Kahe Kabir Main Pura Paya #6

There is a difference between remembrance and remembrance. One is remembrance that is done; and one is remembrance that happens. Understand that distinction and the apparent contradiction between these two sutras disappears.

When a seeker begins, he begins with effort. He chants. If he doesn’t do it, it doesn’t happen. Japa is a doing. One has to make an effort, keep the remembrance—and then it happens.

Slowly, as the inner strings come into tune, the seeker no longer has to chant. Nanak called that state ajapa-japa—the chant that continues by itself. Then the japa happens on its own. The seeker becomes a witness; he just watches. He is blissful, swaying. He no longer plays the vina; now the vina plays. Therefore that sound is called anahata nada—the unstruck sound. It happens by itself. There is no vina there, no mridang there, no one playing there, and yet there is sound—boundless sound, measureless sound whose far shore there is none.

Understand: from centuries of inquiry it has been experienced that that sound is something like “Om.” But that is our description—like someone who sees the sun rise and makes a picture on paper. The sun is rising on the paper, and he brings you the paper and says, “The morning was very beautiful and I thought to make a picture so you too might understand how it was.”

But that paper picture has neither the sun’s warmth nor its rays nor its beauty. It is only a symbol. Or understand it like this: someone gives you a map of the Himalayas. In it there is neither the peace of the Himalayas nor its vast silence nor its lofty peaks nor the virgin snow resting on those summits. Nothing. It is a map. Yet a map is a symbol.

In the same way Om is only a symbol—a map drawn on paper of that ajapa-japa that one day manifests within, that sound that springs up by itself inside, which Kabir calls the Word (shabd).

When you begin, you will begin by chanting Om, Om, Om. That chant is yours. If you go on with this japa and it deepens—deepening means: first it will be on the lips; then in the voice, but it will not come to the lips; it will remain in the throat, resounding only in the mind. Then the moment will come when it will not even resound in the mind, it will not be in the throat. You will find it rising from some profound depth within yourself.

So there is a japa that you did; and there is a japa that one day you will watch as a witness. These are the two remembrances. Because of these two remembrances the difference between the two sayings appears.

The first saying is: “Mero sangi doi jan, ek Vaishno ek Ram.”
Kabir says: I have two companions, two friends. One is Rama, and one is Rama’s devotee. One is Rama, and one is the true guru who leads toward Rama. One is Rama, and one is a person filled—brimming, to the throat—with Rama.

One who is filled with Vishnu is a Vaishnava. The one in whose every pore Vishnu resounds is a Vaishnava. So one is Vishnu—Rama, a form of Vishnu—and one is the Vaishnava. These two are my friends.

“Yo hai data mukti ka,...”
Rama is the giver—of liberation, of moksha; from him comes the supreme grace.

“...vo sumiravai naam.”
And that Vaishnava, in whom remembrance has arisen, by sitting in his company, rising and sitting in his presence, the waves arising in him gradually set you vibrating too. The vina that plays within him slowly awakens the sleeping vina within you. His note strikes, and the slumbering anahad in you begins to awaken.

So Rama is the giver of liberation, and the guru is the one who brings about remembrance of Rama.

Without the guru Rama will not be found—because who will remind you, who will point toward the unknown? Who will take your hand and lead you into the unfamiliar? Yet the guru does not give liberation. The guru only reminds you of Rama. Then by remembering Rama, one day Rama descends, awakens within you, and you are illumined, you are radiant; liberation blossoms.

So the guru reminds of Rama; Rama grants liberation. That is the meaning of the first saying. The second seems the opposite.

In the second saying it is said: “Hari sumirai so vaar hai,...”
Vaar means the start of the journey, the first step.
“Hari sumirai so vaar hai, guru sumirai so paar.”
And the one who remembers the guru goes across. Remembering Hari—God—is only the beginning. Remembering the guru brings the journey to its end. Naturally, this seems reversed.

In the first it appears: guru—beginning; Rama—completion. In the second: Rama—beginning; guru—completion. This difference arises from the difference between the two remembrances.

When you start remembering the Divine—without a guru—“Hari sumirai so vaar hai,” you have begun the journey. How will you even look for a guru if you do not remember Hari? These things are connected like the egg and the hen.

If someone asks: the egg first or the hen first? It becomes difficult. It cannot be decided. If you say the egg came first, the obstacle is: without a hen who laid the egg? If you say the hen came first, the obstacle is: how did the hen happen without an egg? The hen is before the egg; the egg is before the hen. The trouble is in seeing them as two.

The hen and the egg are not two. The egg is a state of the hen, and the hen is a state of the egg—just as your childhood and youth are not two things: they are two states of one continuum. In the same way, hen and egg are two phases of one life-journey.

So why would you seek a guru first of all if there were no remembrance of Rama? If you are not seeking the Divine, why would you seek a guru? A man falls ill, desires health, and goes to a doctor. When a person begins to feel the lack of God in life—that without Him everything is dark, empty, void; without Him everything is insipid, bitter, harsh; without Him no current of nectar seems to flow, no song awakens, no dance is born; life seems a burden—then remembrance of the Divine begins. The person asks: What is the meaning of life? Who created it? Why was it created? Where are we going? Where will this caravan of life reach its completion? What destination is there, what resting place? When such inquiry arises, you search for a guru.

Before the search for a guru you remember the Divine. That remembrance is remembrance in name only—because you do not yet know the Divine. How will you remember? One can remember only that which one has known, which one has loved, with which some memory is linked, with which some relation of experience has formed—you remember only that. You do not yet know the Divine; how will you remember?

So it is remembrance in name only. All that is becoming clear is that the life you are living is futile. You are searching for meaningfulness.

As life has been lived so far, it seems without essence. So you set out to find another style of life. Whether such a style exists or not—you do not yet know.

For now your remembrance of the Divine is merely nominal. You will say: I am seeking God. Your God will not be very substantial; He will be defined by your lacks. Whatever you feel missing—joy is not in life, taste is not in life, light is not in life—your God will be the sum of these things: light, joy, rasa. Therefore we call God sat-chit-ananda—truth, consciousness, bliss.

