Sahaj Samadhi Bhali #4

There isn’t a hair’s breadth of difference between a seeker and the enlightened. The difference only appears to be—because of the seeker’s delusion. The seeker too is already realized; he simply doesn’t know it yet. The realized one, too, was once a seeker—until he knew. The very moment he knew, he was realized. So the difference is not in the soul, only in recognition. The seeker is realized—but unconscious of who he is.

The seeker has made his own hands into a beggar’s bowl; being an emperor is his destiny. In truth he is an emperor even now. Not for a single moment has the kingdom been lost—because this is not a kingdom that can be lost. By its very nature it cannot be lost.

Between seeker and realized there is not the slightest distance; there cannot be. You already are realized. The only question is how long you will take to find it out—how much time you will waste. That is another matter.

There is no journey from you to realization. The distance from you to realization is only the distance of remembrance. Like a man asleep and another awake who sits by his side—both are consciousness, yet one is in deep sleep, lost in dreams, unaware; the other is awake, the dreams are gone, he knows. But is there, in truth, any difference between them? A little shaking, a little stirring—even the alarm clock will wake the sleeper. As soon as he wakes, not even a trace of difference remains between him and the one already awake. In fact there was no difference before either—only a veil of drowsiness over one, and in the other the drowsiness had fallen away. One remembered; the other had not yet remembered. In their innermost being there is no difference.

First understand this well, otherwise what often happens is that the seeker, thinking “I am only a seeker,” deprives himself of the words of the realized. He thinks: This is too high—beyond my understanding. This is the language of the sky; I am standing on the earth. It is not for me. But however much you stand on the earth, your head is always touching the sky. There is not even the possibility of avoiding it for a single moment—because the earth itself is in the sky, and wherever you are, you are surrounded by sky.

Very often, thinking “These words are above me,” we become the cause of keeping ourselves below—needlessly. No word is above you, because no experience is beyond you. Even if Brahman were somewhere in the seventh heaven, there might be a distance. But Brahman is within you. You don’t need a ladder to reach it; you need only to open your eyes.

I have heard: a drunk was staggering along the road—deeply intoxicated, legs wobbling, knowing not where he went. A woman—moralistic, and grotesquely ugly—stopped him and said, “What are you doing? Give up this inner ugliness; remove this unconsciousness. You are blameworthy, a sinner.” The drunk opened his eyes at the sound of her voice, looked at the ugly woman before him, and said, “I’ll be sober by morning—but what will you do about your ugliness? That will still be the same in the morning.”

The difference between seeker and realized is like the difference between drunkenness and soberness—not like ugliness that remains morning or night. When morning comes and you awaken, you too will find you are realized. That distance is not of a kind that persists like ugliness, whether you sleep or wake.

A light breeze of remembrance will blow away your whole world. In its place you will discover a clear, open sky. So first take this to heart: there is no difference between the realized and the seeker. Between devotee and God there isn’t a hair’s breadth of distance. And if there seems to be, it is in the devotee’s idea—not in God’s. It’s the devotee’s own delusion.

Second point: however many ways the realized may have reached, however numerous the names of paths, the path is, in truth, one; there cannot be two. This needs to be understood—it’s a little subtle. If we are creating images, a thousand forms can be made. But if we are erasing images, there is only one way to erase. If you are building a house, architects can suggest thousands of ways. But if the house is to be demolished, no architect need be consulted; however the house is built, demolition is one. What difference can there be in breaking?

To attain realization, Buddhahood, is a process of dissolving the world—not building something new. In building there are differences; in dissolving what differences can there be? Forms are different; the formless cannot be different. You may have money in your pocket and I in mine—there can be differences: you might have millions, I only a handful. But if both our pockets are empty, how many kinds of emptiness can there be? In fullness there can be differences of quantity; emptiness has no quantity. Empty is simply empty.

Objects differ—how can emptiness differ? All zeros are alike—you may never have thought about it. Draw a small zero and a very large zero: is there any difference? The value of zero is zero. One differs from two, two from three; numbers differ—zero is non-difference.

