Sahaj Samadhi Bhali #17

Rabia is one of those very few women—countable on the fingers—who attained Buddhahood. Among men, many attained it; among women the number is small. That’s why Rabia’s every movement, every word, is precious. And this small dialogue gives news of her Buddhahood.

There are three planes of a fakir; three stations of fakiri. First, let us understand the ordinary person, then these three states will be clear. In this story the three fakirs represent the three states. What is the condition, the mood, of the ordinary man?

The ordinary man—when suffering comes into his life—complains; when happiness comes, he doesn’t give thanks. When suffering arrives he says, “Something has gone wrong. God is displeased. Fate is against me.” And when happiness arrives he says, “This is my victory.”

Mulla Nasruddin once went to a fair with his students. There a gambling game was going on: people were shooting arrows at a target; if they hit the mark, they got ten times their stake; if they missed, they lost their stake.

Nasruddin arrived with his students, adjusted his cap, picked up the bow and arrow, placed a bet, and loosed his first arrow. It didn’t even reach the target—fell ten or fifteen feet short. People laughed. Nasruddin told his students, “Don’t mind these fools laughing. Now I’ll explain to you why the arrow fell.” Everyone was startled, even the bookie forgot his business. Nasruddin said, “Look, that was the arrow of a soldier who has no trust in his soul, no self-confidence. He never reaches the goal; he falls short. Now watch the second arrow.”

All grew curious. He set the second arrow and shot swiftly. This time it flew far beyond the target. People didn’t laugh. Nasruddin said, “See, this is the arrow of a man overfilled with self-confidence.”

Then he took the third arrow, and by chance it struck the bull’s-eye. Nasruddin went and collected his winnings. People whispered, “And whose arrow is this one?” Nasruddin said, “This is my arrow. The first belonged to the soldier without self-confidence. The second, to the soldier with too much self-confidence. And the third, which hit the mark, is mine.”

This is the ordinary mentality: when the arrow hits, it’s yours; when it misses, someone else is responsible. And if you can’t find anyone to blame in the visible world, then God is responsible! As long as you can find someone in the visible world, you dump your suffering on them. If none appears, you still won’t carry the load yourself—you put it on God. He carries your burden, your sorrow, on his shoulders.

You have covered God with your miseries. If he doesn’t seem visible, perhaps all have piled so many miseries onto him that he is buried; it’s hard to find him.

We ordinary folk complain; we never give thanks. In happiness we swell the ego; in sorrow we complain to God.

This is the worldly person’s condition. A step above is the fakir, the sannyasin, who accepts suffering; he doesn’t complain. But even in acceptance, sorrow is still sorrow. You’ve accepted it unwillingly; you are not filled with a sense of gratitude. You would have preferred it not to happen—but if it happened, okay; God’s will. Yet there is helplessness underneath. No deep thankfulness rises from your heart; outwardly you don’t complain, but inside the complaint remains suppressed.

Say as much as you like that you have no complaint, but your eyes, your very presence, will say you do. You are saying, “The thing is bad; it would have been better if it hadn’t happened. Now that it has, I accept.” This acceptance is partial, superficial. Deep within it has no existence. If you look honestly, you will find a “no” hidden within. You’ve used acceptance to repress that no. Because when acceptance happens—without any inner no—the flower of life opens. When acceptance happens utterly, you arrive at the place beyond which there is nowhere to go.

That’s why you won’t see fakirs angry, but you will see them sad. You won’t see monks furious, but you’ll see them dejected. Anger is the worldly man’s mark—he is complaining. His sadness he throws at God.

The fakir, the sannyasin, has stopped that. He no longer throws his sadness on God. He is resigned—“Alright”—but not joyous. “It would have been better had it not happened; since it has, I acquiesce.” Inside there’s rejection; deep down, complaint. On the surface, a covering: “I have no complaint.”

