Kahe Kabir Main Pura Paya #9

Who teaches the sati to burn her body beside her lord?
Who teaches love—that the very savor of enjoyment flowers within renunciation?

There are but two wonders of one Reality—
my worship, and Your divinity.
They are each other’s descending splendors—
my poverty, Your majesty.
What shows forth of self in the world is through me—
and hidden within me is all Your Godhood.
I have lifted the burden of Your trust—
by my breath the whole of Your divinity breathes.
Look closely: the picture has two faces—
my fakirhood, Your kingship.
A little more—yet more—subtle teasing grace—
every gesture of Yours delights me today.
When I cast off both the worlds,
Your beggarhood fell to my lot.

Jesus’ famous word is: Blessed are the poor. Blessed are the poor in spirit. Today’s sutra is an exposition of that very saying of Jesus—and an uncommon exposition!

Jesus says: Blessed are those who are poor in spirit; who are inwardly poor. Meaning: those who are inwardly empty, not full; those whose inside is filled with emptiness, with shunyata—whose inner being is an open sky—void. For only in that empty sky can the Paramatma enter.

Understand the meaning of “poverty”—that’s why Jesus chose the phrase: “poor in spirit.” The poor inwardly; the poor at the heart’s core; those who carry no claims within—no mine and thine; who hold neither wealth nor merit nor prestige; who have not accumulated anything inside; whose inner world carries no trash; who are like a ravine—empty of themselves. Then when rain falls, the stuffed-up mountains remain as empty as before—dry as ever; too crammed to receive one drop more. Whereas the ravines fill—because they are empty. The deeper the ravine, the larger the lake. The vaster the emptiness, the more perfectly it is filled.

Poverty of the heart means: nothing inside; no embellishment, no baggage. Not even the sense of ‘I’. For if the sense of ‘I’ is there, it alone suffices to stuff you full. And where you are, there the Paramatma cannot enter. Let there be nothing inside—nothing at all.

Hence meditation is defined as emptiness—shunyata. Thus Buddha even dropped the word ‘Paramatma’ and said: become shunya; all else follows on its own. Nothing more is to be done. The Divine comes—He comes of His own accord. To talk of Him is pointless. And Buddha did well not to talk of God. For people are such that even if they agree to become empty, they will head toward emptiness filled with the desire to meet God. But that very desire will not allow you to be empty; it will not let you be shunya. Desire will have filled you beforehand.

Keep this sutra close: even the desire for God becomes an obstacle on God’s path. All desires are obstacles—because every desire fills you. When the mind is filled with desirelessness—in truth, when the mind is empty; when there are no cravings—in truth, when the mind is empty; when there is no wish to attain; when there is no claim that anything has been attained; when neither past nor future press within you, for the past also is a hoard and the future too; when you exist only in this present moment—purely existent—then, in that empty instant, in that gap, all is found.

There are but two wonders of one Truth—
my devotion, and Your divinity.
My bowing down—and Your descent into me; my effacement—and Your arising within me; my no-being—and Your Being.

Kabir has said:
Searching, searching, O friend, Kabir came to be lost.
Seeking, Kabir lost himself—and the day Kabir was lost, that very day union happened. As long as Kabir was, there was no union. The day you, seeking, become lost…

Remember: there will never be a ‘meeting’ between you and God. For you are the very obstacle to meeting. How can there be a meeting with you? God can never stand before you—because you yourself are the veil upon your eyes. You are the hindrance; you are the obstruction. When you step aside—there is God.

So the devotee and God do not ‘meet’—not in the sense of two bowing and embracing. The meeting is such that the devotee is effaced—and God remains. So long as the devotee is, God is not; and when God is, where is the devotee?

There are but two wonders of one Reality—
my worship, and Your divinity.
They are each other’s descending splendors—
my poverty, Your majesty.
My poverty—my being a nothing—and You pouring down as the All. My destitution—and Your compassion. Your kibriai—sovereign glory! My state of shunyata—and Your all-ruling presence. As I fade, You begin to appear. Two faces of one coin—not separate.