Attaining realization is a process of disappearing, of losing. The Ganga is different from the Yamuna; even when they meet, for a while their waters appear distinct. Narmada is different; one river flows east, another west—banks and courses vary. But in the ocean—where rivers vanish, where forms dissolve—what water is Ganga-water? There all becomes salty; Ganga, Yamuna, Narmada—no distinctions remain.

Buddhahood is the name of losing oneself in the ocean; the personality becomes zero. Therefore, however different the paths may seem, in truth they cannot be different. The way of dissolving is one. You can give different names—that is your choice. Only the names differ; reality cannot. Yet that reality can be expressed in two basic ways. Understand these, and this small dialogue will become wondrous.

There are two ways of saying it: complete negation, and complete affirmation—negativity and positivity. You can say: it is emptiness (shunya). Or you can say: it is fullness (purna). But both mean the same—because fullness too is emptiness.

Fullness is not a number; it has no quantity. Emptiness is not a number; it has no quantity. Emptiness is where numbers have not yet begun; fullness is where numbers are finished. Emptiness is the name before numbers; fullness is the name after numbers. In both, one thing is clear: there is no number. Both are numberless—empty of number, or say unnumbered. And even this is our way of speaking: “before number” and “after number.” But what is before numbers is exactly what remains after numbers. Your pocket was empty—zero. We put money in it; then we took the money out. What remains? Exactly what was there before the money.

So “fullness” is a way of speaking; in truth it is the same as emptiness. Neither emptiness nor fullness has a boundary. All boundaries lie between the two; the two themselves are boundless. But there cannot be two infinites. This is a subtle point of mathematics.

The infinite can only be one. If there were two infinites, each would limit the other. Two infinites cannot exist; only limited “infinitudes” could. This is why the wise say there cannot be two Gods—if there were two, each would set boundaries to the other; the very idea of “second” creates limitation, and the infinite would no longer be infinite. The infinite is one. Before number we call it emptiness; after number we call it fullness. But it is one—and can be expressed in two ways. Because there are two kinds of minds: one delights in emptiness, the other delights in fullness. The religions of the world differ only in expression.

Buddha savors shunya—before number. “Why enter the entanglement of numbers at all?” he asks. His relish is in the before. So he uses the word emptiness. Shankara uses fullness. He says: after number. But those who know, know that Shankara and Buddha are saying the same thing. Thus Ramanuja, in his critique of Shankara, used the phrase “a crypto-Buddhist.” There is no harsher critic of Buddha than Shankara; his critique is deep. Shankara insists upon fullness; the language of emptiness does not appeal to him. “Emptiness is negation,” he says. “And the Supreme? The Supreme is not a negation; it is fullness. It is all-that-is. Do not call it Nothing; call it All. It is omniscient, omnipotent, omnipresent—not empty, but full.” So Shankara criticizes Buddha; yet Ramanuja says, “Shankara is a hidden Buddhist.” And rightly so—there is not a jot of difference. Whatever definition you give of fullness will be the definition of emptiness; whatever you say of emptiness will be fullness.

Now let us enter the dialogue.

A disciple asked Kembo: “Do all enlightened ones proceed by the same path to Nirvana, and in all ages—always, from time immemorial?”

Kembo is an enlightened one—a awakened consciousness.

“Do all enlightened ones proceed by the same path—and since forever?” Kembo raised his staff and traced the figure of a zero in the air: “Here is the path. From here it begins.” He drew a zero in empty space with his staff and said, “Here is the path. From here all the Buddhas go.”

The answer is exquisitely subtle. Kembo did well not to draw a figure on the ground with chalk; a shape drawn on the ground cannot be emptiness. Once a shape is drawn, the formless is lost. Kembo did well—he drew in the empty sky with his staff. It was made and unmade simultaneously.

There are three kinds of figures: carve on stone—it endures for centuries; draw on water—it forms and dissolves; draw in the air—it neither forms, nor can the question of dissolving arise.

