Sahaj Samadhi Bhali #21

Those who have known have always known effortlessly, without striving. It would be more accurate to say they did not search; they were found. They did not reach the temple of the Divine; the Divine reached their heart. And how could you reach? There is no address, no fixed abode for that temple. Where will you look? And it is you who will search! If you are mistaken, your search will be mistaken. Who will travel? You will. And if you are deluded, every direction you take will be deluded. Even if his temple stands before you, you will not recognize it. Even if he meets you on the road, you will slip by, avoiding him.

The real question is not of God; the real question is you. If you have eyes, there is no need to move an inch—wherever you are, you will see him there. In each leaf, in pebble and stone, in every breeze, “He” is present. What need is there to search for him! But you cannot see him; you cannot feel his touch—then you start a great strain and struggle.

Kabir uses a delicious word: you do a great “strain” (ainchataan), you make a great effort. You stand on your head, you block your nostrils, you close your eyes. You twist yourself this way and that; you practice a thousand kinds of disciplines and exercises. Who knows what sorts of yogas you undertake—because God must be obtained! As if God were far away and a road lay between to be crossed—as if God were something such that, being as you are, you could never merge with him.

What shortcoming do you have? You were made by God; how then could there be a flaw in you? Every flaw in you would reflect back as his flaw. When a wrong note is struck in a song, is the song to blame? The poet is caught. And when the music goes crooked, the musician is caught. If you are even a little wrong, then God’s creation itself is wrong. You are absolutely complete. He never creates the incomplete.

As you are, you are enough—this is the first premise of sahaj-yoga, the path of the natural and effortless. As you are, not a grain of strain is needed. Standing on your head is meaningless. Your straining, your effort, your exertion will only entangle you more; it will not untangle you.

Buddha once passed along a road at noontime; the sun was fierce, sweat was pouring, and he felt thirsty. Sitting under a tree, he said to Ananda, “Go back; we left a spring behind us—bring water from there.”

Ananda went. The spring was some two miles back. When he arrived, he found that just before he reached, a few bullock carts had waded through. Their passage had churned the shallow spring; all the muck that had settled for years rose to the surface and spread. The water turned muddy—undrinkable. And Ananda could not imagine bringing such water for Buddha.

He returned and said, “That water is no longer fit to drink. As I understand it, there is a river ahead about four miles on the road; I’ll bring water from there.”

Buddha said, “No; go back. Bring that water. Water is water, Ananda!” So Ananda had to return.

Now he was in a fix. He thought, “There is only one way: I’ll purify this water myself.” He stepped into the stream and began trying to push the muck away. The more he tried, the muddier it became. By his very entering, more silt rose up; what had settled came up again. He had made it worse.

He returned again. “Please don’t insist,” he told Buddha. “That water cannot be drunk. I even tried to purify it by getting in—but it became even more polluted.” Buddha said, “Fool! When a spring is muddy, sit quietly on the bank and wait. If you step in, you’ll only make more trouble. Go back.” Ananda protested, “If trying to purify does not work, how will mere sitting purify it!”

This is exactly what you all say. This is the arithmetic of the so-called rational mind: “If even effort does not produce it, how will non-effort?”

Ananda said, “It won’t happen.” But he went, since the Master had said so—though disheartened: “This going and coming is pointless.” He went back. Because Buddha had asked, there was no choice.

Ananda acceded for Buddha’s sake and sat on the bank—something you won’t even agree to do. His mind still denied it! As long as a disciple is “thinking,” his intellect will deny what the Master says. If love has awakened toward the Master, one stops listening to one’s mind. Mind will insist, “This will not work.” But if love is there, love says: “The Master has said it—try it.”

Only if your heart is with the Master will your tie to the mind break. If your connection to the Master is only of the mind, you have no connection at all, because the mind cannot understand what lies beyond it.

Now the logic seems obvious: “If we cannot get there by labor, how by non-labor? If we cannot reach by running, will we reach by sleeping? We are sweating and the goal is not coming; you say: rest—and the goal will arrive! We have wandered for lives and not reached; you say: sit right here—this is the goal.”

This lies outside the mind’s grasp. But if the relationship with the Master is of the heart, the mind keeps talking—but you ignore it.

Ananda didn’t really buy it—no disciple ever does. But he said, “Since Buddha has said it, I must see it through.” Trust did not really arise—no disciple ever has full trust. But even if trust has not yet flowered and doubt remains, if the heart-string is tied, shraddha (reverence) is not destroyed. Shraddha cannot be destroyed by doubt. If there is no shraddha, that is another matter. Otherwise shraddha remains central; doubt stays on the periphery.

Ananda thought: “Buddha has said it; surely there is some meaning—though I don’t understand it. And I know the water will not purify itself. But as he wishes—if I remain thirsty, let me remain thirsty. I was ready to go to the river.”

He sat. Who knows what all ran through his head. It wasn’t remotely conceivable that the spring would clear. After some time had passed, he suddenly noticed the water was becoming clear. Leaves had floated away; the mud had settled; the water appeared as pure as before.

