Mare He Jogi Maro #15

Whom shall I take as the support of life?
In the sky glitter a hundred million stars,
They flash a moment, then poor things hide;
One keeps roaming, one keeps breaking—
Which one shall I make the star of my eyes?
Whom shall I take as the support of life?

On the ocean many islands are in sight—
All are being cut away by the current of Time.
Here the swells, there the swells—
Tell me, where shall I take the shore to be?
Whom shall I take as the support of life?

Now the moments of satiation, now the moments of thirst;
Now the moments of tears, and now of laughter!
Poison for company, nectar’s invitation—
Whose call is this today, how shall I understand?
Whom shall I take as the support of life?

Now a garland of flowers, now a garland of thorns;
Now heaven, Nandan, now the flames of hell.
Now palanquins, now funeral biers—
Tell me, where shall I find a way to live?
Whom shall I take as the support of life?

The earth is spinning, the sky is flying,
Who knows which way the ocean is surging?
Even breath, leaving, deserts me—
Tell me, whom shall I cherish as dear?
Whom shall I take as the support of life?

Such is the condition of man. Waves upon waves on every side, and no sign of a shore. A long road behind, a long road ahead; the destination has neither end nor edge. From where do we come—no knowing. Where are we going—no knowing. Why are we here—no knowing. Even if we build a house, where shall we build, and how? If one has no address of his own, how can there be peace in life, how can there be happiness? If there is no glimpse of one’s own nature, how will there be any taste of bliss?
A glimpse of bliss comes only when your life moves in accord with your nature. Understand this much of bliss: when you are in one cadence with the world. When your string is in rhythm with the strings of existence—then there is bliss.
And understand sorrow in the same way: when your string starts sounding apart—discordant with the veena of the universe; your own little drum with your own little tune—then sorrow is born. The moment the cadence is broken—sorrow. The moment the cadence is restored—joy.
But for this attunement acquaintance with oneself is essential. And those who have no acquaintance with themselves set out in search of God! Far search undertaken, while the near remains unknown! Those who do not even know themselves argue about what God is—whether the God of the Hindus is true or the God of the Muslims is true, or the Christians’, or the Jews’. The quarrel is about God—while the indisputable truth, your own, when will you get acquainted with it? And only the one who knows that comes to know the Divine.
Without knowing the Atman there has never been any way to know Paramatma—nor is there, nor will there be. The soul is the doorway. Recognize this One and from this One the key to all the rest is given.
Call that One the Life of your life, to whom every breath is offered!

What can one say of the charm of the honey-forest—
There are countless buds within it!
No doubt, enticing they are—
Those intoxicating lanes of the bowers!
Why wander bower to bower?
Why hum on every little bud?
Love that One bud for which the whole spring pours itself out!
Call that One the Life of your life, to whom every breath is offered!

Do not call ‘love’ the arousal towards mere clay!
Do not mistake the two-moment drizzle of taste for rains of nectar!
That ‘form’ is not form which awakens thirst and hope;
Form is that form upon which trust itself is poured out!
Call that One the Life of your life, to whom every breath is offered!

These are sky-flowers by the millions—
On which of them will you stretch your hand?
How long will you let your eyes stray
In the dim lanes of the ether?
Why stray in twinkling rays?
Why get stuck amidst a thousand stars?
Worship that One moon for which the sky lays itself down!
Call that One the Life of your life, to whom every breath is offered.

And upon whom is every breath being poured out? This breath coming in, this breath going out—whose feet is it washing? This breath coming in, this breath going out—moment to moment whose worship is it carrying away? Whose aarti is this? Follow this breath inward, and you will find the One at whose feet this breath goes and offers itself. With this very breath move outward and inward. In this breath are all circumambulations, in this breath all pilgrimages. For at the very source of this breath you are enthroned—seated in your own majesty, in your supreme dignity.
And where the breath is being laid down, there, amazed, you will find: you are, but not as you. You are, but there is no sense of ‘I’. There is existence, purest existence—but no notion of I, no smoke. A smokeless flame is there. Not even the shadow of I falls upon it.
Recognize this Self, and you have recognized all. Take hold of this single thread; with its support you will reach the deepest depths of existence. There is no need to search anywhere else. Whoever went searching elsewhere went astray, forgot, got entangled.

Today’s sutras:
The Hindu invokes Ram, the Muslim Khuda.
The yogi invokes the Alakh—there, there is neither Ram nor Khuda.

