Mare He Jogi Maro #12

Ishwar Samarpan! Vipassana is the most important meditation experiment in the history of humankind. More people have attained buddhahood through Vipassana than through any other method. Vipassana is unparalleled! The word vipassana means: to see, to turn back and look.

Buddha used to say: Ihi passiko—come and see! Buddha does not insist on any belief. To walk on Buddha’s path, it is not necessary to believe or not believe in God, to believe or not believe in the soul. Buddha’s dharma is the only religion on this earth in which beliefs, prejudices, faiths, and the like are not required. Buddha’s dharma is the only scientific religion.

Buddha says: Come and see. There is no need to believe. See, and then believe. And the one who has seen does not really have to believe; he cannot but believe. The process by which Buddha saw, and helped others to see, is called Vipassana.

Vipassana is a very simple, straightforward practice: a witnessing of your incoming and outgoing breath. Breath is life. Through breath your soul and your body are joined. Breath is the bridge. On this shore is the body, on the other shore consciousness; in the middle is the breath. If you keep observing the breath rightly, inevitably, unavoidably, you will come to know yourself as other than the body. To watch the breath, it will become necessary to settle into self-awareness. Buddha does not say, “Accept the soul,” but there is no other way to watch the breath. Whoever watches the breath has become other than the breath; and one who is other than the breath is certainly other than the body. For the body is farthest out; then comes the breath; beyond that, you are. If you have watched the breath, in that very watching you unavoidably slip out of the body. Slip out of the body, slip out of the breath—and the eternal is seen. In that seeing is the flight, the height; its height is that, its depth is that. Otherwise there are no true heights or depths in the world—only futile bustle.

Then, in many ways breath is significant. You must have noticed: in anger the breath moves one way, in compassion another. When you run, it moves one way; when you walk gently, another. When the mind is feverish, it moves in one way; when it is tense, in another; and when the mind is quiet, silent, it moves differently.

Breath is linked to moods. Change the mood, the breath changes. Change the breath, the moods change. Try it. Anger arises—do not let the breath waver. Keep the breath steady, calm. Keep the music of the breath unbroken; let the rhythm not break. Then you will not be able to be angry. You will be in a great difficulty: even if you want to, you will not be able to be angry. Even if anger rises, it will fall again and again. For anger to be, it is necessary that the breath be agitated. When breath is agitated, the inner center trembles. Otherwise anger will remain only on the body. Anger that comes only to the body means nothing until consciousness is shaken by it. When consciousness is shaken, you are hooked.

Conversely, the opposite is also true: change the feelings and the breath changes. One morning you are sitting on a riverbank watching the sun rise. The feelings are quiet, no ripples in the mind. You are absorbed in the rising sun. Look back and see what happened to the breath: it has become very calm. The breath has become single-flavored, with a certain taste... a rhythm has been born! The breath has become musical.

Vipassana means sitting silently and, without changing the breath—remember, this is the very difference between pranayama and Vipassana. In pranayama one attempts to change the breath; in Vipassana one intends to see the breath exactly as it is. As it is—uneven or smooth, good or bad, fast or quiet, running, rushing, still—just as it is!

Buddha says: if you try to regulate the breath in any way, great fruit never comes from effort. The effort is yours; you are small. Your effort cannot be bigger than you. Your hands are small; wherever the imprint of your hand falls, smallness will remain.

Therefore Buddha did not say: change the breath. Buddha did not endorse pranayama. He said: you simply sit; the breath is already moving—just sit and watch it as it is moving. As one sits by the roadside and watches the passersby, or sits on a riverbank and watches the flowing current. What will you do? If a big wave comes, you will watch; if no wave comes, you will watch. Cars and buses pass on the road—you watch; if none pass, you watch. Cows and buffaloes pass—you watch. Whatever is there, as it is, keep looking at it just so. Do not impose even the slightest urge to alter it. Just sit quietly and keep watching the breath. Merely by watching, the breath grows more and more tranquil. For in watching itself there is peace.

And in choicelessness—in seeing without choosing—there is great peace. There is no question of your doing anything. As it is, it is right. As it is, it is auspicious. Whatever is passing before the eyes, we have nothing to do with it. So there is no question of being perturbed, no question of becoming attached. Whatever thoughts are passing, you look impartially. The waves of breath will slowly begin to quiet down. The breath comes in—feel the touch at the nostrils. The breath goes in, the lungs expand—feel the expansion of the lungs. Then for a moment all stops—feel that stopped moment. Then the breath goes out, the lungs contract—feel that contraction. Then from the nostrils the breath goes out—feel the warm breath leaving the nostrils. Then for a moment everything is still; then a new breath comes.

These are the stations: the breath coming in; for a moment the breath resting within; then the breath going out; for a moment the breath resting without; then the new breath’s comings and goings. This is a circle—watch the circle silently. Nothing to do, only to see. This is the meaning of Vipassana.

What will happen through this seeing? Something unprecedented. Merely through this seeing, all the ailments of the mind vanish. Merely through this seeing, there is the direct realization: I am not the body. Merely through this seeing, the clear experience happens: I am not the mind. And the final experience is that I am not even the breath. Then who am I? You will not be able to answer. You will know—but it will be like the sweetness tasted by a mute. That is the flight. You will recognize who you are, but you will not be able to speak. Now it will become unsayable. Now you will fall into silence. You will hum inwardly, savor the sweetness, dance in ecstasy, play the flute—but you will not be able to say it.

Ishwar Samarpan, good that it happened. You have said: I felt such a flight! Now catch hold of the thread of Vipassana. Now set out supported by this very thread. And the convenience of Vipassana is that you can do it anywhere. No one need have the slightest hint. Sitting in a bus, traveling by train, riding in a car, by the roadside, at the shop, in the marketplace, at home, lying on the bed—no one will know! For there is no mantra to recite, no special posture of the body to assume. Slowly, slowly... it is such an easy and simple thing, and so inward, that you can do it anywhere. And the more Vipassana spreads through your life, the more, one day, you will understand this astounding invitation of Buddha: Ihi passiko! Come and see!

