Man Hi Pooja Man Hi Dhoop #1

India’s sky is filled with the stars of saints. Infinite stars—though the light in all is one. Among those countless stars, Saint Ravidas is the Pole Star—because, though born in a Shudra home, he compelled even the pundits of Kashi to accept him. The Brahmins did not mention Mahavira in their scriptures. They cut the roots of Buddha, uprooted his thought. But there was something in Ravidas: they could not uproot him—and had to accept him.
In the Brahmin-authored chronicles of the saints, Ravidas is remembered again and again. Born in a chamar’s house, yet the Brahmins—those of Kashi!—accepted him. It is something unusual, unique.
There is hesitation in accepting Mahavira, hesitation in accepting Buddha. Both were princes—easier, one would think, to accept. Both of the highest varna, both Kshatriyas. Yet they were difficult to accept.
Ravidas has a certain flavor, a fragrance—intoxicating. From Ravidas flows a kind of wine: whoever tasted, reeled. And Ravidas set up camp in Kashi itself—the least likely place, where the pundit has turned to stone. Centuries of scholarship kills the hearts of people, petrifies their souls. Ravidas blossomed there, flourished there. He gathered thousands of devotees there. And not small devotees—Mira, a woman who attained such realization, also accepted Ravidas as her master! Mira has said: “Guru milya Ravidas ji!”—“I have found my guru: Ravidas.” She wandered and searched in many places, but upon seeing Ravidas, she bowed. If a queen bows before a cobbler, there must be something to it. This lotus must have been rare—irresistible to bow before.
Ravidas is Kabir’s gurubhai. Ravidas and Kabir are both disciples of the same saint, Ramananda. Ramananda is the Ganga’s source from which the streams of Kabir and Ravidas flowed. Ravidas’ guru is the wondrous Ramananda; and Ravidas’ disciple is the wondrous woman Mira. Between these two, Ravidas shines with a unique brilliance. People would have forgotten Ramananda had there been no Ravidas and Kabir. Because of Ravidas and Kabir, Ramananda is remembered.
As a tree is known by its fruit, so a master is known by his disciples. Even if not a single saying of Ravidas had survived and only Mira’s utterance remained—“Guru milya Ravidas ji”—it would have been enough. For whomever Mira calls guru is not one she would call lightly. Until God had become fully manifest, Mira would call no one guru. She did not call Kabir guru either; she called Ravidas her guru.
Therefore I say: in the sky of India replete with saints, Ravidas is the Pole Star. Try to understand his words.
Ravidas is memorable also because he said the very thing Buddha said. But Buddha’s language is the language of a knower; Ravidas’ language is the language of a devotee, of love. Perhaps that is why Buddha could be uprooted; Ravidas could not. What is watered at the roots with love cannot be uprooted. With Buddha one could argue, one could debate; with Ravidas there is no argument, no debate. If you see Ravidas, either you will see—and bow—or you will not see and go away. Before love there is no other way but to bow, for love is God’s self-revelation, His descent.
Buddha’s language is very polished: the language of a prince. Words measured to perfection. Perhaps never has a man spoken in such weighed, measured words. Yet Buddha had to endure the storm of logic; even his roots were torn up. Buddhism vanished from India. Ravidas spoke Buddha’s very truths anew, but he changed the language, gave it a new color. The vessel was the same, the content the same, the wine the same—but the bottle was new. And Ravidas could not be uprooted.
You may be surprised to know: the chamars were originally Buddhist! When Buddhism was uprooted from India, when Buddhist monks were burned alive and Buddhist philosophers were hounded across the borders, in one sense it was good. For this is how all of Asia became Buddhist. Sometimes within misfortune fortune is hidden.
The Jains could not spread, for they compromised. They survived—but what kind of survival! Today scarcely three to three and a half million. In a five-thousand-year history, is that a number? Survive they did, somehow they protected themselves—but in protecting, they lost everything.
The Buddhists did not compromise; they were uprooted. They broke, but did not bend. And it bore fruit. The whole of Asia became Buddhist. Wherever Buddhist philosophers and seers went, their rays of light spread, their sap flowed, people were fulfilled—China, Korea... far and wide Buddhism spread. The credit goes to the Hindu pundits!
Those who could run, ran. To run you need means, wealth. Those who could not run—so destitute, so poor—were absorbed into the Hindu fold. But if you join the Hindu fold, you can only be absorbed among the Shudras. The Brahmin is Brahmin by birth, the Kshatriya by birth, the Vaishya by birth. If someone is to be admitted into Hinduism, only one place remains—Shudra, untouchable. In truth, outside the Hindu religion, outside the temple. Become a Shudra—if you want to survive.
So those Buddhists who remained and could not flee and were compelled to be absorbed into Hinduism became Buddhist chamars. And why chamars? There is a reason—no one during Buddha’s time could have imagined such a reason would bear such result. Life is mysterious.
Mahavira said: meat-eating is violence, sin. And rightly so. To cause suffering to another, to kill—for food—what greater sin? And where will it stop? If you eat animals and birds, what harm is there in eating a human being?
Yesterday I saw in the newspaper: the emperor of Central Africa, Bokassa, was deposed in a rebellion. In his house, in his kitchen, in his fridge, human flesh was found.
Then it does not stop. If you can eat animal flesh, what harm in eating human flesh? And human flesh is naturally the most delicious and digestible; its make is nearest to yours. And the flesh of small children is very delicious. Where will it stop? If man is carnivorous, its final logical conclusion is cannibalism.
And there is no fall greater than becoming a cannibal, for no animal in this world eats its own kind. A dog will not eat dog-flesh; a dog does not even kill another dog. A lion does not kill a lion, nor eat his flesh. Only man.... If he falls, he can fall so low; if he rises, he can rise so high! Man is a ladder, one end on hell, the other on heaven.
Mahavira said meat-eating is sin—and rightly said. But Buddha always weighed things very carefully. In this matter too he stated carefully: meat-eating is sin. But if an animal has died of itself, where is the sin in eating its flesh?
