Nam Sumir Man Bavre #1

Let us set out on a new journey today!
Buddha’s, Krishna’s, Christ’s way is the royal highway. The royal road has its own beauty, its convenience, its protection. Sundardas, Dadu Dayal, or the path upon which we are now to walk—Jagjivan Sahib—their ways are foot-trails. The foot-trails have their own beauty. The royal highways also reach the very peak to which the foot-trails lead. But on the royal roads the crowd travels; multitudes walk there—thousands, millions. On the foot-trails a solitary few pass by. Foot-trails have their hardships, their challenges. They are small paths.
If one is to climb a mountain, both ways are possible. But one who has tasted the joy of climbing by a foot-trail will avoid the royal road. The beauty of being alone—among trees, with birds, beneath the moon and stars, with waterfalls!
Royal roads were built by great thinkers. To build a royal road one must proceed with the utmost deliberation and design. Foot-trails were worn by those who were neither learned nor had any system of thought—illiterate; whom we would call rustic; to whom letters were as meaningless as to a buffalo.
But remember this: to attain Paramatma, the knower faces greater difficulty. Buddha struggled more. He was educated, cultured. A vast shadow of scriptures hung over him. He was a king’s son. Whatever finest education was available, he had received. It took years simply to cut through that education. To be free of that very learning demanded immense labor.
For six years Buddha undertook austerities; the whole plan of those austerities was to cut the conditionings planted by education. Mahavira remained silent for twelve years. In that silence he strove to forget the words he had learned and been taught. Only after twelve unbroken years of silence did he become capable of freedom from words.
And where there is freedom from word, there is union with the wordless. And where consciousness is freed from the weight of the shastras, there it becomes weightless and capable of flight. As long as scriptures weigh upon your chest, you will not be able to fly; your wings will not open into the sky. To go toward Paramatma, to be unburdened is essential.
As one climbs a mountain, the higher the ascent, the heavier the load begins to feel. All baggage must be dropped. In the end, when one reaches the summit, one is utterly without weight. And the loftier the peak, the stricter the condition to be weightless.
Mahavira must have carried a great burden. No one has looked from this angle. That twelve years should be spent attaining silence—what does it mean? It means that within, the mind must have been very vocal. A storm of words must have raged. Scriptures must have stood in rows. There must have been a jungle of doctrines. Then, twelve years were needed to cut down this forest. After twelve years of burning, the forest burned away; then silence descended; then the void arrived; then there was a direct seeing of truth.
If a pandit sets out to seek truth, delay is natural. Often the pandit does not set out at all—for he is under the illusion that he already knows; what is there to seek? Only those few pandits, who are honest, go forth—those who know that all that I know is borrowed. And that which I am to know, I have not yet known. Yes, the Upanishads I remember, but they are not my Upanishads; they have not sprouted from within me.
As a mother might adopt another woman’s child, so you can adopt words and doctrines; but to give birth to a child in your own womb, to nurture him there, to mold him in the crucible of your life for nine months—that is another matter. Adopted children are something else. Take them as your own if you like; yet they are not your own. Convince yourself they are yours; still at some level, in some depth, you will continue to know they are not yours. That cannot be forgotten, cannot be erased.
The Upanishads may be memorized—but you have adopted the knowledge; it has not ripened in your womb. You have not passed through the birth-pangs to deliver it. You have not paid the price. And what comes without a price is worth two coppers. The more the price you pay, the greater its value.
Thus, the pandit in general does not go in search of truth; and even if he goes, his greatest obstacle is precisely this: how to be free of knowledge—how to be rid of the so-called knowledge? To be free of ignorance is not so difficult, for ignorance is innocent. All children are ignorant. But do you not see the innocence of children—their simplicity, their spontaneity!
The distance between the ignorant and knowledge is not great. For the ignorant possesses certain qualities that are necessary for attaining knowledge: simplicity, innocence, the capacity to learn, a spirit of humility, the process of surrender. The greatest wealth of the ignorant one is precisely this—that he is not under the illusion that he knows. It is clear to him: I do not know. He who knows this—‘I do not know’—can set out in search. Or if he finds a burning lamp, he can sit near it. The convenience of satsang is available to him.
That is why Jesus said: ‘Blessed are they who are like little children, for the kingdom of heaven is theirs.’
The pandit’s greatest difficulty is that without having known, he believes he knows. He has not received a single answer from life, yet the books have given him all the answers—borrowed, stale, secondhand, handed down by tradition.
Mahavira needed twelve years to attain silence! No Jaina scripture tells you what the meaning of twelve years is. It means that within, thought must have been a great tumult. And it is natural. He was a prince, well educated; he must have sat with great scholars and learned all that could be learned. He was adept in all arts. That very adeptness, that very skill, that very knowledge became a rock. It took twelve years of unremitting effort to break that rock; then silence happened; then stillness came; then once again he became ignorant. False knowledge fell away. The paper became blank again.
And when the paper is blank, Paramatma writes something. And when one’s own disturbance is quiet, one’s crowd disperses, one’s noise subsides—then the voice of Paramatma is heard, the Upanishad is born, Riks resound from your heart. Your very breath becomes fragrant with hymns. Whatever you utter becomes scripture. You rise and sit, you open your eyes and close them—and scripture showers. Around you the winds of the Veda begin to rise.
The music of the Quran arises only when the inner void deepens. As clouds when filled with the waters of rain must pour forth, so when the soul is filled with the water of shunya, it too rains.
Muhammad, Kabir, Jagjivan—these are unlettered people. Thorough rustics, villagers. They know nothing of civilization, education, cultivation. Revolution has happened in their lives with great simplicity. They did not have to labor twelve years like Mahavira, or like Buddha, to cultivate silence. There was no trash within them. They had never gone to colleges. The universities had not dumped their refuse upon them. They were blank. In the world they were considered fools.
But remember, the arithmetic of the world and of Paramatma is opposite. He who is a fool in the world is treasured there. Let me repeat Jesus: ‘Those who are first here will be last there, and those who are last here will be first there.’
