Nirvan Upanishad #13

Regarding the word Turiya, the first thing to know is that it denotes only a number.
Turiya means: the fourth, the Fourth.
By many, many pathways has one sought to understand Turiya. First I said: that which is beyond the three gunas—the Fourth—is the fourth. It has not been given a name by knowing its name. Because it is the Nameless, a number has been given. Names create quarrels; numbers do not. One may call it Ram, another Rahim—there can be conflict. But with the Fourth, the chaturtha, there can be no quarrel. Say “the fourth” in Hindi, English, Arabic, Hebrew—no dispute can arise. Those who called it the Fourth spoke with deep insight.

The moment a name is given, the quarrel begins—because attachment to the name begins. And my name is truth, the name I give is true—the ego starts believing—then the names given by others must be false. But with a number the possibility of quarrel is almost nil. What the rishis called turiya—if the entire world had agreed to use a numeral, the language of mathematics—there would have been no disputes at all.

It is a delightful fact that the rishi of the Upanishads uses the figure of mathematics for Brahman. You will be surprised to know that in the whole field of human knowledge, mathematics is the only discipline that has had the least controversy. There is a reason: it does not employ words; it uses numbers. Numbers do not fight. Two plus two written in any language, the result four spoken in any tongue—nothing changes. Hence mathematics is the least contentious of the sciences. Scientists even say that today or tomorrow we shall have to translate the language of all sciences into the language of mathematics; only then can we be free of dispute. Long ago—thousands of years—the rishi named the ultimate, the Supreme Reality: the Fourth, chaturtha, turiya.

I said: first, it is the fourth because it is beyond the three gunas. And another deep discovery—whose entire credit belongs to the Upanishads, and which modern psychology has managed to trace back to its rightful owners—is that the human mind has three states: waking, dream, deep sleep. We are awake; we dream; we sleep. If man were exhausted in these three alone, then who is it that wakes? Who is it that sleeps? Who is it that dreams?

Surely a fourth must be, upon whom the light of waking falls, upon whom the darkness of sleep descends, upon whom the web of dreams is woven. That must be the Fourth; it cannot be contained in the three. If I am one of the three, the other two cannot come upon me. If I am only waking, how can sleep descend upon me? If I am only sleep, how will the ripples of dreams form upon me? These three are states; and what I am must certainly be the fourth. The Upanishad calls it turiya—that which is the fourth.

And the discussion of these four states of human consciousness was first given to the world by the rishis of the Upanishads. Western psychology in the last hundred years has only managed to step into number two. In these hundred years—only the last century—western psychology realized that to try to understand man merely as waking is dangerous and fundamentally wrong. For the time he is awake is only one part of him. He also sleeps; he also dreams. From Charcot to Freud, the West worked hard to understand that unless we know man’s dreams, our knowledge of man will remain incomplete. And when Freud descended into the depths of the dream, he said: do not trust man’s waking—because awake he deceives. What is known through dreams alone is true.

Hence today the psychoanalyst cares little for your waking. He asks: what dreams do you see? Because in dreams you cannot cheat. Awake, you can deceive others and you can deceive yourself. Awake you may be a brahmachari, but dreams will unravel your brahmacharya’s bandage and reveal your debauchery.

This is why the so-called celibates fear sleep; they tremble before it—for all their discipline remains at the door of waking. In dreams they have no control. Not only the minor seekers—those we would call great seekers, who make morality their whole path—this difficulty will persist for them. Those who, without knowing yoga, without knowing dharma, dedicate their lives to mere ethical conduct will remain entangled.

Even a seeker like Mahatma Gandhi had finally to say: only in waking can I manage my restraint; in dreams my restraint breaks. In dreams I have no control over my restraint.

But if restraint breaks in dreams, then the restraint is still superficial. For restraint that cannot conquer even the dream—what truth can it conquer? Restraint that is defeated by dream—what destiny can it have in truth? It is feeble, superficial, a thin veil. Inside all the diseases remain hidden; above we decorate the sheet—ornamentation.

Freud made it unavoidable that to understand the human psyche rightly, one must know his dreams. Now the entire knowledge the West has obtained about man has been through his dreams. It seems very inverted—that your truth should be discovered through your dreams. What a limit! One must seek your truth in your dreams!

Man has certainly deceived himself so much; his waking has become so deluded and false that without sleep it is difficult to learn what goes on within you. You yourself do not know—how can another?

Yet Western psychology has reached only the second state—waking and dreaming. Work on deep sleep has begun only in the last decade. What the rishis of the Upanishads called sushupti—in just the last ten years—while the words of the rishis are thousands of years old—sleep laboratories have been built in America, where experiments on dreamless sleep are underway.

Some ten thousand people have been experimented upon during these ten years. There are laboratories where people sleep through the night, and through thousands of instruments it is examined: what is their dream? And when dreams end, in the phase of sleep, what are the waves of their mind? What is the state of their mind, their consciousness? Into what depths do they descend? What is sleep? Because when so much could be learned through dreams that we became more successful in knowing man, perhaps deeper truths may be discovered through sleep.