Logically, the statement is correct. The sin is in the killing. Do not kill and eat. But if an animal dies naturally, what is the harm in eating its flesh? You are not killing, not committing violence. Reasonable it is—but has life ever been run by reason? Today in all Buddhist countries every hotel bears a board: only meat of animals that have died naturally is sold here. For hundreds of millions daily—where do so many animals die on their own? And if animals die on their own, who runs those vast slaughterhouses? And for what? Just as Indian restaurants write, “Only pure ghee is used here,” so in China and Japan it is written, “Only meat of animals that died of themselves is sold here.”
A loophole was found. Buddha spoke very rationally—more rationally than Mahavira. Rational, but Mahavira seems to have understood the mesh of life better. His word is less logical, but he knew: give man a convenience and out of it he will manufacture further conveniences. Better to close the door fully. Buddha kept the door open, thinking: as rationally as I live, so will people live. Do not expect this—this expectation is wrong.
In India only one caste eats the flesh of animals that died naturally: the chamars. That is proof they were once Buddhist. There are other proofs too, but this is a major one. In India no other caste does this.
On this basis Dr. Ambedkar decided that the chamars, at least, and if possible all Shudras, should become Buddhist again, because originally we were Buddhist.
Ravidas is a chamar. Somewhere in his deep inner core, Buddha still resounds—the same fire. But Ravidas did not allow that fire to burn; he made it into light. Fire can burn and it can illumine. Buddha’s words are like burning embers—great courage is needed to digest them. To digest embers requires courage. Ravidas’ words are like flowers. Once you digest them you will find they have set you ablaze—flowers of fire! sparklers of fire! They look like flowers.
Hence Buddha could not be accepted, but Ravidas the Hindus called the crest-jewel of devotees. In the Bhaktamal, Ravidas is counted among the greatest bhaktas.
But even when the Hindu pundit accepts, he finds some dishonesty within his erudition. He found his deviousness here too. As with Buddha, he concocted a story—because Buddha’s genius was so immense that outright rejection would be costly. If Buddha is rejected, India’s genius shrivels. After all, India has not produced a son greater than Buddha! Just as the Jews never produced a son greater than Jesus, the Hindus never produced a son greater than Buddha. To reject Buddha entirely is to hack one’s own feet.
If in the world India has any prestige today, fifty percent of it is due to Buddha. If people remember India, they remember because of Buddha. If all of Asia looks upon India with reverence, regards India as a pilgrimage land, it is because of Buddha. Just as all Muslims journey to Mecca, in the minds of hundreds of millions of Buddhists there is but one longing: that sometime, perhaps, their feet might touch Bodh Gaya, the soil of India! India has not produced a greater son.
So the Brahmins rejected Buddha’s thought, but to salvage what benefit could be derived from Buddha they found a device. They invented a story: when God made heaven and hell, even after thousands of years no one had entered hell—because no one committed sin: the Golden Age. If someone sinned, he would go to hell. Satan and his disciples were bored to death. Files open on desks—but no one comes, no one goes; hell lies empty.
At last Satan prayed to God: Why keep this open? When there are no customers, what is the point of running the shop? Close it! We are tired, bored. God said: Do not worry—because God is compassionate! He said: Don’t worry. I will soon incarnate as Buddha and corrupt people’s minds. Once their minds are corrupted, they will sin; hell will fill—do not worry.
And then God, out of compassion for Satan, incarnated as Buddha. Hence the Hindus declared Buddha the tenth avatar. God took the Buddha-avatar and confused people’s minds, taught wrong things, led them astray. And slowly people began to sin.
Now the situation is such that even hell requires advance booking. If you die suddenly today, don’t expect to get a place in hell; you will lie outside for months—in a queue. All by Buddha’s grace!
See the Hindu duplicity! To reject Buddha entirely would be a great loss—but reject Buddha they must, because if Buddha is accepted, how will punditry continue, priestcraft continue, sacrifices and rituals continue, this deception and trade that goes under the name of religion—how will it continue?
Twofold difficulty: reject Buddha’s thought, accept Buddha. They managed this with great skill. With the same skill they treated Ravidas.
They accepted Ravidas in the Bhaktamal as a supreme devotee—but concocted two stories. And the kind of story a Brahmin can invent, no one else in the world can, for he has such ancient practice—inventing stories, writing Puranas...
If the Jews had known stories could be invented, they would not have crucified Jesus—they would have invented a story. They had to crucify him because they could not invent a story.
The Hindu is clever; he has never crucified anyone—he is skilled at fabricating stories. When a story can do the work, why draw daggers? Stories become daggers enough.
They fabricated two stories about Ravidas. One: in his previous birth Ravidas was also Ramananda’s disciple. One day he returned with alms—in the previous birth, when he was a Brahmachari disciple of Ramananda, a Brahmin—he brought alms. Ramananda prepared the worship tray and offered prasad to his Thakurji, the deity. But for the first time in Ramananda’s life, Thakurji refused to accept the prasad.
First, note: idols neither accept nor refuse prasad. Go offer anything to any idol; no idol accepts or declines. An idol is an idol—a corpse.
Yet the story says Thakurji refused the prasad. Ramananda was distressed; never had this happened. He asked Thakurji: Why are you refusing? Thakurji said: This prasad has been brought from the house of a baniya who has direct dealings with a chamar. Therefore this prasad cannot be accepted.
Note, this is not even prasad from the chamar’s house. A baniya who has business with a chamar! The baniya sells to all—chamar, bhangi, whoever comes. A shopkeeper must run his shop. He doesn’t sit and ask who is a chamar, who is a bhangi; he sells goods.
See the net the Brahmins spun in this land! The chamar is untouchable; whomever has direct dealing with him becomes untouchable. And even for Thakurji he becomes untouchable. And it is Thakurji who made Shudras; Thakurji who made baniyas; Thakurji who made Brahmins—all his toys, for he is the creator.