Impurity is alien to the nature of water; it is not water’s essence. It had been stirred up; it came from outside; it will settle. Even when the water was muddy, the water itself was not impure. Mud and water remained separate—very little distance between them, but distance nonetheless. They had not become one. If the water itself had become impure at its core, there would be no way to purify it. If water and mud had fused into one, no amount of straining would help.

Without any straining, Ananda sat. Little by little, the spring became clear; pure water emerged. Astonished, he danced back with the water. Why dancing? Because now he understood Buddha’s purpose. The thirst was merely a pretext; sending him again and again to that spring and not allowing him to go to the river was a device.

Buddha asked, “Ananda, why do you return so happy, dancing?” Ananda said, “I have understood. I am not becoming pure because I strain too much. The mind is not becoming pure because I keep wading in, trying to purify it. I understand. Now I will sit on the bank of the mind.”

“Let the stream of mind flow; let it be. However long it remains muddy, let it remain. Many carts have passed—of many lifetimes. Many wheels have churned; much mud has risen. But one thing is clear: I am not the mud. However much impurity surrounds me, my nature is not impure. What is not of the nature will pass away by itself; there is no need to remove it. What is of the nature will never go; there is no need to suppress it.”

Anger arises—it is not your nature. Some cart has passed—the silt rose; debris has come up. Lust arises—it is not your nature. Buddha says: What does not remain forever is not the nature.

How long does lust remain? Eventually it passes. How long does anger stay? Whether you act it out or not, you cannot make anger eternal. Even the angriest person slackens. How long can anyone hold a bow taut? The hands will tire; even the greatest warrior sets the bow aside. The tautness of the string cannot be the nature.

When you are taut, some cart has passed, the spring is muddy. What will you do now? Two options appear: either do something, or sit on the bank. Sahaj-yoga says: sit on the bank. Be only a witness. Do nothing. Just watch. Nothing more is needed. If you only watch, your eyes will not create trouble. But the moment you do anything—even a little straining—you will entangle yourself more.

Your entanglement is not as great as you think. Much of what you take as trouble you are producing with great effort. Your obstacles are not as many as they appear; they appear a thousandfold because you do not stand aside—you keep trying to fix. And the more you try to fix, the more you find everything getting tangled. This is the life-long experience, yet you draw no conclusion!

Have you resolved anything in life? Wherever you tried to fix, it got more knotted. What have you untangled? Not a single thread lies in your hand, although you have tried so hard.

Kabir says your trying is your misfortune. Don’t strain. Sit a little. If you couldn’t solve it by solving, now sit and see. This too is worth seeing.

Your mind will say this arithmetic doesn’t tally: “What did not happen with such labor—how will it happen without labor!” Therefore religion is not within the arithmetic of the mind—or its arithmetic is altogether different. The world’s arithmetic is: to attain anything here, you must run. And the Divine’s arithmetic is the reverse: to attain anything there, you must stop. The journeys are opposite.

In the world, to get anything you must toil, strive, make effort—here nothing is obtained without effort. There is fierce competition. If you stand aside, others will not; they will snatch and run. But in the Divine, if you start snatching, you miss. There is no snatching there. Only if you stand still—only then you can receive.

Remember: in the world there is competition; in the Divine there is none. If someone else has attained the Divine, the Divine does not become less. For you it remains as much as before. But in the world, if someone gets the position, no post remains—that’s why there is a race, competition. Here you are not alone; whatever you get here is taken from someone.

The worldly order is based on exploitation; without it there seems no way. If you have wealth, someone else becomes poor. If you have a palace, someone’s hut becomes smaller. The larger your mansion, the smaller many houses will become—there is no other way.

But in the Divine there is no competition. Even if you take the whole of the Divine, the whole still remains. The Upanishads say, “Take the whole from the Whole, the Whole remains.” Nothing is consumed there by your taking; nothing is cut or divided. However many attain God, God remains as he is.

In truth there is no exploitation. In the world, without exploitation there is no way. The two paths are opposite. In the world the way is effort; in the Divine—the way is rest.

Sahaj-yoga means: the state of rest—when you are doing nothing—when you are simply sitting and watching. To worldly eyes this looks like laziness; hence the world has always taken the sannyasin to be lazy—doing nothing. The world gives him no value. Today it is even harder for a sannyasin to live: “If he does nothing, what value has he? Does he even deserve to live?” But the East understood a secret: there is another world where there is the possibility of receiving without doing.

We valued the sannyasin more than the householder—this value was based on experience. The one who appears to do nothing “here” is receiving much “there.” But that realm is invisible; you cannot put it in a vault to show. Only those whose eyes open will notice. Its fragrance is received only by those who raise their gaze toward that realm.

Sahaj-yoga says: as you are—you are complete; not a grain lacking. If any trash has been stirred up, you yourself have made the noise; you yourself have labored it up. Sit on the bank. Let things naturally settle into their place; let the nature be still.

You are the Divine. God is not an achievement; God is your very being—the manner of your being. The sinner is as much God as the virtuous. What is the difference? The virtuous man sits; the sinner keeps trying. The bad man is as much God as the good man. The bad man has made knots; the more he tries to untie, the more tangled he becomes. The good man has stopped; the knots untie by themselves.