So upon the third state Western psychology is engaged in deep research. Only in the last decade have books appeared on sleep in the West—never before. Man has slept since the beginning. If a man lives eighty years, he sleeps twenty. To leave such a huge part unknown is costly. Where we spend twenty years of our life, if we know nothing of that state, we cannot advance in self-knowledge.

But this is still the primary stage. The inquiry into sleep in the West is at the first step. The rishis speak of turiya. They say: sleep too is fine—but beyond it too is One who passes through these three. These three are only his states. They are stations, say. A man passes from one station to another, and another to a third. If that man thinks, “I am this station,” then at the next station, “I am this station,” then at the third, “I am this station,” there will be delusion. The rishis of the Upanishads say: the traveler who passes through the stations is different from the stations. Waking is one state. Dreaming is another. Sleep is a third. But to whom these states belong is beyond the three—the fourth, turiya, the Fourth—the traveler. These are but halts.

It may take the psychology of the West hundreds of years yet to bring news of turiya. Even now, they have begun to sense this. Carl Gustav Jung has admitted: We once could not accept that dreams could have value; later we had to accept it. We never imagined that sleep could have value; that too we had to accept. It will not be long before we will have to accept the fourth stage of those who gave us three stages that proved true. For if the three are true, there is no reason why they should not be true about the fourth. And if so far they have proved right, the possibility that they are right about the fourth becomes deeper; and our courage to call it wrong becomes thin.

The rishi says: that Brahman, turiya—that fourth state—is the sannyasin’s sacred thread, his yajnopavita. He wears that fourth state like a thread around his neck. That is his shikha. Less than this the sannyasin is not willing to accept. If one must wear a sacred thread at all, he will wear the thread of turiya. He will step beyond the three and unite himself to the fourth.

Only if you experiment a little will you be able to understand what kind of sacred thread this is.

When you wake, do not think, “I am waking.” Rather, understand: waking has come upon me; I am seeing it. Be a witness to it. Be a witness, do not become one with it. If all day long you can keep this witnessing attitude—that waking too is a place where I have camped; I am the traveler, this is a place, a halt—then slowly, slowly you will be able to remember in the dream too that the dream is also a halt and I am a traveler. And then even in sleep this witnessing can enter. Then you will know: sleep comes and goes upon me; I am separate. And when you know yourself separate from all three, only then does that sacred thread of turiya-Brahman fall upon your neck.

But as for us—we become one with whatever comes upon us. Whatever wave seizes us, we become one with it, we are colored by it. We forget that the color has fallen upon us; we are separate from the color. Immediately we get glued.

Our condition is like that of a photographic plate. The film inside the camera—that is our condition. It peeks for a second outside the camera; whatever appears, it grabs. For a fraction of a second the shutter lifts; the eye opens—and whatever appears outside—the tree is tree, lake is lake, man is man—whatever it sees, it catches. It becomes one with it. That is why a photo can be taken—otherwise not. Then you carry the picture and say: a picture of the lake. Granted, it is a picture of the lake—but this piece of film has fallen into a great illusion. What it was is no more; and what it is not, it has grasped.

The sannyasin lives like a mirror, not like a photographic plate. Whatever comes before the mirror appears; once it is gone, it is gone; the mirror is empty again. The mirror does not seize; it surely reflects. Images are formed, but it does not hold them. All pictures slip and fall away, and the mirror remains still in its nature.

Hence the mirror does not get spoiled by seeing even a thousand things; the photographic plate gets used up by seeing one. The mirror, seeing a thousand, remains immaculate. Since it does not grasp, where is the question of distortion?

We are like plates; whatever comes before us we hold. When waking happens we think, “I am waking;” when dream happens, “I am the dream;” when sleep happens, “I am sleep;” birth happens, “I am life;” death happens, “I am a corpse.” So we go on. Whatever comes—we seize it.

Mulla Nasruddin was passing by a graveyard. Evening had fallen; fear took hold of him. The village was still far. Then he saw from afar people approaching with band and music. He feared more: could they be robbers? The graveyard wall stood there; he leapt over to hide. A new grave was dug; its guest had not yet arrived. He thought, “Let me lie in this. Let this noisy mob of troublemakers pass by; then I will return home.” He lay down in it. The night was cold; soon his hands and feet began to freeze. He had read in a book: when a man dies, his hands and feet grow cold. He thought: gone! I am dead. As he thought, “I am dead,” his hands and feet grew colder.

Then a thought came: I have not yet had my evening meal. At least I should eat before dying. He jumped out of the grave. He vaulted the wall and ran towards home, but the caravan that had arrived had tied up their camels there and were preparing for rest. His sudden leap frightened the camels; there was a stampede; people beat him.

Beaten and bruised he reached home. His wife said, “You are very late. Where were you?” Mulla said, “Say instead—by some grace I returned. I died.” The wife laughed within, yet out of curiosity asked, “You died? What was the experience of dying?” Mulla said, “In dying there is no trouble—unless you disturb their camels. Until you disturb the camels it is very peaceful. But if you disturb the camels, everything is disturbed; you get beaten badly. So if you ever die, remember one thing: do not disturb the camels. Death has no danger. I have had the full experience—lying in the grave I have returned. In truth I would not have returned at all, but I had not eaten dinner, so I came back. So always remember—never disturb the camels.”