Those whom you take as fools here... and they are fools here; for they will lose in the race for wealth, they will lose in the race for position. They are neither crafty nor clever. Anyone will deceive them. They will be cheated anywhere. That they could cheat others is out of the question; they cannot even protect themselves from deceit. In this world their condition will be pitiable. But these are the very people who come close to Paramatma—easily they arrive.
Such people cannot build royal roads. Patanjali can build royal roads. Well considered, law-bound, a science of religion he can construct. People like Jagjivan carve a little foot-trail. Not even with the thought that anyone will follow behind. They themselves walk, and by their walking the grass is worn down, and a foot-trail appears. If someone comes behind, let them come.
People do come. When truth descends, whether into princes or into the poor and destitute, when truth descends, its fragrance, its light is such—as if lightning flashes! Then it does not matter where it flashes. Whether upon a royal palace or on a poor man’s hut, in a great metropolis or in a small village—when lightning flashes, there is light. Sleepers awaken. Shut eyes open. Those who were in a swoon come to their senses.
Some set out to walk. Not many can walk, because Jagjivan does not have the capacity to explain. Yes, those who are capable of loving, who walk not by the path of understanding but by the path of love, they recognize.
Jagjivan cannot provide proof; he can sing. And the song too will not follow the rules of poetics, not be metrical. It will be as people in a village sing, make up on the spot. So in Jagjivan’s words, do not sit searching for meter and measure. As villagers sing songs, so are these songs.
Jagjivan’s work was to graze cows and bulls. He was the son of a poor man. His father was a farmer—a small farmer. The son’s work was to take cows and bulls to graze. He neither had the chance to study, nor did the question arise. So as cowherds sing songs... song belongs to all. One need not return from a university with a research degree to have the right to sing.
And the truth is, those people who return from universities well-versed in meter, measure and poetics, who understand everything from Bharata’s Natyashastra to Aristotle’s Poetics—poetry never arises from them. Have you noticed this curious fact: those who teach poetry in the university, poetry never arises from them. Poetry slips past them. They teach Shakespeare and Kalidasa and Bhavabhuti, yet poetry slips away from them. Poetry never garlands the necks of professors. When poetics is known too well, the life of poetry is lost. Poetry blossoms and fruits in forests, mountains, in nature—within those who are natural.
The beginning of Jagjivan’s life is with trees, waterfalls, rivers, cows and bulls. On all sides nature must have been spread. And one who is near nature is near Paramatma. He who is far from nature becomes far from Paramatma as well.
If modern man is growing distant from Paramatma, day by day, the reason is not that atheism has increased. Not even a little has atheism increased. Man is what he is. There were atheists before, and atheists such that nothing can be added to their atheism. What Charvaka said three thousand years ago—through these three thousand years not a single argument could be added. Charvaka said all that can be said against God. Neither Diderot added anything, nor Marx, nor Mao. Charvaka delivered the full scripture of atheism; there is no way to add to it. Or in Greece, Epicurus delivered the complete scripture of atheism. Centuries have passed; not a new argument could be added.
This century is not atheistic. Then what has happened? Something else has happened which we fail to see; the connection between nature and man has broken. Today man is surrounded by things made by man; how will the remembrance of Paramatma arise? On and on for thousands of miles are spread cemented highways on which even grass does not grow. Skyscrapers of cement touch the sky. Iron and cement—man is surrounded by them. Flowers do not bloom in them.
And whatever man makes does not grow; it remains what it is. What man makes is dead. And when we are surrounded by the dead, how will we remember life?
Months pass for those living in New York or Bombay without a glimpse of the sun. Where is the leisure! The running is such. Where is the opportunity to lift the eyes from the ground! If you walk looking at the sky on the streets of Bombay, you will not return home; you will be found in the hospital. One has to cross, cars are racing, one must be alert. Gone are the days when someone looked at the sky. Now even looking at the ground, if you reach home whole, that is much.
Years pass, people cannot see the full moon. When the full moon comes and goes, how would one know! And if one does know, one knows from the calendar. Is the full moon somewhere in the calendar? The full moon is in the sky. People recognize the moon by seeing it in films and say, ‘Ah, this is the moon!’ Stories remain.
A few years ago in London a survey of children was done. A million children said something strange: they had never seen cows and bulls. Where in London are cows and bulls! But unfortunate is the man who has not looked into the eyes of a cow. For in those eyes there is still an eternity, a simplicity, a depth—which the human eye has lost! If in some human eye such depth of water resides, then you might find a Buddha; but in a cow’s eye it is there.
Are those children not unfortunate who have not seen a cow? Unfortunate are they who have not seen fields. Many children in London, by the thousands, reported they had not yet seen fields. And one who has not seen fields—will he remember Paramatma? Who has not seen growing crops, who has not seen the miracle of fields coming to life—where life grows, fruits, blooms—there the mystery makes its entry.
Man has become atheistic, not because of atheism; man has become atheistic because he is too surrounded by man-made things. Our condition is like that of small children where a house is being built... I once saw as I passed by. A house was under construction. Piles of sand and bricks were lying about. A little child began to stack bricks around himself in play. He made such a stack that he ended up trapped inside it.
Then he panicked—how to get out? He cried, ‘Save me, save me!’ He had himself stacked the bricks all around. Now the rows had risen high. He trembled, ‘I am stuck.’
Seeing that child trapped in his own stacked bricks, I remembered man. Man is trapped likewise. His own bricks are stacked, but between Paramatma and himself a Great Wall of China has arisen.
Jagjivan’s life began with nature. He must have heard the song of the cuckoo, the call of the papiha; seen the chatak gazing with fixed eyes at the moon. He must have seen the miracle—rains come and dry hills turn green. He must have seen flowers bloom in the grass. And to live with cows and bulls! No gossip, no newspaper. What do cows and bulls care for newspapers! No news from Delhi. What do cows and bulls have to do with what your prime minister is doing or not doing? Who is pulling down whom—cows and bulls have nothing to do with such nonsense.
Living with cows and bulls, he must have become like them—simple, innocent, without ambition. When the cow is hungry, she grazes. When tired, she rests beneath a tree. He must have played the flute. While the herd grazed, Jagjivan must have played the flute.
