Kahe Kabir Main Pura Paya #5

Friends! Whether you feel it or not
The light has shrunk into flames of poison.
Stealthily, ever so stealthily, the blood of the dew is being drunk.
Come—look there—the murderer of the moonlit night, the sun,
Casting the lasso of its rays in every direction.
Who is, who is not within range—do not ponder this.
The wave of the dream has curled back, become a tear.
This is the night’s sole yield—guard it well.
This, the final wares of your lost dawn—
If you can, hide them in your hem.
Do not disgrace the longing of eyes made moist.

What is the sum of a human life? What is the final capital?
The wave of the dream has curled back, become a tear—
This is the night’s sole yield—guard it well.
The entire dark night of this life has only one outcome—sorrow. Only one asset—tears. Here, no one truly gains anything, yet something is certainly lost. We arrive in the world empty-handed, and we depart more empty-handed still. We go after losing. True, we come empty, but at least the fist is closed. The newborn arrives with a closed fist—though empty—yet closed. And when one departs, the hand is empty again, but now it is open. All has been plundered.
Life plunders—it gives nothing. And life robs you with such art that you never notice. All the while you live under the notion that you are earning; you remain in the illusion that you have amassed. And you keep accumulating: this is mine, that is mine; so much land, so much property; so much name, so much prestige! In the very deception of gaining, you lose everything.
Harder to find than a poor man is a truly wealthy one. And harder still than the emptiness of a beggar is the emptiness of those on great thrones. They are mendicants; only the delusion says they are not. Blessed is the one who understands that life plunders; life is a bandit.

Friends! Whether you feel it or not—
The light has shrunk into flames of poison.
From the day you were born, you have done nothing but move toward death. From that day, you have been dying. The poison draws nearer: death draws nearer. What you call light is forever encircled by venom.
What you call life is wrapped on all sides by death. The shroud of death is wound around you. Each passing day, one more day is died away. Life lessens; you grow weaker. Drop by drop, this pitcher will be drained.
And the irony: you remain convinced the pitcher is filling. You remain convinced it fills each day. The goal is only a little farther; the dream is about to be fulfilled. A little more effort—and you will reach the destination.

Friends! Whether you feel it or not—
The light has shrunk into flames of poison.
Stealthily, ever so stealthily, the blood of the dew is being drunk.
Your blood is being sipped by death. It is not that death barges in one day after seventy years. Death comes every instant; you die daily. Seventy years is only the completion of death’s work; death does not arrive suddenly at seventy. It comes slowly, very gently. You never notice, and it keeps coming. No footfall is heard, so silent is its step. No whisper; no clamour; no knocking at the doors.

Stealthily, ever so stealthily, the blood of the dew is being drunk.
Come—look—the killer of the moonlit night, the sun—
Casting the lasso of its rays in every direction.
Everywhere, a net is spread.

Who is, who is not within range—do not ponder this.
Do not bother thinking who died today, who will die tomorrow; who was caught in the net today, who will be caught tomorrow—do not waste thought there.

Who is, who is not within range—do not ponder this.
Whenever anyone dies, remember: it is you who died; life grew shorter. Each death is news of your death.

Friends! Whether you feel it or not—
That is your choice. If you feel it, religion is born in your life. If you do not, life becomes entangled in vain matters and ends entangled. In the end you will find: except for tears, there is nothing in your hands. A lifetime’s running—and the only treasure is tears.

The wave of the dream has curled back, become a tear—
The night’s sole yield is this...
The whole of life’s night—this alone is the yield.

This is the night’s sole yield—guard it well.
This, the final wares of your lost dawn—
That morning of life which was lost, that time, that opportunity—lost...
This, the final wares of your lost dawn—
The only final capital of that lost morning—these tears.
At the time of death, the two tears that fall from a man’s eyes—this is life’s yield. He who sees this in time awakens. Awaken before death—only then have you lived. If you do not awaken before death, your life was in name only—you were as if dead.
Life is not the name of breathing. Nor is it the heartbeat. Life is awakening, for only in awakening is the treasure of Buddhahood. To leave without becoming a Buddha is to leave having lost all.
Become a Buddha and go. Resolve, take a vow that you will go awakened, that you will go alert. Do not live asleep and die asleep. Light a lamp of inner light. Offer your very life. Burn your life-breath—yet create light. And once light happens within, it never goes out. No storm can snatch it. The wise have called only that a treasure which cannot be taken away. That which can be snatched is a fool’s treasure.
The wise call treasure that which is your own nature. Have you anything that cannot be taken from you? Think; search; inquire. Have you anything that cannot be snatched?
Your wealth can be taken. Your position can be taken. Your wife can be taken. Your husband can be taken. Even if none takes them, death will. Your body will be taken, and your mind too will be taken.
Have you anything that cannot be looted, for which no method of looting exists?

In those days, Emperor Prasenjit came to Mahavira and said: I have listened to your words, and it has become clear to me that I am utterly impoverished. I have everything—and I have nothing! You have shaken me; you have broken my sleep! I used to dream—one dream—of being an emperor. But I have nothing. You have filled me with anguish too. Great pain has arisen in my heart. I am destitute. The wealth you speak of—where shall I find it? How shall I find it?
Mahavira said: I call only meditation true wealth. There is no other treasure. There is nowhere else to go to obtain it.
But Prasenjit was Prasenjit—his whole life had been a race outward. He had made great journeys, built a vast kingdom, conquered far and wide, planted his standard. He said: do not worry; whatever this wealth may be, show me where it is—I will conquer it.
Mahavira laughed. He said: This is not a matter of conquest. And it is not outside. Armies will be of no use.
Prasenjit said: Do not worry about that. There is nothing in the world I have desired and not obtained. I am prepared to pay any price. Whatever the cost, I will pay. If I must give my entire kingdom, I will give it—but I will have meditation.
Mahavira said: By giving anything, meditation is not obtained. It is not a transaction of giving and taking. But Prasenjit could not understand. He had bought everything in the world; he had won every kind of victory. He thought, I will win meditation too, I will buy meditation. And not only Prasenjit thinks so—you do as well. Everyone thinks so.
Seeing he could not understand, Mahavira said: Do this—there is a poor man in your own village; he has obtained meditation. He is my disciple; he is poor; he has nothing. Buy it from him. He may agree to sell!—Mahavira joked.
Prasenjit drove his chariot to that poor man’s door. The poor man fell at his feet. He said: What need was there for you to come? You could have summoned me. You could have commanded.
Prasenjit said: I had to come. I have come to take meditation. Mahavira says you have obtained meditation. Blessed are you. Give me meditation, and take whatever wealth you wish.
The man laughed. He said: It seems Mahavira has played a joke. I can give my life, but how can I give meditation? It is not that I do not wish to give—but meditation cannot be given. Meditation is inward wealth; it must be discovered. It is not obtained by going outward; it is obtained by going inward. Each is born with it.
There are two kinds of wealth in this world. One is Dhyana, which you are born with, the diamond hidden in your own ragged cloak, the jewel lying within. The other is wealth with many forms, which you are not born with. That which you did not bring with you, you chase all your life to acquire—and death will snatch it away. For what you did not bring with life, you cannot carry beyond death. What you carried from before birth—that alone you will carry beyond death.
Therefore the Zen masters say to their disciples: Close your eyes, and reach the place where you were before you were born. If you find that place within, nothing can be taken from you.
Death can snatch only what birth has given. What lies beyond it is outside death. And what is outside death is nectar. What is outside death is the Divine.
There is a wealth found by searching outside. It is found with great difficulty; you hunt and hunt; of a thousand who set out, nine hundred and ninety-nine do not find it; one or two do. And the wonder is: those who don’t find it—well, they don’t find it. But those who do—death takes it back from them too.
He who awakens to this, who understands, in whose awareness this dawns—his life undergoes a revolution. A new journey begins. The name of that new journey is religion. For that alone we wander searching.