The irrelevant, the absolutely irrelevant, that has no congruence with the stream of life—this too we grasp, and inside us it becomes cause-and-effect. It seems there is a causal relation. Camels have nothing to do with death, yet there is a sequence. What Mulla thought was death—right after that the camels were disturbed and he was beaten. The mind caught it; it identified everything. It all got linked. Our whole life we keep adding such things, adding and adding. In the end, what we accumulate is a conglomerate—a long film—where there is nothing of the mirror. Everything is dirty, spoiled, dust-laden.

With such a dust-filled mind we cannot know turiya. The fourth state will be known only by the one who can remain like a mirror and who cleans his mirror moment to moment, who does not let dust settle. The one who does not let anything stick upon his mirror, who keeps it always wiped and clear—surely, slowly the experience of the fourth beyond the three begins. Only the one with the mirror-like consciousness is the sannyasin who has known the Fourth.

We do not remember even in dreams that we are separate. We become one with the dream. So one that there is no measure. In dream you never remember who you are. You do not even recall: the thing I am doing in dream—would I have done this while awake? In dream even incongruities do not appear. A friend is approaching, and suddenly you see he has become a horse—yet the question does not arise: how did this man suddenly become a horse? In dream this too is accepted. In a wink of the eye you dream of years. The eye opens; only a moment has passed on the clock, but in the dream years seemed to go by. In dream you do not remember what you were while awake. That door has closed.

These are compartments. Once you move from waking into dream, the waking door closes. All the logic of waking, its entire thought-stream, disappears. A second world begins: the dream. You identify with it; you become one with it. You are now one with another world. The previous world is gone.

If you were a king, you can be a beggar in dream; there will be no hindrance. If you were a pauper, you can be a king; no hindrance either. No corner of consciousness says, “But when awake I was a king—how am I a beggar?” It will not arise; you will not remember. That door has closed. The curtain of memory has fallen; that act has ended. Another begins; you have become one with it.

Then even that dream drops. Deep sleep comes. You enter the third world. In deep sleep you remember nothing. Even what happens in dream you do not remember fully—at most one or two percent. And even that does not remain for more than ten or fifteen minutes after waking. There is a slight overlapping. The last dream, running in the morning, leaves a faint echo as waking happens—so a little memory remains.

Therefore, the dreams you narrate in the morning—do not tell them with too much certainty. Much of it you have thought later—what you did not see. Much you have forgotten—what you did see. Hence morning dreams appear very absurd—how could such things be? Many parts have fallen away, forgotten, gone beyond memory.

Actually, dream-memory is separate. Within you, dream-memory gathers separately. Waking-memory gathers separately. Sleep-memory gathers separately. The meeting of the three is only at the boundary, the margin—otherwise there is no meeting. After deep sleep you remember at most: “I slept well”—and nothing else.

But what of the Fourth who passes through these three? We have no memory of that at all. No sense of it at all.

We have no hint because whenever anything faces us, we become one with it. The memory of that Fourth would arise only if with whatever appears we could maintain our separateness. If you can keep a distance, a little space, with whatever you see, know, experience, then this state of sannyas will enter your experience—where turiya-Brahman becomes the sacred thread, where turiya-Brahman becomes the shikha.

The rishi has said: renouncing the world in full consciousness—that alone is the staff, the danda.

Renouncing the world in full consciousness! The world is also renounced in anger, also in sorrow, also in anxiety—but that is not sannyas. Your business has gone bankrupt; the thought of sannyas arises—“Let me renounce; there is no essence in the world.” Yesterday there was full essence! How did the essence evaporate because you went bankrupt? It is not understandable—because the world’s juice does not depend on your bankruptcy. Flowers bloom as before, the sun moves as before; life sings its song as before; dance and color go on as before—only you became bankrupt, so everything became tasteless to you.

Ramakrishna used to say: a man during the festival of Kali would have hundreds of goats sacrificed, grand worship. Later he stopped the ritual. The days of Kali’s worship still came, but he ended the celebration. One day Ramakrishna asked, “What is the matter?” He said, “Now there are no teeth left!” Ramakrishna asked, “Then was that Kali’s worship—or your teeth’s?” We thought goats were sacrificed for Kali. He said, “You are entirely wrong. Kali was the excuse; they were cut for our own sake. Now no teeth.”

With your teeth, the whole world changes. That is not sannyas; it is only slackness, a becoming of ruins. It is simply defeat, collapse. Life has snatched everything from you. When life snatches away—what meaning in talking of renunciation? You are already bankrupt. Life has made you a pauper. Now to speak of renunciation is meaningless. But man is clever.

Mulla Nasruddin was riding in a bullock cart, passing by a village. A friend, also a shopkeeper, was with him. Bandits attacked. Mulla said, “Wait one minute.” He took money from his pocket and handed it to his friend: “These five thousand rupees you owed me—take them. The account is settled.” Then he told the bandits: “Now do what you will. I have no fear.”

Even when the moment of losing comes, we try to behave as if we are renouncing. When the moment of robbery comes we pretend we are donating.

