Kano Suni So Juth Sab #5

Our caste is Brahman; our mother and father are Ram.
Our home is in the Void; in the soundless, the boundless, we rest.

To these intoxicated, reckless ones I have called them lotuses.
I am feeling it—what has slipped out of me is a ghazal.

Words soaked in love become poetry all by themselves. Wherever love is, there the birth of song is inevitable. There is one kind of poetry that depends upon word, language, measure and meter; and there is another kind of poetry that depends only upon the love of the heart.

The poetry of the saints is the poetry of the heart. The measures may not fit. The rules of meter may not have been observed at all. Saints do not really know how to obey any rule. They have only one rule, one identity: love. These words of Dariya have come out of a very deep experience. Do not be led astray by their poetic qualities. Dive into their lived realization. These are words spoken knowingly, after drowning.

Ninety-nine out of a hundred poems are only imagination. Even if they are beautiful—they are imagination. And what beauty can there be in imagination? Beauty is but a limb of Truth alone. Where there is Truth, there is beauty. In imagination there are only toys, only deceits. Good to keep children entangled—but for the mature there is no message there. There is only one beauty—and it is this: when Truth shines in the eyes. Then whatever you say becomes beautiful, whatever you do becomes beautiful.

So Dariya’s words are broken, halting. Do not go by the words. If you go by the words you will miss. Dariya is speaking with a sweet lisp. Because the matter is so vast—whoever tries to say that vastness will stammer. Only those who have not known can speak boldly, without hesitation—for they do not even know what hesitation is. In China they say: only the foolish can speak without hesitation; the wise will hesitate much, for every word makes his Truth smaller. What he has seen, what he has known, words cannot reveal. Hence the knower is full of hesitation.

These words of Dariya are words of the Supreme Experience.

The priceless jewel—assessing it, the jeweler grew weary.
There, says Dariya, there is no price at all; the mind became dumbstruck.

Our mind is a jeweler—forever appraising the value of everything. Whatever it sees, it instantly judges: beautiful or ugly, auspicious or inauspicious, to be done or not to be done, true or false. The whole work of mind is to judge. If judging does not drop, you have not gone beyond mind. That is why Jesus has said: judge ye not. The very act of judging brings you under the mind’s control. The jeweler sits within, weighing everything on his touchstone—gold or not, diamond or not. Mind is a balance, a scale—forever weighing, weighing. Investigate this in yourself.

You glimpse a rose. You have not even truly seen it yet, when at once the mind says, Beautiful! Seeing is not yet complete; already the word has formed. You pass a heap of filth; before the stench has even reached the nostrils, the mind has already concluded: Ugly, dirty—beware!

This habit of the mind—of judging—does not allow you to see the Truth of life. Mind only repeats the past, imposes it again and again. No new fact is ever allowed to be discovered, because the mind is the past. Mind is the sum of your previous experiences. What you have so far known, heard, understood—mind keeps imposing that upon new facts.

When you see a rose and say Beautiful! what are you actually saying? You are saying: The roses I saw earlier were beautiful; on the basis of that past experience this flower too is beautiful. But you missed. You missed something vast. You have never seen this rose before; it is utterly new. Such a flower has never been before, will never be again. Each flower is unique, incomparable, beyond measure. Hence, do not bring your past knowledge in—otherwise you will miss this flower. And if you miss this flower, it proves that you must have missed the earlier ones also, and you will miss the ones to come. You will go on missing. You bring in the past, and your connection with the present is shattered. The mind judges; the mind is a jeweler.

Dariya says: The priceless jewel—assessing it, the jeweler grew weary.
But the experience of Paramatma is such that the jeweler stands utterly bewildered, cheated of his craft. Nothing can be said; nothing comes to mind, nothing is understood.

The jewel is priceless—hence it is called amolak: beyond valuation. The mind cannot assess its value. The mind cannot say anything—at all. The mind staggers. It cannot even say Beautiful; it cannot say Auspicious.

It cannot even say: God, Truth. All the sayings of the mind stop at once. The mind becomes dumb. Like molasses to a dumb tongue. Faced with that taste, the mind cannot speak.

Seek that very taste before which the mind becomes dumb—that alone will satisfy. Wherever the mind goes on speaking, wherever it hangs labels, hangs price-tags—there is the world. The moment such an experience arises within you, such a lotus blooms, such a fragrance rises, your wings carry you into such a realm that the mind suddenly grows tired, exhausted, defeated…

Mind never admits defeat. The body gets tired; mind does not. You know this daily—you are tired after a day’s work, the body is broken, limb by limb is aching, but the mind goes on. The mind goes on thinking; fresh leaves of thought keep sprouting. The mind simply doesn’t tire. From birth to death, it runs without pause. The body tires; it needs sleep. The mind does not tire. The mind is always willing to work, forever active—never inactive. Wherever the mind becomes inactive—know well, the door of God has arrived. That is the touchstone. That is the recognition.

How will you know that the door of God has arrived? You have never seen God, never seen His door. How to recognize? Philosophers have been asking for centuries: suppose we see God, how will we know it is He? Only what you have seen before can be recognized—so how will recognition arise?

Dariya gives the sutra of recognition: The mind grows tired. You do not know God—but you do know one thing: the mind never tired. It judged everything; it weighed everything; everything was put on the scales; values were tallied, all accounts settled. Where the mind cannot settle accounts, where the scale of the mind proves too small—when it is a question of weighing the entire sky—where suddenly the mind falters, its continuous process arrested; where thoughts become utterly empty; you even try to think—and cannot.

