Mrityoma Amritam Gamaya #4

What can be seen are Buddha, Krishna, Kabir, Nanak. They are the flowers. That which pervades around them like a fragrance—that is religion. Those who set out to think with the intellect cannot see it. It is not a thing to be seen, not a fact that can be seized in the fist, not an experience that will fit into words. But those who open the heart—in the presence of a true master, in satsang—those who are willing to drink, willing to dive and plunge; who leave the intellect’s bookkeeping on the shore and launch themselves into the storms, on the journey to the infinite—they come to know what religion is.

And our nostrils have gone bad. We have acquired a taste for stench. We have begun to take stench for fragrance. So when fragrance first touches our nostrils, either we do not experience it at all, we do not even sense its presence—or, still worse, we feel as if it were a stink.

A fish-seller was returning after selling his fish. Midway on the road—scorching winds were blowing, the day was searing hot, fire seemed to be raining from the sky—he swooned and fell. Hungry; heat; a long walk. The place where he fell lay on the street of the perfumers, whose very trade was to sell fragrance. The perfumer in the nearby shop brought his finest essence. It is believed that if you let an unconscious man smell a supreme fragrance, he will come to.

I do not know how true that is regarding ordinary fainting and fragrance, but about the fragrance called religion it is absolutely true. However unconscious a man may be, if that fragrance reaches his heart, the sleeping life awakens at once. Yet there are great obstacles to its reaching the heart. And just such an obstacle stood there.

The perfumer uncorked his precious vial—the kind even an emperor would hesitate a moment to buy, it was so costly. But the man was dying, and to save him the perfumer did all he could. Now the dying man—who until then was merely unconscious—began to flail his hands, to bang his head. In his swoon he started struggling like a fish thrown up on the bank.

A crowd gathered. One man said to the perfumer, “Stop, brother! Out of compassion you are doing what will take his life. I, too, am a fish-seller. Step aside. Close your bottle. You do not know: a fish-seller recognizes only one fragrance—the smell of fish! Everything else is stench to him.” He quickly opened his bundle, the cloths in which he brought fish to market. The fish were sold, but the cloths remained—the cloths that had drunk in the smell of fish day after day. He sprinkled them with water and covered the man’s face with them.

In less than a moment the man opened his eyes! And he said, “Who let me smell this fragrance! You have saved me. That man would have killed me. Though I was unconscious, when he brought that stench to my nose—what a stink he had in that bottle!—I began to writhe. I realized within that my life was finished. There was no time left. Had no one removed that man, my death was certain. You came at just the right time.”

One who becomes accustomed to the smell of fish finds all the fragrances of the world fetid.

We have become habituated to the intellect; hence it is difficult to make acquaintance with love. The intellect at most can connect with sex, because sex can be exploited. Sex is a bodily need. Love is not a need at all. Love is like poetry; life can go on very well without it. Sex is like bread; without it, life cannot go on. Sex is very gross; the gross body needs that nourishment. But love is very subtle—and your subtle soul has not even awakened yet to feel hunger. And religion is transcendent. When the divine awakens within you, the aura that radiates around you—that is called religion.

Religion does not mean Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jain, Sikh. The fragrance around Nanak—that is religion. Sikh is not religion—at most it refers to that fragrance. The talk remained; the fragrance has long been lost. The flower itself was lost, and the fragrance dissolved into the sky.

The fragrance experienced around Mahavira—that was religion. “Jainism” is not religion. What Mahavira had was the quality of jinahood. “Jainism” is the pundits’ codified doctrines, interpretations bound into scripture.

You smell a rose and then try to tell someone what its fragrance was like—what will you tell? How on earth will you describe it in words? Or you go to the sea and see the surging waves, taste the salt in the air, watch the rising sun turn the ocean crimson—ochre—as if it had initiated the whole sea into sannyas! How will you describe it? Whatever you say will fall short. However you say it, it will be petty.

I have heard of a poet who strolled by the sea. Morning sun, birdsong, the freshness of the breeze, the waves of the ocean—he was deeply moved. He was a poet; waves arose within his heart. The sea entered him; the winds awakened and shook his very life. His beloved lay confined in a hospital. He thought: If only she were here today! This morning may never return. How can I show her this morning? I cannot bring her here—she is very ill, on her deathbed.