No—the rishi says: those who renounce in full consciousness. In full consciousness! Not from suffering, not out of anger, not out of being harassed and hurt—but in utter joy, and with awareness when they looked at life and saw its futility. That futility arises not from any outer cause—but from inner awakening.

Futility can be felt in two ways. Many say, “What is there in wealth?” But often these are the very people who do not have wealth. Their words have little meaning. It is mental consolation, self-soothing. Repeating, “What is there in wealth?” they convince themselves that they are not missing anything.

No—when someone who has wealth says “What is there in wealth?” then the meaning changes from the roots. When circumstances are unfavorable, renunciation is not right renunciation. When circumstances are utterly favorable, that renunciation is right. Those who left the world out of hurt remain bound to it—because from that which can still hurt us, we have not yet truly renounced.

Understand: that which can hurt us could only hurt because we still expected pleasure from it. Otherwise there was no reason for hurt. Therefore the knower does not say “the world is sorrow”; he says “the world is insubstantial.” There is a vast difference. He does not say “sorrow”; he says “not even worthy of sorrow.” That from which no joy can be obtained—what meaning in calling it sorrow? Where the hope of joy stands and does not arrive—there sorrow appears.

The awakened one—whose inner knowing has arisen, who becomes conscious—sees the world as insubstantial. Not even substantial enough to cause sorrow—totally meaningless. There is not even that much meaning in it which could cause sorrow. For that which can give sorrow—why could it not give joy? From that which can give sorrow, less sorrow is possible, more sorrow is possible. From that which can give sorrow, why can it not give joy? For lesser sorrow, and lesser, and lesser, becomes joy; and lesser joy, and lesser, and lesser, becomes sorrow. They are gradients, degrees. Cool the water a little less, it becomes warm; warm it a little less, it becomes cool. Heat and cold are not enemies—they are degrees. So too pleasure and pain.

If one says, “There is much sorrow in the world—therefore give it up,” he speaks wrongly. From that which can give much sorrow—why can it not give joy? There is no reason. Because from that which can give joy, sorrow can also come. In truth, wherever the hope of joy stands, there sorrow will be found. Sorrow is found precisely because hope of joy stood there beforehand.

No—the world is insubstantial—just meaningless. There is neither sorrow there nor joy. There is nothing there. Whatever we see there is what we ourselves have projected. Whatever we find there is our own gift. We ourselves have given it. Whatever we receive from the world is our own echo.

Therefore the one who leaves because of sorrow—for the beloved has died, or could not be found, or proved not to be beloved—if he leaves the world, his leaving is suicidal; not renunciation, but self-killing. When there is no wealth, one thinks of suicide. When the beloved departs, one thinks of suicide. When the beloved does not prove beloved, one thinks of suicide. When fame is lost, one thinks of suicide.

Hence there is a very interesting fact: in the countries where there are more sannyasins, the numbers of suicides are fewer; where sannyasins are few, suicides are many. And the total proportion remains nearly equal.

America will not be able to reduce suicides until it spreads sannyas. Even false sannyas prevents suicide, because it becomes an alternate. By taking sannyas one kind of suicide occurs. There is suffering and trouble; a man takes sannyas—he escapes death also, and the world also—yet remains alive.

But the rishi says: right sannyas is not because of outer reasons; it is an inner arising—through consciousness.

One kind of thought arises from the suffering given by outer objects. And it is difficult to find a person who has never thought of sannyas. Likewise, it is hard to find one who has never thought of suicide.

Psychologists say: if we began doing whatever we think—as some advise: as your thought, so your conduct—then each person would have to commit suicide at least four times in his life. It cannot be—because in one time it will end. But if there were a way, each person would commit suicide at least, at least—on average—four times. Life daily creates such moments when one wants to end it. It is other weaknesses that save one.

Mulla Nasruddin was about to hang himself in his room. His wife peeked in and saw: “Nasruddin, what are you doing?” He was standing on a table; a rope was tied above; the rope was tied around his waist. The wife asked, “What are you doing?” Mulla said, “Committing suicide.” She said, “But a rope around your waist?” Mulla said, “When I tied it around my neck I felt too much suffocation. I tried it first—but it was very distressing. So I tied it around my waist.”

Many chances to die arise, but there is suffocation—so we tie it around the waist. The moods are momentary; then we stand up again and resume our world.

There are two things: one is objective renunciation and one is subjective renunciation. One is a renunciation that is object-oriented; the other is a renunciation that is self-oriented. Object-oriented renunciation arises from the pain received from objects. Subjective renunciation arises from the growth of consciousness. Therefore, only that renunciation is true which comes as the result of meditation. Because only meditation is the alchemy by which your consciousness grows. Meditation is the oil by which the inner flame of consciousness becomes large and bright. Meditation is the fuel by which the inner consciousness is stirred and awakened.

When consciousness grows within, the world appears insubstantial. If one thinks of renouncing because of objects, the world appears painful, full of suffering; the world appears an enemy; it seems that by leaving the world, joy will come. But when consciousness awakens within, the world is insubstantial. Neither clinging to it brings joy, nor leaving it brings joy.