In fact, when you say, “I have no complaint,” you’ve already complained. Otherwise, why say it? If truly there were no complaint, why would the point of ‘no complaint’ even arise? When you say to someone, “I’m not angry,” if you truly weren’t, why say it? In saying it, you’ve revealed anger—only now it’s subtle.

The worldly man’s anger is gross; yours is subtle. The worldly man is not so skillful; you are more skillful. But deceiving God’s eyes won’t be easy. He sees the complaint hidden within you, however richly you robe it, however beautifully you adorn it. Suppression may prevent it from becoming open anger—but it can never become joy. And until life is joy, until there is a flowing exuberance, until you start dancing—what kind of fakiri is that? What kind of sannyas?

The second state is when, even in misfortune, there is gladness; when, even in punishment, you feel gratitude. When God throws you into pits, you know deep down he is doing it to raise you up. Your gaze remains on the lifting—not on the fall. He made you fall only to teach you something. It is his grace that he chose you—to be thrown. He is paying attention to you. If he gives you sorrow, he is giving you attention; he is looking your way. A sorrow coming from him is fortune. Then curses turn into blessings; a joy enters life.

The first hour is anger. The second hour is sadness. The third hour is gladness—your heart brims with an “ah!” of gratitude: “You gave me sorrow; you looked upon me. You found me worthy to be given sorrow—you found me fit to be reshaped, refined; you gave me pain so I might be purified, like gold refined in fire. You threw fire so the dross might burn away and my gold be revealed.” There is joy in this.

Such a fakir you’ll find dancing. You won’t be able to catch him in sorrow—there is no way to make him miserable. He knows the alchemy to turn sorrow into joy. The feeling of grace is that alchemy, that magic, by which sorrow becomes happiness; curses become blessings; death appears like life; and darkness turns luminous.

This is the second state; but it is not the final state. Because when you are happy even in misfortune, you have still accepted misfortune.

One man became angry; another became sad; you became cheerful. A reaction has occurred in each case. Granted, your reaction is joy, the first man’s was anger, and the second’s was sadness. But one thing is common to all three: all three reacted; all three did something. The mistake lies in your doing. The wound was dealt: one became angry; one became sad. You placed a flower upon the wound—you covered it. But what are you covering? What hides behind your cheerfulness? What exactly are you thanking for—if no complaint had arisen at all?

All thanksgiving is just complaint standing on its head. When you give thanks, you are implying that there was non-grace to compare with—otherwise how recognize grace? If you did not see the blow as coming from him, how would you turn it into sweetness? Granted, the feeling of grace transforms sorrow to joy, curses to blessings—but you use this alchemy only after the curse appears. Then you convert it. Sorrow comes into your grasp, then you change it into happiness. But the first blow, of sorrow, has already happened. Granted that you transform it and you are a great craftsman with a master-mantra; sorrow will not remain in your life; no one will be able to make you miserable; you will stay joyous, keep dancing. Yet in the tinkle of the bells tied to your dancing ankles, one who is in the final state knows that a note of complaint is still sounding. Otherwise, why dance?

One who never complained cannot give thanks either. That is the fourth state—the state of Buddhahood. There the Buddha does not react at all. He is not angry—anger is aggressive. He is not sad—sadness is non-aggressive. He is not cheerful either—because cheerfulness too is a kind of aggression. Sadness is the middle. On one side is the negative, which becomes anger and complaint; on the other side is the positive, which we turn into cheerfulness. Then there is Buddhahood—empty of both.

No one ever saw Buddha dance. No one ever saw him cheerful; not sad either; never suffering, never delighted; never laughing, never weeping. People saw Buddha as if he were not even there. For when you are gone, who is there to react? Who will give thanks?

In all three states one thing is common: reaction. Behind all three, the ego is present. Who reacts? You are still there—you have not dissolved. When you were angry—you were. When you were sad—you were. When you are cheerful—you are. The ego is present.