Look: the picture has two faces—
my fakirhood, Your kingship.
He who agrees to be a fakir becomes a king. Thus Swami Ram used to call himself: Emperor Ram—rightly so. In this land we have not worshiped emperors; we have worshiped fakirs—for we have recognized the real kingship. Those with outer wealth alone—what kingship is that? It depends on potsherds. Those who have dhyan—only they are true sovereigns. Wealth will be snatched away; meditation cannot be stolen. Wealth will be plundered; meditation is not lost. Death will take wealth; meditation travels with you. Fire does not burn it, nor weapons pierce it—nainam chindanti shastrani, nainam dahati pavakah—fire will not burn it, weapons will not cleave it.

Meditation is such a treasure—it is forever yours. But to come to meditation, wealth must be refused.

Look: the picture has two faces—
my fakirhood, Your kingship.
A little more—yet more—subtle teasing grace—
every gesture of Yours delights me today.
The day you know that in your poverty the Paramatma descends, from that day even this gesture will charm you—though you were always afraid: “What if I become a nothing?”

What does man do his whole life? He does one thing: he wants to prove “I am something”—something special; not ordinary. Not common, not just anyone: special—prime minister, president, rich, renowned. If right means are not found, he seeks wrong. But without a name no one wishes to remain. Even if the world calls him a dacoit, a murderer—let the world call something.

Hence people say: better infamy than no name—at least it is a name. But a man cannot live nameless. Let them even call me devil—at least they will know I am. My presence must be felt.

Everyone’s life strings itself on one thread: each man strives to prove “I am something”; he wants the whole world to pay attention: I am here. Let me not pass by as one known by none; leaving no trace upon history, no signature upon the river of time. Let a memory remain—fame remain, prestige remain; and if not fame, then infamy.

You will be surprised to know—there is little difference between your politicians and your criminals: their desire is the same. Ask the psychologists. In the last hundred years they have uncovered many facts every person should know.

The psychologist says: between criminals and politicians there is no difference. If a politician loses, he may become a criminal; he keeps that readiness. And if a criminal gets the chance, he too would become a politician—only the chance didn’t come. But both desire the same: to be something.

Know this: Adolf Hitler first wanted to be a painter. He couldn’t get admission to the academy. From painting—a creative art—to the world’s greatest butcher! Look closely, though, it is the same urge: to become something. If he could not create, he would destroy—but be something!

A little more—yet more—subtle teasing grace—
every gesture of Yours delights me today.
The day you know the wonder of becoming shunya, empty—then you will say: “Every gesture of Yours…” Then even death is His gesture; life too is His gesture. Then you will dance into death, flute on your lips, welcoming death—for that too is His grace.

If He erases—what joy! If He fashions—what joy! Joy is in being with Him. Without Him—there is nothing but suffering.

When I cast off both the worlds,
Your beggarhood fell to my lot.
When I dropped concern for both worlds—this world and the next. For there are two types of people: some hoard here; some hoard for the beyond. Do not see much difference.

Those you call hedonists hoard here. Those you call renouncers hoard there. But both are hoarding. Both fix the gaze upon wealth. The sensualist wants to taste pleasures here; the renouncer thinks: what is here? It is transient. I will taste there; let me store merit—fasts, vows, austerities. But both eyes remain on pleasure, on power—only not to end up empty.

When I cast off both the worlds—
He who drops the craving for wealth here and the wealth there—an unprecedented event dawns in his destiny:

Your beggarhood fell to my lot.
Then Your fakirhood comes as grace. Fakirhood is not free—it comes at a great price. Do not think anyone can be a fakir. Fakirhood comes by fate.

Ibrahim was the emperor of Balkh and Bukhara—he became a fakir. The first night he stayed at a caravanserai—another fakir also stayed, a stranger. That other fakir began telling him the sorrows of his path: “There is no substance in any of this. I left, yet found nothing. There was sorrow there, there is sorrow here. I lived as a householder, lived as a renunciate—nothing came. All is futile.” He argued harshly against sannyas—he was experienced, a renunciate for some twenty years.