Yes—when the world drops from the mind, the mind becomes empty—able to receive, to withstand, to see and to attain the Divine. A stuffed mind—how will it know him? Space is needed within.

We invite such a great Guest—Paramatma—within, but there is no room; the junkyard is inside. Not an inch of space. The Divine has heard your call many times and has circled around, returning—seeing inside that there is a junk shop! No space within. Enter inside yourself and you will see. However much you try, you will not reach within. So much rubbish is gathered that one needs space even to move.

Therefore man remains outside—he spends his life at the door. Who will go within—who will get into such trouble? From outside he keeps shoveling garbage within; he himself sits outside. He has not the courage to turn back and look.

Those who begin to descend into meditation become very frightened. They say, “We are seeing within such things as we never imagined could be there.” They are there—you only did not think about them—you knew very well. You yourself put them there—nothing within can be there that you did not put. Another matter if it was long ago—across births—you placed them. You are still placing them—even now.

If someone begins to relate some slander, your consciousness becomes alert, a certain relish arises; the ears unfold wide—you become attentive—and even if bands play in the world, you will not hear them. Let that man whisper—you will still hear.

Mulla Nasruddin used to say: If you want more people to hear something, whisper it into someone’s ear; more will hear. When you whisper, the other thinks: surely some mischief is being spoken—something worth hearing.

We collect garbage from all sides. If someone comes to give a diamond, we will not accept that it is a diamond. We will say, “Take it away—do you take me to be a fool? Who gives diamonds like this?” If someone comes to give trash, our arms are open, ready.

We pour trash into each other’s minds by a thousand means. People even spend money to arrange for garbage within: watching films, reading detective novels—one does not know what all we do to gather trash! If we measured the labor we invest in collecting rubbish, we would have to say: man is a wonder.

Then there is no room within to go in. And we call the Divine—it becomes very difficult. To go within, emptiness is necessary. And empty is he alone who does not let the world enter him.

I will give you a sannyasin’s formula. The sannyasin lives in the world—and the householder also lives in the world. But there is one difference: the sannyasin lives in the world, but the world does not live in the sannyasin. The householder lives in the world—and the world also lives in the householder. He keeps filling himself within. The sannyasin walks these very streets—on these very roads the Buddhas pass—but the dust of these roads does not touch them. Mahavira passes through these same bazaars—but the noises of the bazaars do not enter their ears.

The Zen fakir Lin-chi used to say: The day you can walk on water and the water cannot touch you, know that you have become a sannyasin. That is why he said: walk in the world and let the world not touch you, not enter within you.

The rishi says: those who renounce the world in full consciousness.

In whom the light of awareness has arisen so much that because of that very light the garbage is seen as garbage—then there is no need to hold it; it slips from the hand and falls. Renunciation is not done; renunciation happens in knowing. The ignorant performs renunciation; with the knower, it happens. It just happens without any effort.

Buddha is leaving his home. His charioteer says, “Such beautiful palaces, such a lovely wife, a newborn child, such a kingdom, all comforts—where are you going, leaving these?” “Turn and look behind,” Buddha says. “I see no palaces—only flames of fire. I see no lovely wife—only the spread of my own attachment. I see no kingdom—only future ruins.”

Buddha is not going by doing renunciation; because to one who sees flames in the palace, there is nothing to renounce—renunciation happens. It can happen to you too, if flames are seen.

If your house catches fire—do you renounce your house? You run so fast that you fear the house might catch hold of you—might stop you: “Wait a bit! I kept you so long—where are you going?” Might the doors lock you in? The house has no attachment to you; otherwise when it is aflame it would not let you go: “Where are you going now? The test of companionship is in suffering. Now the opportunity came—and you run away. An escapist? Stop!” The house has no attachment to you; it is happy that a chance came and you left. But when fire has caught, you do not have to leave—it leaves you.

To one who sees the fire of futility—the insubstantiality of the world—he does not leave it; it leaves him. Therefore the rishi says: renouncing the world in full consciousness—that is his staff, his danda. The constant vision of Brahman is his kamandalu, his water pot—this symbol speaks.

The constant vision of Brahman is his kamandalu; and uprooting karma is his begging bowl, his jhola.

Understand this well: uprooting karma. Actions bind because we have the illusion that we are the doers. If someone thinks, “I will uproot karmas,” he will bind a new karma of uprooting karma. Karmas bind because I think I am the doer. I stole; I donated. I did this; I did that. This sense of “I,” the doer behind, binds actions to me.

Across births upon births, who knows how much sense of doing has gathered in us. We become great doers. Whereas the only doer is Paramatma. We falsely manufacture within the idea of being the doer. Then we safeguard all our actions; we keep accounts: what all I have done. That crowd gathers around us. That rubbish fills within. Because of it the truth of life is not experienced, the constant vision of the Lord is not possible.

How will these karmas be cut? What does the rishi say? They can be cut in a single moment—if with remembrance and alertness one becomes aware within: I am not the doer of my actions; all actions belong to the Divine. I am only the flute in his hands. The notes are his, the song is his—I am merely a hollow reed of bamboo.

