Sanch Sanch So Sanch #8

Vinod Bharti, very few people in this world have truly known life—so few they can be counted on the fingers. Most people, like parrots, keep repeating stale, borrowed knowledge. Those unfortunate ones do not even realize that what they are saying is not their own. And what is not your own is not at all—it is only an illusion of it.

Truth has to be tasted. Truth is ambrosia—drink it to know. However much you may understand the word “amrit,” your thirst will not be quenched; no spring will arrive in your life, no eternal flowers will bloom, no shower of bliss will fall. No lamp of light will be lit, no chains will break. In fact, the chains will only grow stronger. The chains of ignorance are not so strong; the chains of hollow knowledge are very strong. The ignorant may, by a happy accident, reach the divine; the so‑called learned have hardly any chance.

I have heard: A pundit died and reached heaven. On the same day, an extraordinary fakir also died—perhaps one like Bulleh Shah. Both arrived at heaven’s gate together. The pundit was welcomed grandly—bands played, flowers rained, all the gods and goddesses performed aarti. The fakir stood in a corner watching. He was a little surprised too. He knew that pundit well—pure parrot! He had never truly known anything. Yet, though he could not believe his eyes, this is what was happening. He thought maybe this is just the rule in heaven—to welcome whoever comes.

When the pundit had entered and it was the fakir’s turn, there were no bands, no flowers, no aarti, no acclaim. They simply let him in—as if someone had come to lodge at a dharmashala. Now he was even more startled. He asked the guard, “May I inquire about something? That pundit—whom I know to be utterly hollow—received such a welcome. I do not crave a welcome myself, nor am I pained that there was none. I am just curious: what is the secret?”

The guard laughed. “There is no secret—only something very simple. Fakirs like you come to heaven all the time; this is your home. But a pundit—this is the first time one has arrived! How he made it, we ourselves are astonished. And that such a pundit will ever come again—we have no hope. Perhaps some error occurred in the office. So we thought best not to miss this rare opportunity for a welcome. Never came before; unlikely to come again. You fakirs keep coming, and will keep coming.”

The chains of knowledge are costly, heavy. Why? Because knowledge feeds the ego. Those chains are like golden chains studded with jewels—so precious you don’t feel like leaving them, let alone breaking them. They are so dear that if someone calls them chains, you feel offended: “They are my ornaments, my adornment!” That which you have taken as your ornament—how will you leave it? And that which you have taken as a temple—if it is truly a prison—why would you step out?

Ignorance does not feed the ego; pedantry does. Therefore, it is more fortunate to be ignorant! For ignorance pricks like a thorn—you feel, “How do I drop it? When will I be free? Why is it taking so long?” But so‑called learning, hollow knowledge, you press to your chest lest someone steal it, snatch it, it get lost, or you forget it.

There have been many pundits, there are many pundits, there will be many pundits—because pedantry is cheap, even free. String together four books and you become a pundit. Collect a few bits of information and the conceit of knowing arises. But nothing is known; only believed. Remember: belief is not knowing. Even a blind man believes that there is light; but he believes, he does not know. Even a deaf man believes there is music—that the cuckoo sings and birds greet the dawn—but he believes; the notes have never reached his ears.

The pundit is blind, deaf, mute, unfeeling—a living corpse. So many books have piled up around him that they have become his tomb. And no tomb is as fine as the one books can make. Those who have truly known have been very few.

Bulleh Shah is among those few. His kafi is lovely. Sip it as you would kafi—hot and fresh. It springs from a living source. When something comes from a living source, if your eyes are open you recognize it at once. Every word here is dear.

First, see how Bulleh addresses you—he says: “Beloved!”

“Apne aap nū̃ samajh pehle, ki vast hai terā rūp, pyāre.”
“First understand yourself, beloved—what is your very form?”

A true master is not a master—he is a friend; not above the disciple but a companion; he presses the disciple to his heart. If a disciple touches his feet, that may be fitting from the disciple’s side, but it is improper from the master’s. The master holds the disciple as dear.

But the so‑called false gurus have erected such thrones of conceit that standing before them you feel like a worm. Their strategies to prove you a worm are so subtle, so refined, that you may not even catch them. Whatever you do, they condemn. Everything within you is wrong; your whole life is deluded. You are an animal. Will a false guru ever address you as “Beloved”?

At the World Parliament of Religions in America, the most significant thing Vivekananda said might not even seem significant to you. What earned him such honor was something that, here, any politician mouths every day. But in contrast to the priests and preachers who had spoken before him, his address touched hearts.