Buddha says: do not believe in God because the scriptures say so; believe only when you have seen. Buddha says: do not believe even because I say so. If you believe, you will miss. See, realize. And seeing alone is liberating. Beliefs make you a Hindu, a Muslim, a Christian, a Jain, a Buddhist; seeing unites you with the Ultimate. Then you are neither Hindu, nor Muslim, nor Christian, nor Jain, nor Buddhist; then you are suffused with the Divine. And that is the experience to be had. That is the only experience worth attaining.

Samadhi! The body is always unhealthy. The body can never truly be healthy. That’s why the wise have called the body a disease. Not only the bodies of those admitted to hospitals—body as such is a disease. It is called a disease because the body is born and it will die.

From birth onward, the body is dying. After birth, what else have you done except die? The moment you were born, dying began. A one-day-old child is already one day dead. With the very first breath taken after leaving the mother’s womb, that much death has already happened—the journey toward death has begun. After birth, only death is certain.

And of that which is destined to die, what kind of health can there be? Health belongs only to the immortal. One who is truly healthy is one who knows the immortal. The body is mortal; death is hidden in every fiber of it—only a matter of sooner or later. The body is a charnel ground.

So do not worry. Whether the body is healthy or unhealthy has no special relation to your meditation. Do you think those with healthy bodies are the ones who attain meditation? Often it is the opposite. Those whose bodies are healthy may not even think of meditation. They say: we’ll see in old age—what’s the hurry now? Life is here for a few days; grab it, eat, enjoy, make merry. When death comes, we’ll see; let those who are dying meditate. Right now we are strong, young.

Meditation has nothing to do with the body’s health. And in truth the body is never healthy. Even the healthiest body only appears healthy. In a single moment it can collapse, in a single moment scatter. The body’s health is like the stillness of water; let a little gust of wind come and all is disturbed. But none of this is an obstacle.

The truth is, if there were no death, no one would meditate at all. Even Buddha remembered only upon seeing death: How long will I squander life? Let me quickly search for that which does not die. Seeing a corpse being carried along the roadside, Buddha asked his charioteer: What has happened to this man? The charioteer said: This man has died. Buddha asked: Will I too die like this? The charioteer said: How can I put it, in what words? You ask questions that put me in a bind. But I cannot lie. You are beautiful now, young, healthy—but death will come; it comes to all. No one has ever escaped it.

Buddha was on his way to inaugurate a great festival. He told the charioteer: Turn the chariot back. This is no time to go to a festival. The charioteer said: What are you saying! People are waiting at the festival. The inauguration is to be done by your hands.

Buddha said: The inauguration is already done. Now I have no interest in the festival. A question has arisen before me: if death is certain, then before death I must know that which is deathless. And until I know the immortal, there will be no rest.

That very night Buddha left home. That very night he set out on the journey.

It is because there is death that the search for meditation begins.

Do not take the body’s illness as misfortune; transform it into good fortune. Then the body’s unhealthiness will not be a hindrance. I have just spoken of Vipassana. Whether the body is healthy or unhealthy, young or old, beautiful or ugly, woman’s or man’s—it makes no difference. The breath is moving, is it not? Samadhi, you are not so ill that your breath has stopped, are you? If you were that ill, who would be here to ask the question? You are breathing—this alone is needed; nothing else at all. Awaken to this breath: sit and be aware, stand and be aware, walking be aware, lying down be aware—be aware of this breath. Even the sickest person can do this. I tell those in hospitals to do exactly this!

And truly, in the day-to-day scramble at home there is no time. Sometimes by good fortune someone stays in a hospital for a fortnight or a month—then time for meditation is available. There is nothing else to do there. Lying in bed, what else will you do? You can watch the breath, can’t you? Incoming breath, outgoing breath. You can place attention on the breath. That much is enough.

Do not worry that the body is not healthy. Do not insist that the body must be healthy—let it be as it is; we will turn this very ill-health into a blessing. This very curse will become the supreme benediction. Engage in Vipassana.

Suppose someone who has never loved asks, “What is love?” How are we to explain it, how to convey it? It is like a blind person asking, “What is light?” What way is there to tell him? Whatever we say will only entangle him further. He will not understand—and he will fall into more confusion and perplexity.

Viraha is an experience; if you have loved, you can know it. And one who has loved will surely come to know viraha. Love has two aspects: the first meeting is with viraha (love-longing), and the second meeting is with milan (union). Love has two limbs—viraha and milan. In viraha the devotee ripens; in milan the test is complete, the prize is received. Viraha is preparation; milan is attainment. One has to pave the road to the temple with tears; only then does one reach the deity of the temple. One must spend this long night weeping; only then does the morning arrive. And the more the eyes weep, the fresher the dawn. The more tears have flowed, the more beautiful the birth of the sun.

Your union will be as sweet, as deep, as profound as your viraha. What comes cheap remains cheap. Therefore the Divine is not met for free; one meets through tears. And not ordinary tears—tears in which the very heart seems to melt and flow, as if blood itself becomes tears, as if the life-breath becomes tears.

Viraha is the state of calling: it feels as if you are, and yet you are not seen. It feels certain you must be—for how could this vastness be without you? How would the moon and stars move? How would trees flood with sap? How would green leaves sprout? How would flowers open? How would birds sing? How would this mystery of life arise at all? You surely are—but you are hidden, veiled, under some covering.

Viraha means: we will lift your veil, we will seek you. However hard the journey, however arduous, we will stake everything—but we will lift the veil. We will come to know you, because not to know you is not to know anything at all. Not to know one’s master is to know nothing. Not to know the source—how then will we ever know the goal? So we must make your acquaintance. You who are invisible—we must make you visible. You who are far, beyond touch—we must embrace you.

The yearning to embrace the invisible is viraha. The urge to fill the eyes with the unseen is viraha. The indomitable longing to hold what cannot be grasped is viraha. Naturally, this is not easy; it is supremely difficult. There will be testing, a trial by fire. You will weep much, you will writhe much. Your very torment will be your examination. In viraha you will melt, burn, and be undone. And the day you are all ash, from that ash the beginning of union arises.

To cover burning embers
with frost’s immaculate coolness,
friend, today spread the rugs
of sorrow on his path;
sing the songs of pain.

It will feel like a gale of fire;
from your very breath will rise
the parched tongues of flame—
hide their road with your own breaths;
sing the songs of pain.

From the taut strings escape
raga’s swoons and glides;
this ache that rises from the veena,
today press it down with your hands;
sing the songs of pain.

