Kano Suni So Juth Sab #7

—The definition of saintliness. The exposition of sannyas.

In truth, sannyas cannot be explained. Sannyas is a matter of experience. Yet those who have not gone into the invisible, who have not moved into the unfathomable, need the support of words; they need a few indications.

A finger pointing to the moon is not the moon, yet it does point toward the moon. And for one who has never lifted his eyes toward the moon, those fingers are a help—though let no one, even by mistake, think that the finger raised toward the moon is the moon. Where is the moon in the finger? How could the moon be in the finger? Yet the finger can indicate the far-off moon in the sky.

Today’s aphorisms are great indications. Milestones. If rightly understood, they can become resting places on your endless pilgrimage.

The first sutra:

Dariya: What is the sign of a sadhu? What householder, what robe.

What is the mark of a sadhu? Whether one is in the house or outside, it makes no difference—what householder, what robe. Whether one is a renunciate, whether one wears ochre garments—none of this makes any difference. Whether one is in the home or in a temple, it makes no difference. Whether one is in the marketplace or on the Himalayas, it makes no difference. Where one is makes no difference; what one is does. What does clothing have to do with it? How can garments make a difference? What kind of inner being is there, what flow of consciousness, what awareness?

Neither robes make a difference, nor leaving home and hearth, nor abandoning market and shop, nor leaving wife and children. These are deceptions. He who wanted to create a distinction by these means has fallen into great stupidity. You can run away from house and home, but how will you drop the mind that clung to house and home? The mind will go with you. And if the mind goes with you, you will set up a home somewhere again. If the mind goes with you, you will again start grasping something. The foundation of grasping is within you.

You are not in the world because of wife, nor because of husband. You are in the world because your mind cannot be alone. In aloneness, you are frightened. In aloneness, darkness closes in. You need someone’s company—and so the world. If you leave the wife, what difference will it make? You will find some other company. Company you will have to seek. The mind sitting within you, afraid of being alone, unwilling to be alone, says, “Let someone be with me, some companion; how can I walk alone the path of life?”

Because there is no courage to walk alone, there is the world. The world is not because of the world; the world is because there is no courage to be alone. Therefore, whether there is a wife and children or not—if you agree to be alone, the world is dissolved. The wife may be sitting beside you, yet there is no wife. The husband may sit by you, yet there is no husband. The husband’s presence is not in his being there; his presence is in your desire that someone be with you, some companion. It is in the weakness that says, “I alone am not enough. Alone, I will fall into sorrow. My happiness depends on another”—in this is the world. “From another I can get happiness. How will I be happy alone?” Then it does not matter who the other is. Replace A and it will be B, replace B and it will be C. But some other will remain present. And as long as the other is necessary, so long the world remains.

Dariya: What is the sign of a sadhu?

Dariya says: What householder, what robe. Whether in the house or outside, worldly or renunciate—no difference at all.

Nishkapati, nirasanka, within and without one.

Then by what does difference arise? By being without deceit. Deceit means one thing is inside, another is shown outside. Something else is hidden within. “Ram” on the lips—the name of God is on the lips. The lips repeat Ram; the armpit holds a knife. One thing inside, another outside. Between the inner and the outer there is not even difference, there is opposition. Inside there is sorrow; outside you smile. Then there is deceit. Inside there is a smile; outside tears fall—then also deceit.

Deceit means there is duality between inside and outside, a split. Inside and outside are divided into two separate compartments, not integrated—then deceit has happened. And the deceitful suffer much. The wonder is that they suffer in the hope that deceit might bring happiness. But happiness is never found through falsehood. If happiness could be had from falsehood, then even squeezing sand oil would drip. Happiness does not come from falsehood. Happiness is the shadow of truth. Happiness blossoms in naturalness. And how will the deceitful be natural? He wants to keep the whole world in delusion; ultimately, he himself falls into delusion. The pits you dig for others—into them you will fall. You will suffer greatly.

Suffering exists in the world because we have not understood the essence of happiness. The essence of happiness is spontaneity; the essence of misery is deceit. Sahaj means inner and outer are one. As it is within, so it is without. Read him from the outside and you have read his soul. You will not find a grain of difference between his inner and outer.

Small children have such spontaneity. That’s why one mark of the saints has always been said: they again become like small children. A child gets angry and he will express his anger. He will stamp his feet, break a toy, bang his head against the wall. In that small moment, flames of anger rise in the child as if he would destroy the whole world. And a moment later the anger has come and gone—clouds came and poured. He sits in your lap, happy, speaking love. You know: when he was angry, he was totally in anger; and now, when he is in love, he is totally in love. Wherever a small child is, he is total—that is his spontaneity.

Hence there is a beauty on children’s faces that disappears from the faces of grownups. The beauty on adult faces is lost because the adult has not one face. He has many faces—faces upon faces; masks upon masks. Not one or two faces—you carry God knows how many faces. You keep spare faces with you: who knows when and where what will be needed. A thousand times in a day you change faces.

When you meet your boss in the office, you wear one face. When you look at your servant, another face. It may even be that the servant stands on one side and the boss on the other: on one side you show one face, on the other another face. Toward the boss a smile, toward the servant indifference, neglect. You have never recognized a soul in the servant. So when the servant enters your room and you are reading the newspaper, you continue to read as if no one has come, no one has gone. A servant—he is not counted among men, nor among souls! You sit indifferent, as if neither has anyone entered the room nor anyone left. Toward the wife you have one face, toward the beloved another. Toward children one face, toward elders another. One face for your own, another for strangers.

Walk some day along the road and count the number of your faces: how many times you change them. The person from whom you need something, from whom you have some use—how you meet him; with what loving demeanor! And this is the same person at whom you did not even raise your eyes yesterday. Yesterday there was no use. And this is the same person toward whom tomorrow you will again not raise your eyes—when the use is gone.

Do you see? When the politician comes to you to take your vote, how he becomes the servant at your feet! It seems as if his life has been made for your service. Once he reaches power, he will not even recognize you; he will not even raise his eyes toward you. He has nothing to do with you now. And do not think this is only the politician’s story—this is yours too. This is everyone’s story.