Herdsmen often play the flute. Only herdsmen can truly play it—who else? One who knows how to play the flute, Paramatma is not far from him. He who can sit in the shade of trees and play the flute—how long can Paramatma remain hidden from him? How could He remain hidden? He Himself will have to come out. He will have to manifest of His own accord.
That is why I say, let us walk on a new journey. These are the words of an unlettered man. Sitting near nature, satsang began to dawn upon Jagjivan. He was small, a child, yet the insight of satsang arose.
People think, through studying shastras the insight of satsang arises. No, shastras save you from satsang. Shastras complete the work of satsang themselves. Then there remains no need of satsang. Everything is written in the book—where then do you go for satsang? Go toward the library. Satsang you will have with one, whereas the library is filled with all. The wise of the whole world are there. Dive into the books; there you will find all.
Have you ever dived into books? Mountains of books are false, oceans of books are false, the God of books is false. Books contain maps, pictures; where is the real? But people get badly lost in books. One who gets entangled in the shastras does not set out in search of the shasta.
Sitting under trees, herding cows and bulls, playing the flute, some taste of mystery must have begun in Jagjivan. What is this—this vastness! Until you lie upon grass under the open night sky and look at the stars, the remembrance of Paramatma will not arise. Until you see dry trees in autumn turn green again in spring, see new shoots sprout, until you hear the footsteps of life arriving, you will not remember Paramatma. Or your God will be verbal, false.
Paramatma is not in words; Paramatma is in the feeling of mystery.
This mystery must have begun to awaken: What is this whole expanse! Who am I? What am I? In this lush, beautiful world, what is the purpose of my being? Such raw, unpolished questions must have begun to stir Jagjivan’s heart.
The search for sadhus began. Whenever he found leisure, he would reach the company of seekers. He would listen. He who has listened to nature can also understand the True Master—for the True Master speaks of the Great Nature. One who has sat in the school of nature is preparing to understand the Great Nature.
What is Paramatma? The name of the invisible hands hidden within this nature: who brings leaves upon the dry tree; who brings clouds full of water to the thirsty earth; who cares even for animals and birds; without whom not a leaf moves. Unmanifest, invisible, yet his imprint is everywhere. He is not seen, but how will you deny his hand? Such a vast orchestration goes on—how will you deny this whole arrangement? Whether you call that arrangement the law of nature or call it Paramatma—it is only a matter of words.
Satsang began. And one day an extraordinary event happened. He had taken the cows and bulls out to graze. Two fakirs—two intoxicated fakirs—passed that way. Their intoxication was such that the cooing of the cuckoos seemed pale. The call of the papiha lost all special charm. He had seen the eyes of cows—deep—but before these eyes, nothing. He had seen lakes—serene—but this serenity was of another realm altogether. It was otherworldly.
He sat beneath the tree near them; saints rest in the shade. One among them was Bulleh Shah—an astonishing fakir, after whom a sect of the mad arose: the Bavri. He was a madman indeed. He was so drowned in love he went mad. He was so intoxicated he staggered as he walked—like one who has drunk a wine that descends from above, a wine that comes from the Infinite!
One was Bulleh Shah; the other was Govind Shah: a companion of Bulleh Shah. Both were sitting in ecstasy. Jagjivan also sat—the little boy. Bulleh Shah said, ‘Son, we need fire; bring a little fire.’
He ran. He had been waiting for this—that some command be given, that an opportunity to serve might arise.
Only those reach the True Master who wait to serve—if only a chance of service might be found. Some opportunity to serve! For there is no other way to be joined.
Jagjivan brought not only fire, he also brought a pot of milk filled to the brim. They must be hungry, thirsty. They lit their hookahs from the fire. They drank the milk he brought. But Bulleh Shah said to Jagjivan, ‘You have brought the milk, but it seems to me you did not tell anyone at home.’
It was true. Jagjivan had quietly brought the milk, without telling his father. He was feeling a little guilt, a little crime, wondering what he would say on returning. But Bulleh Shah said, ‘Do not be afraid. Do not worry at all. Whoever gives to Him, receives in abundance.’
Those two fakirs said this and moved on. Jagjivan returned home pondering, ‘Whoever gives to Him receives in abundance’—what does this mean? He reached home, uncovered the pot from which he had taken milk. He had taken half; the pot he had left half empty; but the pot was full.
This is a symbolic tale. It says: those who give in His name receive in abundance. Givers receive; savers lose.
The Hasid mystic Zussia said: ‘What I gave is saved. What I saved is lost.’ These were his last words to his disciples: give—give as much as you can. Give whatever you are. Never be stingy in giving, for what I gave, that is saved. Today I carry with me only what I gave. And what I had saved is lost; I do not have it today. My hands are empty.
This world has one arithmetic, one economics: save and it will be saved, give and it will be lost. The economics of that realm is the reverse: give and it is saved, save and it is lost.
Seeing the pot full, Jagjivan came to his senses—what sorts of wondrous people have I left and come away! He ran. The fakirs had gone, but now there was no question of stopping. He kept running, kept searching. Miles away he caught up with them. Do you know what he asked for? He said to Bulleh Shah: ‘Place your hand upon my head. Only place your hand upon my head. As the empty pot filled, bestow such a blessing that I too may be filled. Make me your disciple.’
A small child! Bulleh Shah tried hard to explain: ‘Return. Your age has not come. Your time is not yet.’ But Jagjivan was adamant. He said, ‘I will not let go.’ Bulleh Shah had to place his hand upon him.
A Guru places his hand only when you refuse to let go. Only then does the gesture have value. And they say, a revolution happened. What occurred for Mahavira after twelve years of silence happened to Jagjivan the moment Bulleh Shah’s hand rested upon him. The inside changed. A transformation of the body even. The robe became something else. That hand descending—like a flame came down. It burned away the useless. Gold became pure. In a single instant it happened.
Such a revolution can happen when the one who asks has truly asked. Not a formal, ritual thing—‘Place your hand upon my head.’ Asked with wholeheartedness, with totality, with completeness, asked with every fiber—when the asking itself is thirst, and within there is no division; no doubt, no suspicion. Asked beyond doubt: ‘Place your hand upon my head. Fill me as the pot was filled!’
