Kano Suni So Juth Sab #3

There is a vast difference between knowledge and knowledge—the distance of sky and abyss. One kind of knowing is one’s own; another is not one’s own. What is not your own is only a device to drape ignorance. Only what is your own dispels the inner darkness.

Borrowed knowledge is an extinguished lamp. Perhaps not even a lamp—the picture of a lamp. The picture of a lamp cannot remove darkness; the picture of truth cannot remove it either. Borrowed knowledge is mere memory, not awakening. You have not awakened; you are still asleep. In dream you have heard others’ voices and stored them away. Someone said ‘God is,’ and you believed— not because ‘God is,’ but out of some fear, out of some temptation.

In the world there are three kinds of religious people. One: those who are religious out of fear. They are frightened. ‘Let nothing go wrong. Let me not fall into hell. Let me not commit sin.’

Second: those who are religious out of greed—may heaven be gained, may pleasures be had, may the future be beautiful. ‘Here I have endured much pain; let me not have to endure it ahead.’

But neither of these is truly religious. If a person is greedy or frightened, how can he be religious? The essential condition for being religious is that greed and fear take their leave.

I have heard: In King Bhoj’s court there were great pandits, great scholars. And at times King Bhoj would put them to test. One day he brought his parrot from the palace into the court. The parrot had only one refrain, one line it repeated again and again: ‘There is only one mistake, there is only one mistake, there is only one mistake.’ The king asked his courtiers: ‘Which mistake is the parrot talking about?’ The great pandits were in great difficulty. And the king declared: ‘If the answer is not correct—hanging. If correct—honors and a reward of lakhs.’ Guesswork would not do; it was dangerous. What could the correct answer be? One couldn’t even ask the parrot. The parrot knew nothing else. Ask a thousand questions, it would still repeat: ‘There is only one mistake.’

The scholars went into deep thought. They asked for time and set out searching. The greatest pandit in the court too began to roam, ‘If only some knower can be found. Now it will not work to look into scriptures. Now conjecture will not do. Where life is at stake, surmise does not work. Logic and the rest will not help. No secret can be extracted from the parrot. All the old tricks are useless.’ He went to many, but nowhere could anyone give the answer to the parrot’s question.

He was returning to the palace very dejected when he met a shepherd. The shepherd asked, ‘Panditji, you look very downcast—as if a mountain has fallen upon you, as if death is about to arrive. What is the matter?’ The pandit told him his predicament and confusion. The shepherd said, ‘Do not worry. I will solve it. I know. But there is one snag. I can come along, but I am very weak. And this dog of mine—I cannot carry him on my shoulder; and I cannot leave him behind either; I am very attached to him.’ The pandit said, ‘Don’t worry. I will carry him on my shoulder.’

So the Brahmin gentleman hoisted the dog onto his shoulder. The two reached the royal court. The parrot was repeating its refrain—‘There is only one mistake, only one mistake.’ The shepherd laughed and said, ‘Your Majesty, look—the mistake is standing here.’ The pandit was standing with the dog on his shoulder. ‘The mistake is standing here.’ The king said, ‘I do not understand.’ The shepherd said, ‘It is written in the scriptures that if a pandit touches a dog, he must bathe. And your chief pandit is standing with a dog on his shoulder. What will greed not make one do! There is only one mistake—greed.’

And fear is only the other side of greed, its negative side. They are two sides of the same coin—fear on one side, greed on the other.

They are not very different. Therefore one who is religious out of fear—afraid of punishment—is not religious. And one who is religious out of greed, lusting for heaven, possessed by desire for heaven, is not religious either.

Who then is religious? Only the one who has neither greed nor fear. One whom nothing can entice and nothing can frighten. Only he who has risen beyond fear and temptation becomes capable of seeing truth.

To see truth, freedom from greed and fear is needed. The first condition of truth is fearlessness. For as long as fear shakes you, your consciousness cannot be steady. Fear makes you tremble; fear causes a trembling. Your inner flame keeps quivering. A thousand ripples keep arising within—of greed, of fear.

In China there was an emperor. He was standing on the roof of his palace and saw in the sea countless boats sailing—thousands. He said to his old vizier, ‘Look, thousands of boats are sailing.’ The old vizier said, ‘Master, not thousands—only two.’ The emperor said, ‘Two? Then am I blind? I see thousands, and you see only two?’

The vizier said, ‘Your eyes are better than mine, but your vision is not. You are young—you can see far. I am old; I cannot see clearly. But from a lifetime’s experience I say there are only two boats in the world. Some sail in the boat of fear, some in the boat of greed. The rest is detail.’

The old man spoke something of great worth. But those who sail in the boat of fear or the boat of greed—neither will reach the shore of religion. These are worldly tendencies—indeed, the most worldly. From them all the trouble arises. If greed is there, lust will remain. If greed is there, anger will remain—because wherever greed is obstructed, anger will flare. And where greed is, how will lust go? Hence those who imagined heaven made ample arrangements there too for lust. Streams of wine flow, beautiful apsaras dance—every arrangement is in place. The same greed, the same lust, which here groped in the dark, is creating even heaven.

Where fear is, love never takes birth. Fear gives birth to hatred. Fear gives birth to enmity—not to friendship. So one who lifts his eyes toward Paramatma out of fear will remain inwardly an enemy. He cannot befriend God. How can you love the one you fear? You can only hate him—yes, on the surface you may display love because he is powerful. A servant who wags his tail around the master does not wag it from the soul. The soul has only one wish—that if the chance arises, cut off his head.

I have heard: A soldier rose through the ranks and became a captain. As captain, two soldiers walked with him. They were puzzled. Whenever another soldier— and in the day he met hundreds— stood, stamped his boot, and saluted, the captain would salute but also mutter softly, ‘Same to you.’ The two soldiers were astonished—why does he keep saying, ‘Same to you,’ again and again?

One day they asked, ‘Sir, everything else is fine, but whenever someone salutes you, why do you quietly say, “Same to you”?’ He said, ‘There is a secret behind it. I was once a soldier. I know that when a soldier salutes a captain, inside he abuses him. I know—I was a soldier. Whenever a salute is offered outside, inside, the choicest abuses are offered. So outwardly I salute; inwardly I know what he is really saying. So to what he says within, I answer: same to you. What you are saying to me within, the same I say to you. It is an answer to his inner talk.’