Deceit means hypocrisy. Deceit means many faces. And in those many faces your original face is lost. The face God gave you—you cannot find it amidst this crowd of faces. You cannot even recognize it. Even before a mirror you not only deceive others; you deceive yourself. Standing before a mirror you also deceive yourself. The deception has become so deep, mixed into the blood, entered bone, flesh and marrow, that even before a mirror you are not what you are.

Nishkapati—without a face. Or only one face, the one God gave you.

Zen masters say to their seekers: find the original face—the face you had before you were born, in your mother’s womb. Then there could be no hypocrisy, for in the mother’s womb there is neither giving nor taking; no meeting or mingling; no master, no servant. There is no expansion of life there, no entanglement. The face you had for nine months in the mother’s belly—there would not be a single line of deception upon it. There was no one to deceive. Find that face.

Taking off masks is the essential condition of meditation.

On the day harmony settles in meditation, suddenly there is a glimpse of your real face. It is incomparable. There is no comparison for its beauty. That face is not yours—it is God’s own face. Your faces are those you have made. There is one more face with you, which you did not make—that alone is real. Say rather, only that is truly yours. The faces you made are not yours.

So Dariya says:

Dariya: What is the sign of the sadhu? What householder, what robe.

Nishkapati—without deceit; nirasank—without doubt; within and without one…

He whose doubt has vanished, who has attained to Shraddha—only he is a sadhu.

Understand Shraddha. Whatever we do in life, doubt remains. We go on doing, and doubt remains inside. Therefore we can never do anything with our whole body-mind. We never do anything in totality. How can you be total when there is doubt? Even as you do, one part of the mind keeps saying, “You are doing wrong.” And it is not only when you do wrong that the mind says this—it says the same when you do right. This is the habit of the mind. The nature of the mind is never to be undivided; it remains divided.

Go to steal—then the mind says, “Ah! You are stealing. No shame? No scruple? What are you doing? Don’t do it.” Don’t think the mind is your friend when it says so at the time of theft. It is just the mind’s habit. Whatever you do…

Start giving alms—and this mind says, “What are you doing? What foolishness! Those days of giving are gone. And that fellow is a cheat, the one you’re giving to. Don’t be deceived. Don’t fall into the talk of such tricksters. This increases beggary in the world. This way man searches for ways to eat without working. You, a wise man, and you give alms?”

Do not think that the mind only stops you when you do bad; the mind’s tendency is to doubt. Whatever you do, the mind will doubt. As leaves grow on trees, so doubts grow on the mind. The mind is a doubter.

Shraddha is not a part of the mind. Shraddha means you have set the mind aside. You have said, “Do not create conflict. Let me be free of contradiction. Let me do at least something in life where I am wholly, wholly present—where there is neither yes nor no. Where there is no debate—let me do at least something. Let me love without debate. Let me pray without debate at least. Let me sit without debate at least for a while at someone’s feet, in some temple, some mosque, some gurudwara—somewhere, for a little while, do not divide me. Leave me undivided for a little. Do not cut me to pieces.” Those few moments that are uncut in your life, unbroken—that is where Shraddha arises.

Shraddha is the fragrance of undivided consciousness.

Sometimes it happens. And whenever it happens, you are very near to God. Then you are a sadhu. If you ask me, even in ordinary life sometimes such a thing happens—you do not notice it. If you pay attention, great secrets will open; the key will be in your hand.

Sometimes in the morning, at dawn—the redness in the east, the sun rising, the birds chirping…the fresh air of morning, the rest of the night, your eyes freshly open—you have looked anew at life. This web of rays, these waves of the sea, this music of morning, this freshness—and for a moment inside you there is neither yes nor no, no doubt. Beauty unparalleled surrounds you. For a moment you are filled with Shraddha—though you never called it Shraddha; understand this, therefore you go on missing. For a moment Shraddha is born. In that very Shraddha you are closest to God.

Thus those who discovered “sun salutation” discovered it because of this Shraddha. Seeing the morning sun, Shraddha arose—what else to do but bow? Those who sang the praise of Brahmamuhurta did so for the same reason. After a night’s rest, after diving into deep sleep—because when deep sleep happens and dreams are gone, you reach the very place where the sadhu reaches in Samadhi. For you become undivided. In deep sleep, when even the waves of dream are not there—where are you? You are in Shraddha, for you are undivided. No divider remains—the politician-mind that always divided you, and by dividing you ruled, breaking you in two and thereby becoming your master, setting the two parts upon each other and weakening you—he is gone. In deep sleep you become whole.

Therefore unfortunate are those who cannot fall into sushupti. All night they toss and turn, sunk in dreams. In the morning they find themselves even more tired—more than when they went to bed. They did not touch sushupti. They did not get that small companionship with God in unconsciousness which nature has given. In consciousness there is no connection with God; even in unconsciousness it is broken. Hence the insomniac is pitiable. Nature at least grants so much: if in twenty-four hours you cannot go to God while awake, there is no harm—but in the deep night, in deep sleep, for a little while do go. You will not have awareness, but dipping into that primal source will bring its benefit. Therefore after deep sleep, at first waking, there is something different in you. When for the first time you open your eyes after deep sleep, there is a little Shraddha—that is why all religions say: pray in the morning, at dawn.

By evening you are so divided by the world, so filled with weariness by deceiving and being deceived, that you are shattered. How will you pray? It will be very difficult. The day’s dishonesties and intrigues will break you so that by evening you are scattered. Where Shraddha, where doubtlessness, where wholeness! Someone deceived you—its sting; you deceived someone—its sting; someone you could not deceive—its sting. A thousand thorns have pricked.

That is why you see beggars come in the morning, not in the evening. They know: who will give in the evening? In the evening even the beggar fears that if he asks someone he may snatch away even what he has. By evening people are half mad. In the morning beggars come; in the morning there is some trust that a man will not snatch. In the morning perhaps a little compassion, a little kindness, a little Shraddha—so he may give, may share. Evening is difficult. By evening everyone becomes a bandit.