Remember that spring by which Ananda found the formula of life. You will catch the complete process of sahaj-yoga.

Now let us understand Kabir’s aphorism. Every single word is precious; it is hard to find words more valuable than Kabir’s—because it is hard to find a man like Kabir.

Sahaj sahaj sab koi kahai, sahaj na chinhai koi.
Ja sahajae Sahib milai, sahaj kahavai soi.

Kabir says: Everyone chants “sahaj, sahaj”—effortless, effortless—but none recognizes what sahaj is.

What is the sign of sahaj? The sign of a tree is its fruit—no other sign will do. The fruit alone tells whether the tree is neem or mango. What is the sign of sahaj?

Ja sahajae Sahib milai, sahaj kahavai soi.
That by which the Lord is found—that alone is sahaj. “Sahib” is Kabir’s word for the Divine. Where the fruit of God appears—know, there sahaj has meaning. Understand this.

One can talk about God for lives on end—nothing is resolved by talk. Talk may only betray that what has not been found is being covered up by words.

The proof of God is not in words but in the person—in the eyes, in the way of being.

Buddha does not speak of God—but those who can see recognized him and called him Bhagwan. Buddha says: there is no God, no soul, no liberation—only you are all. But in Buddha’s way of being, the Divine is present; the fruit hangs there. Even if a mango cries out, “There is no such thing as mango,” you can still see it hanging; you can taste it. Do not clutch at Buddha’s words; his words are used with great skill.

Buddha says: No God, no soul, no moksha. It is a device to be rid of those who are addicted to chatter. Those who live in words will turn away: “This fellow is an atheist.” Their doors will close; they won’t see the fruit of the Divine on this man.

The pundits go back. But those whose thirst is true will say: “Whatever this man says—shall we listen to his words, or shall we see him? Believe his statements, or believe him?” On this man a sweet fruit hangs—the fruit of God. Surely there is some method in what he says; it is a way to avoid the idle. We will taste. They stay—such people take Buddha himself as God.

All knowers devise ways to keep the idle out. Because even a single idle person—like one rotten fish that rots all—entangles the rest. As disease is contagious, so is futility. Sitting with a sick person you fear becoming sick; sitting with the idle, futility increases in your life.

So Buddha keeps saying: no God, no soul, no liberation. Whoever still remains, for him Buddha opens the doors—to God, soul, liberation. But he opens them only when the person sees the fruit—because fruit is the proof. Don’t listen to what the mango says; look at what the mango is.

Kabir says:
Ja sahajae Sahib milai, sahaj kahavai soi.
There is only one proof of sahaj—that Sahib is found through it, that he is revealed. The one who is talking about sahaj has no clue of it—because sahaj means Sahib is inside; the search has ended.

In Japan there was a mystic, Rinzai. At the foot of a sacred mountain to which thousands undertake pilgrimage, Rinzai lived for thirty years by the roadside. He never went up—though it was just a few miles away.

Thousands walked by. Hundreds knew Rinzai. Pilgrims would ask, “Won’t you go up?” Rinzai said, “I am already up.” Someone would ask, “Won’t you undertake the pilgrimage?” Rinzai said, “The journey is complete; the goal has come.” Others said, “We are going up; if you cannot walk, we will get a palanquin, or carry you on our shoulders.” Rinzai said, “Where you are going, I am. Where is there to go now!”

Whoever had eyes—one in a thousand—would stop going to the shrine. He would remain with Rinzai. That is why Rinzai sat by the road—so that whoever could see, whoever could catch even a glimpse of him, would hold his feet. “We too will not go up; what is there now!” People come and go; for a thousand years they have done so.

Pilgrimage is not to shrines; pilgrimage is to those who have found the Lord. Rinzai was proving Kabir’s dictum: Ja sahajae Sahib milai... He said, “I have reached there.” Even saying “reached there” is not quite right; truly, “I have always been there; now it is recognized.”

Religion is a recognition, a remembrance: “I am That—aham brahmasmi.” Then what remains to do? As long as there is something to do, you are assuming the Lord is far—you are separate.

Have you ever thought: if God is truly separate from you, how will you ever be one? At most you can come close—but how will you become one? And does thirst quench by coming near water? Thirst quenches when water and you dissolve into one. You can come very close to a lake—will thirst be quenched?

Whether you are a thousand miles, a thousand inches, or even brushing against God’s body—what difference does it make? Until you are God, the thirst will not quench.

Even an inch of distance is equal to a million miles. In truth, when an inch remains, it hurts far more. At a thousand miles there is at least assurance: the distance is great—we can travel and reach. When only an inch is left, there is no room to move—your helplessness is fully exposed.

The devotee’s anguish erupts when only an inch remains between him and God: then he discovers that devotion cannot take him further. It has brought him far—but not beyond this. Now the only step is that the devotee becomes God. Ja sahajae Sahib milai... But if from the start you assume distance, how will you be one?

Kabir says you are not separate. Begin from this point. You are not going closer to God; he has always been within. Only the recognition is growing—who is hiding within.

There is no other journey to God except the journey of recognition. Bit by bit you uncover yourself—and wherever you uncover, there you find the Divine. The day you are uncovered completely, you will laugh: “I was seeking the very one who was always hidden within me.”