This man is right. You know well: to whom you bow out of fear, for him there will be nothing in your heart but abuses. And people say, a religious man is God-fearing. Such words are impossible. In all languages there are such phrases—God-fearing. They are utterly irreligious words. How will the timid, the fearful, love God? One who loves God is not afraid of God. If you fear even God, where will fearlessness be? If you fear even God, where in this world will you find refuge? Where then will your prayer rise? Then even toward God curses will be rising.

Mahatma Gandhi used to say: fear none, but fear God. And I say: fear all if you must, but do not fear God. If you fear God, then where... where will the veena of fearlessness be played? Where will the notes of the fearless arise? Where will the worship of fearlessness be? Where will the platter of fearlessness be set? Where will the garland of fearless lamps be lit?

If even with God there is fear, then nowhere in this world can fearlessness be. God is not some snake or scorpion that you should fear him. God is your innermost core, the life of your life. God is your purest form. From him you have come, in him you are, into him you will go. For a wave to fear the ocean—such madness is what it is to fear God. A wave fearing the ocean?

Yet those we call pandits, those we call religious, ascetics, mahatmas—examine them— you will find them astride two boats: either the boat of fear or the boat of greed.

The distinction is clear: those astride the boat of fear are those who do evil in life; they are nervous. You will find the wicked trembling with fear. And those you call good—who do punya, charity, austerity, vows, renunciation, fasting, worship, prayer—you will find them astride the boat of greed. Those who sin— you will find them trembling with fear. Those who do merit— you will find them brimming with greed. But both will miss. Neither the greedy nor the timid reach Paramatma. Only one reaches Paramatma who drops both greed and fear. The moment they drop, he arrives. The moment they drop, revolution happens.

There is a knowing attained free of greed and fear. And there is a knowing that is only the extension of greed and fear. That is what Dariya says—‘Ranjī śāstr gyān kī, ang rahī lipṭāe.’ That dust of scriptural knowledge that had stuck to every limb— the Guru brushed it off with a single word.

Why are you Hindu? Why are you Muslim? Why are you Christian? For your own reason—or by accident? Have you chosen? Have you decided? Or was it merely a coincidence that you were born in a Hindu home so you are Hindu; born in a Muslim home so you are Muslim. Whatever dust fell upon you, that is what has filled you.

Going to the Guru, you will be neither Hindu nor Muslim nor Christian. ‘Ranjī śāstr gyān kī’— the Guru will sweep away the dust of all scriptural knowledge. He will bathe you, he will wash you. He will make you fresh. He will make you as you are. He will peel off all the outer shells. He will remove all the clothes covering you. All the outer shows you have collected, he will break them. Therefore a religious person must be very courageous. How will a frightened person go on this journey? It is a revolution.

Someone keeps knocking at the door of the heart without pause
and then is frightened of his own voice
he has no sense of his changed tone
he is frightened of my errant cadence
He has lifted the instrument because the season demanded it
but his hand trembles and he is frightened of the instrument
The secret longs for some confidant since ages
and the heart is frightened of the company of a confidant
His desire is that if he flies, the earth should fly with him
yet his courage is such that he is frightened of flight
In your destiny there is no hope of any culmination
he is frightened at a single noise, at the very beginning

This is our greatest pain—that we are frightened. Even when we lift the instrument, our hands tremble as we touch the veena. We fear—who knows what music will arise. Our own veena, our own hands, our own life—and yet we are afraid.

He has lifted the instrument because the season demanded it—
Spring has come, flowers have bloomed, birds have sung, a new morning has arisen, dew shines upon the grass—and the instrument was picked up.

He has lifted the instrument because the season demanded it—
Spring has encircled from all sides, so the veena has been lifted into the hands.

But the hand trembles—he is frightened of the instrument—
The hand is trembling. For the music you will produce is unknown. Who knows what will arise. You have never plucked this instrument. Your veena lies unplayed—who knows what may happen?

You are bound to the known. The frightened man remains bound to the known. He keeps repeating what he has done before. What he has done again and again, in that he becomes adept.

Often it happens that you will not even leave your sorrow, for you have grown very familiar with it. You fear leaving it. Who knows what you may meet then? This sorrow—granted, it is sorrow—but it is yours, and it is old. You have become acquainted. You have even made peace with it, adjusted somehow. Why take on new hassles?

You do not change your life. You fear that if you change, you will have to walk new paths, carve new footpaths; the paths will be unknown, with no map in hand, never trod before. There will be dark nights. Who knows—you may get lost, you may wander. So keep circling the same round, like the bullock of a mill. ‘The secret longs for a confidant since ages—’

You are searching for someone to join you, whom you can hold by the hand.

‘The secret longs for a confidant since ages
and the heart is frightened of the company of a confidant.’

And you fear satsang. For satsang will erase you. To meet the Guru is to meet one’s death. The ancient scriptures say: ‘Āchāryo mrityu’—the Master is death. Go carefully, go thoughtfully, decide in every way—for you will not be able to return. Enter the Guru and you are gone; there is no return.

‘His desire is that if he flies, the earth should fly with him’—
Our desires are great. Waves arise in the heart. We dream a lot. Our eyes are full of dreams.

‘His desire is that if he flies, the earth should fly with him
yet his courage is such that he is frightened of flight.’

And there is no courage at all. Nerves are collapsed. The very thought of opening the wings frightens one, for to open wings is to enter the infinite sky. We sit in our nest— everything safe, everything convenient. This open sky, this vast sky— we may be lost. So everyone has built a house.

This habit of house-building is what I call householder-ness. For me, householder does not mean that you have a wife and children. Does a house arise from wife and children? Because the house does not arise from wife and children, even by leaving wife and children one does not become a sannyasi. If house does not arise from wife and children, how will you become a sannyasi by leaving them? House arises from security; house arises from weakness. House arises from fear. House arises from always remaining within boundaries.

Householder-ness means: one who never goes beyond his nest, who never flaps his wings, who does not relate with the new. Born in a Hindu home, he will die a Hindu. To be born in a Hindu home is good; to die in a Hindu home is misfortune. Born a Muslim, he will die in the Muslim home. As he was born, within the same limits—like the bullock circling the mill—there he will end. One day he will fall there itself. New skies, new dimensions, new directions will keep calling—and you will not make the resolve.