So he brought a beautiful casket, a box. Into it he gathered the sunlight of the sea, the sea-breeze. He locked it. He reached the hospital with the box. He told his beloved, “You will be surprised to know what I have brought you! Perhaps no one has ever brought such a gift! I have brought the sun; I have brought the fresh rays of the morning; I have brought the intoxicated wind; I have brought the sound of the waves.”

He opened the box. But what was in it? Nothing at all! Neither the roar of the sea, nor the freshness of the winds, nor the sun’s rays, nor the birds’ songs. Do such things get locked in boxes? And words are no more than boxes.

People inhaled Nanak’s fragrance; they packed it into the boxes of words—as an inheritance, as something to leave for those to come.

People drank the fragrance around Buddha; they drank the wine, the intoxication. Then they bound that memory into words; they made scriptures; they did a favor to future generations. But those scriptures carry the smell of paper, not of Buddhas. They carry the smell of ink, not of Mahaviras. How will you capture Mahavira’s fragrance in a book?

Therefore I do not call Hindu, Christian, Jain—these “religion.” Religion descends only once in a while—in the presence of one who has known truth; sitting by one who has experienced truth; in his nearness; dancing with him, singing with him, meeting eyes with him. When the two eyes of a seeker meet the eyes of one who has found, in the union of those four eyes something happens—mysterious, magical, the greatest miracle in this world! Something transpires between those four eyes which cannot be grasped, touched, seen; yet it can be experienced. What happens between those eyes is called religion.

Religion is a poetry—a great epic—that happens when the heartbeats of two become a duet. When two persons—one awake and one asleep—fall into one rhythm, in that rhythm, in that melody and beat, in that scale, religion is hidden.

Religion is the experience of satsang.

The moon and the sun lent lamps for a while— they kept coming and going each day. Your two eyes, our two eyes— four lamps that kept shining forever. Your face, a lamp on a darkened road— as the night deepened, it turned into the moon. Wherever we remembered you each day, there the full moon spread, in the midst of storms. In a shower of clouds a sparkler flared; lotuses smiled amid lightning. Your two eyes, our two eyes— four lamps that kept shining forever. Your lute of love softly trembling, you the wind, the cloud’s own soughing, we, a ripple of the breeze on the path of love, humming the raga of pain. You pushed us away, gave so much ache— wherever we were, we kept humming. Your two eyes, our two eyes— four lamps that kept shining forever. You untouched youth, we immortal love; you fire without ash, we embers without flame. Living together, we were sundered; you beyond reach, and we the world. You lit the lamps in the sky above, we flickered lamps upon the earth. Your two eyes, our two eyes— four lamps that kept shining forever. You remained beyond the far shore of the sky, we remained on this shore of the ocean. Between us a new world settled; creation began to flow, and we were swept along. You stood on the bank breaking the waves, we clanged upon wave after wave. Your two eyes, our two eyes— four lamps that kept shining forever. This separation of yours and mine, beloved, gave birth to the customs of religions. Mosques rose along the road; temples took away our dharma. We kept showing lamps to the idols, while your sacred fire we kept alive. Your two eyes, our two eyes— four lamps that kept shining forever. Then, to search for you, painting set out; knowledge, language, art rode forth. Yet to this day, no trace of you was found; so religions fought, battles were waged. Those who taught mercy and dharma to all, they themselves burned with anger at others. Our two eyes, your two eyes— four lamps that kept shining forever.

Religion is the peak of love, love’s ultimate experience. Like when two lovers meet, and instantly lamps light up in their eyes! Their eyes were just now dimmed, ash had settled on the embers; the ash falls away, and lamps are lit in the eyes.

As two lovers meet—the strings of the veena were not yet plucked, but as they draw near, the strings begin to sing—a song is born. As two lovers meet—hand in hand—and the dance begins! Just such a dance unfolds in a most extraordinary realm—where disciple and true master meet. In front of that, the dance of lovers is utterly pale. Lamps in the eyes of lovers—lit now, out now—ephemeral. But the lamps that are lit within a disciple on looking into the eyes of the master—those do not go out.

You lit the lamps in the sky above, we flickered lamps upon the earth. Our two eyes, your two eyes— four lamps that kept shining forever.

The master’s eyes are far in the heavens. The master is the sky; the disciple is the earth. The disciple is still bound to the body; the master is free of the body. The disciple is still weighed down by mind; the master has transcended mind. The distance is great—but lovers cross all distances. The distance is great—but love neither knows nor acknowledges distance.