Islam objects to stone images for this reason: “You make an image of the formless in stone? Do not make an image. Leave the mosque empty; let the temple remain shunya. What is carved in stone will perish; God never perishes. By making idols you are perishing God. Remove the idols. He is not an image; let him remain imageless.” Islam would applaud Kembo’s gesture—drawing a figure in emptiness.

Stone endures; water forms and disappears; sky—neither forms nor disappears.

“And here is the path.” The day your ego, your sense of “I,” your very being becomes like a zero traced in the sky, that very day you are a Buddha. In truth you are a Buddha even now—but you have sketched your form in chalk-dust, or are carving it in stone.

People die and leave their names carved in stone. They go to mountains and chisel their names on rocks—a powerful attachment to remain: “Let me stay on somehow; let some mark remain.” So temples are built, mosques are built—but the whole effort is the ego’s. Ego means: you have drawn a line where none should be; you have made a figure where there should be none. That is the only difference between seeker and realized: the seeker is drawing figures; the realized understands figures are futile—formlessness is my nature.

Kembo, drawing a zero in empty air, said: “Here is the path.” Become a zero—you become a Buddha. Be empty—let there be no passenger in your boat. Become a vacant house where no one resides—only a stillness, a silence where even words do not arise; where no ripples form, no shapes emerge; only silence. No echo even resounds. Be such—and from there the path begins.

The art of becoming zero is the supreme art. He who has learned to disappear has found the secret of attainment.

Maluk has said:
“Ramdware jo mare, phir bahuri na marna hoy.”
He who dies at Rama’s door dies no more. He has found the elixir of immortality. But at Rama’s door…

Your situation is reversed: at your door Rama lies dead. You chant “Rama, Rama,” yet you try to make Rama your servant, to employ God for your business. All your prayers are demands: a son be born, wealth be gained, promotion obtained. You want a relationship of exploitation even with God. You are murdering him.

Nietzsche wrote a remarkable book, Thus Spoke Zarathustra. In it there is a sweet parable: Zarathustra ran down from the mountains into the marketplace crying, “Listen! You are busy with your shops and trades—you do not know God is dead!” People laughed. “You’re crazy,” they said, and went on. Zarathustra said to himself: “It seems the news has not reached them yet.” But he wondered, “How can it be? They are the ones who killed him! And they don’t even know?” He thought perhaps the priests would know, being God’s representatives. He knocked at the temple doors: “Whom are you worshipping? He is dead!” “Away with your blasphemy!” the priests cried. Zarathustra said, “Amazing! You choked him to death, and yet you don’t know? How innocently you pose!”

You go about asking, “Where is God?”—and you have killed him at your very door. Ego is the murder of God. Ego says, “I am; you are not. And if you are, you are for me.” Egolessness means: “You are; I am not.” “Ramdware jo mare, phir bahuri na marna hoy.”

Egolessness is emptiness: I drop myself at your door; I am no more. The very instant you are not, God is alive. Only one of you two can live. If you live, God must die. If God lives, you must vanish. You cannot both be together; you are opposites.

Kembo said: the zero he drew in the sky—which was never really “drawn” at all. Try to grasp Kembo’s zero—you cannot. Try to close it in your fist—you cannot. Try to show someone, “Kembo drew this path”—you cannot. But the pointing is precious.

“Here is the path. From here it begins.” He who enters here becomes a Buddha.

How can there be two ways to disappear? There can only be one. Yes, one may jump from a mountain, another drink poison, another be crushed under a train—but would you say there are different “ways of dying”? The inner event is one, whether you jump, drink, or are crushed. Death’s occurrence, as process, is one.

Differences may be like the colors of the staff: one traced the zero with a red staff, one with a green, one with a yellow—but can the staff’s color enter the zero? The zero remains formless, qualityless, colorless; the staff’s color cannot enter emptiness.

So whether you drink poison, jump from a mountain, or sink into the sea—what difference? When the soul separates from the body, the event is the same. How you separate doesn’t matter. Whether you break before a mosque or before a temple, whether you dissolve at Rama’s door or at Buddha’s—what difference? The color of the staff does not enter emptiness. When you vanish, there is neither mosque nor temple—no Rama, no Krishna, no Buddha. Only emptiness remains.