The Hindu worships Ram, the Muslim worships Khuda. Whom does the yogi worship? The Alakh. Neither Ram nor Khuda. It has no name—neither Ram nor Khuda. All names are given by man. It is without adjectives. It is without attributes. It is formless; Alakh—meaning, that which cannot be grasped even by the eyes! Not caught by the ears, nor touched by the hands! Beyond the senses. Call it Ram, it becomes small. Call it Khuda, it becomes small. Give it a word, it becomes untrue.
The true seeker can be neither Hindu nor Muslim—he simply cannot be. Words, scriptures, adjectives, sects cannot bind him. Neither is Muhammad a Muslim, nor Krishna a Hindu, nor Buddha a Buddhist, nor Jesus a Christian—remember! In this world those who have known have had no caste.
Gorakh says it right: “That darvesh belongs to the lineage of Allah.” Then what lineage remains for him? Allah our color, Allah our caste. Then his color is also of Allah, his caste also of Allah. Then he is not Hindu, not Muslim, not Christian.
On this earth sects have caused great obstacles—man has not become man. And what is at the root of sects? Entanglement in small words. Someone says “Ram”—and the quarrel begins.
A child is born—no one brings a name with him; he comes empty, nameless, formless. Then we paste a name upon him. You can stick whatever name you wish. Call him Ramprasad or Khudabakhsh—the meaning is the same. Khudabakhsh means Ramprasad; Ramprasad means Khudabakhsh. But if you say Ramprasad he is a Hindu; now he will burn mosques. If you say Khudabakhsh he is a Muslim; now he will break idols. A mere name—and a name given by you! He came with no name at all.
Does anyone come as a Hindu? Does anyone come as a Muslim? “Allah our caste”—we come as Allah, as Paramatma, and then the little names, the little circles, the little fences—then quarrels, huge disputes, great strife… And those who quarrel and dispute think they are engaged in religious acts!
Yesterday I was amazed: news came from the police that three thousand Muslims were coming to attack the ashram. What concern have Muslims with attacking this ashram? They even gathered! Someone spread the rumor that I am the enemy of Muslims. Someone spread the rumor that I am the enemy of Muhammad. A rumor is enough; it is as if we sit ever ready for mischief.
If I am the enemy of Muhammad, then who will be a companion to Muhammad? I am not a Muslim—in the same sense that Muhammad was not a Muslim. Of this much we are certain: Muhammad was not a Muslim. Because when Muhammad was born there was no Islam. After Muhammad, people became Muslims. Jesus was not a Christian—how could he be? Christianity had not yet been born. And Buddha was not a Buddhist. In just this way, I too am not a Muslim—in Muhammad’s sense! And if Muhammad is a Muslim, then I am the greatest Muslim! Just as I am Hindu, Jain, Buddhist, Jew.
The one who knows—every religion is his, and no religion is his.
But the troublemakers—pandits, maulvis—their whole occupation is to spread trouble, to set fires! Someone must have said something. These are today’s words; now they will again reach the mosques. It is not my fault. Gorakh says:
The Hindu invokes Ram, the Muslim Khuda.
The yogi invokes the Alakh—there, there is neither Ram nor Khuda.
There you will not find bow-bearing Ram, nor will you find Khuda. Whom will you find there? The empty sky. The purity of existence itself. No person with existence—you will find an experience, a grace, a taste! A taste of the eternal. A taste unbound by time. Whoever has tasted this has tasted the butter. He alone is the siddha.

The Hindu meditates in the temple, the Muslim in the mosque.
The yogi meditates on the Supreme State—where there is neither temple nor mosque.

The Hindu goes to the temple and thinks, “I went to the temple, I meditated on God, rang the bell, did the worship, offered the plate, placed two flowers on the idol, bowed my head—the work is complete.” Is religion so cheap? Does life change this way? Will life change by ringing temple bells? Will it change by bowing to stone idols? If only it were so easy, the whole earth would have long since become a paradise! How many times have you gone to the temple and returned empty? How many times to the mosque? What have you brought back? How long will you go on like this?
I read a little story. A scientist, a psychologist, was experimenting on a mouse—to see if there is intelligence in a mouse. He built a pen with twelve little rooms. In the ninth room he placed food. The mouse was released. It ran here and there, this corner, that corner, this room, that room. When it found food in the ninth room, it was delighted. The second time it went straight to the ninth room. Each time it found food in the ninth room, a habit formed. Release it and it went straight to the ninth. When the habit was strong, the scientist put the sweets not in the ninth but in the third room. The mouse went to the ninth, was astonished, looked around—what has happened? It went here and there, returned to the ninth—was there some mistake? The third time it came again. Seeing nothing in the ninth, it searched and reached the third room and found the sweets. Then it began to go to the third.
Someone asked: “By studying a mouse how will you know of man’s intelligence?”
The psychologist said, “Ah, there is a great difference. The mouse understood in a single attempt that now there are no sweets in the ninth room; man would not understand his whole life. He would go again and again to the ninth, and again and again… And the more he went, the stronger the habit would become.”
Just such is the state of your so-called religious ones. How many years have you gone to the temple and received nothing; still you go—out of habit… a formality, social custom… one should go, therefore. Many have said to me, “We do our morning worship; nothing is really gotten from it, but if we do not, we feel restless all day.” But that restlessness is like that of the tobacco-chewer or the smoker. Nothing is gained from smoking—what would be gained? You take smoke in and throw it out—what can come of that? Something may be lost; nothing will be gained. But if he does not pull the smoke in and out he feels restless. The habit has become strong. A craving arises.
Are your worship, your recitations, your mantras—just cravings? Because if nothing is obtained, there should be enough intelligence to seek elsewhere, to seek in another way, to find another path. What will come of going again and again into the same pen? Yet people spend a lifetime. Someone reads the Gita—he reads it all his life. Another reads the Quran—he reads it all his life. Have you received anything or not? Once, become aware and think.