Ibrahim listened. In the end he said only this: “It seems to me—sannyas came cheap to you.”

The man asked: “What do you mean? Is there cheap and costly sannyas?”

Ibrahim said: “It fell into your hands cheaply, so you could not value it. I have left only hours ago, and the rain of bliss upon me—I have never known such joy in my life. You are a sannyasi for twenty years, and you say not a single ray has entered your life! Then somewhere a mistake is happening. You left this world, but cling to that world.”

And what is the difference? The same mind that clutches here, clutches there; that wants to enjoy here, wants to enjoy there; that seeks beautiful women here, fabricates apsaras there; that goes to the tavern here, imagines fountains of wine in heaven. The same mind, defeated here, hopes again—“If not here, then there.”

To leave both worlds means: drop the habit of the mind. Ibrahim is right: there is a sannyas that does not come by leaving this world—for if behind leaving this world the desire to gain the other remains, you are deceived; nothing has changed.

Go, ask your monks and mendicants: why did you leave the world? If they say—“To gain something”—know they have missed. If they say—“There is nothing to gain, therefore”—know sannyas has happened.

When gaining itself is dropped—that is sannyas. Here or there—what difference? And when such sannyas happens—ah, blessedness!

When I cast off both the worlds,
Your beggarhood fell to my lot.
Then Your fakirhood comes to hand.

Listen to Kabir:
My heart is enamored, my friend, of fakirhood.

The mind does not take to fakirhood. When the mind does fall in love with fakirhood, the mind is no longer the mind—it becomes no-mind. The mind no longer demands more; it is utterly content with what is; there is not a grain of complaint. This is what fakirhood means.

Fakirhood does not mean you must run from your shop. For in such running, some craving will be lurking.

Remember: Kabir never left his shop. He never left his work, his wife, his children. He attained the supreme knowing—and remained a weaver. He continued weaving. He went on weaving cloth—and with it began to weave the music of Ram. He spread his heart in the very fabric. First he wove for ordinary folk; then he wove for Ram—then every customer became Ram. That revolution happened. He began saying “Ram” to every customer, “Sahib” to each. That change came. But the work remained the same.

Devotees told him—thousands they were: “Now stop weaving; it does not befit you. You lack nothing; we will take care.” Kabir laughed: “What the Lord has given me to do, what He permits me to do—I will go on doing. As long as there is strength in my limbs, I will do what I know. And there is great joy in it. Do you not see? When Ram comes to the market now and then to buy my cloth—how delighted He goes! This is my worship, my adoration.” The quality changed; the work remained.

So Kabir’s fakirhood is not flight from home and hearth. It is deeply inward—of the heart. It is a revolution of understanding.

My heart is enamored, my friend, of fakirhood.

What is the meaning of fakirhood? Contentment with what is; fulfillment with what is. The craving for ‘more’ is dead. Freedom from possessiveness. Thus Kabir says: What is mine, what is yours? Is it not shameful to call anything ‘mine’? All belongs to the Divine—sabahi bhumi Gopal ki! Do you not blush to assert ownership? You brought nothing, you shall take nothing. In between, you boast of claims! Give thanks that He has given you the chance to use things. But nothing here is yours. And when nothing is yours, how will you ‘renounce’ it?

So there is the fakir who runs away leaving everything—but in leaving, the delusion “it was mine” remains. If it wasn’t yours, how did you leave it?

Two delusions: the delusion of grasping; the delusion of renouncing. Real fakirhood is release from delusion. Nothing is mine—how can I grasp? Nothing is mine—how can I renounce? Who is the ‘I’ to grasp or drop? The One who sends me—He knows; His will, let Him do with me what He wills.

My heart is enamored, my friend, of fakirhood.

And mark this: the fakirhood of the Beloved—the “yar” of Kabir. It flowers from love for the Beloved.