And how would you ever find what was hidden within by searching? The more you searched, the more trouble—you searched outward.

All yogas take you out; all kriyas open outer doors. Sahaj-yoga means non-kriya. The door of sahaj-yoga is: do nothing—just be quiet and watch. Hard this is—do not think it is easy.

People talk of sahaj-yoga and imagine it is simple. The word sahaj suggests “easy”—but sahaj does not mean simple. Nothing is more difficult.

Doing is always easier—however hard—because you can practice it, learn it, spend time on it. But sahaj is non-doing; there is no practice, no learning. You have to simply, slowly “sit.”

So what to do? How will sahaj be mastered? You will have to unlearn what you know. You will have to drop what you have learned. Whatever practices you have accumulated—you must be free of them. When all your yogas are lost, all your sadhana dissolves—then you will be startled awake, as if a lamp were suddenly lit in the dark. That day you will burst into laughter: “How crazy I was! I am what I was seeking. Searching, I was losing.”

Ja sahajae Sahib milai, sahaj kahavai soi.
Sahajae sahajae sab gaya, sut vit kam nikam.

And Kabir says: Sitting on the bank, doing nothing—little by little, everything fell away.

By renouncing, things do not go. Renounced things cling tighter. Whatever you renounce seems to grip you more. There is some mistake in renunciation.

What is the psychology of renouncing? You know you are bound. You know you are attached to wife. You ask: How to renounce? And fools are always around to give techniques: “Do this and drop it.”

But is the wife holding you? If she were, techniques might work. You are the one holding. Now you ask for tricks! Someone says, “Run to the forest.” Someone else: “Sit in the temple.” Another: “Move into an ashram. You won’t see the wife; attachment won’t arise. Shut your eyes.”

Have you tried looking at something by closing your eyes? Whatever you close your eyes to appears even more vivid. Never was the wife so beautiful as she will seem at a distance. Never was her body so golden as when your eyes are closed. She will become a dream.

Where will you run? For the mind there is no distance. You may sit on the Himalayas; the mind has no distance from home. The mind needs no train—“three days to reach the wife”—it needs not even a moment. Its travel is free. You may leave wealth and flee; but the mind that holds wealth—how will you leave that?

Renunciation is the psychology of the frightened—a fearful mind. You fear only what you secretly feel is stronger than you; otherwise why fear? Only cowards flee—renunciation is fear.

Kabir says: Sahajae sahajae sab gaya. He left neither wife nor son nor trade. He lived at home—the consummate householder—and yet it is hard to find a greater sannyasin. He had wife, son, house. He wove cloth and sold it—the work of a weaver. Everything went on as before—there was no outward difference.

But he says: Sahajae sahajae sab gaya, sut vit kam nikam. Doing nothing—just watching—slowly he found that by watching, entanglements began to open. The clearer the seeing, the more delusion fades.

Delusion is blindness. As the eyes clear, delusion vanishes. Delusion is a dream; as witnessing dawns, dreams dissolve. In the morning you wake—dreams end. You do not have to break them. As sahaj “settles,” where there was passion, attachment, anger, greed—these begin to fall.

Sahajae sahajae sab gaya, sut vit kam nikam.
Desire goes—and even non-desire. Attachment goes—and even detachment. This requires understanding.

The one who flees by renouncing—he drops attachment and catches hold of detachment. Not much difference. He left family and seized sannyas. Before, he clung to household—that was attachment. Now he clings to renunciation—that too is attachment. The grip remains.

Before you lived in a big house; you were attached to it. If someone suggested, “Rest under a tree,” you felt insulted. Now you rest under a tree—if someone says, “Come into a house,” you say, “Impossible; I am a renunciate—how can I live in a house!”

Before it was a grip on attachment; now it is a grip on detachment. Before you held desire; now non-desire holds you. But the fist remains clenched.

Remember: the inverse grip is subtler, hence invisible. One man holds wealth; another holds renunciation. Earlier he counted wealth, day and night: “How to increase the heap?” Now he doesn’t gather money—he gives it away. Now he heaps gifts! That is not visible, because the money-heap was visible; it was worldly. Now he is heaping charity.

A gentleman came to see me—a “donor.” His wife said, “My husband has only one passion: charity. He has donated one lakh rupees already.” The husband nudged her, “Not one lakh—one lakh and ten thousand.” See—he is counting the heap of charity. Earlier he piled up wealth; now he piles up generosity. What is the difference? A grip on wealth is replaced by a grip on renunciation.

Kabir says:
Sahajae sahajae sab gaya, sut vit kam nikam.
Attachment went—and detachment too. Now I am neither householder nor monk. That is the mark of true sannyas. First you were a householder; then you “became” a renunciate—the opposite of householder. Wherever there is opposition, there is duality; where duality is, God cannot enter. He enters only where there is non-duality.

If your sannyas is the opposite of householder, it is not real. One thing dropped; another seized. If your sannyas is the dissolution of duality, then it is supreme.

Kabir lived in Kashi—in a dangerous place for such a sannyas. Sannyasins all around. They said: “This Kabir—a renunciate? A knower—this weaver? Wife, child, household—what kind of knowledge! We left everything.”

