Sabai Sayane Ek Mat #3

There is an ancient tale. A very great emperor received word from a remote corner of his realm: there, the people were utterly miserable, living in hell. They were set against one another. Perpetual quarrel and conflict. People knew only one kind of pleasure: to give pain to others. Life had become impossible. Plunder, violence, arson, murder, suicide — the sky was filled with those very clouds.
The emperor pondered; then he called his minister and gave him a mirror. Some magician had gifted that mirror to the emperor. Its specialty was this: whoever looked into it would begin to see things as they are. Not as he had imagined them to be; not as he had believed in his delusions; not as his bias suggested — but as they are in themselves. He would begin to see reality. And once reality is seen, life is transformed. Whoever peeks into that mirror will never again be the same man he was until yesterday.
The minister took that magical mirror and arrived at that distant town. The minister knew the people well. The emperor had remained only in palaces. He might know the virtue of the mirror, but not the nature of people. The minister knew what the outcome would be. Yet the king’s order was to be fulfilled. He set that unique mirror up in the village square and had the drum beaten: this mirror is unique; the emperor has sent it as a gift. We are leaving the mirror here. Guard it and make use of it. Whenever your mind is seized by restlessness, disturbance, the disease of hatred — look into it. You will begin to see things exactly as they are.
As, for example, you think people are insulting you. Look in the mirror — you will find the situation reversed. No one is eager to insult you. You are asking for too much respect. At a glance in the mirror it will become visible that you have blown up your balloon of ego so large that wherever you go you are the one bumping into people. No one is eager to collide with you.
If it seems to you that people are giving you suffering — a look in the mirror will reveal that no one in this world can make anyone suffer. You find a thousand ways to arrange your suffering. Then when all the arrangements are complete, you weep, you shout, you scream. Whenever any pain, trouble, agitation arises, don’t throw the responsibility on another; first take a look in the mirror.
The proclamation was made. The minister stayed a few days to see what would happen. He already knew what would happen.
There was a class in the village — of pundits, maulvis, shastris, the learned, the so‑called knowers. They said, things already appear to us as they are. Why should we look in this mirror? Are we so foolish that things do not appear in their reality to us? Are we mad? What have we been doing in the sun till now — warming our heads for nothing? Let those go to that mirror who don’t trust their own intelligence. We do. Not only did they themselves refuse to go, they spread the rumor in the village that no one should go. They announced that only madmen would go. The mirror may be wonderful, but it is only useful for the insane — for the sick. We are healthy. And to us things already appear in their reality. What is the purpose of the mirror?
A second class was of simple folk — but cowards. They said, whether we look or not, the emperor has sent it; at least we should show respect. So they prepared a small pavilion and decorated it with garlands. Although they took care that while placing the garlands, lighting the lamps and incense, their faces would not by mistake be reflected in the mirror. Because who knows — it may be true! Then everything would be thrown into disorder. Life is bound into a mold; if something else begins to appear, we will be nowhere. There is a certain safety in the fixed flow of life. The coward is afraid to change it. So they worshiped it, from fear that if by some slip their faces were reflected revolution would ensue. They even hung a costly velvet curtain over the mirror. Outwardly they said this was to honor the mirror, to worship it. But deep down it was a preparation for safety.
There was a third class in the village who not only opposed the mirror, they spread the rumor that this mirror is an insult to us. In no other town is such a mirror; only to our town has the emperor sent it. This is a terrible affront. It means — we are mad, stupid; we see things wrongly; we have no eyes; we are blind! Uproot this mirror and throw it away. We will not let it remain here.
There was also a fourth class, very small people — like Doctor Phannise, Swabhav, Sohan, Pungliya, Bagmar; a few such people. They gathered courage and peeped into the mirror — they were transformed. So people said, they have been hypnotized. They have been put under a spell. People began to avoid them just as they avoided the mirror. Because some quality of the mirror had entered into them too. Whoever looked into their eyes also began to see things as they are.
In the end people destroyed the mirror, because it was too great a disturbance. Not only did they destroy the mirror, they made the lives of those who had looked into it unbearable. And not only enemies — even those of their own households did it, their family members, because now it had become difficult to tolerate their eyes.
Such is the story of all religions. Every religion brings a mirror into your town. And every religion tries that you may see in that mirror as truth is. And these are the reactions man produces.
Cowardly worship will be of no use. Worship has no kinship with cowardice. Worship is audacity. Because worship is the readiness to change oneself. Worship is to enter revolution — to throw gold into the fire so that it may be refined.