Therefore the yogi does not attend to temples and mosques; he attends to the Param Pad. Where is that Supreme State? The temple is outside, the mosque outside; the Param Pad is within you. Paramatma is enthroned within you. And where are you searching—outside? So long as you search outside, you will never attain.
A Sufi fakir, a woman: Rabia. A guest at her hut: Fakir Hasan. It was morning. Hasan came out. A beautiful morning! The sun rose, birds sang, the trees were green, flowers in bloom, the sky with lovely colors… Such a sweet dawn—and Rabia still inside the hut. Hasan called, “Rabia, crazy Rabia! What do you do inside, come out. See what a beautiful morning God has made!”
Rabia burst into laughter. If you can hear that laughter, your life will change. Rabia is laughing still. Her laughter is not something that ends. Rabia is among those few women who should be counted with Buddha, Mahavira, Muhammad, Krishna. Rabia burst into laughter. Hasan was startled—her laughter was wild. He said, “Crazy Hasan! You come inside. I know the morning is beautiful. I have seen many a morning. His nature is very lovely! His creation—wonderful, supernatural! But for one who has seen the Creator, His nature becomes quite pale. You are seeing the painting; I am seeing the Painter. You hear the poem; I stand before the Poet. You heard only the echo; I am hearing the source. You come inside! Do not call me out. I have remained outside too long. You too have remained outside too long—now come in.”
The matter was small. Hasan had said it in another sense. But this is the beauty of the awakened—that they give great meanings to small things. Small things, with their touch, become golden. He had merely called, “Rabia, what do you do inside? Morning—so beautiful a morning—come out.” Rabia changed the matter. Rabia made of this small event a spiritual provocation. She said, “No, Hasan, you come in—because inside I am seeing the Master who made the morning outside.”
Whoever has seen the Master within has found all temples and all mosques. Then wherever you are, there is temple, there is mosque. But people will be angry. People get angry with truths. If I say, “Wherever you sit, if you are silent, still, in bliss—there is the Kaaba,” the maulvi grows angry! The Kaaba is a holy place. I tell you again: where a meditator sits—there is the Kaaba. He need go nowhere else.
When Mansur al-Hallaj was illumined, from within him the cry arose: Ana’l-Haqq—“I am the Truth!” The blind cannot forgive such a thing. The blind are stubborn. Centuries have passed; those with eyes have come and gone—but the blind are stubborn. Lamps kept being lit—but the blind kept blowing them out. Nectar kept arriving—but the blind refused it. A cure for eyes was possible—but the blind fled from the cure.
Mansur cried: Aham Brahmasmi; Ana’l-Haqq—I am God! To say such a thing in a Muslim land is dangerous. Mansur’s master said, “Mansur, do not speak this way. I too know. This cry arose in me also—but I suppressed it. Why stir up useless trouble? I swallowed it. You too swallow it.”
Mansur said, “As you say, so will I do.” But whenever he sat in meditation again the same call: Ana’l-Haqq!
Junayd said, “You give your word, then you break it.”
Mansur said, “I do not break my word. So long as I am, so long as I have control, I keep it. But a moment comes when I am not. Then who is left to keep it? Then He cries Ana’l-Haqq—what can I do? He gave no word; the word I gave. So, within my strength I hold it down. But when my strength slips, when I am not, the Divine speaks through me—then nothing can be done.”
Junayd, seeing no other way—messages were reaching the clerics. The clerics carried word to the court: this Mansur has become a kafir. Just as Krishna Muhammad became a kafir, Radha Muhammad became a kafir—so Mansur became a kafir! Junayd loved Mansur. He said, “Do one thing: go on pilgrimage. Make the journey to the Kaaba. On the way, in solitude, in forest and desert, cry as much as you like: Ana’l-Haqq. For the desert is not so foolish as people. Stones and mountains are not as stupid as people. They will understand. Go, and make the pilgrimage.”
This was only a device—to pass two or three years; in those days the Hajj took years on foot. Return uncertain. Jungle, mountain, desert, rivers, disease, beasts… the matter would be delayed. In the meantime, the fresh event might settle; some capacity might be born.
Mansur bowed and said, “As you command.” The master rejoiced—but not for long. Mansur stood, circumambulated his master seven times and sat down. “Done is the pilgrimage,” he said. “You are my Kaaba, you my shrine. Where else to go, leaving you?”
Surely the Muslims were enraged. To call a mortal man the Kaaba! To proclaim Ana’l-Haqq! Mansur was crucified. His hands and feet were cut.
Centuries pass, but the matter does not change. Still they write letters to Krishna Muhammad: “We will cut your head.” Will man ever change? Here they will attack people who meditate, saying, “We will cut heads.” Will man ever change?
Neither in temples nor in mosques is God—Paramatma is within you. Whoever has not found Him there will find Him nowhere. Whoever has found Him there will find Him everywhere.