These are the three modes of ego. The egoless has not yet borne fruit—otherwise who would speak? Rabia points to that fourth state.

Now, let us read the story.

“Once Rabia was ill.

“In sympathy, two fakirs came to see her: one was Hasan, the other Malik.”

Both are renowned Sufi fakirs.

Hasan said, “Rabia, whatever punishment Allah gives, a fakir has no complaint. He bears it silently.”

These words need understanding. Hasan must have assumed that Rabia’s illness is a punishment from God. To console her he said, “Rabia, whatever punishment Allah gives…” But to Hasan, illness appears like punishment! Hasan is in the first state. He is no longer worldly; he has become a renunciate—but not yet complete; he’s on the path. The destination has not come; he has just taken the first step. And he doesn’t even know that the one he is speaking to has already reached.

There is another incident between this same Hasan and Rabia. Hasan was once a guest at Rabia’s house. In the morning he asked, “Where is the Qur’an? After morning prayer I always read something from it.” Rabia said, “You look for it. It must be somewhere in the house!” Hasan was shocked: “The Qur’an! Is this how one deals with it—‘somewhere or other’? Don’t you read it daily, so you would know where it is kept?” Rabia said, “I read it once—understood it once. To read it again would mean the first time I didn’t understand. It was all said and done. Since then… You asked, so I say—it must be here, if no one’s taken it, it’ll be lying somewhere.”

Hasan was pained. “Lying somewhere! Such words for the Qur’an!” When he searched, he did indeed find the Qur’an lying in a corner, covered with dust—no one had touched it for a long time. He dusted it off and said, “Rabia, this is not right.” Then, when he read, he was even more shocked—for in several places Rabia had struck out lines. There can be no greater sacrilege! Amendments to the Qur’an—as if Muhammad made mistakes! He said, “Which fool has made corrections in the Qur’an? Lines are crossed out!” Rabia said, “I did. When the Qur’an truly made sense to me, I saw some statements were not right. As long as I hadn’t understood, everything was fine. Here it is written: ‘Hate Satan.’ But when I knew God, hatred became impossible. Even if Satan stood before me, there is no way to hate. Whether Satan stands or God stands, I can only pray and love. So I struck it out.”

They say Hasan left, abandoning that Qur’an. He said, “It has been defiled. A revised Qur’an—who ever heard of such a thing! Rabia, you are corrupt.”

To a renunciate standing on the first rung, a renunciate in the last state can seem corrupt. For what he is laboring to discipline with great difficulty, the one in the last state does not discipline at all. What he strives for tirelessly, the other does not even try.

If a dancer goes to Buddha, he’ll think, “Perhaps this man is gloomy, that’s why he doesn’t dance.” He might tell Buddha, “Get up, dance, give thanks to God!” He doesn’t know that in the final state, thank-you’s disappear; dances disappear.

Understand one thing: cheerfulness is twinned with sadness. When sadness is gone, cheerfulness is gone too—they are two sides of the same coin. One who cannot be sad, how will he be cheerful? And one from whose eyes no tears can fall, how will he laugh? It’s difficult—yet true. These two are linked.

You laugh—you can also cry. Every one of your laughs carries the taste of tears. If you look closely, you will find tears hidden within.

In villages, mothers don’t let children laugh too much: “Don’t laugh too much, or you’ll end up crying.” If a child laughs a lot, then he cries—that when one thing is exhausted, its opposite emerges. If you laugh too much, tears begin to flow. Try it: after hearty laughter, you’ll find yourself growing sad. Perhaps that’s why we ration laughter; we spend it sparingly, fearing what lies behind might surface.

Nietzsche said, “People think I laugh a lot because I am very happy; but as far as I know about myself, it’s the opposite. I laugh so that I may not start crying. In my laughter I hide my tears.” Your dances too, deep down, hide complaint.