The taste that arises in the love of the master—that is what is called religion.

Ramanarayan, you must have thought I would give a definition of religion. I am not defining; I am pointing, indicating.

This separation of yours and mine, beloved, gave birth to the customs of religions. Mosques rose along the road; temples took away our dharma.

What happens between masters and disciples—that is alive. But masters are not forever. Today, tomorrow, the cage of the body is left lying there and the swan flies away. Then only memory remains—lines drawn on the sands of remembrance. In those lines there are only footprints, not feet. Then worship of those footprints goes on; temples and mosques rise. How many temples, how many mosques, how many churches, how many gurdwaras! And then in those temples and mosques—ritual and liturgy, pundits and priests! A vast net is raised, a grand ritualism erected.

But where religion is born is another matter! The moment Sariputra bowed at Buddha’s feet—there was religion. The moment Ali sat beside Mohammed—there was religion. The moment Mansur laid his head at Junaid’s feet—there was religion.

One morning, as Jesus came upon a young man fishing by the lake, he placed his hand on the youth’s shoulder. The youth turned and looked. Jesus said, “How long will you go on catching fish? I have come. Follow me. How long will you cast nets on fish? I will teach you to catch the souls of men.” And the youth cast away his net and followed Jesus. In that moment two eyes of heaven and two eyes of earth met. In that moment there was religion—not in churches, not in the Vatican, not in popes and priests.

They had barely reached the outskirts of the town when a man ran up with news for the youth: “Where are you going? Your father has died. Come home!”

The youth said to Jesus, “Forgive me. Grant me three days to go and perform my father’s last rites.”

Jesus said, “Do not worry. There are plenty of dead in the village—they will attend to the dead. You follow me. Whoever takes this path does not look back.”

And wondrous must that youth have been! That very wondrousness is called discipleship. He said to the messenger, “Forgive me. Tell the family—pardon me. I have been bound by a new magic, a new enchantment. I am going. Father is already gone; the body lies there—people in the village will set it right. Before my body too departs, let me find the one who dwells in the body yet remains unknown.”

He followed Jesus. His name was John. His extraordinary love for Jesus—happening in an instant, spontaneously, without prior arrangement! Jesus placed a hand on his shoulder and something happened. That placing of the hand—and something happened. The real thing happened: touch, communion; John must have been thrilled to the roots.

Then the very meaning of the word John in Hebrew became “one upon whom the Lord’s grace rests.” Otherwise, when does a master place his hand on someone’s shoulder? It must have been God’s own call that made it possible.

And a second symbolic meaning of John arose—the beloved disciple. Jesus had many disciples, twelve of them were close; among those twelve John was the most dearly loved.

You will be surprised to know: in the languages of the world, no name has as many forms as John. I have given sannyas to thousands; I have encountered thousands of names. I was amazed to find that I have initiated more Johns than any others. In different languages—there is one form in Dutch, another in German, another in French, another in Italian—hundreds of forms, but the root is John. John became a beloved word. The fisherman’s name became universal.

When discipleship happens, pebbles and stones turn into diamonds.

We kept showing lamps to the idols, while your sacred fire we kept alive. Your two eyes, our two eyes— four lamps that kept shining forever. Then, to search for you, painting set out; knowledge, language, art rode forth. Yet to this day, no trace of you was found; so religions fought, battles were waged. Those who taught mercy and dharma to all, they themselves burned with anger at others. Our two eyes, your two eyes— four lamps that kept shining forever.

This is no path of seeking. Neither language, nor science, nor philosophy can find it. The way to find it is love.

Yes, sometimes a glimpse of it arrives in music—because in music a little fragrance of love can rise. Sometimes a hint of it is caught in poetry—because poetry can capture its reflection. And sometimes even by two lovers a ray or two descends—because two lovers, too, drown, are absorbed into each other.

Yes, sometimes in beholding the beauty of nature you feel the presence of the divine. Perhaps not very consciously—just a faint intimation, dim, mist-laden. But the person is unfortunate who has seen the morning sun rise and in whom nothing whatsoever has risen! That person is blind who has seen the full moon and in the full moon has not glimpsed the possibility of his own fullness! That person is surely unlucky who has seen flowers bloom and was not reminded—when will my flower blossom?