It is the vagrant morning breeze we name—
The scent of the rose is stilled in the name of that bud.
Nothing emerged in the heart but the burn of unfulfilled longing—
Alas, what accusations there were in the name of man.
I roam from lane to lane with the chain of disgrace—
A spectacle within a spectacle, in the name of life.
Now it has come to this—my head strikes every stone—
A single idol has slain me, in the name of worship.
Healers, have you thought of some remedy for them too—
Those hearts that were broken, in the name of heart-winning?
Let someone ask my sympathizers—what did you do?
Well, he showed enmity—in the name of friendship.
No one forbids laughter, nor is crying a crime—
At least this much freedom there is, in the name of madness.
In your very name the heart found life—
Now let this tale end—in your very name.
Caravan of dawn, friends—at which destination are you?
I wander astray—invoking light.

We grope about...
Caravan of dawn, friends—at which destination are you?
Where will light be found? Where will that caravan of morning be found? Where will the sun’s vision be? Where is the light that will transform us? That will give us a life that has no end? That will take us outside time? That will save us from the tangle of birth and death?
Caravan of dawn, friends—at which destination are you?
Where is that refuge—where is that destination?
I wander astray—invoking light.

We are blind, and we are in darkness.
This birth that comes from the mother’s womb is not the real birth. From one womb you have emerged, from one darkness you have come—and you have fallen into another darkness. Saved from the ditch, you fell in the well!
In the mother’s belly the child lives in deep darkness. Nothing is seen, nothing is known. Then he is born. He begins to see, to know—but outside. Within, darkness remains. Within, a dense darkness remains. Not even a single star twinkles. Not even a faint lamp burns.
This birth is not real birth. Hence in this land we have called the real birth—the second birth.
Second birth: as from the mother’s womb you came out into outer light, so from the outside return within—the second birth happens—and light happens within.
He who attains this second birth—we have called him a Brahmin. Therefore a Brahmin is called Dvij—twice-born. One birth is received from the mother and father, and one birth one gives to oneself.
Hence we revere the Sadguru even more than mother and father. We say: the debt to mother and father can be repaid, but the debt to the Sadguru cannot. For mother and father gave birth, opened the outer eyes. The Sadguru gives another birth; the inner eyes open. And within is all—light of lights, the sun of suns—within is all.
Understand Kabir’s verses; they are most precious.

Re, in this world what of “mine,” what of “thine”?
Kabir says: In this world—what is mine, what is yours! We are caught in a futile bustle, in futile struggle.
People quarrel: this is mine, that is yours! They draw boundaries. They make definitions. They run courts. They wage wars. Individuals fight. Groups fight. Nations fight. And all the fighting is over what is “mine.”
“Let my ‘mine’ be more; let ‘yours’ be less”—this is the story of our life. And here nothing is mine and nothing is yours. None brought anything, none will take anything. Empty-handed we came, empty-handed we shall go.

Re, in this world what of “mine,” what of “thine”?
Are you not ashamed to say, “my house”?
Kabir says: You feel no shame! All here belongs to the Divine. You feel no shame making mine-and-thine of it? No embarrassment? You lodge one night as a guest in someone’s house, and in the morning you announce: this house is mine! If you lodge for a night in a house, offer thanks and depart.

Re, in this world what of “mine,” what of “thine”?
For a little while we are guests here. Yet we raise great quarrels. Our life passes in quarrels.
For a short while we are here; it is but a short halt; then we shall depart. When we will depart—not even that is certain. Will morning even arrive? At midnight we may depart. We sit here now—and in a moment we may not be. Where there is no assurance even of a moment, how fiercely we fight! What struggles we perform! We spill blood. We are ready to kill and be killed. Kabir says: do you feel no shame? Have a little modesty.

Are you not ashamed to say, “my house.”
Here, nothing is mine. The day it is seen that nothing here is mine—a wondrous event occurs. The very moment it is seen that nothing is mine, the sense of “I” dies.
People ask me: how to drop the ego? The ego cannot be dropped until “mine” is dropped. For “mine” gives birth to “I.” That is why as your “mine” expands, your “I” grows.
If you own a small hut, your “I” is small. Build a palace, your “I” becomes large. If you have a small car, your “I” is small. Acquire a big car, and “I” grows. If your safe is small and then grows large, “I” grows. You ruled ten or twenty-five people; become the prime minister and rule millions—your “I” expands accordingly.
Your “I” grows with the spread of your “mine.” He who has nothing to call “mine”—how can he have an “I”? Therefore the poor man’s real pain is not poverty. His real pain is that he cannot announce his “I.”
The pain of the positionless is not lack of position. His pain is that others trample him. He cannot resist. He cannot raise his voice. He who has nothing to call “mine” cannot say to anyone, “Do you know who I am?” To say so, first “mine” is required.
Within the empire of “mine,” the “I” stands. Understand that “I” is supported by “mine.” When support comes from all sides, “I” stands firm. So much wealth, so much position, so much prestige, so much virtue, so many fasts, so much renunciation—anything that can be counted, upon which you can stamp your “mine”—then the “I” becomes big. The food of ego is “mine.”
Kabir says:

Re, in this world what of “mine,” what of “thine”?
If it is understood that nothing is mine here, “I” will fall. The state of egolessness will arise of itself.
People do the reverse. They do not drop “mine”; they try to cultivate egolessness. They try to be humble. They walk with their heads bowed. They touch feet and say: I am but the dust of your feet. But look into their eyes. Their humility becomes an ornament of their ego.
The humble man is often full of ego that none is more humble than I. He walks with head held high.
If someone says to you, “I am the dust of your feet,” do not make the mistake of saying, “You are absolutely right; I thought so too.” He will be offended; he may leap upon your neck. He is not saying he is dust. He is asking you to acknowledge how humble he is! How great his humility!
Do not accept his words. Do not say, “You are exactly right; we too believe you are the dust of our feet.” He will never forgive you. He never said he was dust; it was mere courtesy. It was a subtle way of displaying his ego. He had found a cunning way: I am nothing—yet he will repeat the announcement of being nothing.
Do not try to become humble; otherwise ego will hide in humility. There is only one way to demolish ego: to know—nothing here is mine, nothing is yours.
But people also do this: since nothing is mine or yours here, they abandon house, wealth, shop; become sannyasins. Renouncing all, they go to the forests. But then another kind of “mine” seizes them. They say: I left millions. The sense of “mine” settles upon renunciation!
I have an acquaintance. Many years ago he left home. But he still never tires of saying—in any conversation, he slips it in: I kicked millions away.
I asked him: you kicked them away thirty years ago; yet the kick still has not landed! Why do you remember it? Why do you say it again and again? Why keep account? If you kicked away millions—end of the matter. No great deed was done!
No—he has done a great deed. With those millions he could not strut so much as he now struts, having kicked them away. Many have millions, but few have kicked millions away!
Thus ego became stronger.
And I told him: as far as I know, there were not even millions. I researched thoroughly and discovered there were three hundred and sixty rupees—in the post office savings!
First he used to say “hundreds”; then courage grew and he said “thousands.” Then courage grew and he said “millions.” Now thirty years have passed, no one cares. And who researches the tales of renouncers!
Gradually courage kept growing—he began to say “millions.” I said: before you die, you will be saying “tens of millions.”
Ego is swelling. Even renunciation manufactures ego.
So be alert: if wealth is not yours, where is the question of leaving it? That which never was yours—how will you renounce it? Even in renouncing, the feeling “it is mine” persists. Renunciation implies it. You say: I have left. That which was not yours—do you leave it? Do you say, I have renounced the sun? Today I have liberated the sky? I no longer hold the moon and stars in bondage? If you say this to someone, he will think you have gone mad!
Were the moon and stars ever in your bondage? If you say you have freed the sky—what are you saying! You have granted freedom to the sun! Is your mind sound? They were free already!
When you say, I left wealth, you are indirectly proclaiming again that wealth was mine—I left it. That which was not mine—how will I leave it?
True knowing is not the abandonment of objects. True knowing is awakening from possessiveness. That’s all.
Nothing here is mine; how can I become a renouncer? What is, is His. What is, belongs to existence. Nothing here is mine.
In the morning when you rise from the dharmashala to continue your journey, you do not say: I have renounced the inn. You do not become a renouncer. But when you leave your house for the forest, you say: I have renounced! When you say: I have left my wife...
There was a Jain monk, Ganeshvarni. He had great prestige among Jains. I was reading his life-story and came upon an unusual incident. The life is written by devotees, with sentiment. And the incident is mentioned to impress people.
Ganeshvarni was born Hindu, later converted and became Jain. Hence among Jains his prestige was great. Among Hindus—disregard; among Jains—honour.
When a Hindu becomes Muslim, he is honoured among Muslims and disregarded among Hindus. If a Muslim becomes Hindu, Hindus make a great commotion of welcome—because it proves: our religion is right, the other’s wrong. Otherwise why would this man leave that and come here? That is why so much effort goes into converting people from one religion to another.
Ganeshvarni had great prestige. Some twenty-five years after leaving home, his wife died; he was in Kashi. A letter arrived—your wife is dead. Those around him said, after reading it: Well then, trouble is over. The biographer writes that Ganeshvarni said: Good—the nuisance is ended. What a renouncer! What a great renouncer! The wife died and not a tear fell! Such freedom from attachment. On the contrary, he said: Good—the nuisance is ended!
The man who wrote the book came to present it to me. I told him: Wait, I must say something. The wife he had left twenty-five years ago—was her “nuisance” still there? It must have been lingering in the mind. If he had truly left her, after twenty-five years would the nuisance remain? This reveals not renunciation but a violent mind. Something clung within—some thread continued—of attachment, of desire, or perhaps fear she might return? Fear of the wife. Fear he might again become attracted? Fear his mind might wobble? The poor woman was far away, grinding grain to survive—was she his nuisance?
To call it a nuisance shows a disease continuing in the mind, a poison continuing. And to say at her death that the nuisance ended shows that somewhere a thought lingered: if only she would die. Somewhere a feeling of violence remained.
Husbands often think: if this woman would die, how good—nuisance gone. Wives too sometimes think—though less often: if this man would be finished, nuisance gone. No other way shows; if death comes, the nuisance resolves itself. No need to do anything; case closed!
I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin’s wife died. As they carried the coffin out, it struck a neem tree in the courtyard. By chance—the coffin bumped—and his wife sat upright! She was not dead. Perhaps too soon... Mulla had rushed! When wives die, people tend to hurry—lest some danger arise; send them off quickly!
Perhaps breath was only suspended; she was not dead, only unconscious. The jolt of the neem tree revived her. She lived three more years. When at last she died and the coffin was being carried out, Mulla said: Brothers, be careful—do not bump into the neem again. The one mistake was enough!
Ganeshvarni saying “nuisance ended” betrays a violent feeling within! Somewhere in the mind the notion lingered—may she die. To think, We renounced the wife, is foolishness. Is the wife yours? What of “mine,” what of “thine” here?

Are you not ashamed to say, “my house.”
Kabir speaks truly: Do you feel no shame? No modesty? You are a guest for a brief night and you say, “my house”?
The rightly knowing, the one who understands well, neither grasps nor renounces. He simply knows: here there is nothing to grasp, nothing to renounce. The rightly knowing lives in the world as a lotus in water.
What is, is. Where is grasping, where is leaving! Both are delusions. Thus there are two kinds of deluded ones. One you call the worldly—his delusion is: I will grasp, I am grasping, I will grasp more; my fist grows larger, more of the world fits in my fist.
The second delusion is the renouncer’s; he says: I have left. These are both delusions. Whom then do I call a sannyasin? Waking from both delusions—I call that sannyas.
Sannyas means only this: right understanding. Understanding that nothing here is mine or yours—so how to grasp? how to leave? What is, is. One must pass through. Pass through without clinging and without the effort to be unclinging.
In the very effort to be unclinged, clinging is implied. He who escapes the pair—of renunciation and enjoyment—he is sannyasin. Let neither of the two seize him—that one is sannyasin.

Re, in this world what of “mine,” what of “thine”?
Are you not ashamed to say, “my house.”

Now we shall pass through the paths of life as strangers.
If your grace alone decides our life—
This will be the statement of the wise.

Now we shall pass through the paths of life as strangers—
We shall pass as unfamiliar ones.