Thus, obstacles will be raised. Some will slander, some will bow. This is ever the obstacle for the knower: some will revile, some will praise. And those who praise are few—those who slander are many. Out of a hundred, ninety-nine will abuse; one or two brave souls will praise. Only he can praise who has had some glimpse—one ray perhaps, if not the sun; one drop perhaps, if not the ocean. A slight fragrance has reached the nostrils—he alone can bow.
And some who praise do so hoping to get something. Even among the few who praise, some praise more so that something can be obtained—a miracle perhaps. Someone wants a son, someone a job, someone a cure—life’s thousand encumbrances. Those who come to bow before the meditative one, the siddha, the Buddha—they do not come to bow to Buddha. They come hoping some wish may be fulfilled. They seek the wish-fulfilling tree, not Buddhahood. They think, “By his grace what we could not do by our own effort will be done.”
But those who have known cannot give you blessings that bind you further in the world. They have themselves renounced all hopes. They cannot become the causes of your hopes. What they have known to be false they cannot give to you as ornament; they are chains. When you go to them they will say, “Renounce all hope.” In this world all hope is futile; it only leads astray—illusion, mirage. Those golden deer that appear—nowhere do they exist. Even Ram was deceived by a golden deer; he went in pursuit. Not because of Ravana did Ram lose Sita—but because of the golden deer. Whoever goes hunting the golden deer loses the Sita within—loses the soul.
Gorakh says: listen rightly, understand well. We speak plain: on our path no hope enters. Only in utter hopelessness does one descend.
Understand ‘supreme hopelessness’. It means: in this world nothing has been found, nor will be. Dreams upon dreams only. From afar drums sound sweet; close up, nothing comes to hand.
This is the path of the dispassioned, the indifferent; who have seen through all hopes and found nothing inside. This is their road. Only they set forth on the inner journey for whom the world has become futile. Do not go to them with hopes.

Do not show me dreams,
For dreams will break.
Do not show me belonging,
For all belongings leave.

Lose not yourself in the honeyed tune—
Yesterday the flowers said:
“The bees, with sweet song,
Rob us and go.”

The churning of the ocean
Declares it again and again:
They bring the nectar forth—
But make you drink the poison.

A child told me last night, weeping:
“Do not build sand-castles—
They always break.”

The shores were saying:
“The waves do not return.
A hundred promises given—
All go out as lies.”

Hiding the moon,
The dark cloud said to the sea:
“These gods of beauty
Turn away from worship.”

Here, all is dream upon dream. Whoever sees that nothing is outside sets out to search within. Only one defeated by the outer turns within. Blessed is defeat. Success is costly. Those who succeed in the world miss. A costly bargain—success. Wealth, position, prestige—puffed up, stiff with pride—missed.
Blessed are those who fail; who receive neither position nor prestige nor success. Blessed—if they can understand. If they can recognize their blessedness. If they can see that nothing is gotten; all sand-castles break. For one to whom this becomes clear, a moment of revolution has come.

Asan baisiba, pavan nirodhiba—
Do not get into these games: sitting in posture like a stone idol. Do not engage in these games. Sitting the body fixed in asana—nothing will come of it. These are circus tricks.
Pavan nirodhiba…
Nor think that by holding the breath within for half an hour, or lying underground for days with earth heaped above, then emerging—do not entangle yourself in these games. This question is not of body nor of breath; it concerns that which is beyond body and breath. Control the body—you can sit for hours in one posture. Control the breath—you can hold it. But remember: these are futile. Nothing will come of them.
Asan baisiba, pavan nirodhiba; thaan maan—mere occupations.
You may gain advantages—much respect. People will say, “Ah! A great yogi, a siddha!” This world is strange: true Buddhas are insulted; fake Buddhas receive honor. Mansur, such a lovely man, is crucified. But if some street-performer stands buried to his neck with one hand protruding for twenty-four hours—watch the crowd! The honors begin. And have you ever looked closely at the man buried in the ground for a day and night? Have you sat with him after he was taken out? Did you find any fragrance of truth around him? Any wave rising? No—no one is concerned with that. The crowd relishes marvels.
The awakened are simple, utterly ordinary. What flavor will they have in crooked deeds? Will a Buddha lie on a bed of thorns? For what? To put on a show? But if someone lies on thorns—you run. Someone pierces a spear through his cheeks—you run, the crowd of fools gathers! Wherever you see a crowd, know something is wrong; otherwise that crowd would not be there.
There was a wondrous fakir: Mahatma Bhagwandin. I traveled with him once. A lovely man. But if ever in an assembly someone clapped, he grew very sad. I saw it twice: applause—and he sank. I asked why. He said, “When people clap, I am certain I have said something wrong. Why else would they clap? People grasp only the wrong. When applause comes, at once a doubt arises in me—surely I have erred. These are the same people who pelt stones at truth. How will they clap truth?”
The old fakir’s word stayed with me. It is true. These are the ones who stoned Buddha; who drove thorns into Mahavira’s ears; who did not let Muhammad sit in peace. They hounded him from village to village; kept his life in danger—these same people. Now they worship Muhammad. Now they worship Mahavira. Now they adore Buddha. Are you repenting? Doing penance for your misdeeds? But even now you would do the same. Even now if a Buddha appears your behavior will be exactly the same. You have learned nothing in centuries—as if you have sworn not to learn.
So the trade will prosper; respect will be much. If you master asana and breath-holding, many will worship you.
I came to a village. They said, “A great fakir has come.”
“Who?” I asked.
“Khadeshri Baba.”
“Strange name—what is the matter?”
“He has been standing for ten years; he does not sit!”
He was nearby. In the morning I saw him beneath a tree, standing. From the tree a swing hung; he leaned upon it—because at night sleep will come, lest he fall. Two disciples stayed the night to hold him up; they slept by day; they kept him from falling by night—he must not lie down. His legs had swollen. Ten years standing! The whole body had withered; the legs were elephant’s legs. A sick man bearing meaningless pain. Yet the worship goes on. Kirtan, morning and evening, day and night.
I asked the people: “Look into his eyes, look at his face! No sign of intelligence, no peace, no grace, no poetry dripping. Only those thick legs, those elephant legs. You worship on.” They said, “But see the miracle—ten years!” Ten years—or ten centuries—what then? If a fool stands ten years, will he become wise? The foolishness will become denser, stronger.
Asan baisiba, pavan nirodhiba; thaan maan—mere occupations.
Badant Gorakhnath: atman vicharat—
Do this one thing: inquire into the One within. Enter the inquiry: Who am I?
…As the moon is seen in water.
And if you reach That, just as the moon is seen in the water, so within you the glimpse of the Divine will appear.