Religion is the remembrance of all this. It is the name for all these recollections. Religion is surati, smriti, re-membrance: the awakening of who I am, and what this existence is.

Arun Satyarthi! First, until a man becomes a disciple, he is an animal; and “animal” means one bound by paash—by fetters—of passion; chained by desire; shackled by the mind. Discipleship is the process of breaking these chains. And only one whose own chains have broken can break the chains of others.

You say a fellow “guru-brother” joked…
Even a joke is never just a joke. Jokes have their depths. They are not without cause. That guru-brother of yours, at best, is a guru-brother in name; discipleship has not yet happened to him. Perhaps the mala sitting on his own neck feels like a shackle to him. He simply spoke about another what his own unconscious was feeling. Maybe it does not feel pleasant to him.

There is resistance in becoming a sannyasin, because sannyas is a declaration of freedom—freedom from society, conditioning, sects, scriptures, doctrines, from everything. It is a revolt against all prejudices and preconceptions, against all that’s been taught to you since childhood. And those you live among do not like such revolt. Your revolt reminds them of their own wretchedness. And they are a crowd. The crowd will trouble you, it will mock you, it will tell you you’ve become a slave.

H. G. Wells wrote a story about a village of the blind in the foothills of a Mexican mountain. It isn’t only a story; it’s also a fact—such a village still exists, five to seven hundred people, all blind. There is a fly there whose bite blinds infants. All children are born with eyes—as everywhere—but within three or four months they go blind. The fly is so abundant that escape is almost impossible—and who would protect them anyway when the elders are blind too? A baby might escape for a month or two by chance, but eventually the fly will bite and the child will go blind.

Wells wrote that a traveler, an explorer, reached that valley. The fly’s effect is only on children up to six months; after that, even if it bites, eyes are not affected—the eyes have become strong enough. This man was the first sighted man to reach a land of the blind. He could not believe it: seven hundred, all blind—from infants to the old. He stayed on, began serving them. Where would there be a greater opportunity to serve? See their suffering, their difficulties—how they plough and farm somehow, break branches, fetch water, all in darkness.

But here’s the amusing and telling part: the blind were not ready to accept that he had eyes. They were seven hundred—the majority—and if there had been a show of hands, all seven hundred would have voted that he too was blind. They had never seen a seeing man.

But the man with eyes was stubborn—as those with true vision are. Crucify Jesus—he goes on trying to awaken the blind. Throw stones and abuses at Buddha—he keeps working. Poison Socrates…

Before they poisoned him, Socrates was told he would be forgiven if he stopped speaking truth. He replied, “Speaking truth is my very trade; as long as I live, I will speak truth. If you want to stop that, the only way is to kill me. I accept death, but I cannot give up my life’s work. By killing me, you can snatch the body; by stopping truth, you would kill my soul.” He wouldn’t agree. That is how visionaries are—stubborn in the highest sense.

In Wells’ story too, the seeing man persisted in serving. Gradually some began to feel there was something different about him—his walking, working, the way he ran; tasks they took hours for, he finished in minutes; he could fetch water swiftly; find animals quickly. Call it “eyes” or something else—he was different.

He fell in love with a blind girl of that tribe and wanted to marry her, to become part of the community. The village council sat and said, “We can permit it on one condition. No girl of our tribe has ever married a sighted man; we cannot allow this. If you agree to have your eyes gouged out, then we will give permission. We love you, you have served us; you have won our hearts; and we now trust you have something we don’t. Precisely for that reason, we must make sure you become exactly like us—same caste, same kind. Only then can there be marriage.”

Imagine the man’s predicament! He ran away that very night, left the valley. He said, “That’s too costly a bargain, and it’s dangerous to stay. The girl will cry and plead; who knows, in a weak moment I might agree to have my eyes put out. Or if I don’t, the villagers may do it themselves.”

These are the old experiences of the seeing ones: the blind have gouged out their eyes.

Arun Satyarthi, that guru-brother of whom you speak must be struggling with society’s disapproval. The mala brings him more discomfort than joy. A joke is not innocent. Freud worked deeply on jokes—truths are hidden behind them; a joke is a pretty way to speak a truth. What he said about another, he actually said about himself. Remind him. When you return, tell him: “The mala has not yet become the garland of your neck. Until it is, what discipleship? What sannyas?”