You will want to think; you will be afraid. Standing at the door of God, encircled by Truth—you will tremble, head to toe. What is happening? In that moment the mind fails you. Just then, of all times, the mind should support—lest this unique moment be missed! Something unprecedented is occurring—and the mind says nothing. Where the mind has vanished—who knows where. You will try to call it back. But as darkness cannot be brought into the presence of light, so mind cannot be brought into the presence of Paramatma. Mind and Paramatma are not together.

This is the criterion, the touchstone: where the appraiser is exhausted. As far as the appraiser works—that far is the world. What a unique definition! As far as the mind runs—there is the world. Where the mind arrives at no-movement—there is Paramatma.

From this, something else follows: if, somehow, you bring the mind to no-movement, you will be standing before Paramatma. This is not only a definition; a method also emerges. All meditation, all bhakti—what is it, after all? A single process: somehow the mind falls still, arrested. This mad river of mind, flowing on and on without learning to stop—even for a single instant if it halts, hesitates, stays. Either, when Paramatma stands before you, the mind hesitates; or, if the mind hesitates, Paramatma stands before you. Thus the definition of recognition is given—and with it, the method of arrival.

The priceless jewel—assessing it, the jeweler grew weary.
There, no value can be set; the mind became dumbstruck.

What price of God? How to price Him? There is only One; and the One cannot be priced. Two are needed to set a price. If there are two diamonds, you can say: this one larger, that one smaller; this a common stone, that the Kohinoor. Where there are two, comparison is possible; and only then can value be set. Which diamond is absolutely pure, which carries a flaw—then appraisal is possible. But where there is only One—there is no way to appraise.

There, no price can be set… Then how to know the value? How to place a price?

Because Paramatma has no price at all, the mind must stop. In the marketplace the mind functions well—everything has a price. Wherever the mind approaches that which is priceless, amolak—there the mind stumbles. Where price exists, the mind moves well—there it rules. Hence the mind is more pleased in the market than in the temple. Sit in a temple, and the mind thinks of the bazaar. Why? What is the mind’s business with the market? Its whole movement is there—everything has a price, everything carries a label.

Once I went to an exhibition of a great painter’s work. With me was a friend—a shopkeeper; he weighs everything by price. I looked at the paintings; he looked at the price tags. Very soon I saw he was not seeing the pictures at all: five hundred, one thousand, fifteen hundred! Where it said five thousand—there he paused a moment to look. If five hundred—he moved on. I asked him, What are you doing? Have you come to see the paintings or the prices? Will you never close your shop? Will you run your shop everywhere? For him, only price has value—the value of value.

He will look at a man, too, that way: What is he worth? This man is prime minister; that one a peon—worth two pennies. He will not even notice the peon; he will only see the president. And when the president is no longer president, he will not see him either. If the peon becomes president, then he will see him. He never sees a man as a man; he has no eyes to see man. He sees only price—only price in everything.

Watch yourself. You meet someone in a train—what do you ask? One or two superficial questions, then quickly the real one: How much salary do you get? What business? How is it going? The essential question! One or two preliminaries—where do you live, where are you coming from? But these are secondary. To ask directly about price would seem crude.

In the West people never ask how much salary someone gets—that is refined manners. To ask about price is uncultured. Perhaps the poor fellow is only a primary schoolteacher and will have to say, A hundred rupees. And he will feel diminished. And not only he; the moment he says, A hundred rupees, schoolteacher—the man in front of him has become worthless. Conversation ends. Is this even a man! A schoolteacher! If only he had been a police inspector—there would be some bite! The moment you ask How much salary? you are in fact asking: What is your price? What are you worth?

Even in this life you often come close to that which has no price—but then you miss it, because the mind lacks the faculty to perceive the priceless. If you come near a saint, you will not be able to appraise him, because your price-setting mind does not function there.

When the morning sun is rising, when a beautiful dawn is spreading, the east blushing, the sky singing in colors—you will not look. What value has it? I said to that friend who went with me to the exhibition: Do you ever watch the sunrise? There is no label there; you will be in great difficulty. Without a price, what is there to see? Do you ever look at the night sky jeweled with stars and its mysteries? There is no price-tag there; how will you look? He said to me—an honest man he is—On the way home you reminded me rightly. I have never seen the morning, and I have never seen the night. Perhaps that is why I look only at those things that have a price.

There, no price can be set…
Practice, then, to see the priceless. Even here—there is no price. When you look at a rose and say, It costs four annas in the market—you have missed. Has any man ever created a single rose for which you are tagging a price? By giving four annas, can you produce a rose? Even with four crores you cannot produce one rose. Put together the entire capacity of humankind—you cannot produce a single rose. Man has reached the moon—that is one thing. But man has not yet produced even a single blade of grass—do not forget it. Whatever success man has found is all upon dead things. Not one success upon life—nor will there ever be. A blade of grass will never be produced.

Life is priceless. What price of a rose? How will you assess it? Look closely and you will find—the Priceless dwells within the rose. The moon arises—what value can it possibly have? A child laughs in a peal—can that laughter have a price? With a million you cannot coax a child into a true peal. And if he does laugh for money, it will not be laughter—only something market-made, an actor’s show. For the lure of money he will laugh—but it will not go deeper than the lips. Painted upon the lips; not coming from the heart. No exultation of life; no indwelling of the Divine.