That emptiness has no name. So Kembo spoke little: “Here is the path. From here it begins.” Paths may appear different; in truth they cannot be. Among zeros there can be no difference.

But the disciple was not satisfied, or else there would have been no need to go anywhere else. Disciples can be difficult; their malady is complicated. Even after coming to someone like Kembo, this disciple did not drink—he returned thirsty from the well. He did not even see the well; perhaps Kembo became yet another question. “What was the point of that? I asked a simple question, and he set up a riddle.”

He went to another master. Disciples wander from one master to another; and if wandering becomes a habit, meeting a master becomes impossible—because before they enter, they’re already packing to go elsewhere. Wherever they arrive, they remain outside.

Had the disciple a little understanding, he would have caught hold of Kembo’s staff. No need to go anywhere. The door of “Rama” had come—die there.

What Kembo said admits of no refinement; it was the last word. Yet the disciple left. He went to Ummon—another enlightened one—and asked the same question. It was midday; Ummon held a fan in his hand. He waved it in all directions and said, “Where is that path not? Where does it not begin?”

Kembo favored emptiness; Ummon, fullness. Kembo was Buddha-like; Ummon, Shankara-like. “Everywhere there are paths—everything is the path,” he said. Kembo drew a zero in the sky and pointed: “Here.” Ummon swiveled his fan to all quarters and said, “All directions are his path.” This entire sky is his path. Nothing less will do. He and he alone—everywhere. Wherever you stand, there is the path. There is no need to go anywhere else. What you are is the path—because you are fullness.

In the language of emptiness, one can point; in the language of fullness, even pointing is impossible. To indicate emptiness, a finger can be raised; to indicate fullness, the fist must be closed. All directions are his.

Nanak went to Mecca. At night he slept with his feet toward the sacred stone. The priests heard and were angry. Priests are the blindest of men. Nanak had come; they could not recognize him. He was the same one who was Muhammad. Not a whit of difference. They looked only at his feet: “Turn them the other way! Your feet toward the holy shrine—the house of God! Aren’t you ashamed?” Nanak said, “Then turn them for me in the direction where God is not.”

The priests were in a fix. Where to place the feet if God is everywhere? The story says wherever they turned his feet, the Kaaba revolved to that side. This is a symbol; stone temples don’t so easily turn—priests won’t turn, how will stones turn? But the point is true.

The priests must at least have grasped this much: it’s useless to turn his feet—God’s temple is in all directions. Which direction is he not in? And it would be improper to say he is “more” here and “less” there—can God be more or less? Either he is, or he is not.

Ummon was a Nanak-like man. He whirled his fan and said, “Where is his path not? Where does it not begin?”

The disciple was now in worse trouble. If you ever meet an enlightened one, it is best to drown in him completely. If you meet a second, your confusion will grow, not lessen—because the second will speak another language. The first language was already heavy; Kembo was not understood. Now there is more trouble: a language that seems opposite. Kembo had shown a direction with a clear pointer; this man has taken away all directions. The pointing grows dim.

Kembo had said, “Here it is.” This one says, “Where is it not?” They are saying the same—but for this disciple it is a dilemma.

Caught between two Buddhas, a disciple is ground down. One Buddha is enough.

So it happened. A Jewish enlightened one, Baal Shem Tov, had a disciple who came to him. For that disciple, this was the rabbi, the master. The disciple was also a sinner, a troublemaker, a drunk—full of mischiefs. One day Baal Shem heard that his disciple had gone to another town to another rabbi. When the disciple returned, Baal Shem asked, “Was I alone not enough?” The disciple—a simple carter—said, “When the mud is deep, one horse won’t do; you need two. The mud is deep—you know that well. So I thought two horses, two masters, might pull me out.” Baal Shem said, “You speak well—but in this world where you seek masters, the ‘horses’ often stand facing opposite directions. If two horses are yoked to one cart and pull opposite ways, you will never come out of the mud. One will pull out; the other will pull you back in.”