Now we shall pass through the paths of life as strangers—
If our life depends upon Your grace—
If everything rests upon You, why should we worry—about grasping or leaving? If all is Your play, we will play as You make us play.
This earth is a theatre; a great stage. Whatever role You assign, we perform. If You make us Rama, we become Rama; if You make us Ravana, we become Ravana. Good or bad—whatever You do, we do.
If our life depends upon Your grace—
If all depends upon You, why should we interfere? Why insist: this must be? If this happens, I shall be happy; if not, I shall be miserable. Why expectations? Let us pass silently, watching this play; pass as witnesses, pass as strangers.

Now we shall pass through the paths of life as strangers—
We will build no house here, nor will we construct the illusion of leaving the house. We will cut the root itself.
The worldly is entangled in the leaves; the renouncer too in the leaves. The worldly waters the leaves to make them grow. The renouncer goes on pruning leaves so they do not grow. But none knows of the root. The wise cuts the root. Where is the root? In the feeling of mine-and-thine. The root is in proprietorship.

Char pehar nisi bhora...
It is but a night of four watches; then morning will come. This world is a short night; then morning will come and the traveler will set out.
A very lovely word: Kabir calls death “morning,” and life “night.”

Char pehar nisi bhora...
Life is night; it is to be spent. In this night of life, the dreams arising in sleep—let them be seen. Alright. See them as a witness.
How will you see life as a witness? You cannot even see a dream as a witness. You become absorbed even in dreams. Even in dream you believe this is happening; this is real.
A king’s son was dying—his only son, the one support of old age, heir to all wealth. The king was distressed. There was no cure; the physicians had tried all; there was no hope. The last night had come. The physicians said: If morning comes, it will be a blessing; the night may end him. The king sat awake by his son through the night.
Around four in the morning, he dozed. The cool of dawn; the fatigue of the night—he nodded. In that nap he dreamed. He saw a vast palace. The palace he had seen awake was nothing compared. A palace of gold. Steps inlaid with diamonds and jewels. And he had twelve sons—beautiful bodies, healthy, wise, unique; such handsome, dear, intelligent youths as had never been seen or heard of. Perhaps this dream arose from his state.
One son only—and dying. That one too going. The mansion, palaces, kingdom—will remain. A lifetime of the king’s labour, now he would go; but at least the consolation that the son would enjoy—he too was going. It would all be looted. A life’s work would fall into strangers’ hands, into the hands of others. Those from whom he had snatched, to them it would return. The palace would become ruins. This desire and craving spun its web within—hence the dream.
Dreams arise for fulfillment. What is not fulfilled in life, we complete in dreams. If you fast by day, by night you will feast in dream. If a beautiful woman passes by day and you avert your eyes—afraid of being drawn, of trouble—you being a respectable man, with family, reputation—you slip away. But will this help? At night she will come in your dream. More beautiful yet she will come. She will encircle your dream.
What you leave unfulfilled or suppress in the day arises at night. So the dream is generous, not miserly. If one boy cannot do—give twelve in dream. When palaces are to be given, why a small house! Give gold. Inlay with jewels. A great empire. Far and wide, the whole earth... a universal emperor. The king was delighted. As much as he had been sorrowful, so much he became elated. He forgot it was a dream; he believed it real.
Do not laugh—this is how you forget daily in dream. The king is your symbol.
Just then, the boy outside died. While he was reveling with the inner sons, the son outside died. The wife wailed aloud. Her cry broke his sleep. The moment he awoke—the golden palace vanished; the twelve boys vanished; the empire vanished! For an instant the king was bewildered.
Sometimes this happens to you—if someone shakes you awake in the middle of the night, for a moment you cannot tell what is true and what is false. For a moment you are not sure—where you are, who you are. For just now you were someone else, and suddenly you are someone else! Some steps are needed in moving from dream to waking, from waking to dream.
When the wife screamed, the king’s sleep broke abruptly. Startled, he could not grasp it. Before him lay the dead boy—and also the memory of the twelve within; he stood between. He did not weep. On the contrary, he laughed.
The wife thought he had gone mad. She had feared as much—their son was so dear, and dying...
When the king laughed out loud, she thought: it has happened—he is mad. She said: Have you gone mad? The boy is dead—and you laugh? He said: I laugh wondering for whom should I weep? For those twelve, who just now were and were so real? Or for this one, who just now was and was so real—and now is not? Both dreams have broken. For which shall I weep? For the palaces of gold?
The wife said: What are you saying? What golden palaces? What twelve sons?
The king then told his dream: I was lost in it and I was ecstatic. In the same way, this too is a dream. I had forgotten this boy completely while I was in the inner dream. Now I have forgotten the inner sons as I look at this dead boy outside!
Night after night you go from waking into sleep, but in sleep your dreams always prove false in the morning. Yet the next night, when you sleep again, again they become true. Man’s illusion is deep.
Gurdjieff used to say to his disciples: you cannot awaken in this world until you awaken in dream. He discovered unique methods to awaken you in dream. I would say the same to you: those methods are true and of great use.
If you learn to awaken in your dreams, one day suddenly you will find that waking too is a great dream, nothing more. Until identification breaks in dreams, how will it break in this greater dream? Very difficult. Therefore Hindus call this great dream “maya.”
Maya—meaning dream. It appears, but is not. At least not as it appears. And as it is, you do not see it—only the enlightened see it. What you see is filtered through the veils of your desires; your craving and wishing filter your seeing.
For you, this world is a screen upon which you project your dreams. Like a moving picture, dreams run. The day when no dreams rise within you like moving pictures, the screen remains empty; that empty screen is called Brahma-bhava. Then in a tree you no longer see a tree; in a woman, not a woman; in a stone, not a stone. In stone, woman, tree—you see the Divine. The pictures vanish; a blank screen remains. The name of that blank screen is Brahman.
But how will you awaken now? This dream is very strong. Even the thin, weak dream of night—you cannot awaken in it.
Gurdjieff said: Begin by awakening in your night dreams. Every night, go to sleep remembering: when the dream comes, I will remember it is a dream. In a day or two you will not remember; it will take at least three to six months. But if every night, continuously, you go to sleep with the same thought—that when the dream comes, I will remain aware that it is a dream, I will remain the witness—then one day the event happens. Between three and six months of steady effort, if each night you fall asleep soaked in this resolve—to see the dream and recognize it as dream, to recognize within dream that it is dream...
Waking, all recognize; in the morning everyone knows it was a dream. There is no adventure in that; it is ordinary. The adventure is: while the dream is unfolding at night, you shake yourself in the middle and remember—it is a dream. The day this happens, you will be astonished: a revolution has occurred.
It does happen. By remembering each night as you fall asleep, the remembrance slowly enters your sleep. As you sink toward sleep, keep thinking, keep remembering. Better than chanting “Rama, Rama” is this. Better than turning the rosary. What will come of the rosary? What of parroted “Rama, Rama”? Turning beads will not create understanding.
But if you fall asleep remembering: whatever shows up at night, I will recognize as dream; I will become the witness—if you sink into sleep steeped in this feeling, then one morning you will rise differently than you have ever risen. One night you will find: it was a dream and I knew it was a dream. Then a strange thing happens.
The moment it is seen that it is a dream, the dream dissolves. As soon as it is recognized as dream, it disappears.
When you see as a witness—dreams are not. Either there can be dreaming, or there can be witnessing; both cannot coexist. They never coexist. Therefore, in the state of witnessing, what appears is true. For witness and dream never coexist. Until witnessing arises, whatever you see is dream; there is nothing true in it. The touchstone of truth is witnessing.
To move toward this witnessing, you must take steps.
Kabir says:

Re, in this world what of “mine,” what of “thine”?
Are you not ashamed to say, “my house.”
Leave this dream of mine-and-thine.