A person feels the lack of three things: sat, chit, and ananda. We posit these three in God and think there must be some place, some halt, some destination where all that I do not have now will be found.

You remember God—but what kind of remembrance can it be yet? You have not seen the Beloved; you do not even know His countenance, His form, His features, even His name. You do not yet know in which direction to seek Him. You do not even know whether He is or not.

All you know is that some unknown thirst is rising within, without any clear shape. A chaotic thirst is arising. Something is happening inside, but the diagnosis is not yet made. For diagnosis you will go to the guru. You will place your head at the guru’s feet and say: My life feels futile, and I do not know what a meaningful life would be. If a meaningful life is possible, give me direction, a path, guidance. I am ready to walk, to take risks, to pay the price, to be tested on the touchstone—I am ready.

“Hari sumirai so vaar hai,...”
In this second sutra Kabir refers to that very remembrance of the Divine: one who sets out seeking the Lord, remembering Him—this is the beginning of the journey.

“...guru sumirai so paar.”
If you just sit and go on muttering “Hari, Hari,” whom you do not recognize, have not met, have not realized—if you just keep humming this Hari, you will not arrive anywhere. That was only the beginning—do not stop there. It was but the first step, the first stair.

Now look for the one who has found. Go to one who has attained. Look into the eyes of the one in whose eyes He abides. Sit where the flower has blossomed and the fragrance spreads. There the journey is fulfilled.

Therefore Kabir says: “Hari sumirai so vaar hai, guru sumirai so paar.”

And the first saying is not wrong. Why does remembering the guru take you across? Because when you remember the guru, and sit near him, and are in satsang—in noble company—then you discover: “He is the giver of liberation; this one makes you remember the Name.”

Only by sitting near the guru does right remembrance of Hari begin. And if right remembrance of Hari happens, then Hari one day is the giver of liberation.

The guru will take you across because he will take you to where you need to go for the Lord’s grace to descend. The guru will make you a fit vessel. When the Divine shower comes, you will be filled.

So there are two kinds of remembrance of Hari. Therefore there are two verses. There is no contradiction at all. Kabir must have addressed different people.

The first verse he would have addressed to those who have come to the guru, who have found the guru. He would have said it to his sadhus—his disciples. He would have said:
“Mero sangi doi jan, ek Vaishno ek Ram.
Yo hai data mukti ka, vo sumiravai naam.”
He would have said it to his sadhus. “Listen, O sadhus!” To his disciples, who already have a guru. To them this can be said: that the guru only reminds; he is but a pointer. The real happening occurs through the grace of the Divine. I will take you as far as a human can go. Beyond that there is no further going—then God takes over.

Understand it like this: you want to jump from a roof. Until you jump, you are on the roof. Once you jump, what do you have to do then? Nothing. Then the pull of the earth draws you. It is not as if after jumping you must keep trying, “Now I have jumped; how shall I reach the ground?” Forget the worry. The ground will worry about you.

Such is the happening. The guru reminds you rightly of Rama; the leap happens. You jump—and then Rama pulls you. Where is there a greater pull than that? Where is there a greater attraction? Where is there a greater gravitation? He is gravitation itself—He will draw you. Yes, as long as you are stuck in your ego and have not leapt, you remain stuck.

Once on a ship, a woman fell overboard. All the passengers gathered on the deck. The woman was drowning, crying for help, but no one had the courage to jump.

An old rich man said, “I’ll give a hundred thousand rupees—let anyone jump and save her.” Immediately people saw Mulla Nasruddin leap; he saved the woman and brought her out. When he came up, people garlanded him with flowers and the old man gave him a check for a hundred thousand. Mulla said, “Keep the check aside. First tell me—who pushed me?”

He had not jumped of his own accord. Someone had given him a shove while he was leaning over to look.

Once a shove is given... the guru can only give the shove. Once the shove is given, you will arrive. Then the attraction does its own work.

The first saying Kabir must have said to his sadhus:
“Mero sangi doi jan, ek Vaishno ek Ram.”
A sweet saying.
“Yo hai data mukti ka, vo sumiravai naam.”
The Divine alone is the giver of liberation, but that liberation will come only when the guru has brought about remembrance of the Name.

The second saying Kabir must have addressed to those who are chanting Hari without a guru. Those who are not seekers, not sadhus; who have not staked their lives; who have not befriended a guru. Those who are very egoistic, who do not wish to bow at anyone’s feet; who find it difficult to become disciples. They say, “We will do it ourselves—read the Gita, read the Guru Granth, read the Bible—we will do it ourselves. The scriptures are there; why look for a guru? We will read the scriptures and sit and remember on our own.”

To these Kabir would have said: “Hari sumirai so vaar hai,...” He would have said that remembering Hari is only the start of the journey—do not get lost in it. “...guru sumirai so paar.” The one who remembers the guru will cross over.

These two utterances were spoken to different kinds of people; there is no contradiction in them.

And when you read the words of true masters, if you ever find contradiction, remember: contradiction cannot really be there. If it appears, some mistake is on your side. If you inquire, you will find that somewhere the paths meet, the sense coheres.

The masters have spoken to different people in different circumstances. One person has one disease—there is one medicine for him. Another person has another disease—the same medicine will not do. What is medicine for one becomes poison for another; and what is poison for one becomes medicine for another.

So understand the masters’ words the way you understand a pharmacy. You take your prescription; the chemist quickly prepares your medicine. For another person he prepares another medicine. You do not quarrel. You do not say, “What is this? You gave me a red medicine and him a green one?” You know: your illnesses are different.

So it is with the words of the masters: they are medicines, remedies.

The first medicine is given to the disciple. Why to the disciple? Because there is a danger with the disciple: he might cling to the guru excessively. He might grab the guru and forget God. This danger is real with the disciple—because the guru is tangible; God is not. Attachment arises to the guru. God is invisible; the guru is visible. The guru is in a body; God is in the vast.

Attachment, fondness, “mine-ness” grows with the guru. Even the ego finds a relation: “My guru!”—and it begins to strengthen the “I.”

So Kabir told his disciples: “Yo hai data mukti ka, vo sumiravai naam.” The guru only brings about remembrance of the Divine. Do not stop here. Learn from the guru and move. Listen to the guru and go on. Use the guru, make him a bridge, and go to the other shore. The going is into the Divine. Liberation happens there. This he said to disciples.