If till the last instant of the age
your “Beloved” does not arrive,
with the live coals of longing
burn away the very sense of consciousness;
sing the songs of pain.

You will have to burn. Viraha is a burning. Viraha is the heated, searing state of love—a call, a prayer.

No, I cannot explain to you what viraha is. You will have to fall in love. It is a taste; only when you take it will you know. Ehi passiko! Come and know.

Here we are creating lovers and madmen of the Lord. Do not try to understand from afar. Do not be a spectator. Be a participant. This is an assembly of mad lovers—become a sharer in it. Dance, meditate, sing. Sway in ecstasy.

At first it will look like madness; soon everything else will appear mad by comparison. At the beginning you will wonder, “What is happening to me?” The first time someone drinks wine, his legs sway and totter. Then slowly it settles. With a true drinker, you would never even know he has drunk.

I have heard: One night Mulla Nasruddin came home; a great quarrel broke out. Twenty years had passed since the marriage. The wife raised a big uproar; a crowd gathered. People asked, “What’s the matter?” The wife said, “He has been drinking till now.” People said, “It’s been twenty years—why quarrel now?” The wife said, “Till today it never showed, because he came home drunk every day; today he came without drinking.”

If someone knows how to drink properly and drinks every day, you will not notice it; if he does not drink, you will. In the beginning, when you drink, you will stagger and wobble. Do not be afraid. It is by wobbling that the feet learn to find their ground.

With glittering diamonds studded
in the wet drape of night,
I am the sobbing ache
of the black night in the sky.
Kohl-dark, ground like collyrium,
a captive of the blind gale,
unslaked, love-laden,
I am the tear at the eye of the horizon.
With ancient pain filling the eyes,
on the banks of the blue Yamuna,
in the rush of the Malaya breeze,
I am like the trees bending, swaying.
In the blue firmament, hoarding,
hiding the pale-gold moon,
I am the wild, impatient breath
of the dawn of the new-moon night.

Become a single impatient breath! I am the wild, restless breath of the new-moon dawn! You ask: What is viraha? This is not mathematics that can be explained like “two and two make four.” It is an experience of love. Without love, viraha cannot be known. Viraha is the shadow of love.

So first, fall in love. And the real wonder is how people manage to get through life without ever falling in love! The wonder is not that you ask what viraha is; the wonder is that you still do not know love.

But a confusion has been created, and in that confusion lies your whole tale of sorrow. For centuries you have been told that to love God you must stop loving people. If you stop loving people, I tell you, you will never be able to love the Divine. Man is a step; if you break the step...

I say to you: love human beings. There you will learn love’s first lesson. And that very lesson will so intoxicate you that you will soon begin to ask, “Where can I find a greater beloved?” By loving human beings you will discover that man is a small vessel: he awakens love but cannot satisfy it. He provokes love but cannot fulfill it. He gives birth to the call of love; the search begins. But the call is so vast and man so small that the call remains unfulfilled. Then that great call, which man cannot satisfy, sets out in search of the Divine.

Man is shallow, shallow water. Learn to swim there—then there are great oceans! But if you keep avoiding the shallow water, when will you swim the great seas, how will you swim them?

Mulla Nasruddin went to the river to learn swimming. It was the first day; the old ghat, moss clinging to the stones. He went timidly. The teacher who had brought him was taking off his clothes when Mulla’s foot slipped on the moss. He fell flat on his back. He got up and ran straight toward home. The teacher shouted, “Nasruddin, where are you going? Won’t you learn to swim?” Nasruddin said, “I’ll come to the river only after I have learned to swim. This is dangerous business. By God’s grace my foot slipped on the steps and I fell on the stones. I’ve been hurt—fine; in a few days I’ll be all right. If I had fallen into the water, today I would have lost my life! And master, you were busy taking off your clothes—you wouldn’t even have noticed. I’ll come, surely I’ll come one day; but only when I’ve already learned to swim!”

But where will you learn to swim? In the drawing room, on cushions? Is that how one learns to swim? The reasoning sounds right: don’t go to the river until you can swim. The logic is flawless—one hundred percent correct. You won’t find a speck of error in it. But life is the opposite. If you don’t go to the river, how will you learn? You will have to take the risk. Yes, it is not necessary to start with the great oceans; learn at the river, learn by the shore, learn in the shallows. And once you have learned, all the oceans are yours.

So I say to you: loving your wife is not opposed to the Divine. Loving your child is not opposed to the Divine. Caring for a friend is not opposed to the Divine. This is the river’s shallow current—learn here. All this is in favor of the Divine. These are love’s first lessons. And they will not bring you final satisfaction—so be assured. They will leave you unsatisfied; that is their secret. That is their device.

Which human being has ever been fulfilled by another human being? When has it happened? There is no mention of it in history. Learn from this. What does it mean? It means that in love with a human being, dissatisfaction becomes dense. The thirst is awakened, but the water is not found. Then the search for water begins. That search is viraha. You say, “Since such a love-longing has been given to me, there must be some lake that can quench it.”

The wise have said: Before He gives you life, He arranges for your life’s fulfillment. Don’t you see? When a child is born from the mother’s womb—or even before—the mother’s breasts fill with milk. The child has not yet arrived, but the food is prepared. The bird begins to build the nest even before laying eggs; some unconscious hand engages the bird in making the nest. She has no arithmetic, no calculation of when to build. But some unconscious energy, some deep innate knowing, sets her to work. You see her rushing like a mad one, bringing straw and flowers, making the nest. Before the moment to lay the eggs arrives, the nest is ready.

If you look closely at this world, you will see: before hunger, there is food; before thirst, there is water. This seeing is called shraddha—trust. To see this is trust. So if within you the longing to attain the Divine arises, know it—be sure—that the Divine is. Otherwise the thirst could not arise. Then that thirst will torment you greatly; it will make you weep until union happens. The journey of that wondrous weeping is called viraha. Viraha is not suffering; or, if you must say, it is a very sweet suffering, a honeyed pain. Only the fortunate attain it; the unfortunate are deprived of it.