Char pehar nisi bhora, jaise tarvar pankhi basera.
At night, as birds gather on the trees at dusk and sleep; in morning they fly away—

...jaise tarvar pankhi basera.
Just so. We have made a night’s camp on this earth; by morning, who knows to which planet, to which star we will fly.
Do you know—scientists say at least fifty thousand earths harbour life. This is not the only earth where life is. At least fifty thousand... at least; the “more” has not been calculated. There must be at least that many by the mathematics. But they are far.
Fifty thousand earths—and life on them. On this earth we have camped for a night. Whether the night be seventy years—what difference; whether seven hours—what difference. In the infinite journey of life, seventy years are not more than seven breaths.

Char pehar nisi bhora...
Morning will soon arrive. Morning—meaning death. Kabir calls death morning. For in death you awaken to the fact that what you were seeing was all dream.

Char pehar nisi bhora, jaise tarvar pankhi basera.
Jaise baniye haat pasara, sab jag ka so sirjanhaara.
The Divine spreads out the world as a trader lays out his wares in the fair. Evening falls; he packs up and goes home. So daily the Divine spreads this expanse and daily gathers it back. This is the Divine’s expansion, His play—Leela. Do not make mine-and-thine in it. Yet the mistake happens.
I have heard: in a village Ramleela was being enacted. The woman playing Sita—truly—the man playing Ravana fell in love with her—truly. Now trouble! The play is in danger.
In Sita’s swayamvara, Ravana arrives, Rama arrives, all kings arrive. All sit.
For the play to proceed, Ravana must run toward Lanka. A messenger arrives from Lanka: Ravana, your Lanka is on fire. Ravana must go. In that interval, Rama breaks the bow.
But this Ravana had fallen in real love. He said: Let it burn—today I will take Sita as bride. Panic spread! The audience too could not understand what was happening. Such a thing had never happened.
The manager beat his chest: great trouble. And the man was strong—hence he was cast as Ravana. He could have flung Rama and Lakshmana aside! Truly. Rama and Lakshmana were mere lads; Ravana was the village wrestler. All the assembled kings together could not have beaten him.
King Janaka too trembled on the throne: we are finished! What will happen now? How will the story proceed! Again and again messengers were sent: Lanka is aflame! He said: I told you once—let it burn. Not only this—he rose and broke the bow. What bow! A stage prop of bamboo. He smashed it and said: Where is Sita—bring her! He took her hand to lead her away. The play finished—like this!
Janaka, old and experienced in playing Janaka, had an inspiration. He shouted to his servants: You have made a mistake; you brought the children’s toy bow! Bring Shiva’s bow.
They dropped the curtain, somehow shoved Ravana off and brought another Ravana; the play continued.
In this world, if you wish to grasp the mystery of religion, understand the word Leela—play. This is a play, nothing more. There is no need to be serious. Nothing is mine nor yours. There is no loss nor victory. No success, no failure. All are mental notions.

Char pehar nisi bhora, jaise tarvar pankhi basera.
Jaise baniye haat pasara, sab jag ka so sirjanhaara.
Ye le jaare, ve le gaade, in dukhini donon ghar chaade.
Kahat Kabir, suno re Loi, ham tum vinasi, rahega soi.

These are words addressed to his wife, Loi. Wives are greatly attached to mine-and-thine—more than men. Their “mine” is intense. Their jealousy centres on mine-and-thine.
Understand this difference a little.
Men delight in “I,” women delight in “mine.” Men’s pride is “I.” Women’s pride is “mine.” Thus a woman, before loving, takes a look—what does he have, how much does he have?
Mulla Nasruddin said to his son: The girl you roam with is the ugliest in the village. Keep away from her. Couldn’t you find anyone else? The son said: Father, considering our rotten 1930 Ford, no other girl could possibly agree to me.
Women look: what do you have? How much bank balance? How much prestige? Wealth?
A woman’s taste is in “mine.” A man’s taste is in “I.” A man looks: how beautiful is the woman—when I take her along, will I evoke others’ envy? Will people burn with jealousy? Will they say—yes, he has a woman worth having!
Men parade their women like showpieces. Men themselves may wear nothing—no diamond ring, no ornaments; but they decorate their women. They show the woman: see how much mine has! That she has—feeds his “I.” I have given! It flatters the “I.”
A woman is less enchanted by “I,” more by “mine”—how many saris, how many ornaments—hers is that accounting.
The minds of man and woman differ. Though the two are two sides of the same coin. “Mine” begets “I”; “I” begets “mine.” But remember: these verses are addressed to his wife; it is relevant to note.

Kabir says: Listen, O Loi...
...when you and I are destroyed, what remains—that is.
When both “I” and “you” vanish, what remains—that is truth. Where “I” and “thou” depart, what remains is truth.

...when you and I are destroyed, what remains—that is.
Death will come; it will drown me; it will drown you. Then that which in us does not drown... Death will snatch all, yet something remains; within us there is some indestructible element, some infinite element—that remains; the rest goes.
There is a ray of the sun within us—that survives; the rest falls. After the rest falls, what matters what you do—nothing changes.

Ye le jaare, ve le gaade...
Hindus burn, Muslims bury. All this difference is futile. Whether you bury or burn—what difference? The authentic one has gone. What remains is a corpse, mere dust.

Ye le jaare, ve le gaade...
Then why these petty quarrels—some burn, some bury—what difference?

...in dukhini donon ghar chaade.
But the one who died—has left home and flown. Those who bury or burn—today or tomorrow, they too will leave home and fly away. This is not home.

Jaise tarvar pankhi basera, char pehar nisi bhora.
This is just a brief rest, a halt. We were tired and stopped. This is a wayside stop, not the destination.

Inmein khizan ka rang bhi shaamil zaroor hai—
Gehri nazar se naqsh-o-nigaar-e-bahar dekh.
All the saints have said the same. Look closely even at spring—within it you will find autumn hidden.