‘His desire is that if he flies, the earth should fly with him
yet his courage is such that he is frightened of flight.’

At the very talk of opening wings, the life-force falters. Speak of opening wings and he begins to search for escape. He says, ‘Let us sit at home and talk—of Ram or of Rahim, of moksha or of nirvana; we will listen to everything. We will have Satyanarayan’s story performed here. But we will not go anywhere. We will not change an inch.’

‘In your destiny there is no hope of any culmination—
he is frightened at a single noise, at the very beginning.’

If this is so—that you fear so much the revolution, that you fear even the first sound of revolution— then in your fate there is no possibility of bliss.

‘In your destiny there is no hope of any culmination—’
Then be certain—bliss will not come to you. Ecstasy will never rain. Nectar will never knock at your door. And you will never meet Paramatma.

‘In your destiny there is no hope of any culmination—
he is frightened at a single noise, at the very beginning.’

If the sound of revolution frightens you, if you fear the uprising, if you are so terrified of changing yourself that you cling to yourself, that ‘as I am, so I shall remain’...

Consider: A child is in the mother’s womb and becomes frightened, and does not come out—what then? One thing is clear: when, after nine months, the child comes out of the mother’s womb, it must feel as if dying. Certainly it must feel: I am dying. For the life known for nine months is ending. And what a delightful life it was—the world of comfort! No worry, no anxiety, no responsibility, no hassle. As if sleeping in the ocean of milk like Vishnu.

You know: In the mother’s womb there is a fluid like the waters of the sea. In that water the child floats. The mother’s body heat keeps that water warm. As when you sit in a warm tub and sink into delight—so for nine months the child floats in that warm water. It is the ksheer-sagar. No concern, no worry. No need to earn bread, no need to build a house. Not even the concern of breathing. The mother breathes. The mother digests food, sends blood. Someone else is doing everything. He does not even know of it. No bother to offer thanks. Everything happens by itself. Paramatma is doing all. Then, one day, suddenly, the time comes to depart from this wondrous home. One must come out of the nest. The child becomes frightened—he must.

Psychologists say: the greatest pain in life happens on the first day of life. Thereafter all pains are small. They call it trauma. Such a wound it becomes for the child— suddenly he must be uprooted. He had settled in. And do not think nine months is a short time. For you it is short; for the child, nine months is eternity. There is no clock, no calendar—no measure.

And remember: times of happiness feel very long—like eternity. Bliss upon bliss—no ray of sorrow anywhere. Nine months feels eternal! No beginning, no end. One single note goes on sounding. For the child, nine months are not nine months, but an eternity lived.

Now, after living an eternity, suddenly one day he must be uprooted. What he knew as life is being left behind, and he does not know where he must go. So the child tries to stay. Hence the mother’s pain. The child tries to remain. He tries to anchor himself there—he does not want to come into the world. He knows nothing of the world. But if he does not come, he will die. What he takes to be death is the beginning of a new life. And if, out of stubbornness, he stays, what he now takes to be life will turn into death.

That class is passed; now he must move on. One must take risks. Without risk, there is no growth in life. Now challenges must be faced. The child will be born; day by day challenges will increase. Day by day, as he grows, the responsibilities, the struggles, the upheavals of the world will increase. And as he grows, more and more houses must be left behind.

At five or seven years he must go to school—another hassle. The four walls of the home were very comforting. Everyone there was one’s own; now he must go among strangers. Who knows how they will behave. Certainly they will not behave as mother did, as father did, as brothers and sisters did. The child is afraid. You have seen—when a small child is sent to school how frightened he is. How he keeps looking back at the house. That is the householder-mind. He goes into the unknown. Who will he meet? What kind of people? How will they behave? Raised in security, he now descends into insecurity.

Then school, then college, then university. And after university one day marriage—and he must make a new house his own. Now all responsibility is his. Now responsibilities grow. Now he will have children— he will be responsible for them. Now he enters the full market of the world—he will stand in the bazaar.

This is essential for self-growth. So it is on the inner journey—there are milestones there too. One must be ready for revolution there as well. The knowledge of scriptures you have gathered is fine—makeshift— but it must be dropped. You yourself must enter this infinite sky; you must beat your wings.

‘Sometimes forward, sometimes backward—what kind of pace is this!
We must change the rhythm of our pace.’

We must change the very mode of our movement.

‘Life will not cast molds for the mind;
the mind itself must blend into every mold.’

And remember: life cannot run according to your way. It is when you try to make life go your way that you suffer. This is the whole sorrow. What is the world’s sorrow? That you want life to run according to your mold. You say, ‘Let life behave according to my pattern. As I wish, so let it be.’ You want the river to run behind you.

This river will not follow you. You are only a small wave of this river. How can the river follow a wave? The wave must flow with the river. The part must flow with the Whole. The Whole cannot flow with the part. We are tiny fragments. Yet all life we try this.

This is the very declaration of ego: ‘I will prove that life runs after me; that Existence follows me; that God follows me like a shadow.’ This is sorrow. Ego is the root of sorrow.

‘Life will not cast molds for the mind;
remember, life will not be cast in molds made by you.
The mind itself must blend into every mold.’

You must mold yourself to life’s molds. This is called surrender. The day this understanding dawns—that I must flow with the river—the day you put your ego aside and say: ‘Now I will not even swim; I will only float. Wherever the river takes me. If it makes me fall from cliffs, I will fall. If it drowns me in seas, I will drown. Wherever the river takes me. If it turns me to vapor and makes me fly into clouds, I will fly. Wherever the river takes me. I abandon my will. I abandon my insistence.’ This is the meaning of being Ram.

So there is a great difference between knowledge and knowledge. One kind is gotten from books. ‘Pothi’—the scripture—means hollow. Do not trust what is gotten from the book. Another knowing is gotten by courage, by entering life. Warriors are needed.

In today’s verses, such a warrior is praised. These are wondrous verses. Attend exactly to each line.

‘Pandit gyani bahu mile, Veda-gyan parabeen;
Dariya aisa na mila, Ram-naam lavaleen.’

