Mare He Jogi Maro #11

Holding the hand of faith,
I walk on!
Who knows
whether I shall reach
the full destination,
or simply go on wandering!
What is today?
A long tale filled with sorrow.
Who knows what
tomorrow
sits waiting to bring—
only pain,
or a little rest as well,
a little peace too,
a little recompense
from unceasing love!
The wearied body says,
Stop now,
rest a while,
become fresh and green again!
But—
the day is slipping down,
the night descends;
still the destination
is unknown.
Come feet,
keep moving, O feet!
The journey is long, and difficult too. Even after births upon births without end, the arriving has not happened. Surely there is a tangle. And the tangle is such that, had it been outside, perhaps it could be undone. The tangle is within the traveler. No matter how long the road, it could be crossed. But there is some mistake in the feet themselves. There is a flaw in the very act of walking. If from the first step error begins, how will the goal ever be found!
Reflect on this truth deeply. You are not new here; no one is new. An endless pilgrimage trails behind you through uncounted births. Yet arriving has not happened; only wandering has. And the matter grows even more perplexing, because those who know say: if you so wish, union can happen now; if you so will, the goal can be attained this instant. Those who have known have said: that which you seek is present within you; it is but a matter of turning the eyes around. But the eyes will not turn. Nothing within becomes visible. Whatever is seen is outside; and outside, meeting never happens.
Man is outside, and the Supreme is within—hence the separation. Yoga has but one meaning: where the Supreme is, let us too be there. Return to your own home, and yoga happens.
The journey has become long and arduous because you search outside. And outside, He is not lost. He sits within the seeker. Where are you going? All your going is futile. Come, come home; return unto yourself. This is not a matter of running; it is a matter of stopping; of halting; of becoming quiet, unmoving. And this can happen. It has happened—so it can happen. If it happened to one human being, it can happen to all. If it happened to Buddha, to Krishna, to Kabir, to Gorakh, then you are no exception. Of bone, flesh, and marrow, as were Gorakh, Kabir, Nanak, so are you made. And as you have wandered, so too did Kabir wander, and Gorakh wander. Not the slightest difference; the only difference was in the final hour—that Gorakh arrived, and you have not yet.
There is a saying: every saint has a past, and every sinner a future. Gorakh’s past and your past are alike. The small difference is that Gorakh’s foot fell exactly upon the goal. Yours can fall too. You are just as capable.
Are you a man?
Then rise, accomplish something!
Why this helplessness?
What is impotence
in the face of labor?
He who labors is a hero;
valor is his benediction,
victory’s tilak belongs to him!
The world belongs to him
in whose arms is strength,
whose adornment is power,
whose courage walks beside him,
showing the path, dissolving toil;
that path belongs to him
who goes
with steady pace,
with a quiet mind,
his eyes fixed upon the goal!
Are you a man?
Then rise, be of some use!
A long road lies ahead,
no support is at hand,
no companion walks with you—
so what, then what?
Your labor
will itself become your support,
inner strength
will accompany you,
the glory of the goal
will soothe your toil;
trees along the way
will sway and fan you,
forest birds
will smile and speak with you!
The path will befriend you,
the forest will befriend you;
if only you can befriend yourself,
all will befriend you!
Are you a man?
Then rise, accomplish something!
You sleep, therefore the goal is not found; awaken, and it is attained; open your eyes, and it is attained. What you call opening the eyes is not their opening. When the eyes open to the outer, they close to the inner. The eye can open only to one side. You cannot walk in two directions at once! The energy of vision also cannot flow in two directions simultaneously. When the outer eye closes, the inner opens. What you have taken to be the open state of your eyes is precisely their closure. When you move outward, you cannot move within. If the outer movement is stilled, inner motion arises of itself.
The sutras of Gorakh into which we enter today are all sutras of the inner journey.
Marau he jogi marau, marau maran hai meetha.
Tis marani marau, jis marani Gorakh mari deetha.
Gorakh says: Die, die utterly. Die utterly to the outer. Die utterly to the other. Die utterly to the world.
Marau he jogi marau, marau maran hai meetha.
What an astounding utterance—die, for death is very sweet! Because when you die to the outer, the inner life is found!
Tis marani marau...
He speaks of a particular dying. A specific art of dying.
Tis marani marau, jis marani Gorakh mari deetha.
Gorakh says: I too died, died to the outer. And then a great sweetness was attained, a deep mellifluousness descended, a vast grace showered. I died to the outer, and awakened and lived to the inner. And there I saw, there darshan happened. Until that darshan occurred, I was blind.
If we do not know ourselves, we are blind of eye! And if even the eyes be not there, it matters not; he who has known himself—his eye has opened, his inner eyes have opened. And those are the real eyes. Who is more pitiable, more destitute, more impoverished than the one not acquainted with himself? How to begin the journey—where to begin this pilgrimage?
Kathani kathai so sish boliye, ved phadai so nati.
Rahani rahai so guru hamara, ham rahata ka sathi.
This journey will begin with the meeting of the Guru. The word Guru is very dear. It consists of two symbolic syllables. ‘Gu’ means darkness. ‘Ru’ means light. That which leads from darkness to light—that is Guru. ‘Tamaso ma jyotir gamaya’—lead me from darkness to light! When you meet a being who has tasted light; you, who know nothing of it—one who has seen light—then in his eyes you will glimpse a little of that radiance which he has seen. One who has returned from the Himalayas—within his ripple you will taste a little of the Himalaya’s peace. One who has just wandered through a garden—upon his garments a faint fragrance of flowers will yet cling. One who has just come from bathing—you will feel a freshness near him.