Kabir has said: the day I knew I am but a hollow reed, that day all the fuss ended. Now let him see—let him handle the fuss. I have nothing to do with it.

When Kabir was about to die he left Kashi. People come to Kashi to die. The dead and the dying come there to die—believing that he who dies in Kashi will be born in heaven. Near Kashi is a small town, Maghar; it is believed that one who dies in Maghar becomes a donkey in hell. Kabir went to Maghar to die. Disciples, friends, loved ones tried to persuade him: “What are you doing? No one dies in Maghar! Even if by chance a man dies there, his relatives grab him and run—‘Still a few breaths are left—take him out of Maghar—otherwise he will become a donkey in hell.’” People come from afar to die in Kashi—and you lived in Kashi your whole life and at the end you go to Maghar—have you lost your mind?

Kabir said: if I die in Kashi and go to heaven, the sense of doership will catch me—“because of me.” If I die in Maghar—then wherever his will takes me. Even if he makes me a donkey in hell—his will. I will die in Maghar. And if I go to heaven, then I can say: it was your grace, your compassion. I died in Maghar; I should have become a donkey—but you took me to heaven.

Behind every action our doer stands: I am doing.

Unless karmas are eroded from the root, there is no liberation, no freedom, no ultimate flowering of consciousness. The sannyasin says: now I do nothing. Now that which he makes happen—happens. I have removed that load from my head. If I go to hell—let him see; if to heaven—let him see. If I live—fine; if I die—fine. Whatever happens, I am not behind my actions. If someone can slip away from behind action like this, not only today’s actions but the connections to actions of infinite births break.

Uprooting karmas—that is his shawl, his kantha.

And they will be uprooted only when the root is cut. The root is ego. The root is the sense of being the doer: I am doing. Even “I am meditating”—if that is caught, binding happens. “I am doing religion, praying, worshiping”—even that binds.

Omar Khayyam wrote a very lovely song. He has been deeply misunderstood. He spoke in such a way that the unwise loved it, and they put their meanings upon it. In the West, Fitzgerald translated him and ruined him. A fine translation—but his Sufi essence was lost.

In India too there are many translations—none right. How could they be? None of those translators was a Sufi. They were poets, so they rendered the song. You must have seen wine shops named Omar Khayyam—because it seemed he testifies to drink and says: drink. But Omar Khayyam was not understood.

He says: drink—because the one who pours is he. And do not fall into the illusion that you will leave drinking—what can be left without his leaving it through you? And we have heard that he is very compassionate, Rahman—very merciful. Then why should we carry the load of virtue upon our head? We will remain as we are—and present ourselves before him. If the sins of a small man like Omar Khayyam cannot be washed by his compassion—then our defamation it will not be—his compassion will be defamed.

But those who translated him spoiled it: “Drink merrily. He is merciful—drink! What will go wrong for us? Only his name will be spoiled.”

Omar Khayyam is saying something else: without him doing, what will be? We can neither hold nor drop. And when he drops, what power have we to hold? And until he holds, why this ego of “I will leave.”

Wine is just a pretext—a device for talking. Those who know say Omar Khayyam never touched wine. And yet he wrote only of wine. For Sufis wine is a symbol—symbolic in many senses. One: when drunk, one becomes so lost that one does not know one’s own being. Omar Khayyam says: the wine of the Divine is such that whoever drinks it loses his sense of being—his doer, his “I” dissolves.

Perhaps the worldwide attraction of wine is because we are so stuffed with doership that for a little while, to forget it, we have no other means than wine. Truly, only those can be saved from worldly wine who drink the Divine wine—because then there remains no doer to be forgotten.

If uprooting is to happen—cut the root, not the leaves. And the root is the ego of “I am the doer.” With what sword will you cut it? With what spade dig it? With what axe fell it?

Wherever the sense of doership arises—establish witnessing there. Wherever you feel “I am doing,” know immediately: I am not doing—only this is happening; I am seeing it.

You have fallen in love. You say, “I love very much.” But no lover has ever spoken truth—because has anyone ever done love? It happens. If you think you did it, then do it to the person we point to—do it on command. On the film stage, it is another matter. But in life you cannot do it on command. Even if it is happening a little, it will vanish at the very sound of the order.

That is why children’s love is destroyed—because we order children: “This is your mother—love her.” This is madness. If she is mother, love would already have arisen. If it has not, will it arise by command? “This is your aunt—embrace her. This is your father—touch his feet.” Poor children, compelled again and again, reach a state where they can never do anything without compulsion. Conditioning happens. “This is your wife—love; this is your husband—love.” Then the whole life: do it.

Love is an event, a happening. It is not done; it happens. If when love happens you can understand: this is happening—I am not doing—then love will not bind you as karma. You will say: I am helpless, it is beyond my hands—something is happening. Then you can become a witness, a seer. And one who becomes a seer of love can become a seer of everything—for love is a deep experience; everything else is more superficial.

Be the seer. Wherever the sense of doership thickens, bring the seer there. Slowly the root of karma will be cut, and suddenly you will find that the entire net of actions has fallen away from you as your garments fall—and you stand naked. And the day one stands naked of karmas, that day the door to the Divine opens straight. Between us and him there is the screen, the wall, of the chain of karmas.