If, on seeing, he said, “It looks like a pet animal tied by a rope,” then perhaps his sannyas feels like bondage to him—an inconvenience, a danger. Maybe he’s regretting taking sannyas; unconsciously thinking, “It would have been better not to.”

If he had remained like everyone else, he would have been a slave too, but wouldn’t have noticed it. Now he has stepped out, and there is friction. Others will not accept your freedom; they will say, “You’ve become a slave! What is this orange robe? What is this mala? What is this name-change? You are under someone’s spell, hypnotized.” All that must have been said to him; it leaked into his sarcasm. It is not innocent.

Otherwise a true sannyasin cannot say such a thing—impossible! A sannyasin’s inner experience is of ultimate freedom. No longer Hindu or Muslim, Jain or Buddhist, Brahmin or Shudra, Indian or Chinese, German or Japanese. Nation, caste, creed, temple, mosque—left far behind. The whole sky is one’s own now. The Koran is mine, the Bible is mine, the Upanishads are mine, the Dhammapada is mine. Buddha is mine, Nanak mine, Krishna mine, Christ mine. The whole sky is mine. The small courtyard is gone, the vast sky is home. A little garden has been left behind, and the greenness of the whole earth is mine.

Wake your guru-brother up. Go and say: “Jaga Machhindra, Gorakh aya!” Wake up, Machhindra—Gorakh has arrived!

And you say: “On hearing him I remembered Kabir’s saying, in which he called himself Ram’s dog.”
The two are not comparable. Where is Kabir! Whenever you weigh two utterances, first weigh the speakers. The words are not the point; the person is. You can speak the very words Kabir did: “I am Ram’s dog.” But your words won’t have the same meaning. To have that meaning, you would have to be a Kabir. With what ecstasy he said it! With what bliss!

A dog has virtues. None more loyal than a dog. Humans may deceive; a dog does not.

You have read in the Mahabharata: the Pandavas’ ascent to heaven. All fell away—friends, brothers, wife—Arjuna too. So much for Krishna’s Gita! Arjuna also fell before the very gate; perhaps he only heard the Gita at the surface. He said his doubts were removed—very likely they were not; he merely got rid of the argument.

In the final tale, one by one they fall, and when Yudhishthira—alone—reaches heaven’s gate, he looks back: only his dog is with him. Arjuna is gone; his devotion wasn’t as steadfast as the dog’s. Nakul, Sahadev, Bhima—gone. Their love wasn’t like the dog’s. Yudhishthira honored the dog. He knocked. The gates opened. There were garlands of welcome, bands playing. The gatekeeper said, “Enter, O Dharmaraj!”

Yudhishthira said, “Not until my dog enters first. My brothers fell on the way; even they could not stay with me to the end. This dog is my kin, my friend, my dear one. He alone stayed to the very end. He first, then I.”

The gatekeepers were in a fix. “No dog has ever been allowed in!”

“Then close the gates,” said Yudhishthira. “Let my dog and I stay outside. What use a heaven where the last link of love must be broken?” He did not enter until the dog was admitted.

When Kabir said, “I am Ram’s dog,” he meant it in this sense—like Yudhishthira’s dog: everything may be left, but not Ram.

In Sweden there is a statue of a dog at a station—perhaps the only one of its kind. In the First World War days, a man daily took the train from his village to work in town. His dog saw him off, wagging its tail as the master waved until the train vanished. People saw tears in the dog’s eyes when the train finally disappeared. In the evening, always before five, he would come and stand on the platform. Everyone on the station knew this; none chased him away; all respected him.

One day the master went and never returned; he died of a heart attack in the city. At five the dog stood on the platform. The train came; he peered into every compartment, called, looked—no master. He wouldn’t leave. They tried to drive him away. He cried; at every train he looked in, called out. He neither ate nor drank. On the seventh day he died there on the platform. The whole village was moved. They collected funds and raised a statue of him there. It still stands. Even today people offer flowers at that statue.

When Kabir said, “I am Ram’s dog,” it was in that spirit, with great joy: “Let there be in me that kind of devotion a dog has for its master—indestructible, inerasable. Even after years, dogs recognize their master; time is erased in a moment. They never truly forget.” In that sense he spoke. And then, “Whose chain is in God’s hand.”

Do not stumble over the word “chain.” Love too is a chain—but better call it a garland of flowers. The gold ornaments you wear are also chains—chains not of iron but of gold. In love even an iron chain becomes an ornament. Love is alchemy; whatever it touches turns to gold.