Just so, one who has seen within, awakened and lived there—his glance, the tone of his presence, the glory of his face, the vibration of his being, are transformed. Sit near him and the journey toward light begins.
Kathani kathai so sish boliye!
But how to recognize? There are great scholars in the world; they have the Vedas by heart. They write commentaries on the Upanishads. They analyze the Gita—syllable by syllable, word by word. The Quran is on their tongue; they hardly need to read the Bible—it is memorized. Many pundits there are. In the pundit’s speech there is no life. Do not mistake the pundit for the Guru. Whoever falls into the pundit’s net will wander badly. Andha andha theliya, donau koop padant—like a blind man leading another blind man, holding his hand, showing the path: both fall into the well. Better the blind walked alone; he might have felt his way, been careful, avoided falling. But now, puffed with false assurance—someone holds my hand; I am in the company of an eye’d one!—he throws away his staff. That staff was his eye—and that too he cast away! And now he walks clutching the blind man’s hand. And this one who leads him, if he too be blind, the danger is great. And the danger is such that the one behind thinks he has seized the hand of one with eyes. And the one whose hand is held thinks: when so many follow me, surely I must have eyes; else could so many be deceived?
When someone trusts you, you begin to trust yourself. Even your self-trust becomes borrowed. If four people begin to believe you are wise, you too start believing it. So many cannot be wrong, the world cannot be so blind; my error was to think I did not know—clearly I do; others have begun to acknowledge it. Thus a great mischief has happened. The one following thinks of your words, in which appear the Vedas—so, surely he must know. And you think—since someone holds my hand, I must have eyes; you too throw away your staff. This is man’s dire plight.
So Gorakh gives a touchstone: ‘Kathani kathai so sish boliye.’
He who can recite the Vedas, who repeats fine words, who quotes—count him no more than a disciple. To be Guru is far, far away. He himself is still a student. One whose knowledge is borrowed is still a learner. His own lamp has not yet been lit. He has not found his own flame. All he utters is quotation, borrowed, leftover.
Kathani kathai so sish boliye.
As students repeat and write in examinations; they do not know what they write. They write what their teachers told them. As told, so written. Whether right or wrong, they do not care.
I was a student. My teachers loved me very much. In the final M.A. exam they said: take care, write only what is in the books; not a hair’s breadth this side or that. Even if you know it to be wrong, still write what the books say.
They knew me—that I would write only what I found true. And I did write only what I found true. Somehow, what was written they managed to save in the written exam. Then there was the final oral. There they cautioned me much: now professors from another university are coming; it is no longer in my hands. Now you must say exactly what the book says, else I cannot help.
Those professors came—the head of philosophy from Aligarh, an elder man. His first question to me: what is the distinctive feature of Indian philosophy? I said to him: can philosophy be Indian or non-Indian? My professor, seated beside me, began to kick my leg—answer, do not ask questions! When I paid no heed to his kicks, he tugged my kurta. So I said to the Aligarh professor: I am in much trouble—shall I answer you, or mind my professor who is kicking my leg, pulling my kurta? My teacher was quite flustered: was this something to be said! I said: this distinction—Indian philosophy and Western philosophy—cannot be. Philosophy means seeing. Then whether Jesus sees or Krishna, what difference? Whether a white-skinned one looks or a dark-skinned one, what difference? Can skin change the color of the eyes, the style of seeing? Those who saw in the West saw the same as those who saw in the East. Heraclitus saw what Buddha saw. Pythagoras saw what Parshvanath saw—not the slightest difference. And those who saw differently—those were blind. The eyed ones have seen one and the same. So I asked him: if in philosophy you count only the seers, then whenever and wherever anyone has seen, it is one and the same. And if you count the blind as well, then the reckoning becomes very difficult. But the blind should not be counted in philosophy at all—only the seers belong there.
My professor was sure the exam was lost! But the Aligarh elder was deeply pleased. He said: I had never thought of it this way—that this distinction is not right. We have simply accepted Indian philosophy, Western philosophy… Your answer is not from the book, but it is right.
He gave me ninety-nine out of a hundred. I asked: why did you cut one? If there is any fault, please tell me. He said: not for your fault—merely to save myself; people will think I have been partial if I give a hundred. I should give a hundred, forgive me, but as a rule they are not given. If I give a hundred, it will seem favoritism; so I give ninety-nine.
A pundit is a stickler for the line. As written in the book, he repeats like a parrot. He neither thinks nor reflects; there is no contemplation, no meditation. He is a student. Beware of students; they do not yet know for themselves.
Kathani kathai so sish boliye, ved phadai so nati.
And he who is still studying the Vedas, he is beneath even a disciple. A disciple is called a son—the Guru’s son. ‘Ved phadai so nati’—he is but the son’s son. Do not even count him yet—he is still studying. One is already a parrot; another is becoming one. Do not count him at all.
Rahani rahai so guru hamara.
Then who is the Guru? ‘Rahani rahai so guru hamara.’ This is not a question of scriptures, but of life. He who is living God—that one is our Guru. Living God! Then what have the Vedas, the Quran, the Bible to do with it? Then there is deeper kinship with flowers, with trees, with moon and stars. The Divine pervades all around. This festival is His own play of bliss. One who is lost in this festival, drowned in it; who lives this celebration; who accepts the life given by God as grace and dances; who is immersed in this day-and-night Nada, this Om resonant everywhere, this particle-particle of existence dancing, dissolved—one who is dissolved in it; whose life carries the aura of celebration; near whom the heart longs to dance; near whom tears of joy flow in a sweet cascade, the heart overflows—only such a one!