But there are some who never became disciples at all—who cling to their egos. Because of ego they cannot bow to any guru. Such people sit with dead gurus. A dead guru is convenient; your mind can interpret as it wishes. Whatever meaning you want, you can extract. A dead guru cannot step in and say, “What are you doing?”

There is a note from the life of Sigmund Freud. When Freud had grown old, he called a meeting of his chief psychologists, his special disciples. He might live two or four months more, or a year; nothing was certain. He suspected his end was near. He invited his principal disciples for a last meeting. They came—from all over the world, for he had set a great movement of psychoanalysis in motion. There were about thirty special people he had called.

In the evening they dined with Freud. After dinner, as they were chatting, Freud sat silently listening. A big dispute arose among them—about whether Freud had said this or that in some statement; one gave one interpretation, another gave another. There were thirty people, so thirty interpretations—and a great quarrel broke out. Freud listened for an hour. Then he banged the table and said, “I am still alive—won’t you ask me?” (He is sitting there alive!) “You are fighting, you are arguing about what Freud means—and Freud is alive! I am still alive; don’t be in such a hurry. When I die, then you can argue. I am present; it didn’t occur to any of you to ask this old man what he meant? What will happen after my death?” Freud said.

What happened after Buddha’s death? Dozens of Buddhist sects arose. After Mahavira’s death? So many sects spread. After Muhammad’s death? After Jesus’ death...?

What does “sect” mean? People became free to interpret as they pleased. Whoever wished to interpret in whatever way did so. Now Mahavira cannot step in and say, “This is wrong; I never said that,” or, “I said something else.”

With a dead guru, you become the master. A living guru is your master. And the ego does not want to accept any master.

So the second saying is addressed to those stuck in their egos. The first is addressed to those who can get stuck in the guru. The first is said to those who might get stuck in the guru: do not get stuck. They were reminded: liberation does not come from the guru alone. The guru will remind you, will point the way. Then the journey must be made. Liberation comes from the Divine.

The second reminder is that this does not mean there is no need of a guru. Without the guru, who will indicate? Hence: “Hari sumirai so vaar hai, guru sumirai so paar.”

All the guru’s effort is first that you come to him so that you move away from the world. And then his effort is: now move away from me so that you come to the Divine. Keep this distinction in mind.

To turn you away from the world, the guru is indispensable. And then, to send you to God, he will begin to push you away: now go toward the Divine; do not get entangled in me. I was only a means, you have used me. Now do not be stuck in the means. I am the path; I am not the goal. Therefore there are these two sayings.

Perhaps for precisely that reason. Man keeps scratching at his sorrows to remember them—because there is a certain pleasure in suffering. You will be surprised. You will say, “Pleasure in suffering? What kind of pleasure?”

There is a pleasure in suffering: suffering is the food of the ego. In a state of bliss the ego dissolves; in a state of suffering the ego becomes very dense.

People have not chosen suffering for nothing; they have chosen it cleverly, knowingly. People are not miserable by accident; they are miserable because only in suffering does the ego survive. “I am somebody!”—this remains only in pain. The moment a wave of bliss comes, you are swept away; the ego cannot remain.

So people talk about bliss, but they do not want to be blissful; they are afraid. If they become blissful, this sense of “I” will not survive. That is why all the sages have said: if you want bliss, drop the “I.” Because the two are the same thing. Drop the “I,” and bliss happens. Become blissful, and the “I” drops. Two sides of the same coin.

But you carefully preserve your suffering as if it were a possession. You sit arrogantly atop your heap of sorrow! People even enlarge their suffering when they recount it. Have you noticed? If you watch yourself, you will. A small illness occurs and you make a big story of it. Why?

With big suffering comes big ego. If you are ill and someone says, “Oh, that’s nothing special,” you feel hurt that he is calling your illness nothing special. “My illness—and you say it’s nothing? What do you understand?”

A tiny boil appears and you talk as if you had cancer. A slight headache, and you declare as though the whole world’s pain has crashed upon you. Let a small thorn prick you and you scream as if you were crucified!

You magnify your suffering. You spread it far and wide. If you examine your own life you will see it. Tomorrow, when you talk about your misery, just watch how much you inflate it. You will be amazed: is suffering something to be increased? It should be reduced, yet you keep enlarging it as you tell it!

People speak only of sorrow; no one speaks of joy. Two people meet and they begin discussing their troubles. They seem to take an excessive relish in pain. Sorrow appears to be their property.

You ask: “Why can I not forget my past, even though there is nothing in it but suffering?”

You will not be able to forget your past until you understand this truth: suffering constructs the ego. The day you are ready to be free of the ego, that very day you will be free of the past—because the past also manufactures the ego. Without the past, what ego is there?

Imagine I were to wave a magic wand around your head and you forgot your entire past—everything—as if a slate had been wiped clean. What ego would remain then? With what pride could you say, “I am an engineer, a doctor, a prime minister”? Those were matters of the past; all wiped away. You have become a clean slate. Could you then say, “I was born in such-and-such a lineage; I come from an aristocratic house; I am the son of such-and-such a maharaja”?

That too is wiped away; the past erased. You are a blank slate. What proclamation could you make on that blankness? Nothing would come to mind. You could not even say who you are. Your name is wiped off. Your caste is wiped off. Your being a Brahmin or this or that—your degrees, titles, Padma Bhushan, Bharat Ratna—all wiped away. Nothing remains. You are an empty, plain page. What will you say?

On that plain page you will suddenly find there is nothing to say. No proclamation of “I” can be made.

The entire shape and color of the “I” comes from the past. The outline, the definition of the “I,” comes from the past. So a man carefully preserves his past—keeps adding to that capital, piling up experiences. Junk or whatever, he keeps collecting it. The heap should be large; you want your heap to be the largest. For this reason one cannot forget the past: at the root is the ego.