Do not weigh Kabir’s utterance against your guru-brother’s quip. Yours was a coincidental association. But where is Kabir, and where your guru-brother! Kabir proclaims in ecstatic egolessness. Your guru-brother, even if he tried, could not be blessed by such a proclamation. Just the phrase “I, someone’s dog”—even if that “someone” is the Divine—would choke on his ego.

Kabir’s proclamation is the proclamation of no-ego. He made it in many ways. Elsewhere he says, “I am Ram’s bride.” The husband carries a certain hardness, a masculine pride; though Kabir is a man, he says “bride”—because that masculine hardness is a barrier, a boulder; it keeps you from melting. The devotee, the disciple, must have a feminine heart—regardless of male or female body. Only in that inner feminine can discipleship happen; only in that sky can the clouds of grace gather and rain. Hence he calls himself the bride.

But if Freud and his followers got hold of this, they would ruin it. “Ram’s bride?” Freud would instantly conclude sexual perversion; he would see in Kabir some form of homosexuality. That would be Freud’s projection. He was forever haunted by homosexuality; letters from his youth to a friend read more like letters to a beloved. What fills our eyes is what we see everywhere.

Freud was spared Kabir and Meera; otherwise he would have found all kinds of sexuality there too. Meera says: “I have made the bed with flowers. Beloved, when will you come?” Freud would have concluded: an unsatisfied wife sublimating her desire, projecting Krishna as husband.

To understand Kabir you need eyes like Kabir’s.

You ask: “Saints have expressed their surrender to God with the term das—slave/servant.”
Today the word is much maligned. I gave a Western friend the name Krishnadas. Next day he wrote: “Krishna I can manage, but ‘das’ kept me awake all night. ‘Das’ means slave.” He asked around and someone told him it could also mean “servant” or “attendant.” He wrote, “If I take it to mean servant, will you mind? I can’t live with ‘slave.’ It hurts. ‘Slave’ to anyone? Never!”

As long as there is an “I,” it will hurt. Where there is no “I,” where is the hurt? The saints could call themselves das not because they were slaves but because they were no more. Their “das” is merely the announcement of their own absence. They have melted; they are only vehicles now. When a flute is played, what is the flute? Merely a hollow reed; the song belongs to someone else. Ask the flute and it will say, “I am the player’s servant. Nothing is mine—neither notes nor melodies. My good fortune is that he chose me, touched me with his lips, filled me with his breath, gave me life and song. I was only empty.” What else can the flute say but “I am a servant”?

But the meanings we carry for “slave” and “servant” are political, not spiritual. Especially in the West—and Western education is now everywhere. The East has shrunk to geography; the true East is a way of being, a style of life: the vision of living by dying, being nothing to become whole; the art of becoming zero to become infinite.

Devotees called themselves das with great joy. But words have their good days and bad days; they travel long journeys. Good words turn bad, and bad become good.

I knew a man whose surname was Verma. One day he came and said, “I’ve changed it. Verma doesn’t do; people take Kayasths to be Shudras—‘those who dwell in the body.’ So I have made it Sharma!” I told him the earlier meaning of Sharma came from “Sharman”—the cutters at sacrifices, the butchers. “Mahabrahmin” used to mean the most fallen among Brahmins—the one who would do what others refused, like slaughtering animals at sacrifices. Language is strange—elevating words even for funerals: “a great journey” for a corpse.

Do you know, “nange-luchche” (naked rascals) was first used for Mahavira—nange, naked; luchche, hair-pluckers. It might have been a sweet term then, uttered in awe; now, say it to a Jain monk and he will forget his monkhood instantly! “Buddhu” (simpleton) was first used for those imitating Buddha, who abandoned home and sat under trees. “Look—more buddhu!” Over time it became an abuse. Words travel; who knows where they will land. “Das” too has had its turn. It was once a beloved mode of devotion—dasya-bhakti, one of the doors to the divine: to be his servant, to erase oneself utterly so that his wish alone remains.