It is no surprise that when you return home in the evening, quarrels erupt inevitably with your wife. Tired from the bazaar, you are not in your senses; there is no Shraddha within. And love or prayer—both are limbs of Shraddha. On the other side, the wife, sitting all day, is also weary: children, servants, the electricity failing, the phone broken—she too is tired; her God is fragmented. As yours is fragmented. These two fragmented persons meet in the evening and fill with anger toward each other.

A new breeze is rising in the West; there is substance in it. People have not yet seen it in this way; perhaps even those moving in it do not know. In the whole history of humanity, man and woman have made love at night. But in America a new wind is rising: love in the morning. Even psychologists there are not yet clear what is happening. But by evening, the possibility for love has gone thin. Now it is only possible in the morning. There a little Shraddha remains; there a little possibility remains of being with one another. For one is with another only when one is with oneself, when within oneself a wave rises of peace, silence, joy—then alone can you give love or receive it. Only then can we, for a little, drown into one another. To drown into the other is also to drown into God. It is to catch the ear from the other side, but it is the ear nonetheless. Drowning into the other we drown only into ourselves. Morning has value because in the morning there is less doubt. In the morning the mind is more ready to say “yes,” less ready to say “no.”

Examine your life: in the morning you will say yes to many things; to those very things by evening you may not be able to say yes. And by evening, in the matters you say no to, consider—had someone asked you in the morning, you might have said yes. By evening everyone becomes a non-believer. “No” starts arising. “No” means nastika. The insistence upon no comes by evening. In the morning everyone is astika; “yes” comes naturally; there is no hindrance.

Dariya: What is the sign of the sadhu? What householder, what robe.

Nishkapati, nirasank—within and without one.

So two marks are told: that there be no deceit in his life, and no doubt in his life. Shraddha be unbroken. His inner personality undivided—within and without one. Only such a person is within and without one.

Thus there are two kinds of fragmentation—hence two marks are given. One fragmentation is that the outside is different, the inside different. This is one kind of split; we call it hypocrisy. One direction split: outward something, inward something else.

The second kind of split is: it is not only that the outside is something and the inside another; even within you there is not one—there are many. Then there are more fragments. Then within you there is a crowd. You are not an undivided person; you are a crowd. Within you there is a clamor. It is in this clamor that we live. Freedom from this clamor is what is called “sadhu.” An unparalleled definition, a deep indication toward the sadhu.

Sat Shabd from the Sat Guru’s mouth—do not mistake it for an elephant’s tusk. That breaks fortress gates; this breaks endless karma.

Sat Shabd, Sat Gurmukhi…

If someone sits in such Shraddha, with the heart of a sadhu, and listens to the Guru’s word—only then can it be heard, remember. In doubt, the Guru’s word cannot be heard. With doubt there is no bridge to the Guru. The doubter withdraws every bridge through his own doubt. Only the doubtless can be joined to the Guru. If you are split between outside and inside, how will you be joined?

You go and bow your head at the Guru’s feet, but your ego stands rigid behind you—then you are different inside and out. Your skull bows, your body bows, but the ego-mind stands stiff. If along with the head the real head bows—the ego bows—then the connection happens. In that very moment the meeting happens. Being with the Guru cannot happen in the hour of debate. There must be an hour of dialogue—when the Guru’s heart and your heart beat together. If you are beating separately, dancing separately, thinking separately, the relationship cannot happen. When your wave and the Guru’s wave become one, when you keep not even a shred of unfriendliness, not even a trace of enmity—debate carries enmity. Debate means: I must protect my own. Who knows where this man will take me? I must keep my own accounts. What suits me I will accept; what does not suit me I will not accept.

Generally this is our condition: what suits me I will accept. But do you know truth? If you knew, what need to accept anyone’s word? It is as if you are ill and go to the physician and say, “I will take the medicine that suits me.” You have the freedom of choice—choose the physician you want. Before choosing you are free—to go to A or B or C. You can catch hold of Buddha, or Mohammed, or Nanak, or Kabir, or Dariya—you are free. The physicians are many; there is no dearth. Choose the physician—but once you choose, then you have to join your wave to his. Then it is not a matter of keeping accounts: “This medicine I will take, that I will not take. This much dose I will take, that much I will not.” Once the Guru is chosen, then surrender. If there is no such surrender, the Guru’s word will bear no fruit.

Sat Shabd, Sat Gurmukhi…

What comes from the Guru’s mouth is truth—param satya. It is powerful—

…more powerful than the tusks of the rutting elephant that batter down the gates of the greatest fortresses.

The Guru’s true words are more powerful than that drunken elephant. They can topple your darkness. But—the breaking depends on you. Only if you receive will the revolution happen. Only if you accept will the revolution happen.

The elephant can break only the gate; but the Guru’s word can break the whole arrangement you have built for lifetimes, what you call life—which is not life, worse than death. What you call your house—not your home but a great prison. The fort you have raised around yourself in which you have trapped yourself—suffering, tormented, writhing. The web you have woven around yourself and in which you are entangled—the elephant can break only the outer gate; the Guru’s intoxication is deeper. He is drunk on the wine of God.

An elephant is given liquor when a gate has to be broken. Without drink, he will not batter a gate. He will think a thousand times; doubt will arise; he will calculate. The fort gate has spears set upon it. To bang the head against such spears—preparation is needed. The elephant will be afraid. First he is given drink; drunk, he no longer cares—for spears or danger. He will charge.

The Sadguru has drunk the wine of God; therefore he grapples with you—otherwise he would not. Your fort is ancient, its spears are long. To clash with you is possible only for the intoxicated—those whose arithmetic has dropped, who have thrown away all accounting, all logic. Those drowned in such drunkenness alone will collide with you; they alone can break you open. If you meet such an intoxicated one—great fortune. For with the help of the intoxicated you can come out; otherwise you will not come out. Clever men will avoid you. The trickster will say, “Why get entangled? Your fort is great—built by karmas of many births.”