Vivekananda was not an accomplished, realized man himself; yes, he did sit at the feet of one. He had gathered a little dust of those feet—and that dust was more precious than gold. When he rose to speak, at his very first words the whole assembly stood and clapped for minutes. He himself was taken aback. What had he said? Only, “Brothers and sisters!”

Here even the most asinine politician says, “Brothers and sisters.” Though, when a politician says that to you, stop him at once: “Quiet, you blockhead! You include us among your own? Go address a gathering of donkeys! Calling human beings your brothers and sisters—have you no shame? Take a dip and drown, you ill‑mannered fellow!” Yet Vivekananda’s simple address—he hadn’t planned it; it was just our habit—hit home there. Those priests always speak from the skies: “We are pure, you impure; we are virtuous, you sinful; we are bound for heaven, you for hell.” And you—crawling worms on the earth! So when Vivekananda said, “Brothers and sisters,” people rose instinctively. He realized only later why such a simple thing struck so deep.

But even “brothers and sisters” does not suffice; it is formal. Bulleh Shah says: “Beloved.” The relationship he invokes is not of brother and sister—that is familial, not necessarily loving. Your sister may be ugly or lame—still she is your sister; your brother may be a fool—still he is your brother. You did not choose that relationship; it is accidental. True connection is chosen in freedom.

Bulleh Shah says: Beloved.

Gautam Buddha has said: In a past life, when I first went to see an awakened one, I bowed to touch his feet—but before I could rise he bent and touched mine. I was shocked—sweating, trembling. How could an awakened one touch my feet? I pleaded, “What are you doing? I am unworthy, ordinary, ignorant; you are the enlightened, radiant, godly! I should touch your feet, yes—but why did you touch mine?”

The sage laughed: “From the day I awakened, I see no ‘other’—I see the same beloved in everyone. And I tell you: it is only a matter of sooner or later. If I have awakened today, you will tomorrow. Yesterday I too slept; today I am awake. Today you sleep; tomorrow you will awaken. This gap of today and tomorrow is also within you. For the awakened, time ends—he becomes timeless. What is today, what is tomorrow in the stream of the infinite? Whether one wakes a moment earlier or later, what difference does it make? Since you touched my feet, I touch yours—to remind you that what is within me is within you. Granted, in me it is awake and in you it still sleeps; but yesterday it slept in me too. I am exactly what I was; yesterday I lay under a blanket, today I stand. How long will you lie asleep? Soon enough you will throw off the blanket and come out of your drowse. And when you awaken, do not forget that I had touched your feet.”

And when Buddha did awaken—in a later birth—he laughed: “That sage spoke true. Those who think they sleep are not sleeping for me now, for I see the same beloved in all. The same dear one breathes in everyone, blooms in flowers, shines in sun and stars—sometimes sleeping in you, sometimes waking, sometimes singing, dancing, falling silent.”

To evoke that one, Bulleh Shah says:
“Apne aap nū̃ samajh pehle, ki vast hai terā rūp, pyāre.”
“Beloved, what is your form? First understand yourself.”

There are other nuances here. “Apne aap nū̃ samajh pehle”—know yourself by yourself. We all “know,” but our knowing is borrowed. Who here does not “know”? From the paan‑seller to the president, everyone “knows” that there is a soul, consciousness within; the body dies, the soul does not. But do not mistake this for knowing—you have only heard it, and so often that you have forgotten you do not know. Repetition over centuries has sunk in as conditioning. Conditioning is not knowledge; it is an obstacle to it. Because you settle before seeking—“I already know”—you no longer search.

Therefore, the kind of dense darkness seen in India—where the thirst for knowledge seems dead—exists nowhere else. Why? We turned our fortune into misfortune. Our Buddhas, Mahaviras, Krishnas, Bulleh Shahs, Nanaks, Kabirs, Meeras, Chaitanyas—who could have been causes of light in our lives—we fools made their very songs the foundation stones of our darkness. We just repeat their hymns and think, “Why bother to know ourselves?”

Remember: in science, if one person knows, that knowledge becomes everyone’s. If Newton discovered gravity, each child need not rediscover it. Scientific truths are objective. A child can grasp in minutes what took Newton years. But inner knowledge is different. There, each must find his own. If even a suspicion arises that what you carry is mere conditioning, become alert—set it aside however dear it seems; it is poison.

Know yourself by yourself—and then it does not take long to see that you are God. But know yourself by yourself. This knowing cannot be transferred. If I have known, I cannot make you know. If I have tasted, I cannot pass the flavor into you. What then does the true master do? He points to the moon—and fools cling to his finger. The worship of fingers goes on: some hold Jesus’ finger and call themselves Christian, some Krishna’s and call themselves Hindu, some Buddha’s and call themselves Buddhist. Clinging to a finger will not help. No finger is the moon—and to see the moon, the finger must be released and forgotten.

