Mare He Jogi Maro #1

The great poet Sumitranandan Pant once asked me: In the sky of India’s religion, who are those twelve people—according to my vision—who shine as the brightest stars? I gave him this list: Krishna, Patanjali, Buddha, Mahavira, Nagarjuna, Shankar, Gorakh, Kabir, Nanak, Meera, Ramakrishna, Krishnamurti. Sumitranandan Pant closed his eyes, he fell into thought...
It is not easy to make such a list either, for India’s sky is full of great constellations! Whom to leave out, whom to count?... He was a lovely person—utterly delicate, deeply sweet, feminine... Even in old age the freshness upon his face remained as it ought to remain. He kept becoming more and more beautiful... I began to read the passing emotions across his face. He was troubled. A few names that should naturally have been there, were not. Rama’s name was not there! He opened his eyes and said to me: You have left out Rama! I said: If I am restricted to twelve, then many names will have to be left out. And I have chosen twelve whose contribution is original. Rama has no original contribution, Krishna does. That is why even the Hindus did not call him a Purnavatar.
He then asked me: Then do this—give me seven names. The matter became more difficult. I gave him seven names: Krishna, Patanjali, Buddha, Mahavira, Shankar, Gorakh, Kabir. He said: On what basis have you now left out the five? I said: Nagarjuna is contained in Buddha. What in Buddha was in seed-form, that is precisely what Nagarjuna has manifested. Nagarjuna can be left out. And when there is the question of saving, then trees may be left out, seeds cannot be left out. Because from seeds again trees will arise, new trees will come. Where Buddha is born, hundreds of Nagarjunas will be born; but no Nagarjuna can give birth to a Buddha. Buddha is the Gangotri, the source; Nagarjuna is a pilgrimage place along the Ganga’s course—beloved! But if something must be left out, the pilgrim-stations can be left out—not the source.
In the same way Krishnamurti too is absorbed in Buddha. Krishnamurti is the latest edition of Buddha—the most new; in the language of today. But it is only a difference of language. Buddha’s supreme aphorism—Appo Deepo Bhava, be a light unto yourself—Krishnamurti is but its commentary. A commentary on a single sutra—deep, grave, vast, immensely significant! But be your own lamp, Appo Deepo Bhava—that alone is being expounded. This was Buddha’s final word on this earth. Before leaving the body he gave this essence. As if the wealth of an entire life, the experience of a whole life, was condensed into this one small sutra.
Ramakrishna dissolves easily into Krishna. Meera and Nanak dissolve into Kabir; as if they are branches of Kabir. As if what was gathered in Kabir, half of it manifested in Nanak and half in Meera. In Nanak, Kabir’s masculine form became manifest. Hence if the Sikh religion became the religion of the Kshatriya, the warrior, it is no surprise. In Meera, Kabir’s feminine form manifested—therefore all sweetness, all fragrance, all aroma, all music rang as anklets at Meera’s feet. Kabir’s woman sang upon Meera’s ektara; in Nanak Kabir’s man spoke. Both are contained in Kabir.
Thus, I said: I made this list of seven. Now his curiosity had grown very much. He said: And if you had to make a list of five? I said: The task will become harder for me.
I gave him this list: Krishna, Patanjali, Buddha, Mahavira, Gorakh... because Kabir can be merged into Gorakh. Gorakh is the source. Gorakh cannot be left out. And Shankar merges easily into Krishna. He is a philosophical exposition of one limb of Krishna, the elaboration of one aspect of Krishna.
Then he said: Enough—just once more... If you had to keep only four?
I gave him the list: Krishna, Patanjali, Buddha, Gorakh... because Mahavira is not very different from Buddha, only a little different. Just a small difference; that too is in expression. In the glory of Buddha the glory of Mahavira can be absorbed.
He began to say: Just once more... Choose three persons.
I said: Now it is impossible. Now out of these four I will not be able to leave any. Then I said to him: As there are four directions, so are these four personalities. As time and space have four dimensions, so these are the four dimensions. As we have imagined four arms of the Supreme, so these are the four arms. In truth there is only one—but that one has four arms. To leave any of these now would be like cutting off a hand. I will not be able to do that. Until now I followed your request and kept reducing the number. Because till now, what I had to separate was clothing; now the limbs would have to be broken. I will not commit such violence. Do not make me do it.
He said: A few questions have arisen; one is this: you could leave Mahavira, but not Gorakh?
I cannot leave Gorakh because in this country with Gorakh a wholly new beginning happened, while with Mahavira no new beginning happened. He is an incomparable man; but what for centuries had been said—what the twenty-three Jaina Tirthankaras had already said before him—he repeats. He is not the beginning of a journey. He is not the first link of a new chain; rather, he is the last link.
Gorakh is the first link of a chain. From him a new kind of religion was born, manifested. Without Gorakh there could be no Kabir, no Nanak, no Dadu, no Wajid, no Farid, no Meera—without Gorakh none of these could be. The original foundations of all of them are in Gorakh. Later the temple rose very high. Golden finials were set upon the temple... But the foundation stone is the foundation stone. And golden finials are seen from afar, yet they cannot be more valuable than the foundation stones. And the foundation stones are not even visible to anyone, and yet the whole structure, all the walls, all the spires rest upon them... The spires are worshiped; the stones of the foundation people forget. So Gorakh too has been forgotten.
But all of India’s saintly tradition is indebted to Gorakh. Just as without Patanjali there would remain no possibility of Yoga in India; just as without Buddha the foundation stone of meditation would be uprooted; just as without Krishna the expression of love would find no path—so without Gorakh the search for methods to attain the Supreme Truth, the arrangement of sadhana that began, would not be. As much as Gorakh discovered for man’s inner search, perhaps no one else has. He gave so many methods that if one thinks in terms of methods, Gorakh is the greatest inventor. He broke open so many doors to enter man’s innermost core—so many doors that people got entangled in the doors.
Hence we have a phrase in our language—Gorakh was forgotten—but the phrase Gorakh-dhandha has come into use, Gorakh’s tangle. He gave so many methods that people got confused: which is right, which is wrong, which to practice, which to drop...? He gave so many paths that people became utterly bewildered. Therefore the phrase Gorakh-dhandha was born. Now if someone is entangled in something we say, What Gorakh-dhandha have you gotten yourself into!
Gorakh had an extraordinary personality, as Einstein had. For the discovery of the truths of the outer world, the sharpest means that Albert Einstein gave—before him no one had. Yes, now they can be developed, now they can be honed further. But the first work was done by Einstein. Those who come after will be number two. They cannot be first now. The path was first broken by Einstein; now many will come to pave this path, to strengthen it, to set milestones, to make it beautiful, to make it easy. But no one can take Einstein’s place now. Such an event in the inner world happened with Gorakh.
But why has Gorakh been forgotten? Milestones are remembered, those who first break the road are forgotten. Those who adorn the way are remembered, those who first strike the way are forgotten. They are forgotten because those who come later get the benefit of decorating. The one who comes first is raw, unpolished. Gorakh is like a diamond just taken from the mine. If Gorakh and Kabir were to sit together, you would be impressed by Kabir, not by Gorakh. For Gorakh is a diamond just out of the mine; and Kabir—upon whom the jewellers have labored, upon whom chisels have moved, who has been refined to brilliance!