Fill the empty eyes with the color of love—
Even in fall, you will see the spring.
Granted, on Yamuna’s banks sadness today,
Granted, Vrindavan looks desolate;
Granted, the water-step is deserted for years—
Emptiness everywhere!
Let the flute’s note settle in your heart—
Even in emptiness you will see the rasa.
Fill the empty eyes with the color of love—
Even in fall, you will see the spring.

You call the Beloved far, and you weep—
Perhaps you have only loved the body.
You have never recognized the nearness of mind;
This fault you have not yet confessed.
Let the image of the Trickster live within—
Even in deception you will see trust.
Fill the empty eyes with the color of love—
Even in fall, you will see the spring.

Do you place paper flowers upon the idol?
You have taken worship to be a game.
Like a thirsty deer you run, mad,
You have taken sand to be a stream.
What seems many miles away to the body,
Seek within the mind—you will find it near.
Fill the empty eyes with the color of love—
Even in fall, you will see the spring.

The destination itself comes to be offered—
Steady the stagger of your steps.
Make no entreaties to moon and stars—
Make only your heart the sky.
Gather a resolve like Meera’s—
In poison you will see the dwelling of nectar.
Fill the empty eyes with the color of love—
Even in fall, you will see the spring.

Become the sky. Become thought-free. Become silence. Awaken within; awaken and see within. There is but one question worth asking: Who am I? Ask and keep asking… Let the arrow of this question pierce—Who am I? Who am I? Many answers will come along the way—accept none. From one side the Quran will speak—“who you are”; say, “Be silent.” From another side the Gita will speak—say, “Be silent.” From another—the Vedas, the Dhammapada. Say, “Be silent.” Do not listen to the scriptures. Not that they are wrong; they are utterly right. But do not listen to scripture; otherwise you will miss listening to yourself. Go within and within… keep refusing second-hand knowledge—learned from pandits, maulvis, priests. Say, “No. I must know. I will accept only what I myself know; otherwise, nothing.”
Set aside all scripture. Go within. Become without scripture, without thought. A moment will come when only the question resounds—no answer rises. “Who am I?”… and no answer comes. Know then: half the journey is done; all answers have fallen. The stale, the taught, the parroted—those gramophone-records—left behind. Only your question remains—Who am I? This is half the journey. The crucial step is complete. The second step is easy.
Keep asking: Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? You will be amazed: a moment comes when even the question drops. Such a hush draws that even to form the question is not possible. You would like to ask—but cannot. First the answers fell—the stale, bookish. Then the question falls. Where there is neither question nor answer—there is the Answer. There is no longer even “Who am I?” But you awaken and see. The arrow has awakened you; it pierced the heart. Its pain startled you, lifted you, broke the trance; the sleep fell; it is dawn. Then open your eyes and see. You will be amazed—the world is His world. On every leaf His imprint! On every particle His signature!
Then read the Gita. Then hum the Quran. You will be astonished: what you have known—that is the Quran; what you have known—that is the Gita. Now the Gita, Quran, Dhammapada, Bible—all become your witnesses. My words pain the pandits, the maulvis. Yet I am telling you how to find the real Quran, how the true ayat arises within you. I give you the key to the real Quran. But one who sits memorizing the Quran will be offended; he will say, “He told us: if the Quran’s voice comes—do not listen; say ‘Be silent.’ This is an insult to the Quran.” Will you understand or not?
Who has loved the Quran, the Upanishads, the Gita, the Bible more than I? Who has remembered Muhammad, Mahavira, Buddha, Krishna, Christ more than I? Yet still I say: When on the path you meet Buddha and Krishna and Christ and Muhammad—step aside; say, “Move from the way; give me passage. Do not block me. Let me reach my destination. I will know you only when I have reached myself. Until then, you are stale, borrowed. Whatever you say, I will understand something else. You will speak truth; I will catch only the words—until my feeling-state is like yours.”
