Mare He Jogi Maro #13

The tired sun, asleep in the adorned lap of the west,
I met a bird, lost, parted from its nest;
Yet I am one who walks in silence on the empty path,
Feet fatigued—when did the hour of toil come to its end?
The day came to its end, but when did the road ever end?

Carrying the banks’ reflections, the river slept in the dark;
The throbbing ache of the bee’s love was lost in the lotus’ heart!
Worn-out waves fell mute upon the shores,
But in these eyes—when did the wave of tears come to its end?
The day came to its end, but when did the road ever end?

The wind drank the nectar from the tender petals of the lily;
No one came to wipe the waters from my agitated eyes.
Night drank the poison of darkness from a silver bowl—
But the poison of my despair—when did that ever end?
The day came to its end, but when did the road ever end?

The road does end too; but not so long as the mind is there. The mind itself is the road. All other roads are merely roads by name; the real road is the road of the mind. Days will come and go. Births will happen and deaths will happen. But if the mind remains, the end of the day will arrive again and again; the end of the road will not arrive. The road is not outside. The road is within. The road is that very track upon which thoughts move, desires move, imaginations and cravings move, memories move, dreams of the future move. That is the road—recognize it rightly. On the outer roads the real road is not. People walk on the outer roads because the inner road has set them walking outside.

There is a famous Chinese tale. An emperor invited a fakir to his palace. They stood on the terrace watching the evening sun sink. The ocean lay before them—its heaving waves. In the sea, the blazing orb of the sinking sun. Hundreds of ships coming and going. The emperor said to the fakir, Do you see how many ships arrive and how many depart? The fakir said, No, I do not see how many; I see only two. There are only two ships.

The emperor said, Are you in your senses? Do I not know how to count? There are hundreds—beyond counting!

Yet the fakir insisted, No—two ships only: one has set out on the journey of wealth, and one on the journey of rank. The rest are excuses, transformations of these two, their many forms and figures. Essentially there are two vessels: the journey of wealth, the journey of position. But if you look well, these two ships are built from the same wood—the wood of ego. And if you inquire deeper, these ships do not sail outside at all; they sail within, on the ocean of your mind. The mind’s road it is. The mind itself is the road. And so long as the mind moves, you will tire, you will fall; yet rise again and again—you will keep walking—because the mind will keep you walking.

The day has come to its end, but when did the road ever end!

Generally it does not end. Sometimes it ends. For a Buddha, a Kabir, a Gorakh, a Nanak—sometimes it ends. It can end for all. But we do not even hold our awareness together. We do not know that our real journey is not happening outside, it is happening within. Those fellow-travelers we meet outside are not the true travelers; those whom we meet upon the mind’s road—there are the true travelers. Whom do you meet there? You meet the memories of the past, the fancies of the future, countless desires, countless thoughts.

A crowd gathers there. The road keeps moving on. Awake, it moves; asleep, it moves. It keeps moving. You are born—it moves. You die—it keeps moving. Even while dying the mind’s road does not close. The body falls away; the mind mounts a new body. One vehicle breaks down; the mind constructs a new vehicle—yet the journey continues. The very name of this journey is samsara.

Do not mistake ‘world’ to mean that which spreads outside you. If you understand it so, you will err. Then you will never be able to leave the world. Wherever you go there will be an outside something—the mountain, the forest cave. World means that which moves within. That can be broken. That can be stopped. If the mind falls, the world falls. If the mind falls, there is no more birth. If the mind falls, there is no more death. Then comes union with the nectar.

The sutra—

Avadhu, to chew flesh is to destroy compassion and dharma.
They who drink intoxication—there, the very breath is forsaken.
They who chew bhang—knowledge and meditation are lost;
Before the court of Yama such beings weep.

One day at the door of death you will weep—bitterly, inconsolably! But then it will be too late. Before you must cry at the door of death—come to your senses. These are the sutras for awakening. The first sutra: karuna—compassion.

Why so much turmoil in life, so much violence, so much enmity, so much hatred? Compassion is lost. And it is not that compassion is for the other’s good; compassion is your good, self-good.

Understand a fundamental law: whatsoever you do to the other, the same you will receive. As you sow, so shall you reap. If you wish to reap nectar, do not sow death. If you desire eternal life, then do not destroy life. If you wish love to shower upon you, do not strew the thorns of hatred on others’ paths. The pits you dig for others—you dig for yourself. All returns to you.

This world is like this: a man goes into the mountains, shouts loudly into the valleys, and from all the valleys his own shout returns and showers back on him. This world is an echo.

Compassion means: give love—so that you may receive love. And everyone longs to receive love. Who does not? Everyone wants to receive, but no one wishes to pay the price. Hence much snatching—and little is ever gained. Give love, and love returns a thousandfold.

Avadhu, to chew flesh is to destroy compassion and dharma.

It is impossible for a little intelligent, aware person—engaged in the effort to understand life—to kill human beings or animals for his tongue’s taste. There have been tribes who ate men. Even today in the Amazon’s fringes some still eat men. Their numbers diminish by themselves, because the tribe eats itself. Cannibals have existed on earth—our own forefathers. Then somehow they were persuaded; they began to eat animals. Again persuaded. With great difficulty humanity has been coaxed toward being human, yet still man has not become fully human.

Whenever you are violent—for any reason whatsoever—through violence you will never attain bliss. Give sorrow, reap sorrow. Sow enmity, reap enmity.