This breaks fortress gates; that breaks karma without end.

The Guru grapples—but only because he holds truth.

Tusks remain—without the elephant no gate is ever broken.

Do you see? The tusk can break the gate, but do not think that if you carry the tusk alone the gate will open. The elephant must be behind it; otherwise if you go with the tusk and knock at the gate, nothing will open.

Tusks remain—without the elephant no gate is ever broken.

Then no gate opens, no wall falls. What will be the fate of the tusk alone?

Either some woman will wear it as adornment—

—or it will become a toy for children.

Dariya says: only by the Sadguru’s word does the fort break when behind it there is self-experience. The elephant must be behind—the Divine must be behind. From a pundit it will not break. The pundit speaks the very words the Sadguru speaks. In the words there is no difference. The pundit has only the tusk—no elephant. The Sadguru has the elephant behind. That intoxicated God is with him. He has joined himself to God. Now he is not alone.

I have heard: the Christian fakir, Mother Teresa, wished to build a church. She gathered the village and said, “A church must be built—the greatest church to Jesus in this village.” People laughed: “We are poor. How will a church be built? Have you found some treasure, Teresa?” She said, “Yes, I have. Look.” She took out two coins from her pocket. People laughed: “We always suspected that your mind is not sound; now you are utterly mad. Build the world’s greatest church with two coins?” She said, “You only see the two coins; you do not see the God standing with me. Two coins are enough to begin; the rest—God will take care.”

People laughed, but the church was built. The world’s great church stands there. Built on the strength of two coins. But what Teresa said was lovely: “You see only two coins. You do not see the God standing within me. I speak of that treasure. The two coins are Teresa’s—her property. And God’s wealth—how vast! Add that, and the church will be built.”

Abu Bakr writes in the memoirs of Mohammed: both were fleeing from enemies and took shelter in a cave. The enemies followed; Abu Bakr trembled. The hoofbeats came closer. He perspired; Mohammed sat utterly serene. Abu Bakr said, “Why do you sit calm? The last hour approaches. If any prayer to God is to be made, make it now. This breath is only for a little while. The hoofbeats are drawing near. We are two—and the enemies are thousands.”

Mohammed said, “There you err: we are not two; we are three. Count correctly.” Abu Bakr looked carefully: perhaps in fear he had miscounted. He saw only two. “Are you in your senses, Hazrat? In fear, are you not counting ‘three’ for ‘two’?” Mohammed said, “You do not count God, who is always with us. We are three—two, and one God. Let there be thousands of enemies—fear not. The presence of that One is enough.” As Mohammed spoke, the sound of hooves began to fade; they turned upon another path. Shortly the hoofbeats ceased. The enemies went far away.

Tusks remain—without the elephant no gate is ever broken.

With the tusk alone the gate does not break; behind it the elephant is needed. Not a commonplace elephant, but intoxicated; drunk; bathed in wine. Hair to hair soaked in wine—then it breaks.

Either some woman will wear it as adornment—

—or it will become a child’s toy.

To roam about with only the tusk—this is what those do who roam with scriptures alone: tusks only. This is what those do who go on discussing doctrines without any self-experience, without any Self-realization, who talk about God without ever meeting His eyes. Who have not tasted even a drop of Samadhi, and write scholarly expositions on Samadhi. Who have never entered prayer and write books on prayer—beware of them.

Either some woman will wear it as adornment—

—or it will become a child’s toy.

No greater value than this. Empty words have no value at all.

And remember: empty words look exactly like full words. In words there is no difference. The tusks are the same—whether there is an elephant behind or not. If you only look at the tusk, how will you differentiate? In both cases it is tusk. If you have the tusk chemically analyzed, both will yield the same analysis.

Dariya speaks; a pundit speaks—if you take both to a linguist to analyze, he will say the languages are similar, both are saying the same. They are not saying the same—though they use similar words. The matter is very different.

You can teach a parrot, and it will speak. But when a parrot speaks, it is only tusk; there is no elephant behind. The parrot has no sense of meaning. It merely repeats. It merely imitates. In a Hindu house the parrot will be taught: “Ram-Ram, Hare Ram”—and it will speak so. Do not think the parrot has become a Hindu. In a Muslim house it would say “Allah-Allah.” In a Christian house, something else. In a Jain house, it would recite the Namokar Mantra. That is all the parrot is. The parrot has nothing to do with it.

The sad part is that among men many are parrots. The pundit is a parrot—tusk only. Do not be deceived by his tusks. Dariya says: seek a Sadguru—in whom there is intoxication; where a stream of rasa flows through words; where behind the words stands the wordless. And if such a Guru is found, then join him without doubt. Then, without deceit, become one with him. Then gather courage. Then dare. Religion is a gambler’s trade. It is not for the weak, for accountants and shopkeepers who tally every coin. Those forever calculating two plus two will never be religious. It belongs to those ready to leap: “Either this shore or that.”

My footprints are still bewildered upon these sands;
For years I have sifted the dust of these roads.
When the time came, those lords I trusted turned out worse than beggars;
For years I had admired their magnificence.
Becoming a chain, these very arms choke my throat;
For years I had waited for these embraces.
Whether that one softens by their warmth or not—
For years I have stoked the fire with these sighs.
Becoming a chain, these very arms choke my throat;
For years I had waited for these embraces.

You are entangled in many places. The very arms for whose embrace you waited for years—have become your chains, your noose. The wealth you thought would make you rich—has made you poor. The position you thought would lift you to the sky—has made you a beggar. The knowledge you thought would give you truth—has turned you into a parrot. And the sects, temples, mosques with which you connected, thinking they would give you the way—because of them, even if the way was possible, it has become difficult.

Becoming a chain, these very arms choke my throat;
For years I had waited for these embraces,
For years I had waited for these embraces.

Awaken a little. Begin to understand a little. The road does not pass through dead temples; a living Guru is needed. The path is not found in books; a throbbing heart is needed.