Those who have known religion are neither Hindu, nor Muslim, nor Christian, nor Jain, nor Sikh. That is impossible. So long as you clutch fingers, there are religions, sects, sub‑sects—madness dividing into ever smaller courtyards, each with its own corner, its own temple, mosque, gurudwara—and then petty quarrels, so petty that children would laugh while old men fight.

In a village in Maharashtra—Sirpur—I was told a lawsuit has been running for a hundred years. Empires changed, the British left, India became free, but the case goes on. What is it? A Jain temple with an idol of Mahavira. Two sects share it—Shvetambar and Digambar. They jointly built it—they had neither numbers nor funds to build two. Their rituals differ a little—same Mahavira, same worship, same Namokar mantra. Yet a quarrel arose. Shvetambars worship with open eyes; they paste an artificial eye onto the stone idol. Digambars remove it when they worship. Time was divided: till noon, Shvetambars; then they remove the eye; after noon, Digambars. One day a Shvetambar, feeling overly devout—or mischievous—overran the time. The Digambars, punctual to the stroke of twelve, said “Stop!” Before the worship could stop, they removed the eyes. The Shvetambars protested: “You could have waited a few minutes; at least don’t break the worship.” The Digambars said, “Let worship go to hell—rules are rules.” Sticks flew; the police sealed the temple. Since then, no worship—neither with eyes nor without. The case went to the Privy Council in London. There too was a problem: the real matter can only be decided by asking the one concerned—Mahavira. Do open eyes suit him or closed?

As for me, I think sometimes he would have his eyes open, sometimes closed—what could be more natural? No one keeps eyes open twenty‑four hours; nor closed! In truth, eyes open and close every moment. Better to fit motorized eyelids and let Mahavira keep blinking—then both parties would be happy! How to decide?

So the case was sent back to the lower court: first, consult Mahavira. A summons was issued; the idol was carried on a rickshaw to court—handcuffs would not be respectful! The court wished to know: is the idol essentially clothed (Shvetambar) or nude (Digambar)? If clothed, there must be sculpted marks of drapery. But the Shvetambars had, anticipating this, sneaked in and plastered over the nudity. Who cares for Mahavira! On a living man, the poor fellow would cry out—“What are you doing? You’ve sterilized me!” Now the quarrel is whether the plaster is original or added later. The Digambars say later: the idol is stone, plaster is not—clearly added. The Shvetambars say: clothes aren’t leather; people are not skin—clothing is always added! The case still runs. Now the windows are grilled lest anyone remove plaster; the temple is sealed.

How small, petty the things people fight over! And these are “religious” people—pushed by pundits and priests. The day this land bids farewell to such priests will be fortunate—but they will not go until we drop the very root belief that truth can be given by someone.

Bulleh Shah strikes at that root: “Apne aap nū̃ samajh pehle.” First understand yourself. Then, if you like, read the Vedas, Quran, Bible, Dhammapada, Zend Avesta—but first read the book hidden within you, the book of consciousness. Whoever has read that has read all that is worth reading.

“Apne aap nū̃ samajh pehle.”
Note “first.” Do not put it second—or you will miss. Therefore do not become Hindu, Muslim, Jain. First, understand yourself. Whoever has understood himself has never been a Hindu or a Muslim.

Do you think Buddha was a Buddhist? You are mistaken. Do you think Jesus was a Christian? You are utterly wrong. Do you think Muhammad was a Muslim? How could he be? There was no Islam yet. Jesus was born a Jew—Jews were angry precisely because he would not remain within Judaism; he said new things that did not tally with their book. Buddha was born in a Hindu home, but he saw a thousand errors in scriptures, Vedas, epics—so he could not be a Hindu. “Buddhism” would arise later, when people clutched at his pointing finger and called themselves Buddhists. The one who sees the moon does not hold on to his own finger!

Those who have known truth do not belong to any religion, sect, or creed; they cannot.

Hence Bulleh Shah’s insistence:
“Apne aap nū̃ samajh pehle, ki vast hai terā rūp, pyāre.”
“First see what your ‘form’ is, beloved.”

“Rūp” has two shades: beauty and intrinsic nature. Everyone is beautiful by nature; beauty is our inbornness. Ugliness is imposed from without. Every child is born beautiful—but falls into the hands of the ugly; they begin to mold him in their image—dress him in their garments, their chains, drag him into their temples, make him worship their idols—“Jai Ganesh!” What does the child know? He is delighted by the elephant trunk! Children have their own grasp: they love Hanuman’s tail; a street monkey dancing on two feet will draw them as much as any deity.