Kabir! One has to go, and everyone has to go. We are all standing in line, ready to leave—who knows when whose call will come! Your sister went, and you were hurt. The pain came because you had been living as though your sister would never go. It is not her going that hurts; your belief was false, and it is the shattering of that belief that hurts. If only you had truly known that everyone must go, the wound would not cut so deep. Silently, somewhere in your unconscious, you had been nursing the notion that your sister would never leave. “How can such a lovely sister ever go!” But all must go.

If you now think you are disturbed because your sister died, you are mistaken again. You are disturbed because your assumption has collapsed. Your arrangement with reality has been broken. Even now, reflect—wake up. You too will go. Father will go, mother will go, brothers will go, friends will go; everyone goes. Your sister, in a way, showed you the road. Thank her—accept her grace: “You did well; by going, you awakened me.” Now prepare yourself to go.

The world ought to have two kinds of education; at present there is only one, and that is why there is such incompleteness. We send children to school, college, university—but only one kind of education is offered: How to live? How to earn a livelihood, accumulate wealth, gain position and prestige. They teach the management of life, the skills of living. There is another education, more important still: How to die? How to embrace death? How to enter into death? That education has vanished from the earth. It was not so in the past; both educations were available.

Hence life was divided into four parts. For twenty-five years, the life of a student, of brahmacharya—sitting at the feet of the master, preparing for how to live, learning the art of living. Then twenty-five years of householder life—putting into practice what was learned at the master’s feet. Around fifty, your children approach twenty-five; their time to return from the master’s house draws near. The children come home; now it is their turn to live. For the father to keep on siring more children then was considered unseemly. Now the children will have children. You—rise above such toys.

Then twenty-five years of vanaprastha. Vanaprastha has a lovely meaning: turning your face toward the forest. Not yet gone to the forest, not yet left home; but your back toward the house and your face toward the forest—ready to depart, like a traveler who has tied up his bedding and sits waiting for the bus or the train to arrive. For twenty-five years remain thus. If your sons seek counsel, let them ask; do not offer advice unasked. The vanaprasthi does not advise on his own, but the boys are newly returned from the gurukul, they will need to ask many practical questions; your guidance may help. So linger with your back to the house: “If you must ask, ask.”

Then, when you reach seventy-five, leave everything and go to the forest. The final twenty-five years were a preparation for death—that was called sannyas. Twenty-five years at the beginning, preparing for life; twenty-five years at the end, preparing for death.

Today the preparation for death has been lost. People don’t even wish to speak of death. The very mention makes the mind tremble. Do you not become uneasy on seeing a funeral pass on the road? That unease is the reminder: if not today, then tomorrow, they will carry my bier too! The same people escorting another will take me to the cremation ground. Today someone else climbs the pyre; tomorrow it will be me. If you could truly see this, it would be a revolution. But we are cunning; we hide it. We raise smoke screens. Kabir, you are raising such a smoke screen.

You say: My sister Jyoti has died. I am in great sorrow, deeply troubled. After years of love and tenderness, every pore of my being remembers her.

You are deceiving yourself. You put it all on Jyoti—as if, had you not gone, I would not be miserable; you left and plunged me in grief. You are trying to forget that the grief is not about Jyoti’s going; it is about the fact that you too must go. Her death has made you alert to death: it came to me, it will come to you too. Look, it has come to me—and I was younger than you!

Do not falsify this.

You say that listening to discourses and meditating brings you a little peace.

That is not peace; it is consolation. Listening, you forget. That is not peace; it is oblivion—like losing yourself in a film for two hours and forgetting your own story; or being engrossed in a sensational detective novel and forgetting your worries; or drinking alcohol, sinking into a slight stupor and forgetting your turmoil. But how long? You must return.

No, nothing will come from consolations. Wake up! From awakening comes peace. Accept death. And accept that all meetings here are like river-and-boat meetings—now together, now already parting. How long we have one another is unknowable; in the very next moment, paths may diverge.

How many days were you with this Jyoti, your sister? Before you, your sister must have been; you also have been—yet for births upon births you never met. The story is endless. Then for a little while two travelers walked together by chance: you came by one road, I by another; for a moment we were side by side; then my road parted, yours parted. We were not together before, perhaps we shall never meet again. Do not give such weight to these few steps we shared on the road. They have no ultimate value. Remember—river and boat, a coincidence. Remember the birds that take shelter in a tree for a single night; morning comes, they fly away. Remember the halt at a wayside inn; in the morning, everyone departs. We sat together at night, made acquaintances, played cards or chess with strangers, chitchatted; morning came, we bowed and left. The relationships of life have no more value than this.

But the wound hurts. It hurts because of false notions. It hurts our ego: “I could do nothing; my sister died and I could not save her. What then is my strength, my power? Who am I?” You are agitated.

I wish
this flower
in my vase
would never wither,
would go on giving
fragrance forever,
its form remain
unmarred!
But how is that possible,
that what is today,
should still be tomorrow?
If there is birth,
ending is certain!
If there’s a beginning,
there is an end!
This helplessness—
that what is ours,
we cannot keep!
Before our eyes
the beloved thing ends,
and we remain
powerless spectators!
The eternal law
of beginning
and of ending
admits no exception—
and this knowledge,
like a thorn,
pierces to the core;
the mind is made restless!
What are the gains,
the achievements
of impoverished man,
who, in the sequence
of endings,
in the very order
of beginnings,
is defeated—
who cannot,
for even a moment,
halt the chariot
of Time!
What is this ego of mine
that even I
cannot appease!

The snag is there, the difficulty is there—not only yours, Kabir, but everyone’s.

What are the gains,
the achievements
of impoverished man,
who, in the sequence
of endings,
in the very order
of beginnings,
is defeated,
who cannot,
for even a moment,
halt the chariot
of Time!

So helpless, so feeble—and yet our pride runs deep. As long as things go well, the swagger stays; when they fall apart, we flounder. Make this your good fortune. Do not try to weep this moment away. Time will heal the wound; before it crusts over—wake up. While it is still green and tender, use it. Understand that what has happened is precisely what always happens; it is only a matter of sooner or later.

One morning the Buddha came to a village. In that village, a widow’s only son had died—her sole support, the apple of her eye, her all. Her pain drove her mad. Carrying the boy’s corpse, she ran door to door—to physicians, healers, magicians. But who can awaken the dead? All tantra, all mantra, all astrology, all medicine are helpless before death. Someone told her, “Crazy woman, carrying this corpse around is no use. What’s done is done; death has happened. Now only a miracle could help.”