Avoid two Buddhas. One is enough. Sometimes medicines are more dangerous than the disease—two opposite medicines can be very dangerous. All medicines are poisons; the art is to turn the poison into nectar. But take two opposite poisons, and the difficulty is great.

The earth has many Buddhas—that is a difficulty, though it is not their fault. Every Buddha is of his own flavor and will speak in his own way; he cannot compromise with you. He can authentically speak only as he has known; he cannot speak in another way.

Kembo knew through emptiness, so he spoke emptiness; Ummon knew through fullness, so he spoke fullness. For your intellect, great difficulty arises—two opposite statements. They are not opposite for the realized—but if you were realized you wouldn’t worry at all; you wouldn’t go to Buddhas in the first place. You go precisely because remembrance has not dawned; your intellect is bound to be troubled.

The disciple went to Ummon and asked the same question. The story doesn’t say whether he went anywhere else afterwards—perhaps he was no longer in any condition to go. His confusion grew heavy. Maybe he dropped the search altogether: “This is madness. One says ‘Here it is’; the other says ‘Where is it not?’ What could be more opposite?” Perhaps he returned to his shop, to his trade.

Later, someone else—studying these events and the two answers given to this disciple—asked Mamon, a third enlightened one: “What is the secret of this incident?”

This is even more dangerous: you bring in a third Buddha. His explanation won’t resolve you; it will introduce a third formula.

When asked about the secret, Mamon said, “Before the first step is taken, the goal arrives. And before the tongue moves, the statement is complete.”

He pointed neither to emptiness nor to fullness. He said something else, relating to both events—and it is most subtle. There cannot be a subtler statement.

“Before the first step is taken, the goal arrives.”

The goal is that near! Why are you chattering about paths? Why do you ask about the path? If you ask the wrong question, you will be in trouble.

You asked, “Where is the path?” Kembo drew a zero: “Here.” You were not satisfied. You asked again, “Where is the path?” Ummon said, “Where is it not? Everywhere.” Now you ask the secret of both: Mamon says, “Before the first step is taken, the goal arrives.”

The very talk of path is nonsense. The first step hasn’t yet been taken and the goal arrives. In the rising of the first step is the goal. A path exists only when there is a distance between you and the goal; then a thousand steps may be needed. But you have not even lifted the first step; it hasn’t even touched the ground—and the goal arrives.

Delightful! He says, the very lifting of the foot is the arrival of the goal. You are not far; it is only a matter of idea.

The seeker takes a step—and is realized. Not because of the step—for even that much distance is not there. The resolve to step is enough. If you truly decide for meditation, meditation will happen. If it is “not happening,” it means you have not decided; you are playing games with yourself.

A fakir in a mosque painted a beautiful picture of heaven and asked, “Who wants to go to heaven? Stand up.” His voice had power; his eyes, magic. Ninety percent stood. Yet ten percent remained seated. “Sit down,” he said to the others. Then he painted hell—so terrifying that people’s hair stood on end; they felt the flames licking about. “Now, who wants to go to heaven?” Everyone stood—except one man. “What is your intention?” the fakir asked. “You don’t want heaven?” The man said, “I do—but not so soon. From the way you speak, it sounds as if the carriage is waiting outside. If I say ‘yes’ you’ll seat me in it immediately. I’m not in such a hurry.”

When you sit for meditation, ask your mind; it keeps saying, “Not so soon.” If you fail in meditation, it’s not because meditation is difficult. You fail because you never lift even the first step. You are deceiving yourself. You only play at lifting the foot—your mind says within, “Not so soon. There is still taste left in the world; some experiences are yet to be had. Not yet. There is time.”

If you truly consent to the first step, Mamon is right: “Path? All nonsense—there is no path.” No staff drawn, no fan waved can “show it.” There is no path, fool! The moment the first step is lifted, the goal arrives. Not by lifting does it arrive; the very thought to lift is enough. You are a seeker by thought; you are realized by no-thought. A slight step—barely that.

“And before the tongue moves, the statement is complete.”

