your lips strike together and a struck sound arises; your throat vibrates and a struck sound arises. Clap two hands and you get sound. But the Zen masters say: seek the place where the clap of one hand is heard. When you find it, you know what the Word is—the anahata. It does not happen because you do; it happens when you are not. When you are utterly still, suddenly a sound arises in your consciousness. You are only the witness, not the doer.

So there is the word man speaks; and there is the Word from which man himself arises, the original sound.

Physics, too, is somewhat willing: it says the world is made of electricity, energy. The sages have always said the world is made of sound. This seems opposite—look deeper and the opposition fades; a harmony appears. Ask the physicist: what is sound? He says: a mode of electrical energy, a wave. Ask the sages: what is electricity? They say: an intensified blow of sound.

You have heard the tales: a singer like Tansen could sing the raga Deepak and a dead lamp would light—an indication that when sound is condensed intensely, fire—electricity—is produced. Then you see: scientists and sages speak of the same, in different idioms. One sees the glass half full, the other half empty—but it is the same glass. Sound and electricity are two names for one event. They used different words because they traveled by different routes.

Scientists explored through the eye; sages realized through the ear. The eye goes outward only; the ear goes both ways—outward and inward. Close the eyes: still they project images—dreams—shadows of the outer. When nothing remains to be seen, the eyes rest. Watch a sleeping person: sometimes the eyes race beneath the lids—that is dreaming; sometimes they are still—no dream, the eyes’ work has stopped.

The ear is wondrous: even if you block all outer sounds, within new sounds begin to appear—always there, but you were distracted. The sages have known truth through the ear; the scientists through the eye. In Chinese Taoist picturing, the eye symbolizes the male, aggressive; the ear, the female, receptive. From this root we even have words like luchcha (from lochan, eye)—one who assaults with his eyes, who leers; and alochak—the critic, one who glares, who dissects—also from lochan. The eye is aggressive, violent. Politicians often hide their eyes behind dark glasses: the cleverest trick—if your eyes aren’t seen, your intent is not read. The eye betrays you: you say, “I am delighted to see you,” but the eye shows no ripple of delight. So they hide.

The ear gives nothing away. No one can read a man by his ear; hence no politician covers the ears. The ear receives, the eye attacks. Science, born of the eye, is aggressive and violent; its ultimate fruit is war. Religion, born of the ear, learns to listen—to the anahata.

Therefore: to see God is less; to hear God is greater. The way to God is the way one enters music, sinks into song.

Many tell me: “In your ashram there is so much music, dance—nowhere else do we see that in an ashram.” Those who ask know nothing of the “Word.” Where there is no music, no dance, there the sadhana of the Word is not happening. There people sit dull; no celebration.

The eye is far from God; the ear is very near.

Practicing the Word means: become wordless. Let the ripples of the mind fall to zero. Let there be a moment when you are, but not a single word inside.

And we go on stuffing ourselves with trash—newspapers all day long! One chases words from morning till night, and when exhausted at night someone comes with the paper again. Yesterday’s paper had the same news; the day before, the same again. You could write tomorrow’s paper today. Those asleep repeat the same quarrels, politics, revenge—nothing original. People once read the Gita, the Quran, the Bible—there was something inexhaustible there. Today the newspaper-reader mocks the Gita‑reader: “The same Gita every day?” In truth, the newspaper is the same every day; the Gita never is. The Gita is not “news” about the outer; it points to the timeless. As you change, new meanings reveal themselves.

Read words that come from the wordless. Don’t fill yourself with words rising from capitals—capitals are mad, populated by the mad. Read those words born where all words fell silent—there you will find shade, relief, direction. But even those can become obstacles—so don’t become a pundit; remain a sadhu. Don’t become a knower; remain a simple child. Read the scriptures, savor them—their nectar is sweet. But don’t stop there: they too are words. Truth is within, and Kabir says: it is there like a sound, like music.

“Sādho, sabd sādhanā kījai.
Jehi sabd te prakat bhae sab, soi sabd gahi lījai.”

Enter the primal sound from which all has arisen—build your steps into that.

“Sabd guru, sabd sun sikh bhae; sabd so birla boojhai.”