Hasan said, “Rabia, whatever punishment Allah gives…”

To one in the last state, there is neither punishment nor reward. Punishment and reward exist only as long as there is longing for reward. Sorrow appears as sorrow only as long as there is the craving for happiness. As long as you demand flowers, thorns prick as thorns. When the demand for flowers ceases, the sting of thorns is gone—the thorn’s sting is hidden in the demand for the flower.

When what you want is denied, it feels like punishment. Hasan must be wanting health, so illness feels like punishment. He must be wanting wealth, so poverty feels like punishment. He must be wanting eternal life, so death feels like punishment. What does this mean?

No thing is punishment, and no thing is reward. Your interpretation, your desire, make it appear so. “Rabia is simply ill.” To Hasan, it looks like punishment. The fact is only this: Rabia is ill. Where is the question of punishment or reward?

Why do we not look straight at the fact? Why do we add our opinions to it?

Hasan doesn’t want to be ill; he fears illness; he wants to be forever healthy. And what he is saying to Rabia he is really saying to himself—Rabia is only a pretext. He is expressing his own mind: “Whatever punishment Allah gives, Rabia, a fakir has no complaint.” The complaint is already there. What greater complaint than to call it “punishment from Allah”! Saying, “There is no complaint,” is the complaint. And “he bears it silently.”

What does “bearing” mean? It means you are in opposition. You don’t “bear” happiness—you only ever “bear” suffering. No one says, “I bear my good fortune silently.” You only “bear” misfortune.

The very word “bearing” doesn’t suit a fakir’s lips. “Forbearance”—to bear—is a form of intolerance; the opposite is hidden behind it. And then—“silently…”

Silently means: you don’t tell others, but you know within. Others may not find out; but you don’t know? That can’t be right.

To “bear silently” means: I know it is pain, but I won’t tell anyone—complaint is not a fakir’s trait. Fakiri here is not effortless. Not what Kabir calls “sahaj samadhi”—natural samadhi. Hasan doesn’t know that samadhi. He is making effort; and from effort, life’s supreme blessedness never flowers. From effort, only this will happen:

Where you used to complain, you will now practice the opposite: “I do not complain.” Where suffering felt like suffering, you will keep saying…

Ordinary folk keep lamenting their sorrows. Listen to people—ninety percent of their talk is lament. They tell their sorrows, magnify them—there is some great pleasure in exposing one’s wounds, as if another seeing your wound brings some relief—perhaps the longing is for sympathy. If someone says, “How terrible,” a balm is felt. So we broadcast our griefs. But the fakir does the reverse: he hides his sorrow; he does not weep; he tells no one; he bears it silently.

But what does “silently” mean? You know it—others perhaps don’t. But what difference does it make if others know? You know—that’s the end of it. The moment you know “it is sorrow, a punishment,” you have become worldly in a subtle sense.

Then Malik spoke: “Rabia, a fakir does not admit complaint at all; he even takes the given punishment as joy.” Malik is a second-state fakir. His eyes see a little farther than Hasan’s; his heart beats a little deeper; his understanding goes a bit beyond, though not all the way. He sees somewhat clearly that Hasan is a little off.

“A fakir does not admit complaint; that is not his trait. He even takes the given punishment as joy—he gives thanks. He says, ‘It is your grace.’ Even as he dies, he says, ‘It is your grace.’ When sorrow comes, he says, ‘It is your grace.’ He takes whatever happens as God’s grace.” But is there not still a difference between when happiness comes and when sorrow comes?

When happiness comes, he says, “Your grace.” When sorrow comes, he also says, “Your grace.” The words are identical—but will the inner mood behind them be the same?

When sorrow comes, he has to say “Your grace” by effort; when happiness comes, the “Your grace” arises effortlessly. In happiness, there’s no need to say it—it’s obvious. In sorrow, you must practice saying it.

In sorrow the feeling of grace is cultivated; it is not natural, as it is in joy. The sorrow is still there; by effort you have covered it. Not only covered it—you have, by effort, turned it into its opposite.