I have heard: A man lived long in Paris and daily took his son to a great garden with a magnificent fountain. In the center stood an equestrian statue of Napoleon. The boy would always say, “Let’s see Napoleon before we go.” The father felt proud—“Napoleon is inspiring him; some courage will awaken.” On their last day before moving, they stood long and watched; tears rolled from the boy’s eyes. “Don’t cry,” the father said. The boy replied, “I am not crying—but parting pains. One question I always wanted to ask: Napoleon is very nice, but who is this scoundrel always sitting on top of him? Why won’t he get down?” The father finally understood—the boy’s interest was in the horse!

Children are straightforward. You take them to a temple—Krishna with flute, peacock‑feather crown, Radha standing—and you think he is drawn to Krishna; he may be eyeing the crown, ready to snatch it, or the flute. I can tell on myself: as a child I went to a temple for one reason—the chandeliers. They had beautiful prismed glass. I would “worship” at length, waiting for the priest to leave, then shake down a piece or two to take home, to make rainbows with sunlight. Eventually all the prisms disappeared. Suspicion fell. One day the priest stayed; I kept up my endless aarti till I was exhausted. When I turned to leave, he said, “Not taking glass today? You fooled me—you don’t love worship; you love glass.” I said, “Now that you know—and no glass is left—why would I come from tomorrow?”

Children love prasad. I would take it three or four times—once with a cap on, once with it off—till the priest recognized me. One day I came with a fake mustache. He tugged—it came off. I said, “Just give me four helpings and I’ll stop. Otherwise I’ll keep innovating.” I visited all kinds of shrines. On Janmashtami, I went to Krishna temples. I would cover a two‑anna coin with silver leaf to look like a rupee. In lamplight, with many offerings flying before the idol, I would throw mine with force—so the priests noticed—and say, “Eight annas change!” In half an hour I collected fifteen–twenty rupees from thirty Krishna temples in my town.

For Muslim tazias, I was there. During the procession of a wali, I appeared so devout that they let me hold the cord—and the more I held, the more the offerings came. People thought I had some “gift.” My “miracle” was a long needle with which I pricked the bearer—he jumped and danced, outdoing the rest. The more he danced, the greater the offerings. But the bearers began to fear me. They said, “Brother, take half the offerings, even more—but signal with your hand when we must jump; don’t prick us! We cannot say aloud that a boy is pricking us—if we feel a prick, how are we ‘possessed’? We must appear gone in the wali!”

So offerings began to come to me—half to me! All religions I visited—because I cared nothing for “religion.” Even today I do not. Then I had nothing to do with religion; now I have to do with religiousness. Religiousness is not stale, not borrowed, not given from the outside. It is not conditioning.

Bulleh Shah is right: “Apne aap nū̃ samajh pehle, ki vast hai terā rūp, pyāre.” What is your beauty? Who is the Lord hidden within you? What is your inner heaven? Recognize that.

“Bājh apne āp de sahī kīte, rahiō̃ vich vishvās de dukh bhāre.”
“Without knowing yourself, living on beliefs is heavy sorrow.”

You are all living on beliefs—therefore you suffer. Belief means: untruth. Even believing in truth makes it untrue for you—because truth is truth only when experienced. For the knower, truth is; for the hearer, it is false.

Someone asked me, perhaps Avinash Bharti, “Bhagwan, in your discourses, how much do you lie—in percentage?” There is no question of percentages, Avinash. Whatever I do, I do one hundred percent. Truth cannot be spoken. Have you heard of anyone speaking truth? Lao Tzu did not write all his life; on his deathbed he was forced. His first line in the Tao Te Ching: “The truth that can be spoken is not the eternal Truth.” Keep that in mind before reading further. So whatever is said is not truth—only a pointing toward it. I cannot speak Truth; no one ever has. It can be lived, not spoken; shown, not explained; made experiential, not cast into concepts. So whatever I speak, take it as a hundred percent “lie.” But what I point to by speaking is a hundred percent truth. Do not hold the finger; all pointers are false—only that to which they point is true.

Bulleh Shah’s core is lovelier still:
“Bājh apne āp de sahī kīte.”
“Set yourself right first”—how? By knowing yourself. If you know yourself, everything falls into rightness. Whoever has not known himself—whatever he does will go wrong. He will go to do good and evil will result. For there is no light within, yet you go to light others—beware you may blow out someone’s flame!

“Bājh apne āp de sahī kīte.”
“Know yourself, and all is set right.”