Rahani rahai so guru hamara.
In whose living the Veda is; in whose rising and sitting the Gita is; in whose eating and drinking there is worship, prayer, adoration, offering; in whose eyes, in whose very glance, is the Quran—count him your Guru. This is not a matter of words, nor of repeating words—it is existential.
Those from whom the Veda was born—of the Veda they knew nothing. Before them the Veda did not exist. Those through whom the Veda flowed did not have it memorized—how could they? Before them the Veda was not. If through them it flowed without their knowing the Veda, why can the same not happen again? It can, for God is not partial. If the Veda’s rishis could be the channel, and the unheard-of ricas be born, it will flow through you too—give the door, give the path. Do not be a stone upon the way, an obstruction. Step aside, make room. Vacate the throne, He will be enthroned. From you too ricas will be born. From you too ritambhara will flow. From you too mantras will arise. It is the same that sang through the Vedic rishis, that spoke through Krishna, that hummed through Muhammad. Why would that One be unjust to you? The same will happen with you as with all, if only you show readiness.
Rahani rahai so guru hamara.
Gorakh says: I have found such a one—do you too find. Gorakh found Matsyendranath.
Rahani rahai so guru hamara, ham rahata ka sathi.
And if you must join hands, join only with one in whom there is evidence of God. One who himself is the proof of God. Upon seeing whom, trust arises that God is, that God must be. Hear his flute and the Nada of Om is remembered. Hear his silence and the peace of the whole existence showers upon you. Sit near him a little while and bathing happens. You return fresh, new, young. Your dust falls away. Your mirror becomes clean.
Ham rahata ka sathi!
In whom there is no gap between speaking and doing. In whom there is no split between word and life. In whom utterance and living are soaked in one flavor. Where there is no hypocrisy.
But man has been well taught hypocrisy. You have not been told to accept your own suchness. You have been told: you are wrong. You have been given ideals according to which you must live. And naturally, all those ideals are impossible. The one outcome of impossible ideals is that you become hypocrites. You have been told: renounce the world, become a renunciate. Repeated so often, the one result is: so long as you are in the world, you remain filled with self-condemnation—that you are doing something wrong, sinning, arranging to go to hell!
And how will you leave the world? God Himself has not left the world—how will you? You want to do the impossible, what even God has not done? Where will you go, leaving? Wherever you go, there is the world. You think there is no world on the Himalayas—then what is there? All this vastness is His. Even upon the moon and stars, still you are in His world. And on the Himalayas you will feel hunger and thirst. There too you will need shade. When sun blazes and rain pours, you will dig a cave. Perhaps a primitive kind of house—but a house nonetheless! If you will not earn, you will beg. Which means: someone else will earn and you will eat. What has changed? Where is the difference? You will never fulfill this ideal of renunciation.
God is not a renunciate; God is the supreme enjoyer—immersed in the enjoyment of this entire existence. God Himself is not a renunciate, but your so-called mahatmas have sold you renunciation. By this renunciation you either become miserable—feeling yourself condemned, ignoble, sinful, hell-bound, unable to renounce—or, if you are cunning, clever… The simple man feels: I am not worthy, my soul is not high enough to renounce. That is the straight man’s view. The cunning finds a trick: he raises the curtain of renunciation. He leaves home, builds an ashram. But the ashram is another form of home. He leaves wife and children, gathers disciples. But disciples are children. Hypocrisy begins. Now between what he says and how he lives, a vast gap appears. He will say one thing, live another.
If truly you want to live as you live, you must understand one crucial point—you must become free of ideals. Ideals either make you wretched or hypocritical. You must become simple, natural. You must flow with the natural movement of life. God has given you birth—accept it. He has given you the world—embrace it. To reject what He has given is to insult Him. Live where you are. Drop talk of leaving, of fleeing, of acting holy. Simply, naturally…
And remember: say only what you live—say otherwise not. As you are, reveal it as it is—naked; do not hide it. You may hide from men, not from God. And what you cannot hide from Him, what use hiding from men? Before Him all is evident. As you are, in your utmost nakedness—so be revealed; thus accept and own yourself. In that instant, wretchedness will go; in that instant, hypocrisy will fall.
Rahani rahai so guru hamara, ham rahata ka sathi.
Gorakh says: we sought only the company of one who knows how to live Dharma.
Rahata hamare guru boliye, ham rahata ka chela.
The word chela is very dear. One is a student—the one who comes to learn knowledge: any kind of knowledge—mathematics, geography, history, science. Whoever comes to learn any kind of knowledge is a student—one whose general urge is to learn.
He is called shishya who comes to learn Dharma. His urge is special—not mathematics, not geography, not chemistry, not physics; he comes to learn Dharma—he is a disciple. But still he has come to learn. His learning is special, but learning it is. He does not learn math-shastra, but dharma-shastra. Then who is a chela? He is not one who has come to learn, but to be.
If the Guru is one who has become, then the chela is one who has come to become. If the Guru is one who breathes only God—draws God in with every breath, releases God with every breath; whose every heartbeat is filled with God—if that is the Guru, then who is the chela? The one who longs to become like that. Who is ready to drop all his hypocrisy—no matter what the price; even if life itself must be lost. Ready to stake all. The urge is not for knowledge, but for living experience. He is called a chela.
Rahata hamare guru boliye, ham rahata ka chela.