And whoever moves toward revolution will have to efface himself. Bit by bit, he will have to die. Because between you and reality no one stands except you. Your fixed mental notions, prejudices, scriptures, doctrines — Hindu, Mohammedan, Jain, Christian — all will stop you. They will say, you already know! What is left to know? Then vigilance will be necessary.
If you already knew — keep one touchstone always: he who knows will be blissful. Knowledge has no other meaning. That which does not lead to bliss is not knowledge. It cannot be. What name shall we give to food that does not satisfy hunger? It will be talk of food, not food. The whole culinary science may be in your hand, still you will remain hungry. Have cookbooks ever satisfied hunger? Dry, coarse bread does. A most precious cookbook, bound in gold, studded with diamonds — of no use whatsoever. It has nothing to do with hunger being stilled.
Your Vedas, your Gitas, your Quran — they are cookbooks. Very precious perhaps; great recipes are written in them. But you worship them. And you have hung velvet curtains upon them too, so that by some little slip you may not catch even a glimpse of yourself.
Whenever a religion is born, in the beginning it is a mirror. When a saint appears, he is a mirror. You must look into that mirror — only then! Before you look, you will have to gather courage. Before you look, you must settle this within: that you do not know.
The Sufis say: the person in whom the thought arises that I do not know — he has reached the door. The one who believes he knows passes by the mirror with closed eyes. Because why should he look into the mirror?
And if you remain engaged in defending your way of life — though it has given you sorrow, pain, hell — still you have become accustomed to it. A prisoner becomes accustomed even to his chains. He does not wish to drop them.
A sick man clings even to his illness. It becomes familiar, an old relationship. If suddenly today the illness leaves, you will not understand what to do now. Until yesterday there was a whole plan: in the morning go to the doctor, bring the medicine, take the medicine, lie down, talk to people about your suffering, gather people’s sympathy; all friends, acquaintances, strangers would express love — there was a structure. Today suddenly the illness is gone. Today there is no going to the doctor, no buying medicine; today the wife does not appear to love as much, nor do friends seem as compassionate. The world suddenly appears dry and tasteless, a desert has spread. Till yesterday there was greenery. With the illness a deep connection had formed. Now you will not want to leave it.
Nor do you want to leave your sorrow. Saints simply say: drop the sorrow; bliss is already given. Drop the false; the true is already available. Only let the false not be in your hand and the true will be in your hand. Let the false not be in your eye and the true will come into your eye. That is the mirror.
These words of Dadu can change your life. A mirror is hidden in them. Try to understand these sayings carefully. And try to understand as if you know nothing; only then will you be able to understand. It is the misfortune of the knowers — they do not understand. They are stuffed with knowing before they know. Put aside the knowing. Listen simply, as small children listen.
“Jeevat mati hui rahai, saain sanmukh hoi.”
He who dares to stand before Paramatma will become dust while still alive.
Many set out in search of Paramatma, but the capacity to be dust while living arises only rarely in a few. That is why many seek, and very few find. It is no fault of Paramatma. Until you dissolve, there is no space for Him with you. You yourself are so badly crammed into your inner home that there is no place, no emptiness for Paramatma to enter. You have not left even a drop of room there.
Your condition is like this — I have heard of a pundit of Mathura; his fame was great regarding food. Once he was invited to a home; after eating — he kept on eating — he had to be sent back on a bullock cart. He was in no condition to walk. When he reached home his wife said, take this pill, a medicine; you have ruined yourself. He opened his eyes and said, foolish woman! If there had been room for a pill, I would have eaten one more laddoo. There is no room left.
Such is your state. If there were room for Paramatma, you would have purchased a little more furniture, piled up a little more money, collected a few more certificates of rank and prestige. You would have filled in a little more rubbish. There is no room. You have left none. And until within you there is a space that becomes vast as the sky, Paramatma cannot come.
You call the Vast — you will have to become the Void. You call the Infinite — you will have to condense boundless Shunyata within. Meditation is nothing else, Samadhi is nothing else — it is the name of your disappearing. You will not do a little meditation — you will vanish, and meditation will happen. You will not become established in Samadhi — you will be lost, and Samadhi will be. There can never be a meeting between you and Samadhi. Where you remain, Samadhi cannot come. The whole meaning of Samadhi is that within you an empty, void space has appeared. Now there is nothing within you. In that emptiness, in that purity, in that virginity, Paramatma descends.
“Jeevat mati hui rahai, saain sanmukh hoi.”
He who comes before Paramatma becomes dust while living. Or: he who becomes dust while living — Paramatma comes before him. Two sides of the same coin. Become dust while alive! Don’t bother about Paramatma. Die while living.
Understand these words well. In these small words the whole art of religion is contained: die before you die. All die — if not today, then tomorrow. The devotee dies before dying. He says, when death is certain, why wait for it? I myself choose to dissolve.