Even “renunciation” can breed ego; ego is householding, and egolessness is sannyas.

Kabir’s sannyas is hard to see. Buddha’s is easy—blind men can see it. Kabir’s is so subtle only the “eye’d” can see.

What difficulty is there in seeing Mahavira’s sannyas? Even the blind saw—one who “understood” Mahavira’s sannyas only because he stood nude and left the kingdom hasn’t understood sannyas at all. He will say seeing Kabir, “This a sannyasin? We will not bow before him.”

I have not seen a single Jain bowing to Kabir—impossible. “Kabir is like us—a householder. What difference?” The difference is subtle. The difference between you and Mahavira is gross—you wear clothes, Mahavira is naked. Kabir wears clothes—where is the difference? You have a wife; Kabir has a wife—what difference? You do business; Kabir does too—what difference? There is a difference—Kabir’s desire is gone, and even non-desire has gone; attachment has gone, and detachment too. Kabir is there as in a play—as if acting a part.

Sahajae sahajae sab gaya, sut vit kam nikam.
Nothing was done—without doing, it happened. There is one thread in you by which much is done without doing—what is that thread? The Upanishads call it witness-consciousness—sakshi. Kabir calls it surati; Buddha called it smriti—right mindfulness; Mahavira called it vivek—discernment.

There is one thread in you: seeing. Understand this a little, because everything depends on it. If this thread is grasped, sahaj-yoga is understood.

There is one thing constantly going on in you that you do not have to do, that does not depend on your doing—your witnessing. You are that all day.

Eating must be done—if you do not, you will starve. Psychologists say even breathing needs you: if all hope leaves your life, you will not even breathe in. One breath goes out—why take another? What for? Hence a man in deep despair shortens his life-line; his lifespan shrinks. “What’s the point of another breath?” Slowly you lose hold of breathing; you may even stop. Breath is a subtle doing.

Don’t eat, you die. Don’t breathe, life goes. But there is one thing that happens without you—whether you do or not—it goes on. It is your nature, not a doing.

Note: every “doing” needs a break. You labor two hours—then you must rest. You wake all day—you must sleep at night. Waking is a doing; it tires. The sign of doing is that it tires. When you tire, you must do its opposite to remove fatigue. You wake—you must sleep. Hungry—you must eat. Dirty—you must bathe. The opposite fills you again.

Doing cannot take you beyond duality, because you cannot be in any doing twenty-four hours a day. Doing needs holidays. That is why the wise say: if your saintliness comes from doing, your saintliness will also have holidays. If someone is a sadhu by doing, he will also be an asadhu—secretly—because he must take a break.

Whatever is accomplished by doing cannot be sustained forever—you will have to drop it; rest becomes necessary. It becomes too heavy. Is there some thread that continues without tiring? If there is, only then sahaj-yoga can be true—and that is witnessing.

All day you are awake. In the morning someone insults you—anger arises; you see the anger. He soon apologizes—compassion arises; you see that too. Later heat grows; you sweat; you see the heat; you move into shade; coolness comes; you watch the coolness.

You wake all day—then sleep at night and see dreams. In the morning you say, “It was full of dreams.” Someone remained to see. In the morning you say, “I slept so peacefully.” Someone in you certainly did not sleep—how else would it be known? Who would know? The one in you who says in the morning, “I slept deeply,” stayed awake somewhere within, seeing through the night. This seeing in you functions every moment; it is not your doing. You never tire of it. Even in sleep, when everything else rests, this remains awake. In sorrow, joy, consciousness, even in unconsciousness—when you come round from fainting, you say, “I was out for so long—what happened! I was completely unconscious.” Even unconsciousness has been registered from within.

If you have ever taken anesthesia before an operation, the doctor asks you to count: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven—because as anesthesia takes effect—you say, “one, two, three”—your voice grows slow, slurred. “F…our”—as if it took great time. “F…ive”—and inside you hear the voice slurring. You hear that it takes time to produce the numbers—“five… six… seven…” You think to say eight, but eight doesn’t come—but someone is seeing that the counting is faltering. Then you see everything is gone—you even see that everything has gone.

When you return to consciousness, the process reverses—slowly you hear things: stitches being put in; sounds; the faint feel of suturing; scissors lifted; instruments kept; nurses and doctors moving about—your awareness gradually returns. Then you open your eyes.

In going from consciousness to unconsciousness, in unconsciousness, and back, one element remains: witness-consciousness—your soul, your awareness.

Kabir says: Sahajae sahajae sab gaya, sut vit kam nikam. Just watched; did nothing. Watching, all went. Neither son remained “mine,” nor wife “mine”; neither attachment nor detachment—everything went.

Ekam-ek hwe mili rahya, das Kabira nam.
Only One remained—everything else, multiplicity and duality, dissolved. One remained.

Jo kachu aavai sahaj mein, soi meetha jaan.
Whatever comes naturally—know it to be sweet.

Kaduwa laagai neem-sa, jaamein ainchataan.
Whatever comes through straining tastes bitter like neem.