Have you seen a tear fall from someone’s eye? What price of that one tiny tear? Man cannot produce even a tear. In that one small tear, whole epics are hidden. In that one small tear the entire anguish of man may be hidden. The total joy, the Ah-ness of man, may be hidden there. In that one small tear—man’s helplessness, his prayer. Not of one man only—the joy, the prayer, the sorrow of all humanity may be concealed in that small tear.

No. Our habit has gone wrong. We seek price in everything. And where we do not see price—we do not look. We say, What is there here? There ought to be some value.

People come to me and ask, We will meditate—but what benefit will there be? Benefit! They want profit even from meditation. Will my salary rise? Will my shop run better—what benefit? You want to run bank language in the temple? You ask, We will meditate—but will the bank balance increase? You want to weigh meditation in rupees?

A great emperor once came to Mahavira. He was vast in power. He had attained everything worth attaining—but one thorn pricked him: meditation. Sometimes his vizier wounded him with a remark: Majesty, all else is well—but meditation! Wealth you have—that is all right. Wealth anyone can have; petty men also have it—what is in that? But meditation? The emperor was stung. What is this thing called meditation? Then he heard that Mahavira had come—the arrival of a supreme meditator—so he went, and said, Master, be gracious—give me meditation. Whatever the price, I will pay—I am ready to settle the whole account. This vizier pierces my chest like an arrow. I cannot even ask him what meditation is—because I cannot admit I do not know! My ego is big. So I beg you—give me meditation—give it to me somehow. And whatever you ask, I am ready to give—even my entire kingdom. I have never accepted defeat in my life. Whatever I wanted—I have got it. Now I will get meditation. I am ready to put everything at stake.

Mahavira laughed. How to explain to this madman that there are things in life that cannot be purchased? They have no price. Give the whole kingdom—and still you cannot buy a speck of meditation, not even a single drop. Yet compassion arose. He said, Do this—once I had a kingdom too; I have renounced it. I have no desire for a kingdom. In your city there is one of my shravakas, a devotee; he has attained meditation. Ask him—he is a poor man; perhaps he will agree to sell. I have no reason to sell—for what will I do with your kingdom? I renounced it already. I will not be the seller.

Mahavira played a fine joke. He did not even tell this man that selling is irrelevant. He wanted to educate him at the right point. So the emperor said, Tell me his name quickly. If he lives in my capital—no problem. I will go immediately and take it. He summoned the man at once and said, Whatever you want, take it—but give me meditation. The poor man laughed and said, The Master joked—you did not understand. I am poor; you may take my life; I am ready. But meditation? What are you saying? Even if I wish to give—how can I? Meditation is not a thing to be bought. The emperor said, Name your price; do not be cunning—whatever you ask, I will pay double. But speak of price.

How to make such madmen understand—that there are things with no price! Love—meditation—do they have a price? Who can buy them?

If you begin to see the priceless in your life, you will be preparing to approach Paramatma. By climbing the steps of the priceless one reaches the Divine.

There, no price at all—hence the mind could think nothing. The mind became no-mind—dumbstruck. Mind had been manan—thinking, considering. The very process of manan is called mind.

…no-mind, dumbstruck.

That mind which never ceased its thinking, which could not be stopped even with effort—that mind suddenly stopped. No-mind—dumbstruck. Man ceased; no-mind arose.

This word unmani is exactly what the Zen masters call “no-mind,” what Kabir called “a-mani-dasha.” No-mind—dumbstruck. Suddenly, in a single moment, with a single shock—the stream arrested, the manan stilled. When manan stilled, mind stilled. Where there is no manan, there is no mind. No-mind—dumbstruck. And wonder-struck—for the first time.

The word dumbstruck is precious—meditate on it. It means such astonishment that you are suddenly taken aback. Dumbstruck! Speech stops; the voice is lost. You want to speak—but cannot. You want to move—but cannot. Such vast wonder stands before you that even the breath seems to stop. Dumbstruck! For one moment everything is stilled, silent.

The priceless jewel—assessing it, the jeweler grew weary.
There, no price can be set; the mind became dumbstruck.

In this sutra both directions meet. If the Divine stands before you, this is what happens. And if this happens—the Divine stands before you. So begin to seek wonder.

People come and ask, How to seek God? I say, Leave God aside—that will be great grace from your side. Do not seek God—for the God you seek does not exist. Your God too is only your mind’s notion, your mind’s picture, your mind’s web and mesh. Your God will only keep your mental river flowing; he is not very God. Your God = the Hindu’s God; your God = the Muslim’s God—your God is not God. How can your God be God? You have not known. In ignorance, whatsoever image you have preserved is the very process of ignorance. When you know, all images fall.

So leave God aside. Ask me another thing. Ask, How can we become wonder-struck, dumb in awe? This is the greater inquiry. Seeking God—what will you do? If your image of Ram is the bowman Ram, you will keep searching for a bow-bearing Ram; you will never find him. And if ever you do—be alert! He will be your projection. If you go on banging your head on walls, cry Ram-Ram-Ram, imagine the bow-bearing Ram—Now come, now appear!—if you make enough commotion, your mind will fabricate the bowman to console you. He will be your projection—not of any use. Push him—he will fall. His bow and arrow are fit only for a play. All is masquerade—of your own mind.