Light that dispels darkness wells forth—
light the lamps, light the lamps!
Light the lamps of faith, of worship,
of inspiration!
Paint the alpona, beloved—
let the courtyard smile adorned;
in the center of the sacred design
let the auspicious pot be beautified, charming!
Light the lamp upon the vessel,
call the eternal flame,
make ready, fair one,
for the wiping away of the vast, encroaching night!
The light is eager to burst forth—
light the lamps, light the lamps!
A chela is one who has come to light the lamp. A student is one who has come to understand about the flame. A chela is one who has come to become the flame.
Light that dispels darkness wells forth—
light the lamps, light the lamps!
Light the lamps of faith, of worship,
of inspiration!
A student’s work ends with the examination. A chela’s work completes only through the fire-ordeal of life—only then is it complete. The student gathers information; memory becomes a little enriched. The chela is not concerned with memory; he is ardent for experience.
Rahata hamare guru boliye, ham rahata ka chela.
Mana manai to sang phirai, nihatar phirai akela.
Gorakh favors the natural. Sahaj-yoga is his yoga. He says:
Mana manai to sang phirai—
so long as it feels natural, one moves with the Guru, drinks his rasa, drinks his life.
Mana manai to sang phirai, nihatar phirai akela—
and then, when sometimes the mind does not agree, one becomes alone again, wanders alone.
Understand this. To be with the Guru is not an ordinary event. To be with him means to be continually digesting him. It may happen that the rain of grace begins beyond your capacity; then the disciple will have to go into solitude. For a few days he will have to be away from the Guru, so that what has been given may be digested, become blood, flesh, marrow. When hunger returns, the disciple will come again. This will happen many times. To be with the Guru continuously becomes possible only when the power to digest becomes very deep. That too happens, slowly.
But Gorakh says: take care—do not force. For even truth can be indigestible. Do not be greedy; listen to your nature. So long as it is simple, effortless, and burdenless to live near the Guru, remain; otherwise go into aloneness. Then again hunger will arise. As sometimes, after eating long, a few days of fasting are beautiful—your power to digest returns, hunger reappears, and taste revives—just so, sometimes going away from the Guru a while does no harm.
Mana manai to sang phirai, nihatar phirai akela.
Avadhu, such wisdom considered—
then within begins to shimmer a clear light.
He says: once this is understood…
…then a quivering light begins within. You take only as much as is your need; you are not greedy.
Remember, greed is not only for bad or futile things; greed can also happen for meaningful things.
Sannyasins come to me and say: you speak in the morning—speak in the evening too. I used to speak in the evening as well; once upon a time I spoke morning, noon, and evening—three times. But that was when I had students. As disciples began to gather, I reduced from three to two. Now that chelas have gathered, one time is enough. You must also have time to digest, to assimilate. Sometimes I see some sannyasin getting too burdened; I send him away, under some pretext—far away for a few days. He feels he is sent for some work, but the real need is for him to be away a while, to be lighter; then he becomes capable, then a fresh gift can be given.
O Devi, your divine melody!
From the seed of trance to the ocean of sound
it pours and shapes into waves heavy with rasa.
In sky and wind’s embrace,
it meets the dark as the fragrance of honeyed touch.
Unceasingly the pollen of grace showers!
O Devi, your divine melody!
Assuming forms, limiting itself,
it becomes atoms symbolic of desire.
It binds boundaries of direction and time,
thick mists of samskaras.
All sleeping pulsations awaken!
O Devi, your divine melody!
If you dwell with the Guru, a divine raga will arise. Your prana will be strummed. Life will take new waves, new turns. New dimensions will open. You will touch new heights. You will dive into new depths. This should not be hurried. Slowly—so that you ripen as you go.
Avadhu, such wisdom considered—
then within begins to shimmer a clear light.
Where there is Yoga, disease does not spread—
such is the touch of the Guru’s work.
Disease means one thing alone: craving, desire. Disease is that which keeps you running, wandering, deluded. Disease is that which does not allow you to be at ease, to be quiet.
Understand the meaning of ‘swastha’—then ‘roga’ is understood. Swastha means established in oneself. It is a lovely word. Swastha means to settle in oneself. Whatever takes you away from yourself is disease. Whatever distracts, separates, breaks you from yourself—this is disease. Who takes you away from yourself? Your desires, your thirst drive you into the future. Your thirst says: tomorrow there will be wealth; tomorrow a house will be built; tomorrow a beautiful woman or a handsome man will be found; tomorrow a son will be born. Tomorrow all will be well; today is a matter of a little time—somehow pass it. Tomorrow comes—bringing heaven. Tomorrow, all will be right. Just a little more waiting. Keep the lamp of hope burning—do not let it go out. Keep coaxing the wick. Keep adding a little oil. Just a little longer—tomorrow is about to come.
And tomorrow never comes; it has never come. Tomorrow has no existence. Then another today arrives—and again you do the same: tomorrow a house, tomorrow a celebration. Thus you postpone and postpone and one day death comes… Tomorrow never comes; one day Time comes—and with it, all tomorrows end. And this today you have wasted. This is the state of disease.
Disease means a taut, stretched mind.
Health means quiet, at ease—now, here. No past has passed, no future is to come; today is all.
Jesus said to his disciples: see the white lilies in the field—so poor and yet so rich! Poor lilies bloom anywhere. No great care is needed. And how splendid—King Solomon, laden with golden ornaments, studded with diamonds and jewels, was not so beautiful, not so majestic as these white lilies! See the white lilies! What is their secret? Jesus asked his disciples. They stood startled—what secret could they tell? Jesus said: their secret is small. They do not worry about tomorrow; they are just now, today. They live in the present. He who lives in the present is healthy. He who lives in the future is unhealthy.