Listen; reflect on this—

Let the bitterness of poison still remain mingled with my being,
Let some trace remain of what I have lived through.
Do not remove these emptied goblets, these candles that have wept;
For a few moments let the pang of heavy pleasures remain.
Look—these scenes are desolate, and the heart is not yet appeased;
Let the autumnal hues remain like this for a few more days.
Let a few dark veins of my body still be lit;
Let the surge of blood keep at least some moving candles aflame.
Lest someone see the depth of your pain,
Let the lament of the wounds remain deprived of a tongue.
There lingers in the heart the fragrance of a few nameless memories—
In this ruin, let these autumnal flowers remain.
Let the bitterness of poison still remain mingled with my being…

This bitterness that comes into life, this poison—man says: let it be, do not take it away.

Let the bitterness of poison still remain mingled with my being—
Let this poison remain included in my life; do not take it from me. I earned it with great effort. I made great sacrifices to acquire it. These wounds are not free—I purchased them at a high price.

Let the bitterness of poison still remain mingled with my being,
Let some trace remain of what I have lived through.
What you have lived through was a dream of sorrow—only thorns; no flowers ever bloomed there; spring never came; it was always autumn. You have known only illnesses. You have never tasted life. You have met death many times, but never encountered life. Still the mind says:

Let some trace remain of what I have lived through—
Leave the marks, because if they are erased, the “I” is erased.

Do not remove these emptied goblets, these candles that have wept—
These lamps that have gone out, that now remind you only of tears that flowed in the past and nothing more.

Do not remove these emptied goblets, these candles that have wept;
For a few moments let the pang of heavy pleasures remain—
And the lingering sting left by life’s many indulgences, the thorns left embedded by them, the burdens that remain—“for a few moments let the pang of heavy pleasures remain”—do not take them away. Let that burden remain upon me—if only for a little while.

Look—these scenes are desolate, and the heart is not yet appeased;
Let the autumnal hues remain like this for a few more days.
Man says: my past may be autumn, but let its colors remain for now. I do not yet yearn for more beautiful sights. Let me live in my autumn.

Let a few dark veins of my body still be lit;
Let the surge of blood keep at least some moving candles aflame.
Lest someone see the depth of your pain,
Let the lament of the wounds remain deprived of a tongue.
There lingers in the heart the fragrance of a few nameless memories—
In this ruin, let these autumnal flowers remain.
Everything has gone to waste; everything is in ruins. The past means ruins. “In this wreck, in these ruins, let these autumn flowers remain.”

You have taken autumn itself to be flowers. You say: these autumnal blossoms, these thorns—let them keep pricking; let their sting remain. Do not remove this burden from me; this is my wealth. This is my life.

The hells you have passed through—that alone is your autobiography. And what is your autobiography? A ray of joy has never descended. The melody of Rama has never descended; you have never heard the unstruck sound. What you have heard is the marketplace’s din, or the brothel’s, or the tavern’s, or abuse, or anger, jealousy, pride, envy—these have surrounded you. This is your total capital. This is your bookkeeping. This is your ledger. Therefore a man does not want to leave it.

It is not just you; no one wants to leave their past. People keep scratching their wounds lest they heal. If they heal, what then? This is the total—your property for conversation. If this is erased, nothing remains to say.

Understand this, and there will be no need to “forget” the past. Understand it, and you will drop the burden of the past. You are the one holding it.

The past is not riding on you. The past has gone; that which has gone is what we call the past. It remains only in your imagination, stuck in your memory—and it remains because you keep it stuck there.

If you understand it is futile, that there is no need to carry this dust any longer, no need to live among ruins—build new houses; live in the present. Live in the present and the doors of the future will open. Live in the past and you will live in a grave; no door will open.

There is no use to the past; there is no possibility left in it. It is a spent cartridge—will you carry it around, keep it cherished at your breast? What will you do with a spent cartridge? Live something new. Live today—live in today; because from today tomorrow will be born. From that, doors will open. Possibilities will become actual; seeds will blossom.

“Why can I not forget my past?”
Because you have not yet learned the art of living in the present. Because you do not yet have the courage to live in the unknown.

There is great security in the past; everything is neat and tidy—because it has already happened. The future is utterly chaotic. Nothing has happened yet. Anything can happen, but nothing has happened yet.

Tomorrow—the coming tomorrow—is utterly unformed. It is a blank canvas; the picture you must paint. What you choose to paint will appear. If you want to create hell, there will be hell; if you want to create heaven, there will be heaven.

The picture of the past is clear and neat—because the event has occurred, the photograph is taken; nothing remains to be done there. No effort is required. So laziness, sloth, inertia, cling to the past. Awareness lives in the present.

So many pictures are yet to be painted. The real picture has not yet been made—because God’s image has not yet been engraved on your heart. Until God’s image is imprinted on your heart, nothing essential has happened; the real thing is yet to be. What has happened so far is futile.

Do not be satisfied before God. Do not settle without finding the divine. If the divine is yet to be, why worry about which school you studied in, which college you attended, which degrees you got or did not get, which woman deceived you, which man deceived you, who snatched a few pennies, who insulted you—do not waste time and energy on such trivialities. This same energy is the creator of God within you. Your liberation will be constructed from this very energy. It is precious—do not throw it into garbage heaps.

So learn to live in the present; keep your eyes on the future. Let your gaze be ahead, not behind.

Whoever keeps his gaze behind will meet with accidents in life. It is as if someone is driving a car while looking backward. He looks behind while the car moves forward. If there is no danger, that would be a miracle. If danger comes, what is special in that? It must come. How long can this man travel without danger? He is looking backward, while going forward. The dangers are ahead: rocks and mountains are ahead, the turns in the road are ahead. Behind is only dust, rising. The roads you have passed, you will not pass again. What has happened has happened. You will not be a child again; you will not be young again.

What has happened is dust flying behind—how long will you keep plunging your eyes into that dust? Turn your neck.

And this cannot be done by force. Only through understanding will it happen.

I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin was sitting by the roadside. A man on a motorcycle, with a youth sitting behind him, fell nearby. Mulla ran to lift the youth who was behind, because the driver, though fallen and bruised, seemed all right. The youth’s head appeared to be twisted around, so Mulla quickly snapped it “straight.”