Now the fun is: Thakurji made Shudras, yet Thakurji did not become a Shudra! The baniya only did business with a Shudra—some transactions, some buying and selling—he became a Shudra; but Thakurji did not become a Shudra! If there is a supreme Shudra in this world, it is God—because he made the Shudras!
But Thakurji refused the food. Ramananda became furious, it is said.
This too is false. A person like Ramananda, who could draw at his feet people like Ravidas and Kabir—how could he become angry? Anger would have been left far behind. The light of meditation must have dawned for Kabir and Ravidas to bow at his feet. Otherwise is it easy for Kabir to bow? For Ravidas to bow? That he would become angry—over such a petty matter!
And I know that if Ramananda were to become angry, it would be at Thakurji. He would have thrown Thakurji out: Get out—rickshaws are waiting outside, take one and go, don’t you dare return!
What nonsense—that because a baniya has business with a Shudra, food from his house cannot be prasad! Would Thakurji say such things to a man of Ramananda’s mettle? He would have given that idol such a thrashing the idol would remember its mother’s milk. If anyone had to be punished, it would be Thakurji—Ramananda would never again look at him. Thakurji would be the one pleading for reconciliation.
But I cannot accept that Ramananda got angry with that poor Brahmachari and cursed him: Go, die this instant! And be born in a Shudra’s house—a chamar’s! If a curse had to be given, it should have been to Thakurji: Die this instant and be born in a chamar’s house. So that he too might learn that sometimes one meets those whose words are sharp as a sword! The poor Brahmachari was innocent; if any sin was committed—if you call it sin—it was unwitting. He went for alms and happened to beg at a Vaishya’s house. How could he know who buys at that shop—Shudras, chamars, bhangis? How find out? Should he examine the account books before he begs alms?
But Brahmins are indeed skilled at story-making. And they spread stories until they sink into the folk mind. The poor Brahmachari, it is said, died at once; and was born in a Shudra’s house, a chamar’s. Then the story adds a tastier bit: he was after all a Brahmin, a Brahmachari. Born from a chamar woman’s womb, he refused to drink her milk. One mistake had already happened. When even Thakurji does not accept prasad, how could this newborn accept milk? A child, on the first day, refused to drink his mother’s milk. With no other way in sight, hearing of Ramananda’s fame, the chamar woman came to Ramananda’s feet: Do something. Seeing the child, he remembered his own Brahmachari. Compassion arose: the child has suffered enough. He whispered in the infant’s ear, gave the name of Rama. The moment the name was given, the child drank milk.
Such is the tale they made up. And since Ravidas was a Brahmin in his previous birth, they accepted him into the Bhaktamal; otherwise they could not have. He was accepted among the devotees not for his devotion, not for his surrender to God, not for the wonder of his prayer, not for the dignity of his meditation, not for his realization of God—these are secondary. The real point is: he was a Brahmin in his previous birth—therefore he is accepted as a bhakta.
The story began to circulate. But how will people believe it is true? No one has seen previous births. Ramananda says so, the pundits say so—but who knows? So another tale was devised: once people insisted Ravidas provide proof that he was a Brahmin in his past life.
I cannot believe Ravidas would give such proof. Even if he had been a Brahmin, he would not—because offering such proof would be wrong. If he had been a Brahmin, he would still say: Not merely in my previous birth—in birth after birth I am a chamar, a Shudra. Ravidas would give proof of being a Brahmin in his past life? Ravidas would stoop so low? But you can invent whatever stories you like.
They say Ravidas gave proof. He flayed his own skin, and underneath, from within the skin, came forth a golden sacred thread—a golden janeu. Only then did people accept it. Therefore he is remembered in the Bhaktamal among the great devotees.
These rotten, false tales exist only to deny a single fact: that he was a chamar. And how to accept a chamar!
But I tell you: these stories are false. He was a chamar—and there is no sin in being a chamar. Everyone is born a Shudra—everyone! One becomes a Brahmin by labor, by sadhana. Brahminhood is an attainment, not a birth. Brahmin is not a varna but a realization. He who knows Brahman is Brahmin. He who becomes one with Hari is Harijan.
Therefore I do not call the Shudras ‘Harijan’, nor the Brahmins ‘Brahmin’. Brahminhood by birth does not exist. Buddha is a Brahmin, though not by birth. Mahavira is a Brahmin, though not by birth. Jesus is a Brahmin, though not by birth—perhaps he never even heard the word Brahmin. Mohammed is a Brahmin, though not by birth. Why? Because they knew Brahman. Brahmin means: one who has known Brahman and become one with Brahman—not merely known Brahman but known ‘I am Brahman’—Aham Brahmasmi, Anal Haq. The one in whom such a proclamation arises: I am Brahman—he is a Brahmin. From the birth of that proclamation one becomes Brahmin. He who has known: I belong to Hari; I am of the Divine; nothing of me is mine, all is His—he is Harijan.
So I do not call the Shudra a Harijan. I do not agree with Mahatma Gandhi. Why spoil an exquisite word like Harijan? First the good word ‘Brahmin’ you spoiled, tying it to birth. Now you spoil ‘Harijan’. Do not pull such wondrous words down from their thrones, do not dethrone them.
Do not let them fall from the sky into the dust of the earth.
A Harijan is he who has known: nothing in me is mine; all is God’s. Brahmin and Harijan are synonyms. But each person is born a Shudra. Shudra means: one bound to the body. Shudra means: one who knows only that he is the body. Shudra means: one in whom no experience of inner consciousness has yet awakened, who has not had the vision of the nectar within. And a Brahmin is one who has known: I am not the body, not even the mind—I am consciousness beyond mind and body. He in whom the witnessing is realized is a Brahmin.
As for the stories about Ravidas—I wish to say clearly—they are false. No one has said it till now, but they must be false. Every limb of them is false. First, a false Thakurji who refuses food because of association with a chamar. Such a Thakurji is worse than a Shudra. He is no Thakurji—he is a chamar.