Where there is Yoga, disease does not spread.
And Yoga means union with the Divine. Yoga does not mean standing on your head. These are gymnastics. Yoga does not mean sitting and holding the breath. Yoga’s plain meaning is union—joining. He who is joined to the Divine is a yogi. Those you think are yogis—most are fit to be hired in circuses. They have no real worth. Good for bodily health perhaps, but nothing to do with meeting God. Who meets God? He who is healthy—established in himself—mounted in the present. For the gateway to God is the present.
The past is not—it is gone; the future has not yet come—it too is not. What is? This moment. Enter through this moment and you can reach God. For this moment is real, existent. And God is the great Existence. Slip through the door of this moment and you will arrive in God.
All processes of meditation are procedures to descend into this moment. When no thought arises in the mind, time naturally disappears. For thoughts are of the past or the future. A thought of the present never happens. Even if you try, you cannot. Try it, sitting—no thought of the present is possible; it is impossible. Whenever you think, it will be of the past. It may be that a rose has just bloomed before you and as soon as you say, ‘Ah, how beautiful!’—it has already become past. It is now the memory of your immediate experience of beauty. It is past now, no longer present. You speak—you go into the past, or into the future. A thought arises—past or future. You sway to the right or left; the middle is lost. The middle is in no-thought.
Meditation means: quiet, silent—no thought rises, no wave of thought; the lake is still… This still lake joins you to the present. And he who is joined to the present is a yogi. The meditator is a yogi. And he who joined to the present is joined to God—for the present is the doorway to God.
How will you seek the Guru? Seek thus:
Avadhu, such wisdom considered—
then within begins to shimmer a clear light.
In whom you glimpse the shining.
Where there is Yoga, disease does not spread.
Where it seems to you that union with the Divine has happened.
Where you see no craving, no desire, no future.
Such a one test, and then bow at the feet. Then do not rise again.
Such a one test, and then bow at the feet.
Thundering clouds,
lightning flashing,
the laughter of winds—
like a great outcry;
mind and breath agitated, afraid!
Will the nest be
utterly destroyed—
in whose watchful
straw by straw is held
the earnings of love,
a raga of labor,
dreams of
today,
of tomorrow,
of unknown time—
manifold, sweet, intoxicating?
But truth—
what fear?
If thunderbolts
fall from the sky,
will they seek out
our nest alone?
And this
imminent storm—
is it only for us?
Do all terrible
tempests arise
solely to distress us?
Who knows?
But the mind
is such, it takes
all that may be
as meant
only for itself!
Delusion, excess of delusion—
forever suspicious,
forever harrowed
by its vigil,
by fantasies of loss and harm!
But what kind
of attachment is that
which, as a malady,
torments without cease?
Arise, O storm!
In you alone
must fearlessness
now be found!
Storms arise. But all storms belong to the past or the future. Attachments to past and future become maladies.
Arise, O storm!
In you alone
must fearlessness
now be found!
Do not worry about the mind’s thoughts, the mind’s tempests. Say, arise! Let the storms of thought come. You remain aware, watching those storms. Let the winds of thought arise. You be the witness, watching those gales. And in that very witnessing you will find the middle-point, forever beyond all storms; where no storm has ever reached, nor will. At that midpoint maladies end, diseases vanish. At that midpoint… ‘then within begins to shimmer a clear light’—there is a vision of a flame that needs no lighting. Without wick, without oil! It has been burning since always. But you, entangled so much in the outside, forgot the door of your own home.
Where there is Yoga, disease does not spread—such a one test as Guru.
Tan man sun je parcha nahi, tau kahe kau pachi marna.
Do not fall into the trap of those who know scriptures; for they know neither their body nor their mind. If you listen to them, you will roast needlessly, dying in fret.
Tau kahe kau pachi marna.
What they tell you, they themselves have not known.
There are many in this land who are teaching others meditation. Meditation has not happened to them. They come to me and ask: how to meditate? I am astonished. I say: but you are teaching others! They say: yes, I can get others to do it. Scriptures are available; I read them. The methods are written there; I pass them on. What harm? Others are benefited.
There can be no benefit. If you have not known meditation yourself, whatever you tell will harm. To speak without your own experience is to create danger for others. Meditation is not a thing read from a book and told. Mistakes will happen—such mistakes that people will strive their whole lives yet meditation will not be attained. And since you have taken to teaching others meditation, you will slowly stop telling the truth—that you do not know meditation. How will you confess it—by what mouth? Shame will arise. Many write books on meditation who have no notion of meditation! People read their books and attempt meditation. Be alert—those who have no acquaintance with their own mind, their own body, who have not peered within—be alert of them!
Tan man sun je parcha nahi, tau kahe kau pachi marna!
Kal na mittya janjal na chhutya, tap kari hooa na sura.
Kul ka nas karai mati koi, jai guru mila na pura.
Remember—until the Perfect Guru is found, nothing can happen.
Kal na mittya janjal na chhutya…
Neither will death be transcended, nor will time dissolve, nor the net of desire and thirst fall away.
Tap kari hooa na sura.
And though you practice austerity a thousandfold—stand in sun and cold, remain naked, fast and take vows; show much bravery and torment yourself—nothing will happen.
Kul ka nas karai mati koi, jai guru mila na pura.