Once in a Ramleela, the actor playing Ravana became angry with the manager and vowed, I will teach him a lesson at the right time. When the scene came of Sita’s swayamvara and the bow was placed and messengers from Lanka shouted, O Ravana! What are you doing here—Lanka is on fire! He said, Let it burn. This time, let Lanka burn if it must—but we will take Sita. Great panic spread. According to the rule he should go; if he were to take Sita—the Ramleela would be over. He would listen to no one. Janaka grew nervous; Ram glanced here and there; Lakshmana began to sweat. No one could understand what to do. Meanwhile he rose and broke the bow and said to Janaka, Now bring Sita! He spoiled the whole play. Janaka was an old hand, though—a seasoned player. He said, Wait. Servants! It seems you brought my children’s toy bow. Bring the real bow, you fools! The curtain was lowered; somehow Ravana was shoved out. Then the “real” bow was brought; and a “real” Ravana was fetched—for this one was useless.

The Ram that stands in your imagination is only your own game. Or if you are devoted to Krishna, Krishna will appear with his flute; if to Christ, then Christ will hang on the cross—and his blood will seem to flow. But its stains will not touch your clothes—let alone your heart. It will remain only in imagination.

The true seeker of God does not ask, How shall I search for God? He says, I do not know God—how can I begin a search? That is dishonesty. If I knew God, why would I search? I do not know—that’s why I want to search. So how can I begin with, Search for God?

He will say only this: Life is unknown. How do I enter this Unknown? How do I know That-which-is? How may That-which-is be realized? He will not even give it a name—Krishna, Ram, Christ. He will say, That-which-is. This immensity spread on all sides—what is it? How do I know? Where is its door?

Wonder is the door. That is why small children are nearer to God. Their eyes are still filled with wonder. Women are nearer to God than men—for their eyes are less emptied of wonder. The unlearned are nearer than the pundit—for their eyes are still filled with mystery. The pundit knows everything; he says, I know. He who knows all—knows nothing. There is no sin greater than punditry—for it destroys wonder. And wonder is the door. If you fall into the delusion that you know, because you know Veda, Koran, Bible—you will go on missing God. Sit with the Vedas and Korans—and as they are dead, so sitting with them you too will turn dead.

If you wish to seek God, then this life spread around you—the birds’ throats, the trees’ branches, the color of flowers, the waves of the sea, the height of the mountains, the depth of the valleys—this vastness that surrounds you without and within—how to relate to it?

Relate through wonder. Hence wonderment—being wonder-struck—is the doorway of the religious. See with eyes of wonder, not with eyes of knowledge. With innocent wonder you will see, everywhere are the footprints of God. Little things will turn mysterious. They are mysterious—you alone have assumed they are not.

What do we know, after all? Not even a single thing truly. In the whole history of mankind, what have we known? Nothing, really. Not even the secret of a leaf. How a seed becomes a sprout—we do not know. How bread turns into blood—how the dead becomes alive—we do not know. How a small child grows in the mother’s womb—we do not know. How a little thought ripples within—we do not know. Nothing we know.

The wise have said, Ignorance is the door. Why? The Upanishads say, He who knows—know that he does not know. He who does not know—know that he shall know. Why? What is the quality of not-knowing? The quality is wonder. When you do not know, everything thrills you; everything fills you with astonishment.

Have you walked with a small child on the seashore, or in the mountains? How many questions the child raises! Everything—seeing a peacock: Why so many colors on its feathers? Seeing a bird fly: Why can’t I fly? Why can’t man fly? Absurd questions. You feel nervous; you try to silence him. Hush. When you grow up, you will know. But you do not know even upon growing up. You silence him as your father silenced you. Why do children’s questions make you uneasy? Because you do not know the answers either. The child is shattering your knowledge; he casts doubt upon your knowing; he writes a question mark upon your knowledge: Father, you do not know why the peacock’s feathers have such colors? You do not know? He drags your ego to the ground; says, Then you are just like me—ignorant! Why pretend? Hence you say to him, When you grow up, you will know.

No one knows upon growing up. One thing alone happens with growing: man becomes egoistic, and loses the capacity to say, I do not know. He too will say, I know—he must keep his courage before his own sons. Small children are dangerous. God sends them well-prepared to shake whosoever has become stiff with knowledge. They say a child, until he speaks, is very near to God.

I was reading a strange book yesterday—on Einstein’s life. The author says something significant: Einstein did not speak until he was three. Many children speak late—nothing unusual. But the author suggests perhaps that is why he became such a great scientist—because for three years he remained silent. For three years he remained wonder-struck; and that very wonderment became his inner genius.

This resonates with me. It is true. That is why Mahavira became silent for twelve years in the forest. Why, do you think? What does silence mean? It means the renouncing of punditry, of language. All knowledge is in language. When language goes—knowledge goes. No Jain seems to have pondered this way—why did Mahavira become silent? Becoming silent means: dropping language; and dropping language means: dropping whatsoever you know. When knowing is dropped—wonder arises. One becomes a child again. A new birth. Twice-born. Silence makes one dvija. In those twelve years Mahavira must have tasted an incomparable joy. Twelve years is a long time. In those twelve years he dusted off all the scriptures. Completely innocent, unblemished, spotless as a child—he was reborn. In that innocence alone the knowing happens. And when it happens—the mind falls dumbstruck. If you learn how to be dumbstruck, you have learned the art of knowing.

No earth, no sky, no wind, no water, no fire, no moon or sun;
No concern of night or day—where Brahman is brimming full.