By then the driver also got up and came over. From a distance he shouted, “How is he?” Mulla said, “As long as his head was backwards, he was speaking a little. Since I straightened it, he hasn’t spoken at all!” The man cried, “You have killed him! Because a cold wind was blowing, he had put his coat on backwards. On the way the wind was hitting his chest, so he wore his coat inside out; his head was perfectly straight. You have killed him!”

Do not forcibly straighten anyone’s head. Who knows—he may be wearing his coat inside out!

Nothing can be done to you by force either. It must happen through understanding—gently, through your own awareness.

Begin to see: what is the point of staring at the past? The essence lies ahead. The essence is yet to happen; it has not happened yet. So look where the essence is.

And I am not saying you should look so far ahead that you stop seeing the present—because that too happens. Some people look behind; if somehow they understand, they begin looking ahead. But the past has gone and the future has not yet come; still, confusion will remain.

In Greece there was a great astrologer. One night, while studying the stars, he was walking with his eyes fixed on the sky. He fell into a well and was hurt. It never occurred to him—step by step, he strayed from the path and fell. He cried out.

An old woman who lived nearby came and somehow pulled him out. The astrologer said, “Mother, you have done me a great favor. Perhaps you do not know whom you have saved! I am Greece’s greatest astrologer. My fee for predicting someone’s future is thousands of rupees. I will tell your future for free.”

The old woman said, “Spare me. You cannot see the well in front of you, and you will tell me my future? You cannot see the wells in the earth at your very feet?”

This story delights me. Some people look so far ahead that they fall into wells. Some keep looking behind and collide with the future.

Right vision is in the present. Right vision is in the present, oriented toward the future. Seeing must be here and now. And the future is becoming the present every moment—so there is a forward orientation. But do not glue your eyes to the future.

The past is memory; the future is imagination; the present is reality. Look to the real—because only through the real is the door to truth.

The word mamatā comes from mam—mam means “mine.” Mamatā means the feeling of mine-ness.
And remember, most people mistake mamatā for love. Love and mamatā are quite the opposite. In love there is no sense of “mine.” The feeling of “mine” can apply to things; how can it apply to persons?

You can say, “This house is mine.” All right. Kabir even says you should feel ashamed, feel a little modesty, to call even a house “mine.” It belongs to the Divine. What of yours is in it? What is this “mine” and “yours”?
But let us still forgive a man for calling a house his. But to call a wife “mine”—that is going too far; that cannot be forgiven. Because a wife has a soul! She is not an object—a chair, a house, a piece of furniture on which you can stick a label. A wife has personhood. She is not a thing. How can you say “mine”? By saying “mine” you kill her personhood and turn her into a thing.

The same with a son or a daughter—how can you call your child “mine”? So alive, so fresh, just now arrived from God’s home—what claim of “mine” can you lay on that?

All right, perhaps you built the house—brought bricks and mortar, mixed the plaster. Perhaps you even made the furniture—cut the wood, worked with your tools. But the child you did not make. At the most you were a mere instrument in God’s hands. The child has made himself—or God has made him. Who are you to be the maker?

You cannot call a child “mine.” It is a great insult.
And if you ask a psychologist, he too will agree. What is needed toward a child is respect. Not the sentiment of mamatā, but the feeling of respect. The child has come from God; he is God’s gift. Toward that there should be reverence—deep reverence. The same toward a wife, the same toward a husband.

Between persons there should be a relationship of respect. And where there is respect, there is love. Where there is love, there is respect. Where there is respect, there is freedom. And where there is freedom, there is love. And where there is love, there is freedom.

The moment you bring in mine-ness, freedom dies. You have put a noose on the neck. You say, “This is my child…” People say, “This is my child; I will do whatever I want.” “I will do whatever I want!” You are taking the child’s life. You are tightening a hangman’s knot around the child’s neck.

You say, “I am a Hindu, so I will make him a Hindu. I am a Muslim, so I will make him a Muslim.” This is insulting. Who are you to decide? Who gave you the right to make him Hindu or Muslim? Who gave you the right to give him a ready-made conduct? At the most, give love and give freedom. Let his conduct be born within him.

Yes, take him to the mosque and to the temple; to the gurdwara and to the church. Let him become acquainted with all. Then give him freedom to choose whatever he wishes. If the gurdwara appeals, then the gurdwara. If the church appeals, then the church. If the temple appeals, then the temple. But do not become an obstacle to his freedom.

Who are you to choose his religion? To choose his religion is to decide his God, to decide his worship.
Who are you to choose his beloved? You say, “He is my son; I will choose his wife.” Who are you? How will you choose a wife for him? Let him choose. Give him love so that he becomes capable and skilled in loving.

Then set his love free, so that he may choose—with which woman he wants to live; with which man she wants to live. Who will be his friend, who will be his companion—let him choose. Do not bring your cleverness, your intelligence, your experience in between. Because this child will live his own life; he will not repeat yours. And the world in which you lived is no longer here. He will live in a different world that is coming. Free him.

No, there is no love in mamatā. In mamatā there is ownership. And where is love in ownership?
An owner is a man of things. How can one own persons? Kabir even says: do not be the owner of things either. That too is an excess with God. It is injustice; it is immoral. Feel a little modesty—what is ours here? All is his.

These trees that have grown in this garden—will you say they are ours? What have you done in them? You cannot produce even a single leaf. They belong to whom they belong—to God. Yes, you have rendered a little service: you watered them; you brought manure. You became the instrument. God made use of you. Thank him: “You gave me a little chance to serve these trees!” But the trees are not yours. Nor are the children yours.

One cannot have a claim over life. To hold mamatā toward life is destructive. And the world is suffering so much because of this feeling of mamatā.

If you go to a psychoanalyst and ask, a hundred years of experience says that whenever children become mentally ill, the cause is found in their mother or father—mostly the mother, because the father is usually not even at home; he often has little connection with the child. But the mother is there twenty-four hours.

Just last night a young woman told me that her child keeps getting asthma attacks. It did not happen before. Since I separated from my husband, the child began to have asthma. I suspect—what is the cause? The child is growing weak. He doesn’t even eat. And she began to cry.