You ask: “Is modern man’s aversion to ‘slave’ a sign of growth or of growing ego?”
Who is “modern man”? You, me—all of us. You won’t find an abstraction. No sweeping statement can be made. In Buddha’s time, not everyone was evolved. If all were, Buddha’s name would have been forgotten. He was unique, unparalleled, rare. And what did Buddha teach for forty-two years? Don’t steal, don’t kill, don’t be dishonest, don’t deceive, don’t be lustful, don’t run after money, don’t commit adultery. To whom was he saying this? To saints? Hardly. I never have to tell you daily: don’t steal, don’t kill. Buddha had to, which means theft and violence were common.

Still, if a general statement must be made: in many ways today’s man is better off. No ancient scripture condemns war; wars were “holy.” Today you can’t find a thoughtful person who would call any war “holy.” In backward countries perhaps, but not in the evolved mind.

In Vietnam there was war, and American youth opposed their own government—marched, went to jail, took beatings, and finally forced the war to end. Can you imagine that in the past—or even in today’s India or Pakistan? Here anyone who opposed war would be branded a traitor. In America they were punished by law, yet even those who punished respected them: “They are right; the law is behind, their conscience ahead.”

There is also now a sense of one earth, one family. Can you imagine, in the old world, one master being sought by Jews, Hindus, Muslims, Christians, Jains, Buddhists, Parsis, Sikhs—representatives of every faith? People lived in their own wells, never stepping out. Even today, where people live in the past, it is still like that.

A Jain lady came here recently, very troubled. “Who cooks the food here—what castes?” “They are of my caste,” I said. “What caste is that?” “Ajaat—no-caste. The Upanishads say the Self is unborn; what caste can it have?” She said, “Unless I know for sure who is cooking...” She had gone to Vrindavan and heard a woman’s name was Radha Mohammed. “Is she Radha or Mohammedan—Hindu or Muslim?” She left in a hurry. She stayed here three days, cooking her own kachcha-pakha somehow, and fled. She had come to stay three months. She worried over the tiniest things: “Who filled the water? Whose touch is on it? Did they bathe or not?” This is a mind five hundred years old. India is not yet truly modern; it is still centuries behind.

Modern man, generally, has evolved; but evolution is never one-sided. Along with gains, there are losses. As consciousness, intelligence, and awareness have grown, so has the ego. It is a loss—but not one to fear. Ego can be melted.

In fact, a total absence of ego from the start is not a great sign; it is childishness. Ego should come—and then go; that is the full flavor. Those who have no head, what will they bow? To bow, a head is needed; and the higher the head, the deeper the bow. Ego is a danger, yes—but we can make a stair out of danger. Like wealth: if a beggar renounces, what does he renounce? Be wealthy without worry; then renunciation has taste. So too with ego: education and society should refine it, and also gift you the capacity to drop it. Let ego be like a sword in your hand—sharp and under your mastery—so that one day you can lay it down. Then you will know the sweetness of humility.

There is an un-ego that is merely the not-yet-born ego—innocence, rusticity. It hides danger; the ego will arise there, if not today then tomorrow. And there is a no-ego beyond ego: the ego arose, you tasted its pains and its few pleasures, weighed them and found pain abundant, pleasure meager; promise of heaven, experience of hell. Then, with maturity and awareness, you dropped it—in love, in devotion. That egolessness is incomparable. Then you can be Ram’s dog—like Kabir. Being a dog is easy; being Kabir’s dog is not.

Kabir had an ego worth dropping; he was a sharp sword. That sharpness never left him. When death approached, he sat up and said, “Take me to Maghar.”

Maghar—a small village near Kashi. About Kashi the story goes: die there and you go to heaven; hence people go there to take their last turn. Kashi has three kinds of beings, they say: widows, jesters, and bulls. It’s Shiva’s city; you can’t touch the bulls. I was once going to speak at the university; two bulls sat in the road and the car could not pass. I said, “Get down and shoo them.” The driver said, “Impossible—there will be a quarrel. The neighborhood will gather. A bull in Kashi is no ordinary creature!”

About Maghar the opposite story: die there and you will be reborn as a donkey—in hell! A donkey, and in hell. See Kabir’s edge: he lived in Kashi all his life; people live in Maghar and rush to Kashi to die; Kabir rose from his deathbed and said, “To Maghar!” The disciples said, “Are you in your senses? People come to die in Kashi; you want to go to Maghar? Those who die there become donkeys in hell.” Kabir said, “I accept. I will die in Maghar. If I reach heaven, it will be by my own merit, not on Kashi’s credit. I am ready for hell, but not for borrowed heaven.”