Says Dariya: searching and searching, I grew tired. I met many—pandits, the learned, knowers of the Vedas and shastras; the Vedas were by heart, the Upanishads flowed from their tongues. They were parrots though— all repeating. Nothing known of their own. Not a trace of inner wealth. All stale, leftover, borrowed.

‘Pandit gyani bahu mile, Veda-gyan parabeen.’

They had great skills. They were adept in words, logic, refutation and defense, debate, argumentation, inference, philosophy. But what to do with such expertise? Within no lamp was lit. Within—dense darkness.

‘Dariya aisa na mila, Ram-naam lavaleen.’

Dariya’s search was for one who is drowned in Ram. For only one drowned in Ram can drown you in Ram. One who is drowned in scripture will drown you in scripture—what else can he do? Go to a Veda-chanter, you will become a chanter of Veda. He will teach grammar, teach language; he will teach the glory of the word—but the miracle of the wordless void he does not have. From him you will not attain silence. In his heart there is no meditation. His awareness has not awakened. You too will return having collected heaps of junk. You will know much, and know nothing. Knowledge will pile up; inner ignorance will remain just as it was.

‘Dariya aisa na mila, Ram-naam lavaleen.’

The search was for someone who is drowned in Ram; who has dropped his ego; who has chosen the Infinite. For one who no longer even swims—let alone against the current—one who does not swim at all. Who has surrendered into the Ultimate Rest. ‘Wherever Paramatma takes me—his will.’ One who lives only at his cue. A hollow bamboo. If Paramatma plays, he sings; if he does not, he remains silent. One whose grip is gone—that one belongs to Ram.

With deep pain he says: Dariya did not find such a one— he sought such a Guru.

‘Speakers and listeners I found many...
...engaged in pulling and hauling.’

He found many explainers, many listeners.

‘...engaged in pulling and hauling.’

And he saw abundant argument, abundant controversy, abundant tug-of-war— such tugging and hauling goes on in the world.

There are a thousand commentaries on the Gita. Krishna’s intent can only be one. He was not mad that there should be a thousand meanings. But the tug-of-war is endless. The jnani proves that the meaning of Gita is knowledge. The devotee proves that the meaning is devotion. The man of action proves that the meaning is action. Ask Shankara—knowledge. Ask Ramanuja—devotion. Ask Tilak—action. Who cares for Krishna? The tug-of-war goes on. What Krishna has said cannot be said without being Krishna. What Krishna said can be known only by becoming Krishna. Only by becoming Krishna-minded does the meaning of Krishna’s words open—not by commentaries. But the tug-of-war goes on—Dariya must have seen it.

‘Speakers and listeners I found many, engaged in pulling and hauling;
Dariya such a one I did not find who would face the arrow head-on.’

But he searched for one who would, with heart flung open, receive God’s arrow— such a braveheart, such a man of heart—who would receive the divine arrow with an open heart; who would say, ‘Strike me so that I may live in you. Be my death so that you may become my life. Erase me, wipe me away, let no outline of me remain—so that only you remain, not I.’

‘I did not find such a one who could face the arrow head-on.’

Only he can be religious who is ready to die. Hence I say: come to me having thought well. I teach death. This is a lesson in dying. I am not here to decorate you. Not to adorn you, make you a little more beautiful, give you a few more ornaments; not that you become more of a pandit and learned, return more puffed up; not that you begin to preach the world; not that you become a renunciate and a mahatma. No— if you come here, you must be ready to dissolve. One who can face the arrow head-on!

Meditation is death. One who walks with the cross upon his shoulder is a sannyasi. One who, in the world of ego, is ready to die each moment—he is a sannyasi. One who welcomes death—he is a sannyasi. One who has understood one thing: as long as I am, sorrow will remain. I am the root of sorrow. If I am, there is sorrow; if I am, there is hell.

So one who has only one prayer to Paramatma: ‘Lord, erase me. Enough of this game. Now drown me.’ For this is such a place where those who drown reach the shore. Those who tried to reach the shore— they drowned. Those who drown— they reach the shore.

‘I did not find such a one who would face the arrow head-on.
Dariya—true hero—endures the blow of the Word;
once it lands, delusion burns away, every impurity departs.’

And he who is ready to open his heart to the divine arrow— God is a hunter. You must become the prey.

In this land we have very sweet words among the names of God—the sweetest is ‘Hari’. ‘Hari’ means: one who steals your heart away. ‘Hari’ means thief. One who takes, who snatches, who loots. If you move about guarding your heart, you will not meet Hari. It is your great fortune that he becomes attracted to your heart and loots you. Call him—and place your heart in such a way that there is no hindrance for him to steal it. Lay it open.

‘Dariya—true hero—endures the blow of the Word.’

Only he is truly brave who can bear the blow of the True Word.

It is very difficult. False words are very sweet. The ego is well-satisfied by false words. Examine this in your life—because whatever I say should be tested in life; there you will find proof. Examine: false words feel very sweet; truth jars.

Someone says to you, ‘You are very beautiful’—how a tingling spreads through your being! How lotuses bloom! Someone says, ‘You are very learned—beyond compare! You are unique; there is no one with whom you can be compared.’ How Himalayas rise within the ego! How dear that person becomes!

Else why would flattery prevail in the world? Why is flattery so effective? Falsehood is sweet; therefore flattery is effective. Falsehood is very sweet. And it is not that you do not know it is false. You have seen your face in the mirror. You know how beautiful you are. You know how learned you are. You cannot solve even minor problems of life. Trivial matters entangle you. Petty things ruin your sleep. Small losses and gains agitate you. What kind of wisdom is this? No—but you forget all that. When someone lies, you immediately believe; you immediately agree. But if someone speaks truth, it hurts. Because truth means the idol of ego you have built is fractured.

Often it happens that one who speaks truth to you—you never forgive him. You take revenge. If someone tells you the truth—as it is, naked and stark—you never go near that man again; you never go there again. Man avoids truth because truth reveals your real face.

We have all built a statue in our mind of who we are—or at least should be, or at least might have been. Whenever someone supports that statue, we find him dear. Whom do you call your friends? Often those you call friends are those who have spread falsehood around you.