The Word is the guru—that silent tone within, waiting. The outer guru only reminds you of it, throws you back into yourself. Any guru who hooks you outside is no guru—he’s an enemy. The true guru says: leave me, go within; don’t cling to me; learn from me how to turn inward, then forget everything—including the guru. When forgetfulness of the outer is complete, remembrance of the inner dawns. Both cannot be together. While your energy is entangled outwardly, how will the inner be remembered? When all outer entanglement is dropped, what remains to remember? Only yourself.

“Sabd guru, sabd sun sikh bhae...
...Soi sishya, soi guru mahatam, jehi antar gati soojhai.”

The Word is the guru. One who has heard it is the shishya, the Sikh. Very rare is one who understands this Word—but he who keeps walking the inner path will. The unique happening between guru and disciple is nothing but this: a transmission of the inner movement.

“Sabdai ved puran kahat hain, sabdai sab thharaavai.
Sabdai sur muni sant kahat hain, sabd bhed nahi paavai.”

All the Vedas, Puranas, Qurans speak of the Word—that which is heard in the silence; of the Whole that descends into emptiness. The one who abides in the Word becomes established—Krishna’s sthitaprajna: steady, windless flame. All sages sing of that silence, that music heard in the soundless—yet however much is said, its secret is not revealed. It is known only by tasting, not by explanation. You must know it yourself; no one can lend you the knowledge. Masters speak only about the how—the method, the path.

“Sabdai sun sun bhesh dharat hain,
Sabdai kahai anuragi.
Khat‑darshan sab sabd kahat hain,
...Sabd kahai vairagi.”

Hearing a hint of that Word, a man renounces—the householder’s garb falls, the monk is born. Hearing it, one becomes a lover of God. All six systems of philosophy point to the Word. The devotee says it; the renunciate says it—approaching from many directions, one ocean is reached. The source is one.

“Sabdai kaya jag utpani, sabdai keri pasara.
Kahe Kabir jahan sabd hot hain, bhavan bhed hai nyara.”

By the Word this body and the world arise; all this spread is of the Word. Kabir says: enter that mansion where the Word resounds—there is the true temple. Leave man‑made shrines; go to God’s temple. The experience there is incomparable—no taste, no beauty, no music in this world can match it. Go—and know.

“Kabir sabd sarir mein, bin gun bajai tant.
Bahar bheetar bhari rahya, tatha chhooti bharant.”

That Word is hidden in you; nowhere else to go—not to Kashi, not to Kaaba. It pervades your every pore, your heartbeat—its very throb. Like music asleep in the veena—touch it and it wakes. But the inner veena is more marvelous: there is no instrument, no strings—only music—the unstruck sound. Enter and you will find no veena and no player—yet a wondrous, timeless music without beginning or end. To hear that music is to hear God.

That music overflowed in Muhammad when the Quran descended; he trembled. It overflowed in the Vedic rishis—hence the Vedas are called apaurusheya—not composed by man. Whenever anything of worth is spoken, it comes from there; the rest is rubbish. Whenever truth or beauty appears, know it comes from there—whether the smile of a child or the passing beauty of a woman—deeper, it comes from there. The Gita, the Quran, the Bible—all arise there. And that source is within you—so why hunt in the Gita? Go where the Gita comes from. Enter the very consciousness from which Krishna speaks, from which Christ speaks.

“Sabd sabd bahu antara, saar sabd chit dey.”

There is a vast difference between words and Words. Newspapers have words—and so does the Quran—but there is a gulf between them. The words that rise from inner emptiness carry its fragrance; the words contrived on the surface are valueless.

Coleridge died leaving thousands of unfinished poems. Friends often asked why he piled them up unfinished. He said: I am not the finisher. I simply write what descends; if it doesn’t, I cannot force it. Sometimes he tried adding lines himself—then found his additions dead alongside the living lines that had come. Like a man with a wooden leg: it may deceive others in the dark, even help in a pinch, but you yourself know it is wood. Coleridge said, others were fooled by my added lines, but how could I be? Where a clean stream flowed, I had tossed in a dirty ditch.