As in Muhammad’s solitude upon the mountain, one day the Quran descended—the state Muhammad was in when it descended—until that state arises in you, you cannot know the Quran. To know the Gita, Krishna-consciousness is needed. Even Arjuna could not know; see how he keeps arguing—he cannot understand. He is so near, friend of childhood, playing, mingled, intimate—yet he cannot understand. Krishna says something; Arjuna asks something else.
How will you understand—you who are so far? A thousand years’ distance between you and Krishna—of language, feeling, thought, culture, society—so long a gulf! Arjuna could not understand—how will you? You will understand something else.
When Krishna-consciousness arises within you, then you can know the Gita. When Muhammad’s flavor is in you, the Quran will descend in you. No special grace is for Muhammad; the Divine’s compassion is equal. It showers upon all alike. Those who are empty are filled; those who are full remain empty. Only remember: rain falls on the mountain—but the mountain remains empty because it is full; rain falls on the lake and the lake fills because it is empty.
Become empty—then you will be filled. But your Quran, your Gita, your Bible, your Vedas—these fill you. You sit like mountains of knowledge—and thus remain ignorant. Remove these mountains. Do not hide your ignorance behind them. Bare your ignorance. Strip it naked. Open all your wounds to Him. Empty—so be it. As you are, be His. Empty—void—so be it. As you are, be His. Offer your empty vessel to Him—and instantly you will be filled with His light. That light itself becomes the proof of all scriptures. In that light the scripture will be born within you. Scriptures are born each day; whenever anyone attains meditation, scriptures are born—like from Gangotri the Ganga flows, so from Samadhi scriptures flow.

Many come, many go.
Many beg, many eat.
Many sit moping beneath the trees.
Gorakh says: whom shall I tell the fear-free knowing?

Gorakh says: many come, many go. And whoever comes and goes thinks there was nothing there, hence we left… Unready to receive. No courage to open. No readiness to accept ignorance. No daring to be naked—so they fled. But the one who leaves thinks, “There is nothing here—let us go elsewhere.”
Many beg knowledge, but few eat and digest it. Until knowledge is digested—becomes blood, flesh, marrow—nothing will happen. People stuff knowledge into the skull as someone stuffs food undigested into the belly. From this, disease arises. Just as undigested food is poison, undigested knowledge in the mind is poison. From this poison are born pandits and maulvis. To be a knower, awaken the power of digestion—the capacity to assimilate the Divine. Only in meditation will this happen. Within, let there be the sky of meditation—only then can you contain the Divine.
Many ask—but who is there to receive?
Many linger sulking or pleased. People come to Gorakh—some stay a while; sitting under trees as yogis did in olden days. They warm their hearth, smoke their chilam, practice some crooked yoga, gain some respect—and move on.
Gorakh says: I want to say—I have found. But to whom? People do not stay. Some who ask—ask from curiosity, not from longing. To whom shall I give the answer? Some come chasing honor and prestige; they sit under a tree, strike a pose, light a sacred fire, stay two days—move on. Some are in the trade.
This is the pain of all knowers. They have found—they want to give, to share. Truth longs to be shared. But to whom? Vessels are lacking. People are eager to receive rubbish; no one is eager to receive truth. For it is a costly bargain—to receive truth is to die. Only one ready to die can receive it; one who says, “I will pay even with my life; let my life go—truth I must have.” Only such a burning thirst attains.

Rare are those who discern essence from non-essence.
Rare are those who see through the two camps.
Rare are those who know the unutterable tale.
Rare are those who understand the speech of the awakened.