The first fakir hides; the second reverses. Turning into the opposite is the deeper technique of hiding. In the first fakir you can still catch a whiff of sadness. He won’t wail, won’t beat his chest; but his eyes will reveal he is defeated, sad. He won’t say it. But there are many ways to speak without speaking. When you are silent, you still say much. Sometimes it is only when you are silent that something can be said. Great joys and great pains cannot be spoken—they make you silent. If someone dies at home, one person cries loudly; another sits silently, sad. Notice—one who cries out loud will soon be relieved; in a few days he will be fresh again—he has discharged his grief. But the one sitting silently may remain so all his life; his sorrow becomes a permanent mood; it will not be released; it will seep into every fiber.

The one beating his chest—you think he’s doing it because of sorrow? He is venting it. That’s why psychologists say: when a friend is in grief, let him be fully grief-stricken. The more completely he grieves, the sooner it will be released. Tears will flow; the heart will be lighter. He’ll shout and scream; then he’ll return to life. No one can scream for life; nor beat his chest forever. But a person can remain sad for a lifetime.

So those who do not make their sorrow an open complaint, who do not cleanse it out, their sorrow becomes sadness. You cannot hide it; the sadness is visible. And what is greater complaint than sadness? Your very way of being says all is wrong. You don’t speak; you bear everything. But your bearing says it is all futile.

If you want to hide it “properly,” you must take the opposite form: where there is a need to cry, laugh; where people sit gloomy, you become thrilled; where others beat their chests, you dance. In the exact opposite, it can be concealed.

Yet even then you will not be hidden from the eyes of Buddhahood. You will be hidden only from ordinary eyes. They’ll marvel: “Amazing—you remain delighted! You have reached a high state!” But the eyes of the Enlightened see through. They know the opposite is hiding within. In the effort to conceal that, you dance. You are afraid that if you stop dancing, sadness will be revealed.

In one person sadness becomes anger—it too is a way of expression and release. In another it becomes dance—another way of release. In both, energy is discharged; one vents through weeping, another through song. But in both cases, energy goes out; you feel lighter. The blow fell on both; only the styles differed.

Malik said, “Rabia, a fakir admits no complaint.” Admit or not—do you know or not—that’s the question. Where is the question of “admitting”? The fakir does not admit complaint—but he knows it; he knows and yet does not admit. But if you have already known it, the matter is finished. Where is the question of “admitting” or “not admitting”? This is not a matter of belief. The moment you know—at the first instant—the complaint has happened. Whatever you then do, you can cover that thorn with as many ornaments, gems, and jewels as you like, but the thorn is stuck in your heart. Yes, the unwise may think there are jewels there, not a thorn. The wise will know the jewels are there precisely to hide the thorn. You are concealing something. You are bearing silently, but your silence will also speak. And your bearing is complaint enough.

“A fakir admits no complaint; rather, he takes even the given punishment as joy.” But this “taking” is still just taking. He “does not admit complaint,” he “takes punishment as joy.” He tries to take it as joy. But who can “take” joy? When you see sorrow, how can you “take” it as joy? It will be false. You’ll deceive yourself. You’ll use tricks to make it feel like joy. People like Dale Carnegie give such advice.

Dale Carnegie wrote of a limping man who was very resentful towards God, very upset and unhappy. One day he sees a man with both legs amputated, sitting cheerfully in a wheelchair. The one-legged man thinks, “This man has no legs at all! How gracious God has been to me.”

Those who tell you to “take” happiness even in sorrow say: look at people worse off than you—comparisons will make it easier to “take” joy. Understand this well.

If you want to be unhappy, look at people better off than you—comparison will bring sorrow. You have a hut—look at the palaces; compare, and you will be unhappy. But there are huts smaller than yours, slums; compare your hut with those—you’ll feel happy. But both people are the same, because both compare. And what is the difference in the arithmetic of the first one’s sorrow and the second one’s joy? The process is the same. In the first, sorrow is born because he has a palace while I have a hut. In the second, joy is born because I have a house and he has a hut. Where is the mathematical difference? It’s the same arithmetic.