That is why I do not insist: do this, don’t do that. I say only: know your own nature as you are. Then whatever you do will be right—and what you do not do would have been wrong, hence you won’t do it. My emphasis is not on doing but on being.

“Rahiō̃ vich vishvās de dukh bhāre.”
“And if you live in beliefs you will never be right—so you will suffer.” Not being right is suffering; being in tune with the rhythm of life is bliss. The eternal law of life—the dharma, what Buddha called “eṣa dhammo sanantano”—if you move away from it, you suffer; move with it, become one with it, and you are blessed. Bliss has no other definition. When your dance attunes to life’s flute—no missteps—then there is joy. Bliss is harmony with life; sorrow is discord with life.

If you live in many beliefs, you will carry a heavy burden of sorrow. Beliefs load mountains upon you; a ray of knowing makes you weightless. Knowing gives wings; belief piles rocks.

Again: “Bājh apne āp de sahī kīte”—know yourself and all is right.

People ask me why I do not impose discipline on my sannyasins. Why should I? For centuries discipline has been imposed; the result has only been hypocrisy. I do not give discipline; I give understanding. Discipline flows from understanding. If I give discipline, it becomes domination. I am not a lawgiver. I am simply one who is awake. You are asleep; I shake you to awaken. Then, whatever you do in wakefulness will be right. Who knowingly puts his hand in fire? Who knowingly tries to walk through a wall?

“Hor lakh upāõ na sukh hove.”
“Try a hundred thousand remedies—you will not find joy.” There is only one remedy: “Bājh apne āp de sahī kīte.”

“Hor lakh upāõ na sukh hove, puchh vekh siyāne jag sāre.”
“Go ask all the wise of the world.” Who is wise? Not a matter of age. The awakened is wise. The one asleep is childish—even at ninety, he is on the swing, still in the cradle. The awakened is wise.

There is a tale about Lao Tzu: he was born wise. They say he was born at the age of eighty‑four—impossible of course, but the meaning is sweet: he was born awake. Buddha died at eighty‑two; Lao Tzu, the story says, was born in the same consciousness with which Buddha died.

By any means you will not get bliss; by all means you will get sorrow. No “means” leads to bliss. You can do asanas, pranayama, headstands, shoulder stands, peacock pose—move the body this way and that, do push‑ups—nothing will happen. Fast, starve yourself or others—nothing will happen. Bake and freeze the body—nothing. Means will not do. Meditation will—but meditation is not a means; it is a state of no‑effort, of non‑doing, where all doing drops. In that silence you recognize yourself. When you are utterly still, at once your truth resonates with the truth of existence. Music begins; anklets ring; bells tinkle!

“Sukh‑rūp akheḍ chetan hai tū.”
“Your very nature is bliss, because you are consciousness.”

“Bulleh Shah pukār de ved sāre.”
“All the Vedas cry this.” Bulleh Shah is not speaking of the four Hindu Vedas only. The Quran is a Veda, the Bible is a Veda, the Zend Avesta, the Talmud, the Dhammapada—all are Veda. Whatever any awakened one has spoken is Veda. The word Veda comes from “vid”—to know. What the knower speaks is Veda. So there are not just four.

Bulleh Shah says: all the Vedas, all the songs of the knowers, sing one song: “Sukh‑rūp akheḍ chetan hai tū.” You are bliss itself. You are consciousness—not body, not mind. Whoever knows “I am consciousness” knows all: “Aham Brahmasmi,” “Ana’l‑Haqq.”

In this life, everything changes—only the stream of consciousness does not.

“The clouds of circumstance do disperse,
but, friends, the wounds made by words do not heal.
My fate’s thirst could not be quenched—
only a few raindrops of the monsoon reached me.
Even the cupbearer’s glances began to deceive;
the breaths of the night started to die.
For this cruelty, beloved, my thanks—
what gift can I offer in return?
Do not let your veil slip from your bosom—
the tempests of my feelings cannot be stopped.
At this last bend of life
I search for where my companions were lost.
Even the finest change their manner;
have you not seen the colors of circumstance?
Even tears did not become life’s companions—
they too were pearls from those very gifts.
The clouds of circumstance do disperse,
but, friends, the wounds of words do not heal.”

In this life, companions change, circumstances change—everything changes. Only one thing does not—your consciousness, your awareness. That alone is the eternal lamp within you. The body changes, the mind changes, emotions change—everything changes. Like a wheel spins while the axle remains still, the axle of your being is consciousness. Whoever finds that stillness becomes “sthita‑prajña,” finds the key to the divine door.

Bulleh Shah’s words are dear. Reflect. Do not only reflect—understand. Do not only understand—meditate. Do not only meditate—live. Today, just this much.