There is a fakirhood as in the Jain monk—there is arithmetic there, not love; bookkeeping, not love. The same old shop goes on: “If I do these many fasts, how much merit? These many vows—how much merit? With so much merit, which heaven shall I enter—first, second, seventh?” There is no love there. Hence on the face of the so-called Jain monk you will not see the aura of joy—logic, calculation, argument you will find; intoxication—no; ecstasy—no. No spring—only drought; a dry tree with no leaves, no flowers. Spring no longer comes there; he has made an alliance with the fall.

The Sufi fakir is of another flavor—there is love of the Lord. He has not ‘left’ the world; if anything has been left, it has fallen away through love.

Like a mother pours herself for her child—she becomes a fakir out of love. This fakirhood is of another kind; a current flows through it—love’s stream. Not like a desert, but a garden where birds sing and fountains play.

My heart is enamored, my friend, of fakirhood.

I have fallen in love with the Divine—how then can I love the world? That would be deception, treachery with the Beloved. All my savor flows toward the Divine; none remains to give to wealth, to position, to other directions. The whole river runs toward the ocean. There is nowhere else to go.

Do you see the difference? One way is carefully avoiding—don’t get trapped: avoid wealth, avoid woman, avoid children, avert your eyes, escape to the forest! Fear of hell drives it; greed for heaven entices it. This fakirhood is negative.

Kabir’s fakirhood is positive: no fear of hell, no greed for heaven—only love for the Divine. So much love that the heart runs nowhere else. The world is no more; there is nothing to leave or take.

Have you ever loved someone—even in ordinary life? When love comes, everything else becomes secondary, instantly. For the beloved anything can be dropped—without pride.

That is the majesty of love, of fakirhood. Otherwise pride of renunciation arises.

Pride of renunciation arises only when love is not behind it. Love never boasts of what it has left. Ask a mother, “What have you done for your child?” She will tell you what she could not do. She won’t count the nights she stayed awake, the tears, the grinding of grain, the burdens. If she does, she is not a mother. Ask a society secretary—he will even list what he did not do. He lives on claims. Politicians enumerate what they never do—and the newspapers endorse them with statistics. This is not love.

The other day from Calcutta I received an invitation to the celebration of a monk’s fasts—four bold lines in large letters, listing the numbers of vows and fasts in his life. What does this tell? These fasts are his bank balance; he will stand before Truth with that list. This is empty, negative fakirhood.

The fakirhood Kabir speaks is creative; the fakirhood of love.

My heart is enamored, my friend, of fakirhood.

That fakirhood which descends from love of the Divine. You need not leave the world; once the journey toward the Divine begins, the world falls away. No pride of leaving, no wounds of leaving—like a ripe fruit dropping from the tree. Pluck a raw fruit—that is forced fakirhood; outwardly you may snap off, but within you will still dream of the world.

When one becomes utterly mad in love with the Divine—then true fakirhood happens.

The joy found in the song of Ram is found not in riches. The point is no longer: by dropping wealth I will be happy. It is the reverse: by the song of the Divine I am fulfilled—wealth’s joy is pale, worth two pennies.

You walk with pebbles and shards in your hand; someone says: “Drop them, and you will get a diamond.” If you drop them to get the diamond, you will roam yelling, “I dropped so many jewels,” for to you they were jewels; you will demand the real diamond now—“It’s unjust I haven’t got it yet!” Another case: you are carrying stones; by the roadside you find a diamond—stones slip away without your even noticing. This is true fakirhood.

It is false to say: drop the world, then the Divine comes. The truth is: when the Divine comes, the world drops. Hold this deep in your heart—everything depends on it; otherwise you become a barren desert. The world is gone—and the Divine never arrives. I have seen thousands of monks in this state: their pebbles fell away, and with them their little illusions—and no diamond. Because the diamond has no causal link with dropping pebbles. If the diamond appears, pebbles certainly fall, for the hand must make space.

The joy obtained in the song of Ram is found not in riches.

Kabir says: the savor flowing in the song of the Divine, the thrill I have known—was never in wealth, position, prestige. That taste is gone—by experience, it is gone.