And how will you protect your eyes? How long will you only look at huts? There are palaces—and they will be seen. And when you feel happy seeing the hut—“At least my house is better than that”—how will you save yourself from sorrow when you see a palace? And where will you hide your eyes from palaces? Your mental arithmetic is one and the same.

Where there is comparison, there will be both joy and sorrow. Joy and sorrow vanish only when comparison drops. And comparison drops only when desire is exhausted. As long as there is desire, comparison cannot drop. As long as you want something, those who have it will make you suffer; as long as you want something, those who don’t have what you do will make you feel pleased. Your joy and sorrow depend on others. A fakir is one who has begun to look within; who does not compare.

Malik said, “Rabia, a fakir does not admit complaint; he even takes the given punishment as joy.” But to “take” is to be untrue. Truth does not need to be taken.

People come to me and say, “We believe in God.” I ask them, “Do you believe in the sun? In the moon and stars?” They say, “No—what is there to believe? They are.” You believe in God because you doubt him. Without doubt, why believe?

Doubt believes; doubt has faith to hide itself. Experience does not believe; experience knows.

No one needs to believe in the sun. There is no sect of people who believe in the sun versus those who don’t—none. Because what sect can there be around fact? But behind God there are sects—because you see nothing clearly. Some believe he has four hands—no four hands are seen. Some say two hands—no two are seen. The dispute can never be decided. What is his form? None is seen. Some believe he exists; half the world believes he does not. That dispute too cannot be decided.

There is so much dispute about God because you grope in darkness. There is no such dispute about the sun, because there is no groping in darkness there. Even the blind don’t deny the sun—those who cannot see. And those with eyes deny God. Surely the darkness is very deep. People are saying things by groping, with no firm assurance. Even the believers are not sure.

Psychologists say: the more loudly you proclaim your belief, the more you reveal your inner doubt. When you bang the table and shout, “I believe in God,” the table-banging betrays that you are not trying to convince others, you are trying to convince yourself.

The more you doubt a thing, the more afraid you are of thinking about it. If someone begins to discuss God and argues whether he exists or not, you become irritated. That irritation reveals inner doubt; belief is only on the surface—a thin layer; a little reasoning can crack it.

A true theist will never be afraid of your arguments—he will be delighted. But your theism is false.

What Hasan is saying—“the fakir takes even punishment as joy”—means: punishment is seen, but joy is “taken.” Inside there is the felt sense of punishment; on the surface, an adopted notion of joy.

Rabia remained silent for a while. Why? Because what she had to say is hard to say. What Malik and Hasan said is straightforward; it can be said—it belongs to duality. What Rabia has to say brings news of the non-dual, the indivisible—the un-sayable. Hence she was silent.

She also remained silent to weigh whether to speak at all—because they would not understand. Hasan would not understand at all; he takes “not complaining” to be the destination. And he is so impressed with that “destination” he wants to teach it to me!

Hasan is blind; otherwise, if he had really looked at Rabia, his speech would have fallen silent on the spot. Rabia’s body may be ill; but it would be hard to find a woman more whole. If he had peered into her eyes, he would have seen the ray of supreme health. Had he breathed in her fragrance, he would have known that God is happening here.

To think of teaching Rabia at all shows blindness. Then—should one speak of light to the blind, or not?

Before Hasan had even finished, Malik immediately responded. Malik is argumentative. He did not reflect, he did not hesitate; instantly he demolished what Hasan had said: “A fakir has no complaint. There is no question of bearing. A fakir takes punishment as joy.” He at once created a debate. Rabia remained silent. She wasn’t refuting anyone; she had no argument.