Mahavira has said: vairam majjha na kev—he who binds enmity never obtains anything other than enmity. Mahavira says: I bear enmity toward none. Buddha said: enmity is not ended by enmity. Violence does not end violence. Violence breeds violence.

As far as possible, free life from violence. And for what small, petty things are you bent upon violence? Taste—such a tiny thing—and for that you lose life’s supreme treasure? Taste is momentary; its consequences are long—births upon births of suffering may have to be borne. If you give suffering, you will have to bear suffering. And do not think this is said only regarding meat-eating—any kind of violence, any kind of inflicting pain. And not only ‘Do not give it to others,’ do not give it to yourself either. Do not give sorrow at all. Whomsoever you make suffer, you make Paramatma suffer. Hurt a tree—still you hurt the One—for the One was green in the tree. Kill a bird—you kill the One—for the One was flying in the bird. Give pain to yourself—you give pain to the One, for the One dwells within you too. We are all waves of the One ocean. That wave which appears ‘other’ is not other—she is joined to us. We are all conjoined; we are one existence—this declaration is called Ahimsa.

Avadhu, to chew flesh is to destroy compassion and dharma. They who drink intoxication—there, the breath is forlorn.

There are those who waste this priceless opportunity of life in unconsciousness. Their ordinary unconsciousness does not suffice; they need liquor. Unconscious already, and they strive to make it denser. Awaken—see who sits within you! Only in awareness will recognition happen. Move toward dhyana. Let a dawn of wakefulness come. Let the sun within rise. Fill with light. You are walking the other way—toward stupor.

But people have discovered many kinds of wines. Do not think wine is only that which is sold in taverns. There are subtler wines. The cheapest wine is what is sold in taverns; there are costlier intoxications—wealth, position.

Watch—when a man reaches a position, even his gait changes, his stiffness changes. His feet no longer touch the ground. A drunkard staggers—have you seen those intoxicated with office? No drunkard staggers so richly. With position—everything changes. With wealth—everything changes. These are all intoxications. There is the intoxication of knowledge too—gain a little knowledge and the head grows heavy, swollen. There is the intoxication of renunciation—renounce a little and stiffness arises from that too.

Know the essence of intoxication: wherever the ego stiffens—there is intoxication. Wherever you begin to function without awareness—there is intoxication. Wherever stupor and torpor thicken in your life—there is intoxication.

There are those who, even when awake, are not awake. And upon this same earth there have been those, who even while asleep—were awake. These are the two poles. Choose as you will. He who chooses sleep will writhe and weep terribly at death’s door; then nothing can be done. The opportunity has passed.

There is a tale of Rabindranath. A beggar set out early one morning. As beggars do, he put a few grains of rice in his bowl before leaving home; if the bowl is empty, people do not give. If the bowl is partly filled, people feel a slight embarrassment; neighbors must have given—how can I not give? You do not give from compassion, you give from pride. So every beggar sets a few grains or coins in his bowl before he begins. Money pulls money; grain draws grain.

This beggar too filled his bowl with a few grains and went forth—but he was startled: he had hardly reached the road when the king’s chariot halted. His joy knew no bounds. Many times he had gone to the palace gate, but the guards never let him in; he could not spread his bowl before the king. Today the opportunity had come. He was dumbfounded, transfixed. The king alighted, and the king held out his own bowl before the beggar. The beggar was aghast. He had never had to give; he had never given; he had only begged. The emperor said, Brother, I know you are a beggar; it is not fitting that I ask from you. But the astrologers have said a great calamity hangs over the kingdom. It can be averted if I go out at sunrise, and ask alms from the first person I meet on the road. Please do not refuse. Even four grains will do—anything in name only. What a predicament that the first person I meet is a beggar!

The beggar stood stunned. He had thought to ask from the king and fill his bowl with gold. It turned upside down—and now even what little he had was to go. He filled his fist—and could not bring himself to empty it. Old habits die hard. With great effort he let one single grain fall into the king’s bowl. Formality done, the king climbed the chariot, the golden chariot rolled away; dust remained on the road and regret in the beggar’s heart. Nothing came; what was in hand also went. Even the knot’s little store was lost.

That day he received much alms—more than ever before. To the giver it is given. Existence pours from all sides when we are ready to give. He had not given much, but for him it was much; he had given an empire. His bowl filled—but his mind remained haunted by that one grain—too little. Had the king not come, one grain more would have remained.

We are such: we do not thank for what we receive, but we complain for what we do not receive. You have received so much—have you ever gone into the temple to thank the Divine? No. But the complaint of what is missing fills your every breath. Whether spoken or not, the life-breath is stuffed with complaint. The beggar returned, tired, flung down his bowl. His wife said, You look sad; the bowl was never so full. He said, What full? Never such ill-fortune! The very opening of the day went wrong. I, who never give, had to give. The emperor himself stood asking. Today this bowl is short by one grain. Today my heart is full of remorse.

The wife overturned the bowl—both were startled. A heap of rice fell out, and in it—one grain of gold. The one grain he had given had turned to gold. A lovely tale. What we give becomes gold; what we hoard turns to dust. The more one gives, the more golden one’s life becomes. But now it was too late. Beating his chest the beggar cried, If only I had poured out the whole fist—every grain would have become gold. How unfortunate I am! The opportunity has passed. Tagore’s poem bears the title: The Opportunity Has Passed.