Because whatever is said once the tongue moves cannot be true. Whether someone waves a staff—he has used the outer world. The outer cannot even serve as a true symbol for the inner. Whether someone waves a fan—he has used the gross to point to the subtle. No gross can show the subtle.

“Before words are spoken, the statement is complete.” Mamon is saying: before Kembo’s staff moved, the path was already told. Before Ummon’s fan turned, to indicate all directions—before the fan moved—you should have understood.

The true statement of truth is the person himself—his inmost being. When you go to an enlightened one, don’t ask questions—see him. See him when he is not speaking—because there is the real statement. When his staff does not move, he is emptiness; when it moves, a shape appears in emptiness, a vibration happens—the thing becomes untrue.

When you go to an enlightened one, don’t look at where his fan points—anything that has to be shown cannot be “everywhere.” The moment we express, we limit; expression is definition, a boundary.

Mamon made it even more subtle. The fact is, the more you try to “resolve,” the more you tangle things—because you are “resolving” with the intellect, and intellect is a device for tangling. The day you drop intellect, everything is resolved—it was always resolved.

It is like wearing tinted glasses: the whole world looks blue, and you peer more intently through the same glasses, hoping the blueness will vanish. The more intently you look through them, the bluer everything appears. Take off the glasses—the blueness is gone.

As long as you look through mind, the world is a problem. The world is not a problem; the trouble lies in seeing through mind. Mind colors; its color is problem. It raises a problem in everything.

The nature of mind is to manufacture questions. As leaves sprout on trees, so questions sprout in mind. Remove mind—never has there been a single question in existence.

Existence has never had a question; it is questionless. It is clear; its mystery is open. Nothing is tangled there. You asked—and you tangled yourself.

Someone came to Buddha with a question. Buddha said, “If you ask, it will be hard to resolve. Do not ask. Remain here a year—utterly silent. Ask after a year; then I will answer.”

The man had wandered much; he had received many “answers,” yet no answer. He thought, “Let me try this too—only a year.” “So after a year you will answer?” he asked. “Certainly,” said Buddha.

As they were speaking, a monk sitting under a nearby tree burst out laughing. The man asked, “What is the matter?” “Don’t be deceived,” the monk said. “We fell into the same trap. Many years have passed; this man has not answered.” “What is he saying?” asked the man. Buddha replied, “He never asked after a year; the condition was that you ask after a year, and I will answer.” The monk said, “That’s the key. If you want to ask, ask now. If you remain silent a year, silence comes—and then no one asks.” Buddha said, “I will keep my word. Whenever you ask, I will answer.”

A year passed. At the morning assembly Buddha said to the monk, “Stand and ask.” The monk laughed: “There is nothing to ask. Now I know well that whatever was to be known comes with silence.”

Mamon said, “Before the first step is taken, the goal arrives; before the tongue moves, the statement is complete.”

Do not go to the master seeking answers. If you do, you will not reach him. Go seeking silence—how to set mind aside; how to see life without mind. There has never been any question there, no tangle. Everything is resolved—utterly simple, straight, clear.

A sunbeam passes through a glass prism and splits into seven colors. The sunbeam is white—colorless. Remember, white is not a color; white is colorlessness. Black too is not a color; black is the absence of all colors, not their mixture. White is the presence of all colors. Neither is a color. Black is like emptiness; white like fullness. Between them stretches the seven-colored rainbow. Mix the seven strongly—you get white.

To show schoolchildren, a round disc is painted in seven colors; spin it fast—it becomes white. Paint seven colors on your fan blades; when it runs, the fan looks white. When the seven whirl and merge, they become white.

The sunbeam is white—the fullness of all colors, yet no color, because each cancels the other and only absence remains. The sunbeam is like Shankara’s Brahman. Or separate all colors—black remains. Where there is no light, there is black. Black remains because without light, colors cannot appear. Black is absence. It is like Buddha’s emptiness. Between these two lies the world of seven colors—the spread of the rainbow. And have you seen anything more deceptive than a rainbow? It arches from one end of the sky to the other, but go near—and it vanishes. Close your fist—you cannot catch it.