Therefore the rishi says: uprooting actions—that is his kantha.

And finally: one who has cremated, in the cremation ground, maya, attachment, ego—he alone is anahat-angi—the being of the unstruck—whole, complete.

In this sutra the rishi completes the matter. As if one went to the cremation ground and burned all: attachment, illusion, ego. In truth, all three are expansions of ego. Ego spreads itself by attachment. Attachment is its power—by it, it makes itself big. When someone says “my son,” the circle of ego grows larger—he has included the son. “My caste”—the circle grows vast—he includes the whole caste. If someone insults his caste, it is an insult to him. If someone lowers his caste’s flag, his own flag is lowered. “My nation”—and he makes it frighteningly large. And the larger it grows, the less it is recognized—for our eyes cannot see its beginning and its end.

If I say, “I am a very great man,” immediately it is seen I am egotistical. But if I say, “Hindu dharma is great,” no one sees that I am only using a trick. I say it is great—because I am a Hindu. Islam is great—because I am a Muslim. If I were not, it would not be great. Wherever I would be, that would be great.

Mulla Nasruddin went to an assembly—arrived a little late. Great men must arrive late; only small men arrive on time; the very small arrive early. He arrived late. The hall was full; there was no path; the chairman was seated; the leader had begun his speech. Mulla wished to sit on the dais—but there was no way to reach it. So he sat by the door where people had left their shoes, and began chatting there. His talk was precious; people slowly turned towards him. The drift of the gathering changed. The chairman shouted, “Nasruddin, you are creating great disturbance. Know this: the chairman’s place is here!” Nasruddin said, “Wherever Nasruddin sits—that is the chairman’s place. If you doubt, ask the assembly—where are their faces turned? Where are their backs?”

Where one imagines oneself seated—that is always the chairman’s place. People may be mistaken—that is another matter. It does not matter where I sit—where I sit is the chairman’s seat.

Every man in this world is the center of the universe—for himself. That is the quarrel: every person is the center. Taking himself as the center, he imagines the whole creation revolves around him. The moon and stars move, the sun rises, God is in service—the whole play goes on—with you as the center.

When ego is small, it is visible. If not to you, then to your neighbor. If it becomes large, the neighbor is included—then it is not seen. The larger it grows, the less it is seen.

Therefore we have done clever tricks to make egos vast—caste, nation, religion, society—and the ego thus becomes such that it creates no trouble. I can shout, “India is the greatest nation on earth.” No one will object—at least not in India—for it is his ego too. He will say, “Absolutely right.” In Pakistan, Pakistan will be great; in China, China will be great—and all egos remain nourished.

Ego lives by the expansion of mine—of me and mine. The larger the circle of mine, the larger and safer the I becomes. So we keep expanding what is “mine.” Attachment is the name for this spreading of “mine.” The more things you can call “mine,” the more your ego is strengthened. But to call something “mine,” you first have to tint it with maya—you have to make it illusory. Without illusion, you cannot call anything “mine.”

The land upon which I stand and say “my land”—how can I say it? When I was not, it was there; when I will not be, it will be there. If the land could laugh, it would. Who knows how many have stood upon it and said “my land!” They all disappeared—land remains where it is.

If I wish to expand my “mine,” I must hypnotize myself—with illusions, where I need not see the truth, where I must erect untruths. The more lies I can erect, the more the spread of mine, the stronger my I. We are embroiled in a strange game—what webs we weave. Maya means a hypnotic illusion. As you may have seen a magician pull a plant from a bag, the plant grows, bears mangoes, he plucks one for you—though there is no plant, no mango.

Mulla Nasruddin went to meet a magician—he was on another errand, but met the magician on the way. The magician, on seeing Mulla, beat his damaru. Mulla was startled. Beating the drum, the magician pulled a plant from his bag, it grew, bore mangoes—Mulla went near. “What a wonder—magic bag! What is its price?” “First understand its secret.” The plant was set aside; the magician reached in the bag, drew a rabbit; again reached in—whatever he said, he pulled out.

“Excellent. I was going to buy some things; I’ll buy the magic bag instead. The essential things can be done later; nonessentials must not be missed. Food can be left for a day; but one cannot go without a diamond ring. The nonessential makes immediate demands; the essential can be postponed.” He was going to buy medicine for his wife. “What need of medicine now? We’ll pull it from the bag.” First he thought he would take medicine out for his wife; then the mind said, “Why not pull a new wife out? When we have a magic bag—let the old die.” He paid whatever money he had.

As he left, the magician said, “Take care—these bags are very temperamental, very moody; they are sensitive. Persuade with skill; if it gets annoyed, trouble will arise.” “I understand—such a high thing must be temperamental,” Mulla said. “Do not be hasty—go home, sit, rest.” That is, until the magician was far away.

But Mulla found it hard to reach home. On the way he became very thirsty. “What’s this temperament? Surely it can give a glass of water.” He reached in: “Dear magic bag, give me a glass of water.” Nothing came. “Ah, perhaps it prefers rabbits and mangoes—no matter—give a mango plant.” Nothing. He reached in—empty. Whatever could come out had already come out. “Very temperamental indeed! Why this annoyance? I did not utter even one harsh word. All right—give whatever you wish.” He reached in—still nothing. Great trouble—money wasted. What to do? “It must be put to some use.”