At the end of many lives, this will be the title of many lives: The Opportunity Has Passed.

Do not do this. Your bowl can be filled with gold—but only if you give, only if you share. If you hoard, only dust will remain in your hands. And whoever is swollen with ego—he hoards: hoards wealth, hoards position, hoards prestige, hoards knowledge, hoards renunciation—anything he can find he turns into property; upon everything he raises his hood and sits.

And there are so many intoxications—of wealth, of position, of knowledge, of renunciation. See the stiffness of the renunciate—wherever stiffness is, there is intoxication. Where intoxication is, Self-knowledge cannot be.

Therefore it is said: if there is ego, Atma-jnana is not possible, for ego is the true wine. The real liquor does not pour from grapes; it pours from the ego. And people run little stills in every home—distilling wine from ego.

Avadhu, those who drink intoxication—their very life-breath knows only despair. There will never be dawn in their breath; it will be night forever. They will know sleep and stupor; they will never have the taste of awakening. There will be no meeting with the sun. No morning in their life, no notes of the dawn.

They chew bhang and lose both knowledge and meditation.

And there are people who are searching for cheap meditation. From the Vedas till now man has sought cheap meditations. From soma-rasa to LSD the search has been for some chemical that could bring meditation: take a puff of ganja, grind and drink bhang, swallow an LSD tablet, inject some chemical essence—find a shortcut: the journey completed without traveling. Not a new search—an ancient one. And man has discovered many chemicals through which the delusion of false meditation is created—things that appear like meditation.

Drink bhang and you may feel you are flying in the sky—though you remain on earth. Meditation too has such flights—very high flights. Take LSD and the world becomes kaleidoscopic—greener than green, roses more rosy. Birds’ voices unbearably sweet. The pebbles beside the path shine like jewels. Existence seems filled with an unheard-of beauty.

Something similar happens in meditation. But what happens in meditation becomes steady; what happens through LSD lasts for a while and then goes; and when it goes it leaves you in great darkness. The eyes turn utterly dull. Under LSD everything seems lit, light pours from every leaf.

From soma to LSD, man has found many chemicals—ganja, bhang, marijuana, various substances in various lands—all driven by the search for a shortcut, a straight road to the experience of the Divine without labor, without sadhana. To see the truth and the beauty of existence. Ways have been found—but they are all false ways. The time spent in them is only lost. You wander into a web of imagination. And not only small minds, even great thinkers are deceived.

Aldous Huxley, a great Western thinker, when he first took LSD, wrote in his diary: Now I know—this is what happened to Buddha, to Kabir. A thinker of the highest order—but deceived into believing this is what happened to Kabir. Because Kabir too sings: ‘Amrita rains! The dense clouds of bliss gather and pour; within, lamps upon lamps are lit, as if a thousand suns rose at once!’ Huxley under LSD saw nectar rain, lamps light—so naturally he concluded: now I know what Kabir knew.

He wrote further: in olden days people traveled by bullock cart—how long it took to go a hundred miles; now we reach in a moment by airplane. The difference between bullock cart and jet—so Buddha’s process took six years, Mahavira’s perhaps twelve. Now we have LSD—the thing of the jet age. One tiny dose—barely visible—produces Samadhi. The master key has been found. Soon we will discover the supreme medicament long sought.

Remembering the Rig Veda he named this supreme drug ‘soma.’ He hoped that before the century ended scientists would discover an injection—whenever you wished, Samadhi on demand.

But such Samadhi is worth two pennies. However great Huxley was as a thinker, he had no experience of the realm of Samadhi and dhyana—so he was deceived. The tally of words matched—he thought the reality had been found. But words match in dream and in reality too. Sometimes in dreams there is such beauty that waking seems pale, yet you do not claim the dream was true. You know—a dream, after all.

Chemicals can change the chemistry of the body’s inner processes; they cannot cause the ascent of consciousness. Consciousness is beyond chemicals; to attain it something else is needed.

They chew bhang and lose both knowledge and meditation.

Those caught in chemicals lose both dhyana and jnana, yet they live under the happy illusion that they have attained. In this country there are thousands of sadhus—‘Dam maro dam’… not a new thing here. In the East this disease is ancient. People abuse the West: if hippies go to Goa, take marijuana and LSD, Indian culture feels hurt. But your own sadhus and sannyasins have been doing the same for five thousand years—and your culture feels no hurt! Go see what happens in the akharas of your sadhus. But smoke ganja and chant the name of Ram—and the mind feels pleased. You too are pleased: See how they chant Ram! Babble in a ganja-stupor—you take it for the Name of Ram. Habit of repetition persists; smoke the pipe and the same habit continues, louder and louder; they jump and prance. These are not states of Samadhi.

The state of Samadhi is a vast quiet. There is dance, yet in the dance an evenness, a balance. There are songs, yet they are harmonious, consonant, suffused with meditation. Even the dance is no tandava. But people have arranged things in their own way; they not only drink, they even offer to Shiva. Whole fraternities of bhangis and ganjis—thinking the lineage descends from Shiva: nothing new. Hence: Bam Bhole! Remember the Innocent One—and take a drag.

If it proceeds in the name of religion, no one objects; we blindly accept, so long as there is a religious cover.