Inmein khizan ka rang bhi shaamil zaroor hai—
Gehri nazar se naqsh-o-nigaar-e-bahar dekh.
Look deeply at life—you will glimpse death hidden within. Look deeply at happiness—sorrow shadows it like a tail. Look deeply at success—you will see its other face is failure. Behind fame stands defamation. In this world, everything is dual.
So do not be entangled in spring; look carefully: autumn follows. It is coming; it has already arrived. Spring merely clears the path for it. Then what is mine and what is yours?
Beauty is of two moments; life of two moments. This bustle is for two moments. Then all falls silent. In this bubble-world, do not get too attached. If you tie yourself to this bubble, when it bursts there will be pain. Therefore the wise die peacefully.
The unwise cannot live peacefully, let alone die. The wise die in peace because they have seen death hidden in life. And he who has seen both life and death—goes beyond both; he becomes a witness. Only he remains... “when you and I are destroyed, what remains—that is.”

Man, where do you run to cross over?
Yet the mind keeps you running. It says: go here, go there. Get this, get that. It ceaselessly arouses excitements. One desire is not fulfilled before it raises ten more. It never lets you rest even for a moment. The mind says: not yet the time for rest. So much remains to be gained. Run a bit more.

Man, where do you run to cross over?
Kabir says: Mind, where do you wish to go? And where will you go?
The amusing thing about the mind is: in this world it runs, and one day when it is tired of the world, it begins to run toward God. But the running continues!
Some people earn wealth; when they are bored—and they will be bored if they have any intelligence. Only fools can spend a lifetime chasing money. One with a little understanding one day sees: what is in these silver trinkets! Today not even silver—what is in these shards!
Then the mind begins new runs. It says: Fine, not in these; no matter—earn the coins of virtue. Having made shops, now build a dharmashala. Having made shops, now build a temple. Now earn the tokens of merit. Now we must go to the other world—make arrangements there. Get a good place in heaven, near God’s house; arrange that now. Here we have seen—vain—so handle there.
Your so-called saints advise you: nothing is here; manage there. As if there is something there!
Kabir says: neither here nor there. These are the mind’s ways of running. Neither here will you find, nor there. These are tricks of desire. It raises new desires. When the old tires, it says: no problem—here is a new edition.

Man, where do you run to cross over?

Aage panthi, panth na koi...
Neither traveler nor path ahead.

...kooch-mukaam na paiho.
No beginning to the journey, no end. Run and run and run.

Nahin tahan neer, naav nahin khevat...
There is no water there, no boat, no boatman.

...na gun khainchanhaara.
Nor is there anyone to pull the rope of the boat.

Dharani-gagan-kalp kuchh naahin...
There is no earth there, no sky, no time. Neither kala (time) nor kshetra (space).

Dharani-gagan-kalp kuchh naahin, na kuchh paar na paara.
Nor is there any shore or far shore to existence. Where will you go? Where do you wish to go? There is no other shore. This world has no boundary. You will go on and on, and the sky will forever stretch ahead—no end arrives here.
Have you seen the end of anything? Earn money—thousands, lakhs, crores—does the end come? Crores may come, but the end does not. The series of numbers stretches ahead.
Attain this post or that—does the end come? Whatever post, the end does not arrive; further possibilities remain.
Even if there were only one desire—it would be alright. But desires are many. In one matter you get ahead; in another you are behind.
Napoleon’s height was short; he suffered great pain. He became an emperor, a mighty emperor—few names stand beside him. But any time he saw a six-foot man on the road, he would grow uneasy, avert his gaze. A great pain was this: I am only five feet two.
Five feet two! Anyone could make him feel small. His soldiers were tall; his guards were tall.
One day he was hanging a clock, but his hand could not reach—he wanted it high upon the wall. His bodyguard said: Sire, wait—I am taller than you; I will hang it. Napoleon said: Silence, fool! Do not use that word again. Taller than me? You may be longer than I, not higher. There is a difference between length and height!
Ego brings great pains—the mind brings great pains. You acquire wealth, everything—but in earning wealth, health is lost. Then one day you see a fakir—carefree, playing his flute. Your chest burns.
You became prime minister; you wasted your life running. Then one day you see a man—his voice is sweet, his poetry alive—and you grow sad. Or you look into someone’s eyes—and there is a lake of peace; and in your eyes nothing but madness. If there were no madness, would you be in politics? Why run? In your eyes only derangement; and you see in another a lake of peace—craving and greed flood you.
Someone is more beautiful than you, someone more learned. Someone has more wealth than you, someone more health. Someone has this, someone that. What will you do? Where all will you run? Where will you find the far shore?

Man, where do you run to cross over?
Someone will always be ahead in some direction. Pain will remain. The mind wants to be foremost in all directions. Impossible. It is impossible because the directions contradict each other.
Understand: if you want to be the greatest politician, you cannot be the greatest sannyasin. They are opposites. If one is fulfilled, the other cannot be. He who goes east cannot go west at the same time. Who can ride two horses? And here there are not two—there are a thousand horses. And the mind wants to ride a thousand at once!
You must choose one. Life is choice. If you choose politics, you will miss religion. For religion and politics are opposite. In politics you must conquer others; in religion you conquer yourself.
In politics there is deceit, dishonesty. Without deceit and dishonesty no one wins there. No one! There are stratagems, diplomacy.
In religion, deceit never wins. What deceit with the Divine? There, simple-hearted, straight people win. Those with the heart of a child win. The stainless win. The meditative win.
In politics the meditative will lose—for politics requires a calculating mind, long-range thinking. Politics is like chess. They say: a chess player wins only if he can compute at least five moves ahead: I shall play this, the other will play that; then I shall, then he shall—five moves ahead. Chess will drive you mad.
I have heard: in Egypt, a king was mad for chess, a great player; he went mad. He was mad from playing chess. Chess is politics: king, rook, knights—symbols. Chess means Delhi: topple this, raise that; move this, mislead that. It goes on. Ram comes, Ram goes—it goes on. They cross over here, slide there; one switches from this party to that. One’s horse becomes another’s; the other mounts it. All this upheaval—it is the game.
The king, old now, not fit for war, played chess. Then he went insane. The psychiatrists said: no cure. Only one remedy—someone must keep playing chess with him. Who will play with a mad king? A king—and mad—the bitter gourd atop neem! People feared playing with him anyway—lest he draw his sword or order hanging if he lost. Now mad—who will play?
But for sufficient pay, a player came. They say: for a year he played with the king. The king recovered; the player went mad.
If you play chess with a madman, how long can you remain sane? Soon you will go mad too. You must understand the madman’s moves, keep track, find answers. Gradually you go mad. Therefore, often two political parties fighting each other become identical; no difference remains.
See now: between the Janata Party and the Congress there is no difference. It cannot be otherwise. Fighting each other, learning each other’s moves, they become the same. The same in America, in England. Two opposing parties—but no difference remains. No difference in policy or aim—only this: whether we hold power or you. And the people are easily deceived.
Two parties make it convenient to keep the people foolish. You carry one on your shoulders for five years; you grow tired: Madam, get down; now we will carry Sir. In five years you are tired of Sir; put him down. It helps the people remain fools.
Two-party democracy is a device to keep people foolish. They never fully tire this way. Five years—tired of one...
And the people’s memory is weak. If the Janata Party stays five years, it will not win again. Even now, if elections were held, the victory would not be as great as five months ago. People already tire. In five years they will tire; all the Janata’s faults will be seen; all the Congress’s faults will be forgotten. The public memory is weak. Then the Congress star will rise again. It is a joint arrangement of politicians; a conspiracy.
They are not enemies of each other; both are enemies of the people. Both exploit the people.
You become like what you fight. Slowly your colour, system, style becomes like the other’s.
The man who runs only for money—his face acquires the look of dirty money. Like a grimy note passed through many hands—his face becomes like that. The filthy sheen of money, from endless handling—his face becomes like that.
Whatever one does, he becomes like that.
In the lustful, filth of desire shows in the eyes. In the prayerful, a glimmer of the Divine appears in the eyes.
Here there are so many things to obtain, that a man runs here, then thinks: let me run there; then thinks: and there too. A thousand roads cross here. Shall I go here? There? One goes mad.
Kabir says:

Man, where do you run to cross over?
Where will you go? Where is there to go? Where is the destination?

Aage panthi, panth na koi, kooch-mukaam na paiho.
There is no goal ahead. You will keep walking, growing weary; you will find new desires. But you will never arrive. None who obeyed the mind has ever reached fulfilment; reached the place where all is bliss; reached the place where no further going remains.
Mukaam means the place beyond which there is no further place—home. Arrival where one was to arrive. Then there is rest. That we call moksha.
But the mind keeps running; the mind remains the same. Whether here or there—the mind stays the same.

Naghme se agar mehroom hai dil, maahaul ko mat badnaam karo.
Kitna hi junoobah ho mausam, kab kaag ghazalkhwaan hote hain.
Even if the spring is madly joyous, crows do not sing ghazals.
If your heart is without song, do not blame the climate.
However intoxicated the season, crows do not sing ghazals.

You know Aesop’s tale: a crow flying; the cuckoo asked: Uncle, where are you going? The crow said: East—people here do not like my songs. The cuckoo said: Uncle, people in the east will not like them either. The fault is not in east or west. Your songs are so unique!
This mind which is unhappy here will be unhappy there. The mind’s way is sorrow.
This mind manufactures sorrow. With a thousand rupees you are unhappy; with ten thousand, ten times as unhappy—nothing else happens; only your capacity for sorrow becomes tenfold. The mind remains the same. With crores, you will be more miserable.
It is no accident that in America there is the most misery. It is no accident that as wealth grows, misery grows. It should not be so—logic says happiness should grow. But sorrow grows—because the mind is the same.
The mind remains; wealth gives power to the mind. It lends the mind a megaphone.
It is like giving a crow a loudspeaker; the song remains the same, only it spreads a thousandfold.
A man won the lottery. He was poor—a tailor. He won one lakh rupees. He could not believe it. He went mad. He locked his shop and threw the key into the well. What is there to do now? A lakh in hand! Enough for life, for the children’s life. Times were cheap; a lakh had great value.
But within a year the lakh was gone. Not only gone—his health too was gone. He drank heavily; visited prostitutes; gambled. He stayed up nights. Never had he suffered so much as in that year.
He wondered: What is this? People say: with money comes happiness! I was happier before. I worked all day; earned one or two rupees; all was well. At night I slept in peace. Without money, how could I go to the tavern? Without money, how could I seek prostitutes? Without money, how could I gamble?
He did not even know that gambling dens existed, that prostitutes were in town, that liquor flowed—how would he know? He had no access.
But when money came, not only did doors open—for the eyes of those who wanted his money also turned to him. One took him to the gambling den—fool, do not miss this chance; from a lakh you can earn more. Another took him to the brothel—now you have money, enjoy; life is four days, then dark night!
See—the hedonist says: life is four days, then dark night.
Kabir says: char pehar nisi bhora—this is four watches of dark night; then morning.
He indulged. In one year, he became like a corpse. The money went; debts piled up. He had never taken a loan. He had never had the courage to borrow. He had always walked with dignity. Now he hid from people.
After a year he stood again at his shop—like a man who had spoiled twenty years; as though bedridden for twenty years. Skin and bone. Sunken eyes. He climbed into the well to search for the key; then began his shop again. And prayed: O God, never again open this lottery for me.
But the old habit remained: he kept buying a one-rupee ticket. By chance, a year later, he won again. When the men came with the money, he beat his chest: O Lord! Again!
Even though he did not want it now, he could not drop it. The mind said: fool, another chance! And he knew the first chance had only brought sorrow—left him skin and bone, ripped him, full of wounds. He had never quarrelled with his wife; that year was full of quarrels. Never had children abused him; the children struck him. Never had neighbours disrespected him; wherever he went he met disrespect. He lay drunken in alleys, in drains. Everything was spoiled. And now he knew. Yet he got up again.
So unconscious is man! Such is the mind! He locked the door again. Not with the courage of the first time—but still. He thought: this time I won’t throw the key—later I will have to search. But half out of habit, half from the old pattern, he threw the key in the well. But that year he could not be saved; he died. The story ends there.
Such is the mind of man.
Kabir says:

Man, where do you run to cross over?
Dharani-gagan-kalp kuchh naahin, na kuchh paar na paara.
Nahin tahan neer, naav nahin khevat, na gun khainchanhaara.
Aage panthi, panth na koi, kooch-mukaam na paiho.

Perhaps the mind says: Alright, Kabir—do not go in this world; then seek the other world! Seek God! Kabir warns even then:

Nahin tan, nahin man, nahin apanpao, sunn mein suddh na paiho.
Wherever the mind leads, it leads into emptiness only; it cannot unite you with the Full.
Even if body is gone, mind gone, even sense of “mine” gone—yet through mind, the state reached will be void, shunya. The Full will not arrive.
The mind cannot take you beyond the void. Kabir is a lover of the Full.

Baliwaan hoy paitho ghat mein, wahin thaurein hoihon.
Kabir says: There is nowhere to go, O fool! Sit within your own house, within your own being.
This is the meaning of meditation, of Samadhi: sit firmly within; do not move. Drop trembling; become still.
Sit within with strength—and there alone the place will be found; there the destination is.
The destination is not outside; it is within. The diamond you seek is not outside; you brought it with you. It was with you before birth. It is your own nature—sat-chit-ananda. Hence the Upanishads declare: tat tvam asi—you are That. He whom you seek—you are. The whole meaning of the search is concealed within the seeker. The destination is hidden within the one who seeks.
Sit within with strength—and there the place is found.