Understand dhan and dhyan. Dhan—wealth—is an outer race; dhyan—meditation—is the inward journey. Dhan is outward travel; dhyan is the voyage within. Dhan cries: more, more, more—accumulation. Dhyan says: let me be empty; let nothing remain within. Let me be a temple—bare. And the day the temple is bare, the idol of the Divine sits of itself—no need to bring it. The empty calls the full.

Emptiness is enough. You have fulfilled the only condition. Open the door—and wait. One day, all at once, you find: the Divine has descended; every pore is luminous; in each particle, a new life. Spring has come—a spring that never leaves. Sweet rain falls—never ceasing. You have leapt out of time—entered the timeless.

Dhan is objects; dhyan is consciousness. Dhan is the other; dhyan is the Self. Dhan is that which is apart from you—piled around you. You remain you. Wealth brings no change to you—how can it? It is outside; you are inside; the two never meet. There is no way to carry currency notes into your inner being—otherwise they would have stuffed their souls with bundles of notes! The empire outside remains outside. Your problem is within. Hence your solutions never touch the problem.

Dhyan means: first, let me know who I am. Let me recognize what this is that speaks, breathes, moves within—who is this? What is this? Whence, and whither?

The joy obtained in the song of Ram…
Ram-bhajan is the name of the process of meditation.
…is found not in riches.

Listen to all praise and blame—and live on in poverty. Do not worry what people say. For fretting over people you will never know Truth—they have no concern with Truth. Because of them, how much falsehood you speak! Seeing others, you begin making claims. One big house—and you must build bigger. A big car—and you must buy bigger—if need be at the cost of your child’s education, your food, by taking loans. Yesterday you were happily riding a bicycle; today, because the neighbor bought a car, you are in turmoil. Advertising in the West has perfected this art; now it comes Eastward. The secret of advertising is to convince people that what is not needed is really needed. Old economics said: supply arises where there is demand. New economics says: create supply, and demand will arise—manufacture the thing; weave enticing dreams around it; attach poetry to it; persuade people that without it their lives are worthless—and they will go mad for it, abandoning life’s real values.

Kabir says:
Listen to all praise and blame—and live on in poverty.
Do not concern yourself with “what people say.” Otherwise you will never find Truth. People make false claims—boasting, pretending; hungry at home, but dressed to impress. All worry: “What will people say?” People come to me: “We want sannyas, but the ochre robes—what will people say?” Who are these people? Amusingly, those you fear are fearing you—many among them tell me: “We want sannyas, but what will people say?” These are the very people you fear. Lives lived in mutual fear—is this life? Whose fear? Where death is, what meaning has fear? Where all will be snatched, drop concern for people. Do what is true, beautiful; what brings peace, joy—dive in.

Recently an old acquaintance, Shri Hari Kishan Das Agrawal, passed away. For years he would come and say: “I want to take sannyas, but my wife—she will create a great ruckus. Family is not agreeable. Even my coming to you annoys them. One day I will take it.” Now he is gone. That ‘one day’ never came. And when he died, the wife raised no objection; the family did not protest; the neighbors made no fuss—they quickly took him to the pyre. He trembled at sannyas all his life—and then death came and took all away.

Sannyas means simply this: what death will strip from you—do not clutch it. Prestige will go, name will go, body will go, wealth will go—everything will go. Sannyas means: do not hold what death will take. Then a revolution happens. That revolution Kabir calls: “live on in poverty.” Otherwise ambition will burn you—and ambition has no end. All are buying something; you are being dragged along—pressed and pulled; you must do it, because the neighbors are doing it.

Our dwelling is in the city of love—
and patience has found good lodging with us.

Kabir says: once we entered the city of love, we were freed from hassles. Two cities exist: the city of hate, violence, competition, ambition—where you clash with everyone. We inject poison into small children: first rank! Then lifelong the wound remains. Twenty-nine will carry the blister of failure; the one who gets first becomes burdened with pride—and must keep it. Both are sick. And the sickness clings to the grave.