He was a small child, unlettered, a rustic cowherd. But let me tell you again: what happens easily to the straightforward and simple is very difficult for those who are overfilled with intellect and have become crooked. A simultaneous revolution occurred—what Zen calls a sudden enlightenment; in one instant it happened to Jagjivan.
Thirst, urgency, intensity, deep longing—remember these words. Curiosity will not do—‘Let us see what happens if the Guru places his hand.’ Nothing will happen. And when nothing happens, you will say it is all futile. Even if you ask out of mere inquisitiveness—‘Perhaps something may happen’—still nothing will happen. Not until you ask out of deep longing. ‘It has to be, it already is; the moment the hand touches here, it must happen there’—if you ask with such trust, then it surely happens; it becomes certain. It has always been so. Among the eternal laws of this existence is this: one who thirsts in totality—his prayer is heard. His prayer reaches.
That day it was not Bulleh Shah who placed his hand upon Jagjivan; through Bulleh Shah, the hand of Paramatma came upon Jagjivan’s head. He had been groping, seeking. A child’s seeking—innocent, naive. But from nature hints had begun arriving. A sense had started that some mystery surrounds all.
That which had awakened in the unconscious became conscious today. That which had been ripening within, surfaced today. That which till yesterday was a bud, the moment Bulleh Shah’s hand rested, became a flower. Transformation happened in an instant. Jagjivan did no further sadhana. He only requested Bulleh Shah: ‘Give me some token. I will remember you much; the remembrance will be constant.’ There was nothing else; Bulleh Shah opened a single thread from his hookah’s string—a black thread—and tied it on Jagjivan’s right wrist. And Govind Shah too opened a thread from his hookah—a white thread—and tied that also on the right wrist.
Those who follow Jagjivan are called Satnamis—a few people—they still tie a black and a white thread on their right wrist. But now there is no substance in it. When Bulleh Shah tied it, there was substance. What is there in black and white threads? Tie as many as you want, nothing is going to happen. When Jagjivan asked, there was something. And when Bulleh Shah tied, there was something. You are neither Jagjivan nor is the one tying Bulleh Shah. Keep on tying.
Thus dead symbols remain in the hand. There was nothing else; so he tied a thread. And there was nothing else at hand. Bulleh Shah kept only a hookah; he kept nothing else. But if a man like Bulleh Shah ties even the thread of a hookah, Raksha-bandhan has happened. Touched by his hand, an ordinary thread becomes extraordinary.
And it was a symbol too. Govind Shah tied a white thread, Bulleh Shah tied a black thread. Meaning? Meaning: both black and white are bonds. Sin is a bondage, merit is also a bondage. Auspicious is a bondage, inauspicious is a bondage. This was Bulleh Shah’s message. This was his original life-mantra.
The good binds just as the bad binds. Hell binds, heaven binds. Therefore be free of evil, and also be free of good. Identify neither with the bad nor with the good. Do not identify at all. Know yourself as the witness of both. Iron chains bind; golden chains also bind. He whom you call a sinner is in prison; he whom you call virtuous is also in prison. You will be startled.
Stealing binds, and giving binds as well—if there is the pride of giving, ‘I have given’—if this notion exists, you are bound. Wherever ‘I’ is, there is bondage. If in giving there is no pride—‘It was His, He gave, He took; you were not in between’—then leave giving aside, even stealing does not bind. If you completely surrender your doership to Paramatma, then nothing binds. Then even if you live in hell, you are in moksha. Even in prison, you are free. In the body, you are jivanmukta. But be the witness of both.
So subtle a message was contained in it. It was not spoken. It did not need to be spoken. The hand that the Guru had placed, and the life-energy that had flowed, and the inner clarity that had arisen—this clear state did not need words. These symbols were sufficient.
From that very day Jagjivan became free of auspicious and inauspicious. He did not even leave home. He grew up; his father said, ‘Marry,’ and he married. He remained a householder. Where is there to go? One must go within! There is no journey outward. He remained engaged in work, and beyond all, untouched—as a lotus in water.
Let us enter into the words of such an unlettered yet extraordinary, divine man.
Again flowers give fragrance in the eyes, again lamps are lit in the heart;
Again contemplation has taken the name of going into that assembly.
Those who have thirst within need only such talk of journeys—this alone suffices.
Again flowers give fragrance in the eyes...
Their eyes become filled with flowers.
Again in the heart the lamps are lit...
Then in their heart lamps begin to glitter; Diwali happens.
Again contemplation has taken the name of going into that assembly...
The talk of going into the Beloved’s gathering—by whatever excuse—whether the excuse be Kabir or Nanak, or Jagjivan or Dadu, it makes no difference. To go into His assembly, His gathering! Whether you go by the royal highway or by the foot-trails, whether holding the hand of the Buddhas or the hand of the Krishnas—it makes no difference. The essential point is to go into His assembly. Merely His mention brings flowers to the eyes. The heart fills with color, light is kindled.
Tumsom man lago hai mora.
Jagjivan says: My heart has fallen in love with You.
And when the heart falls in love with Him, the mind dissolves. The mind’s falling in love with Him is the mind’s dissolving. As long as the mind is attached to various things, it persists. Attach it to wealth, it will persist. Attach it to position, it will persist. So long as you tie the mind to something in the world, it will remain. The moment you attach it to Paramatma, you will be amazed: attach it to Him—not that it remains; it is gone. With Him it cannot remain; it is drowned, it is absorbed. With the formless, no form can remain. Mind is a form. With the shapeless, no shape can stay. Mind is a shape. Join with the formless and become formless.
Tumsom man lago hai mora.
If at all you must attach the mind to something in life, then attach it to Paramatma; otherwise you will live defeated and die defeated. The whole tale of your life will be a story of defeat. And it is not that victory was impossible. Victory could have been—but man alone never wins. Alone, he is always defeated. Whenever victory happens, it happens with Him. Be with Him and the impossible becomes possible. Stand apart from Him and the possible becomes impossible.
I listen with great attention to the tale of existence;
Some of it is dream, some essence, some mere style of telling.