Then Ramananda becomes angry…and if angry, he should be angry at Thakurji. What fault has the poor Brahmachari? Ramananda cannot get angry. Nor can a man like Ramananda utter a curse—impossible, utterly impossible.
Then a child like Ravidas refuses to drink his mother’s milk because she is a chamar? Is milk Brahmin or chamar? Is a mother Brahmin or chamar? A mother is only a mother; milk is only milk. If you doubt me, take milk from a chamar woman and from a Brahmin woman to a doctor and ask him which is which. Have the analysis done. No power on earth will prove: this is Brahmin milk and that is chamar milk. Is milk Brahmin or chamar? Are bone, flesh and marrow Brahmin or chamar? And when bone, flesh and marrow are not chamar, how will the soul be chamar?
The great wonder is: you drink buffalo’s milk and never worry that you might become a buffalo!
Mulla Nasruddin’s little son once ran into the sitting room crying: Mummy, mummy—while a handful of neighborhood women gossiped—Papa was just now kissing my ayah! And the ayah was panicking. So he said, Don’t worry: my fat buffalo is sitting in the drawing room. Where is the fat buffalo?
The talk of small children! If small children fall into such illusions, it is understandable.
Drinking buffalo milk will not make you a buffalo. But fools are countless!
A great politician friend once traveled with me. A grave difficulty arose: he would only drink a white cow’s milk. I asked: What is wrong with a black cow? Do you think a black cow’s milk turns black? Milk is white whether the cow is black or white.
He said: No—the black color is a symbol of tamas.
It may be a symbol of tamas, but milk will not turn black. I asked: And what about buffalo milk?
I cannot even look at buffalo milk.
Why? He said: Drinking buffalo milk makes one’s understanding like a buffalo.
Then you are in a great fix: eat cauliflower, and your skull will become a cauliflower. Eat bitter gourd, and your soul will turn bitter. If everything you eat or drink becomes you—how will you live? You might as well die!
I cannot believe that the child refused a chamar mother’s milk. Children are not so stupid. To be that stupid requires much experience. Children are not such fools; to be such fools requires much education, conditioning, civilization... Such stupidity requires great religiosity. So the story is utterly false. It has no substance. But these stories reveal how polluted the Indian mind has become: we cannot accept even our greatest ones as they are. We must twist them to make them palatable.
But I tell you: Ravidas is the Pole Star in India’s sky. To be born a Brahmin and attain Brahminhood is not difficult—the whole machinery is there. To be a prince and become a Buddha is not difficult—the whole support is there. All twenty-four Tirthankaras of the Jains were sons of kings—comfort, luxury, splendor. And when there is luxury and splendor, it is not hard to abandon them, for their futility is clear. One who has wealth sees its hollowness.
Buddha had all the most beautiful women available—so he tired of women quickly; he would. What you possess you tire of; you know that. What you do not possess—to tire of that requires great genius. To tire of what you have requires no genius. The rich tire of wealth; the sensuous tire of sensuality. One who achieves all worldly success tires of success. It is the failure who does not tire of success; he never tasted it. It is the poor man who keeps hope in wealth. The unmarried thinks of marriage. Ask the married—he thinks of suicide; though he may not die, for dying is not easy either.
When I taught at a university, a Bengali professor lived next door—Bhattacharya. On my first day in the house I knew nothing of the secrets of his family. The wall was thin; sound traveled. Around midnight he and his wife quarreled. My sleep broke. There was no way but to listen. When things went too far I became worried—Bhattacharya picked up his umbrella and said: I am going to die now. I will go lie beneath the train. His wife said: Go—go!
I thought: difficult! Must I intervene? He might lie on the tracks; dying, a good man. And the wife is unconcerned: Go, go! Should I speak? I had not even been introduced to them. But was this a moment for formalities?
I opened the door; Bhattacharya was hurrying out—but Bengali as he was, even to die he took his umbrella under his arm. He was out the door. I said to the wife: Forgive me, I should not speak—it is your private matter; I don’t know your game or arrangement—but this is getting too much. Shall I bring him back?
She said: Don’t worry. You are new. I have known him for twenty years. He has gone many times. You will see he will return shortly. Since you have asked, I will tell you: once he even took his tiffin to die. You are surprised at the umbrella; he lay on the tracks with his tiffin. A farmer asked: What are you doing? On a siding where trains rarely come, only freight shunting! He said, I am here to die. The farmer said: To die, I understand—but the tiffin? He said: In this country can you trust trains? They are so late—should I die hungry? And when the train did not arrive, he ate, picnicked, and returned home.
We were still speaking when Bhattacharya returned. I asked: You came back? He said: Don’t you see? It began to rain.
But you took an umbrella.
This umbrella is faulty. First, it doesn’t open; and if it does, it is full of holes.
People go to die—but how? And even if they die, on what trust? After death, what will happen? Will things be better or worse? Not sure. So as they are, at least we are accustomed. Somehow life goes on.
The unmarried thinks of marriage; looking at married people he thinks: How happy they must be! Enjoying the bliss of wedlock! And couples do at least attempt to show, when on the street, that they are very happy. But what bliss of wedlock? Where is bliss in this world? Only show, false smiles—pasted on! Paint applied on top; a little rain—and it washes away. In this cheating world only those things deceive which you have not got, for the drum in the distance always sounds sweet.
The proverb says: the neighbor’s grass looks greener! Your own looks dry—for you see yours from near. You see the neighbor’s from afar. From afar faults are invisible. When people are far from each other, faults are not visible; when close, then they are. To see faults, you must live close.
So if the Jains’ twenty-four Tirthankaras were princes and therefore one day renounced the world—no wonder; one should. My definition of an emperor is one who one day renounces everything. It means he has known. It means he was an emperor. One who clings—know that he is still poor, needy, destitute.