Dariya says: There is neither earth nor sky, neither water nor wind, neither fire nor moon nor sun. There all the differentiated things dissolve into the Indivisible. There all the boundaries we have drawn—this is earth, that is sky… Where have you ever seen them separate? Where do they divide? Sky is wrapped in earth; earth floats in sky. Where are they apart? Here, nothing is separate. Everything is joined. A fruit on the tree today—tomorrow it will be your food. What was in the tree will be in you. One day you will die, and your corpse will be buried in the earth. The tree stands waiting: You ate my fruit; now let me eat yours. It will quickly draw from your corpse whatever is worth taking. What is separate? We are joined. I inhale—my breath, I called it. Before I can call it mine—it has become yours. You inhale—it goes out before it can be yours—becomes another’s, a neighbor’s. We are joined. This whole existence ripples together—one ocean.

No earth, no sky…
All distinctions have fallen. It is difficult to decide now what is fire, what is wind, what is earth, what is sky.

Kabir has said: I have seen a marvel—rivers have caught fire! He says the same, in his own way, through paradox—an ulatbansi. I have seen a marvel—rivers on fire! We have never seen this—rivers in flames? Kabir is saying: I have seen those meeting who never meet. I have seen life and death dancing together—A marvel I have seen, rivers aflame.

No earth, no sky…
No concern of night or day—where Brahman is brimming full.

Where Brahman is brimming, there is not even room for the duality of night and day. No place for two there. Night and day are symbols of the two, of duality, of conflict. Call them life and death, call them pleasure and pain, call them night and day, heat and cold. Two have no place there. Not even the slightest space where two might slip in. Where Brahman rains full—two cannot enter. There is only One.

In the night of separation always, the heart remained wronged;
The idol of tyranny left us shattered and ruined.
In love’s sorrow always, the heart-cloud remained uncheered—
How should the state of grief and pain not be remembered?
I have seen pieces of my heart drip from my eyes.

In every hue of Yours there is a grace, a delicate pride;
In every heart Your form of Oneness is engraved.
Whomsoever I see is mad after You.
A whole world is intoxicated by this beauty of Yours—
On whose brow I have seen the pearls of sweat shining.

Hidden in my heart burns the fire of Your love;
In every vein is woven Your affection.
I mistook Your gestures for coyness—
But to me Your reality, Your power, stands revealed.
I have seen thousands of hearts aching in Your love.

O Saki, give me the goblet of the wine of union;
Snatch away my wits—and make me mad this very moment.
Let me drink oceans of that rose-tinted wine—
I have seen tears overflowing in Your assembly.

O Saki, pour me the wine of union—pour me the wine of meeting—where embrace happens, where we meet and become one.

O Saki, pour me the wine of union.
As two lovers in the depth of love become one—visal—let that happen. Give me such a blessed intoxication. For in my senses it will not happen. In my senses, I will keep a distance.

O Saki, pour me the wine of union.
Snatch away my wits—and make me mad now. This sense is costly; take it away. These smarts are my trouble—take them. Because of this sense I remain separate—take it. Steal my sensible cleverness. Give me the innocent foolishness of ecstasy. The devotee has always asked this: Take this cleverness; keep it with You. You keep the knowledge—give me ignorance. Give me innocent ignorance.

O Saki, pour me the wine of union.
Snatch away my wits—and make me mad now.
Pluck the strings and sing me a song;
Drown me in the oceans of rose-hued wine.

Dye me in that colorful wine.
I have seen tears overflowing in Your assembly.

If you look closely at the assembly of God, you will see wine brimming everywhere. Only man misses.

I have seen tears overflowing in Your assembly.
In the flower is His wine. In the throats of birds is His wine. Except for man, the whole world is steeped in His wine—listening to His song, except man.

What is man’s obstacle? Why this misfortune? That which could have been great good fortune has turned into misfortune. The very intelligence that could be your fortune—if it led you toward wonder—has destroyed wonder. This intelligence could have become the master-key to take you to God through the door of wonder. But for most, this intelligence has become a wall between man and God. Intellect is a double-edged sword—it can save, it can cut. Put a sword in a small child’s hand—danger only, no benefit. Such is man’s plight. He has not yet learned the right use of intellect. With intellect he manufactures only ego; with intellect he manufactures only pride; with intellect he becomes ever more distant from the Vast. With intellect he becomes a small, narrow island—where he could have been a continent. The continent blossoms only with the Vast.

O Saki, pour me the wine of union;
Snatch away my wits—and make me mad now.
Pluck the strings and sing me a song;
Drown me in oceans of rose-hued wine—
I have seen tears overflowing in Your assembly.

Where Brahman is brimming full. Dariya says: Only One remains—Brahman alone remains. Night has gone, day has gone; pleasure and pain have gone; peace and unpeace have gone; mine and thine have gone; life and death have gone. The two cannot enter where Brahman brims full.

No sin, no virtue; no pleasure, no pain—where no karma, no time.
O people, says Dariya, there is a mint there—where diamonds are cast.

No sin, no virtue—no duality remains. Neither sin is seen there nor virtue. Neither pleasure nor pain. In that state, ananda showers—which is beyond pleasure and pain. In your dictionaries, the meaning of ananda is given as pleasure, great pleasure, abundant pleasure. But the difference between pleasure and ananda is not of quantity—little pleasure and more pleasure; the difference is of quality. Ananda is a different phenomenon. There, there is no pleasure—as there is no pain. When both pleasure and pain have gone—then the supreme peace abides. Why? Because the waves of pain cause pain—and the waves of pleasure cause pain as well. You cannot remain in a state of pleasure for long, because pleasure too is an excitement. Look closely. If you were to win a lottery today—it is all right. But if every month or two you keep winning—your heart will fail. Perhaps at the first stroke it will fail. If somehow you survive, then at the second.