Kabir said: ‘Keep your critic near—build his hut in your courtyard.’ The one who condemns you— bring him in, lodge him in your house: ‘Brother, you stay here. Where else will you go? Condemn as much as you can.’ The truth is: perhaps the benefit you get from the critic you will not get from the praiser. But who likes the critic! You do not want to see your real face. You want to see the counterfeit image you have adorned in your dreams. Therefore Dariya says:

‘Dariya—true hero—endures the blow of the Word.’

Only those can come to the Guru— to the Sadguru only a very few can come—rare brave ones, who are willing to endure the blow of the Word. For the Sadguru will not say anything to fatten your ego. He is not your enemy. Whatever he says will break your ego, make it fall, shatter it, reduce it to ashes. He has come to erase you. He has come to burn you. He has come to put you on the pyre.

Kabir has said:
‘Let him who has burned his house down walk with me.’

All must be prepared for burning—then come.

‘Kabira stands in the marketplace, torch in hand.’

Standing with a club in hand—Kabir says—in the bazaar. Whoever has the courage—come! If you want your skull cracked, walk with Kabir. But those who walk with Kabir— they arrive. They dissolve, they arrive.

Jesus said: ‘He who saves himself will perish; he who is willing to perish— no one can destroy him.’ Whoever saves himself, perishes. Whoever does not try to save himself—he is saved. This paradox is the profound secret of religion.

‘Once it lands, delusion burns away, every impurity departs.’

If you give the Guru the chance to strike— if you have the courage to bear the blow of the Word—if you do not run away, do not flee being entangled in tiny, petty matters—if you endure, then comes the day when—‘once it lands, delusion burns away.’ The day the arrow sits in, the day the dart pierces, that day all delusion vanishes—‘every impurity departs.’

But impurity means you. Of yours nothing will remain. You are nothing but impurity. When all impurity departs, what remains is Paramatma—not you. You will never meet Paramatma. You— can never meet God. How can falsehood meet God?

Hence Kabir has said—most wondrously: ‘As long as I was, you were not; now you are, I am not.’ This is remarkable. ‘I went out seeking— seeking and seeking, Kabir was lost.’

We went to search—and got lost. The day we were lost— that day God stood before us. It is not that He happened because we were lost— rather, as long as we were, God seemed nowhere; we could not tell where He was hiding.

So man never meets God. Man is a lie; man is darkness. How will darkness meet light? Impurity— that is, you. Do not think: when impurity departs, the bad will go and the good will remain. There is nothing good in you. This is hard to accept. That is why Dariya says:

‘Dariya—true hero—endures the blow of the Word.’

You too are listening to me—your mind may be saying, ‘All impurity? Surely something must be right. Granted, sometimes I steal, I cheat—but I also give charity.’ But charity that sprouts from theft— how will that be charity? It is a thief’s device— a device to commit greater theft. You steal a lakh and give a thousand as charity. By that thousand you think the sin of the lakh is washed off. You use charity like soap—to wash the stains on your sheet. You stole a lakh—how will it be washed by a thousand? In truth, a lakh stolen can be cancelled only by charity greater than a lakh. Not even by a lakh— because a lakh given only returns what was taken. Will you also pay a penalty for the intent to take? You stole a lakh; you returned a lakh—fine. The outer account balances. But you had taken— you had wanted to take— for that too will you pay something or not?

You say: ‘Some of us is bad, some good.’ No—bad and good do not live together. One whom you call a gentleman is one kind of lie, one kind of hypocrisy.

A saint means: in whom the ‘self’ is no more— neither good nor bad. All impurity has gone. A gentleman means: he hides the bad and flaunts the good— but the bad sits hidden within. Without the bad, the good cannot be there either.

A couple came to see me. The husband had given much in charity. The wife was praising her husband. That is our trade: the husband praises the wife, the wife praises the husband—such mutual dealings go on. The wife was praising that her husband is very religious. ‘Perhaps you do not know— he has given a lakh in charity.’ The husband nudged her quickly: ‘A lakh...? One lakh and ten thousand!’ She missed the ten thousand.

I asked: ‘All right—one lakh, or one lakh and ten thousand—but how much theft stands behind it?’ They were annoyed. They never returned. They had come to hear me give them a certificate: ‘You are great benefactors.’ They had even brought me a book in which they had collected testimonials from other mahatmas: ‘So-and-so said this; so-and-so said that.’ They had come for this alone—that I add my words, write in their book.

They are respectable Jains, and they plan that in the next cosmic cycle they will be the first Tirthankara. In the letter they wrote before coming, they had written: ‘My plan is single—that when the next creation happens, I will be the first Tirthankara. For that I am doing all kinds of tapas, vows, charity...’ I had called him, to at least see who intends to be the first Tirthankara in the next creation! He has given one lakh and ten thousand— wants a cheap Tirthankara-hood! I asked him: ‘How much theft? Where did this lakh come from? For which crime did you have to donate?’ He began to sweat. He had come to get a certificate. I said, ‘Tell me— where did the lakh come from? Did you bring it when you were born? You did not. You must have snatched it here. How much did you snatch? For I do not see that you returned all you snatched.’ They were offended; they never came again. They had no courage to bear the blow of truth.

‘Dariya—true hero—endures the blow of the Word;
once it lands, delusion burns away, every impurity departs.’

All our charities and merits are bribes.

I have heard: A woman phoned a minister and said, ‘A few weeks ago I slept with you. I am not blackmailing you, but could you send a refrigerator to my home?’ The minister thought a lot, but remembered nothing—who this woman was. Still, to avoid trouble, he sent her a refrigerator.

With time the woman’s demands kept increasing— sometimes a costly necklace, sometimes two or four thousand in cash. At last, when one day she asked for a motor car, the minister, harassed, asked, ‘Who are you, after all? When and where did you sleep with me?’ The woman replied: ‘Three months ago there was a conference at Vigyan Bhavan. You and I sat together. During a deadly boring speech you also fell asleep, and I too fell asleep.’

But a minister is a minister. He must have been frightened; he did not have the courage to ask, ‘When were you asleep, and where?’ ‘Whatever she says must be true. Get rid of the nuisance—pay the money. Let her take it.’