Everything is here in this life, but if you look intently—
‘I listen with great attention to the tale of existence’—
If you test, examine, weigh this story of life, you will find: some of it is dream. Some of it is entirely a dream—your own production, your projection.
‘Some of it is dream, some essence’—
But not all is dream; some of it is essential.
‘Some mere style of telling’—
And some is nothing but the manner of telling, nothing more.
But remember, even if ninety-nine percent here is dream, Maya, still one percent Brahman is present. Grasp that one percent and the ninety-nine percent of dreams will vanish on their own. A small lamp pierces even the densest darkness. Whether the darkness is of a day or of a million years, it is pierced. Darkness cannot say, ‘I am very ancient, you are only a lamp lit today. O lamp, you will not be able to break me. I am too ancient; time will be needed.’ The lamp is lit and darkness is gone—whether of one day or of countless eons.
Howsoever old your dreams... and they are ancient. For births upon births you have seen the same dreams. They have been seen so often, again and again, that the dreams begin to appear true. Have you noticed? If the same lie is repeated again and again, it begins to seem true.
Adolf Hitler wrote in his autobiography, Mein Kampf, that there is not much difference between truth and lie. The only difference is this: lies repeated many times become truth. Just go on repeating.
Upon this very principle the whole science of the world proceeds and is astonished: how has man remained caught in such superstitions? Centuries have passed; where are the roots of these superstitions? In repetition. Just keep repeating. Your father repeated something; repeat it to your children. Keep on repeating. There are pundits, priests, mullahs—keep on repeating.
When people hear the same thing again and again, they begin to think: where there is smoke, there must be fire. Surely something must be true. Hearing once, perhaps they doubt; hearing twice, thrice—slowly, the thing settles down. The groove deepens. ‘The rope passing and repassing leaves its mark even on stone.’ If marks appear on stone, what of the human mind? The human mind is no stone. It is tender like wax. It receives impressions very quickly.
Upon this rests all advertising. Just keep on repeating. Do not worry whether anyone is listening or not. Just keep repeating. Man lives by advertisement. Whatever you ask for when you go to the shop—‘Binaca toothpaste’—do you think you are asking after having thought it out? That you have considered which toothpaste is scientifically useful for teeth? Have you asked a doctor? Will you accept the advice of doctors?
Once a toothpaste company experimented. They advertised one toothpaste with the names of the world’s ten greatest dental doctors. It did not sell at all. They advertised another toothpaste with a nude picture of Marilyn Monroe—the famous American actress. Her teeth, Monroe smiling, and a smile that would embarrass even Jimmy Carter! It sold beautifully. Ten great doctors—first, who even knows the names of great doctors? They may be someone; who cares! And who listens to doctors? What effect will doctors have! But a beautiful actress! Now if Hema Malini whispers in your ear, will you not listen? If she breathes, ‘Binaca toothpaste’—then let all the doctors of the world shout otherwise; who cares!
Keep repeating. And repeat in such a way that it gets imprinted upon people’s desires and passions. Whatever you want to sell, you must advertise with a naked woman. Things do not sell—always the naked woman sells. Even things with which a woman has nothing to do—if you want to sell them, place the naked woman there. A man’s eyes immediately widen.
And when the eyes are widened... you will be amazed, I am not saying this poetically but scientifically—the pupil of your eye, when you see a naked woman, becomes larger in an instant. Because you want to gulp down the whole. The small aperture of the pupil—how will she pass through it? Hema Malini is a bit ample! So the pupil widens. Your pupil drinks—drinks in Hema Malini; but along with her the Binaca toothpaste goes in as well.
Then advertisements everywhere. In newspapers—Binaca toothpaste. On radio—Binaca Geetmala. Then Ceylon or Addis Ababa—Binaca. On the road, in big letters—Binaca. Wherever you go—Binaca. You do not even notice what is happening. But it is happening. One day you go to a shop and the shopkeeper asks, ‘Which toothpaste?’ And you say, ‘Binaca!’ And you think you are an intelligent man? You are a fool. You have been made a fool. Things were repeated and implanted in your mind. You have simply been conditioned.
Life is running by repetition. That is why you accept what the people around you accept. Everyone is running after wealth; you run too. A is running, B is running; all are running. All are running in the race for wealth. All say wealth is valuable. You ran as well. Everyone is going to Delhi, you too raised the flag: ‘Let us go to Delhi; now we will not stop before Delhi.’
A wind blows all around. In its current, people are swept away. Waves arise; with the waves, people go. The wise man is he who saves himself from these waves. Otherwise you will keep being knocked about for how many lifetimes—just being knocked about. Here there are very few who seek Paramatma—almost none. You will not even notice them if you do not set out to search. Those who seek wealth are everywhere. Everyone is doing the same. Your father is doing the same, your brother the same, your family the same, neighbors the same. The whole world is seeking wealth. So many cannot be wrong. So many are seeking; surely they must be seeking rightly.
Therefore your mind becomes entangled in thousands of things. You buy things you do not need—because the neighbors have bought them; what can you do? When neighbors buy, you too must buy. You wear clothes that you neither like nor that suit you, nor are they comfortable. Now, even in a country like India people wear ties. Here you are already dying of the heat. The tie is necessary in cold lands, useful so that no gap remains at the neck and cold air cannot enter. In cold countries, the tie is perfectly right. But in a hot land...! You wear ties—nooses—placing the noose with your own hand. Yet people sit with them.
In cold lands people wear shoes and socks all day; it is natural. But why do you wear them? You are drenched in sweat, yet you cannot take off your socks, cannot remove your shoes. Without them, your gentlemanliness will be gone.
People do not live life thoughtfully; they only imitate blindly. What others are doing, you are doing the same. Then you may never reach Paramatma. Because your mind will become scattered—so dispersed into fragments. And to attain Paramatma, an undivided mind is needed. Paramatma demands: only when your mind is wholly toward me do you deserve to find me. That is His condition. On less than that, no one attains Him.
Tumsom man lago hai mora.
But Jagjivan’s mind got attached. Having been joined in taste with nature, one day his taste was joined with Bulleh Shah. He who will join in taste with nature—today or tomorrow he will find the True Master.