“Jeevat mati hui rahai...”
He lives in the sense that breath goes on. He dies in the sense that the feeling of I is no more. He lives in the sense that hunger happens, thirst happens; he asks for food, he drinks water. He dies in the sense that the craving to live remains no more. Your very lust to live, the jiveshna — let me go on living, forever living, let me remain, let me not disappear or be lost — that life he leaves.
He goes on living if Paramatma keeps him alive, if breath goes on. The saint does not commit suicide. He says: Thy will. If You keep me alive, good; if You kill, good. On my side I am already dead. I have erased myself from my side — now as You wish.
“Jeevat mati hui rahai, saain sanmukh hoi.
Dadu pehli mari rahai, pichhe to sab koi.”
Dadu says, die first. Later, everyone dies.
“Dadu pehli mari rahai, pichhe to sab koi.”
Everyone dies later. The religious one dies beforehand. He does not trouble death either. He gathers himself before. He does not inflate himself. He does not construct himself. He does not defend himself. He begins to live an inner void. The body remains, the mind does not. Breath moves, but there is no mover. Rising and sitting happen, but the inner doer is lost.
All these acts proceed by nature. They need no one to run them.
You do not take breath, breath goes on. Even if you do nothing, it goes on. In deep sleep it goes on. When you are unconscious, it goes on. You have drunk and fallen in the gutter — it goes on. You have no hand in running it.
So that which goes on by itself goes on. Hunger arises, thirst arises.
The Zen sages have said again and again: whenever they were asked, after attaining Nirvana, after becoming established in Samadhi, what do you do now? They replied: when hungry, we eat; when thirsty, we drink; when sleep comes, we sleep. Nothing else. We do nothing from our side. That which happens by nature is right.
“Dadu pehli mari rahai, pichhe to sab koi.”
This is the difference between the religious and the irreligious. The irreligious, even when death comes, is not willing to die. He fights; he tries in every way to delay a little. The boat has come to the shore, even then he clings to the bank. He has to be taken by force.
The messengers of Yama do not come because of death; they come because of your clinging. In the whole world there are stories that at the time of dying God has to send people — very fierce types, very strong wrestlers, riding on buffaloes. They come not because of death, but because of your obstinate insistence on staying. If you are willing to go, the story is entirely different. No messengers of Yama come at all. If you see deeply you will understand that even death does not come. Because you have already done that work yourself. The work of dying is already completed. You go like a gust of wind. No one carries you off.
One of Buddha’s names is Tathagata. Tathagata means one who has gone like a breeze. It was never noticed when he came, never noticed when he went. In whose going there was not even a ripple of noise; he went silently — not a whisper of news. No messengers of Yama snatched Buddha away from the world; he had already left it.
A Buddha is like someone who has broken all the ropes tying the boat to the shore and stands waiting for the ferry. The boat comes — he steps in. The ordinary worldly man, on seeing the boat of death approach, hammers even more pegs into the bank. He binds his hands and feet as well. In every way he holds himself down. He calls all his friends and dear ones: hold me from every side, so that I cannot go... He is carried off. His death becomes a ridiculous event. His death becomes an ugly act.
And remember — he who cannot even die peacefully will not have lived peacefully. For death is the great peace. It is the ultimate rest. The tired elements return to their source — nothing else. The body is tired; for seventy years it has worked, an awfully long journey, an arduous ascent. The heart has kept beating, breath has kept moving; the blood has kept purifying for seventy, eighty years. Without any special arrangements this great mechanism has worked. It is worn. Its elements now want to return. Earth wants to rest in earth, water in water, the sky to dissolve in sky. Death is rest. As sleep is rest after the day, so after each life there is the night of death — to lie down and sleep. Who is afraid of rest?
The ignorant writhes — I will die. He dies in turmoil. He who dies in turmoil could not have lived in peace. One whose sleep is restless — his waking will be deeply restless. Death is the touchstone. How you die will give the verdict on your whole life. Death will speak the statement on your life — how you lived.
He who lived in bliss will die in bliss — in great bliss. He who lived in love will dissolve in love. He who danced in gratitude will take his leave dancing. There will be no struggle. Not even for a moment will there be the desire to be saved. He himself will be ready. The messengers of Yama will not drag him; he will board the boat on his own.
There was a Zen sage, Bokuju. When he began to die he sent word to all: today I will die. Friends, disciples, lovers gathered — a crowd of thousands. Bokuju came out of his prayer hut and proceeded toward the cremation ground. People said, where are you going? He said, I will not prefer to go on someone’s shoulder. I can still walk. It is not my way.