You know this: when the Kohinoor diamond was first found, the man who found it did not even know it was the Kohinoor. He gave it to his children to play with, thinking it some colored stone. He was a poor man. In a small stream flowing through his field the Kohinoor had been found. It remained in his house for months, the children played with it, threw it from one corner to another, it lay in the courtyard...
You would not have recognized the Kohinoor. The original weight of the Kohinoor was three times the present. Then it was cut, polished, faceted, its planes raised. Now only one-third the weight remains, yet its value has increased a million-fold. The weight kept decreasing, the price kept increasing—because the brilliance kept growing—more and more brilliance... If Kabir and Gorakh were to sit together, you might not even recognize Gorakh; for Gorakh is still the Kohinoor diamond just from the Golconda mines. Kabir has been well-honed; the jewellers have worked hard upon him... Kabir you would recognize.
Therefore Gorakh’s name has been forgotten. The stones of the foundation are forgotten!
You will be startled hearing Gorakh’s words. A little honing will be needed; they are raw. That honing I am doing here. Once you begin to recognize, you will be amazed. Whatever is essential, Gorakh has said. Whatever is of value, he has said.
So I told Sumitranandan Pant that I cannot leave Gorakh. And therefore, from four I cannot reduce the number further now. He must have naturally thought I would drop Gorakh and save Mahavira. Mahavira is the Kohinoor, not a raw diamond fresh from the mine. A whole tradition is there—twenty-three Tirthankaras, thousands of years—in which he has been honed, sharpened—he has become resplendent! You see, Mahavira is the twenty-fourth Tirthankara; the names of the other twenty-three people have forgotten! Those who are not Jainas will not be able to recite the names of the twenty-three. And those who are Jainas too will not be able to recite the twenty-three in order; they will make mistakes. Mahavira is the last—the finial of the temple! The finials are remembered; they are talked about. Who talks of the stones of the foundation!
Today we begin to speak of one such foundation stone. Upon this the entire edifice of India’s saintly literature stands! Upon this one person everything depends. He has said all that will later become very colorful, very beautiful; upon which people will practice, meditate for centuries; through which countless siddha-like beings will be born!
Die, O yogi, die!
What an astonishing saying! He says: Die, vanish, utterly dissolve!
Die, O yogi, die—die, for dying is sweet.
For there is nothing in this world sweeter than true death.
Die such a death...
Die such a death as the one by dying which Gorakh had the vision.
There is one kind of death with which we are familiar: the body dies, but our ego and our mind remain alive. The same ego takes a new womb. The same ego, afflicted by new desires, sets out again upon the journey. No sooner does it drop one body than it becomes restless for another body. So this death is not the real death.
I have heard: a man told Gorakh that he was thinking of committing suicide. Gorakh said: Go and do it; I tell you, you will be greatly surprised.
The man said: What do you mean? I came that you might dissuade me, tell me not to do it. I went to other sadhus too; all explained: Brother, do not do this, suicide is a great sin.
Gorakh said: Are you mad? No one can commit suicide. No one can die. Dying is not possible. I tell you—do it, and you will be shocked; you will find: Ah, the body dropped, I am as I am! And if you want to die the real death then stay with me. If you want a small-time game, your wish—jump from some hilltop, put a noose around your neck. If you want the Great Death then stay with me. I will give you the art by which the Great Death happens—then there will be no returning. But that Great Death only seems like a great death to us; that is why I call it sweet.
Die, O yogi, die—die, for dying is sweet.
Die such a death as the one by dying which Gorakh saw.
Such a death I teach you, says Gorakh, by passing through which I awoke. Sleep died, not I. Ego died, not I. Duality died, not I. Duality died—advaita was born. Time died—eternity was gained. When that petty, limited life broke, the droplet became the ocean. Yes, certainly when the droplet falls into the ocean it dies in one sense—as a droplet it dies. And in another sense, for the first time Great Life is attained—it lives as the ocean!
Rahim has a saying:
The drop too is equal to the ocean—whom shall I tell this wonder?
The one who sees is stunned—Rahim says—at his own self!
Rahim says: The droplet too is the same as the ocean. Whom shall I tell this marvel! To whom shall I say it, who will believe! The matter is so astonishing—who will accept that the droplet and the ocean are the same! That the drop is the sea! That in the atom the Divine abides! That there is nothing small! That in all the Vast is contained!
The drop too is equal to the ocean—whom shall I tell this wonder?
The matter is such a wonder—tell anyone, no one believes. The matter is so wondrous that when I first knew it myself, even then my own mind did not want to believe!
The one who sees is stunned...
When I first saw it I myself was stunned.
The one who sees is stunned—Rahim says—at his own self!
I beheld myself and was astonished. For I had always known I was small. But the Vastness of the Self is experienced only when someone breaks the boundaries of the small, when someone transcends the petty.
By being an ego you have earned nothing—you have lost. By constructing the ego you have gained nothing—you have lost everything. You remain a drop, a very tiny drop. The more you stiffen yourself, the smaller you become. Stiffening strengthens the ego more and more. The more you melt, the greater you become; the more you dissolve, the greater you become. If you utterly dissolve, vaporize, the whole sky is yours. Fall into the ocean and you become the ocean. Rise into the sky as vapor and you become the sky. Your being and the being of the Divine are one.
The drop too is equal to the ocean—whom shall I tell this wonder?
But when the first taste comes to you as well, you too will suddenly become dumb... like sugar to the dumb man... the experience will begin to happen, the flavor will arrive, nectar will begin to pour within the throat, but words will not be found to say it. Whom shall I tell this wonder! How to say what is so wondrous? Those who dared to say, Aham Brahmasmi—do you think anyone believes them?
Mansoor said, Anal Haq—I am Truth, the Divine. People crucified him. Jesus was killed because he said: He who is in the heavens, my Father and I, we are one. Father and son are not two. The Jews could not forgive it. Whenever anyone has made a declaration of godliness, people have not been able to forgive him. The matter itself is such. Whom shall I tell this wonder! To whom will you go to say it? Whomever you tell will begin to deny it.
Yesterday the former vice-chancellor of Gurukul Kangri, Satyavrata, visited the ashram. Darshan took him around the ashram. Satyavrata has written books on the Upanishads. He is a knower of the Vedas. There are few in this country who know the Veda as deeply as Satyavrata does. I have read his talks and his thoughts. But even his question to Darshan was this: Why do you call your guru Bhagwan? Even his...! There is not the slightest difference between our so-called scholars and the ignorant. Darshan gave him the right answer. Darshan said: You too are Bhagwan, but you do not remember it—and he remembers. It was a mouth-shutting reply, a straight answer! And when any scholar comes to this ashram, remember to give just such a precise answer. Satyavrata has written on the Upanishads; surely he must have come near the mahavakya Aham Brahmasmi—who is there who has not! Surely he must have thought upon it, reflected upon it: Tat Tvam Asi, Shvetaketu! O Shvetaketu, thou art That. And he must have lectured upon it too. But the matter has passed from above only. Even simple Darshan has gone deeper than this! It remained mere scholarship—hollow, like rubbish. No value—worth two coins.
The Upanishads say that you are That. And the Upanishads say: I am Brahman. Yet you keep asking: Why call anyone Bhagwan? I ask you: Who is there whom we should not call Bhagwan?
Someone asked Ramakrishna: Where is God? Ramakrishna said: Do not ask where He is; ask where He is not!