Ninety-nine percent of your country’s ‘sadhus’ are no sadhus, not worthy of the name—yet you worship them, fall at their feet. Go to the Kumbha fair and see the fraternities of your sadhus—you will find the rest of the country’s roughs seem small. Their mob gathers—and you call it a congregation of saints. On the ghats of Chitrakoot—a rabble of rascals! But with the veil of religion—you say: a crowd of saints. Open your eyes. Gorakh says this; otherwise, in the final hour, you will repent greatly.

Before the gate of Yama such beings weep.

Deceptions come cheap.

Suddenly there was a clamor—
Behold, the dawn of the long night of slavery has arrived!
Fingers awoke—
The barbat and the peacock-lute stretched their limbs—
And from the minstrel’s palm, rays burst forth;
Fragrant flowers blossomed in the instrument’s strings;
People cried: The days of lament are past—
The bandits have lost—
The travelers have won!
Yet the caravans were far, far from the destination—
They rested in the dense shade of self-deception;
They gathered pebbles and shards by the wayside,
And took them for rubies and jewels;
The highwaymen laughed, hidden in their lairs—
We called the ache of yearning ‘arrival,’
We called our own roadside dust ‘the palanquin.’
Now, wherever you look—death hovers.

To be deceived is easy. To inflate a small thing is easy. To dress a lie in the garments of truth is easy.

The caravans were far—far from the destination,
Resting in the dense shade of self-deception…

Man is self-deluding. He builds shade to deceive himself; he drowns in his own deception.

He gathers pebbles and shards from the roadside—
And takes them for rubies and jewels.

The bandits laugh from their ambushes—
We called the ache of longing ‘arrival,’
We called our own roadside dust ‘the palanquin’—
Now death hovers, whichever way you look.

He who sets out upon the path of truth must be very careful. The path of truth has many deceptions, many by-paths that lead astray. Gorakh warns against them.

Why kill living beings, O body-bearer? Slay instead the quarry of the five elements.
Your grazing mind is devouring the garden of your intelligence; the root of Yoga is compassion and giving.

Why kill living beings, O bearer of the body!
You yourself are a living being, a body-bearer—why torment other body-bearers? You are like them; they are like you—equally helpless. Think—what difference is there between you and them?

Slay the quarry of the five elements.

But people go hunting for sport. Except man, no animal hunts for sport. Animals kill when hungry—only for hunger, and they are excused; they know no other way to fill the belly. It is their natural food. Without hunger, no animal kills. A rabbit may sit by a lion; if the lion is not hungry, there is no harm—there is gossip, jungle talk, rumors of what is happening where. Only man kills without hunger, kills for play. This is the limit.

You go into the jungle to play with the lion—guns in hand, platforms built. What kind of play is this? If the lion attacks you, it is an accident; if you kill the lion, it is sport, a noble hunt! You go fully equipped; the lion is empty-handed. You sit far upon a platform with rifles; the lion has no arrangements for safety; and it is called a game. Think a little.

Gorakh says: if you must enjoy killing, then kill this slavery to the five elements; become master of the body. If you must show valor, conquer this body.

Slay the quarry of the five elements; or slay the mind that grazes in your field of intelligence.

But neither do you slay the mind nor conquer the body; you are slaves to both—and go to kill defenseless animals. People sit for hours fishing. For those same hours, the mind could be slain. With what concentration they fish! Hang a hook and sit absorbed. With such absorption if you sit, the mind’s fish can be caught. But who is eager to catch the mind’s fish? No attention.

One day Mulla Nasruddin came to a fish shop. From outside he called, Weigh three or four big fish and throw them to me. The shopkeeper said, Throw them? Can you not take them in your hands? He said, No, throw them. The fact is this: you know I never like to lie; I will tell my wife I caught these fish. If you throw, I will catch. I cannot lie. So please throw them, that I may catch.

People buy fish in the market—only to say they caught them! Have you heard the tall tales of fishermen? Two fishers talking—one said: Today was the limit; I caught a fish within whose belly was the very cup from which Alexander drank water. The other said: That is nothing; I caught a fish today, and when I cut it open, a lantern came out—the very lantern by whose light Napoleon read at night—and it was burning! The first said: Look, I will take back my cup of Alexander, but at least blow out your lantern. If not the cup of Alexander, at least blow out the lantern—this is too much!

Why this hunting? It is a race of ego—trying to prove superiority before animals—before fish! No shame! If you wish to be superior, prove it among men. And there is only one way to be superior—no other: become master of mind; become master of body; know That which is beyond mind and body.

Gorakh asks: How shall man win liberation? Slay the treacherous mind.

There is one gate to liberation, one attainment of supreme freedom:

Slay the treacherous mind.

Treacherous—why? Mind is atheist. Understand this. Mind is never theist. Mind lives on ‘no.’ ‘No’ is its food. Therefore mind hesitates to say ‘yes’; it creates hurdles. If it must say ‘yes,’ it says so under compulsion. It delights in saying ‘no,’ rejoices in it. Watch yourself: when you manage to say ‘no,’ you feel a rush of power. You say ‘no’ even where there was no reason to say ‘no.’ Why did you say it? A child asks his mother: May I go out to play? No! There is no reason for ‘no’: the sun shines, the air is pure, trees and birds sing. Yet ‘no’ arises immediately. The servant asks for his wages today—Take them tomorrow! As if it were impossible to give today. No—but we must first say ‘no.’