Your charities and merits are just like that. On one side sins are being committed; on the other side a little merit is being done. Whom are you deceiving? Out of fear: ‘Who knows—God may exist! Who knows—the law of karma may be true! Who knows—heaven and hell may exist. Then make some arrangements too. Keep some provision for it as well. In the margins also keep some accounts.’ The margins are your merit, your renunciation, your religion, your prayer, your worship. This is not your life; this is merely consolation to soothe the guilt born of your life.

Therefore I want to tell you: you are impurity through and through. If you look carefully, you will find only impurity. That is why man does not look within. He is afraid: ‘If so much impurity is seen, how will I live? How will I take a step if so much is seen? How will I speak, rise, breathe?’ So man does not look within. Man keeps escaping himself. If you come face to face with yourself, the secret opens; the mystery opens. See yourself face to face once—nothing else remains to be known. No need to go to any scripture. If the confrontation with oneself happens, you will find only impurity. And in that very seeing—that it is all impurity—the transcendence begins.

So the question is not to evade impurity by doing some merit, some renunciation. The question is to uproot impurity from the very roots. Where does this impurity arise from? Cut the root itself. Otherwise we keep cutting leaves. One leaf is donated away— then four new leaves sprout. The tree thinks you are pruning; the foliage becomes thicker. The root must be cut. The root is ego. By charity and merit nothing will happen. By renunciation and austerity nothing will happen. If the ego remains inside, then austerity will only strengthen the ego, renunciation will strengthen it, merit will fill only the ego. All this merit, renunciation, austerity will become water nourishing the very root of ego and making it stronger. The ego itself must be cut.

‘Sabahi katak soora nahin—katak maahi koi soor;
Dariya pade patang jyon jab baje ran-toor.’

In an army, not all soldiers are brave.

Not all in the ranks are warriors— in the ranks there is barely a hero. In huge armies, once in a while there is a hero. Who is a hero? Among thousands and lakhs, once in a while someone is religious. Among millions, once in a while someone dares to dissolve, to be annihilated, to become shunya. Who is, according to Dariya, a hero?

‘Dariya falls like a moth when the war-drum sounds.’

As when the lamp is lit and the moth rushes into the flame; as when the war trumpet sounds, the brave one rises without fear and arrives on the battlefield.

It happened: Buddha had halted in a village. The king’s famous elephant— very revered by the city— had grown old. He had great qualities, great intelligence, many glorious stories of life. He had fought great wars and won them. He had saved the king at many critical moments on the battlefield. He had great services to the king. Hence his great prestige in the city. One day he went to the lake to drink and sank into the mud—old now, limbs slack— he could not get out. The more he tried to free himself, the more he sank. The elephant is heavy; he panicked and sat down.

News reached the palace. The old mahout was long retired. New mahouts were sent; they prodded him with great spears, tormented him, tried to get him out—but the old one was old; by this beatings he became more slack, near death, collapsed in the mud. No way appeared to get him out.

At last the king himself went. Tears flowed from the elephant’s eyes. He must have been pained at his pitiable condition. He who had fought great wars, wrestled with mountains— now this state! He cannot free himself from a little mire. Tears were flowing. The king too grieved. Then he remembered: ‘Call his former mahout. Find that old man—wherever he is. Perhaps he knows something. He lived with him a lifetime; he may know some secret.’

The old man came. The whole capital had gathered. Buddha’s disciples, too, gathered there—Buddha was nearby. The mahout came, laughed, and said, ‘What are you doing? You will kill him. Move aside.’ He said, ‘Bring bands and drums, the war-drum— the nagara—let it be beaten on the bank.’ As the battle drum sounded, the elephant leapt out in a single bound. Not a moment was lost. He was a hero. In that moment he forgot he was old, forgot he was weak—he became young again.

We are only as young as our courage. We are only as youthful as our courage. By courage man grows old; by courage he remains young.

His valor was touched. He had never suffered this: that the war-drum sounds and he remains stuck! Even if he had to die, he would have sprung from the mire.

Buddha’s disciples came and said to Buddha: ‘Lord, we saw a marvelous miracle.’ Buddha said: ‘Nothing marvelous. Among you too, only those will emerge hearing my call who are heroes. That is what I am doing too, O unintelligent ones! You are stuck in the mud, and I am beating the battle trumpet. Among you, those who have even a little capacity for courage will emerge; they will accept the challenge.’

‘Not all in the ranks are warriors—in the ranks there is barely a hero.
Dariya falls like a moth when the war-drum sounds.’

When the war-drum sounds, the hero enters the field as the moth dives into the burning flame. He no longer worries whether he will be saved or perish. He does not calculate. Sannyas is such a process—not of calculation— just as the moth plunges into the blazing flame, into the crest of light.

‘Dariya falls like a moth when the war-drum sounds.
A secret radiance dawns; the moths come running to see.
Dariya erases his self and unites with the color of fire.’

Listen—listen from the heart. ‘A secret radiance dawns’— whenever someone somewhere becomes empty, the miracle of the void happens; whenever someone attains the nir-ahaṁ—no-ego—whenever someone as a person dissolves, becomes shunya—there the mystery of God is revealed, the miracle of the Unseen happens. The greatest miracle in this world is one: you dissolve so that God can shine through you. You move aside so that God can flow through you. Do not stand in the way. Open the door. Be the door. Do not be the rock on the path so that the stream may flow.

‘A secret radiance dawns...’

And whenever such an event happens—someone becomes a Buddha, a Krishna, a Christ, a Mohammed— wherever this miracle of emptiness occurs, where God flows through one who has become a void—

‘...the moths come running to see.’

Then those who have a little courage, a little valor—who are truly alive and not corpses—for them the presence of Mohammed, Krishna, Buddha becomes a crest of light, a flame. ‘The moths come running to see’— from the corners of the earth, those who have courage run toward that emptiness.

‘A secret radiance dawns; the moths come running to see.
Dariya erases his self and unites with the color of fire.’

And they dissolve themselves. Their self, their ego, their ‘I am’— they drown it. They become one with that emptiness.

‘Dariya erases his self and unites with the color of fire.’

And the Sadguru—that fire that has manifested— they become one in color with it. In this land the sannyasi’s robe is ochre— chosen for that reason; it is the color of fire. It is a symbol— the tongue of the flame.