The priests of the Kaaba told Nanak: Remove your feet from the direction of the Kaaba. Aren’t you ashamed—that being a sadhu you have kept your feet toward the holy temple?
Nanak said: Move my feet to that side where the Holy One is not! What can I do, where shall I place my feet? Whichever side I place them, He is present there. He has encompassed all directions. But I have no worry, said Nanak, for He is outside as He is inside. The stone is His, the feet are His. What can I do? Who am I in between?
Darshan said rightly: When you awaken, you too will know that it is Bhagwan who is enthroned. This is what astonishes me—that those whom we call learned... and these are the very learned who lead people! The blind leading the blind—both fall into the well. They have big titles—Satyavrata Siddhantalankar! Knower of doctrine!
Without siddhi no one knows doctrine. By reading scriptures, doctrines are not known—they are known by descending within oneself.
The drop too is equal to the ocean—whom shall I tell this wonder?
The one who sees is stunned—Rahim says—at his own self.
Rahim says: When I looked within I myself was left stunned—astonished, dumbfounded! Even I myself could not believe that I and the Divine! This voice arising within, the sound of Anal Haq rising, this resonance of Aham Brahmasmi, this Omkar awakening— even I cannot believe it, that I, Rahim, I—someone as small and ordinary as me... I and God! The drop too is equal to the ocean! Now whom shall I tell—when I myself cannot believe it, whom shall I tell?
To bring you to this very trust I am sitting here. When this trust arises, know that satsang has happened. Do not become a Siddhant-alankar by sitting near me! Become siddha; nothing less will do. Nothing less has any value. Learn the art of dying. Die, O yogi, die! Die like a drop and you will be the ocean. The art of dying is the art of attaining the Great Life.
It abides not, it is not void—It is the Unattainable, the Inapparent.
How shall you name That whose voice, like a child, is heard in the sky-crown?
It abides not, it is not void...
We can neither say God is, nor can we say He is not. Ponder, consider. The Divine is the sum of both “is” and “is not,” thus He is beyond both. Neither the theist knows Him, nor the atheist. Neither the theist is religious, nor the atheist. Naturally, the atheist is not religious; the one whom you call a theist is not religious either. Your theists and atheists are two faces of the same coin. The theist says—He is; the atheist says—He is not. Both have chosen half. The Divine is both is and is not, together, simultaneously, at once. His way of being is a way of not-being. His fullness is the fullness of emptiness. His presence is like an absence. All oppositions, all contradictions are contained in God. And this is the most fundamental contradiction: Is He, or is He not? If you say He is, only half remains. Then when things are not, where do they go? Even in not-being they must be somewhere. Even in not-being they must remain in some manner.
There is a tree, a great tree! Upon it a seed hangs. The tree dies. Now sow the seed, again the tree will arise. What was the seed? It was the not-being of the tree, the not-form of the tree. If you had split the seed and searched, you would not have found the tree. Where did the tree go? But in some sense the tree is hidden in the seed. Now it is hidden as absence. Then it was manifest as presence; now it is hidden as absence. Sow the seed again in the soil, provide the right conditions, and again the tree will be. And remember, when the tree appears the seed is lost; they are not together. The tree is lost, the seed becomes; the seed is lost, the tree becomes. These are two sides of one coin. Can you see both sides at once—or can you?
Try— a coin is a small thing, it can be held in the hand. Try to see both sides fully at once. You will be in a difficulty. When you see one side, the other will not be seen; when you see the other, the first is lost. But from the first being lost, will you say it is not?
Creation too is a form of God—dissolution too. His one form is expression, his other is unexpression. When you pluck the strings of the veena, music arises. Where was it just before? In the void. It was certainly—if it were not, it could not be born. It was lying hidden, in some deep cave. You plucked the strings, you called. By plucking you inspired it. The melody was asleep, it awoke. The musician does not create notes, he only awakens them—awakens the sleeping. Who will create notes? There is no way to create them.
In this world nothing can be made and nothing can be destroyed. Now science too agrees to this. You cannot destroy even a tiny grain of sand; nor can you create it. Nothing can be made, nothing reduced. The world is as much as it is—and yet things arise and disappear. This means: as in a play the actors go behind the curtain and then come out. The curtain rises and the curtain falls. The tree departs, the curtain falls. The tree goes behind the curtain, becomes a seed. The curtain rises, the seed again becomes the tree.
When you see a person dying, what are you seeing? God’s “not” form. A moment ago he was, now he is not. So that which was becomes not; and that which is not will again become is. The theist chooses the one half, the atheist chooses the other half. There is no difference between them. They have each chosen one pan of the scale. They have broken the scale. The scale requires both pans. The scale is the sum of both pans—and more than the sum. God is the sum of is and is not—and something more than both.
The theist is afraid; the atheist is afraid. If you understand the fear of the theist and the atheist you will discover a great surprise: there is not the slightest difference between them; the fundamental foundation of both is fear. The theist is afraid: Who knows what happens after death? Who knows what was before birth! Who knows—I will be left alone, the wife will be left behind, friends will be left behind, father will be left behind, mother will be left behind, family will be left behind. All that I had assembled—everything will be left! I will be alone on a desolate journey! Who is my companion, who is my friend! Let me accept God, His assurance will accompany me. He will be with me!
The theist believes because of fear. Those who kneel in temples and mosques and pray—their prayers arise from fear. And whenever prayer arises from fear, it becomes dirty. Because of your prayers even the temples have become dirty. Because of the filth of your prayers temples too have become dens of politics. There too are quarrels and fights and violence and enmity and competition. Temples and mosques do nothing but cause fights.
The theist is afraid. If I say the atheist too is afraid, you will be startled. Because people ordinarily think: If the atheist were afraid he would accept God. People have tried and failed to frighten him; they terrify him with hell. They paint grand scenes—vast panoramas! They erect a picture of hell—flames of fire, boiling cauldrons, hideous devils! They will torture badly, beat severely, burn in the fire. After such terrorizing, still the atheist does not accept God. So people think the atheist must be very fearless. Not so.
Those who will go deep into the psyche will find that the atheist too denies God because he is afraid. His denial arises from fear. If God is, then he is afraid. Then hell too will be. Then heaven too will be. Then sin too, virtue too. If God is, then someday one will have to give an account. If God is, then some Eye is watching us; someone is testing us; somewhere a ledger of our life is being kept and we are answerable to someone and we will not be able to slip away. If God is, then we must change ourselves. Then we must live such that we can stand before Him with our head held high.
And if God is, another anxiety seizes the atheist: If God is, then I must seek Him too, I must risk my life. This is not a cheap bargain. Better that there be no God—then one is free. With God, freedom is gone—from heaven too, from hell too. No fear of hell, no fear of losing heaven. No fear that those who worship in temples will go to heaven. There is no heaven; who went, who will go! Man does not survive after death; then what sin, what virtue!
The Charvakas, who are the original source of the atheistic tradition, said: Do not worry—borrow and drink ghee. Drink—if you must take a loan to drink ghee, drink it; drink it without worry. Do not concern yourself with repayment. Who is to give, who to take! When you die everything will remain lying—yours and his too. And nothing survives thereafter. When no one survives thereafter, what fear? Then if you want to do sin, do it; if you want to do evil, do it; live as you like, in merriment. Life is of two days—live in style, drop worry. Even if it hurts others, even if it harms others—do not be concerned. What harm, what hurt! All a net of priests to frighten you.