To a drowning person even straw seems support: “A miracle? Is there a miracle?” The man had spoken casually, but now, just to get rid of her, he said, “Gautam Buddha has come to the village. Go to him. He is a god, awakened. Lay the body at his feet. If a miracle is possible, it will be there.”

She ran and placed the corpse at Buddha’s feet. Do you know what he said? “All right. You want your son brought back to life?”

“Yes, that’s all I want. Have compassion.”

“It will happen,” Buddha said, “but there is a condition. Go to the village and bring me a few seeds of fenugreek from any household.” That village grew only fenugreek. The woman said, “Is that a condition? The entire village is full of fenugreek. I’ll bring it at once.”

“But remember,” said Buddha, “one more condition—bring the fenugreek from a house in which no one has ever died. Then the miracle will happen. Just four seeds will do.”

She ran. In frenzy, one believes anything; when the mind aches to believe, it believes against all logic. The outcome was obvious—what house is there where no one has died? But hopes drown reason. She knocked on door after door. People said, “Take all the fenugreek you want—sacks, cartloads. Why are you asking elsewhere? You too have fenugreek at home!” She replied, “It must be from a house where no one has ever died.”

By evening it was clear that not one house in the village qualified. And with that, something else became clear. When she returned at dusk, Buddha asked, “Did you bring the four seeds?” She laughed and fell at his feet: “Initiate me. Before my death comes, let me do something. Let me know life’s meaning, its purpose. My son has gone; my going is not far. You did well to send me through the village. From house to house I learned: death is certain; it has happened in every house, and will keep on happening. We stand at the threshold of death. Today my son went; tomorrow I will. Before I go—he went without knowing; I do not want to go in ignorance.”

Kabir, that is what I tell you. Death happens—someone’s today, someone’s tomorrow—today a sister, tomorrow a brother. We are all here only to depart. This is not a home; it is an inn. Do not waste time weeping. Wipe your tears—because eyes full of tears cannot see. Wipe them completely; this is a moment to see.

No moment is more significant than death. And when someone dear to you dies, it is a precious opportunity—for “dear” means one who was very close to your heart; whose death feels like your own. This is the moment; this is the doorway to meditation.

Do not seek consolation from me; I can only give you truth. And the truth is: Kabir, you must die; I must die; everyone must die. But before dying there is a way: if only we make a little acquaintance with our own consciousness—if we can experience the lamp of the immortal burning within. Then there is no death. The body falls, and we set out on a longer journey. Only the garments are changed. “Na hanyate hanyamane sharire!” When the body is slain, that which is hidden within is not slain.

And the day you see your own immortality, that day you will see it in all. Neither your sister died, nor can anyone ever truly die. Now I am giving you two seemingly contradictory statements. First: everyone dies; all who are body-identified can experience nothing but death. Second: no one has ever died, nor can anyone ever die—but that is the experience of those who have known the immortal, who have realized the Self.

I wish,
this flower
in my vase
would never wither,
would go on giving
fragrance forever,
its form remain
unmarred!
But how is that possible,
that what is today,
should still be tomorrow?
If there is birth,
ending is certain!
If there’s a beginning,
there is an end!

The body is only a flower. Do you not see? When someone dies and we cremate them, on the third day, when we go to collect the bone fragments, we say, “We are going to collect the flowers.” Why do we say “flowers”? Because all here is as transient as a blossom. “Flowers”—a tender word, a symbol of impermanence. We gather bones, and call them flowers.

Now you say, “We are going to collect the flowers.” If only the one whose bones they are had awakened to see while alive that everything here is a flower—now here, now withering; morning bloom, evening petals fall—then perhaps no grave would be built, but a samadhi. Death was going to be anyway; but within, someone would depart knowing the immortal.

Seek that revolution, Kabir. Do not look to me for consolation; I can only give you truth.

This helplessness—
that what is ours,
we cannot keep!
Before our eyes
the beloved thing ends,
and we remain
powerless spectators!

I understand your pain. We cannot save even our own; we will not be able to save ourselves.

The eternal law
of beginning
and of ending
admits no exception—
and this knowledge,
like a thorn,
pierces to the core;
the mind is made restless!

I understand your sorrow, your pain, your restlessness. But all this is natural. Wake up! No moment is as auspicious for awakening as the death of a loved one.

But we do not awaken; we drift into new dreams.

A friend came some days ago. His wife had died. Not an ordinary, uneducated man—he is a justice of the Supreme Court. But as far as inner ignorance is concerned, there is no difference between the stonebreaker by the roadside and the judge in the highest court. Between the dullest fool and the so-called scholar there is no real gap. He wept like a child—two years had passed since his wife’s death, yet the pain would not go. He had come all the way from Delhi only to ask: “Can you assure me of one thing—that sometime in the future, in some life, I will meet my wife again? And one request—let me see her once, even in a dream.”

Such is our attachment. In speaking, he forgot I was even there, and began recalling how they had lived—“what joyous days! We traveled the world twice. We went to Paris, London, New York, Peking...” For a moment he forgot she had died; he began describing hotels, incidents... I watched and thought: there is no difference between children and the old. He is near retirement. This is the mind’s trickery.

I said to him, “Before this birth, had you ever met this wife?” “No,” he said, “I remember nothing before this life.” “Then in the next, will you remember this wife? In the last life you must have had a wife?” “Surely,” he said. “Do you remember any of it? Your wife must have died then, too. You must have gone to someone pleading, ‘Let me meet her again.’ Do you recall?” “That is my pain,” he said, “in two years I haven’t seen her even in a dream.”

“Every night when you sleep, you forget—then when you die, the greater event, body and mind both dropping, will you remember your wife? Even if you stumbled upon her, would you recognize her? Why brood over such things? Was anything lacking before you met her in this life? Will anything be lacking later? And this meeting itself was accidental.”