‘No’ gives you a sense of power. Therefore even a small man, on a small seat, does not miss the chance to say ‘no.’ A peon sits before an office door; you arrive, Is the officer in? No! Come again! He wishes to show: What do you think of yourself? You may be a lord at home; here I am the lord. The ticket clerk at the station—though he has nothing to do—turns the register, to say: Stand there; many like you stand. Who do you think you are? All this is said by the way he turns the pages.

Examine yourself—you do the same. A policeman stops you on the road: Stop! Whether or not there is reason—he wants to say ‘no.’

Know the mind: it lives on ‘no’; negation is its soul. Hence it doubts, denies, opposes.

Gorakh calls it treacherous. It fills your life with negation; where there is negation there is darkness, despair; where there is negation nothing but death will ever happen. In affirmation there is morning; in affirmation is the birth of light; in affirmation is the experience of the Divine.

Astikata means the capacity to say ‘yes.’ Do not think it means saying ‘yes’ to God only—then giving the right to say ‘no’ to the whole world. That is not astikata.

An astik is one for whom ‘yes’ has become easy, spontaneous; for whom ‘no’ has become difficult. A nastik is one who, in ninety-nine out of a hundred moments, will say ‘no’; even when he must say ‘yes,’ his ‘yes’ carries the flavor of ‘no.’ At the first opportunity he changes his ‘yes’ back to ‘no.’

Who is astik? He who, in ninety-nine out of a hundred moments, will say ‘yes’—simply, smoothly, without hesitation, unconditionally. If on the hundredth he must say ‘no,’ he says it with apology, with compunction; and at the first chance he will turn that ‘no’ back into ‘yes.’ That is the definition of astik and nastik. Belief in God is secondary. Belief in Atman is secondary. If you gather the capacity to say ‘yes,’ you will know Atman, you will know Paramatma. If you become skillful in ‘no,’ then Atman-Paramatma is far—you will be deprived of knowing even life. The sky will be full of stars, but your eyes will be dark. The morning will rise but you will remain blind, for layers of ‘no’ blind man.

No one can live in ‘no.’ ‘No’ means that which is not—how will you live in it? Yet most try to live in ‘no’; hence their lives are broken, depressed, dry, flavorless. Mere make-do living—no flowers bloom, no instruments sing, no dance happens, love ripens not, prayer does not take root. How could it? Without the flow of rasa, how could prayer fruit? If the sap does not flow, how will flowers blossom, how will there be dance and song?

Where ‘yes’ enters a life, poetry enters. Know the difference: ‘no’ is the nature of the mind; ‘yes’ is the nature of the heart. Therefore, one who says ‘yes’ moves toward the heart; one who says ‘no’ remains confined to the head. ‘No’ is logic, doubt; ‘yes’ is trust, faith—and in faith is life’s dawn.

Gorakh asks: if you desire mukti—freedom, for freedom is the greatest affirmation—

Slay the treacherous mind.

This treacherous, atheistic, negating mind—conquer it, kill it.

And killing it entails no violence, for it has neither flesh nor blood. Mind is only a notion. In killing it there is no violence. Gorakh says: Kill! There is no harm; no one will die. It is only your assumption, your delusion. Drop it, and it will fall. Drop it, and it will scatter. In its collapse—you are free.

You are bound by chains that are not. You are imprisoned in jails that are not—but you have believed them, trusted them.

Gurdjieff lived long in Kazakhstan. There the practice continues even now. Women who must work in fields and forests take their little children along. They devised a strange, effective method, practiced for centuries: sit the child down, draw a chalk circle around him, and say: Do not step outside; no one has ever crossed this line. From childhood this is told to all; every child knows—one cannot cross the chalk line. No child crosses. How could they, if one cannot? They become hypnotized. Not only children—Gurdjieff writes—even draw a chalk circle around an adult and he will not step out. Gurdjieff was shocked—he tried to encourage them—Come out, do not fear. They tried, but some invisible wall stood upon the line and turned them back. An invisible wall—not there, yet there for them. Gurdjieff walked in and out freely; they saw it—and yet for them a wall stood.

Have you seen a hypnotist’s show? Whatever the hypnotist tells the subject, he behaves accordingly. Your mind is a kind of hypnosis. Do not laugh at Kazakhstan’s simple folk; your condition is the same. If your foot touches the Gita, you quickly bow. From childhood you were told: touching the Gita with your foot is sin. Let a Muslim’s foot touch it—he feels no worry; he even feels a little pleased: a virtuous act accomplished! If your foot touches the Quran, you feel no disturbance. Passing a temple, your hands join by themselves; passing a mosque, you do not even remember. These are hypnotic processes installed within you.

Mind is a kind of hypnosis; it is not, except by belief. Once believed—it is. Drop it, and it falls. No murder is committed; thus Gorakh says: do not think I speak of killing someone. Mind has no flesh, no blood, no life—a hollow notion. Different societies generate different minds—Hindu mind, Muslim mind, Jain mind. Once produced, mind moves in its own groove; moving differently feels impossible. Confidence in the different does not arise.

Examine yourself—you will find your mind is a conditioning given by society, nothing else. The day you understand, the same day you can drop it.

Avadhu, even from wooden sandals the foot may slip; and the body of iron wears away.

Gorakh says: changing the outer garb does nothing. We have seen feet slip even in sandals of holiness. A lovely symbol:

Avadhu, even from wooden sandals the foot may slip!