But if we enter even the Charvaka-mind, the same fear is there. He denies God out of fear.
Have you noticed—there are many people who deny ghosts and spirits merely out of fear! You know them—No, no, there are no ghosts. But when they say, No, no, there are no ghosts—just observe their faces a little.
A lady was once a guest in my house. She had no trust in God; she would say, God does not exist. I said: Leave God aside—do you believe in ghosts and spirits? She said: Absolutely not! All nonsense.
I said: Think carefully. Because today I am here, you are here, and this house is here. I cannot say that I can make God appear to you— but ghosts and spirits I can arrange.
She said: What kind of talk is this—there are no such things! But I saw she began to be nervous. She began to look here and there. Night deepened.
I said: Then fine. I will tell you something.
She said: I do not believe—what will you tell me? I simply do not believe.
I said: It is not a question of belief. Where this house is built, once a washerman lived—in the time of the first world war. He was newly married. A very lovely bride came home. Everything in the bride was beautiful; only one flaw—she was one-eyed. Very fair, every limb well-formed—only one eye was missing.
I painted the picture for her... The washerman had to go to war; he was conscripted in the first world war. Letters kept coming—Now I will come, then I will come. And the washerwoman kept waiting, waiting, waiting; he never came. He was killed in the war. Waiting for him, the washerwoman died and became a ghost. Even now she lives in this house, waiting that perhaps the washerman might return. She has one eye, she is fair and lovely, with long black hair. She wears a red sari.
She said to me: I do not believe. But I watched that she began glancing around, nervous. I said: I am telling you because you are staying for the first time at night in this house today. Whenever any new person stays in this house, that washerwoman comes at night and lifts the sheet to see if perhaps the washerman has returned.
A pallor began to come over her face. She said: What are you saying? A wise man like you believes in ghosts and spirits.
I said: It is not a matter of belief, but it is necessary to warn you, otherwise you will get too frightened. Now I have told you: if some one-eyed woman, fair, with black hair, in a red sari lifts your sheet, do not be afraid; she never harms anyone; she throws the sheet back and leaves stamping her feet. And let me tell you one more sign of hers.
The person in whose house I was a guest had the habit of grinding teeth at night. Ten or five times in the night he would begin to grind his teeth. I said: One more habit of that woman—when she comes into the room she comes grinding her teeth. Naturally, how long can she wait? Ages have passed. Her love is there, she comes full of anger. The washerman cheated her, he has not come even now. So she grinds her teeth; you will hear the grinding of teeth first.
She said: What are you saying? Stop this talk. You are frightening me unnecessarily.
I said: If you really do not believe, there is no question of fear. We continued thus, and it became midnight. Then I said: Now go and sleep in the room. She went to the room. As luck would have it, no sooner did she lie down and put out the light than the gentleman in the next room ground his teeth. She screamed. I ran and reached there, lit the light; she was lying unconscious, pointing into the corner—She is standing there! I tried my best to explain that there are no ghosts. She said: Now I cannot not believe—how can they not be? She is standing right there... And what you had said—one eye, fair complexion, black hair, red sari, and grinding her teeth...
I had to be troubled the whole night, for she neither slept nor let anyone sleep. She said: Now I cannot sleep; if I sleep she will come again. And you say she will lift the sheet—will she come so near? I told her: Where are ghosts? It was just a story I told you. Just to...
She even got a fever that night! We had to call a doctor. And the people in whose house I was a guest said: You unnecessarily create such trouble. The lady left the next morning. She never returned. I sent word several times: Come sometime. She said: I cannot put my foot in that house. I tried to explain—Where are ghosts? She said: Leave it—whom are you trying to convince? I have myself experienced it.
Consider: it often happens that what you fear, that very thing you deny. You deny precisely so you need not even remember that you are afraid. If it is not—what is there to fear?
There is not the slightest difference between theist and atheist. One is fear-filled affirmatively, the other fear-filled negatively, that’s all. The difference is of debit and credit; but fear belongs to both. The atheist says, No God out of fear. Because if God is accepted then one must accept much else which makes him tremble. The theist says, God is; he is fear-filled affirmatively. He says: God is; if I do not accept Him, do not praise Him, do not worship Him, do not appease Him—I will be punished.
The religious person says: God has both forms. God is beyond the beliefs of both the theist and the atheist...
It abides not, it is not void...
We cannot say, He is; nor can we say, He is not.
It is not void, nor does It abide...
We cannot say He is emptiness, nor can we say He is fullness.
...He is such—Unattainable, Inapparent.
Such is He—Unattainable. No word of ours can measure Him. Our words are like tiny tea-spoons; He is like the ocean! With these tea-spoons you cannot fill the ocean, nor can you measure it. All our measures are too small. Our hands are too small. Our capacity is too small. His expanse is infinite. He is boundless.
Unattainable, Inapparent...
Rahim says: Of the Unattainable there is neither telling nor hearing.
Those who know do not say; those who say do not know.
Rahim says: Unattainable is He...
He is so Unattainable! Understand the word Unattainable. It means: one whose depth cannot be fathomed—bottomless. Try as you may, the bottom cannot be found. Because there is no bottom. And those who go to find His bottom merge into Him.
They say two dolls of salt once went to measure the ocean. They lept into the sea. A crowd had gathered. For days there was waiting; slowly the fair dispersed—the dolls of salt did not return. They did not find the bottom, and they themselves dissolved.
Searching and searching, says Kabir, Kabir himself was lost.
They had gone to search and were lost! If dolls of salt go to find the ocean, how long will they last? They dissolve. They were part of the ocean—in that sense the image of salt dolls is given. We too are dolls of salt, He is the ocean; if we go searching for Him—we will be lost.
Unattainable means: not merely unknown; for the unknown is that which will someday be known. Today what is known was once unknown. Man had not walked on the moon—he has now. Till then the moon was unknown—now known. We did not know the secret of the atom—now we do.
The Divine is not unknown—that is the difference between religion and science. Religion says: There are three kinds of things in the world— the known, which have been known; the unknown, which will be known; and the unknowable, which neither has been known nor will be known. Science says: There are only two things—known and unknown. Science divides the world into two—what is known and what will be known. It is in that one word—Unknowable—that religion’s entire essence is hidden. There is something that has not been known and will not be known. Because the secret is this: the one who seeks Him dissolves in Him.
Rahim says: Of the Unattainable there is neither telling nor hearing...
And when the seeker himself is lost, who will say, what will he say, how will he say? All words are too small, too paltry. Even in the experiences of this life you will find: you rose in the early morning; the sun began to rise in the garden, trees began to awaken. The earth’s moist fragrance rose. It must have rained recently. On blades of grass the dewdrops began to sparkle like pearls. Birds began to sing. A peacock danced, a cuckoo cooed. Flowers blossomed; lotuses opened their petals. You see all this. This is not inapparent— it is apparent. This is not unknown to you—it is known. You experience all this beauty. If someone asks you, say it in a word. What will you say? You will say only this: It was beautiful, very beautiful! But is this saying anything? In that “very beautiful” there is neither a ray of the sun, nor the moist fragrance of the earth, nor the opening petals of the lotus, nor the songs of birds, nor the pearls of dew, nor the greenness of trees, nor the open sky. Nothing at all. What is there in “very beautiful”? Nothing. A few letters of the alphabet.