Even if by standing on your head, holding your breath, closing your eyes, you “attain” God—that will be poison, not nectar. Whatever comes through your doing will be deathlike—because life came to you without your doing.

What did you do to receive life? How did you earn life? How did your being happen? What deed brought you here? Life happened; there was no doing of yours. For death, whatever you “do” will bring death closer.

Jo kachu aavai sahaj mein, soi meetha jaan.
Religion gives sweetness—if it comes sahaj. Otherwise even religion will be bitter neem—if obtained by grim practice.

Go and see in ashrams and holy places—those who have gained by hard effort: around them you will feel more bitterness than neem. Their presence is not sweet—its taste is acrid, toxic. It is not their fault—they have strained. The more you strain, the more life becomes dead; the more you twist, the more the flavor of life is lost.

Understand from your own experience. When love happens—with a woman, a man, a friend—have you noticed love happens effortlessly? When it happens, its sweetness is there. Then you start demanding—straining. “You are my wife—give me love. You are my husband—give me love. It is your duty.” Quarrel begins. Strain begins: love must be given. Then even kissing becomes bitter like neem; even embrace becomes poisonous—because the doer has entered. And wherever the doer comes, poison enters. As soon as you “do,” the flavor is lost.

I cite love because you have some experience—prayer you have not. Understand love, and you have the key to prayer. Your prayer has grown bitter because you do it out of fear—not sahaj. You are afraid—of hell…

Mulla Nasruddin’s friend was dying—religious man. The village mullah was away. Only Mulla, the village’s quasi-pundit, remained; they called him for a last prayer.

Mulla looked at the man and said, “The hour has come; we should not miss any chance.” He cried aloud: “O Allah! O Shaitan!” The man said, “What do you mean?” Mulla said, “Better to petition both parties. Who knows where you’ll go! And we are not even sure who is true—so this is not a moment for gambling. It’s the last moment; we will pray to both. Wherever you go, arrangements will be made.”

Your prayers are built on such arithmetic. No love has arisen in your heart. Love for God has not arisen the way you once fell in love with a woman—no such happening. This love is not a call. You are afraid—of hell. For centuries you have been told you will rot in hell. There is also greed for heaven: “If I pray, who knows—perhaps. Perhaps I will get a better place…”

This world has tormented you enough—you have no strength to bear more. That is why Marx said religion is opium for the poor: in this world he has nothing, so he smokes this opium that in the next world all will be his. He consoles himself: those living in palaces will rot in hell; I who lived in a hut will get a palace in heaven. I am poor and wretched—God will pity me; those wicked ones will be roasted.

So whether the prayer is of the poor or the rich—it stands on greed or fear.

Without love, you strain greatly. If you are afraid, you try somehow to get God. If you are greedy, you try too.

The fearful and the greedy cannot be non-doing. Only one filled with love can be motionless.

When you truly love someone—even for a moment—life’s meaning is revealed. It may be lost again—you cannot remain on that height always. But if it has happened once—what do you do when in love? All striving disappears. Two lovers sit hand in hand by the river, doing nothing. To you it looks crazy.

Watch a husband and wife together—always doing something; at least talking, because it’s hard to tolerate each other. Talk passes the time: chit-chat.

When love is lost between husband and wife, they prefer there be guests or a third person—his presence brings some taste; by themselves they have none.

With God, too, you are not alone; you call in a priest, set up a middleman. The third person becomes necessary; there is no love. Through him you “talk.” And he is a businessman; he has nothing to do with God.

When two are in love, they sit in silence. Just sitting is so blissful they don’t want to destroy it by doing. Just being near is so precious they fear any movement might spill this quicksilver moment.

Lovers don’t even say, “I love you very much”—that too is chatter; it begins when love is gone. Then you must reassure, “I love you”—we reassure only when the thing itself is finished.

When love of God happens—naturally—not out of fear, not greed, not effort—one keeps watching and watching; the gaze turns into vision.

Sahajae sahajae sab gaya, sut vit kam nikam.
Ekam-ek hwe mili rahya, das Kabira nam.
Jo kachu aavai sahaj mein, soi meetha jaan.
Kaduwa laage neem-sa, jaamein ainchataan.

You even poison love the moment you begin to strain—demanding “it must be.” “You are my son; it is a son’s duty to love me.” But has anyone ever loved out of duty? And if one “tries” to love, that love is false. Better a true hatred than a false love. At least truth saves you; people go astray by falsity. A true enemy is better than a false friend. Augustine prays: “O Lord, I will manage my enemies—do you take care of my friends! I can deal with enemies; friends I cannot manage. You keep an eye on them.” The prayer is apt, for our friendships are also our contrivances.

All our relationships are built on striving; wherever striving is, the mind operates. All relationships of the heart are non-doing. Love is an uncaused happening; it happens or it doesn’t. And if it happens, there is no why.

Whatever reasons you invent are nonsense. You say: “She is beautiful, that’s why I fell in love.” But she was beautiful before—many saw her; no love happened. You say: “She is so intelligent”—but you are not the first to test her intelligence; others did, and saw nothing. And after a while you too won’t see it—today you do.