I have heard a Russian tale. A tailor, a poor man. His only hobby—each month he buys one lottery ticket. For years he has done it—twenty years have passed. He never won; he no longer even expected to win—but out of habit, when he got his salary, he would buy his monthly ticket. A religious rite now—for him. If it happens it happens; if not, it’s all right.

One evening, a carriage halted at his door; pots full of money were carried in. He was startled. What is this? They said, You have won the lottery. He had won ten lakhs. That night he could not sleep—he who had always slept easily. He tossed and turned; he tried hard to sleep—he could not. Ten lakhs! He began to go mad. The next morning he locked his shop and threw the key into the well: Now what is there to do? It’s over—now we enjoy. And he enjoyed, in exactly the way people conceive of enjoyment: he went to prostitutes; his health collapsed; he never had diseases—now all arrived; he drank; he gambled. Think what you would do if you won ten lakhs—your ideas will line up exactly like his. You too would do what he did—with minor variations: gambling, drinking, prostitutes. What else is pleasure? With the best car, the best house, the best clothes.

Within a year the ten lakhs were finished. Within a year his health was finished, his peace finished. Then he climbed down into the well to find the key—because now he must run his shop again. He had never been so miserable as he now was. He somehow found the key, opened his shop, began tailoring again—but his mind would not settle. Earlier there had been no obstacle—he was a simple man; no big income—no big nuisance. Ordinary life—everything went well. But that one year’s dream of pleasure—that sorrowful dream—had burnt his life to ashes. His mind would not settle.

Now he swore that if the lottery came again he would not take it. But old habits—old taste! That is man’s trouble. You swear—and you go on doing what you have done. He kept buying his monthly ticket. And as months passed and life slowly re-stabilized, work going well, health improving, quiet returning—again the carriage came to his door. He beat his chest: I am ruined! Understand man’s predicament—he cries, I’m ruined!—and yet he cannot refuse. He takes the prize, locks the door, throws the key again into the well. Now he knows it will not even last a year—he will again have to climb down into the well. And he died there, in the well—his body had become too weak; he never came out.

Meditate on this. We know pain is painful—but is pleasure very pleasant? Pleasure too is filled with agitation; it has its own pain, sweet though it may seem. Even a sweet poison is poison. The experience of God is neither pleasure nor pain. It is the experience of peace—the peace whose name is ananda. It differs qualitatively from both pleasure and pain. There is no duality there. There, One alone abides.

…where there is no karma, no time.
There, no action and no doer. No karma, no time—no death; no birth and life. Whatever we have known here—there, none of it remains. All we have known falls silent. The experience is wholly unfamiliar—hence the mind becomes dumbstruck.

There, no price can be set; the mind became dumbstruck.
The priceless jewel—assessing it, the jeweler grew weary.
O people, there is a mint there—where diamonds are cast.

What then is God? The mint—from where all comes. As coins are cast in a mint, so from there all coins come; and to where, again, all coins return and melt.

Have you seen a mint? Coins are cast—and when they grow worn they are returned, melted again; new coins are cast. Mint means: where all coins are made—and where all coins are unmade. Again and again they are cast. Paramatma is the Supreme Source. From there all comes—and to there all returns.

Man, separated from his stock, has donned the robe of the five elements;
Says Dariya: returning to his own home, he found the indescribable Brahman.

Man is estranged from Paramatma because he has identified too much with the form of the five elements. He thinks, I am the body. This body of five elements—that is me. Because of this insistence—I am the body—he has become separate from the Supreme. He has not actually become separate—not for a single moment. How could he? If separate, where could he go? There is no way to be separate—only the illusion arises, I am separate; only a thought, I am separate.

Man, separated from his stock, has donned the robe of the five elements.
Dariya says: Our caste is Brahman—we are Brahman. We are all Paramatma—that is our original caste. Not Brahmin, not Hindu, not Shudra, not Kshatriya, not Vaishya; not Muslim, not Christian. Our caste is Brahman.

Separated from his stock, man has donned the robe of the five elements—and taking this robe to be all, he has become separate.

It happens. When you play a role on stage, for a while you become one with that role. You start to think, I am this. A good actor is the one who is totally lost—who begins to believe, I am this. He shows love toward a woman he has no love for—perhaps even disgust—but he shows love. Tears of joy flow—joy! With rapture he looks toward her; he speaks words of love; every hair seems thrilled with love. It is all acting; it is superficial. But if the actor does not believe it, he will not be a good actor. He believes it completely.

So have we believed. And how many roles have changed! Yet we do not learn. You were small once—a child. If your childhood stood before you today, you would not recognize it as yourself. Yet then you were that. In your mother’s womb—you were only a lump of flesh. Place such a lump before you now and say, This is you—you will say, Are you mad? Yet once, in your mother’s womb, you believed that is you. Later, when young—you believed, I am youth. Later, old—you believed, I am old. Sometimes you succeeded—you believed, I am success; sometimes failed—you believed, I am failure. Sometimes people honored you, lifted you on their shoulders—you felt honored; sometimes they insulted you—threw rotten tomatoes and peels—you believed, I am insulted.

So many roles—and still you do not see: roles change. You must be different from them; you cannot be one with them. If you were only the child, you could never have become young; if only the young, how become old? And if only life—how die? All this flows away. The robe of five elements is a garment—sometimes you wear fine clothes and think you are handsome; sometimes shapeless rags and think you are ugly.