Understand similarly: if you write the word “lamp” and hang it on the wall—will there be light at night? The dark night will remain dark. Talking of lamps will not bring light.
A lady said to Picasso: Yesterday I saw at a friend’s house your self-portrait. So beautiful, so lovely that I could not restrain myself—I kissed it. Picasso asked: And then what happened? Did that picture kiss you back or not?
The lady said: What are you saying! No, it did not.
Then Picasso said: Then it could not have been my picture.
The neighbor told Mulla Nasruddin: Mind your son, he is a rascal already. Yesterday he threw a stone at my wife.
Mulla asked: Did it hit? He said: No. So Mulla said: Then it must have been someone else’s son. My son’s aim never misses. It must have been someone else’s. You are mistaken. In the same way Picasso said: Then it was not my picture. It was not me. If the kiss did not receive an answer—what kind of encounter is that? There should be response.
From pictures responses do not come. Therefore pictures too fall short. Our songs fall short, our words, our scriptures fall short. Even what we know in this world cannot be said...
A mother loved her child. How will you say what love is? What is there in the word “love”? Anyone repeats it. You say that you love your child very much, or your wife very much. What meaning? There are people who say they love ice cream. Someone says, I love my car. Where ice cream and cars are loved—what meaning remains? When you say, I love my wife very much—is your wife ice cream? What meaning remains of love? Our words are small, and we use those small words for everything. They have limits. What comes into experience in this world does not fit into them—then that Supreme experience—the ultimate experience—where all thought falls silent, where one goes beyond language, where the net of logic is left behind, where thoughtless awareness is—what is realized there, that you will not be able to say.
Those who know do not say...
Therefore those who have known, could not speak it. No one has been able to say it till today. You think I say it to you every day—am I able to? No. I can say everything else—but that Unattainable remains Unattainable. I can say much around it, but no arrow of a word hits that target. All else can be said; but all saying is nothing more than pointing.
Do not grasp what I say. What I say is like a milestone— and upon it an arrow-mark says, Delhi is a hundred miles away. Do not clutch the stone saying you have reached Delhi. What I say is like when a finger points at the moon. Do not begin to worship the finger. All scriptures are fingers pointing at the moon. No finger reveals the moon. But the intelligent grasp the gesture. For the intelligent a hint suffices.
A man came to Buddha. He said: I have come to hear that which cannot be said. Buddha closed his eyes. Seeing Buddha close his eyes, the man too sat with eyes closed. Ananda, seated nearby—Buddha’s attendant, lifelong servant—became alert: What is the matter? He will nod off—what will he do, sitting? He will yawn. He watched: What is this? This man has said he has come to hear that which cannot be said—and Buddha closed his eyes into silence—and this man also sat with eyes closed. The two were lost in some ecstasy. Somewhere far... in the void, the two seemed to be meeting. Ananda was watching: Something is surely happening, but no words are being spoken—from neither side. No words form on the lips, nor do any reach the ears; and yet something is surely happening! Some invisible presence was felt. As if both had sunk into the same aura. And the man rose after half an hour. Tears of joy were flowing from Ananda’s eyes. He bowed at Buddha’s feet and said: Blessed is my good fortune! I was searching for someone who can say without saying. And you have said it with great beauty! I go satisfied.
The man departed, weeping and blissful. As soon as he left Ananda asked: What was the matter? What happened? You did not speak, he did not hear. And when he was going and touched your feet, you blessed him with such depth, placing your hand upon his head—as perhaps you have never upon anyone’s head! What is the matter, what was the quality of this?
Buddha said: Ananda! You know, when you were young, when we were all young—we were cousins, you and I—we were raised in one royal house, grew up together—you loved horses very much. You know well, some horses are such that even if you beat them they hesitate; beat them again and again, they do not move. Very stubborn! Then there are horses—give them a little pain, they move. Then there are horses—you do not need to hurt them; just crack the whip in the air—make a sound, do not strike—and they move. And there are also horses—you know very well—to whom even cracking the whip is insulting, who move merely upon seeing the shadow of the whip. This man was of those horses. The shadow of the whip. I said nothing to him—I simply dissolved into my emptiness. He saw just my shadow; satsang happened. This is called satsang.
It is not that Buddha does not speak. With those who can only understand speaking, he speaks. When slowly they begin to understand not-speaking, he also does not speak. Speaking is a preparation for not-speaking.
Satsang has two forms. One—when the Master speaks, because for now you can only understand speaking; even to understand speech will be much. Then comes the second moment—the supreme moment—when there remains no question of speech. When the Master sits and you are seated near him. This moment the ancients called Upanishad—sitting near the Master! From this sitting near were born our Upanishads; they were named Upanishad for this very reason! Sitting near the Master—in that nearness, what was heard in the void, that alone was collected—thus were formed the Upanishads. Upanishad means: sitting near, satsang!
No—those who know do not say; those who say do not know. Therefore whoever says, I will make you know God—be alert. You will be deceived. You will be handed words. Whoever says, I have known Him—his claim will prove fatal. He is not known. He who knows Him becomes That. In him there remains no difference between the knower and the known. There, knowledge, knower and known are not separate fragments. There the knower dissolves into the known; there the known dissolves into the knower. Therefore He is called Unattainable. Then His bottom is not found—the one who goes to find the bottom is lost. Searching and searching, says Kabir, Kabir himself was lost!
It abides not, it is not void—It is the Unattainable, the Inapparent.
How shall you name That whose voice, like a child, is heard in the sky-crown?
And when someone becomes ready to endure this Unattainable—when someone gathers the courage to descend into this Unattainable—that very courage is named:
Die, O yogi, die—die, for dying is sweet.
Die such a death as the one by dying which Gorakh saw.
Vanish, die—then the vision appears, then union happens. Lose yourself and the search is fulfilled. Then within him a new articulation of the brain happens.
In the sky-crown the child speaks...
In his sahasrar, in his brain, the void is born. When all thoughts depart; when ego departs; when the feeling of “I am” does not remain; when only This is—silence, peace, emptiness—this is called Samadhi. When Samadhi ripens! When you are awake, but in the mind no stream of thought flows. The stream of thought has become void, silent, no travelers walk there—thoughtless, objectless consciousness remains. You remain only a pure mirror, in which no shadow forms, no reflection appears. In this state the lotus within you blossoms, in your brain the birth of the void happens. Nothing remains that can fill it. You remain just a holy emptiness.
In the sky-crown the child speaks...
And then his immaculate voice—like the cry of a small child! Like the voice of a newborn! New, fresh, just bathed, virginal—the sound is heard. Its resonance is experienced.
In such a state did Muhammad hear the Quran. In such a state did the Rishis hear the Vedas. In such a state have the world’s great scriptures been born. All of them are apaurusheya—not made by man; the hands of man did not touch them. The Divine flowed—man was only the passage.
In the sky-crown the child speaks—what name will you give it?