An arguer cannot keep quiet even for a moment. If you say something, he will instantly refute. Only a knower will wait a while in silence: he wants to see the whole situation. And the knower’s difficulty is that whatever he says, by the time it is put into words, it begins to look like an argument. So Rabia hesitated.

Remember, only the wise hesitate. Every word is precious; each word must be chosen; and every word is inadequate. What you want to say cannot be said completely. And there is the danger that words might become a quarrel. You asked for truth—and it might turn into a tangle of concepts. Words might harden into doctrine. Hence the wise hesitate.

Rabia kept silent, then she said, “Forgive me.” Every utterance of a knower—spoken or unspoken—begins with, “Forgive me.” For what is she asking forgiveness?

When Hasan spoke, Malik did not ask forgiveness; he immediately contradicted.

Argument enjoys breaking the other. It has no longing for truth. The delight is in proving the other false, in proving, “I am true, you are wrong.” Not in “What is true?” but in “What I say is true.” My ego is truth. Therefore the debater asks no forgiveness; there is no question of it. He wants to knock the other down—what forgiveness!

Argument is a kind of wrestling. Man has stopped fighting with fists, but the war doesn’t stop; the habit doesn’t die—so he fights with words. Fools fight with clubs; clever ones with words—but they use words like clubs, to smash the other’s head. Where is forgiveness in that? The goal is to make the other bow.

But people like Rabia—whether they speak or remain silent—their every utterance begins with “Forgive me.” Because they do not want to be part of a dispute. They are not eager to prove anyone wrong. They are eager only to let truth be seen—not to label anyone false. That’s why the wise often remain silent.

Where the unwise are most talkative, the wise slip away quietly; they won’t enter the web of words.

Rabia was silent for a while. She must have weighed it: “Should I speak or not? If I speak, will they understand? What is spoken—will it lead to squabble, argument, logic—or bring a glimpse of truth?” Then she decided to speak. That decision itself shows she held Hasan and Malik in some esteem.

If you had been in their place, she might not have spoken at all. If it had been the ordinary person—the first type I described—Rabia would have remained silent. But these two were seekers. Their views might be mistaken, but they were searching, inquisitive. Their notions were confused, but there was effort, aspiration—seeking. They might be walking backwards, but at least they were walking. Seeing their movement, she spoke.

In her silence she must have looked into them. They were good men. Their notions were mistaken, but they were not bad. Any day they could arrive. They were like soil where a seed could be sown. Her silence tested the ‘ground’—then she said, “Forgive me.”

For what is she seeking forgiveness? For this: do not take what I say as an announcement of my ego. Forgive me if what I say hurts; don’t think I’m calling you wrong. Don’t think I have rejected your advice. Don’t think I’m calling you ignorant or foolish. Forgive me. But since I have known God—pardon me, but this is my difficulty—since I have known God, the very sense of ‘punishment’ does not arise. It is hard—I must say it. She hesitates: if she could avoid saying it, it would be good. Yet it is also hard to leave truth unsaid. This is truth’s dilemma.

When you know it, you are in a great difficulty. To say it is hard; to leave it unsaid is hard. If you say it, a mistake happens; if you don’t, a mistake happens. If you say it, it will likely be misunderstood—ninety-nine times out of a hundred. If you don’t say it, someone who might have understood will be deprived; his good could have happened—he is left out. His sin lies on your head. No one hopes that if you speak to a hundred, a hundred will understand; if even one understands, it is much. But even for that one, you must speak.

“Since I have known God, the very sense of punishment doesn’t arise. So what complaint?” Because first there is the perception—only then comes reaction. If there is perception, then three kinds of reactions are possible: the ordinary man’s reaction—anger and complaint; the first fakir’s reaction—no overt complaint, silent bearing; the second fakir’s reaction—no complaint, taking punishment as fortune: “You have shown me grace.”