Again and again you will come—your lineage will not end. Again and again you will return; new births will happen. Again the womb, again the same running, the same ignorance, the same entanglements… This ends only when
‘jai guru mila na pura.’
Not until the Perfect Guru is found. And who is the perfect Guru?
‘Rahata hamare guru boliye, ham rahata ka chela!’
If somewhere you meet one in whose life you taste the fragrance of the unknown; in whose presence the unstruck sound is felt; near whom the heart becomes silent, becomes serene; meditation flowers of itself—then dive in. Do not then entangle yourself in thinking and weighing. Do not lose even a moment.
Sapt dhat ka kaya pinjara, ta mahin jugati bin suwa.
For now you are like a parrot trapped in a cage made of seven dhatus. Seven dhatus—rasa, rakta, mamsa, meda, asthi, majja, virya.
Sapt dhat ka kaya pinjara, ta mahin jugati bin suwa.
And you are shut like a parrot, utterly ignorant. He does not even know the knack; how he got shut, where the door is, how to slip out, how to fly. The longing to fly is there. The open sky is visible. Flying parrots must be seen by him too. Seeing them, pain must arise in his heart. But he knows not how he is shut. He knows not how to get out. Nor is it necessary for him to do austerity to get out. Do you think that if the parrot practices penances in the cage, he will get out? If he fasts, hangs upside down, does headstands—what will happen? All this is within the cage. The door will not open. Only someone who is outside can open the door.
Gurdjieff used to say to his disciples: if you want to escape the prison, the first work is to form a link with someone outside the prison. Make a friendship outside—then perhaps a rope can be thrown over the wall, or tools tossed so you can cut the bars, or someone from outside can make a breach, or bribe the guards, or ply them with wine so that one night they pass out and you slip away… Befriend someone outside.
If you wish to get out from within the prison, you must join a thread from outside. Even a small thread joined from outside makes escape easy—otherwise impossible.
This is the meaning of the Guru—one who has gone outside the net. By forging even a little connection with him, you too can go outside the net.
Kal na mittya janjal na chhutya, tap kari hooa na sura.
Kul ka nas karai mati koi, jai guru mila na pura.
Perfect Guru means he who is completely outside the jail, beyond the prison. And it will not be hard to recognize. If you do not want to recognize, that is another matter; otherwise, it is never difficult. Your innermost will at once give witness—arrived! Yes, if you have fixed the insistence to not recognize, that is another matter. But in that insistence, your loss is certain—not another’s.
When you accept someone as Guru, never think you have conferred a favor upon him. The Guru needs nothing from you, nor your favor. He who has no desire—what need can be his? Whether you remain a disciple or not makes no difference. Gain is yours, loss is yours. But people are astonishing—they have erected a thousand obstacles; they have prepared expectations in advance; fixed prejudices. By those preconceptions they test and measure.
Gorakh gives a simple sutra. He says: testing cannot be through intellectual notions; testing can only be through the heart. The wave of the heart is the only witness. The relation with the Guru is like falling in love. Have you ever fallen in love? Then the intellect does not function. It has nothing to do with it. The heart fills with surge, with delight. The heart says ‘yes’ without asking the intellect. He who asks the intellect may never love—because the intellect knows not the language of love. In the arithmetic of mind there is no place for love. The intellect thinks of wealth, position, prestige. But love—love is not its realm.
Sapt dhat ka kaya pinjara, ta mahin jugati bin suwa.
You are shut in a cage of seven dhatus—you know not the way.
Satguru milai to ubarai babu—
and, O sir, unless the Satguru is found, you will not be saved.
Satguru milai to ubarai babu, nahin to pralai hooa—
Without the Satguru, you may keep waiting—you will wait until the dissolution!
Hear this lovely saying:
Satguru milai to ubarai babu!
You can be saved—there is one way only: a friendship with someone outside the prison. Then devices are possible. Sometimes a tiny device…
I have heard: an emperor grew angry with his vizier. He had him imprisoned atop a tower. The tower so high that if he tried to escape, death would result. If he fell, he would die. He could not jump… Great difficulty—what to do? His wife went to a fakir. She said: we see no way—you say something. You have escaped the great prison! This is a small one. You must know a way. We have heard the Master frees one from the prison of the world—my husband is in a small tower.
The fakir said: there is a way. Go to the forest and catch a beetle named Shringi. She said: a beetle named Shringi! What will we do with it? He said: first bring the beetle. Do not waste time in talk. Time is short. Your husband may, in trying to save himself, jump to his death. Bring the beetle named Shringi.
She said: but what has bringing such a beetle to do with freeing my husband? The fakir said: if you want to think intellectually, do as you please.
There was no other means. The intellect would not approve—this beetle…what can it do? But she brought it. The fakir would not agree, and there was no other way. She brought it, against her intellect. The fakir said: take this Shringi. Release it upon the wall; place two drops of honey upon its whiskers.
The vizier’s wife said: are you in your senses or mad? And you make me mad as well! How will two drops of honey on a beetle’s whiskers help? He said: do not argue. Tie a thin thread to its tail—and then watch.
She did so. The result came. The Shringi beetle, lover of honey, with honey placed upon its whiskers—the fragrance of honey wafted right under its nose; it moved, thinking the honey was just ahead. It went forward. Honey on the whisker cannot be reached—perhaps, it thought, on everyone’s whiskers honey is placed—so close, just there, almost touching! The poor beetle moved on. The scent kept coming and coming; the beetle climbed and climbed. As the honey was on the whiskers, it kept moving in a straight line from the nose; no chance to wander here or there—the scent clear that in this very direction is honey. And the thin thread tied to its tail went climbing with it to the top.