And when that spotless voice rises within, it cannot be named. It is Nameless. It cannot be given any adjective, for all adjectives will set limits; and It is limitless, It is infinite. The drop has become the sea. The droplet has flown, become the sky; now who will speak, what will be said? When someone returns from there he becomes dumb—utterly dumb. He speaks a lot, he speaks of many other things. How to reach there, this he speaks; by which path to reach, this he speaks; by what method and discipline you will reach, this he speaks. But about what happened there—he remains silent. He says: You yourself go, you yourself see. I can tell you how to open the window. I can tell you which key to use so the lock opens. But the vision that happens—only when you go will it happen! No one can lend that vision.
Laugh, play, and hold to meditation!
But in the life of the one who has this experience you will see a few things. They are very lovely, very deep words!
Laugh, play, and hold to meditation...
You will see him laughing, playing. Life for him has become a play. You will not find him grave. This is the touchstone of the true Master. You will not find him morose and sad. You will find him laughing.
Laugh, play, and hold to meditation...
For him all is laughter and play, all is leela. That is why we called Krishna a Purnavatar. Rama is grave, he keeps accounts of small things, he walks by rule and propriety—he is the Lord of Maryada. Krishna is beyond maryada—no rule, no propriety. For Krishna life is leela.
Life is a game. Do not take it more than a game; take it more than a game—and you are entangled. Understand it as drama, as acting. In acting no one is disturbed. Whatever role comes, he plays it in joy. Someone has to play Ravana in the Ramleela; there is no one worried—no one weeps in his heart: Alas, how unfortunate that I have to play Ravana! As soon as the curtain drops Rama and Ravana become equal. There they were ready to take each other’s lives—behind the curtain you will see them sitting, drinking tea, chatting. Sita is seated between them. There is no question of stealing, no question of saving.
Life is an acting; but only for the one who attains the Void can perfect acting happen.
Laugh, play, and hold to meditation...
Then even meditation is play, laughter. People ask me: What kind of ashram is this of yours! Here people laugh, dance, play, jump.
What other kind of ashram can there be?
Laugh, play, and hold to meditation—day and night speak the knowledge of Brahman.
Then whatever he speaks is Brahman-knowledge. Day and night. Just as he rises, just as he speaks... If he falls silent, in his silence there is Brahman-knowledge; if he speaks, in his speaking there is Brahman-knowledge; if he dances, in his dancing there is Brahman-knowledge; and if he sits quietly, in his quiet there is Brahman-knowledge. His entire personality has been offered to Brahman, surrendered to the Whole. Now he is no longer separate. That is why he laughs and plays. He has become a part of God’s leela.
Laughs and plays, he does not break the mind.
Therefore laugh, and play, and do not make the mind unnecessarily grave and become miserable and troubled. Do not shatter the mind.
But you see: some are very troubled in the worldly sense; and some are very troubled in the religious sense. Both are breaking the mind. One runs after wealth—his mind is broken; one runs away out of fear of wealth—his mind is broken. One says: The more women I get, the better. And one says: May no woman be seen, otherwise all will be spoiled. But in both the mind is broken, neither knows the art of play and laughter. They have not learned the art of leela in life. They are very serious. Too serious. Their seriousness is their sickness.
Laugh, play, and hold to meditation—day and night speak the knowledge of Brahman.
Laughs and plays, he does not break the mind...
Therefore it is said: Laugh, play, do not break the mind.
Then unmoving, ever with the Lord-Nath.
Immersed in this laughter and play, dyed in this joy, this leela—you will be ever in the company of Nath, the Lord. Then moment to moment the Divine and you are together. To say together may not be accurate—you have become one. That is the meaning: unmoving, ever with Nath. Not for a single moment does the togetherness break. Togetherness has become continuity.
Day and night the mind remains unmindful...
Every moment, rising and sitting, waking and sleeping—only one remembrance remains: make the mind unmind. What the Zen masters call “no-mind,” unman. Make the consciousness empty.
What is mind? Thoughts of the past, plans for the future—that is mind. The noise of what has happened, the expectations of what should happen—that is mind. If neither the past remains nor the future remains—then what is? The present.
Laugh, play, and hold to meditation...
Then only the pure present remains, in which even the shadow of thought does not fall. And the past is not—it is with that that you are entangled. And the future is not yet—it is with that that you are entangled. Some people are past-oriented—their eyes are stuck behind. Some are future-oriented—their eyes are stuck ahead. Both are deprived of That-Which-Is. And That-Which-Is, here and now, this very moment—that is the form of the Divine.
Live this very moment, moment to moment! Then what sadness?
Have you ever noticed this: in the present there is always flavor, and in the present there is always bliss. Whenever you are sad, think a little: sorrow is either about the past or about the future. Either what you wanted to do you could not do in the past—that is the sorrow; or what you want to do in the future—will you be able to do it or not—that anxiety and pain is there.
Have you ever observed this small truth: in the present there is no sorrow, no anxiety? Therefore the present does not break the mind—anxiety breaks the mind. In the present sorrow is not. The present does not know sorrow. The present is such a small instant that sorrow cannot fit into it. In the present only heaven can fit—hell cannot fit. Hell has a vast expanse. In the present only peace can be, joy can be, samadhi can be.
Day and night the mind remains unmind...
So make the mind unmind, wipe the mind clean. Meaning: Do not think of the past and the future. This moment that has come—taste it a little now.
This moment... the distant sound of a passing train, people sitting in silence, soaked in love, listening to my words, you gazing at me without blinking, sunlight falling upon the trees, gusts of wind—where is sorrow now, what sorrow? In this moment all is joy. Deepen this joy. Drink this joy. This is the wine to be distilled. This is the tavern in which to become a participant. More than one moment you never get; two moments never come together. Live just one moment.
Jesus said to his disciples: Do you see the lilies of the field, their beauty—what is the secret of their beauty? Poor lilies! What is their secret, from where does their fragrance arise? And I say to you—said Jesus—even King Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these lilies! What is the secret of their beauty? There is one secret: What is gone is gone; what has not come has not come. They worry neither about the day that has passed nor about the day to come. They are simply here...
Therefore Jesus said to his disciples: Do not think of tomorrow. All thinking is of tomorrow. In this instant there is no thinking. And where thought is not, where thinking is not, where anxiety is not, there is no mind. And where there is no mind, there is God. If mind dies, the Divine is experienced. Die, O yogi, die!
Drop hopes, remain hope-less...
You hope—and from that the mind is born. The mind is the demand for more. The mind says: More, more... Whatever you give is too little; more is needed. This disease of “more” is such an ancient disease that no matter how much you go on giving, the mind, by its old habit, will keep asking. You have ten thousand—it will demand a million; give a million—it will demand a hundred million. It will keep asking. It will not allow such a moment to come, it will not allow such an instant where the mind will say to you: Enough... That “enough” never comes; the full stop never settles.
Therefore the mind keeps you running. It keeps even Alexanders running. All keep running—all keep running—running they die. From cradle to grave, apart from the race of ambition, what are you? What has ever been gained from this race—when did it give anything to anyone?
Drop hopes, remain hope-less...
Understand the difference: “Hopeless” does not mean what you have begun to make it. Nowadays we call one who sits sad “hopeless.” We have perverted the word. “Hope-less” means only this: one who has dropped all hopes. And one who has dropped all hopes cannot be hopeless in our modern sense. The hopeless is one whose hopes are there and are not fulfilled. Then there is hopelessness.
The modern meaning: You hoped, and it did not happen—then hopelessness. You sit sad... You had wanted to win the lottery and you did not.