But there are reasons we connect more easily with dead books. The reason is clear: a dead book does not change you—cannot change you. There is safety. You keep the Quran, the Guru Granth, the Vedas, the Bible. What will the Bible do to you? You offer two flowers—that too is your whim: if you offer, you offer; if not, not. What will the Bible do to you? You read it sometimes, flip here and there, draw the meanings you wish.

The book becomes your slave. How will it change you? You change the book. Therefore people worship books. The dead Guru is worshiped for thousands of years. Buddha has been gone two and a half thousand years—his worship continues. When he was alive, these very people ran away from him, for the living Buddha is fire. Go near the living Buddha and you will burn. And burning you will be refined; your dross will be burned and your gold will be pure. Therefore people worship ash and avoid fire. Ash is safe; ash gives great security.

Yesterday a youth told me, “When I am far away in Germany, I miss you greatly and you feel very dear to me. For twenty-four hours I remain soaked in your rasa. When I come here, fear arises. I begin to tremble to come near you. A thousand thoughts create obstacles. I am perplexed. What is this? It has happened two or three times. When I return to Germany everything becomes alright. The moment I come here, trouble starts.”

Understand his perplexity—it is the perplexity of many. In Germany there is no hindrance: you are so far from the fire that only a picture remains in your mind—a picture of the fire, of your own making. You color it as you like. The picture of fire will not burn you. Who fears to go near a picture of fire? People can hang the picture in their hearts. But to go near fire—there will be fear, trembling.

I told him, “This is significant: when you are far, you make whatever meaning you want from my words; then I am in your hands. When you come near me, you are in my hands—and there is the obstacle.”

Therefore the dead Guru is honored; the living Guru is criticized, condemned, opposed. Those who are dead were once living; then, too, you did the same.

The doctrinaire never knows the one who knows That.
The sun has risen; the owl calls it night.

A lovely saying.

Doctrinaires do not know the talk of the knower-of-That.

Doctrine means attachment to theory. Doctrine means insistence upon words without experience—“my Quran is right, my Gita is right.” And you know nothing about rightness. You have never had a vision of the Right. You have never opened your eyes for that connection. You never had the courage to connect with the Right. “My Quran is right, my Gita is right”—you fight and argue. Doctrinaire! Beware of doctrine—it will become your chain.

Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Sikh, Jain, Buddhist—all are afflicted with chains. Different names—but chains all the same. If you are Hindu, go try to step into a mosque—you will find the chain on your foot. If you want to test it, being a Hindu try to go into a Muslim mosque—you will suddenly find your feet stopped. Something from behind holds you back. What stops you? It is not visible. A subtle chain on the foot does not let you enter the mosque. The temple pulls you in; the mosque stops you. If somehow you manage to go, your hands and head will not wish to bow. You will remain stiff. Who is stopping you? A chain is there—very invisible.

You will not be able to place your head at the feet of a Muslim fakir. “A Muslim—and I place my head? And I, a Brahmin, or a Jain—pure vegetarian—and he a meat-eater! Place my head at his feet? He a mlechchha, and you pure—place your head at his feet?” Something will stop you. And the man before you may be an awakened one, yet you will not see him because first you must judge other things. If you are a Jain, you will bow your head even at the feet of a hypocritical Jain monk, and you will not be able to bow at the feet of a real Muslim fakir. This shows the chain. The same with the Muslim—he will bow at the feet of a hypocrite faqir, a juggler, and at the feet of a Jain muni where true tapas burns—he will be stuck. Suddenly he finds all eagerness lost. There is no desire to bow. Is this your desire—or the desire of your chains? You think you are free? If you were free, you would see what is there.

The Hindus did not see Mahavira—he walked on this very land. In Hindu scriptures there is not even a mention of Mahavira. Such a man—and not even a mention! Such neglect!

The Jains have consigned Krishna to hell in their scriptures—because in their reckoning he caused the Mahabharat war. Arjuna was going to become a sannyasin. Arjuna was preparing to be a Jain muni. He said, “I will leave; to commit violence, to kill my own, I cannot.” So Krishna persuaded him, coaxed him, feeding him the Gita. The poor man tried to run, but they would not let him; somehow they drew him into violence. Millions died—who is responsible? So the Jains have placed Krishna in the seventh hell. There is no lower hell, so the seventh it is. And not for a few days—but for a long time. When this creation dissolves, then he will be released.

The doctrinaire will not see a consciousness like Krishna, nor like Mahavira. The Jews crucified Christ. He was born in a Jewish home, but said such novel things that the pundits were disturbed. The rabbis could not digest him. Their seats began to shake. He had to be hanged—crucified. The Jewish son was killed by Jewish fathers. He had no great age—at thirty-three Jesus was hung upon the cross. The fire must have been strong—blazing. The entire establishment trembled—the entrenched interests.

The doctrinaire never knows the one who knows That.

Dariya says: do not become doctrinaire; or you will not understand the one who knows the Tattva. The knower-of-That does not speak of dogmas; he speaks of experience, of realization. He has no taste for petty quarrels of language, for beliefs, doctrines, scriptures. The Tattvavadi has one taste only: that which is—know it. That which is—as it is—know it. Philosopies made by man have no worth. Your eyes must be free of all philosophies.

The body is smeared all over with the dust of scriptures and learning.

Dariya says: on your limbs has gathered dust—of sastra and gyan. Find a Guru who can wash it away. Find a Guru in whose rain of nectar your dust may be cleansed. The Sadguru is he who frees you from the dust of scriptures, from insistence on words; who makes your eyes clear as a mirror—so that what is begins to be reflected.

The doctrinaire never knows the talk of the knower-of-That.

If you go to the Guru with dogma, you will not understand. There the trouble starts: he is the knower of Tattva, and you are busy with the babble of doctrine.