He is the only man in the whole history of the world who went to the burning ghat, dug his own grave, lay down, and died. He lay down and became silent. He did not allow anyone else to dig his grave. He said, what a thing to ask others to do! While I am alive I will do everything myself. Let it not be said that I was carried away. I went! I am a follower of that Buddha whose name is Tathagata — who went like that.
He went even more beautifully than Buddha. The story of his going is unique. He went with his own hands. And he who goes into death in this way — dancing, laughing, when the morning sun has opened the flowers and birds are singing — one who goes with such a welcome, with such simplicity — he must have lived with the same simplicity. For death is the essence. The attar distilled from all the flowers of life.
If the flowers of life have been foul, bitter, stinking, then death cannot be fragrant. If through life you have cultivated flowers — beautiful flowers, filled with beauty and fragrance — then in death there will be a fragrance. The person will be gone, the fragrance will float on.
That is why a Buddha dies, and the fragrance keeps drifting. Buddha is lost, but the song of Buddha continues to resound. It will go on resounding. There is no way to annihilate it.
“Dadu pehli mari rahai, pichhe to sab koi.”
“Dadu mera bairi main muwa, mujhe na marai koi.
Main hi mujhko marta, main marjiva hoi.”
Dadu says, my enemy is me — I died!
No one else kills me.
Mahavira has said, you are your friend and you are your foe. Those who are their own enemies are worldly; those who are their own friends are religious. You collect rubbish and sell your Atman. You live in anger, hatred, enmity; love, bliss, gratitude, compassion vanish. How will you call yourself your own friend?
No one else has killed you; no one else has robbed you. You have been cutting yourself, poisoning yourself. If there are wounds in your life, they bear your signature. And if there are dense clouds of pains in your heart, you have earned them through births upon births. What you are is the fruit of your own acts.
“Dadu mera bairi main muwa...
...mujhe na marai koi.”
I myself am my own enemy.
No one kills me! Now this is a very subtle point. Dadu says, death does not kill you; the lust to go on living kills you.
That is why I told you the story of the mirror — so that you begin to see the fact. You think death comes and kills you. No — the more you clutch at life, the more death comes in measure to that clutching. The tighter your grip on life, the more forcefully the messengers of death have to free you from life. If you have no grip at all — none — death does not come. At the time of death most people become unconscious because there is a great tug‑of‑war. Only a saint dies in awareness because there is nothing to tug about.
The truth is, those who have lived rightly die rightly. In the last moment their awareness is at its peak, at its ultimate climax. As the flame leaps high before going out, so in their life the essence of all awareness gathers. In the moment of death, when all else is dying, the immortal flame within burns with profound intensity.
This is fitting. For in opposition things become distinct. Until now you were mixed with the body — there was no distance. Now the body is falling away; consciousness is withdrawing; the mixture is breaking. In this moment awareness becomes complete. In this moment consciousness becomes pure. Not a speck of the body’s shadow remains upon it. Not a flicker of the mind’s thought distorts it. The mirror becomes absolutely pure.
In the moment of death, the saint — who has already killed himself, renounced ego — attains a very profound light. He experiences: I am life, how can there be death? Then he sees: death is happening around me, not in me. It is happening near me, not in me.
You will see: it is happening within you. Because you do not know yourself. And what you have taken as your self is only a false notion — of ego, of name and form, of maya.
“Dadu mera bairi main muwa, mujhe na marai koi.”
This will seem inverted, paradoxical — but understand it.
If you desire great honor, you will be insulted. If you desire excessive success, you will meet failure. If you want to be very rich, you will die poor. If you long to be an emperor, beggary will be your fate. Whatever you desire in excess, the reverse will be the result.
Therefore Lao Tzu says: the wise do not join the race of success at all. You cannot defeat them. They already stand at the back. You cannot throw them down. They ask for nothing. You cannot snatch anything from them.
What Lao Tzu is saying is the distilled essence of all religion. If you would be saved — do not try to save yourself.
Jesus said: save yourself, and you will be lost. Lose yourself, and you will be saved.
Religion must speak the language of paradox. Your life lives in such darkness that in no other way can the message be conveyed. Even a straight thing has to be sent slant, for you live crookedly. Lao Tzu said again and again: my words are simple and straight, but they seem crooked — because you are crooked. Entering you, they become crooked.
Now this is a simple thing: if you do not desire honor at all, can anyone insult you? How? If you do not desire success, can you fail? How? If you have not desired to win at all, can anyone defeat you? It is your own craving to win that defeats you. And your excessive craving to live kills you. Because of your clutching you must be pried loose.
“...mujhe na marai koi.
Main hi mujhko marta, main marjiva hoi.”
