Suno Bhai Sadho #10

Buddha became enlightened. After that, for two weeks he remained silent. The legends say the whole existence grew sad, grew desolate. The gods came and prayed at his feet: please speak—do not fall into silence; because only after an immense span of time does someone rarely attain Buddhahood. And millions of souls are wandering, longing for light. That light has come to you—do not hide it. Tell it to others, so that they may illumine their dark pathways. Do not drown with what you have found—share it, so that others too may taste a drop. Do not be silent—speak!
Buddha is said to have replied: If I speak, what I say will not be understood. Therefore becoming silent is the right course. For whatever I utter will belong to another realm. Without having even a taste of it, how will it be understood? There is no path to understanding except experience—therefore silence is right.
But the gods insisted again and said: Some will understand. Even if a small push is given to that journey—even if they do not understand, some flavor will arise, a little curiosity will be stirred, inquiry will be born, a longing for liberation will be kindled—that too is worthwhile.
Buddha said: Those who are truly seekers will discover on their own; nothing needs to be said to them. And those who are not seekers—will not listen at all; it is pointless to say anything to them.
Yet before the gods, Buddha yielded, because the gods said: There are a few who stand exactly on the threshold. If they do not hear, searching may take a very long time; if they do hear, the leap will happen. And whether they listen or not, share what you have found.
For compassion is the shadow of wisdom. The one who knows will be filled with great compassion. He does not speak because speaking is a compulsion for him. There is a difference between our speaking and his. We speak because we cannot remain without speaking. If we remain without speaking there is great unrest. Speaking is our discharge, our catharsis. We speak and it spills out.
That is why people keep talking about their suffering. Because as much as they talk of suffering, the suffering becomes lighter. The more they talk, the more it disperses. If there is no one to talk to, suffering will gather within, will become a wound.
Psychotherapists do nothing but listen to the sick. Just by listening, they help heal them. By being heard, the mind grows light. One who speaks empties himself.
We speak because in our diseased condition speaking is necessary; otherwise we could not live. When there is nothing to say, we say useless things. We say, How is the weather! It is visible to the other and to us as well. The beautiful sun has risen! The other has eyes too; there is no need to say it.
It happened that an emperor said to his vizier: I wish to know how many blind people are in this capital—count them for me.
The vizier said: Do you wish to know the truly blind, or only those whose eyes are closed?
The emperor said: The truly blind!... What do you mean? Is there a difference between the two?
The vizier said: If you wish to find the blind, the village physician could inform you; the hospital could tell. That is not difficult. But if you truly wish to know the blind, then it is a bit difficult. Time will be needed.
The next morning the vizier went and sat in the marketplace. He spread shoes around him. He began stitching and hammering shoes. Whoever passed by asked, What are you doing? He would write down his name among the blind. Because what he was doing was plainly visible. Why ask—What are you doing! Even the emperor’s name entered the list. For when the emperor passed at noon he too asked, What are you doing here? The vizier instantly wrote down his name. When the list came, it was very long. Leaving aside a few children who passed by without a thought and did not ask, everyone else was blind.
If anyone were to listen to our conversations with awareness, he would be amazed. We are talking about things that have no meaning. What is visible to the other we are showing; what the other already knows we are telling; what the other has already heard we are making him hear once again; what the other has already read we are explaining. What are we doing? And the other tolerates us—only in the hope that after a little while, when we fall silent, he too will have his discharge. We sit and listen only until our turn arrives. It is just a matter of opportunity. When we “listen,” we do not listen—because we are ready to speak. When the other listens to you, he does not listen—he too is ready to speak. We are all speakers; there is not a single listener.
If you listen to two people talking with a witnessing eye, you will be astonished—it is a monologue, not a dialogue! Each is speaking to himself. They only seem connected; it is a pretense. You pick a word from the other’s speech, hang yourself upon that peg, and set off. Your cart goes in another direction. That is why disputation between two persons is easy, dialogue difficult. Dialogue is possible only when one knows how to listen. We know only how to speak. So even when we go to the door of Paramatma, we speak there too. We do not give Him a chance to speak.