I went to a village. Two old men came to me—neighbors. One was a Jain, one a Brahmin. They said, “Now that you have come, good. We want to ask one thing. We are childhood friends; seventy or seventy-five years old. From childhood we have argued; we are neighbors. We have exhausted ourselves. I am Jain, he is Brahmin. He says God created the world; I say no one created it. There is no creator. It has come rolling from beginningless time; no maker. We are tired of debating; our families are fed up. When we sit, people slip away: ‘Now their chatter starts.’ We cannot sit together without a quarrel arising. Decide for us—who is right?”

I said, “If you will listen to me, both of you are wrong.” They said, “How is that? Of the two, one must be right. Either someone created, or no one created. How can both be wrong?” I said, “Listen: both are wrong because you are both doctrinaires. I am not saying your doctrine is wrong and his right; or his wrong and yours right. I am not talking of doctrine at all: doctrine is wrong. You are both wrong because neither has seen the Tattva. What are you quarreling about? Have you seen?” The first said, “No; I have not.” I asked the other: “Have you seen?” He said, “I cannot say I have seen—how lie before you? I have not seen.” I said, “Two blind men are quarreling about the nature of light.”

Ramakrishna used to tell a story; I told it to them. A blind man was invited by friends; they cooked kheer. He loved it; first time he had it. He asked, “What is kheer like? It feels delightful—explain something.” A village pundit nearby said, “Kheer? It is utterly white—like pure white clothing.” The blind man said, “Don’t create confusion. I am blind. What is ‘white’?” But pundits do not lose—“White? Have you seen a heron? Exactly like a heron’s whiteness.” The blind man said, “You are confusing me more. One question stood; now two more: what is ‘white’? what is ‘heron’?” But the pundit, being a pundit, said, “This ‘heron’ is a bother. Put your hand on my hand.” He curved his hand like a heron’s neck: “Feel this. A heron’s neck is like this.” The blind man rejoiced: “Now I understand—kheer is like a bent hand. Now I understand.”

Doctrine is like this: speaking of what we do not know, which we cannot know because the doors of experience are closed.

It was difficult to explain to the two that both are wrong. They kept saying, “One must be wrong; how both?” They said, “You have increased our trouble. So far we thought one is right and one wrong; some day the decision would come. You say both are wrong.”

Doctrine is wrong. If you are Christian as a doctrinaire—you are wrong. If you are Hindu as a doctrinaire—you are wrong. If you are Muslim as a doctrinaire—you are wrong. Become a tattvavadi. Dariya speaks a high truth. He says: see what is; experience it; realize it.

I would lay down my life in longing—that is within my heart;
But what can I do—when the dagger is in the killer’s grip.
Now the mad heart will not be soothed by your garden;
Today it holds a thirst for wandering.
Of what use whether I be in the garden or the desert—
Wherever You hold your gathering, my heart is in that gathering.
In the depths lies the Pearl of Love—and you,
You keep imagining it hangs upon the hem of the shore.
Call it simplicity or call it cleverness—
We tell them frankly what lies in our heart.
In search of Whom every path is amazed—
Tear is His destination, and the tear is in that destination.
Let calamities every time fling me far from the way—
Where can the Goal go, when life itself is the Goal.

Understand. Truth is not far. Truth is exactly before the eyes. Why “before”? Truth is in the eye itself. Why in the eye? It is behind the eye as well. Only truth is. That which is—that is truth.

Let calamities fling you every time away from the path—
No difference. However much we forget truth, it changes nothing.

Let calamities fling you every time away from the way—
Where can the Goal go, when life itself is the Goal.

God is not far. From Him we cannot go far. It is only a matter of opening the eyes and seeing.

Where can the Goal go, when life itself is the Goal.

We wander, yet we wander in God. With eyes closed we stand before truth with eyes closed. But we cannot be far from truth.

Doctrine helps keep the eyes closed. Doctrine creates the illusion: “I know.” This is the greatest illusion doctrine creates. You read a book, a scripture, understand a theory, learn logic—and an illusion arises: “I know.” And you do not know even a bit. Nor is the one of whom you claim knowledge far away; he stands before you. But if your eyes are clogged with doctrine and words, you will not see.

In the depths of the sea lies the Pearl of Love—and you
Keep thinking it hangs upon the hem of the shore.

The mind keeps whispering we will meet upon the shore—on the bank of words and theories. Surfing the surface, floating upon the shallows—we will meet with that.

In the depths lies the Pearl of Love—and you…

But those who must find diamonds, who must find pearls—must dive deep into the ocean. Doctrine keeps one stuck on the shore.

The doctrinaire is like those drunkards one night. They drank deep in the tavern. It was a full-moon night. Suddenly they felt the urge—let us go to the river; let us row a boat. They went. The fishermen, having tied their boats, had gone. They got into a boat and started rowing. They rowed and rowed and rowed. Near dawn, when cool winds began and a little sobriety returned, one said, “Brother, step down upon the bank and see where we have reached. North or south, up or down—what journey has happened? Step down, and see how far we have come. Now let us go home. Wives and children must be waiting.”

One got down on the bank—and burst into laughter, laughing like a madman. “Why do you laugh?” “We are standing exactly where we were—because we forgot to untie the chain with which the boat is tied to the bank. Rowing alone does not take one anywhere. The chain must be opened too. Don’t worry—get down. Let us go home. All night the labor was in vain; we rowed hard.”

Such is the doctrinaire: he thinks hard, rows his oar mightily—but when the eyes open you find the chain was never opened. The chain is thought. As long as thought is within you, Tattva will not be seen. In the thoughtless mind is the vision of Tattva.

Of what use whether I be in the garden or the desert—
Wherever You hold Your gathering, my heart is in that gathering.

Cease trying to be Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jain, Buddhist, Sikh. This whole assembly is His—the entire existence is His. You are His—remain His.

Wherever You hold Your gathering, my heart is in that gathering.

Where God lives and wakes—He is green in trees, red in flowers, cloud in the clouds, bird in the birds, stone in the stones, river in the rivers—this is His assembly. Man in men, woman in women, child in children—this is His assembly. All these waves are His. Do not set up limits in this. If you set up limits, how will you reach the limitless? If you make a boundary, how will you go to the unbounded? With a boundary, your boat remains tied to the shore.