So I say to you: whether you go to the temple or not, it will do; but sit by trees at least; sit by rivers at least; watch the surging waves of the sea; have darshan of the snow-clad peaks of the Himalayas. Make friends with flowers! Talk to trees! Dance in the winds! Join hands with the rain! And you will find the True Master. For neither will trees lie to you, nor rivers, nor birds. They know nothing of lying. Lying is man’s invention. They will not advertise either. But their presence, their peace, their silence, their celebration—this ongoing celebration, this twenty-four-hour dance of nature—how long will it keep you away? Soon you will taste the mystery; wonder will arise; the feeling of amazement will awaken. Soon you will become capable of finding the True Master.
And remember an old Egyptian saying. The ancient mystics of Egypt said: when the disciple is ready, the Master appears.
Just so did Bulleh Shah appear in Jagjivan’s life. Suddenly! He must have been playing the flute, grazing cows. Bulleh Shah arrived, sent him to fetch fire, looked into his eyes, placed a hand on his head, tied the rakhi of love upon his wrist. Surely his thirst had become so profound that the lake began to move toward him; that the lake searched for him.
And then Jagjivan’s mind became wholly absorbed in Paramatma. That single touch from the Master turned his entire mind into a blazing fire.
Tumsom man lago hai mora.
Hum tum baithe rahi atariya, bhala bana hai jora.
‘Now we sit together on the rooftop; what a beautiful union has been made.’ And he says: ‘Now such delight is happening, such rasa is flowing. A fine pair are we—You and I. This is what was sought.’
When you fall in love with a woman or with a man, even then you are seeking only Paramatma—though your search is blind. And because you seek Paramatma in this blind manner, you will fail. Do you know that all loves upon this earth fail? And all love leaves a bitter taste in the mouth afterward.
Why? What is the cause? Expectation. When you fall in love with a woman, you do not take her as an ordinary woman—you cannot. You take her as unique, a divine idol. Then slowly you find—she is clay. Clay like other women. No difference at all. When a woman falls in love with a man, she falls in love with Paramatma. She begins to search for God in the man—and does not find him. Then dejection seizes the mind. It seems as if one has been deceived. From this feeling of deception, anger arises.
If husband and wife are constantly quarreling, what is the cause? Do not get entangled in the reasons they give. Those reasons have no value. The husband says there was less salt in the food today, hence the quarrel; the wife says the husband returned late at night, hence the quarrel. These are excuses. If the husband stays home all day, the quarrel will be: why are you sitting here?
Mulla Nasruddin’s wife always fought with him: ‘Why are you forever spouting nonsense?’ I said to him one day, ‘Stop talking nonsense then; this itself is the cause.’ He said, ‘All right, today I vow.’ He sat absolutely silent. After an hour the wife said, ‘Why are you sitting silent? Why don’t you speak? Has paralysis struck you?’
Speak and die; do not speak and die. Speak and you are trapped; do not speak and you are trapped. If the husband stays home all day, the wife asks, ‘What is the matter? Why are you circling here? Have you no work?’ If he goes for work, she says, ‘You only care for work. You have no concern for me.’
If you look carefully, under the petty reasons of husband-wife quarrels is something else. Both have been deceived. Both had thought some divine love was making its advent; later they found neither anything divine nor any love. All is petty. All filled with clay. The mouth filled with dust. One had thought something, something else happened.
But if you understand why this is happening, then great changes will occur. Then there remains no question of quarrel. It is the search for Paramatma that is going on. Every person is seeking Paramatma, whether he knows it or not. Those who say there is no God are also engaged in the same search. Even the atheist moves in that direction. There is no way to avoid it. Every river flows toward the sea. As every river goes to the ocean, whatever be its direction, exactly so every consciousness moves toward Paramatma. For consciousness is a ray of that Supreme Consciousness; it seeks its original source. Until the original source is found, there is no rest.
Tumsom man lago hai mora.
Hum tum baithe rahi atariya, bhala bana hai jora.
‘And now,’ says Jagjivan, ‘the union is made. The marriage is done. The bridal night has arrived whose end never comes. We sit upon the atariya.’ It is on a great height—this meeting happens at a great height.
Now this is the language of an unlettered man; hence atariya. If Patanjali had spoken, he would have said Sahasrar. That is the language of a learned man. If Buddha had spoken, he would have said Nirvana. That is the language of a cultured man. If Mahavira had spoken, he would have said Moksha.
Poor Jagjivan says... in a village there is nothing greater than the atariya. And what is that atariya! A two-story house, in a village called an atariya.
The house in which I was born—people of that village call it an atariya. A two-story house! It sold for a total of three hundred rupees. The villagers call it an atariya.
But Jagjivan was a villager. He will speak his own tongue, will he not!
Hum tum baithe rahi atariya, bhala bana hai jora.
We sit on a great height—on the atariya. A fine pair has been made.
Sat ki sej bichhayi suti rahi,
Sukh anand ghanera.
‘We have spread the bed of Sat. Upon that bed of truth we lie, together. Union has happened, love has happened. We are bathing in love.’
‘And the joy is dense, the bliss unique. The final hour of union has arrived.’
Karta harta tumhiñ aahahu,
Karauñ main kaun nihora.
‘You are the doer and the undoer. What petition shall I make? Now even prayer—what prayer shall I make! Whatever is right, You always do. See—You sent Bulleh Shah. I was playing my flute, grazing my cows and bulls. See—through Bulleh Shah’s hand You placed Your own hand upon my head. See—I had no worth. No sadhana, no siddhi, no tapa, no japa. You suddenly came, burned all the trash, made me pure gold, made me so pure. What petition shall I make now! What should I ask? You give unasked.’
Karta harta tumhiñ aahahu, karauñ main kaun nihora.
Rahyo ajan ab jani parayo hai,
Jab chityo ek kora.
‘Till now I was ignorant, so I used to ask. Forgive me. If ever I asked anything of You, forgive me. In ignorance I would pray: Do this, O Lord; do that, O Lord.’
‘But now I have known. And how did I know?’
‘When You glanced even from the corner of Your eye.’
‘You looked at me with the corner of the eye. That was enough. I knew all. You cast one loving glance—I knew all. With the glance of Your eye, You made a beggar into a sovereign.’