True prayer begins when you give Him a chance to speak. What need is there for your speaking there? Whatever you will say, Paramatma already knows. Kindly become silent. Let Him speak a little.
But we do not know how to be silent. To be silent is very difficult. With a sick mind, to be silent is utterly difficult. With a healthy mind, speaking becomes difficult. For when you become quiet, how will you speak? When you become quiet, then to utter even a single word becomes arduous.
The sages have spoken—out of compassion; yet speaking is a great difficulty. Inwardly they stand in a profound emptiness; even to form one word there is hard. Yet their compassion is such that they shape words. Their compassion is such that even while knowing that words will not accomplish much, they still give words. Their compassion is such that they look at your faces—they see that you have heard the word, but the meaning has not reached you. Still they go on speaking in the hope that perhaps a coincidence may happen, a condition may arise, and someone may awaken.
Kabir’s words are very significant:
When the mind is intoxicated, why speak.
When drunkenness descends, when the wine of that knowing flows, when you become so blissful—When the mind is intoxicated, why speak—then how will you speak! Why should you speak!
This means that so long as you are not intoxicated, only then do you speak. When one is joyous, one is silent; when one is miserable, one speaks. When one is healthy, one does not talk of health; when one is sick, one talks a great deal of illness. When you are perfectly healthy, you forget the body. When the body is not even felt, what is there to talk of the body?
Chuang Tzu says: When the shoe fits, the foot is forgotten. When the shoe bites, the foot is remembered. When your head is healthy, you forget your head. In truth, you become headless. When the head aches, then the head is noticed, the illness is known.
Thus in Sanskrit the word for pain is the very word for knowledge. Vedana means pain as well as Veda—knowing. Only pain is known. Bliss is like wine—every kind of knowing is lost. Awareness belongs to pain. If a thorn pricks the foot, you become aware of the foot; if the thorn does not prick, the foot is not known. Pain is known—what is there to know of bliss? With bliss we become so one—who will become aware, and of what! With pain there is a distance.
Therefore the wise have said: Bliss is your nature; pain is not your nature. For that with which we cannot become one—how can it be our nature? A thorn lodged in the foot is unnatural; that is why it hurts. When no thorn is in the foot—that is natural—then all pain disappears, and even the foot is lost. The more you become healthy, the less remains to be said. When someone becomes wholly healthy—body, mind, soul become peaceful—nothing remains to be said.
When the mind is intoxicated, why speak.
Speaking belongs to the world of suffering. Hence when a man becomes deranged, he speaks all twenty-four hours. Only the deranged speaks continuously! He mutters in the night; he talks in the day. At one end is the madman who speaks twenty-four hours; at the other end is the liberated one who becomes utterly silent. In his house there is no one, there is solitude. In his house there is no sound, nothing to say, no clamor rises, there is a rhythmicness of supreme emptiness.
Look at the deranged, study the mad rightly, and you will find yourself mad too. For whether you speak or not, inwardly your talking goes on.
The Sufis have a method to stop the inner talking. And the Sufis say: that internal dialogue, the talk going on within, is the very obstacle between Paramatma and you. As soon as you become silent there, all veils fall. That is the veil. And within, you go on chattering. Not even for a single moment does it stop. Either you talk outside; if no one is available, you talk inside; but the talking goes on.
Try to inquire into this with consciousness. This inner dialogue is the veil. Become alert, a witness to it. Watch. Create a distance. You are not doing this talking, your mind is doing it. You can look from far away. You can be a witness. When you become the seer, slowly you will find the inner talking begins to cease. Sometimes, in between, intervals arrive. Sometimes the clouds disappear, and a clear sky is seen. In that clear sky the first experience of Samadhi happens.