The doctrinaire does not know the knower-of-That.
The sun has risen; the owl counts it night.

When the sun rises, the owl feels darkness has come—such is the plight of the doctrinaire.

One day it happened: on the gulmohar nearby, early morning, I saw an owl. Morning was approaching; the owl sat there, and a squirrel also sat there. The squirrel was delighted, filled with freshness of the morning. The owl asked her, “Daughter, the night is coming on—will this be a good place to rest?” The squirrel said, “Uncle, what are you saying? Night? The sun is rising.” The owl was annoyed: “Small mouth, big talk! It is night. Who says the sun is rising? The sun has set.”

The owl sees only in the night. When he sees, naturally it is day; when he does not see, it is night.

The doctrinaire sees only in words, thoughts, doctrines—he has taste for these. What the Vedas say, what the Quran says, what the Bible says—he is tangled in this. This is his day. The doctrinaire’s day is the Tattvavadi’s night; and the Tattvavadi’s day is the doctrinaire’s night.

The sun has risen; the owl counts it night.

Therefore if pundits are annoyed with saints, do not be surprised—for to the pundit the saint says “owl.”

The sun has risen; the owl counts it night.

If the owls gather and crucify again, be content—for what else can owls do? All the owls of Athens gathered and gave Socrates poison. A Tattvavadi appears once in a while—like Socrates. But the assembly of owls! The squirrel was alone; the owls were in a flock…

The learned learn—and with limited knowledge speak of Brahman.
Outward moonlight; within, the black night.

The learned learn—knowledge that is limited. Your doctrines have boundaries; they are not agamic. They are definable. The learned learns limited knowledge—and talks of Brahman. Your doctrines are finite, and you speak of the Infinite?

Outwardly there is moonlight; within, a black night. Within the pundit you will find new moon—dense darkness. Sometimes even darker than the ignorant. For the ignorant at least has one truth: he knows he does not know. This much truth belongs to him. The pundit believes he knows and does not know at all. The pundit is worse than the ignorant. The ignorant sometimes reaches; the pundit never reaches. He must become ignorant. He must put down the load.

Dariya: Leave the much babble; fall in love with the unstruck.

Leave these matters of limitation—Hindu-Muslim and the like. Leave this useless chatter. Love the Anahad—the unbounded, the infinite, the eternal. Books are born and disappear. Doctrines arise and crumble. Seek that which is never made and never broken; which always is.

An upturned pot set above—how shall the rain pour?

And what can the Guru do? He is filled like a cloud in Ashadh, ready to rain; anyone ready to receive, and he would pour. But what can the Guru do? If you have set your pot upside down, your vessel inverted—the Guru may rain; it will go to waste.

An upturned pot set above—how shall the rain pour?

That is why the Sadguru pays no attention to pundits.

Gurdjieff had Ouspensky come to him; Ouspensky was a great pundit. Gurdjieff said, “You have come, good. First make one thing clear. Take this paper—on one side write what you know; on the other, what you do not know. What you know we shall never discuss—finished; you already know. What you do not know—that we shall discuss, for that alone can be taught. Go into the next room and write.” Ouspensky was author of famous books. One, Tertium Organum, is counted among the rare books of human history.

They say there are three great books: Aristotle’s Organon, Bacon’s Novum Organum, and Ouspensky’s Tertium Organum. Ouspensky had written this; world-renowned. Gurdjieff was unknown; people came to know him after Ouspensky. He was an unknown fakir. But he put Ouspensky in a fix. The doctrinaire was troubled by the Tattvavadi. He gave him the paper: “Go into the next room.”

But Ouspensky was an honest man. He began to think: what do I know? A cold night; snow falling outside; he began to sweat. For the first time the question arose: what in truth do I know? The pen began to tremble. He sat to write, but nothing would be written. What to say I know? Slowly it became clear: I know nothing. “I have written much—written without knowing. I do not know God, yet I have discoursed upon God. I do not know the soul, and I have discoursed upon the soul.”

In truth, speaking is easy when you do not know. When you know, speaking becomes difficult. For knowing you also know that in words it is almost impossible; it will not be bound—it slips and slips; it falls apart. Truth is like quicksilver: catch it and it scatters; bind it and it scatters—like mercury.

An hour passed, two hours. Gurdjieff called: “So long you take? Such a great knower—hurry up!” Ouspensky came, fell at his feet, and placed a blank page: “Both sides are blank. I know nothing. Begin with A, B, C.”

When such a Guru meets, and such a Shishya meets him—who sets his pot upright and says, “Begin with A, B, C”—if there had been the pride of knowing, the pot would still be upside down. The pot of pride is inverted.

An upturned pot set above—how shall the rain pour?

Thus even if the Guru is found, it will be wasted—if you are doctrinaire.

O servant, Dariya gives counsel—within, let love be steady.

The Sadguru counsels only the one who is inwardly ready to receive with love.

O servant, Dariya gives counsel—within, let love be steady.

Where infinite love is ready within to receive, to absorb; where there is receptivity, a preparedness to drink. The disciple must be like a sponge. From the Guru flows—and he drinks, he soaks as blotting paper soaks ink. The disciple is feminine—can only be feminine. As the woman receives the seed, then within her a new life is born.

O servant, Dariya gives counsel—within, let love be steady.

If the customer has come to buy asafoetida, why show him a diamond?

To one who has come to buy asafoetida, if you show a diamond of what use? He will be annoyed. He wants asafoetida—the reeking thing. He does not want a diamond. The Sadguru can give only when you have come to receive. When you come to buy a diamond and you stand the test that you can take the diamond—then there is a place for you. We must not crowd a bazaar here.