It was obvious—she was overanxious about the child. The asthma was arising because of that.
She has separated from her husband, so she carries a sense of guilt that the child has lost his father. So she is doing the father’s job fully and the mother’s job fully—putting a double pressure on the child. She is after the child twenty-four hours a day, determined to “set him right.” Perhaps the husband also said the child will be ruined because of the separation. So now her ego has been challenged—she will prove him wrong.

She has gone after the child badly. Because of that, the child feels as if someone is choking his throat; asthma is arising. That choking is psychological. The child’s inner feeling is that someone is strangling him—and asthma manifests.

The child has stopped eating and drinking because the mother is anxious day and night. The child must have begun to feel, “Because of me my mother is so worried.” A death-wish arises in him—he wants to die, because he sees his mother so distressed on his account. This is not conscious.

As I was saying this to the mother, the little child—listening—light came into his eyes, his face changed. When he had first come he seemed very restless. I kept talking to the mother, but with my eyes I watched the child too—what changed in him. He sat more at ease. The point landed in him. Though small, he understood—something like this is happening.

The mother too could see: I am loving excessively. Excessive love means excessive mamatā.
This is not love. It is the projection of your own ego. “This is my child; he must be the best child in the world.” What madness is this! By being yours, what sin has he committed? “This is my child; he must come first in the class.” Why? There are other children too! Why should your child suffer the punishment of being first? And if you think you are doing it because you love the child, you are mistaken. It is only your ego. Perhaps you could not come first in school; now you want to climb on your child’s chest and come first—so that you can go into the neighborhood and say, “Look, my child came first!” You want to fire the gun from the child’s shoulder. “Look, my child this, my child that…”

Watch how mothers and fathers talk about their children—“my child this, my child that.” If you listen closely, you will hear only the song of their ego. It is their ego that “my child”—I am hidden inside him; my blood, my flesh and bone; he is my representative. “I will go tomorrow, but I will leave this gift to the world; my child will preserve my memory.”

This is ego. You have not been able to fulfill yourself; now you want to fill through the child. Because of this ego you will throttle the child’s neck.

Ninety-nine out of a hundred children are killed by their parents; they are not allowed to remain alive. That is why the world appears so dead—no light, no life, no thrill, no celebration. You kill them—kill them in every way.

You do not let the child act out of his own experience, nor choose from his own feeling. Moreover, you impose even religion upon him. Moreover, you impose even love on him. You say, “I am experienced; I have found this wife for you.” What has experience to do with love? If love and experience were related, people should marry in old age.

The wave of love does not rise in experience; it rises in the young mind—the inexperienced mind. Love spreads only in the soil of inexperience. Love is a kind of madness. When you become very experienced, the wave of love no longer rises. Experience kills the wave.

And when you think from experience, you think of other matters. The experienced father thinks of the girl’s family, the boy’s family, wealth, status, education—these are the considerations. What have these to do with love?

Have you ever heard of a man falling in love with someone’s M.A. degree? Or a girl, or a boy, falling in love because someone has a gold medal? What has a gold medal to do with love?

When love descends, it descends mysteriously—without any cause. You cannot give any reason for it. But you impose love; you impose knowledge; you impose the entire regimen of life—and then you want people to be radiant! You want people to be joyful! You want children to be filled with respect for their parents! Impossible. You have done nothing for which you deserve their respect.

Mamatā is not love. You certainly have shown mamatā, but you have not shown love.
So I want to say to you… You asked: “Without mamatā, without the feeling of mine-ness, is it possible for a mother to bring up her children with tenderness?”

Only then is it possible. As long as there is mamatā, where is love, where is tenderness?

And if you worry about the child for the reason that he is yours, then you are not worried about the child at all—you are worried about yourself.

If the child is yours and therefore you worry, what concern is that for the child? The child belongs to the Divine—what are you? He is a gift. He has graced you, bestowed a benediction. Be grateful to him. And you care for the child because God has given you this opportunity to serve. You love this child; you feel close to him; you will wish that he be blissful.

You will not give the child a code of conduct, because a hollow, imposed morality will make him sad. You will give him courage: Dare! Seek. We have sought; you too seek.

And you will not give him lies. You will not tell the child falsely that God exists. If you do not know, how can you say so? Love does not lie. Mamatā often lies.

You do not know, yet you tell the child, “God exists.” And if the child raises a question, you promptly shut his mouth: “These matters are difficult; you will not understand now. When you grow up you will understand”—as if you have understood! Neither you nor your father understood. You have grown old; what have you understood?

The mystery of life—what a child can understand, an adult often cannot. That is why Jesus said: those who are simple like children will understand the Lord.

All the sages of the world have said: become simple like children, and God comes near. God does not come to the experienced. God is afraid of the experienced; he keeps away—“Here comes an experienced man—run!”

God is afraid of the knowledgeable; he is frightened of scholars. What is needed is a silent, innocent consciousness.

A child is closer to God. And if he is given freedom, and love showers around him, and there are no nets and nooses of mamatā, and no ego sits on his chest—then children will create a different kind of world. They will grow up in a different kind of world. That will be real love.

What is the criterion of love?
They say: fruit is the test of the tree. You plant the tree and no flowers ever bloom—then you will accept something is wrong, won’t you? You plant a mango tree and it never bears fruit—something is wrong somewhere! Even if mangoes grow but they are bitter—something is wrong, is it not?

The world is doing so much “loving,” and yet the world is full of sadness. No flowers blossom. Sweet fruit does not appear. It is poison upon poison. Then surely something is wrong with our love. In the name of love some other deception is happening. Mamatā is deceiving in the name of love. Ego is moving about wearing the mask of love.

Be free of mamatā so that love can be revealed. Give respect, because whatever is on this earth belongs to God—plants, children, moon and stars. This whole earth is his temple.

And certainly, when you respect someone, you do not impose. There is regard in your heart. If a child asks a question and you know, you will answer—as much as you know—if there is respect for the child. And you will never give the deception of “You’ll know when you grow up.”

You will tell the child: “I too am searching. I have not yet found God. You search too. You may be closer to him. Between me and God many years have come. You have just now come from his house. You too meditate, you too pray, you too seek. If you discover before I do, tell me—because you are fresher; you are more innocent. You are not yet filled with cunning, not yet stuffed with argument. Your trust is unbroken. You are simple. You are already a saint; I will have to become one. You too seek.”