When the beetle reached the top, the vizier—watchful, longing that some device be made—saw the beetle arrive. He was startled: such a long tower and a beetle had climbed! Then he saw two drops of honey on its whiskers—more startled. Then he saw the thin thread tied to its tail—and the clue opened. The thread was the key. He seized the thread; he pulled.
The fakir had said: then fasten a little string to the thread; then a thicker rope to the string; then a still thicker rope—and the affair will be resolved. By morning the vizier had a thick rope; by the thick rope, he descended—life saved.
Yukti means method. But a method can only be applied from outside, not from within. And he who has stayed within since births upon births, not having gone out—not knowing the outside—his difficulty is even greater. This vizier at least knew what was outside. You know nothing of the outside. You have taken living in the cage to be the essence of life.
Kul ka nas karai mati koi, jai guru mila na pura.
Therefore, without seeking the Guru there is no way.
Satguru milai to ubarai babu, nahin to pralai hooa.
O God, your veena is sounding!
The corners of day and night are slipping,
taut strings of rays flash bright;
through the modes of ages and the trance of kalpas
is woven this delicate sky.
O God, your veena is sounding!
Descent in concealment,
with the ascent of revelation enthralling;
wandering enjoyments tasted and untasted,
angles struck silent, soundless.
O God, your veena is sounding!
In the wave-less ocean of light,
in the undying radiance of the sound-point,
concealed in one eternal throb—
millions upon millions of ragas dissolve.
O God, your veena is sounding!
As soon as relation with the Satguru happens, his veena begins to sound—not only outside, but within you too. He plays the veena outside, but the strings of his outer veena set quivering the strings of your inner, sleeping veena. He calls from without; soon the call is heard within—in parallel.
What is the work of the Satguru? Only this: to awaken your sleeping consciousness. Only one already awake can awaken one asleep. The awakened will shake you, sprinkle cold water upon your eyes. The awakened outside can devise a way to awaken your consciousness within. Just such a thing occurs in the Satguru’s company.
Satguru milai to ubarai babu, nahin to pralai hooa.
Kandarp roop kaya ka mandan, ambiratha kain ulincho.
Gorakh says: listen, O simpleton—why bail water from a leaky boat?
This body is made of kama. This body is a puppet of desire. Only if someone introduces you within this body to the One beyond it, will the door, the path, be found.
Kandarp roop kaya ka mandan, ambiratha kain ulincho.
The whole body is manufactured by desire; the mind too is woven of it. If you go on entangled in this, you waste yourself—like one bailing water out of a leaking boat. You throw water out above; from below it flows back in. You bail in vain. First seal the holes.
Gorakh says: listen, O simpleton—
Arand anmeen kat sincho?
You water a castor bush, that useless shrub growing on the dunghill, the castor tree—needing neither gardener nor watering, sprouting wherever refuse collects—you are watering that castor with the nectar of life! Vain desires… Someone is frenzied with hoarding wealth—money is all.
I have heard: a beggar walked hundreds of miles from the desert to Jaipur. He placed his turban at the feet of a wealthy Marwari and said: my daughter has come of age; I must marry her. I have heard much praise of your generosity. None is a donor like you in the land today. You are an unparalleled giver! In this hope, this trust, I have come, walking hundreds of miles.
Do you know what the Marwari said? Quite right that you have come. Will you return by the same route? He said: yes, by the same. The Marwari said: do one thing on the way back—tell people that rumor is false. That idea about me being a donor is wrong. Tell people as you go back.
Hard to part with even a single coin. People cling to every paisa!
A constable brought a Marwari and a Sindhi to the police station. He said to the inspector: both are drunk. Both said: that is false—we have not drunk. The inspector asked the constable: what reason have you to say they are drunk? He said: surely they are drunk—because the Marwari was throwing hundred-rupee notes from his pocket, and the Sindhi was picking them up and returning them, saying, Brother, this is your money—keep it. They are both drunk; else could such an impossible event occur? A Marwari throwing, and a Sindhi returning!
Some are busy hoarding wealth. Some run only after position. This precious nectar of life you are pouring upon castor shrubs!
Satguru milai to ubarai babu, nahin to pralai hooa.
Else, until the dissolution, you will keep doing this.
Kandarp roop kaya ka mandan, ambiritha kain ulincho.
All these futile crowds of lusts—will you remain entangled in them?
Gorakh kahai suno re bhondu, arand ameen kat sincho.
How long, O fools, will you water worthless weeds with life’s supremely precious nectar!
Chakmak tharkai agni jharai tyun, dadhi mathi ghrit kar liya.
As when flint is struck, sparks shower—just so, stir a little friction within, learn the method, and within you too the flame will blaze!
Chakmak tharkai agni jharai tyun… dadhi mathi ghrit kar liya.
And as from milk you make curd, from curd by churning you make ghee—just so, a little churning is needed for life’s essence, life’s supreme attainment, to ripen within you; for the golden flower to bloom within you.
Apa mahin apa pragatya, tab guru sandesa diya.
Within yourself is hidden that which you have gone to seek.
Apa mahin apa pragatya—
there the Atman will be revealed, there the Paramatma.
Tab guru sandesa diya—
and only when within you the Self is revealed will the Guru say that which is worth saying. Before that he is only waking you—calling, ‘Rise, O simpleton!’ Before that he is only shouting, ‘Awaken!’ What is worth saying will be said only when you awaken. Can anything special be said to a sleeping man? First, he must be awakened.