I myself kill myself; and if I so choose, I can attain the deathless — mar‑jiva, one who dies and yet lives. The word marjiva is beautiful: I die in one sense and yet I remain living.
“Main hi mujhko marta, main marjiva hoi.”
I will die, and yet I will not die. Because I will remain awake and see that I am. The purity of my being will grow, not diminish. He who is willing to die attains the nectar. The art of attaining the nectar is: be willing to die of your own accord. All die.
“Dadu pehli mari rahai, pichhe to sab koi.”
All die — unwillingly. In meditation, in Samadhi, one dies willingly. He lets go. He becomes a marjiva.
“Standing before me stands I...
In front of me I myself stand — therefore You remain hidden.”
In front of me I stand, thus You are concealed; otherwise You are right here.
“Standing before me stands I, therefore You remain hidden.
Dadu — the Beloved is manifest; only let this ‘I’ be gone.”
The Beloved is forever manifest; only let this little ‘I’ move aside, this my being be removed. This grip of mine — this proclamation of ego that I am — let this be gone.
“Standing before me stands I...”
Let these words resound within you like a mantra. Sometimes, in solitary moments, repeat them like a mantra, so that you may taste them. Less a matter of understanding — more a matter of savoring. So that their sweetness enters your throat, goes into your heart, permeates your blood, flesh, marrow.
“Standing before me stands I; therefore You remain hidden.
Dadu — the Beloved is manifest, if only this self departs.”
Just a little — let me move out from between. Who is stopping you? Paramatma is everywhere, in every particle, in every ripple of breeze. From all sides He surrounds you. Inside and outside — He alone appears, He alone sees. There is nothing other than Him. What could be more manifest than That? For whatever is manifest is He. Still people ask — where is God? Still people search in Kashi and in Kaba — where is God?
The moment you set out to search for God, you have taken the wrong turn. You have already accepted the fundamental mistake — that He is not here. There the blunder happened. Wherever you are, there will be the “here.” If you could not see Him here — not in these trees, not in these stones, not in these people — you ask, where is God? If you go to Kashi, there will be other people, other trees, other rocks — but upon arriving there they will become your surrounding atmosphere. Kashi will become “here,” Kaba will become “here.” Wherever you go, there will be “here.” If He is not seen here, He will be seen nowhere.
He who sets out to find God never finds Him. Because he has accepted the basic mistake — that He is not here. The arithmetic has gone wrong at the outset; hence it can never be right later. If you have ever done mathematics, the first step needs utmost care — the last conclusion depends on it. The first step is half the journey. Miss there — you can never arrive at the right place.
Only Brahman is. He is not seen here — obviously there is some veil over your eyes. The tree is seen, Brahman is not seen. The rock is seen, Brahman is not seen. I am seen by you, Brahman is not seen. Your neighbor is seen, Brahman is not seen. There is a veil over the eye. The point is to remove the veil — not to search for God. The veil must be very subtle, because your eyes appear open. But some faint mist is there, like a dream clinging to your eyes.
In Russia they have, in the last decades, conducted an experiment. They produced sleep by electricity. They made very expensive instruments. For half an hour they sent electrical waves into the brain. Even the most difficult patients of insomnia, after half an hour, would fall into a very deep sleep. So deep that for eight hours there would not be even a fragment of dream. It was deeper than ordinary sleep, because in ordinary sleep at least eight dreams occur — dreams run at least eight times. Dreamless sleep is very little; altogether, not more than an hour and a half in eight hours. The rest is dreaming. But this was eight full hours of deep sleep.
But a very strange fact came to light. After eight or ten days of such treatment for insomnia, a new phenomenon occurred — the patient began to dream with open eyes. He would walk and see dreams. A haze would come upon the road. His eyes were open — he could see the bus coming — and in between the dream would stand.
Then the scientists reached the conclusion: dreaming too is a deep need of the body. Because of induced sleep the dream could not come at night. Yet the dream is also needed. Without it one becomes insane. It must be allowed. It is the outlet of your madness, a safety valve.
As in a railway engine, if the steam becomes too much, there is a valve to let it out. As on a cooker there is a valve; if the steam is too high the valve whistles and steam escapes.
Within man there is so much restlessness that the dream lets the steam out. If it cannot, man will go mad. You think you are driven mad by dreams. You are mistaken. Dreaming is saving you — otherwise you would have been mad long ago. For in dreams your madness is released. You can kill, you can murder, you can climb mountains, you can fly in the sky — whatever madness you want to do, you do it in dreams, and you feel relief. Only a Buddha has no dreams, because no madness remains — the dream is no longer needed.