“How do you know it was accidental?” he asked. “I know nothing of your story,” I said, “but all meetings are by chance.” I told him an anecdote by a Jewish writer. He got off a train; there were no porters. He had lots of luggage. A woman got off from the next compartment, with no luggage. Kindly, she said, “You look worried. It’s cold, it’s snowing, no porter in sight. Let me carry a couple of your bags.” She picked up a few bags; they walked together; they talked; they took coffee to warm themselves; friendship grew. “Why two taxis? Let’s take one.” In the taxi, an hour passed; they grew closer. “Why two rooms? Let’s take one.” And so a marriage happened. The writer concluded: “This is how my father and mother met—just because that foolish porter wasn’t there.”

“Look into your story,” I told the judge. He was astonished. “Yes,” he said, “we met at a conference. It just happened. Now I weep. Now I think: if only she were here.” And then come the fantasies: had this been, had that been...

If the icy crescent
of the sun of separation
had not melted,
then the frost-coated oars
of this burning boat
would still be here today.
Brimming with laughter and delight,
to ply the commerce of bliss,
across the ocean of life,
the boats of love
would be ferrying us over.
Into the thirsty goblets
of the eyelids,
if the wine of union
had been poured,
these eyes would glow crimson
as though drunk
on the moon’s soft wine.
Had fingers entwined
at the sapphire corners
of those eyes,
then the arched lashes,
drawn taut,
would have become
melodious, speaking strings.
Shivering,
the sky would descend,
gather them in its embrace;
and a lunar necklace
would gleam upon
a graceful throat of pearls.
The cool shade of moonlight,
the star-stitched warmth—
today, within this blaze,
would have turned to
tender pleadings and endearments.

Do not get lost in fantasies. Life is as it is; know it as it is—in its nakedness. Do not falsify facts. Do not veil facts with dream-cloaks.

Death is. However much you adorn it and perfume it, you cannot deny it. The more successful you become at denying it, the more surely you miss life.

Kabir, give thanks to your sister, to Jyoti. She went, and left darkness behind—Jyoti. Now, in this darkness, seek your own light. Only when that light is lit within will there be peace, truth, and liberation.

By your kind grace! Let the light keep burning—only then! Buddha came; for a while he stood guard. The light was lit—and they departed. They had scarcely gone when thousands were ready, waiting to blow out the flame.

People are enemies of light. They are worshipers of lamps, enemies of light. They extinguish the light and worship the lamp! They erase life and worship stones! Stone-worship goes on! No one has had as many statues made as Buddha. The worship of statues continues. Who cares for what Buddha said, who has any use for that? That is troublesome. To walk on that is to tread a path strewn with thorns. To walk on that requires changing your life. But what has worshiping a stone to do with anything? It’s the cheap route.

You ask, “So many lights were lit; why is the world still dark?” You don’t allow the lights to survive. Sometimes the light has not yet gone out by itself, and you snuff it. You extinguished Jesus’ light while he was still alive. You extinguished Socrates’ light while he was still alive. You extinguished Mansoor’s light while he was still alive. With Buddha and Mahavira you were a little kinder. You threw stones at them, hurled abuse, heaped insults. In such acts you are very skilled, consummate!

Mahavira was naked and you were offended. As if there were anything to be offended about in nakedness! We come naked into the world and naked we must go. Clothes are what we’ve draped in between—an in-between deception. But we take deceptions to be truth.

Yesterday I was reading—some new hotel being built in Bombay; someone set up in front a statue of a Jain Tirthankara—twenty feet tall! Now a Jain statue, a nude Tirthankara’s statue… tremendous uproar. Those who are not Jains are angry: “Why place a stark-naked man here?” Even the Jains are angry: “A hotel—and our Lord!” It went so far that some devotees went and put shorts on him.

What madness! Shorts! Nothing else occurred to you? These days are, indeed, the days of the shorts-wallahs. The Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh—the shorts brigade! In Gujarati, just as there is raaj-karan (politics), they’ve now coined chaddi-karan (shorts-ification).

Shorts—putting shorts on Mahavira! And you felt no shame! Then others got angry: “Shorts on our God!” They tore the shorts off. Foreign tourists, who know nothing of who or what a Tirthankara is, say, “Mr. Tirthankara… why is Mr. Tirthankara standing naked?” And all their interest is in the nakedness. They keep taking photo after photo.

Now this is disquieting, because it will damage India’s image in the West. So some other wise soul went and plastered clay over the statue’s genitals! Now it looks even worse. Clay slapped on a marble statue… What is all this? Then some sensible fellows found a way out: they put up a big screen so only the upper portion of the statue is visible. But people don’t give up so easily. Since the screen went up, curiosity has grown—what’s behind it? So people go behind the screen and take photos. Now no one photographs the upper part at all.

Mahavira was naked and you threw stones; Buddha you chased out from village to village—and you ask why there is so little light in the world? You are enemies of light! Whoever has tried to bring light into this world, you have turned against. For centuries you cannot forgive them. Why? There is a reason. Whoever brings light exposes the darkness of your life.

And no one is ready to admit, “I live in darkness.” A seeing man offends the blind, because no blind person is willing to concede, “I am blind.” If the birds that cannot fly break the wings of a bird that can, is it any wonder? For the flying bird wounds their ego.

To hear talk of wings inside a cage makes the heart bleed:
Do not speak of strong arms and soaring flight.

Those who cannot fly say, “Do not make our hearts bleed. Don’t talk of arms, don’t talk of flight; it makes us restless. When you speak of flying, we become aware of our impotence.” And all these people speak of flight. They say, “One can become God-realized.” You find it hard enough to be human—and they say one can become divine. They say you too can become divine. They remind you of such vast heights that your head begins to spin. You say, “Stop this talk! We are fine, crawling and dragging along the ground; we are fine among others who crawl and drag. Don’t come among us. Don’t break our sleep. We are having sweet dreams; don’t call out to us too much.”

The lamps have been lit—may they not go out somewhere!
The winds are fierce, every flame is trembling.
What is the flame? It is my heart that quivers, my friend,
At the hiss of these shiver-breeding airs.
The lamps are lit—may no evil eye fall upon them,
The evil eye of those whose homes lie in darkness.
Protect these lamps from the glance of ill-will,
It is still the last watch of night; dawn is far yet.
The lamps are lit, but there are mischievous children—
They may not overturn these burning lamps.
If safety for these lamps is what you wish,
Then set right the minds of these prankish children.
The lamps are lit—yes, the lamps are lit.
The real joy is when there is no darkness beneath the lamp.
Let there be lamps on the rooftops, and from floor to sky,
So the high and the low all cry out, “The lamps are lit!”