Man thinks like this: so much money wasted—at least let it be used somehow. He thought: “I have a donkey—but only the harness for its mouth is there. For this harness I must buy a donkey.” He ran to the market. The seller said, “What will you do with two donkeys?” “Where two? One donkey and its harness—and one harness and its donkey!”

Man lives with a magical bag—temperamental. Sometimes you pull and something comes; sometimes nothing. What you put in is what you get out.

What we call maya means we produce many illusions in the world and live by them. Otherwise living would be hard. Everyone carries a magic bag and keeps pulling things from it. None may believe him, but at least he believes himself. Others may not—but he trusts himself. It is hard to find a man…

I have traveled the whole country; people come and say, “What you said—fine—we understand—but how will the ordinary man understand?” I used to think: someday that “ordinary man” will come and say, “The extraordinary have understood—but I, the ordinary, do not.” He has not yet come—that ordinary man. Whenever anyone comes, an extraordinary one comes: “We understand—how will the ordinary understand?” Everyone considers all others ordinary—except himself. Others too think the same.

Each carries his magic bag and keeps pulling things out. No one accepts his—yet he accepts his own.

One day Mulla said to his wife, “Do you know how many great men there are in the world?” She said, “I know perfectly—one less than you think.” “You ruined it. I only count one—finished. No need to reduce; I think only one.” Mulla’s wife also knew who that great man was—so she subtracted one first: “Subtract yourself; any other number I will accept.”

Each lives surrounded by a web of illusion, conjuring who knows what. All that is maya—it is false. It is not; it only appears. And it appears to one eager to see it—if he were a bit careful, he would find the bag empty. There is nothing there.

The rishi says: the one who has burned his maya, his attachment, his ego… It runs in reverse order. Maya is the widest circle of our illusion. The second circle is attachment. At the center, the force is ego—the powerhouse at the center. It is the very spread of that power. One who burns maya, attachment, ego—as if on a funeral pyre—he alone is anahat-angi.

This word is wondrous: anahat-angi. It means the whole being—the one whose limbs are unstruck, unhurt—the complete person, the whole.

In English there is the word holy—it comes from whole. Holy is the whole. Sacred is the whole—he in whom no limb is wounded, no fracture.

But man does strange things. There are peoples who refuse operations of any body part—if one dies with a limb wounded! If an accident happens and a hand is broken, they preserve it—and when the man dies they unite the hand to the body so the body is whole and then bury him.

This is not the meaning. Even a lame man can be anahat-angi—even a blind man. Even if the body is not at all, one can be anahat-angi. The wholeness is not of bodily limbs. It means the inner that is unbroken, one, without fragmentation—without duality—where the feeling of fulfillment arises: “All is attained; nothing more remains.” If even the Divine stood before him and asked, “Do you want anything more?”—the anahat-angi would remain silent. He would say: what is—is more than the whole. What more can be? Nothing is needed.

Anahat-angi also means integrated. Within him there is no crowd—one can rely upon him.

We are a crowd. There is no difficulty for the clever one. If you are angry, the wise man has no concern—for it is not your whole, only one limb. There is another limb; if patted a bit, your anger will go. The other limb will come forward. However upset, sorrowful, pained you are—it can all be changed, for other parts wait within—they only need to be brought up.

Integrated means whole—one within. His word means what it means; it cannot be changed.

But even your small children change you. The child says, “Daddy, I want a toy.” You show great sternness: “No—yesterday only I bought one.” But the child knows how much your sternness is worth—how long it will last. He stands there: “I want it.” This time you look with a little fear; still you try to posture: “Listen—I said no—not possible now.” He stands there. He knows your power—after a while he will coax your other part. The third time—you say yes.

Do this once and the child knows forever—you are not one man; your word is untrustworthy; you can be changed. Stamp his feet, make noise—and you can be brought to line. Children learn dictatorial tricks; they run you. You think you run your child—big mistake. The child knows your weaknesses, where to pinch you. Even little children tell their dad: “We’ll tell mom.”

Mulla’s son asked, “Are you afraid of the lion?” “Not at all.” “Of the elephant?” “I—afraid of the elephant? Elephants fear me.” “Of snakes?” “I pick them up and throw them.” “Of mountains? Of the sea?” “Of none, my son.” “Then except for mom—you are not afraid of anyone?” “Of no one—not lion, not elephant, not snake, not mountain.”

Within you are many parts—disintegrated, separate. One part is brave; one is cowardly. As long as the brave part is on top, you speak one way; when it tires and the coward rises, you become an entirely different man.

Anahat-angi means: within whom there is no division—who is one, of one taste. The rishis say: only such an anahat-angi is possible when ego, maya and attachment are reduced to ashes. But the fire that can burn maya, attachment, ego does not burn in the cremation ground. That fire burns in the temple. That fire is lit by prayer, by meditation, by worship.

Now let us begin to light that fire.

Enough for today.