‘Dariya erases his self and unites with the color of fire.’

And until this event happens, whether you are or not—it is all the same. Your being is as if non-being.

Life is the companion of compulsions—
a single sheet, patched all over.
To keep it intact is impossible;
only Kabir laid it as it was.
Perhaps there is a moment’s heaven somewhere,
but the greater span of life is a long starvation.
Do not seek song—read the ledger of writing;
this is only the diary of our income and expense.

Only outward decoration has been done.
Otherwise the smile is an empty pitcher.
Night is a dumb maid of anxieties,
and day only a servitude to futility.

Until life becomes one with the color of that fire— until life becomes a flame— it is only outer decoration. The smile is an empty pitcher. You have painted the surface with smiles, laughter, passing through this long journey. Inside—empty. Inside— void. Inside— a nothing. Outside you hoist flags—great poles with flags. ‘May our flag fly highest’— you shout. But within...? Within is only darkness. Within is only sadness, melancholy.

‘We hear it said that the night of the helpless will be brief;
Yet there is an hour of lust—why this order in the world?
Let some man of heart free them from the grip of brute force;
The sun was seized at a certain hour by the night’s sorcery.

Do not let it be that the voice longs for a shroud,
that striking high walls it is forever lost.
The melody sits with the chain of restraint in hand—
Do not commit such violence that the heart becomes senseless.

With the feeling of my helplessness I shall drown;
I have seen a hole now in my own little boat.

Someone has sown in life the seeds of fear—
From them poison-trees will grow within my chest.’

In our life’s boat there is not one or two holes— there are holes everywhere. This boat of life is made of holes connected together.

‘With the feeling of my helplessness I shall drown;
I have seen a hole now in my own little boat.’

We do not see the holes in our boat. Even if we see one, we quickly cover it, lest someone else see. As if by not seeing it, something will be remedied— as if by not seeing, the hole will be filled.

If there is a hole in life, look at it—look closely, search— because holes are not alone; they too have families. One who looks closely will see: the whole boat is full of holes. In this boat no one has ever crossed the ocean of becoming— only drowned. Therefore the one who sees his boat full of holes jumps out. This jumping is called sannyas. He trusts his own swimming. He says: ‘We ourselves shall enter; this boat is bound to drown. If we stay in it, we too will drown.’

‘With the feeling of my helplessness I shall drown;
I have seen a hole now in my own little boat.
Someone has sown in life the seeds of fear—
From them poison-trees will grow within my chest.’

And all through life—from childhood to now— and in births upon births—only seeds of fear have been sown within you. The religious teacher frightens you—only terrifies. From fear only poison is born. The real Sadguru does not frighten you— he awakens you and tells you: ‘Within you lies indomitable courage. You are a tongue of fire. Awake, arise. The supreme consciousness abides within you. Take courage! Only when you take courage will the seed within you split and the hidden tree manifest.’

‘A secret radiance dawns; the moths come running to see.’

And if somewhere the secret light is seen— if somewhere in the void the Whole appears— if somewhere you perceive that someone has dissolved and in his place Paramatma has begun to flow— then do not delay; do not calculate.

‘...the moths come running to see.’

Become moths then. Become mad moths— so that you do not miss this occasion. Let this door become a door for you.

‘Dariya erases his self and unites with the color of fire.’

Drop your ego and drown in the color of fire— become one. Then only impurity will burn— remember. You will burn— that you which is false. And the truth within you cannot be burned. When we throw gold into fire, only dross burns; gold remains— gold emerges refined, pure, as kundan.

Thus the impurity within you will burn— ego will burn, greed will burn, fear will burn; anger, lust, jealousy will burn. The pure gold within will remain. That pure gold is called God. Atman remains; ego is burned.

‘Dariya—lover-soul— found the wealth of Ram-naam;
He who was poor became wealthy— the forgetful one returned home.’

Dariya—lover-soul—found the wealth of Ram-naam.

Only through such love— such mad love, as the moth has for the flame— only through such mad love is the wealth of Ram-naam found. Only upon such mad lovers does wealth rain. It rains breaking through the rooftop.

‘Ram-naam dhan paya—Dariya—premi atma...’

Only lover-souls have found the wealth of Ram-naam. Not fear, not greed—love. The frightened cannot love. The greedy cannot love. The greedy eye is fixed elsewhere, not on love.

Even if the greedy stands before God and prays, he says, ‘See that this time the lottery number is mine. See that this time it does not miss. I am praying so much—keep account. I am banging my head on your door. I am rubbing my nose— keep all this in mind. Now have mercy.’ Standing before God, the greedy asks for something else— not God. Who cares for God? What will you do with God?

Even if God says, ‘Come—I myself will come to you’— you will say, ‘Sir, I am already in trouble; if you come, one more hassle. Please be kind— get me the lottery. That will be enough. Do not trouble yourself by coming. What will I do with you? The household hardly runs. To tie a white elephant at my door— what will I do? Be kind. This poor one cannot serve you. Get me the lottery only. I am satisfied with little. You are very great—go to great mahatmas. I am a small man.’

No one asks for God; the greedy cannot ask. He asks for something else. Only the lover asks for God. He has neither greed nor fear— no dread of hell, no ambition for heaven. He says, ‘Let my love be joined to you— let the longing for you be the only longing— that is all.’ He says, ‘I do not want heaven; I have no fear of hell. Bhaktas have said: we do not want even moksha. What will we do with moksha? Let your feet be found— let the mind be fixed at your feet—that is enough. Let us have your darshan. If you are found, all is found.’

‘Dariya—lover-soul— found the wealth of Ram-naam;
He who was poor became wealthy— the forgetful one returned home.’

There is only one wealth in this world—Paramatma. Leaving him, we seek everything else. Therefore we remain beggars. Therefore even when all wealth is gathered, where is contentment, where is satisfaction? Everything accumulates—great palaces, great wealth, great vaults, great prestige— and within? Within you remain as poor, as a beggar. Wealth lies outside; inner poverty is not touched by it. Inner poverty goes only when the real wealth is found, the supreme wealth. Its very name is Paramatma.

‘He who was poor became wealthy— the forgetful one returned home.’

Only in the union with God does the forgetful one return home. Otherwise there is only wandering. Do whatever you will— wanderings will continue. There is only one place where wandering ceases.