Our dwelling is in the city of love—
there is no ambition; no competition. I live in my rejoicing; you in yours. No comparison. Where there is comparison, there is hatred; where there is none, there is love. Love accepts—poet, musician, woodcutter—each as he is. It does not stratify: doctor above, woodcutter below; wealthy above, poor below. Who is above? Who below? Each with his own way of rejoicing. Competing with the other—you are in the world; not competing—you enter the city of love. Without comparison, you have no enemies. Comparison makes even the neighbor your foe—the very one you strive to bring down.

We have filled the world with enemies, needlessly. This precious life is being squandered in fighting—when this is a place for dancing, for song. Tie bells to your feet; take the flute in hand; drop competition.

Our dwelling is in the city of love—
and patience has found good lodging with us.
Learn sabr—patience, trustful waiting. What is necessary will be given by the Divine—when necessary, as necessary. Learn this faith. Do not snatch and grab—grabbing breaks even what might have come. Wait.

Prayer has two sutras only: love and waiting. Both are here—love’s city and patience well-seated.

Now we are carefree. Now whatever happens—is right. For He is the Doer. The Master sees all. He bears the concern. We no longer keep our own anxieties. All is left in His hands. This is surrender, the bhakta’s state.

With a bowl in hand and a staff by the arm—
in all four directions the dominion is ours.
There is nothing in hand—just a begging bowl, a staff—yet all four horizons belong to us. From the day we stopped trying to make things ‘ours’, all became ours. Drop attachment to a small courtyard—and the whole sky is yours. The day you belong to the Divine—all that is His becomes yours.

This body will turn to dust at last—
why then strut in arrogance?
One day this body will mix with earth. So why pride? Leave aside what is headed for dust—let it go; it is as good as gone. Before the body falls into dust—awaken the longing of consciousness so that when the body dissolves, consciousness does not. Let consciousness fly skyward. All religion is the science of this: this body will die—but within this body you can forge another body—the subtle body of feeling—that never dies. This body is from mother and father; but in this earthen vessel a secret hides. If you find the key—you become amritasya putrah—the child of immortality. Think of it so: in grapes, wine is hidden; but grapes do not intoxicate—you must make the wine; a subtle alchemy. Keep grapes—they rot. Wine—aged—becomes priceless. So with the body and the soul: body is grapes; it will rot. Before that—make the wine. That wine is the soul.

When Jesus was about to depart from his disciples, he gave them cups of wine as a gift and said: “Do not take this as wine; take it as drinking me.” Why wine? Because the body is grape; the soul is wine. Bodily intoxications break; the soul’s intoxication never breaks. He who drinks the wine of the soul—belongs to the Divine. Then comes a blessed ecstasy in which awareness does not fade—it deepens.

This body will turn to dust at last—
why then strut in arrogance?
Kabir says: listen, O sadhus—Sahib is found through patience.
The Master is found in saburi—in quiet, silent waiting. He who finds the Master—truly lives; he who does not—lived in vain, died in vain. Grapes remained; the wine could have been made—but wasn’t; the house fills with the stench of rotting grapes.

I am erasing the map of my existence—
thus am I mending my ruin.
I handed my nest over to the lightning—
now I spread through vastness.
Freed from the hair-fine fetters—
I am covering the skies.
Taking shelter in Your Name—
I am going beyond the Throne.
Rejecting the wealth of both worlds—
I come to Your feet.
I am erasing the map of my existence.

He who learns to erase himself—who effaces himself—that one is the poor in spirit.

I am erasing the map of my existence—
In the world there are only two kinds of people: those who strive to make themselves into something; and those who choose to efface themselves.
Be among those who erase themselves—for from there the Divine arrives. Jesus said: he who loses himself shall save himself; he who saves himself shall be lost.

I am erasing the map of my existence—
thus am I mending my ruin.
What a wonder: by effacing myself, I mend myself.

I have delivered my nest to the thunderbolt—
Now I am melting into expanse.
Since I gave this tiny house—this body’s small nest—over to lightning to do as it wills, I have been dissolving into the endless sky. Fear is gone.

Where there is no fear, diffidence disappears—and expansion begins. The sweetest name we have given to the Divine is Brahman—meaning: vastness—ever-expanding, vusa‘at—expansion.