The lamps have been lit; may they not go out somewhere!
They have burned, and they have been snuffed. There are few who light, many who blow out. In the dark you have bound up many self-interests. Darkness is your vested interest.

As in a thieves’ quarter—if someone lights a lamp, won’t the thieves put it out? Thieves can only live in darkness. They dislike moonlit nights; the new-moon night is dear to them. They have a stake in it.

The lamps have been lit—may they not go out somewhere!
The winds are fierce, every flame is trembling.
What is the flame? It is my heart that trembles, my friend,
At the hiss of these shiver-breeding airs.

Storms that make one shudder are on every side! The winds are fierce on every side! The lamps have been lit—once Buddha, once Bahauddin, once Mahavira, once Muhammad, once Kabir, once Gorakh… The lamps have been lit, but there are fierce gales eager to blow them out! And those winds are yours—they are you! You have blown out the lamps! And now you ask: “So many lights were lit; why is the world still dark?”

Thanks to your grace, your favor! Yes—when the flame goes out and only the dead lamp remains, then you build great temples, then you perform grand worship! Your praises then are a marvel to hear! You are adept at worshiping the dead—because you are dead! With the dead, your friendship flourishes; with the living, it breaks. Jesus—alive, you kill him. Yes, once he is dead, then you worship. Today one-third of the world professes Jesus. And on the day Jesus was crucified, do you know, not even three people were ready to admit, “We stand with Jesus”! And when Jesus was led up the hill of Golgotha, bearing the heavy cross on his shoulders, he fell three times on the way. Yet not one person said, “Here, let me help—let me carry your cross.” Who would dare!

When Jesus was crucified—and in those days, as crucifixion happened in Jerusalem, the man did not die at once; six hours, eight hours, ten hours, twelve, sometimes twenty-four hours would pass before death, because the method was monstrous. They drove nails through the hands and feet and hung the man up. Blood would flow and flow for hours. Dragged through the midday heat, carrying the cross, climbing the hill. Jesus is thirsty. Nails have been driven through his hands. He says, “I am thirsty, someone give me water.” But among the hundred thousand gathered, not one person dared to say, “Let me bring you water.” To the dying Jesus you could not give water! People threw stones, flung rotting peels. They hurled every sort of abuse, every insult. You did not even let the dying Jesus die in peace. Prodding the dying Jesus with spears they taunted, “So, what happened to the miracles? What about your God? You said you were the son of God—where is your Father now? Let him come and prove it!”

This is how you behaved with Jesus. And then… how many churches you built for him! For no one else have you built so many. How many priests there are today! One million two hundred thousand priests and pastors in the world alone. Then Protestants apart, and other churches apart. Christianity has become the world’s largest religion! Why? The living you could not accept; the dead you honor! Perhaps that is the reason. You insulted the living so grievously that the very soul of humanity was filled with guilt. Now, to wipe away this guilt somehow, you sing praises, you worship, you raise a clamor—but the guilt does not vanish.

The lamps are lit—may no evil eye fall upon them,
The evil eye of those whose homes lie in darkness.

Those whose homes are dark are angered by the sight of light. Have you ever noticed that you are not as troubled by your poverty as you are by your neighbor’s wealth? Very few are troubled by their poverty; they are troubled by another’s wealth. You had no thought that you didn’t have a car. You were not troubled. Then your neighbor bought a car. Now the trouble begins. Now you are poor. Till now you were not poor; till now all was well. But the neighbor bought a car—now poverty begins. Now you are restless. Now you too must have a car.

There isn’t as much poverty in the world as there are people troubled by it. And no one is really troubled by poverty itself. That is why there is less restlessness in Russia; the reason is that all are equally poor! The poorest person in America is eight times richer than the richest person in Russia. Yet America is full of turmoil; Russia is not. So it is clear: poverty itself does not cause distress—another’s wealth does. Comparison is born. You have it and I do not; that pricks like a thorn.

The same will happen in this country. There are a few rich; they can be divided. The day they are divided, people will be very pleased. Not that people will become rich. Their division will change nothing. It is like someone putting a spoonful of sugar into the ocean! Their division will change nothing. Even if they are divided, nothing much will happen. The sweetness of your life will not increase, but your bitterness will lessen. If all are poor, then there is no hurdle left. Then your poverty holds no pain, no insult to your ego.

It is a strange world! People are not pained by their own poverty; they are pained by another’s wealth. And what happens on the ordinary plane of wealth and poverty happens on an even larger scale on the spiritual plane. You feel no pain from your spiritual blindness, but at the sight of a Buddha you grow angry—here is a man with eyes.

The lamps are lit—may no evil eye fall upon them,
The evil eye of those whose homes lie in darkness.
Protect these lamps from the glance of ill-will,
It is still the last watch; dawn is distant yet.

The lamps have kept burning, but dawn is far. The sun has not yet risen. Buddhas burned, Mahaviras burned, Krishna, Christ… these are lamps. Dawn has not yet come. When will dawn come? When a religious radiance spreads over all humanity. When the aura of meditation shines on every face. That is still far away. And those who could have brought it near—you blow them out; you turn against them; you become their enemies.

The lamps are lit, but there are mischievous children—
They may not overturn these burning lamps.

Beware of the pranksters!

The lamps are lit, but there are mischievous children—
There are many mischief-makers in the world; they do not like lamps to burn. At once they are ready to overturn them.

A mad elephant was set upon Buddha. Even the mad elephant was not as mad as men are. For the story says the elephant, reaching Buddha, halted. Whether it happened or not, the point pleases me. No elephant is as mad as men! Even the mad elephant must have felt, “This poor, simple man—why attack him?” Mad he may have been, yet he retained enough sense to stop. But the one who unleashed him—Devadatta—was Buddha’s cousin. Cousin! Grew up together. Studied together. Same age. Comparable talent. And from childhood there was a tussle, a rivalry. When Buddha attained Buddhahood, Devadatta grew very restless at being left behind. He too must prove Buddhahood. But Buddhahood is not something you can prove. So he falsely declared himself enlightened. But a false Buddha pales before the true. Then one recourse remained: eliminate the true Buddha. So he set loose the mad elephant.