So attached do you become to the clothes, you forget who you are. But you are—you. Your caste is Brahman.

Returning to his own home, he found the indescribable Brahman.
The day your eyes turn away from the garments and you look at yourself; the day you see the elements and drop the disguise—on that day you will find: Returning to his home, he found the indescribable Brahman. He found the Infinite whose limit cannot be drawn—found Him sitting at home, within—his own swarupa.

It cannot be seen by eyes; it cannot be caught by words.
Mind and buddhi do not reach there—who can report what they have seen?

Indescribable, because who will give its sign? Eyes do not see it—eyes see only the outer; the inner—how will they see? Eyes are made for the outside. Whatever you see with eyes cannot be your essence. You are hidden behind the eyes. Like standing at a window looking out—through the window you see outside; you are behind the window. Likewise, you stand behind the eyes—the eyes cannot see you.

You put on spectacles and see the world; now take off the glasses and try to see yourself through the glasses—you cannot. The glasses are dead; likewise the eyes too are instruments. Eyes cannot turn back and see; they only look outward. Ears can hear outer sounds, not the inner. With hands you can touch the outer—how will you touch the inner? Fragrance can come from others—how will you smell your innermost? There the nose is useless.

The senses are all for the outside—doors opening out. No sense turns within. There, only one goes—who leaves all senses and becomes quiet. He closes the eyes, the ears, the nose—this the wise have called gupti, containment. This state is called samyama. The eyes do not see, the ears do not hear, the nose does not smell, the hands do not touch. One withdraws within altogether—like a turtle withdrawing its limbs inside. This turtle-state is the state of the one in Samadhi.

It cannot be seen by eyes; it cannot be caught by words.
Mind and buddhi do not reach there—who can report what they have seen?

The senses do not reach there; mind does not reach there—because mind becomes utterly dumbstruck, stops. And buddhi, intelligence, does not work there either. Cleverness does not help there; smartness becomes foolishness there. One must reach there utterly innocent—dropping all entanglements of intellect, mind, thought, logic. Your cleverness works outside—not there. There, at the very entrance, all this luggage must be left. All the burden must be put down. Weightless alone does one reach.

Mind and buddhi—understand the difference. Mind means the process of thinking—manan. Buddhi means the awareness that watches this process—avareness, sakshi. Now this is a unique sutra. Ordinarily it is said: Be a witness. By becoming a witness, you go beyond mind. Then, beyond witness also one must go—because you cannot be the witness of yourself. How can there be two there? Witness means there is you and that which is witnessed. The sutra of witnessing—what Krishnamurti calls awareness, what the wise call sakshi-bhava—one goes even beyond that.

Dariya says: Mind cannot function there—that is true. Mind cannot go; where thought-smoke remains—you cannot see. If clouds surround, the sun is not seen. That much is right—everyone has said it. But he climbs a step higher: there, even the witness does not go. If only the witness remains—whom will he witness? When only witnessing remains—what is there to witness? Now two do not remain—knower and known have become one; seer and seen have become one. When only One remains—who is the witness, and of whom? Even the witness is gone.

Mind and buddhi do not reach there—who can report what they have seen?

Then how to give news from there—what its form, its color, its taste, its signs? How to bring news? That is why one becomes dumb—like molasses to a dumb tongue. He knows, he recognizes, he experiences—and becomes speechless. And if he speaks, he speaks only of the method—not of God’s characteristics. He tells how he reached; the milestones he met on the way; the kind of path; the landscapes—but the goal itself—he cannot utter. Who can report such a pilgrimage?

Maya does not function there—wherever Brahman plays.
All that is of maya—the senses, eyes, ears, mind, buddhi—belongs to her play.
Where Brahman’s play begins—maya cannot enter.

Tell us, Dariya—how will the sun and the night meet?

A very lovely thing: How will the sun and night meet?

I have heard—once darkness went to God and complained: Tell your sun to stop harassing me. What have I done to him? As far as I remember I have never harmed him—and he is after me as if to ruin me. All day he chases; at night, just as I lie down, in the morning again he arrives. I cannot rest. Even the fatigue of one day is not gone—he appears. This is injustice. I waited thinking: there may be delay, but no darkness. But now there is both—delay and darkness. Centuries have passed—and this sun is still after me. Stop him.

God too felt the reasonableness of it—this poor darkness, what has it done? He called the sun. Why are you chasing darkness? The sun said, What darkness? I do not even recognize him. How can I chase him? We have never met—how can there be enmity? Kindly bring darkness before me. I will see who he is—whom am I chasing? Till now I have not even had an encounter. And they say God is omnipotent—yet even He has been troubled since then. The file still lies pending. He cannot bring darkness before the sun. Unless both plaintiff and defendant stand in His court, how to decide? He may be all-powerful—but even He cannot bring darkness before the sun.

Tell us, Dariya—how will the sun and the night meet?

How will there be a meeting? It will not be. When your inner sun arises—what you called life outside till now—was only darkness; it will not stand before that sun. Your beliefs will melt. Your thoughts will flow away. You will flow away. What you had known till yesterday—will not serve. Root and branch, you will be washed away. And what remains will leave you dumbstruck.

The priceless jewel—assessing it, the jeweler grew weary.
There, no price can be set; the mind became dumbstruck.

Our caste is Brahman; our mother and father are Ram.
Our home is in the Void; in the boundless soundlessness is our rest.

Unprecedented words—tie them in your robe. You will not find a costlier diamond.