The Russian experiments astonished the scientists. The experiment was dangerous. It had to be stopped. Sleeplessness was not so dangerous. But if dreams begin while walking on the road, or while working in a shop, or while you are driving a car — then it is perilous. And that dream cannot be stopped. It comes even with open eyes. Thus, although reality is outside, in between a wall of dream stands.
Ego is such a wall of dream. It is not visible — transparent, like glass, pure glass. It is not seen, and yet it is constantly across your eyes. Whenever you see anything, your I stands within and looks. You look at a flower — the I comes in between. Your mind and its thoughts stand between. A distance is created between you and the flower.
You will actually see the flower only on the day when between you and the flower there is no current of thought; when there is no feeling of I. You will be — but there will be no I. A void, a silent deep lake upon which not a ripple arises. A formless sky! In that moment you will see Brahman in the flower. Brahman is the depth of reality. The more silent you become, the more depth is revealed.
“Standing before me stands I; therefore You remain hidden.”
Hence Dadu says: we do not say that You are hidden. It is I who have hidden You. I have stood in front of You and now I cry and shout that I do not get Your vision. With closed eyes I cry and shout that You are not seen. I ask people for proof that God is.
No proof is possible. As long as the veil of I is over your eyes, no proof can establish that God is. Because God can be established only by experience. It is like this: after fever your sense of taste is lost. Have you noticed — after fever, whatever you eat seems tasteless. There is a film between your tongue and the food. A thin layer has formed — of fever, of sickness. The sensory atoms of your tongue are tired, dejected, without enthusiasm. You swallow the food, but taste does not come.
As taste is hidden in food, so Paramatma is hidden in everything. But the capacity to taste is needed. When you become healthy within, the capacity to taste returns. Then even simple dry bread tastes delicious. Otherwise, the most precious sweetmeats can be thrown inside you like garbage — but taste will not arise.
Your inner health alone creates the possibility of taste. When within you are in rhythm, then you begin to hear the music outside. The more your inner rhythm grows, the deeper you descend into existence. In every leaf there is an ocean of life. In every stone there is an ocean of life.
“Standing before me stands I; therefore You remain hidden.”
This is the mood of the religious person. He does not say that You are hidden. You must have heard pundits explain: God is invisible. Nothing could be more false. God and invisible? Then what would be visible? God is visible. In truth, only God is visible. All that is visible is of God. He alone appears in countless forms. Do not call Him invisible — there the mistake begins. Say only this: there is a veil over my eye.
Dadu does not make that mistake. He is an unlettered man, he knows nothing of scriptures, but he has grasped the pulse of life, the key of life has come into his hand.
“Standing before me stands I; therefore You remain hidden.
Dadu — the Beloved is manifest, if only this self departs.”
It is only this much: let my being be gone — You are manifest. Over You I am the curtain; over You there is no curtain.
“Dadu — hide this self where no one can see.”
Hide this I in such a place that no one at all can see it. This is symbolic. Dadu is saying — annihilate this I. Because wherever you hide it, someone will see it.
A Sufi story. Two youths came to a master for initiation. The Sufi said, initiation later — first a test. Here are two pigeons; take one each. Go kill the pigeon in a place where no one sees you.
The first youth returned — perhaps not even a minute had passed — having killed the pigeon. The master asked, you have killed it? So quickly you found a place where no one sees?
He said, in the side alley there was no one. I went, killed it, came back.
The second youth did not return for months. When a year was nearly over, he came — distraught, exhausted, but with a new light in his eyes. He was skin and bone, but something had happened. The master recognized it by the lamps burning in his eyes. The pigeon was still alive. The master said, ah! After a year you return — and did not kill the pigeon?
He said, I could not find such a place. I looked hard. I left the crowd and the marketplace, I went into the solitary forest. There too I saw: birds — and the birds were seeing. I went into a dark cave; there was dense darkness, no one could see. As I placed my hand upon the pigeon’s neck, it occurred to me — but I am seeing! Then I tried a device — with both hands behind my back I tried to kill it somewhere I could not see. Then it occurred to me — at least the pigeon will see! Then I was in difficulty. Having done everything I returned. You have set an impossible task — where no one sees! The pigeon will at least see. Then I was defeated. I said, now it cannot be done. I saved my self, I withdrew from the whole world, I went into dense darkness, I searched caves, I arranged everything — but what arrangement can I make for this? The pigeon — its eyes are staring! And you had said, where no one sees.
Dadu means the same:
“Dadu — hide this self where no one can see.”
But where will you hide it? At least you will know where you have hidden it. You will keep seeing it. If no one else sees, the pigeon will. You will. Thus Dadu says, hiding will not do. You will have to annihilate it — make it a zero.
“Dadu — hide this self where no one can see.