Mulla Nasruddin was sitting dejected. The neighbor asked: You look very sad; you should be happy. I heard your uncle died last week and left you fifty thousand rupees; you should be happy.
Nasruddin said: Yes, I was happy, but not now. The week before last my maternal uncle died, he left me one lakh rupees. And now another week is finishing—no one has died yet... how can I... my heart is terribly disappointed. The week is finishing—Saturday has come, Sunday is coming, no one has died yet.
Do not laugh—the mind’s process is exactly that. The more you give, the more beggarly it becomes. The more it gets, the more impoverished it becomes. Even great emperors stand with begging bowls—Give me more...
The old meaning of “hope-less” is very grave, profound, meaningful. It means: Hope has gone, thus hopelessness too has gone. Neither hope remains nor hopelessness remains—that state was called “hope-less.” Nir + asha. No hope. With that, hopelessness too is gone. How will you disappoint the one who has no desire for success? And how will you make hopeless one who has no hope?
Lao Tzu has said: No one can defeat me, because in my mind there is no desire to win. Come—defeat me. No one can defeat me, because I do not want to win.
If you attack Lao Tzu, he will lie flat on the ground and say: Brother, sit, sit upon me. Enjoy a little—twist your loincloth—go to your house. I have no desire to win—so how will you defeat me? Only he can be defeated who is a seeker of victory.
And hopelessness is born precisely in the one who was full of hope. The old meaning of hope-less is very precious. Where there is emptiness of both hope and hopelessness—that is hope-lessness. And this ought to be. If your meaning were the modern one, then laugh, play, meditate—laughs and plays, does not break the mind... none of it would remain meaningful.
No—the meaning is: We have dropped all hopes. Now we do not ask; we are no longer beggars. Now we have no expectations from the future; what will be, will be; what will not be, will not be. Whatever is—we are festive in it. Laugh, play, and hold to meditation. Whatever is—we are delighted in it. As it is—we do not have even a grain’s desire for it to be otherwise. He has given till now—He will continue to give; every moment we have lived in joy.
And a great wonder: The more joyfully one lives, the more joy one receives. The more sadly one lives, the more sadness comes. Because what we generate in our life-force, that alone is attracted to us. We become magnets.
Jesus’ famed saying is: To him who has, more shall be given; and from him who has not, even that which he has shall be taken away. A hard saying! It seems very unjust: To those who have, more will be given; and from those who have not, even what they have will be taken. No—in Jesus’ saying there is not the slightest injustice. It is a straight law of life. This is what is happening. If you are joyous, you will become more joyous. If you can laugh, stars will add their light to your laughter. If you can dance, your dance will become more rhythmic. If you can sing, the sky will sing with you, the mountain ranges will sing with you, the moon and the stars will sing with you. And if you begin to weep, if you become restless, restlessness from all around will begin to move toward you.
You attract what you are. This is the supreme law of life. As you are, that alone comes to you. Therefore the happy man becomes happier. The peaceful man becomes more peaceful. The restless man becomes more restless. The sorrowful man becomes more sorrowful. Your practice increases. The sorrowful man practices sorrow.
Mulla Nasruddin went to his doctor in the morning, coughing and hawking. The doctor said: Nasruddin, how is it—does your cough seem any better? He said: Why would it not? I have been practicing for three weeks. Why would it not? I practiced the whole night—rhythm is coming. The instrument is being tuned. Why would it not?
People become skillful even in sorrow—be aware. I know thousands—skilled in sorrow. They are artists of grief! Where there is no sorrow they create it. Their skill is such, their proficiency such, that where there is no thorn they manage to pierce themselves. Even flowers become thorns for them. Here, where the climate is of ecstasy, even here people become miserable. They become miserable seeing that others are so ecstatic. What is this? What kind of religion is this? Their idea of religion is—sitting upon their own grave... one foot in the grave, the rosary in hand—dead stumps—all leaves fallen...! No flowers bloom, no birds sing—then they say: Aha! this is religion. The Mahatma is very advanced!
You have become sorrowful—you can understand only the language of sorrow now. You can only recognize sorrow. Your skill in sorrow is so great that only with the sorrowful does your connection form. The more a Mahatma tortures himself, melts himself, troubles himself, the bigger the crowd around him becomes.
People ask me: Why are fewer Indians coming to you? The reason: India has become adept in sorrow. Over thousands of years it has acquired great skill in the art of self-torture. People spread thorns and sleep upon them—as if without thorns they cannot sleep! Fire is already raining down, yet they light more fires and sit. The body is turning to dust, and they smear more ash upon it. This country has much practiced sorrow. My message is of joy. Laugh, play, and hold to meditation...
Therefore they do not relish it; they have great difficulty. They cannot accept that dance could have something to do with meditation, that music could have something to do with meditation, that love could have something to do with meditation. They do not understand. And then they become angry toward me. For this unique place their hearts feel nothing but spite and enmity. They have gripped their sorrow firmly. They are not willing to drop sorrow. And until this habit of sorrow breaks in this country, the dawn of fortune will not arrive here.
And I tell you: Religion does not command that you become miserable. Religion is the search for bliss. That is why we have called God Satchitananda. Religion is the search for supreme bliss. And the small joys of this world are to be made the steps to that temple. It is false that by renouncing the joys of this world one will get Satchitananda. For he who is not even ready to taste the joys of this world—how will he gather the courage to endure the Divine? He who cannot drink a handful of water—when the ocean flows down his throat, how will he drink? No—he will drown, he will die.
In my understanding this world is a school. Here small lessons are being taught... Look at the flowers—blossom like flowers. Look at the rainbows—color your life like rainbows. Listen to music—become music. Let your song arise too.
Have you seen any Mahatma among the birds? That they sit with their sacred fires, smeared with ash... weeping, planting tridents, fasting? Have you seen any tree whom you could call a Mahatma? The tree has spread its roots into the earth, drinking sap; it has blossomed flowers, converses with the moon and the stars. Except for man, do you find Mahatmas anywhere? Except for man, do you find sorrow anywhere?
Just think: Nature, which is behind man, animals, birds and plants—they are more happy than you! What has happened to you? What plague has struck you? The sick have mounted your mind. The deranged have established dominion upon your mind. Those who cannot be happy— they have sung the glory of sorrow. Those who do not know the art of joy—such inferior people have praised grief. And they have logically impressed this upon your psyche: If you are miserable, you will be dear to God.
Gorakh says something else, I say something else:
Laugh, play, and hold to meditation—day and night speak the knowledge of Brahman.
Then your rising and sitting, speaking and breathing—everything becomes an expression of Brahman-knowledge.
Laughs and plays, he does not break the mind. Then unmoving, ever with the Lord-Nath.
Then satsang connects. Then you are with the Lord. Then there is no division.
Drop hopes, remain hope-less—then even Brahma says: I am his servant.
What of human beings—even Brahma, the Creator, comes to bow to the life of the one filled with joy; says: Brahma is his servant. Even the gods sing of the one who becomes bliss-intoxicated. Even the gods feel envy toward him.
As of now your state has become such that even the denizens of hell feel pity for you. They too must be thinking: May we not commit some sin—otherwise we will be born on earth—and especially in the meritorious land of India! May we not commit a sin in hell—otherwise we will be sent to the holy land of India. Such rumors have spread in hell.