That will be respect; that will be love. And if a father or mother can do this, do you think their children could ever insult them? Impossible.

Today many suffer the pain that their children insult them. Why? You insulted them greatly; this is only the revenge. Although when you insulted them you never thought you were insulting. Your insult is so socially accepted that you do not even recognize it as insult.

I was a guest in a home—and in many homes, as I traveled through the country. This nuisance was common everywhere. The father would bring his son and say, “Please explain something to this fool…”—calling him a fool right in front of him! “He has no sense.”
I would be startled. I would tell the father: It is a wonder he has not yet thrashed you; that he hasn’t cracked your skull. He is not a complete fool. You stand him before a stranger and call him a fool? He is enduring it. He seems a gentleman. To me you seem the crude one. This is insult. He is swallowing the bitter draught of insult because right now he is weak, dependent on you for bread. But someday he will take revenge. This poison will keep accumulating. One day you will be weak…

One day the father will be weak; the child will be young then, employed, respected—and the father will have grown feeble; then he will take revenge. He won’t even know why he is taking revenge. But he will. As you insulted him, he will insult you. He will say, “Old man, you curmudgeon”—use such words. “Keep your mouth shut; there is no need for you to speak in between. Go sit in your room.” Or he will send you to an old-age home—“Go, get admitted there. We don’t like quarrels in the house.” And then you will say, “Why is my child insulting me!” And you won’t even remember how much you had insulted him.

Fruits are the test. If, on growing up, children insult their father and mother, they bring the news that, in childhood, the parents had insulted them.

A great falsehood parades under the name of love. And if you had given love, the reward of love is always love. Give love—you receive love. You must have given something else. They too will give you something else.

Therefore, be free of mamatā; let love arise. Give love, give respect. Here, everything bears God’s signature.

The saints have not portrayed life as sorrow. The saints looked into life and found it to be sorrow. That is not a “portrayal.” They never tried to prove that life is sorrow; they saw it—and it was sorrow.

Now, if a thorn pierces your foot and you say, “I feel pain,” will anyone object, “Why are you depicting it like that? This is pessimism”? Someone has a festering ulcer, is in excruciating pain, and says, “I am suffering.” And you say, “Don’t describe it like that; that’s pessimism. One ought to be an optimist—say the ulcer gives you great joy!” What will change by saying so?

The saints looked at life and described it as it is. That is not a philosophy of the saints—that life is sorrow; it is their experience that life is of the nature of suffering.

Leave the saints aside—what is your experience? Just examine your own life. What happiness have you actually found? Hopes of happiness—yes; but what have you attained? When you count what you have actually got, it is suffering—so many, many kinds of suffering.

Listen—
Thorns in the feet, lancets in the soul are strewn across life upon life;
Are these the people of my age, or harvest-stacks of wounds scattered everywhere?
If you have the courage, peer from the arches of existence;
Time is that wall in which little windows of pain are set.
You who beat your heads to melodies—split open the breast of the instrument and see:
The playful form of song, once turned inside out, is shreds of the soul scattered.
Whenever the season of your remembrance brushed past my heart,
Burning monsoons scattered from my thirsty eyes.
The silver of the body will be plundered—O sentries, be alert:
In the city’s drowsy lanes, wakeful bandits lie in wait.
From your cheeks and lips people will draw their interpretations—
There are unseen splendors scattered behind veil after veil.
People glittering like pearls, heavy as stones,
Lie like pebbles on the roads—strewn there by circumstance.
Do not ask me of the unspoken states of my season of madness:
Burning tears, damp embers, are scattered fold upon fold.

Open your eyes a little.

Thorns in the feet, lancets in the soul are strewn across life upon life—
Your feet are full of thorns—and so are your hearts. There are blisters on your feet—and on your hearts too. There are wounds on your feet—and in your very souls as well.

Look at yourself. Open yourself up a little. Have a direct, straightforward look at your own state. Then you will not find that the saints are pessimists; you will find that the saints are realists. They say it as it is. They do not falsify, they do not create delusion. They call suffering “suffering.”

And you? You are dishonest. You go on calling suffering “happiness.” You have learned formalities, etiquette. You ask someone, “So, how are you?” He says, “Very happy.” You get deluded too.

Someone asks you, “How are you?” You say, “In great bliss, all is wonderful.” Neither of you is speaking truth. Both are deceiving each other.

Is it true—when you say “All is fine”? If truly all were fine you would be a Buddha already. If all is fine, what remains? If all is fine, God has been found. Only upon finding the divine is all truly fine.

And when you say, “I’m great; everything is bliss; all is fun and frolic”—what are you doing? Have you taken an oath not to speak truth? Though I understand: what is the use of detailing your misery before another? So you say, “Alright then…” It was not a serious question anyway. He did not mean it that way—that I also know.

You meet someone on the street—“Jairamji ki!” He asks, “Tell me, how are you?” He didn’t mean, “Now sit down, I’m ready to listen to an hour of your lament.” He didn’t mean, “Good, sit—bring all your X-rays and reports and lay them out so I can see the state you’re in.” He didn’t even mean to ask. It was purely formal. And you gave a formal answer. I have no objection even to that. But do not fall into the delusion, because by repeating it again and again it starts to feel like truth.

Every day you repeat it. Whoever you meet asks, and you say, “I’m fine.” Slowly, through constant repetition, you yourself start to believe, “I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine.” A kind of hypnosis sets in.

Sometimes lift the veil from your heart.

Thorns in the feet, lancets in the soul are strewn across life upon life;
Are these the people of my age, or harvest-stacks of wounds scattered?
Here there are fields upon fields of wounds on every side,
…harvest-stacks of wounds are scattered.

If you have the courage, peer from the arches of existence—
Only if you have courage can this seeing happen.
If you have the courage, peer from the arches of existence:
Time is that wall in which little windows of pain are set.

In the very wall of time there are only apertures of pain. Look closely. But only the courageous can look. The coward flees. He will not stand still, for if he stands, something might become visible. He keeps tangling himself in some activity—lest something become visible if he were not entangled!