Sandals—those clacking wooden pads of sadhus and sannyasins. Even from them the foot slips. Sandals cannot save you; only inner light saves. Outer rites cannot save; only inner lamp saves.

Avadhu, even from sandals the foot may slip; the iron body wears away.

You may care for the body—yoga, austerity, exercise—make it like iron; it will wear away sooner or later.

We have seen iron-like bodies wear away, die. Do not waste your time. The loveliest body rots. The strongest decays.

You will be surprised: the more one tries to make the body strong, the worse it decays, because forcing enters. Gama, the wrestler, had a mighty body—yet he rotted, died of consumption. Over-straining the body was a violation; the result was bad. Wrestlers often die wretchedly. Their bodies are not natural; those bulging muscles are forced—thousands of daily push-ups and squats. The bulge shows power outside; within, all is hollow. Unnatural process.

Gorakh says: we have seen even iron bodies wear away. Do not involve yourself in useless endeavors. Yogis often become entangled in such efforts—purifying, strengthening, remodeling the body; they remain charmed by the body, never rising beyond its maya to the witness. Busy cleaning the house, the owner is forgotten. All houses fall—huts or palaces.

Avadhu, even from sandals the foot may slip…

A beautiful symbol—sandals make slipping easier because they are unnatural. You must grip and hold them with your toes; they are heavy too. Those who live only in formalities and outer show fall easily. Simpler folk are better—they do not walk on sandals; they walk naturally, the risk of fall is less. They do no fraud or pretense—plain and straight, in harmony with nature—no fear of falling.

Gorakh favors sahaja-yoga—the natural way. As far as possible, seek the Divine in accord with nature; to go against nature brings trouble. Right food—neither too little nor too much—and you will not slip. Some eat too little, some too much; both may slip. The hungry will think of food all day; the overfull will be tormented all day. The hungry is restless; the overfull is dull—dhyana is difficult for both. Hungry, you will remember hunger: ‘Bhukhe bhajan na hoye Gopala.’ Overfed, sleep will come. After eating, the body demands rest so it may digest; it pulls energy even from the brain. Hence sleep after food. Fasting at night, sleep may not come, for the stomach does not need energy; energy returns to the brain and keeps you awake.

Right food, right exercise—neither too little nor too much. The key word is samyak—remember it; it is the foundation of sahaja-yoga.

Avadhu, even from sandals the foot may slip; the iron body wears away.

Naked muni, milk-drinker—by such yoga no one attained.

Gorakh says plainly: by going naked, no one has ever attained the Divine. All nature is naked—what then? By silence alone no one attained; stones are silent, hills and trees are silent. By drinking only milk no one attained, for all infants drink only milk—none thereby attain.

Do not mistake him—Gorakh is not condemning silence or nakedness. He says: if nakedness feels pleasant, natural—fine; but do not think nakedness itself yields the Divine. With clothes too, the Divine is realized. Between man and the Divine, clothes are no barrier—mind is the barrier. Do not imagine that dropping clothes completes the work.

Digambara Jain munis do just that. A lifetime of practice—five steps to cross; each step taking years. By the fifth they become naked. Fifteen, twenty years of effort—and the result: naked. What will come of it? Look at a digambara muni: on his face you will not see the glow of genius, not the ‘ah!’ of bliss. All dry and withered—like a tree that has dried up—no leaves, no flowers; even birds no longer nest upon it. Yet believers exclaim: Ah—what renunciation!

Our beliefs are such that we see according to them. You will not see the joy of Divine realization, the music of Samadhi. Rather a man like a corpse. But believers see otherwise—their gaze is through lenses. Everyone wears lenses—Hindu, Muslim, Jain. When the eyes become naked, clean—without lenses—what is arises in sight.

Gorakh does not oppose nakedness or silence. He says: do not take them as the whole, for a man may sit silent outwardly while inner madness continues; outwardly silent, inwardly more disturbed—because what you used to speak and thus release, now churns within with no outlet. Like a house whose drain is blocked—the garbage remains inside. Talking to a friend, you feel lighter—you exchanged garbage. The new garbage of another feels fresh! Like bearers of a bier, changing shoulders; the weight is the same but on a new shoulder it feels lighter.

A man who sits silent—his misery increases; the garbage rotates within. Outwardly silent—within, deranged. Silence is not enough; first meditation. Dhyana means: inner quiet has come, nothing remains within. Then if you are silent, silence has beauty. The same with nakedness: become inwardly innocent like a child; then nakedness has beauty—unsullied.

Know the heart’s feeling in the hand—this age has turned gross.

This age has turned rough. Now there is only one way: what is in your heart must flow through your hands. Those days are gone when people lived in the subtle. Now it must be shown in the gross. People trust the body, not the soul; the world, not the Divine; stone, not love. This age is coarse. Only what can be seen, touched, grasped by the senses is believed. Bring religion within that reach.

Know the heart’s feeling in the hand…

Therefore do not keep it only in the heart; bring it into your hands. If there is love within, distribute it with your hands. If there is the urge to give, then give with your hands. If there is service, serve with your hands. Now the heart alone will not suffice; what you think and live within must be expressed without. This world will grasp conduct, not the heart’s feeling.