They would not agree. He took up his staff—the one he mentions in his songs: Kabira khada bazaar mein, liye lukhathi haath—“Kabir stands in the marketplace with a firebrand in his hand…” He started off. In the end they had to carry him in a palanquin. He died in Maghar.

A man of substance! A man of splendor! A blade with a keen edge—then humility has meaning. Humility is not a rusty, blunted sword. Not the head bent by too many shoes—calling that “humility.”

Today’s man has moved much, in many directions—some dangerous. His consciousness has grown, his love of peace, his brotherhood, the sense of one earth. Alongside, the ego has grown—but I am not worried. My experience is: Indian friends come ready to surrender immediately, but their surrender is flabby—formal. They have been touching feet all their lives—anywhere, anyone in ochre robes, any idol, even Ganesha with an elephant trunk. They are trained to bow. That is not humility.

When someone from the West bows—one trained never to bow, trained instead to strengthen the ego, to break rather than bend—when that person bows, there is a price in it, a dignity. It takes time; but when it happens, it happens.

This is modern man’s condition. I am not pessimistic. I have great hope—greater than Buddha or Mahavira or Mohammed or Jesus had about their contemporaries. They drew dark pictures of the future—Jesus daily warned, “Beware, the last day is near. In your lifetime you will see the earth destroyed.” Your seers went on saying: Kaliyuga is coming, all dharma will perish. I tell you: Satyuga is coming; Kaliyuga is on its way out. I am full of hope, because I see a great gleam in man’s eyes. Granted, along with it stands the ego—but ego is false; it can be dropped at any moment.

You ask: “Is there not a subtle ego even in calling oneself a slave or in self-denigration?”
It can be so—or not. It depends. When Kabir says “das Kabira,” there is not a trace of ego—though he says it with great boldness, like a proclamation from a Himalayan peak: “Das Kabira!” But there is no ego there; otherwise the Ganges that flowed from him could not have flowed. Yet not everyone is Kabir. Villages are full of “das.” A gentleman used to come here; his very name was “Das-ji.” I asked, “Why the ‘ji’ after ‘Das’? If you are ‘slave,’ what is this ‘ji’?” He said, “I didn’t add it; others did.” “Very well,” I said, “we’ll remove it. Take sannyas—I’ll name you ‘Dasanudasa’—a servant of servants.” He fled and never returned. One of his devotees told me he was hurt; he had hoped I would honor him as enlightened, but I suggested “servant of servants”!

So there are those for whom even “das” is a form of ego; for whom humility is just a new attire for pride. You must see each person; no universal statement will do.

And you say: “You have called your disciples ‘friends’.”
Indeed I call my disciples friends. But if a disciple takes me as his friend, he will miss. I reminded you yesterday of Buddha telling his disciples, “You are like me.” The wise understood; the foolish said, “We always knew Buddha is just like us!” I say, “You are my friends,” but the wise will hear and ponder it without claiming it yet. There is a pointer to your future, not a statement of your present.

I see you as you are in your wholeness, in your nature; not as seeds, but as the flowers that will bloom in spring. For me your future is present; hence I say, “friend.” But if you make me your “buddy,” you will be lost; my words will not serve you; I will have given you nectar and you will have drunk poison. Do not blame me; I warn you every day.

Do not be afraid. The mala around your neck is a bond of love—a liberating bond.

Bind these breaths of mine,
bind them with silken links.
Life, once lured by the road,
youth, the embrace of flame,
in the soft breeze of remembrance
has paused at your doorway;
a heart spent on the road now longs
for bonds of smiling movement—
do not tie this auspicious beauty
with strings of tears.

A fine drizzle has soaked my life,
eyes are filled with cloud-drawings,
the thirsting earth of rasa, burning,
has awakened to a new life;
the one who walked on embers,
a wanderer, pauses here a moment—
bind this burning life of mine
with sweet, sparkling garlands.

I lost the ocean of honey,
left behind the groves’ music;
for a moment on the desert path
clouds waved, the sky resounded—
let that remembrance, gathering within,
become the music of my way;
bind my loneliness
with hours of humming.

A desert without direction, pathless waste,
where life flows haltingly;
in the empty directions of mind
limp feet become prisoners—
on the arduous path let the movement
of steps become a holy bond;
bind my scattered mind
with the lotus-petal of your hands.

Bind these breaths of mine,
bind them with silken links.

That’s all for today.