For many days I spoke among thousands, lakhs. Then I saw: they are not seekers of diamonds—they have come to buy asafoetida. I go on speaking of diamonds; there is head-butting but what meaning? At most entertainment. They do not have the courage to stake their lives. Out of curiosity they came. Not even inquiry, far less mumuksha—merely curiosity: “Let us see what he says. Perhaps something useful will be found.” Like that they came. If not to the cinema, then here. “We’ll sit and chit-chat, play chess; today, let us sit there. Let us listen.” Among millions I found: perhaps only a few seek diamonds. Therefore the invitation is for those ready to seek diamonds.

O servant, Dariya gives counsel—within, let love be steady.

If the customer wants asafoetida, why show him a diamond?

This world is mad—what will be gained by trying to untangle it? It is not one to be untangled, nor to be made to understand.

For this mad world—what is there to untangle?

The more you try to untangle it, the more it tangles. The very things you say to unravel become the new entanglements. Tell them, “This will take you out”—instead it does not take out; he begins to think about that very thing, turns it into a doctrine.

Thus things get entangled. Mohammed spoke meaningfully; not to make Muslims. Mahavira spoke to bring clarity; not to make Jains. Buddha spoke to bring you out; not to create a sect. But it happened. Buddha said, “Do not make my image”—and of all the world’s images, Buddha’s are the most. So many were made that in Urdu, Persian and Arabic the word “but” (idol) is a form of “Buddha.” They saw Buddha images first; thus “but” became the synonym for “idol.” Idol-worship means “Buddha-worship.” And Buddha said his whole life: do not make my image—and images were made.

Dariya is right. He speaks from experience.

This mad world—what is there to untangle?

Untangled it does not become; trying to untangle it, it tangles more.

So many came to untangle; the very things they said became causes of entanglement. Swords fell into children’s hands; they cut themselves and maimed others.

This mad world—what is there to explain?

Smallpox erupts in the body—and he goes to worship a stone.

They are so mad they do not even know cause and effect: a disease erupts in the body and they go to worship the black stone, to worship Kali. They lack even this awareness: see cause and effect. If the body is ill, treat the body; go to the physician. They go to worship a stone.

This mad world—what is there to explain?

They have no awareness even of cause and effect. To speak to them of the Supreme Tattva—what meaning? Even if they hear, they will not understand. If they understand, they will misunderstand.

Gold is gold; glass is glass.

Rare lines. Keep them in your heart.

Gold is gold; glass is glass.

Dariya: False is false; true is true.

Falsehood—try to prove it as you may—cannot be proved. Doctrines—try as you may—prove nothing. Therefore no doctrinaire has ever won. For centuries Hindus and Muslims argue—who has won? Jains argue with Buddhists—who has won? Atheists with theists—who has won? How long will you argue? No decision ever comes.

Gold is gold; glass is glass.

Experience will carry you to the gold. By sitting with the glass and arguing, nothing will happen. Gold is gold; glass is glass.

Dariya: false is false; true is true.

And what is true is true. Truth is not to be proved; it is to be known, to be seen, to be realized. One does not make a philosophy of truth; one has a vision of truth; one opens the eye.

All heard by ears is false; all seen by eyes is true.

Doctrines are heard by the ear. How did you become Hindu? Someone blew into your ear—and you became Hindu. Dariya says: all heard by ears is false. Do not let anyone blow into your ear. Someone blew—you became Hindu. Blew—you became Muslim. Doctrines are heard by ears. How did you become Hindu? Parents blew into your ears—sent you to the temple, made you read Gita, listen to Ramayana, perform Satyanarayan’s story. Thus you became Hindu—from the ear. And can the ear ever bring an experience of truth?

All heard by ears is false; all seen by eyes is true.

Trust your own eyes—do not trust any other. Others may have seen—but what of it? Until you see, do not stop. Only your own seeing will be of use. If you are thirsty, only the water that enters your throat will quench. How much another has drunk—what will it do for you?

People come to me: “Mahavira experienced this.” He may have; indeed he did—his thirst was quenched. Will your thirst be quenched because his was? Why the trumpeting? Why the din? You too drink. Krishna drank—then he danced. There is no dance in your life; you worship Krishna’s idol. Dance! Let something happen in your life. Let your eye see.

All heard by ears is false; all seen by eyes is true.

Dariya: by seeing you will know—what is gold and what is glass.

And only when you see will you know what is gold and what glass. What is true gold and what only brass. Brass too shines like gold. But not all that glitters is gold. Sometimes brass can be polished to outshine even gold. From a distance it deceives. Close up, through experience, you know what is real, what counterfeit. The eye is decisive—not the ear. “Eye” means your own witnessing, your own experience.

All the sages have emphasized only one thing: you can know God yourself. Why be stuck with borrowed tales? If someone knew—what of it?

I have heard of a blind old man—he became blind in old age, at eighty. The doctors said, “Your eyes can be cured. There is a film; with surgery it will be removed.” But the old man was a pundit, a logician, a doctrinaire. He said, “What sense would it make? At this age what sense? I will live year or two; who knows? Why get into bother? And in my house there is no shortage of eyes.” The doctor asked, “What do you mean?” He said, “Clear enough. My wife—two eyes. My eight sons—sixteen eyes. My eight daughters-in-law—sixteen eyes. Thirty-four eyes in my service. Whether I have two eyes or not—what difference?” The doctor was at a loss. The argument seemed correct. Thirty-four eyes; what difference two less or more. But fifteen days later, the house caught fire. Thirty-four eyes ran out; the old man remained within. Then he beat his chest, screamed, ran—this door, that door. He could see nothing. The fire was fierce. Then he remembered: only one’s own eyes are of use. The thirty-four eyes had gone out; outside they remembered: the old man got left behind. What to do? But when the house burns, your eyes make your legs run—they cannot run another’s legs. When there is fire, your own life comes first. After they got out of danger they remembered—now what? They wept and screamed. The old man, roasted in the fire, understood at last—but too late. May it not be so late for you—this is my prayer.

Gold is gold; glass is glass.

Dariya: false is false; true is true.

All heard by ears is false; all seen by eyes is true.

Dariya: by seeing know—this is gold, that is glass.

Enough for today.