Ab nirvah kiye bani aihi,
Lai preeti nahin toriya dora.
‘Now there is no worry. Now I will carry on through all. Whether pleasure or pain comes; success or failure; health or illness; life or death—there is no worry now. I have seen the love in Your eye; its nectar has showered.’
‘Now I will manage all. What prayer need I make now!’
‘And now I am sure: the cord of love that has been knotted between You and me—it will not break. It cannot break. If it had been tied by me, it might break; but it is tied by You—how can it break?’
‘You have brought the love; there is nothing of mine in it. All has come as prasad—how will You break it?’
‘What I had heard called love—perhaps it is this very thing: someone by himself settles into the heart.’
Into Jagjivan’s life, Paramatma entered of His own accord. And when He enters unbidden, the beauty is different, the glory different. The devotee calls this prasad. Become only the vessel. And the vessel means thirst, deep thirst. And Paramatma descends—certainly He descends.
‘When did You come that I had not the strength for even a gesture—when did You come that there was not even movement left in the tongue to tell?’
And when His descent happens, even the devotee’s gestures are lost. The devotee becomes utterly dumb.
‘When did You come—there was no strength for a sign. When did You come—there was no movement left in the tongue.’
How can I tell when You came, how You came? By my doing You did not come. The knower can tell, the ascetic can tell how God comes: so much vow, so much fasting, such meditation, such worship, such prayer—then God comes. How can the devotee tell? For upon him it comes such—breaking the roof, showering like grace.
‘When did You come—no strength for a sign; when did You come—no movement left for the tongue.’
Now I have no tongue to say.
Jagjivan prays and asks only this: ‘Let me behold Your form always; keep me in Your darshan.’
Only this is the prayer: keep being visible, do not become hidden. As once You were hidden, do not hide again. This is the only longing of the devotee—not the longing for moksha, not for nirvana—only this: that Your darshan keep occurring. That You keep appearing. A single glimpse of You is enough. In a single glimpse of You are a thousand heavens; in a single glimpse, all mokshas; in a single glimpse, all nirvanas.
The devotee remains intoxicated by a single glimpse, remains beside himself.
‘Such is the condition now by the grace of Your beauty—between sobriety and ecstasy there is no distinction.’
Your beauty has made me so mad; by the grace of Your beauty, now there seems no difference between alertness and ecstasy. That very awareness is that very intoxication.
‘Though I have not drunk, all call me a wine-bibber—Your bestowal of ecstasy has made me infamous for nothing.’
People say this man seems as if drunk; he has become a toper, a drunkard. But the truth is, I have only seen You. And seeing You I have become so beside myself! My selfhood is gone, my ego is gone.
‘Though I have not drunk, all call me a wine-bibber—Your bestowal of ecstasy has made me infamous for nothing.’
Man mahñ jaai fakiri karna.
He says: just dive within the mind and fakiri happens. No outer arrangement is needed to be a fakir. He who goes within becomes a fakir. By going to mountains no one becomes a fakir; nor by taking up a begging bowl.
Jagjivan never became a fakir in that outer way. He went within and became a fakir. Going within, it became visible that in the world all is in vain and what is meaningful is present within. From whom is there to beg? Before whom shall hands be spread? The Master sits within. The giver sits within. Even if you do not ask, He gives. Turn your glance toward Him once. Turn back. You have turned your back on Ram; stand face to face with Ram. That is fakiri.
Rahe ekant tant te laga,
Raag nirt nahin sunna.
And go within where there is solitude. Then there is no need to sit in a cave on the Himalayas. Go within; there is no Himalaya greater than that. No cave deeper than the cave of the heart.
And one who sits there, his consciousness remains connected to the essence; his relation with the Lord remains joined.
Then the outer song and dance is not even heard. Sit in the marketplace; if the art of diving within is learned, then the marketplace hums along, yet it is not heard; it does not register.
Katha charcha phadai-sunai nahin, nahiñ bahut bak bolna.
Na thir rahai jahan tahan dhavai, yaha man ahai hindolna.
Then useless talk is not needed, nor tales here and there. Gossip becomes vain.
‘It does not stay still, it runs here and there—this mind is a swing.’
As long as this mind is, it sways like a cradle—goes here, goes there, ‘Let me do this, let me do that.’ Go within and all becomes still.
Main tain garv gumaan bibadahiñ, sabai dur yaha karna.
‘And the moment you go within, ‘I’ is gone—then where is ‘you’? Where then is argument! All quarrel is the quarrel of I and you.’
People take shelter behind doctrines. They talk doctrine, but all disputes... someone says, ‘I fight for socialism,’ another says, ‘I fight for democracy,’ but all quarrels are quarrels of I and you. These are just good-looking names behind which the ego must be hidden.
Someone says, ‘I fight for Islam,’ someone says, ‘I fight for Hindu Dharma.’ The whole fight, the entire fight, is the ego’s fight. And the day a man sees that these veils are false, quarrels will lessen greatly in the world. Every person paints his fight in ideological colors, plasters it over. He decorates his ego—socialism! democracy! revolution! Grand words, lofty talk.
You have just seen it! A foolish event occurred, and they called it a second revolution. The dead of the whole country were seated in power, and they call it revolution! A second revolution has happened! Democracy has come! Nothing ever comes or goes. All runs as it is. Names change; work remains the same.
Look carefully: what is the substance behind the quarrels of those always caught in disputes? The essence is only this: I am great, you are small. But how to say this? To say it directly would seem crude. And to say it directly—people will immediately sit on your neck: ‘You are arrogant, full of ego.’ Here even to proclaim ego, one must say: ‘I am humble, the dust of your feet.’ These are the ways of proclaiming ego here. Here proclamations must be indirect, not direct. Here one must say from behind a screen.
Even if you must kill someone, you must say: I kill you for your own good. Then it becomes hard to escape. If they are killing for your welfare, what can you do now? And they say, ‘We will do your good even if you resist. You are ignorant; what do you know!’