But Ravidas is unique. Born in a poor chamar household—no wealth, office, prestige—yet he rose beyond wealth, prestige and position. Therefore I say: he is a Pole Star.
The first sutra—
“Without a glimpse, no hope arises. Whatever is seen will be destroyed.”
A precious sutra: Without a glimpse, no hope arises.
Until you get even a little glimpse of God, neither hope will awaken in you, nor assurance arise, nor will faith be born. A thousand others may say that God is; you may hear—and perhaps believe—but the doubt within will remain. Pile up as much belief as you like, layer upon layer, but the doubt within will not die; it may be covered, it may be hidden—it will not be destroyed. It is destroyed in only one way: without a glimpse, no hope arises—let something be seen!
But in temples and mosques nothing will be seen, for those priests who sit there have seen nothing themselves. In sacrifices and rituals nothing will be seen. Those fools who throw rice and wheat and ghee into the fire—having seen nothing—how will they show you? You are asking the blind for the definition of light! Even for those with eyes, defining it is hard. The blind are defining and the other blind accept. Your beliefs are all borrowed. That is why your life is a desert without an oasis.
Chandu Lal went for an exam for a job. The exam began. The invigilator asked: Chandu Lal, why do you keep looking back? He said: What can I do, sir? On the question paper it says: Please see back.
You will read scriptures and books; you will borrow from those who do not know. What will you understand? Faith will not be born. Your life will not be transformed. Transformation is not so easy. A thousand scriptures say the same—but your mind sunk in darkness will stick to its stubbornness.
Dhabbuji slapped a passerby on the road and said: You child of Matkanath! Where have you been all this time? What calamity befell you? Last time you were short and fat—suddenly you’ve become tall and thin! Even your face is changed! And when did you grow beard and moustache—and a bald patch?
The man said: Forgive me, sir, I know no Matkanath—and I am not Matkanath, I am Ramnath.
Dhabbuji smacked him again: So you even changed your name!
The mind will stick to its stubbornness. You cannot persuade the mind like this. Memorize the Vedas; recite the Koran—but glance within and you will find the same old mind, the same questions, the same doubts.
Doubts are erased by experience. Even a distant glimpse—see Everest from a thousand miles away, the virgin snow, the sun’s rays gleaming upon it, its incomparable beauty—if that much is seen from afar, hope will arise. A summons has come! A call has arrived! And now the call is your own; it is your inner experience. Now you can set out on the journey; your life can become a pilgrimage. Now you will want to seek.
Beliefs have deprived people of religion; beliefs have killed religion in people.
Ravidas is right: Without a glimpse, no hope arises.
Even a little glimpse, a sliver from afar—and hope springs, shoots appear. And on hope, faith will fruit.
“Whatever is seen will be destroyed.”
Another wondrous point: he who has even glimpsed Him is destroyed—his ego is gone. Two cannot remain; you and God cannot coexist.
Kabir said—Ravidas’ gurubhai—Love’s lane is extremely narrow; two cannot enter there. The lane of love is narrow; two cannot fit. Either you or God. If He is seen, you are gone. You are like darkness; when light comes, you are gone.
Behind the veils of fidelity what cruelties I’ve seen
I can no longer trust the glance of kindness
I am convinced—yet what to do with this heart?
It trusts no promise of tomorrow.
And the pundits have harmed you so much that even if you come to a true master, you cannot trust his words. You believed so many things and were deceived so many times. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred you were deceived; on the hundredth, even if a true diamond lands in your hand, you will throw it away. Your eyes seem incapable now of trusting.
A great misfortune. Therefore Buddha comes, Mahavira comes, Krishna comes, Kabir comes, Ravidas comes—few people take their benefit. Most think they too must be repeating scriptures; they must be simply interpreting scripture.
No—saints do not interpret scripture; scripture interprets saints. Scripture becomes testimony for saints. Scripture bears witness that what the saint says is true. Saints do not depend on scriptures.
If you would see saints, satsang is essential. Satsang means: rise, sit, be near them, so that slowly you begin to see: here is a person with no ego within, in whom void pervades. First familiarize yourself with the saint’s emptiness; once familiar with emptiness, it will not take long to be familiar with the Whole.
Make the heart a sanctum; not the gifts of sanctuaries
Accept the meaning of devotion, not the form of devotion
Make the heart a sanctuary…
Make the heart the temple, the heart the Kaaba.
…not the gifts of sanctuaries
Circumambulations of temples, of the Kaaba, the Hajj—who cares.
Make the heart a sanctum—
Absorb the heart in God so it becomes a temple.
Make the heart a sanctum; not the gifts of sanctuaries
Accept the meaning of devotion, not the form of devotion
Understand the import of worship, the meaning of prayer. Where will you understand prayer’s meaning? Where prayer is living; where prayer’s flower blooms.
Otherwise all is outer rite. Bells ring in temples, but hearts do not ring along. Prayers are recited in temples, but they reach only the throat; they do not blossom in the heart. People perform formalities in temples. Even with God they maintain etiquette.
Make the heart a sanctum; not the gifts of sanctuaries
Accept the meaning of devotion, not the form of devotion
Do not look at the trappings of prayer; cultivate the capacity to see a prayerful heart.
Behold the reach of a drunkard’s vision—
Every broken goblet they take for the cup of Jamshid
Turning to ash in the candle’s court the moths cry out:
Let anyone understand or not—we alone know the price of our wound.
Ask the moths the secret of annihilation—then you will understand. Ask the mad ones—the mad of love—then the import of prayer will be clear. Only when you are ready to die does the capacity to see the Lord arise.
At the point of death the breath moves with a very faint tremor
Our caravan is close to its destination today
And when you feel your breath so faint—of ego, of your separateness—when you feel it breaking, now here now gone, know: the goal is near.
The caravan is near its destination today.
“Without a glimpse, no hope arises. Whatever is seen will be destroyed.”
“Chanting the Name with every fiber.”