The causes you cite are not causes—they are devices to bring the uncaused under your control. The uncaused troubles you because it happens outside your control. You want control, so you rationalize: the nose is such, the eyes are such, the body is such—hence love.

You are seeking causes for love—there lies your mistake. Love is uncaused; so is prayer.

“Cause” belongs to the business of the mind. You buy things in the market for reasons. You cannot “buy” love; it is not in your hands. It happens—it is beyond you. Only when it happens do you know—your every pore fills with it—but you are not its master.

This wounds the ego. Wherever you find you are not the master, you try to be the master. Hence the arrogant cannot love; they fear any event larger than themselves. They avoid storms—where they’d discover they are but a quivering leaf. The arrogant hide; the only way to hide is to die before death—otherwise life is storm all around. There love happens, knowledge happens, prayer happens—all greater than you; they do not happen through your striving. Whatever comes through your striving will be smaller than you—remember this arithmetic.

A sculptor cannot make a statue larger than himself—how would he? A painter cannot make a painting greater than himself. Picasso may try—however big, it cannot be bigger than Picasso. How could it?

Therefore “your” prayer is worthless. It should happen—you cannot do it by heartlessly repeating formulas. Your temple-going is futile. One day suddenly you will find yourself being pulled—your feet move toward the temple. You may want to go to the market, but you cannot. A storm has seized you; you ride a whirlwind. You are a trembling leaf—helpless. The Vast is all around; you cannot step out of its circle. You can do nothing but flow.

The one who sits as witness discovers this secret: life flows without you. You are unnecessarily anxious. Your doership is not needed. Whether you are or not—nothing will change. You unnecessarily pose as doer while everything is happening on its own. Just watch.

The one who becomes doer—that one is a householder. The one who becomes seer—that one is a sannyasin.

And seeing is sahaj; nothing can be “done” for it. Just watch. What must be done to watch? Nothing—seeing is your nature.

Jo kachu aavai sahaj mein, soi meetha jaan.
Kaduwa laage neem-sa, jaamein ainchataan.

Do not strain in anything. If love is lost, do not strain—accept it. It happened beyond your hand; it is beyond your hand—gone is gone.

The fakir Junnaid had a son—an extraordinarily beautiful child; the villages around heard: such a child had not been seen. In a few months, he died. When people first came praising the child, Junnaid looked up and said: “All is his.” When the boy died, people came to console; Junnaid looked up and said, “All is his.” He was neither elated when the child was born, nor sad when he died.

People said, “Junnaid, after losing such a lovely child, are you not unhappy?” Junnaid said, “What was beyond our capacity—his coming and staying were not in our power. For the while he stayed, we are grateful. The one who sent has called him back. Who are we to interfere? To be needlessly cheerful or grieving is in our hands—but that is meaningless. All is vain. The giver took it back. If there was grace in giving, there is surely grace in taking too. Let him know; why should we worry? When you came, I looked up; now too I look up. I do not stand in between.”

When love is gone, accept that it is gone; do not drag the corpse. The earth is full of love’s corpses. Where once a glimpse was, now nothing remains—but you never accept it is gone; you keep dragging. Great strain. What is not there you keep insisting is there—and by striving you try to prop it up.

Once you came home dancing; now the dance is gone from your feet. But still you run home; that only tires you. Dance does not tire—it makes you blossom. Forced running becomes a burden.

Mulla Nasruddin had been sent by his wife to her parents’ with an urgent message—asked to return quickly. No news for two months. At last a man saw him at the village edge, taking off his shoes and grasping them in his hands—then he began to run full speed into the village. “What’s up, Nasruddin?” the man asked. Nasruddin said, “I’m already very late—don’t delay me further; my wife will be angry as it is.” At the village border he grabs his shoes and runs—false running, mere show. The more you show, the more burdened you become.

The weight of pretense rises on your head. You appear so weighed down because of your pretenses. You will be light if you put pretense aside and accept: “I am powerless before life. Love had happened; now it’s not. If it happens again—good. If not—that too is not in my hands.” Love is not an electric switch that you press and it turns on or off.

It is bigger than you; what is bigger than you cannot be “called.” Therefore there is no way to “call” God. You can only wait. Waiting is the only prayer. Sit with patience: when it is time, he will come.

No straining can be done.

Sahaj milai so doodh sam, maanga milai so paani.
Kah Kabir vah rakt sam, jaamein ainchataani.

What is received naturally is like milk—
Whatever comes by asking is like water—
And whatever comes by forcing is like blood.

What comes sahaj will nourish you—hence milk. It will fill you; make you strong—milk. It will become your life—milk.

What comes by asking does not nourish; it will not be your food; it will not give life—only a deception. You will drink water thinking it milk—dangerous self-deception.

Kabir says: what comes by snatching and forcing is like blood—not even drinkable. These are the only three states.

Do you want to “snatch” the truth of life from God, as the hatha yogis do? Kabir criticizes them fiercely. Even if obtained, it will be “blood.” The joy is gone. What is obtained by such disturbance has no meaning. Even if God arrives, there will be no dance in life—no living samadhi—only a dead thing, because it was forced. Like a miscarriage.

Even in a seeker’s life, God can miscarry—through strain, by force. A dead child is born—you may think a child is born, but it is dead.