Why is it ‘returning home’? Because Paramatma is our true home; he is our swarup. From him we have come; to him we must go. We are his wave. We must dissolve into him. If we think ourselves separate from him, we will remain poor. If we submerge in him, the entire wealth of the ocean is ours. The drop fears to fall into the ocean lest it be lost. Lost it will be—true. The fear is correct. But only by being lost will it become the ocean; therefore the fear is not right. Only by perishing does one attain.

‘He who was poor became wealthy— the forgetful one returned home.
The hero knows no cowardice— his love is with valor.
Even if he falls piece by piece, he does not leave the field.’

Tie your knot to courage, not to weakness. Dariya speaks to the point.

‘The hero knows no cowardice— his love is with valor.
Even if he falls piece by piece, he does not leave the field.’

Awaken courage. Courage is the name of religion. Stir valor. Valor is the name of religion. Do not shiver like a coward out of fear of hell. And do not wag your tail, pleading like the greedy for heaven.

‘The hero knows no cowardice— his love is with valor.’

His love is with courage and adventure. He is married to adventure. One must go on new adventures. Every day, to seek the new. Every day, to place one’s feet upon the unknown. Every day, to touch new heights of the heights and depths—to make new searches.

‘His love is with valor’— only he whose love is with courage becomes religious.

‘Even if he falls piece by piece, he does not leave the field.’

Even if all is lost, he does not leave the field; bone by bone may fall, fragment by fragment, piece by piece— even so, he does not leave the field. He does not flee. He does not withdraw from the ground.

And the supreme happening occurs only when everything falls piece by piece. When nothing is left to you—everything falls— then suddenly you find that which cannot fall from you; that which is your supreme wealth; from which you are inseparable. When everything is cut away and falls, what remains is Paramatma.

‘Dariya—he is not the hero who has only crushed the body;
He who stands having conquered the mind— upon him I am a sacrifice.’

And Dariya says: ‘I am not talking of him—do not mistake me.
I am not speaking of bodily heroism. Do not mistake— I am not saying go fight on the battlefield, cut your body to pieces—and you become a hero. That is not great. That too serves the ego.

‘He is not the hero who has only crushed the body;
He who stands having conquered the mind— upon him I am a sacrifice.’

This is talk of the inner war, the inner battle. ‘Having conquered the mind—’ Neither greed sways the mind, nor fear. Nothing sways the mind. Storms may rise, tempests— yet the mind remains unmoving, unshaken. As in a vacuum chamber where no gust of air enters, the flame becomes steady— so in the midst of storms one who remains steady— if he loses, he does not weep; if he wins, he does not exult. If success comes, no pride arises; if defeat comes, no dejection. Neither day nor night makes a difference; pleasure or pain— in all, equanimity remains.

‘He who stands having conquered the mind— upon him I am a sacrifice.’

It is of that hero I speak, says Dariya. Upon him I am a sacrifice.

On the path of religion the first virtue is courage. On this path nothing happens through fasts, vows, or worship. The first virtue needed is courage. And one who has courage—all virtues come of themselves. Courage is the parent of all virtues. One who lacks courage, who is frightened— all vices gather within him. Fear is the source of vice. Have you not seen? When you lie— why do you lie? Out of fear. When you steal— why do you steal? Out of fear. Fearful that there is no money— how will I live?—and you see a thousand rupees lying— you pick them up. You lie because you fear that if you speak truth and are caught, you will be disgraced— so you lie.

Consider your life; at the root of all your vices you will find fear or greed. They are two sides of one coin.

The essence of today’s sutras is only this: if greed and fear fall away, the door opens for Paramatma to enter your life. Drop fear and greed.

‘Pandit gyani bahu mile, Veda-gyan parabeen;
Dariya aisa na mila, Ram-naam lavaleen.’

If fear and greed drop, you can become absorbed in Ram-naam. Dariya searched much—he found one— in whose feet, sitting, revolution happened; in whose presence, the flight into the sky began; at whose feet, the journey into the infinite unfolded. But before that he went to many. He met many kinds of people—they had great skills, great virtues—but the essential thing was not there: the inner lamp was extinguished.

Seek the Sadguru. And wherever you see someone with the inner lamp aflame, do not then hesitate in modesty or fear. Then, like a mad moth, take the indomitable leap into that fire; become fire-like. This is the definition of sannyas.

And once such an event happens— from meeting death, the key to supreme life is obtained. By dissolving, the secret of being is found.

‘We have now learned to translate even tears—
sometimes some song is cast, sometimes a ghazal flows.’

Then sorrow does not remain in life. Tears too— sometimes some song pours, sometimes some ghazal flows. Tears too melt into song, into ghazal. Right now even the smile is false; even from smiles songs and ghazals do not arise; even the smile is smoky. Then even tears— even death—lead toward the supreme life. Then even dissolving builds steps on the path of being.

‘A secret radiance dawns; the moths come running to see.
Dariya erases his self and unites with the color of fire.
Dariya—lover-soul— found the wealth of Ram-naam;
He who was poor became wealthy— the forgetful one returned home.’

You are forgetful now—come home. You are poor now—become wealthy. Do not search outside for this wealth. The treasure of this wealth lies within you.

I have heard: In a capital a beggar died. For thirty years he had begged at the same place. When he died, the townspeople cremated him. Then they thought: ‘For thirty years he sat at this crossroads— this place has become dirty. Dirty clothes, broken pots, vessels— he sat with everything there. A beggar is a beggar. Let us scoop out some soil from here and dump it away. He has made even the earth dirty.’

They dug the soil. They were stunned. A great treasure was buried there— huge pots were buried. Only gold coins upon gold coins emerged. The whole town discussed: ‘This is indeed strange! This beggar begged all his life at the very spot where such a treasure was buried.’

And remember— those who discussed in the town, who lamented the beggar’s misfortune— not one thought that where they stood, where they were, treasures were buried too. Even greater treasures. Infinite treasures.

We all stand upon a land where an infinite treasure is buried. But the eye wanders outward and does not turn within—and the treasure is within. Status is within, wealth is within, prestige is within—and you wander without— hence the miss. You have been very forgetful, very lost— now come home.

Enough for today.