In older days it was otherwise. Gorakh speaks truly. Buddha sat under the Bodhi tree, and we recognized him. Those who could recognize did so; in that silence, in that stillness—Buddha was known. The heart’s feeling remained in the heart; it did not come into the hand. Buddha showered compassion, but of the heart; he opened no hospitals—then it would have come into the hand; no roadside water-houses; he did not wash the feet of the sick.

In this sense Jesus is closer to the Kali age—what was of the heart he brought into the hand. He gave eyes to the blind, legs to the lame, served the sick. If Christianity has spread, it is for no other reason—its grasp is gross. The old religions—Hindu, Jain, Buddhist—still speak the subtle; they speak the language of the Satya-yuga. But this age is gross. Only what can be weighed on scales will be believed.

Hindus worry: why are people made Christians? They say, bribes are given. Nonsense. No one is forcibly made Christian. Christianity fits this age. The poor feel supported. Buddha speaks of meditation; the poor have little to do with meditation—he asks: later—where is food? The missionary comes—he first brings food. He rarely speaks of meditation—only food; opens hospitals, schools, factories—clothes, jobs, education. People feel: this is religion.

Christianity grows: a third of the world. Old religions speak the language of Satya-yuga. Even now we say: serve the sadhu; Christians say: the sadhu is the one who serves. See the difference. If a sadhu comes, we press his feet; Jains will say they are going to serve the sadhu. We cannot imagine the sadhu serving us; if he pressed your feet, you would jump: Sir, what are you doing? You will send me to hell! Have I offended you? Let me press yours.

But things have changed. That language was of ancient times when people had eyes to see the subtle; the heart was manifest, transparent. Not so now; even in Gorakh’s time it was not so. Therefore he says—

Know the heart’s feeling in the hand—this age has turned coarse.

Says Gorakh: O avadhuta, listen—if there is water inside, then when you open the tap, it will flow.

I have heard: Lawrence did great service to the Arabs. He brought some Arabs to the Paris world-exhibition. He housed them in a grand hotel. They were not enchanted by anything except the bathroom. People of the desert—water is rare. Here—open a tap: fountains of water! They would say: take us back to the hotel, and run to the bathroom. Lawrence let them enjoy. On the last day, a strange thing happened—everything loaded into cars; Lawrence waited—but they were missing. He sent people; they were in the bathrooms—unscrewing the taps. Lawrence asked: What are you doing? They said: We will take the taps home; what magic taps! Wherever you turn, water flows. They did not know the network behind—pipes, reservoirs.

Gorakh says: if you open the tap, only what is within will flow. Your hands must be the proof of your heart.

Some are arguers, some disputers; the yogi is not to indulge in debate. As sixty-eight holy rivers merge into the sea, so for the yogi the streams of pilgrimage flow from the Guru’s mouth. Drink.

Do not get lost in pro and con: whether this is right or that is right. Without knowing, how can ‘right’ be decided? Do not even argue whether God is or is not. In such debate, the time is wasted.

As the sixty-eight sacred rivers flow and merge into the ocean—Ganga, Yamuna, Saraswati, Godavari, Narmada—

So for the yogi, those rivers pour from the Guru’s mouth. Drink. If you have found the Guru, there is no need for debate. Become absorbed, in rhythm, in resonance with him.

Avadhu, if the mind is pure, the very washbasin is Ganga.

All hinges on the mind’s healing, its being blissful—then there is no need to go to the Ganga; the bowl in your home is Ganga.

Avadhu, if the mind is pure, the washbasin is Ganga; unbind the fair—and the whole world becomes your disciple.

If your mind is freed from bondage, the entire world will be your disciple. Do not waste time thinking whom to convince, whom to argue with, whom to win over. Become free in mind—and those who seek truth will be drawn to you; you will not need to go calling at their doors. They will seek you out.

Says Gorakh: the Real has neither line nor form; how will you think it? It can only be experienced.

Dive into the Guru—into one who has known. Merge into one who has recognized. Taste one who has become indescribable.

This very mind is Shakti; this very mind is Shiva.
This very mind is the living creature made of five elements.
With this very mind become unman—no-mind—and you will speak of the lore of all three worlds.

All is the play of mind. If it is bound in vasanas, you will remain entangled; if it rises above desire, you are free.

With this very mind become unman—amane—no mind. What the Zen masters call ‘no-mind’ is the translation of unman. Be as if mind is not; no thought, no desire, no emotion; unthought, unemotional, undesiring—silent. That is dhyana.

With this very mind become unman—and then from within will flow the unseen truths of the three worlds.

Do not try to crush and kill this mind; do not imagine you can keep it empty forever.

You cannot kill by pressing down; and you cannot keep it eternally empty. A beautiful sutra: empty space does not remain empty; the moment a hollow is made, it is filled. Draw water from the river and a hollow appears—but at once the water rushes to fill it. Create a vacuum and the winds rush in; hence dust-storms—where the heat thins the air, surrounding air surges in. Nature does not like emptiness. Nor does the Divine—emptiness is filled instantly. Empty yourself—and the Divine fills you. The mind becomes empty—and Paramatma pours in.

A wondrous sutra: Do not ‘press to kill.’ If you press, you will never kill; what is pressed survives within, its poison spreads further through your being. And know this: do not be afraid, thinking, If I empty the mind, I will remain an emptiness forever. No; as soon as there is shunya, there is purnata. Emptiness and fullness are two sides of one coin.

Know the secret of the Fire.