Not with the lips, not with the tongue, not with the throat—with your wholeness he who remembers the Lord! With every pore! Whose every particle dances! Each breath remembers! Each heartbeat circumambulates Him!
“Chanting the Name with every fiber—only such a one is a yogi, desireless.”
Only such a person is a yogi. He who effaces himself becomes one with God. Yoga means to be yoked, to become one. So long as you are, you remain separate. When you disappear, you are joined. And one who is joined becomes desireless. What desire remains? He who has found God—what else will he want? When diamonds and jewels are found, will he gather pebbles? Having found the Kohinoor, will he collect stones? Impossible.
“He who gains acquaintance with Rama, revels in Rama.”
“He who is touched by the touchstone has no doubt.”
He changes as iron changes touched by the philosopher’s stone. When the touchstone touches iron, it does not wonder: will it change or not? No hesitation, no duality, no doubt. The touchstone touches without doubt—iron becomes gold.
The day such a doubtless relationship arises between the true master and the disciple, that day iron is touched by the touchstone. That day the disciple is no longer a disciple; he too becomes a guru—one with the guru.
“That one eats up the mind’s duality—and without a door enters the three worlds.”
He alone is a muni who has abandoned the mind’s duality. The mind is always in duality: shall I do this or that? What to do, what not to do! He who abandons the mind’s duality is a muni. He who is free of mind is a muni.
“Without a door he enters the three worlds.”
He who drops the mind, drops duality, ready to merge with God in utter aloneness, resolved to efface himself and yet not settle until he finds the Divine, whose call rings day and night—he enters God without any door, enters all three worlds without a gate.
Though love hides in our breast night and day, still
It trembles in our sighs, shines through our tears
It halts at walls, it hangs on chains
When jailbirds are bent on madness, they declare it.
Let them ache to their heart’s content, let them burn bit by bit
O flame of the candle! Moths are but guests for a night.
It halts at walls, it hangs on chains
When living captives resolve to show their madness.
No one can stop you in prison. If you are resolved, no wall can stop you, no chain can hold you. You will find God. If someone stops you, it is your mind—your mind’s duality. No one else stops you.
“Everyone follows the nature of mind.”
And the nature of the mind is doubt, duality.
“Everyone follows the mind; he who becomes the doer remains without fear.”
Ravidas says: all are following the mind—and therefore are miserable. Don’t obey the mind; rise above it; be a witness to the mind. Watch the mind’s conflict, the mind’s tumult. See the hell of the mind and awaken from it! Mind is sleep; you are the witness. You are not the mind. If you can awaken from the mind—
“then, becoming the doer, he remains without fear.”
The moment you awaken from the mind, you become one with the Creator. God is the Creator, the Doer; becoming one with Him, you too are the creator. And the one who becomes the creator—where is fear in his life? He becomes fearless. All fear dissolves.
Neither in joy nor in sorrow is there any regret in me
Love has made me incomparable
Then neither sorrow appears as sorrow, nor joy as joy. A peerless experience arises. Love brings the moth to that goal, that station, from where all dualities fall—of joy and sorrow, day and night, life and death, spring and fall.
“For the sake of fruit the forest blooms; when the fruit appears, the flower fades.”
Ravidas says: flowers bloom for the fruit. Do not think the flower blooms for itself; it blooms for the fruit. As soon as the fruit sets, the flower falls. We are all here for God to set within us; that is the fruit. He who attains it is successful; the rest are failures. As soon as the fruit sets, you disappear. You are but the flower. The flower’s work is but to make the way for the fruit. When its work is done, the flower vanishes.
“For the sake of fruit the forest blooms; when the fruit appears, the flower fades.”
Do not cling to yourself. You are not the destination; you are not the goal. At most, an inn—not a home. Move on when morning comes. A resting place—not the end. Man is a means, not the goal. Man must be transcended.
Friedrich Nietzsche said: That day will be the most unfortunate day in human history—the day man stops striving to go beyond himself. The day man ceases to transcend himself will be the most ill-fated day.
With this I agree. Man’s dignity, his glory, lies in the effort to rise beyond himself. A dog remains a dog; a lion remains a lion; a dove remains a dove; a rose remains a rose. None rises beyond itself. Only man can transcend himself—sometimes a Buddha, a Nanak, a Ravidas appears. You too have this capacity. But there is one courage you must understand: the flower must dissolve at the very appearance of the fruit. In truth, the flower’s dissolution and the fruit’s manifestation occur together. But some people remain occupied with being a human being only.
Do not linger arranging your luggage till the caravan is gone
Join the caravan—how long will you just prepare?
This caravan has set out—the line of Tirthankaras, avatars, Buddhas, saints, prophets, messiahs—this traveling band has moved. Join it! Therefore I call out: become a sannyasin. To become a sannyasin means: join the caravan. How long will you prepare? Some say: We will, certainly we will—but we are preparing.
Do not be so engrossed in packing that you are left behind
Join the caravan—how long will you just arrange?
Will you only prepare? There are people who do nothing but prepare.
Mulla Nasruddin always read the railway timetable. I asked: Nasruddin, there are other things to read; you too—reading the railway timetable! He said: I am preparing to travel. Next year I am going to Mussoorie. I asked: Last year you said next year you were going to Shimla. He said: I changed my mind. And before that you said Mount Abu. That too I changed. Is Mussoorie fixed? He said: For now it is fixed; when next year comes, we’ll see.
Only preparations! Likewise, when you read the Gita, the Koran, the Bible—what are you reading? A timetable: where to go—heaven or hell? Will the seventh heaven be fine, or the sixth suit me? Will you only pack, or will you set out someday? It is already very late.
Join the caravan—how long will you just arrange?
“Practice for the sake of knowing; when knowing dawns, karma is annulled.”