In a school, a Christian priest told children to do at least one good deed each week. The children asked: which good deeds? He said: ‘If someone is drowning, save him; if someone’s house is on fire, even at the cost of your life, go and save something.’ The children said: ‘But that happens only rarely. Every week where is there fire; where does someone drown!’ He said: ‘There are small deeds too: if someone falls, pick him up; if an old woman cannot cross the road, help her across.’ The children said: ‘That is fine.’
Seven days later he returned and asked: ‘Children, did you do any good deeds?’ One boy waved his hand excitedly: ‘Yes, I helped an old woman cross the road.’ ‘Very good,’ said the priest, ‘that is what should be done. This is religion.’ Another boy raised his hand. ‘What did you do?’ He said: ‘I too helped an old woman cross the road.’ The priest felt a little suspicious but no great wonder—surely there are more than one old woman in the village. The third boy also raised his hand. ‘Brother, what did you do?’ He said: ‘I too helped an old woman across the road.’ The priest asked: ‘You three all found old women?’ They said: ‘Not three, it was one. The three of us helped the same old woman.’ The priest asked: ‘Did it require three of you to help her across?’ The boy said: ‘We three barely managed. She didn’t want to go at all. We pushed her and pushed her—but we got her across. When you said we must do some good deed, we did it.’
There are some who are intent on doing good deeds. But behind all these good deeds there is only one relish—the ego. The good deeds are excuses.
Main tain garv gumaan bibadahiñ, sabai dur yaha karna.
Sheetal deen rahai mari antar, gahai naam ki sarna.
Become cool. When the ‘I’ is not, coolness arrives. Then only one remembrance remains—of His Name—and all else is forgotten.
Tumsom man lago hai mora.
Jal pashaan ki karai aas nahin, ahai sakal bharamna.
Jagjivandas nihari nirakhike, gahi rahu guru ki sarna.
Then such a person neither worships rivers nor stones. He places no hope in them. All such vain things fall away from him. He holds only the feet of the True Master.
Bhoolu phoolu sukh par nahin, abahuñ hohu sachet.
‘Wake up now. Do not be deluded and proud of this little flower of life. It blooms in the morning and withers by evening.’
Bhoolu phoolu sukh par nahin, abahuñ hohu sachet.
Sañin pathava tohiñ kaañ, laavo tehiñ te het.
‘Remember the One who has sent you. This flower will fade. Remember the One from whom this flower has come. Remember the One from whom it is born and into whom it will dissolve. Remember the original source and unite with the Eternal. Otherwise the ephemeral will make you wander, will make you writhe.’
Taju aas sab jhoonth hi, sang saathi nahin koy.
‘Abandon all false hopes; here there is no true companion.’
Keu kehu na ubarihi, jehi par hoy so hoy.
‘None can save another here—not wife, not husband; not father, not mother; not son, not brother, not friend. None can save anyone here.’
Only One can save—‘What He wills, that happens.’ Hold the hand of that Master so you can be saved. Do not remain sunk in false securities. Do not waste time. Take the company of that Boatman—only He can ferry you across; only He can take you to the other shore.
Kahñvañ ten chali ayahu, kahañ rahaa asthan.
‘From where have you come? Ask. Where are you going? Ask.’
So sudhi bisari gai tohiñ, ab kas bhyasi hevan.
‘You have forgotten everything; you have become utterly like an animal. Find the difference between yourself and an animal. The same lust, the same greed, the same attachment, the same jealousy, the same hate, the same violence—as in an animal, so in you. Where is the difference?’
If anywhere there is a difference between animal and man, it begins only when you, becoming alert and aware, begin the inner journey. No animal appears capable of inner journey—only man can undertake it.
Kaya-nagar sohavna, sukh tabahiñ pai hoy.
‘This body you have received—into what futile things are you wasting it! It is a most beautiful city. Within it dwells the Master. It is a temple. But will you go on circling outside, making circumambulation only? Will you go to the deity of the temple or not? As one who circles the temple and returns without going to the deity’s feet—so are most people.’
Kaya-nagar sohavna, sukh tabahiñ pai hoy.
Ramat rahai tehiñ bhitare, dukh nahin vyapai koy.
‘He who plays within you is never touched by sorrow. You are grieving in vain. Make friendship with Him, relate with Him, wed Him.’
Mrit-mandal kou thir nahin, aava so chali jay.
‘In this mortal realm nothing is permanent. Whoever comes, goes. Whatever is made, unmade.’
Gafil hvai phanda parayo, jahañ-tahañ gayo bilay.
‘And you too in this realm of the dead are entangled in snares and have completely forgotten yourself.’
The Sufi fakir Ibrahim was once an emperor; then he left everything and sat in the forest. Travelers would pass by and ask: ‘Which way is the town?’ He would say: ‘Go to the left. If you go right, you will reach the cremation ground.’
He was a mad fakir! People trusted his words and went left. Three or four miles later they reached the cremation ground. Greatly astonished, they returned in anger: ‘Have some shame, being a fakir. Is such joking fitting? We are weary travelers; we are journeying from far. We must reach the village. Evening is falling, the sun is setting. You sent us to the cremation ground? And you said emphatically—left is the town, right is the cremation ground. And we reached the cremation ground!’
Ibrahim said: ‘Brother, it seems there is a difference in our language. What you call a town, I know as a cremation ground. Because there all are sitting prepared to die. Some died today; some will die tomorrow; a queue is formed. Where all are seated for death—will you call it a cremation ground, or what? Some have died, some are getting ready to die, some have set out, they will reach; but all are going toward death. You call it a town? Where not a single person will remain settled forever—you call that a town? I call the cremation ground a town—because whoever is settled there is truly settled. No coming, no going. It is a difference of our language; do not be angry. If you want to go to the cremation ground, go to the right—that is what you call town.’
The knowers call your town a cremation ground. And if you think a little, you will find it so. All are mortal here. Outside is death; inside is amrit. Join with the outside, you join with death. And how will supreme bliss arise from death?
Go within. Hold someone’s feet. Take refuge. Let some Bulleh Shah’s hand fall upon your head. Filled with thirst and prayer, call out so that some Bulleh Shah comes searching for you, and your meeting with amrit happens. Amritasya putrah—you are children of the Immortal, but you are lost in death.
Awaken!
Enough for today.