Freed from the hair-fine fetters—
I am covering the skies.
The day you are free of the body, the whole sky is yours—and even the sky is not your boundary. You are greater than the skies—for the skies lack consciousness, and you have consciousness. Consciousness can contain the whole sky within itself.

Taking shelter in Your Name—
I am going beyond the Throne.
Beyond the skies I go—held by Your Name.

Rejecting the wealth of both worlds—
I come to Your feet.
Only he who rejects both worlds—this and that, earth and heaven—becomes dear to the Lord.

My heart is enamored, my friend, of fakirhood.

Understand, friend, O lover of the Beloved—how can a lover sleep? The lover cannot sleep—for who knows at what moment the Beloved may arrive! At what hour the moment of grace may come! The rustle of a leaf, and the lover is up—perhaps He has come! A gust of wind—the lover awakes—perhaps! Even common love is thus; how much more the love of the Divine.

Humanity has discovered two paths to the Divine: one is meditation, one is love—jnana-yoga and bhakti-yoga. Meditation means: learn to awaken—when you wake, love flowers by itself. Thus Buddha says: when prajna awakens, karuna follows like a shadow. Kabir walks the other path: love—and awakening comes on its own, because a lover cannot sleep. Begin anywhere—but begin.

Understand, friend—O lover of the Beloved—how can a lover sleep?
If you have found—give it, dear one; hoarding what you find, you will only lose again.

A strange utterance: If the Divine has been glimpsed—even a little—then distribute, quickly—do not hold back. For what is hoarded dies. Life is in flow. The world’s rule is: if you get wealth, lock it in the safe. Inside, the rule is opposite: if you find inner treasure—dhyan, the Paramatma—share it. What is stored rusts; what is stopped rots. Water fresh only while it flows.

If you have found—give it, dear one; hoarding what you find, you will only lose again.

Have beggars ever found happiness? A beggar cannot be happy—for he asks and clutches. Happiness is for givers—for emperors of the heart. If the treasure of love is in your heart—scatter it.

In your very nature there is inexhaustible love; the vastness of life is your inheritance. If you will not keep your hands and heart open—nothing remains; such is this wealth. Scatter it—it grows by scattering. Waves run young in every direction; in the boundless ocean of your open heart, as many clouds of love arise, from the sky as many sweet rains will descend. Without love even oceans dry up.

If there is a God, let that very love be your God. Offer your body and soul in longing. Let the prostrations of longing tremble in your brow—bow your head at love’s threshold. In love’s worship realize the oneness of Reality.

Do not seek unity by the strain of intellect—see it by love. See His face in His servants—His image in each heart. He is manifest in every human breast. He stands before you for worship—the One you seek in temple and mosque.

If love is found—dedicate it wherever the Divine is—everywhere. Tvadīyam vastu tubhyam-eva samarpaye—what comes from Him, return to Him. Then more keeps coming. Like the sea raising clouds, showering on the Himalaya, flowing as the Ganga, and the Ganga returns to the sea—the circle of love. If the Ganga becomes miserly, the cycle breaks; then even the springs feeding her clog with silt. Love is such a circle—never break it. If even a little love arises—share it. Fear it may be spent—and surely it will be spent.

Have beggars ever found happiness? They live with outstretched hands. Scatter what is in your heart. The open-handed lover lacks nothing. Trust: where one ray of love has come from, more will come. Think of a well—seal it with locks out of fear the water will finish, forbid anyone to draw—its water will rot, turn poison; the little springs that fed it will clog. The well is connected to seas through unseen veins; so are we rooted in the Infinite. When love comes from there—do not be miserly. Ulíchio with both hands—this is the work of saints. If song is given—share song; if dance—share dance.

If love truly binds you to the Beloved—then give a pure oblation of your ego; mingle your spark with the Great Flame; let the flames of the Beloved’s beauty leap—and let yourself burn in that light. You will have to lose yourself—to be erased—become shunya—this is the meaning of poverty of spirit.

Kabir says: the path of love is the path of giving your head—then what is there to weep about?