Very few, says Gorakh, know what is meaningful and what is futile. Only they can receive. Those mad for wealth cannot receive meditation—who know not what matters and what does not. Those mad for position cannot take prayer. They are picking pebbles along the road. You may tell them, “Come—we will take you to diamond mines”—they will not come. They do not even know diamonds exist.
“Two camps”—taking sides—these have holes. Life’s truth is not found by dividing into sides—by adopting this doctrine or that; by becoming Hindu or Muslim. Truth is for the one without sides. Therefore I say again and again: the religious cannot belong to any sect. The condition of being religious is to be impartial—open, searching. Then, from wherever the call comes, go that way. Do not think from whom to take and from whom not. Otherwise the Jain goes only to a Jain muni—whether he has it or not. Even if a Hindu has it, the Jain will not go. The Muslim goes only to his own fakir—whether he has it or not; if a Jain has it, the Muslim will not go. Thus people remain stuck.
Become impartial. All camps are full of holes. Without camp, you will be without holes. Only such a vessel can hold the rain of nectar.
Very few can know the unutterable. What cannot be said cannot be written. How will you know it through scripture? To know it, sit with one who has known. Sitting near him, a miracle happens. Satsang is the greatest miracle. It is contagious. The health of his being catches. His state touches your strings. Sitting with the master, tune your string to his. Sit with him and dissolve into his cadence. Sit with him and drink his emptiness. If it happens, it happens thus—not otherwise. Bring the unlit lamp near the lit—nearer and nearer and nearer… A moment comes—the flame leaps from the lit to the unlit. But you must bring it near. A mile away—nothing will happen. Half a mile—nothing. A yard—nothing. A foot—nothing. Closer, closer… at six inches—still nothing; at four—nothing. But a moment comes—an inch, half an inch, a quarter… and in a flash, what had to happen happens. This is satsang: from lamp to lamp the flame leaps.
This truth is unsayable—but light can be shared.
Few understand the speech of the siddhas and the Buddhas—for what do they speak? Of what cannot be spoken. Then why do they speak? To call you near. By speaking, truth is not given; by speaking, you are drawn nearer—“Come a little closer… and closer…” In drawing near, a moment comes when the flame leaps.

A sannyasi is he who undoes all grasping.
He sets his seat in the heaven within.
His mind rests beyond mind in the Anahad.
Such a sannyasi speaks of the Agam.

Sannyas is born in satsang. Sannyas means total laying down—of the futile. Not abandoning the world, but abandoning the hold on the futile, and turning wholly towards the meaningful—becoming receptive.
He does not bother with little postures—headstand, shoulder-stand, lotus, siddha-asana. He has only one seat—he sets it in the inner sky. In that sky—he sits thought-free. There he dives into the void. To dive into the void is to be beyond mind—unman, no-mind. Then the Anahad sounds—the primordial OM resounds. From there arose the Vedas, the Upanishads, the Quran; from there the words of Jesus, Buddha, Mahavira. They all arose out of the Anahad.
Whoever reaches there speaks of the Agam—the Unfathomable; shoreless, bottomless; in which you drown and drown and never find a bottom. But one who has heard his inner Anahad brings news of the Agam. From his being waves of the Unfathomable radiate. Whomever he touches—receives a taste of the Agam. Whoever he presses to his heart—the Agam has pressed him to its heart. But to touch such a heart you need a great heart—broad and open. With narrowness this event cannot happen.

Darvesh is he who knows the Door—
Who has found the house, the threshold of the Divine.
Darvesh is he who knows the Door; who has found his home at last.
He turns the five currents back within—
Eyes no longer look outward, but inward.
Ears no longer listen outward, but inward—
For the Anahad is sounding there.
The nostrils no longer take outer fragrance, but inner—
For there is the fragrance of fragrances.
This reversal is what Patanjali called pratyahara.
He has turned the five senses inward; closed the outer journey and come home.

He remains ever alert—day and night.
Not only by day—by night too. You sleep even by day; he is awake even by night. Krishna has said: “What is night for all beings is wakefulness for the yogi.” What does it mean? The body sleeps; within, a remembrance remains—a witnessing continues even through sleep. This is supreme attainment. Whoever attains this will go awake into death. If you cannot go awake into sleep, how will you go awake into death? Death is the great sleep; sleep, the little death. Learn to sleep while awake—then, dying you will die awake. Whoever dies awake has no rebirth. He does not return to the small; he floats in the vast. That state is nirvana, moksha; the Sufi calls it fana.

He lays down the living as his bed,
He covers himself with the dead—
And he is never diseased.
A day will rain in which the body is transformed—
Thus happens with a rare yogi.

He makes prana his bed at night; he makes the body his covering; between the two he lies awake. Such a one, who has known the eternal, is not caught again in the diseases of worldly cravings. By ‘disease’ the wise mean not bodily illness. The body is a house of illness; anyone’s body will fall ill. Mahavira died of a stomach disease. For six months he suffered. Buddha died from poisoned food. Poison will not excuse itself because this is a Buddha’s body. The body is clay.
By disease, the wise mean desire; by health, desirelessness. One who lies awake even in the dark of night, nestled between prana and body—no craving can catch him. For craving catches only in unconsciousness; craving is the extension of unconsciousness. Therefore the awakened—Buddha, Mahavira, Bahauddin, Junayd, Mansur, Ramana, Krishnamurti—have all said one thing: live in awareness. As awareness grows, disease departs. A man full of awareness cannot be angry. If he acts angry, it is drama. Jesus once took a whip in the temple and overturned the tables of moneylenders—drove them out. But I tell you—it was only acting. One like Jesus cannot be angry; if he wills, he can enact anger—and with a skill none other could muster.
Wait—awake. Today or tomorrow, tomorrow or the day after—one day it will rain—the supreme moment will arrive; the body will be transformed. The whole orientation will reverse. Now everything rushes outwards; then everything turns inward. Now your energy is scattered; then it gathers at the center. You were seed at first; then the seed broke and became a tree—branches spread, leaves, flowers—expansion. Then the tree returns—contracts—becomes inner—energy again becomes seed. The seed we were in the beginning—we must be again at the end. This expansion is the world—a middle moment. The yogi becomes seed again; the tree disappears. The branches that spread outward cease; the senses that run outward run out no more. Inversion happens. All energy returns to itself. Petals no longer open; they fold into themselves. All dissolves into itself. The world is explosion—toward the circumference. Meditation, Samadhi, is implosion—toward the center—coming home.
Thus, in a year or a day the form will change. The earthen body becomes of gold; the mortal body—immortal; the temporal—eternal. This happens rarely to a rare yogi. It can happen to all; it should happen to all; it is everyone’s birthright. But we do not claim our right.