Behold the Beloved and show Him — thus and thus bliss grows.”
And as you begin to hide it where no one sees — to the extent that it is hidden, lost, dissolved, to the extent that witnesses of it are no more — to that extent the Beloved begins to be revealed.
“Behold the Beloved and show Him...”
Then behold with delight — and show others with delight. And —
“...thus and thus bliss grows.”
Bliss goes on growing.
Understand it thus: the measure of your ego is the measure of hell, the measure of sorrow. If you are very miserable, know well you are very egoistic. For there is no other meaning. To the extent you are blissful, to that extent you are egoless. Bliss cannot be directly increased or decreased. Decrease or increase the measure of ego. As ego decreases, bliss increases. Because the same energy that was entangled in ego is freed. As ego increases, bliss decreases. The very energy that gives bliss gets locked in ego. It is a play of one energy. Therefore in defining Brahman we have placed bliss — Sat‑Chit‑Ananda. The last word in the world of Brahman is Ananda. That is why Ananda is said last — Sat, Chit, Ananda. Beyond that there is nothing more.
And the greatest sin is ego; the greatest sorrow and hell. No flower of bliss can bloom there. Only thorns of pain. A desert! Where not even a little oasis is found to rest for a while. Heat and glare, rush and strain, affliction and anguish! The quintessence of life — a nothing. Only ashes remain in the hand.
Dadu says:
“Where no one sees — Dadu, hide yourself.”
We do the opposite, hence we are miserable. Our single longing in life is that everyone should see us. That the self may be known to the whole world. We keep trying that a great post be available to the ego, so we may stand upon a high place. A hundred thousand were seeing — let a million see. A higher post — let ten million see. Let there be much wealth — let people see. Let there be name, reputation, character, renunciation — let people see. But behind everything there is one thought — that this ego may gain universal approval, the whole world may become witness to it. Then we fall into hell, then we weep. Because this is the very arrangement that creates hell.
“Dadu — hide yourself where no one sees.
Behold the Beloved and show Him — thus and thus bliss grows.”
And as soon as you become capable of hiding it — hiding means dissolving, because otherwise it cannot be hidden — your condition will be like that of the second youth. In the end you will come to Dadu and say, what a game! Hiding does not work, it must be annihilated. Because even if there remains a single witness, it flickers on — it is not extinguished. Where its witnesses are lost, there its flame dies out. There the oil ends.
That is why the effort with which you keep filling the oil of ego’s lamp is only one — that more people should know who you are, how great, how learned, how virtuous, how of character, how renounced, how religious.
Even in the temple a man prays — if no one is there, he prays slowly, finishes quickly and leaves. If there is a crowd, people are watching, then he becomes very devotional, prays loudly and long. Because there is little to do with God! That prayer is a device to gain respect in society. And respect is such a dangerous thing that you are willing to do anything for it.
There is a story by Andersen. There was an emperor, obsessed with respect. He was mad. The kingdom was vast, yet his restlessness had no end. Still there were boundaries he had not crossed; there were more kingdoms. He would take out grand parades, wear gigantic crowns, live in great finery, change clothes ten times a day, arrange everything. He had a throne built that did not touch the ground. There were mechanisms behind it so that as soon as he sat the throne rose up. His fame spread over the world that the moment he sat the throne rose. The throne was high because of him, not he because of the throne. On the first day of the year, when the armies paraded, he had arranged — he invited all emperors; and had arranged this: the armies were not very large, but large enough that they kept passing along the road before the palace, and the same soldiers kept re‑entering from behind.
Many emperors have done this. It is a story, but it is true. Roman emperors did it; Hitler and Stalin did it. Those pictures you have seen of Red Square — great soldiers marching, heavy artillery, tanks — they all return from behind. The spectators stand in front and the procession goes on and on. There is no end. Evening comes and they have to stop midway; for there are so many troops and so much hardware. This is especially to show the foreign ambassadors: carry home the message — do not mess with us; the power is immense.
One day a trickster came to that emperor and said, your clothes are good, but they are not divine. These are ordinary clothes — all emperors wear them — they are not worthy of you. A man like you has never been.
The emperor said, then tell me the way — do not delay. Where will I get divine clothes?
He said, I will have to go up to heaven — but it will be done. I have my comings and goings there, relationships. There is the relationship called bribery. All the leaders of India who have died have become ‘late’ and heavenly — they are all there. Give and take will work; do not worry.
The emperor asked, how much will it cost?
He said, crores. Do not even speak of cost — this affair is not cheap. For the first time clothes of heaven will come to earth.
He said, do not worry. Take as much as you want. But see — do not try to cheat me.