Inside, snakes and scorpions are crawling, and you go on talking of moon and stars. Inside, only poison—and you keep singing of nectar. Gradually you begin to think in those songs that all is being attained. You have never known love, and you go on reading love stories, getting lost in those tales.

You who beat your heads to melodies—split open the breast of the instrument and see:
The playful form of song, once turned inside out, is shreds of the soul scattered.
What passes here in the name of songs—if you rip open their chest you will find weeping hidden in every song, tears hidden in every song. Your songs, your festivals, your ceremonies—these are tricks to hide tears.

Do not ask me of the unspoken states of my season of madness:
Burning tears, damp embers, are scattered fold upon fold.

The saint is not proposing a philosophy that life is suffering. It is not his interpretation of life—it is his experience of life.

You ask: “Why have the saints always portrayed life as sorrow?”
Because life is sorrow. What else can a saint do?

That is why you don’t really like to listen to saints; you prefer poets. The poet does the opposite—he erects dreams in life. The saint breaks dreams and gives you the vision of truth. Poets sing of love, write love stories.

But do not go and meet these poets—if you meet them you will find in their lives neither love nor song. Often, meeting poets is a great disappointment. Hear their songs, read their poems—so lovely, heights of the sky—and if you ever meet the gentleman, you might find him lying by a gutter drunk, or sitting somewhere smoking bidis with flies hovering over his face, a cremation-ground gloom about him. You won’t believe this man sang such exalted songs.

In truth, the song is a device to forget oneself. Love has not happened; by singing of love he consoles himself. Having missed love, he deceives his mind by singing of it. It is empty talk.

Poets keep people tangled in webs of illusion; they keep stoking people’s hopes—suggesting that something could happen: “Try a little and it will be.” They keep hope alive.

The saint shows people what is, as it is. If death is approaching, the saint says, “Death is approaching.” He takes you to the cremation ground and shows you: “This is the reality; this is how life ends.”

Though you will be angry with the saint, because he breaks your hopes. By breaking hopes he creates the possibility of your transformation.

You are not angry with poets; you honor them. Have you seen—no poet has ever been crucified. Poets are honored; they get Nobel Prizes.

Not a single saint has received a Nobel Prize. Saints are crucified—Jesus, Mansoor, Socrates—stones are thrown at saints. Poets are honored! And the poet’s business is nothing but falsehood. Falsehood is his trade. He presents lies with great beauty, adorns them, paints them so well that the lie begins to look like truth.

The saint’s whole intent is to strip truth naked and show it to you. And when truth is shown naked, it jars.

Have you ever been to a hospital and seen a skeleton standing there? Didn’t it occur to you—that is what is inside you? Doesn’t it make you uneasy? It does. A little fear arises: “This will be my condition tomorrow!” And in fact, it already is your condition. Beneath the skin this is what is hidden—a skeleton.

The saint peels back your skin and reveals the truth within. He says, “This is how it is.” And the poet talks to you of your marble body, your golden form! It is pleasing—sounds right.

Listen to the saint. He says, “There is nothing here but excreta and urine. What talk of gold? What marble body? What are you speaking of? What dreams are you lost in? Here, it is full of filth.”

Hearing talk of filth doesn’t please you, though it is the truth. You cannot deny it. If your body were opened up before you, it would appear repulsive. You would be aghast. It is only because all that lies behind the skin that you don’t notice.

When you fall in love with a woman, you prefer the poet’s words. If you accept the saint’s words, you will be in trouble.

The saint gives you eyes like an X-ray. He gives you such eyes that wherever you look you will see a skeleton. Look right here beside you with attention—you will see the skeleton.

Bones, flesh, marrow, excreta, urine—this is the truth. That is the reality. And only by climbing the steps of reality does one reach the divine. Poems do not make steps; poems are empty talk.

You ask: “Why have the saints always portrayed life as sorrow?”
Because always they have known it as sorrow.

Then you ask, “Is this pessimism justified?”
This is not pessimism; this is realism.

And as it is, so it must be known. Only by knowing it as it is can you move beyond it.

Only when the body begins to appear futile to you will you seek the soul. And only when the world begins to appear futile will you remember the divine.

The saint’s whole longing is that you not remain entangled in the trash; there are diamonds and jewels hidden here too. But if you go on taking the trash to be diamonds and jewels, when will you search for the real? When will you seek the pearls? If you go on picking colored stones on the seashore, when will you dive for pearls? To seek pearls you must drop the pebbles; these pretty stones won’t help—then you must take a deep plunge into the ocean.

Only the one who goes deep attains. But first, you must leave the shore. To know the worthless as worthless is the first step toward the worthwhile.

No, the mind is not deceiving you. Now the mind will not be able to deceive you. You have come to the place from where the mind’s deceptions will be clearly seen. This voice is not of the mind at all. “Our mooring is in the Void; in the unstruck sound is our rest.” This voice cannot possibly be of the mind.

The mind is deeply afraid of the Void, and it is terrified of the unstruck. The mind wants everything to have a limit, a boundary, a definition. The mind can be master of the petty—of that which is bounded. In the boundless the mind is lost. The mind plays with streams and rivulets; it does not want to grapple with the oceans. That is too big a matter. Go there and you drown. Go there and you are annihilated.

This voice is not of the mind. You have heard rightly. That is the answer.

Those who have come along with me now have their home only in the Void. That is precisely what sannyas means: that one’s home is in the Void. Live anywhere, yet your real home is the Void. Do anything, but the essential thing is rest; the essential thing is the sense of non-doership, witnessing.

So I will say to Ajit: you have heard rightly. If you have joined with me, then now, wherever I am, there you are, Ajit! Do not preserve yourself so much that you go on thinking separately. Let even that distance fall.

It is good that you did not ask a question. The answer that arose within yourself is more valuable.

He who has joined with me is joined in this world and in the other as well. This connection is not going to break. Once someone is joined, this joining is not going to break. In this bond, surrender in every way. Then it is as God wills. Whatever is, let it be.

Now the boat is not to be rowed. Now the sails are to be unfurled. Wherever his winds take you, whatever he makes happen—be content in that. Be in accord with his will.

Enough for today.