Thus what the Guru speaks has two kinds. Ninety-nine percent are sutras for waking. One percent are only those said to the awakened. And those one percent are not said in words; they are said silently, in silence. To wake one, much noise is needed. But once someone has awakened, then to look into his eyes is enough; to take his hand is enough; to sit him close is enough. Then the dialogue is in silence. This is the meaning of the word Upanishad.
Upanishad means: that which was received sitting near the Guru—received just by sitting near. Not said, not spoken—just received by nearness.
Apa mahin apa pragatya, tab guru sandesa diya.
Open the eyes of the heart and see—
I am with you.
I am faith,
I am sadhana,
I am worship,
I am adoration;
open the doors of your heart and see—
I am your very soul!
I am fire,
I am wind,
I am sky,
I am the source of water;
I am breath,
I am exhalation;
becoming prana
I am lodged in you!
I dwell
in you day and night—
how am I
separate from you?
When by the blows of pain
you are wounded,
shaken,
I strike a melody of solace
within your mind!
You are a part;
I am the Whole;
a curtain of delusion
is in between—
you on that side,
I on this side!
In your deep interior
burning, at steady pace,
I am that lamp,
I am that very flame!
Open the eyes of the heart and see—
I am with you!
The day the disciple awakens, the Guru speaks without speaking, leaves his message.
Darpan mahin darsan deshya, neer nirantar jhai.
Apa mahin apa pragatya, lakhai to door na jai.
The Guru is a mirror.
Darpan mahin darsan deshya…
In the Guru’s mirror what you saw—that are you.
Darpan mahin darsan deshya, neer nirantar jhai—
like seeing one’s own image in flowing water. The Guru has nothing else to give you—only to show you, you to yourself.
Darpan mahin darsan deshya, neer nirantar jhai.
Apa mahin apa pragatya, lakhai to door na jai—
and once this is grasped—who I am—once recognized in the Guru’s mirror who I am—then even the mirror of the Guru is no longer needed. Then, closing your eyes, you can see who you are. Then there is no going far. One who perceives does not go anywhere.
Gorakh bolai suni re avadhu, panchau pasar nivari.
If once, in the Guru’s mirror, your own glimpse is gotten, then the spread of the five senses is brought to an end.
Apani atma ap bichari, tab sovi pan pasari.
And one who has known himself—nothing remains to be done. Now spread out your legs and sleep! Now the hour of rest has come. Now the moment of cessation has come. This is moksha, this is nirvana.
Gather, friend, a little rasa—
why should the pitcher of the heart be empty?
Dispel the gloom of the bygone—
not a drop lacks in the ocean of rasa!
In mango groves the cuckoo coos,
in gardens flowers bloom, laughing;
swooning bees hum and hum—
ensnared in the tender nectar of blossoms!
All around pervades a most enchanting
natural beauty, radiant;
a magic of the honey-season’s shade—
life-filled, rasa-filled, fragrant!
Open the inner curtain—fill with rasa;
why should the pitcher of the heart be empty!
Those who have known keep calling out the same:
Gather, friend, a little rasa—
why should the pitcher of the heart be empty?
Dispel the gloom of the bygone—
not a drop lacks in the ocean of rasa!
You are rich, yet you sit a pauper! You are an emperor, yet you sit a beggar! In the Guru’s mirror, behold a little of your own reflection. Recognize yourself a little. Then life is transformed. Then there is no wandering, no melancholy, no anguish, no breathless haste.
Lo, the flute of the heart has cried out,
the inner beauty of the forest has smiled!
Blossoms laugh and sway in clusters,
vines sway, rich with bloom;
beauties of the mind’s garden
sing praise-songs of Truth!
The intoxicated breezes sway,
branches bow and sway,
the cuckoo, the parrot, the myna call;
in bowers the kokil calls!
Whose gentle touch is this—
that the heart’s flute has awakened and sung!
The dread night of darkness has passed;
the charming drowse of dust has broken;
Truth, awakening, has stretched its limbs;
it has given life a new direction!
A new light has kindled in the temple of the mind;
in every corner of the inner-most,
shadows of darkness have folded;
into the cavern of a mass of light!
A rain of light showers everywhere—
the heart’s flute has awakened and sung!
One kind of man—drowned in darkness, fallen into the abyss of sorrow, whose experience is only of new moons. And one kind of man who recognizes the full moon—and for whom the full moon becomes forever. And between the man who wanders in new moon and the man who has attained full moon there is no essential difference; a tiny difference—slight. The one wandering in new moon has not opened his eyes to his own nature. The one in whose life the full moon has risen has opened his eyes to his own nature.
You are Buddha, you are Krishna, you are Mahavira, you are Kabir, you are Nanak, you are Gorakh. Between you and them there is not an atom of difference. Your nature is their nature. Within you burns the same flame that burned within them. But you are unacquainted—with yourself. Do this small, slight thing:
Open the eyes of the heart and see—
I am with you.
I am faith,
I am sadhana,
I am worship,
I am adoration;
open the doors of your heart and see—
I am your very soul!
I am fire,
I am wind,
I am sky,
I am the source of water;
I am breath,
I am exhalation;
becoming prana
I am lodged in you!
I dwell
in you day and night—
how am I
separate from you?
When by the blows of pain
you are wounded,
shaken,
I strike a melody of solace
within your mind!
You are a part;
I am the Whole;
a curtain of delusion
is in between—
you on that side,
I on this side!
In your deep interior
burning, at steady pace,
I am that lamp,
I am that very flame!
Enough for today.