He said, there is no need. I will not even go out of the palace. I will meditate here. Give me a room. For to go there one does not go with this gross body. The subtle body! With eyes closed I will sit here. You will not even notice when my subtle body has gone and returned.
The emperor said, do it.
Crores were given. He asked for six months. After six months he arrived with a very beautiful wooden chest in the court. He had taken many crores in the meantime. The emperor sometimes felt doubt, but there was no reason to doubt. The man was in the palace. He could not run away; there were guards all around. He could not cheat — so thought the emperor. He did not know.
The man came and said to the emperor, the clothes have arrived — but I must tell you one thing in your ear. The gods have said it must be told. In his ear he said: these clothes are no ordinary clothes — not of earth. They are subtle, invisible garments. They cannot be seen. They are visible only to those born of their own father. Whoever is of dubious birth will not see them.
The emperor said, fine — though a little worried.
He said, please hand me each item. He took the turban; he put his hand inside the chest. The real turban he slipped inside, for that too was precious — he did not want to leave it. From inside he brought his hand out so carefully as if bringing a turban — and placed it on the emperor’s head. There was nothing in his hand. The emperor did not see the turban, nor feel its weight on his head — but if he were to say it was not visible, he would be ruined; his father’s honor would be gone. And the courtiers too were told: look here, this is the rule. Only a few will see it — those born of their own father. Not everyone will. Whoever does not see, raise your hand.
Who would raise his hand? People came forward praising: never have we seen such a turban! Unique! Rainbows are woven into it!
In this way he took each garment. The emperor stood naked. The courtiers could see he was naked. The emperor also saw he was naked. Yet none could speak. All praised the clothes.
He said, now let the procession begin. Millions are gathered in the capital. Such an event has never happened; nor will it ever happen again.
The emperor began to be afraid. For a moment he felt like saying, what is this stupidity! But it was dangerous. And all could see, so he began to suspect that perhaps he alone could not see. Each one suspected the same — perhaps I alone cannot see. The rest were praising so much — it must be visible. And people praised more and more. Lest anyone suspect — why are you standing silent? Not saying anything? Is there danger? You do not see?
The procession began. Throughout the town the drum was beaten. The emperor stood naked upon the chariot and people praised the garments.
It is said, only a small child, whom his father had brought upon his shoulders, said to his father: papa, the king is naked. The father said, hush, silly boy! When you are older you too will see the clothes. They are visible through experience. And do not utter such words again. Only the small child spoke the truth — and he was silenced. He too was told: when you grow up, when you become wise, then you too will see the clothes. These garments are visible through experience.
Ego is a false garment. However much you adorn yourself in it, you stand naked. But others support you because they demand your support. The wife tells the husband, you are almighty; there is no man like you. The husband tells the wife, you are supremely beautiful; there is no woman like you. We praise each other’s clothes that are not there. For if I want you to praise me, I must praise you. If I want you to adorn my ego, I must adorn yours. It is mutual give and take. And because of this ego that which is, is not seen; and that which is not, is seen.
Ego is not — it is the false garment of Andersen’s story — yet it appears. And Paramatma is, yet He does not appear. Those whose eyes are filled with what is not will not see what is.
“Dadu — hide yourself where no one sees.
Behold the Beloved and show Him — thus and thus bliss grows.”
“Dadu — when the Beloved is the cause, flesh becomes water, blood becomes water.”
He who sets out to attain that Paramatma, that supreme treasure — all these small pebbles drop. Flesh and blood become like water.
“The flour of bone dries up — Dadu, only then He is found.”
When even the marrow within the bones dries, only then the meeting with Paramatma happens.
The path is arduous. The journey is difficult. The sages have said: the edge of a sword. Because as you begin to be transformed you will encounter difficulty. Society will not change with you. You will be left alone; you will become a stranger — a foreigner among your own. People will begin to suspect you. You are becoming true — you will appear false to them, for the crowd is false. Bliss is entering your life — they will think you are going mad. Light is descending into your life — they will think you have been hypnotized. Peace is settling — they will laugh. For by laughter they protect themselves. They will mock you, for ridicule is their defense. Although the crowd is theirs, the majority is theirs — so whatever they say will have the strength of numbers behind it. You will be alone.
To be alone in this world is a very difficult task. The journey is solitary. Rabindranath has sung: walk alone. On this path two cannot walk together. You must walk alone — insecure, unaided.
But remember: once you gather courage to step out of the crowd’s foolishness, the strength of Paramatma is with you. That strength is strength indeed! The crowd’s strength is a deception. For this it is better that you become weak. The sages say: the strength of the weak is Ram. Here, the moment you become weak, there you receive the strength of Paramatma.
Enough for today.