A like event happened to Tagore. He translated Gitanjali into English and asked C. F. Andrews to check it. Andrews corrected three or four words for grammar. In London, when Tagore read Gitanjali, the poet Yeats stood and said: all is fine, but in three or four places it feels as if someone else chose the words—the flow is broken. Those were exactly the places Andrews had amended. Yeats said: your original words may be wrong for grammar but right for poetry—keep them. Let grammar go to hell; save the poem. Tagore restored his words—the grammar erred, but the music was saved.

So there are words that come from within—guard them. Words that rise in love, in stillness, in compassion—guard them. Words rising in anger—throw them away; they are poison.

Let the conversation not cease; let one word lead to another; let this face‑to‑face last till morning; let this star‑studded night smile upon us. Yes, in the hands of words there are also stones of insult; sarcasm can spill cups of poison; glances can be sharp, brows arched and bitter. Whatever else happens, let the heart inside the chest stay awake. Let helplessness not shackle our feet with chains of words; let there be murderers, but let them not murder the song. By morning some word of fidelity will descend; love will come—though with stumbling feet. Eyes will lower, hearts will beat, lips will tremble; silence will turn into a kiss upon the lips and become fragrant; only the sound of buds bursting will be heard. And then no need of letters or song; love will speak through the hints of eyes and brows; hatred will depart, courtesy will be our guest. Hand in hand, with the whole world along, bearing the gift of pain, the present of love, we will pass through the deserts of enmity; we will cross the rivers of blood. Let the conversation not cease; let one word lead to another; let this meeting last till dawn; let this starry night smile upon us.

Where words rise from love, from the heart, from the innermost—let them speak. Let satsang be—then words have meaning; let there be love—then words are fulfilled; let even a faint inner melody waft in—then words carry fragrance. Yes, words can wound; there are pitfalls—yet there is a slender path right by those pits. Just be vigilant that words do not become chains on your ankles—do not let the inner voice be strangled by words. Let words not become Hindu, Muslim, Christian—prisons of identity.

“Sabd sabd bahu antara, saar sabd chit dey.
Ja sabdai Sahib milai, soi sabd gahi ley.”

There is a great difference between words; give your heart to those that take you to the Lord, drop the rest—that is the touchstone.

“Sabd barabar dhan nahi, jo koi janai bol.
Heera to damon milai, sabdahin mol na tol.”

There is no wealth like the Word—for one who knows how to speak and hear. Diamonds can be priced, but the true Word cannot be weighed or valued. If you find a true master, true utterances—words that heal your wounds, awaken you from sleep, strip away dreams and delusions and give you truth—such words are priceless.

“Seetal sabd ucharie, aham aniye nahin.
Tera pritam tujh mein, shatru bhi tujh mahin.”

Speak cool words; hear cool words—not words of anger, enmity, violence and hate; not war and venom. When anger floods the mind, be silent—anything you say will wound. When hatred surges, sit alone, remember the Beloved—say nothing to anyone. When the heart is festive, dancing in joy, in gratitude—then speak; your speaking will carry music and substance. The beloved is within you—and the enemy too is within you. Words, rightly held, become a doorway to the Beloved; wrongly held, they become your noose.

Drop the ego, for ego is the heat. I have heard of the Sufi saint Khairabadi. He sold vegetables for a living. Simple-hearted, many passed counterfeit coins to him; some even accused him that the fake coin had come from his own shop and forced an exchange. He accepted it all quietly. Whenever someone gave him a bad coin, people noticed he would glance at the sky and fold his hands—a lifelong habit. At the end he prayed: “O Lord, all my life I accepted counterfeit coins; I never refused anyone’s bad coin. I too am a counterfeit coin; now that I come to you, do not turn me away.” Then people understood why all his life he looked up when handed a false coin: the same prayer. This is egolessness: I too am a counterfeit coin.

If you take ego to God, how will you even go? Ego stands like a wall. Only when you go there dissolved, is union possible. Begin dissolving now. Anger and hate feed the ego; coolness starves it.

“Seetal sabd ucharie, aham aniye nahin.”

Be cool. Speak cool words. Make peace your way of life. Growing more and more quiet, the sadhak becomes a sadhu; the sadhu, a siddha.

“Sādho, sabd sādhanā kījai.”

This is the sadhana of the Word.

Enough for today.