In the sky within, the cow calved—
And on paper they set the curd.
The pandits drink only the whey—
The siddhas ate the butter.

In the inner sky—the void—the cow gave birth: an image, a sweet saying. The event happens in the silence of the void. But to bring it to the world there is no other way but to set its curd upon paper. Thus the Quran, thus the Vedas, the Upanishads, the Dhammapada. But remember: what was sweet turns sour when set. So long as it was unspoken, it was truth; the moment it is spoken, it becomes untrue. Lao Tzu says: “Truth spoken is already untrue.” The unlimited, once in words, becomes narrow.
The pandits drink the whey. They do not even take the curd; they churn it into whey—commentaries, interpretations to suit themselves. First, speaking made truth sour; then the pandit’s interpretations dilute it further—the butter is lost. Only the siddhas can taste the butter of the scriptures. Two kinds read the scriptures: the knowledgeable and the meditative. The knowledgeable get whey; the meditative get butter. The key to scripture is not knowledge but meditation; not interpretation of words but the journey into the wordless. As empty as you become, so does the true meaning reveal itself.

And whoever tastes that butter, a revolution happens—the whole becomes full of rasa.

Whenever I painted my portrait—
It turned out to be yours.

Whenever I drew my image—
Your remembrance came.
Lightning flashed within the mind—
The rainbow of your form smiled.
A cloud of joy spread—
The courtyard of life was drenched.
The crazed brush went circling—
Every line came out intoxicated.
Whenever I painted my portrait—
It turned out to be yours.

My form was yours,
My color was yours—
What I thought my posture
Turned out to be your manner.
A mingling of sun and shade—
Became the mirror of youth.
What I took to be sobriety—
Was a colored ecstasy.
Whenever I painted my portrait—
It turned out to be yours.

Again and again, exasperated—
I changed the hues, the shapes;
Whatever new forms I etched—
Beloved, they too were yours.
To show my thirst I tried
To paint a desert—
But when the portrait was done—
It turned into a garden of spring.
Whenever I painted my portrait—
It turned out to be yours.

Where is my world other than you?
Where my movement other than you?
I mistook myself as other than you—
How far astray my mind had gone!
My strength gathered from you,
My art inspired by you;
What I took as my victory—
Turned out to be defeated by you.
Whenever I painted my portrait—
It turned out to be yours.

Once the taste of the zero is had, then all is His. Rising, sitting—worship. Sleeping, waking—circumambulation. Eating, drinking—service. Whatever you do, however you do—prayer’s color and style in all. And whatever appears—His image. Then in temple—He; in mosque—He; in gurudwara—He; in church—He; in stone—He; in mountains—He; in moon and stars—He. Once the recognition arises within…
For that recognition I have invited you. You have come. Do not be among those who come and go. Be among the rare who stay, who settle. Set your seat in the inner sky. This is what I am teaching you. Immerse yourself in the sky within—and from within you the stream of nectar will flow. It is your birthright, the right of your very nature. Claim your right. Do not die without claiming it. It must be realized. Whoever dies without realizing it has lived in vain.
Do not live in vain. Great flowers of bliss can bloom in your life. All depends on you. No great device is needed—only a little understanding. Not the effort of a mountain; a needle’s worth of understanding suffices. It is not the work of a sword; a needle will do. Subtle insight is enough. One day it rains.

The flute of the monsoon has begun to sing!
Forests, gardens,
Horizons far and wide—
All are smiling;
Men and beasts,
Birds of the wood—
All thrill.

No more the gusts of hot winds;
The flames of sun-rays
Lie asleep.
The flute of the monsoon has begun to sing!

Kohl-dark clouds
Sway and move—
Like drums they speak,
Booming “ghan-ghan.”
The lightning dances, glittering—
What a sweet, most honeyed mood is bound!
The flute of the monsoon has begun to sing!

A soft drizzle has set in,
Music spreads—
Rimjhim, rimjhim—
Rhythm and beat.
In every puff of the gentle breeze
Immeasurable joy floats.
From sky to earth
The life of the world
Is drowned in the natural rasa.
The flute of the monsoon has begun to sing!

Enough for today.