Baar hi baar vichar dekh man, ant kahun mat jaiho.
Kabir says: Think as much as you wish, ponder as much as you like—but finally decide one thing: by going anywhere—nothing will happen; by going—nothing will happen!
You must come—not go. Come within; do not go without. Already you have gone far from yourself—chasing who-knows-what. Now return home.

Kehai Kabir, sab chhaadi kalpana...
All these are imaginations: of wealth, of position, of prestige, of merit, of heaven—mere imaginations.

Kehai Kabir, sab chhaadi kalpana, jyon ke tyon thahraiho.
If imagination drops, you will be exactly what you are—this very moment. Only imagination obstructs.

...jyon ke tyon thahraiho.
Then you will abide in your own nature. That abiding is liberation. That experience of the Full alone is bliss, peace, celebration.

Jyun man mera tujh so, yun je tera hoi.
Kabir says: As my mind is set on You, so may You too be set on me.

Jyun man mera tujh so...
As my mind races toward You, so when Your grace descends, You will race toward me—Your prasad will shower.

...yun je tera hoi.

Taata loha yun milai, sandhi na lakhai koi.
I long for You, I call You. My only prayer is that You be found—but without Your grace, what can be? My effort, and Your grace—when both meet, union happens.

Taata loha yun milai...
I am becoming hot—heated by longing; I am parched—aflame with separation. A fire of yearning burns within me.

Taata loha yun milai, sandhi na lakhai koi.
And when two hot irons meet, no seam remains.
Kabir says: When Your prasad flows toward me with the same heat with which I flow toward You—then union is.

This is the deep insight of the bhakta: by man’s effort only half the work is done—the other half by grace, by His compassion. Because of this insight the bhakta’s ego never rises. Otherwise the ego arises: by my effort I attain; I have found God.
A bhakta can never say: I found God. He says: God found me. I called, I searched—but what can I do? How will my small hands find the Vast?

Kabir janko khojate, payo soyi thaur.
Soyi phir ke tu bhaya, janko kahta aur.
Kabir: As you search for Him, one day the place is found. Search within; do not go outside. It is an inward journey.
The day He is found, the place is found.
Then you become that which you are—the real being.
Then you cannot even call Him “other.” The bhakta becomes God in that moment; the drop merges into the ocean; the drop becomes the ocean.

Mare bahut pukariya, peer pukare aur.
Laagi chot maramm ki, rahyo Kabira thaur.

Kabir says: Many call out when beaten by life—by pain. Life strikes hard.
Many cry out under blows—someone loses—a bankruptcy calls God; someone’s wife dies, husband dies—calls God. This remembrance is like that of someone being thrashed who remembers God. It is not very true. When the pain passes, the remembrance passes. In pain all remember God; but the God remembered in pain does not last long. When happiness arrives, He is forgotten. Who remembers Him in happiness? When all goes well—what need of God? When things go wrong, you remember. You remember out of self-interest. Therefore he who remembers in pain never finds God; he who remembers in happiness—finds.

Many call out beaten; to call out from “peer” is different. “Peer” is love’s pain.
Beaten calls are one thing. Under the stick you bow—this bowing is not real. Bow out of love—this bowing is different.
Peer means sweet pain—where there is sweetness and thirst and love. Not calling because we are in trouble—fix my shop; my wife is sick—heal her; my son lost his job—find him one. Not that. Rather: without You—there is nothing. The shop runs well, the wife is healthy, the son has a job—but without You nothing. We call to find You.
Beware: if you ask God for anything else, you insult God. Ask God only for God. Asking otherwise is deeply insulting—meaning you deem something more valuable than God.
A king went to war. Returning, he sent news to his queens: what shall I bring for you? He had a hundred wives. Ninety-nine sent long lists—diamonds, pearls, this and that. Only one wrote: You come—everything comes.
For the ninety-nine, things came; for the hundredth, the king came. He said: Only your love for me is evident. The others do not care for me; whether I come or not—diamonds should come. You called me. I bring my heart for you.
God will come into the heart of the one who calls causelessly; who calls from love—not to get other things. Do not ask for wealth, position. These very demands soil your prayer; they clip prayer’s wings; it falls to earth, does not reach God.

Many cry beaten; love’s pain calls otherwise.
When the wound of the marrow is struck, Kabir finds his place.
He who calls from love will, today or tomorrow, find a Sadguru. For he who calls for God—not for wealth or position—calls from love—he will, today or tomorrow, be able to find a true Master.
God does not come directly. As when you learn to swim, you first practice in shallow water, then go deep. So when you meet God, first you meet behind a veil.
God’s light is too intense—you cannot bear it. The light of a Buddha, of a Krishna, of a Christ—bear that first. First meet Christ eye to eye; slowly you become capable. Swimming in the eyes of Christ, you become ready to dive into the great ocean of God.
When the word of the Sadguru strikes the marrow—the wound is of the essence. First there must be love’s pain. No wealth, no position, no other asking—only God. He who asked for God finds a Sadguru. He who asked for God surely finds a Master. God sends him. The Master comes searching for you—unbidden. He comes and takes your hand in the dark.
You asked for the sun; the sun does not come suddenly—the ray comes. The ray is the Sadguru. Digesting the ray is easier; you cannot yet digest the sun. If the sun comes at once, you might go blind; you might burn to ash—too much.
When the Master’s word plays with your heart’s pain, when he fans your thirst—
When the Master speaks of the essence—the seeds are sown. When the Master speaks of the marrow, your thirst flames; you become thirst itself. What was a faint longing alone becomes a blaze near the Master; flames rise.
When the wound pierces to the core, when the arrow enters your center—you freeze right there. When the arrow of the Master pierces the heart, you stop right there.
Then Kabir stayed where he was. In that very stopping, the first glimpse of God is found; the mind becomes still.
Near the Sadguru the mind falls dumb, it halts. If even for a moment it halts, in that contact, that satsang—even for a moment—at once you find: ah! Where was I going to search—God was within me! At which temple and mosque was I knocking! I am His temple. This whole existence is filled with Him! I too am filled with Him.
Therefore the nearest place is within—and he who finds Him within... “Kabir stayed in place”... he who finds Him within, when he opens his eyes, sees Him in all. Then the whole world is He alone. The world disappears; only the Divine remains—manifest in infinite hues and forms, infinite rainbows, infinite flowers. Then the One is hidden in the many.
But the first recognition—within your own pot, your own vessel...

Kabir janko khojate, payo soyi thaur.
Soyi phir ke tu bhaya, janko kahta aur.
Mare bahut pukariya, peer pukare aur.
Laagi chot maramm ki, rahyo Kabira thaur.

If you have thirst, open your heart and take the arrow to the marrow. You too will stop in your tracks.
In the mind’s running is the world; in the mind’s stopping is God.

That is enough for today.