This is the secret of secrets. The scripture speaks of that supreme fire: burn and be gone. Let yourself be utterly consumed—then the Divine descends of itself.

Die, O yogi, die; die, for such dying is sweet.
Die the death by which—dying—Gorakh saw.

Die, become empty, vanish—and Paramatma will arrive by himself. You will not need to go seeking.

Do not press to kill, do not fear emptiness; know the secret of the Fire.
When you are filled with That, the very old woman—this old Maya—will become the Guru’s speech; truly speaks Gorakh.

When you are filled with the Divine—empty of mind, full of soul—then this very Maya will sing the Guru’s message. From every particle the Vedas will be born. From this very world, the Upanishads will arise. From this world—messages of truth. For this world is His; He hides in it; His signature is upon every grain. But right now you lack the eyes.

The night has gone, midnight has gone, and a child within cries.
Is there anyone in the city—some hero—to dispel the child’s sorrow?

Days pass, time flows, and within you a call is rising—listen! If you call, someone will come to remove this inner sorrow. That someone is the Guru.

The journey to the temple is a hollow journey; the pilgrimage to the holy place is but a journey to water. The fruitful journey is the journey beyond oneself—there the voice turns to nectar.

Temples—empty journeys; pilgrimages—to water. Where then to go? Go beyond yourself. Transcend yourself—man-atit.

The fruitful journey is the journey beyond, where the voice speaks nectar.

On the day you rise above yourself—transcend—your voice will pour nectar; your voice will intone the Vedas. The Vedas are not to be memorized; when one transcends, whatsoever he utters is Veda.

What have you found in this world?
In two steps all resolves began to shiver;
Youth turned burden, hopes broke, dreams failed.
The feet found a garden of thorns for the world’s grove;
My mistake was to say: this is sweeter than Nandan.
There is less freedom, more bondage; in love—more lamentation.
Today’s honor is the first step toward tomorrow’s neglect;
Give away the world, yet the world can never be yours.
I returned from the Fag only to see ash on my head;
My mistake was to say: sandal is more.
There is less freedom, more bondage; in love—more lamentation.
Today’s garland is the invitation to tomorrow’s fiery wreath;
Better than one moment’s gratification is the mastery of thirst.
O unfortunate life-chakora! For whom do you waste away?
Such a cloud whose form is grand—but water is little, thunder is more.
There is less freedom, more bondage; in love—more lamentation.

What have you found in the bonds of love, in attachment? Rethink. Nothing—only ash. You wanted joy—pain arrived; freedom—torment arrived; the sky—you received cages. You live imprisoned behind bars.

But we do not see; we run on. If we saw, revolution would happen now.

And you ask the Divine for trivialities—wealth, position. If you must ask, ask thus—

If you cannot grant darshan,
Give me only immortal trust.
On this night of new moon,
Darkness has gathered in my heart;
It seems as if
No dawn will ever come.
I light a frail—
Yet my lamp of love.
Give not the moon’s image—
Only the smile of a ray.
If you cannot grant darshan,
Give me only immortal trust.

No fulfillment came to the cuckoo—
Singing songs of longing;
The few moments of spring
Were pierced by arrows;
In these notes
A gentle, far-spreading burn rose in the sky;
Give not a cloud’s shadow—
Only the feel of moistness.
If you cannot grant darshan,
Give me only immortal trust.

Do you not see?
A trembling wave flows—
A question in eager waiting—
That has no answer.
The ocean sets its limits,
Will not let me even yearn fully;
Give me not freedom—even so,
Give me the joy of high tide.
If you cannot grant darshan,
Give me only immortal trust.

You ask for wealth, position, prestige—what came of it? Ask for trust, ask for astikata, ask that the heart may say ‘yes’; ask that ‘no’ has been enough—no more refusal. Then surely from within will be born the nectar-voice. You too can know what Gorakh knew, what Kabir knew. And remember again and again: this is not about argument, debate, scriptures and scholasticism—

Those who sit upon the bank—what can they know of the wave?
Whose mind-grove has not seen even a bud bloom,
Who have never had a moment free from fall,
Who have never bathed in the koel’s song—
What can they know of spring’s intoxicated hours?
Those who sit upon the bank—what can they know of the wave?
Who could not hear the music
Of the anklets of the wind,
Who could not see the play
Of the moon with the clouds,
Whose fate is to welcome new-moons—
What can they know of dawn’s painted gaze?
Those who sit upon the bank—what can they know of the wave?
Who have grown within hollow moralities,
Who walk bearing the burden of breath,
Whose sky never gathered clouds,
Whose horizon saw no lightning laugh—
They who mutter ‘drink, drink’—
What can they know of the lips?
Those who sit upon the bank—what can they know of the wave?

Nectar and poison are nothing
On the path of surrender;
One must reach the flowers
On a chariot bristling with thorns.
They who dwelt always
In the town of hatred—
What can they know of love’s city, love’s road?
Those who sit upon the bank—what can they know of the wave?

But those on the shore argue well. They talk of waves, of currents, of the far shore. Do not waste time in dispute: Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jain—do not waste time. Whether the Veda is right, the Quran, the Bible—do not waste time. Find a living Upanishad, a living Quran—where the nectar-voice is being born now. There—dive.

The journey to the temple is empty; the pilgrimage to the holy place is water.
The fruitful journey is the journey beyond oneself—there the voice speaks nectar.

Enough for today.