All practice—yoga, meditation, austerity—is for the experience of God. Do not get entangled in them. Some spend their whole lives perfecting postures. I know people doing asanas for a lifetime. They have forgotten that asana by itself is futile. When will you meditate? Meditation itself is not enough either—when will you enter Samadhi? And Samadhi too is not enough. All these are means, steps. Do not get stuck on the steps. They may be very beautiful, decked in gold, and have their own charm—but remember: the steps belong to the temple, and you must enter the temple. The Lord of the temple resides within.
Practice everything—but remember: all practices are only means. Meditation, worship, adoration—all are practices and means. Someday they must be dropped. It happens that people become attached to practice. Then they say: We have practiced for thirty years—how to drop it now? The means becomes the end. Then you are blind. Then you sit in the train and forget where to disembark.
Mulla Nasruddin was traveling. The ticket collector asked for the ticket. He searched this pocket and that, opened the bedroll, the suitcase, scattered his things. The collector became anxious: Leave it—you seem honest; you must have the ticket. Nasruddin said: To hell with your ticket! I am not searching it for you. Then what for? he asked. Nasruddin said: I am looking so I may know where I am going!
Remember where you are going. Don’t end up sitting in the train, forgetting the destination.
A drunk sat in a taxi and said: Hurry—get me to the Oberoi. Quickly. In a second—the cab hadn’t even moved—the driver said: We are at the Oberoi; get out. The drunk got out. How much? Gave five rupees—and leaving said: Don’t drive so fast!
The taxi had been standing before the Oberoi; no need to drive. Such speed is dangerous! One second and delivered—I didn’t even notice when we started or when we arrived!
Another drunk: He sat and said: Drive at full speed! The driver too was drunk. He sped like mad. After half an hour of circling, the driver sobered a little: Where to? The drunk said: If I knew, would I have taken a taxi? Where is the time to worry about coming and going? Drive fast—we must arrive, and quickly.
People are in haste; they want to arrive—but where? Not clear. Where are you going? If someone shook you and asked: Truly—where are you going? You would shrug: Don’t ask such things. Such things are not asked—especially in the marketplace. Do you want to disgrace me? Who knows where anyone is going? From where anyone comes, where anyone goes—nothing is known. Moving has become the goal. The means have become the end.
People don’t want to ask hard questions because they create restlessness. Whenever they can, they start moving fast so all energy is spent in moving and the question can be avoided. People defer life’s problems.
“Practice for the sake of knowing.”
Ravidas is right: practice meditation, love, devotion—but remember: God-knowledge is the goal. Do not get stuck in the practices.
“When knowing dawns, karma is annulled.”
And the moment knowing happens, all practice, all means, all karma fall away. Then what need remains?
“For the sake of ghee, the wise churn curd.”
To obtain ghee you churn curd; when ghee appears, you stop churning. To continue churning curd after ghee has appeared is madness.
Therefore Buddha said: Meditate—and someday drop meditation. The day the glimpse of Samadhi begins, drop meditation. Else it may happen you are so caught in meditation that when the glimpse of Samadhi comes you keep your eyes shut in meditation, thinking Samadhi is an interruption—what’s this? A new obstacle to my meditation! I am a meditator; I will remain in meditation.
“For the sake of ghee the wise churn curd. Living, he is liberated—forever in Nirvana.”
If you can do this, there is liberation while living, Nirvana here and now—not after death, but here.
Let’s see what storm will wake us now
We hide our faces, lying by the shore
The goal is in front and our steps are slow
We come close, then grow distant from the goal again
Even in success, the failure of life
Not at the very goal—unacquainted with the goal we are.
And the goal is not far.
Not at the very goal—unacquainted with the goal we are.
Our difficulty is: we do not know the goal; otherwise we are on the goal.
The goal is in front and our steps are slow
We come close, then grow distant again
Often you come very near awakening, then slip, wander, grasp a new distraction. Mind is very devious, very cunning. It leads you into fresh sufferings—because mind lives only in suffering. In bliss the mind dies. Bliss is the death of mind. Therefore be ready.
“Whatever is seen will be destroyed.”
Be ready to die. If you would attain God’s light, be ready to become the moth. And—
“Without a glimpse, no hope arises.”
Even the moth’s urge to burn does not arise until the candle is seen. Where will you see the candle? In scripture? If you would behold the candle, behold it in a living guru—where the lamp is aflame.
Says Ravidas—utterly dispassionate—“O unfortunate heart, if you do not repeat Rama.”
Unfortunate are they who do not befriend Rama, who do not chant Rama. From chanting Rama, supreme dispassion descends.
Dispassion need not be cultivated. Nothing is to be left; no flight is needed. Ravidas never fled, remained a householder—lived as you live. He stitched shoes all his life. Stitching shoes, selling shoes, he attained the supreme dispassion—just as Kabir wove cloth, was a weaver; so Ravidas stitched shoes, a chamar. He had a home, family, wife, children. He did not abandon anything; nothing needs to be abandoned. The supreme dispassion descends by itself—just immerse in Rama; just begin descending the inner stairs. And the goal is not far. The treasure you seek is within; your search is outside. The kingdom you seek is within; and you set out to conquer the world.
Look, O accountant! This was the difference between you and me:
Where you held possession, I held my heart.
O wealthy one, look—this alone was the difference between us:
Where you held possession, I held my heart.
“The essence of union only the wedded knows; casting off pride, she revels in joy.”
Only the wedded—she whose union is consummated—knows love’s savor, taste, joy.
The essence of union only the wedded knows—
She alone knows communion.
Casting off pride, she revels in joy—
For in union she drops her pride. And in dropping pride, colors and flavors descend into life.
“Giving body and mind, she hides no inner space; she sees not another, hears not another, nor slanders.”
She gives body and mind. She keeps no difference, hides nothing within.
She neither sees another, nor hears another. One who has loved, sees only the Beloved—none else. One who has loved Rama sees only Rama—none else. The whole world becomes Ramamay.
But where is love here! In the name of love—who knows what goes on!
New recruits were being selected for the army. The captain said to Chandu Lal: Everything about you seems fine—your character bright as the moon, your health sound. But have you ever done any act of bravery? Chandu Lal replied: Yes, sir. I have been married three years.