But Rabia says something deeper: “When there is no perception of punishment at all, where is the question of reaction? If there is no seed, why talk about whether the tree will be like this or that?” So what complaint? What “bearing”? What “joy”? In that state, anger disappears, sadness disappears, cheerfulness disappears. They are all parts of mind. Cheerfulness is a play of mind; sadness is a play of mind; complaint and anger are plays of mind—understand this well.

All reactions belong to mind. Reaction is mind. You go to Buddha and abuse him. What happens inside? If anything happens, there is no Buddha there. Nothing happens. As if from an empty house your abuse echoed—entered one corner and left through another; it left no imprint on the walls, no memory in the room; the room did not tremble; it took no stance; it didn’t try to defend itself; it didn’t thank you, nor did it complain. The room was empty. The abuse echoed and passed. No perception—therefore no reaction.

What complaint? What to “bear”? What joy? And when will this be? When there is no reaction. And when will that be? When there is no perception.

As long as you are, perception will be. Someone abuses you—how will you be untouched? And whatever you do to be untouched—that is reaction; that is what the two fakirs counsel. They say: if someone abuses you, bear it. They say: if someone abuses you, offer thanks. But do something. Both assume the doer—you—are there.

Rabia says: when God is, where are you to be saved? He is the one abusing; he is the one who would “bear.” The whole play is his; we do not come in between. We are not; the boat is empty. That is why all religions stress the dissolution of ego. It is the only sadhana.

Whatever you “achieve” while keeping the ego intact will be superficial. Inside, you remain; and beyond your superficial reactions, it does not matter whether you complain or thank, whether you are angry or pleased. What matters is: you are. Or: you are not.

All sadhana is ego-slaying. You have to erase yourself. When you are gone, suddenly you find that God has always been enthroned. You were sitting on his throne—that’s why he was not visible.

There is no other obstacle, no other veil. A veil has not been thrown upon you—you are the veil. Removing veils won’t help—you must be removed. The moment you find within that you are not, the room is empty, void—then you will understand Rabia.

Who knows whether Hasan and Malik understood or not! But a personality like Rabia is always left misunderstood.

People call Rabia an atheist—because she does not thank God; she never goes to the mosque; she never reads the Qur’an; she never prays; no one ever saw her dancing or singing. What kind of person is this?

If you can understand, Rabia is one in whom there is no center left—no sense of “I.” Who will go to the mosque? Who will pray? Who will read the Qur’an?

Kabir calls this “sahaj samadhi,” natural samadhi. Who… whose worship? Who is there to worship? Kabir says: getting up, sitting down, eating, drinking—this is my worship. Whom shall I offer the consecrated food? Who will offer it? Which temple shall I circumambulate? Walking, moving, swaying—this is my circumambulation.

But Kabir or Rabia feel very far from us—beyond our grasp.

You can understand Hasan; you can understand Malik. Because they are good fakirs, yet not outside the world. Their language is your language.

One says: complain. One says: don’t complain. One says: be cheerful in complaint. All this you can understand. Rabia slips out of your grasp. And Rabia alone is worth understanding—because what slips beyond your grasp is what will take you beyond your grasp.

A true master always tries to lead you, little by little, toward what is beyond your grasp. Otherwise, how will your grip on yourself loosen? He leads you from the known to the unknown, and from the unknown to the unknowable. He gradually slides the ground from under your feet and one day leaves you in open sky—helpless—in a vast abyss without end. You go on falling, falling. No surface arrives on which to stand. Because the moment you stand, the ego returns. You must go on falling, falling. Only then will there come a moment when you give up the worry of standing. In that instant the ego disappears. Understand this story well. Hasan and Malik you will understand—they are the “dross.” Whatever you easily understand is dross. What you do not understand, work on that. Open your eyes a little more; be more alert; try to understand more attentively.

What you do not understand will become your ladder. Through it, gradually you will go away from yourself. And going away from yourself is going near to God. The farther you are from yourself, the closer you are to God. The closer you are to yourself, the farther from God. This is the distance between God and you.

Enough for today.