It is startling to learn that one’s own cousin would unleash a mad elephant! This has happened often. Those closest become the angriest, for it is their ego that suffers the deepest wound.

Jesus said: A prophet is without honor in his own village. Because the villagers are close. How can they tolerate that a boy from among us—whom we saw grow up, playing in these lanes—has become a prophet! Then what are we all—worth two copper coins? No, this cannot be borne.

Jesus went to his village only once after attaining realization; the villagers gave him no chance to return a second time! They were so enraged that the whole village turned upon him. They took him to a cliff to throw him down, to kill him. What grievance against one as loving as Jesus? His very loveliness was the cause. The world is full of mischief-makers.

The lamps are lit, but there are mischievous children—
They may not overturn these burning lamps.

Hence, vigilance is needed. Those who know, who recognize, must be very careful: when a lamp is lit, hide it in your mantle—so its light may serve people, so that from that one lamp other extinguished ones may be lit.

If safety for these lamps is what you wish,
Then set right the minds of these prankish children.

If you want the lamps to keep burning in the world, then set right the minds of the mischief-makers. But mischief keeps taking new forms, new colors. And mischief is very “logical.” Mischief cites the scriptures; it seeks support in holy books.

The lamps are lit—yes, the lamps are lit!
The real joy is when there is no darkness beneath the lamp.

And then there is another great obstacle: even if the lamps escape the mischief-makers, even if they survive the storms and gales, even if they are spared people’s glances—spared the evil eye—there remains a greater danger: beneath every lamp, darkness gathers. So-called disciples gather, who have no capacity or insight for discipleship. If they had the capacity and the insight, even beneath the lamp there would be light—because beneath the lamp there would be more lamps!

But often it happens that whenever a true master arises, then, the moment he departs, under his very shadow the dens of politicians take root, the lairs of mischief-makers take root. The scramble begins: who will be first?

You’ll be surprised to know that the Shankaracharyas’ disputes are fought in the courts—to decide who the real Shankaracharya is! The court will decide who is genuine! At a conference I met one such Shankaracharya against whom a case is pending in the Allahabad High Court. There are two Shankaracharyas; both proclaim, “I am the real one.” Both occupy the same seat. He asked me, “What is your view on this?”

I said I have one view: both of you are fake. That much is certain. Is this any way—to go have your case decided in court! You think the magistrate, drawing a salary of a thousand or fifteen hundred rupees, will recognize who the real Shankaracharya is? The poor man only knows legal procedure. He is having it investigated whether the will left by the previous Shankaracharya is genuine or forged—on whose name it was written… Both have a will. Most likely, both were named—first one, and then, in a half-stupor near death, the other got his signature too.

So I said: neither of you is Shankaracharya; and by that token, your guru was not Shankaracharya either. Darkness gathers beneath the lamp.

The lamps are lit—yes, the lamps are lit!
The real joy is when there is no darkness beneath the lamp.

Behind every true master people gather who begin to play politics. One must beware of them. Otherwise popes are born, Shankaracharyas’ monasteries arise, and all the mischief begins.

Let lamps be on the rooftops, and on the earth and in the sky!
Let the lamps burn on heights, on summits, in the heavens…
Let the high and the low all cry, “The lamps are lit.”

Whether it be ascent or decline, let the lamps keep burning. But we must give support. These lamps are not such as will keep burning by themselves; we must feed them with our very life-breath. If we offer our life as oil, these lamps will burn.

The lamps of the Buddhas can be kept alight. The morning of this world can draw near. But many, many people will have to pour the oil of their very lives to keep these lamps burning.

Until now this has not happened. That is why man is in darkness. The night is deep, but morning can be. And now the hour has come that if morning does not break, man will not survive. Now dawn must come. Humanity’s very destiny hinges on this: morning must break. Man has reached a place where, as he is, he cannot live much longer. Gone are the days when you killed each other with bow and arrow. Now we have nuclear weapons. There are so many nuclear weapons on earth that each person could be killed a thousand times—though a man dies only once. There is no need for such an arrangement; but why risk a mistake! Politicians have made sure, mischief-makers have made ample arrangements. How many times will you escape? There is enough to destroy a thousand earths. If man does not change, if morning does not come, man will be finished.

The coming twenty-five years are a decisive hour. Either man will be annihilated and the earth emptied of humans; or a new human will be born—a new dawn! Yet these small lamps that have been lit—through them is our hope.

Whether flowers be many or few, spring is still spring.
Lamps were lit, they were extinguished, they perished; in their shadow darkness grew—granted. Whether the flowers are abundant or scarce…

Whether flowers be many or few, spring is still spring.
Whether the bud be silent or burst forth, spring is still spring.
You lack the eye to see—O you who belittle spring!
Whether clouds mass or moonlight spreads, spring is still spring.
The birds are tuning their songs—somewhere coo-coo, somewhere pee-pee;
Even if at times there’s a rasping clamor, spring is still spring.
If there be some sharpness in the wind, take it as a message of sap;
If a few leaves are ruffled, spring is still spring.

Let a few birds sing, a cuckoo coo once or twice, a papihā call pee-pee—and let there be a great cawing of crows—still, spring is spring. The birds’ soft orchestrations—somewhere a coo-coo, somewhere a pee-pee. Even if at times there is a harsh clatter, remember—spring is still spring.

If there be some severity in the wind, take it as a message of rising sap;
If a few leaves are upset, spring is still spring.

These small lamps that were lit—and were extinguished—our doing. Lit—not by us; extinguished—by us. Even so, they have given us the early signs of the coming great spring. They have brought the first news of the approaching dawn.

You set out, taking steps forward—but one shortcoming remained:
Your steps did not fall in step.
If steps fall in step, then even if the pace is slow,
One day you will arrive.

And a second difficulty arose: many lamps were lit, but those who walk behind a lamp never learned to walk together. Hindus apart, Muslims apart, Jains apart, Christians apart! Even those who love light could not unite! That the blind fight in the dark is understandable, forgivable; but that people fight in the name of light—that is unforgivable.

You set out, taking steps forward—but one shortcoming remained:
Your steps did not fall in step.
If steps fall in step, then even if the pace is slow,
One day you will arrive.

And if we walk in step, then even if we walk slowly, still one day we shall arrive. The goal is not far. Morning is near.

That’s all for today.