In the name of love, what goes on is hard to say. Love is like a battlefield!
Nasruddin was going out of town for a few days. As he left he told his wife, Guljaan: Listen, though I will return next week, if for some reason I cannot, I will write to tell why. Guljaan said: No need to write; I have already taken that letter from your coat pocket and read it.
Who trusts whom here! The husband is cheating; the wife is cheating. He has letters ready explaining why he won’t come; but the wife is no less clever—she has read them beforehand. Hiding anything from wives is difficult. Their eyes are keen. The more the husband hides, the deeper the trouble.
One night Mulla Nasruddin’s wife heard him saying loudly in his sleep: Kamla! Kamla! Wives do not let go even in sleep. She shook him awake: What is this? Who is Kamla? For a moment Nasruddin was flustered, half-asleep; then he came to. He said: Kamla is no one—just a mare’s name. You know I’m fond of the racecourse. I have a bet on this mare. He thought it ended there. Next morning, while he was shaving, his wife knocked at the bathroom door: Open up. He opened. She said: A phone for you. From whom? She said: From that mare. She says: Meet me at Plaza Talkies at six in the evening.
One cannot escape wives!
In this life, what goes by the name of love—that Ravidas does not mean. Yet even in this life sometimes, somewhere, a glimpse of love does happen to a few. It is unfortunate that many never experience what deserves the name of love. They should. But we have made society so foolish that it does not happen. We have loaded love with so many conditions that it has died. We burdened love so heavily that it could not bear and broke.
Love is delicate, like a flower. We placed so many stones upon it—it has long been crushed, long since rotted. But sometimes in this life too love is glimpsed—between two persons a love occurs whose fragrance is of the sky, whose light is of the stars, whose sound is from afar, whose music is of the heart. These words will be meaningful to them; they will understand.
“The essence of union only the wedded knows; casting off pride, she revels in joy.
Giving body and mind, she hides no inner space; she sees not another, hears not another, nor slanders.”
She sees no other.
“How can he know another’s pain who has not found pain within?”
Only he can know another’s pain who has known the ache within. Only he who has known love will understand these words of love. Love your wife, your child, your friend—wherever an opportunity for love arises, water the plant of love. For that plant will one day lead you to prayer. There is no other way.
“Unhappy, ill-fated—the bird with both wings cut—she who never worshiped her Lord.”
Unfortunate are those who did not know devotion. But how will you know devotion? Devotion is love’s ultimate, absolute form. Love itself is not known.
Unhappy, ill-fated—the wingless bird.
Your state is like a bird whose wings are cut, told to fly into the sky.
My effort here is to teach you love first. How can I speak to you of God? First I must teach you love; then you can descend into prayer. And descending into prayer, one day you can find God. I must begin with A-B-C.
And centuries of rubbish have gathered on your mirror. Who knows what you have taken to be love, what formalities you have called prayer—and you have placed stone idols in temples and called them God. You have falsified everything. Your wings are cut. You cannot fly; and if you cannot fly, how will you trust the sky? If you cannot fly, how will you believe the sky is?
“The path of Rama’s love is arduous.”
Difficult is the path of love of Rama. The path of ordinary love is not less difficult. The greatest hurdle is: you must efface yourself, drown yourself. Even there, in love, husband seeks to possess wife, wife seeks to possess husband. A subtle war goes on—politics, tug-of-war, competition, struggle. Behind sweet words, hidden daggers.
The way of ordinary love is difficult. The difficulty? You must efface yourself, bow. The path of love of God is certainly arduous, very difficult, steep.
“With neither companion nor comrade—the journey alone.”
And difficult also because there is no companion, no comrade—you go alone. It is a flight into aloneness.
“To the door, afflicted and in pain I came; though very thirsty, I received no answer.”
A very important sutra.
Says Ravidas: “I seek your refuge, Lord; as you know, so do with me.”
Ravidas says: Whoever went to God’s door as a sufferer, as a pain-stricken one, seeking something—like a beggar—received no answer. His prayer goes in vain.
Though very thirsty, he received no answer.
However great his thirst, he will not be answered—because even now he wants to exploit God for his own ends. The ego has not died. It seeks to exploit even God: Do this for me. He remains unsubmissive. He does not say: As you will.
Says Ravidas: I am at your refuge, Lord. As you know, so do with me. Whatever your will—so be my state. If you send me to hell, I will go dancing—because you sent me. I will not ask for heaven. Hell’s fire will be cool for me—because you sent me. That heaven which is asked for is not for me. That which you give unasked is my heaven.
Ravidas says: Take no request to His door. And you all go with requests. Only when you want something do you pray. The word ‘prarthana’—prayer—has come to mean asking; therefore the one who asks is called ‘prarthi’—the demander.
Prayer does not mean asking; prayer means giving. Prayer means surrender. Prayer means: I come to your refuge. As I am, accept me. And whatever your will—because you know; what do I know? Wherever you lead, I will go. Wherever you raise me, I will rise. Wherever you seat me, I will sit.
Ravidas stitched and sold shoes. He had disciples like Mira! And many more—thousands. They would say: It does not seem right that you stitch shoes. He would be stitching shoes while discussing knowledge, discussing Brahman. They would say: It does not look proper—stitching shoes, while we are here. We will do everything.
Ravidas would say: So long as His will is for me to stitch shoes, what can I do? He does not tell me to stop stitching. Whenever He speaks, He says: Your shoes please me very much. Whoever wears my shoes is Rama only. How many Ramas have come and told me: Your shoes please us—no one makes such fine shoes. How shall I stop? If it is His will, it will stop. If it is His will, it will continue. If for births and births He sends me to stitch shoes, I will stitch joyously.
Singing songs, stitching shoes; humming Rama, stitching shoes.
Only he who comes to the Lord’s door like this is accepted, who gains entry.
The essence of prayer is: Let your will be done.
Enough for today.