There was a time when we wrote stories like this: When Buddha became enlightened, the gods descended from the heavens and bowed at his feet. When Mahavira awakened, flowers showered from the sky, the gods came to listen. For when someone attains the supreme bliss, even the gods feel envy; because the gods have not yet attained the supreme bliss. They are enjoying the fruits of their merits; when the fruits are exhausted, tomorrow, they must return. Their happiness, however long, is temporary. The eternal joy is known only to the one who has become ever with Nath. As yet they are not ever with Him.
What flows downward, hold it upward—lust is burnt by the yogi who does this.
A very precious sutra!
What flows downward, hold it upward—lust is burnt by the yogi who does this.
The yogi’s lust is burnt—who does not let his joy flow downward, but raises it upward.
What flows downward, hold it upward!
That very sap which flows downward, he begins to raise upward.
Understand three words. One: kama—lust. Kama is: pleasure flowing downwards. The second word: prema—love. Love is: pleasure held in the middle; neither going down nor going up. And the third word: prayer. Prayer is: pleasure flowing upward. The energy is the same. In kama that energy goes downward; in love it becomes steady in the middle; in prayer that energy opens its wings and begins to fly toward the sky. Therefore I have said: sex and Samadhi are joined—they are one energy, one ladder. Go downward and it is sex; go upward and it is Samadhi; and in the middle is love. Love is a door. Love is the door of both—of sex too. If your energy is going downward, love will become the door of sex. And if your energy is rising upward, love will become the door of Samadhi. Love is wondrous—a bridge—because it is the middle.
What flows downward, hold it upward...
That energy which is flowing downward in lust... now slowly awaken; that very energy must be taken upward. And that energy which is to be taken upward—do not fight it. Because whatever you fight—your connection with it is broken. Whatever you fight—you become afraid of it. Whatever you fight—you suppress it. And what is suppressed—cannot rise upward.
Therefore Gorakh and the Nathpanthis who follow him— they did not preach the suppression of lust—they spoke of its sublimation. Understand the difference: your so-called religious teachers teach suppression—push it down... What will happen by suppressing? Lust has to be refined, not suppressed. Lust is a diamond lying in mud. The mud has to be washed—but do not throw away the diamond. Do not throw away the diamond because of the mud—otherwise you will regret later. And this is the condition of your sadhus. Their condition has become worse than yours. You did not get the diamond, because yours lies in the mud; they threw away the mud, and the diamond also was lost. They became the washerman’s donkey—neither of the house nor of the ghat. Torn apart by duality—neither got the world nor God. There is no sign of Samadhi; and the little pleasure that a glimmer of sex sometimes gave—that too has gone far. Therefore their consciousness is sick twenty-four hours. Roots nowhere. They uprooted their roots from the earth, and did not learn the secret of rooting in the sky.
The secret is this: the diamond must be polished, cleansed—the mud washed away. From mud the lotus arises—so do not be afraid of mud. That is why the lotus has a name: Pankaja—born of mud. From mud the lotus arises! Such a precious, lovely form, such beauty manifests! In the mire of kama, the lotus of Rama is hidden.
What flows downward, hold it upward...
Therefore awaken, understand, recognize the energy of lust—be its witness. Do not fight. No enmity—befriend it. Only a friend can be persuaded to move upward. Take the hand of the energy of lust in your hand—so that slowly you can transform it into love; first transform kama into love, then love into prayer. When these three rungs are completed, then within you the sahasrar opens, in the void of the sky the Child is born.
Remember: from kama children are born; from sex, children are born— and from Samadhi too the Child is born. That Child is your inner Self. That Child is your majestic form, your divine form. As if within you Krishna has been born—the birth-night of Krishna has come! Within you the Child-Krishna is born.
In the sky-crown the child speaks—what name will you give it?
What flows downward, hold it upward—lust is burnt by the yogi who does this.
And only that yogi burns lust who binds the downward-flowing energy upward. It is not a matter of fighting.
Drop the embrace of the outer, cut the web of Maya.
What is petty, low—what is outside you—slowly leave your embrace of that. Slowly drop the idea that there is meaning in it; there is not. Meaning is hidden within.
Drop the embrace of the outer, cut the web of Maya.
Drop attachment, infatuation, greed slowly. For that which you hold outside—death will snatch it. If you drop it before death snatches it, then there is a great reward—you are blessed. For the one who drops before death comes—then death does not come to him. For nothing remains with him that death can snatch. He has dropped it himself. This alone is sannyas. And dropping does not mean running away. The one who runs away—he is still clinging. That is why he runs away—otherwise why would he run? If someone leaves his wife and runs to the forest—it means he is clinging to his wife. Otherwise what is the fear, what the anxiety?
I tell my sannyasins: Wherever you are, you can drop. Running is a delusion. Running away is cowardice. Dropping happens not by running—it happens by awakening. Just awaken and see. Slowly gather awareness. And you will find: in the light of awareness, what is worthless is seen as worthless. And what is seen as worthless— you cannot keep a clenched fist upon it—your embrace of it will drop.
Drop the embrace of the outer, cut the web of Maya—such a one has even Vishnu press his feet.
Vishnu comes to massage the feet of such a one! These are words of courage. Whoever said them must have been a man of courage. That is why I cannot leave Gorakh. I must count him among the four. The one who can have Vishnu press people’s feet—he has some courage! He is no ordinary man!
Die, O yogi, die—die, for dying is sweet.
Die such a death as the one by dying which Gorakh saw.
In love one must die. Love is death. And he who dies—he alone attains—the Eternal, the Immortal.
Rahim says: Do not praise a love that is of give-and-take.
Wager your very life—loss becomes victory.
Do not praise a love that is of barter and transaction.
Wager your very life—loss becomes victory.
Whether you win or lose—you must stake your life—only then... Love is not some business of give-and-take; it is no commerce. You stake your whole being. It is a gambler’s throw.
Rahim says: On a waxen horse I shall ride—through fire I shall pass.
Such is the path of love—few can accomplish it.
Rahim said: As if one fashions a horse of wax and rides a waxen horse through fire...
To pass through fire upon a waxen horse—how hard! A waxen horse—and then fire... How will you pass, how will you emerge? The horse will melt.
On a waxen horse I shall ride—through fire I shall pass.
Such is the path of love—few can accomplish it.
Such is the path of love—so difficult. Because only those who are ready to die can enter love.
Die, O yogi, die—die, for dying is sweet.
But there is a great sweetness in this death... He who dies the death of meditation—there is no experience more brimming with nectar than this. For by dying in that death one comes to know that—Ah, what died was never me. And what remains even after death—that alone am I. The essential remains, the non-essential is burnt to ash.
I too teach you death.
Die, O yogi, die—die, for dying is sweet.
Die such a death as the one by dying which Gorakh saw.
Gorakh says: By dying I saw Him— you too die, you too dissolve. Learn this art of dying. If you dissolve, you will be able to find Him. Only he who dissolves attains. Whoever tries to settle for less only deceives himself. Such a unique journey we begin today. Gorakh’s word is among those few unique utterances in human history. Ponder, understand, intuit, live... And let these sutras go on resounding within you...
Laugh, play, and hold to meditation. Day and night speak the wisdom of Brahman.
Laughs and plays, does not break the mind. Then unmoving, ever with Nath.
Die, O yogi, die—die, for dying is sweet.
Die such a death as the one by dying which Gorakh saw.
Enough for today.