Our caste is Brahman; our mother and father are Ram.
Our being has come from Brahman. We have arisen from Him—hence that is our caste. From Him we have arisen—hence He is our mother and father. All other parents are formal; all other castes, merely practical. The real caste is Brahman; the real mother-father is Paramatma.

Our home is in the Void—and our true home is Shunya. All the homes you are building will prove futile. Unless you find the Void, the true home will not be found. Our home is in the Void. Void means: where thoughts have fallen tired; where mind has become unmani, no-mind; where even buddhi has gone—where nothing remains but a pure, silent emptiness. All you knew is absent; all is cleared away—only a naked sky remains—boundless.

Our home is in the Void; in the unbounded the rest.
There are no limits there—unhindered, anhad. Only there is repose. Before that—only distress, restlessness, tension.

Only upon arriving in Shunya does supreme rest happen. Before that you may try a thousand ways—earn wealth, status, relations, lovers, family—it will all be ruined. Build today—tomorrow it is gone. Building—you will suffer; and even if you build—it will be razed; then you will suffer again. As you build here, it begins to crumble there. There is twofold suffering—first the pains of building, then the pains of loss. Thus you pass your days weeping. From one weeping to another—this is all that happens.

You do get a little respite—surely. When you move from one kind of crying to another, tears stop for a bit—between them is a little relief. They say, when carrying a corpse to the cremation ground, people shift the bier from one shoulder to another. A little rest comes—this shoulder was tired, the other is fresh; soon that shoulder too will ache, then back again. Such is your life—like those who carry the bier, shifting shoulders. You only shift shoulders—from one sorrow to another. When you take on the new sorrow, it promises pleasure. In a little while, its true face appears—and sorrow manifests.

For how many lives you have been changing sorrows like this! When will you awaken? When will you seek the home of Shunya? The search for the home of Void is meditation—Dhyana, Samadhi. When will you rest in the unbounded? Or do you intend to labor forever—building and dissolving? Are you happy building sand-castles? Are you happy building houses of cards? For how long will you float paper boats—and sink them? Wake up. Only on reaching the Void does man come home. And that home need not be built; it is already there—within you. Not for one instant have you lost it. Only a turn of vision—and you will find your home of the Void, that Supreme Home—to which one says Nirvana, another Moksha, another Brahman—names differ; the home is of Shunya. If you go knowingly—it will be good.

Last night a youth came from Germany—very frightened. At seventeen, the experience of Shunya happened to him, suddenly. Nothing ever happens without cause—he must have earned much in past lives; for lifetimes he must have sought this Void. The work remained unfinished—the seed remained. In this life the crop came—so in this life it seemed sudden. For a seventeen-year-old to meet the Void—it can cause fear. He had never sought—no yearning; suddenly it happened. He is so frightened; even in telling of it his hands and feet trembled; his head reeled; he felt faint; his eyes closed with fear. He does not want it to happen again. It was a unique happening—yet fear arose. Now, with fear, he is afraid to meditate. He feared to take sannyas—for he felt he once glimpsed a little of Shunya and was so shaken; and here, we speak only of the Void. He is afraid to go—and cannot go either, for though frightened, he also says, What I saw—that alone is the Supreme Truth. But I do not want to know that Supreme Truth again. Then life has no meaning—no purpose in ambition, no point in doing this and that. Shunya is all. So he is both frightened and enchanted; he has explained it to himself in fear.

Looking at him, it became clear to me he must once have belonged to a Buddhist stream. The Buddhists have given great emphasis to Shunya. Now it is a matter of interpretation. In the West no one speaks of Shunya—Christianity fears it, Islam as well. He was born in the West; Christian notions were in his mind. When he met the Void, he was terrified. If he had been born in the East—if Buddha’s breeze had been around him—he would have had another interpretation. Seeing Shunya, he would have danced; it would have happened. Seeing Shunya, he would have said:

The priceless jewel—assessing it, the jeweler grew weary.
There, no price can be set; the mind became dumbstruck.

Then his dance would never stop; songs would pour endlessly. But he missed; interpretation obstructed; interpretation frightened him. In the West, people think Shunya equals the Devil. Shunya—synonymous with Satan. They have not understood Shunya; they think it negative, a nothing. Shunya is everything; Shunya is Brahman-bhava. Shunya is not a nothing.

But I understand that youth’s fear. Somehow we coaxed him into sannyas; we will coax him into meditation. Next time, when the Void comes, he will be prepared. This time the Void will not unhinge him; this time it will give supreme health; this time his recognition of Shunya will become just this:

Our caste is Brahman; our mother and father are Ram.
Our home is in the Void; in the unbounded the rest.

And once rest in the unbounded has come—then wherever you live, let a thousand worlds make noise around you—no ripple reaches within. You remain unrippled. You have arrived home. You are wed to the Eternal.

Meditate on these sutras. They are not for intellectual debate—they are for meditation. Pause on each word. Taste each word. With closed eyes, dive within. Be engrossed with each word. With each word, leave a little mind behind. Become a little unmani with each word. Be filled with the thrill of wonder with each word—gooseflesh. With each word, leave knowledge—and descend into innocent not-knowing. With each word, drop your identification with body and senses—so that slowly your recognition with the Brahman within is restored; recognition again. It is a re-discovery of Brahman—because He has never been lost. He is present—waiting for you. Whenever you wish—come home. You will find Him sitting there at home.

Our home is in the Void; in the unbounded the rest.

Enough for today.