The rainbow is a symbol of illusion. The wise say: he who wanders in the world is trying to catch the rainbows of desire. The nearer you go, the farther they recede; always visible—so colorful you think, “If I could bring it home, my house would be radiant, full of flowers.” But there is no way to catch it—because it is not. In the rainy season, droplets hang in the atmosphere; sunlight passing through them breaks into seven and the rainbow appears.

Mind is a prism. The multitude of colors you see arises from the breaking of the ray in the droplet of mind—the whole rainbow is mind-made. Remove mind—the rainbow disappears. With mind removed, either only white remains—your interpretation—or only black—also your interpretation.

Some sages have said: the Divine is like light. Others have said: like great darkness. It is a matter of taste. If you are a little fearful, you will call it light; if a little daring, you will call it deep darkness. As the world is mostly fearful, those who say “God is light” are many. To call it darkness frightens you. But both are possible: emptiness—dark; fullness—light.

If you look through mind, colors spread and confusion arises—the rainbows stand. Remove mind and the seven vanish; the One remains.

Let what Mamon said sink very deep: “Before the first step is taken, the goal arrives.” You have nowhere to go—don’t ask for the path. You stand exactly where the goal is. “As you are…”

Nothing could be more difficult to accept—because we are all engaged in self-condemnation, and your religious leaders teach you to condemn yourself. They say you are sinners, irreligious, hell-bound. Your temples fill you with guilt; your scriptures with self-torture and self-criticism. Whereas the truth is the opposite: exactly as you are, there is not a grain to be done. Only a little awareness, a little remembrance—of who you are.

Try a small experiment by the roadside. People pass; you see them and think you are seeing them. But have you ever truly seen them? How could you? Stand by the road and consider: they too are seeing you as you see them. But can they see you? They can see only your body—not you; your form—not you; your outer circumference—not you. Stand there and see: no one can see you. You are invisible. What they see is your visible sheath. No one can see you. So many eyes pass by—and not one sees you; they only touch your circumference—you remain untouched.

Who are you? That which is not visible to anyone. Stand in the teeming market, and the consciousness within you is not visible to anyone—utterly invisible. Let the remembrance arise a little: I am invisible; no one is seeing me. Even if they wanted to, they could not. What they see is not me—only the body; young yesterday, old today, gone tomorrow. The outer garment.

“Who am I?” In that crowded bazaar, turn your gaze upon yourself. Suddenly the focus changes; the whole process of attention shifts—from body to soul. If even for a moment this happens, in the marketplace you will be utterly alone; all else recedes. Only you are—utterly alone.

This is the state of the realized. For you it lasts a moment, then it slips; a doze returns; again you see people; again you think they see you. In the realized, this state remains always. In you it comes for a moment and goes—but it is within you. Even if you forget, you cannot lose it.

As you are, you are perfect. Not a trace is lacking—only remembrance is needed. And to bring remembrance, you must stir yourself a little, wake up. All meditations are experiments in awakening—in awareness.

Try this in the market. A better place even than the Himalayas—because there you can watch others and see that they are “seeing” you, and still no one sees you. You are invisible. In the midst of the market, utterly alone—supremely solitary amid the crowd. Slowly the crowd will recede, like a dream. As you move closer to yourself, the crowd moves away. Often you will feel it come close, then go far—near, then distant. Often the market’s sounds will seem far away, as if from another village. When you are close to yourself, the market goes far; when you are far from yourself, the market comes close. Your focus will shift throughout. If even for a moment—what Kabir calls the touch of the current—there is awakening within, then outwardly you fall asleep. That is why Kabir calls it a “current”: outward you are awake, inward asleep; when inward you awake, outward you sleep.

The moment the inner current touches, you are realized. The moment you awake outwardly and sleep within—you are a seeker.

The distance between seeker and realized is only this much: when your eyes look outward, you are a seeker; when they look inward, you are realized.

“The first step has not yet been taken, and the goal arrives. The tongue has not yet moved, and the statement is complete.”

Enough for today.