Then there are those who ask—prayer, worship: “Give this, give that.” They don’t sleep on thorns or roll on the ground or stand on their heads—but they beg. The temple is their beggar’s hall where they present their lists. Prayer is flattery, bribery—a trick: the tricks learned in the world now used on God. “You are the Greatest, the Compassionate; we are sinners”—as if doing him a great favor by declaring yourself a sinner, thus obliging him to be merciful, else he’s not merciful! “We give you a chance to prove you are Rahman, compassionate—prove it! We have sinned; now you show mercy.” This is begging.

Let your prayer not be a beggar’s prayer. Because even if you get something, it will be water—not milk; it will not nourish. The beggar can only ask for the petty.

What will you ask? Your pettiness will dictate: some money, a house, a son, victory in court. Even if it is granted, what life will it bring? You sell prayer for two pennies.

They say Judas sold Jesus for thirty coins—hard to believe; he could have gotten more! For a Jesus—only thirty? Christians have always wondered if the story is factual. But it is a symbol. We do it daily. The prayer by which God could be found—we sell for thirty pieces.

A Christian seeker once told me he could not understand: Judas lived with Jesus for years—a principal disciple, the most educated among the twelve; the rest were unlettered. How could such a man sell Jesus for thirty pieces of silver? I said, “We do it every day.” The very prayer by which God could be found, we sell for small gains.

If you live by asking at God’s door, you will get water where milk was possible—you yourself lost the opportunity.

Sahaj milai so doodh sam, maanga milai so paani.
Kah Kabir vah rakt sam, jaamein ainchataani.

There are only three kinds of people at that door: those who do not ask, who wait—such that God himself asks them; those who ask, who return with the petty; and those who create a commotion—who pull and force.

Be the first kind. Do not ask, else you will come back with trifles. You will sell Jesus for thirty coins. With the very prayer by which God is found, you will become a clerk in some office. With the One who fills the soul, you will fill your belly—which will be empty again tomorrow.

Do not sell; do not beg; and do not make a nuisance. Because if, moved by your nuisance, grace happens to you, it becomes tainted.

When a beggar grabs you on the street and makes a scene, you give a coin—but inside, what is your state? You give in anger, in irritation—only to get rid of him.

Do not put God in such a situation that he wishes to be rid of you.

Cultivate sahaj. The discipline of sahaj is simple and straight—become the seer, awaken witnessing; then you will receive milk—ambrosia will rain in your life.

No need to go anywhere; no need to do anything. Only one quiet way of being: full of waiting and patience; full of prayer and love; centered in seeing—awareness.

Whatever you do, do not do it unseeingly. That is sahaj-yoga. Do it while seeing. Let seeing be cultivated. Even if you are angry, be angry while seeing: “I am angry.” No need to not be angry—else you will strain and invert things. If anger comes—be angry; what will you do? Clouds gather in the sky; thunder rolls—what can the sky do? When anger comes—be angry—bear the consequences; but do so watching. Never act unseeingly.

See anger arise; see it grip; see it render you unconscious. Keep seeing—count within to the last: one, two, three… As anesthesia is given, keep counting within to see at what number you lose yourself. If you do not lose yourself at all—if anger comes and goes, and your inner counting continues—you have the key to sahaj-yoga.

If lust grabs you—do not worry. What will you do? You didn’t go looking for lust. When it comes—what can you do? Remain the seer within. Pass through the experience, but seeing. Soon you will find what Kabir says: Sahajae sahajae sab gaya, sut vit kam nikam. Watching, all goes—only the seer remains; the One remains.

And the day the One remains—Sahib is found. To say “Sahib is found” is not exact—you have become Sahib. That is why Kabir says: Ekam-ek hwe mili rahya, das Kabira nam. And the name of the one who is found is “Kabir the servant”—that is you.

What you will find is none other than yourself. When the One remains—you remain. Then you are green in the trees, you fly in the birds, you move in the moon and stars. You are all. You breathe everywhere. You are all. The day only One remains—you remain. “Das Kabira nam.”

Slowly take hold of the thread of sahaj.

There will be a strong temptation to catch hold of hatha-yoga—because it gives great room for the ego. You cannot have hatha-yoga and be egoless. The more hatha-yoga is perfected—the more powers and siddhis arise—the more the ego grows.

Asking seems easy—otherwise why so many beggars? And not only the visible beggars; the invisible too—everyone is asking in different ways. As long as there is “want—this, that,” you are a beggar—whether by shopkeeping, by prayer, or by creating a nuisance. People are asking. Only when asking drops does your inner beggar end.

Do not become arrogant by straining—do not turn the nourishment of life into blood, undrinkable. Do not become a beggar either—for to meet the Supreme Emperor, one must be emperor-like. How can a beggar meet the Emperor? There is no taste in it—and truly no way. If you approach his door as a mendicant, you will not be received. Approach as an emperor; only an equal can meet an equal.

Sahaj-yoga is the art of being an emperor. You do not search; you do not shout or call. You simply watch what life brings. Slowly the river’s silt settles; consciousness becomes pure. The essential remains; the acquired falls away. One remains—that One is you.

Enough for today.