Who teaches the sati to burn with her lord?
Who teaches love—that fulfillment is tasted within renunciation?

You ask: where shall we get this love? In which cave, which mountain, which grotto? Kabir says: Who instructs the sati to mount the pyre with her husband? In which university did she learn it? Love you have brought with you; it is your nature. No need to search outside—look within.

All children are born full of love—then slowly it is lost. Tricks of the world are learned, deceptions—forced upon them. Never tell a child: “I am your mother—love me,” or “I am your father—love me.” Such orders mean you are imposing love. Then love becomes duty—and dies. Love happens; it is not done.

Kabir is right:
Who teaches the sati to burn with her lord?
When people burn in human love, what need to speak of love for the Divine? Where love happens, one is ready to burn—and burning is blessedness.

Who teaches love—that fulfillment is tasted within renunciation?
Love always renounces—not because it “should.” From love renunciation flowers. Your beloved is ill; you sit awake the night—not because you “should,” not as duty; it is your joy. Love knows how to let go. Renunciations without love are false. Only that letting go which comes from love is true.

My heart is enamored, my friend, of fakirhood.
Since I fell in love with that Lover, the savor of fakirhood entered. For Him I am ready to leave all.

An Upanishadic word: tena tyaktena bhuñjithah—by renouncing, enjoy. A unique word! If all Upanishads were lost and only this remained—the key would remain; all could be born again. By renunciation, enjoyment. Or: they alone truly enjoy who renounce. We think renunciation and enjoyment are enemies; this sutra says: enjoyment is born of renunciation—the enjoyment that comes from love’s letting go—its great sweetness.

When the sati climbs the pyre, she does not burn from sorrow—she burns from exultation; dancing. Her husband’s pyre is her wedding night. Now the union is complete. Before, it was body to body; now, bodies are gone—soul to soul.

Break all idols today, save the One—
that One stands before you for worship.
That One is not hidden in temple or mosque,
His station is not on some lofty throne,
not on the farthest firmament.
He is not far from mind or heart—
He stands always in your sight—lift your gaze.
He is not a figment of fancy but Fact—
a living God—make Him yours—
place your whole prayer at His feet.

Break all idols today, save the One:
let only the One remain in memory—let the formless be your only form. Let temples and mosques go; dismiss all images from the heart. Be formless—so the Formless may descend. This Muhammad said—but Muslims misunderstood, and smashed outer idols. Muhammad said: break the idols within.

That One stands ever-present for worship. Bend—and He is ready to fill you; bend—and He will quench your thirst. He stands with His apron full, ready to shower the moment you bow.

Not on the sky, nor in the netherworld, nor locked in temples; always in your very seeing. He is not imagination—He is the Hak—the Reality. This whole cosmos is His feet—why clutch the feet of idols men have made? Children playing with toys! Place your whole prayer at His feet—and break all idols, save the One.

Such love is not to be brought from anywhere; it is within you.

Who teaches the sati to burn with her lord?
Who teaches love—that fulfillment is tasted within renunciation?

No—these are not matters to be learned. What you have learned—unlearn. Your learning sits like a stone upon the spring within—blocking its flow. What society, sects, religious leaders, politicians have piled upon you—remove that rubbish. Then from within a stream will arise—and you will be carried, you will drown—in the very place where the Divine is.

My heart is enamored, my friend, of fakirhood.
The joy found in the song of Ram is found not in riches.
Listen to all praise and blame—and live on in poverty.
Our dwelling is in the city of love—and patience has found good lodging with us.
Bowl in hand, staff at the side—our estate spans the four directions.
This body will turn to dust at last—why strut in arrogance?
Kabir says, listen, O seekers—the Master is found through patience.

Understand, friend—O lover of the Beloved—how can a lover sleep?
If you have found—give it, dear one; hoarding what you find, you will only lose again.
When sleep is deep in the eyes—what need of cushions and quilts?
Kabir says: the path of love is to give your head—then why lament?

Who teaches the sati to burn with her lord?
Who teaches love—that fulfillment is tasted within renunciation?

Enough for today.