You are not the clouds, you are the empty sky. Clouds come and go—the empty sky always abides. Clouds are not your nature; empty sky is your nature. That which always remains, that which never changes—that is nature. Words are not your nature; emptiness is your nature. Words come like clouds and pass, arise like waves and disappear. You are not words. Yet you are lost in words twenty-four hours a day. It is as if we send someone to see the sky and he returns with news of the clouds—just so, whenever you go within, you return carrying words. You do not reach the sky at all.
Until you have access to the sky, how will the sky-cave open? How will the deathless amrit shower? How will you drown in the stream of nectar? And when one is drowned in that stream, Kabir says rightly: When the mind is intoxicated, why speak. When bliss arrives, silence is established.
Thus for the saints, speaking is a great difficulty. They speak with labor. You restrain yourself from speaking with labor. If you are told that someone has died and to keep silence for two moments, those two moments seem like two years—long, long. It feels as if someone is making a mistake… stop it. Surely two moments must be over by now… And outwardly you may become silent; inwardly it goes on, inwardly there is not even a moment of silence.
You cannot remain silent even for two moments. What is your capacity! What is your understanding! What skill indeed! And if you cannot be silent for two moments, know that you are deranged—you are almost mad.
The difference between the madman and you is of degree. You are still suppressing your madness within—it can erupt at any moment. It is getting ready. Like pus, it is gathering inside; when it finds an opening, it will become a wound and burst. The differences are of degrees. Someone is mad at ninety degrees, someone at ninety-five, someone at one hundred. At one hundred degrees the explosion happens—then people take you to the madhouse.
But sit ten minutes in a corner of your house and write on paper whatever runs in your mind. You will find that you will not agree to show it even to your closest friend. It will seem pure madness. Write whatever runs in your mind—do not be dishonest. You will be amazed at the leaps of the mind.
You are walking down the road; a dog appears. At the sight of the dog, the journey begins. You remember a friend’s dog. From the friend’s dog you remember the friend. From the friend you remember the friend’s wife. And off you go! Now there is no connection with this dog. The inner journey has begun—the inner dialogue begins.
If you tell someone that all this happened by seeing a dog… it may even be that you fall in love with that friend’s wife… that dog… the wedding takes place, children are born, you are getting them married!
You have read the tales of Sheikh Chilli? They are your tales. Do not think they were written to amuse children—you are doing it twenty-four hours. This is the trance, this is sleep of which Kabir says: O saints, do not sleep willfully while awake.
On the surface you seem awake; inside, big dreams are going on. Layer upon layer of dreams envelop you. Layer upon layer of clouds encircle the sky. And this layered madness you keep throwing on others; you keep hurling it at others—that is your conversation.
When the mind is intoxicated, why speak.
But when you become intoxicated, become the blue sky, when the sky-cave opens and the deathless stream rains—why will you speak! You will become silent.
Yet even those who have become silent have spoken. But there is a fundamental difference between their speaking and yours, a qualitative difference. They speak because they have known something. You speak because you are deranged. They speak because, by speaking, they wish to give something. You speak because, by speaking, you wish to discharge something.
Your speaking is harmful to the other because you are throwing your disease. Their speaking is supreme benediction for the other because they are sharing their bliss. In their every word there will be an inner resonance. In their every word a little juice from within will be infused. In their every word a slight fragrance will accompany it. Even holding a flower in your hand leaves fragrance on the hands. Passing through a garden, the scent of flowers clings to your clothes.
When a word passes through the saint’s emptiness, a little emptiness, a little freshness from that inner world is brought along. Therefore, to understand saints it is enough simply to listen; thinking is not necessary.
Nanak goes on saying that there are three things that are important. One is Paramatma, of whom we have no idea. The door to reach Him is the guru. But we do not even know the guru: who is the guru? The door to him is sadh-sangat—the company of the holy. Where good people are, where good words are spoken, where there is some talk of that world—sadh-sangat—there sit and listen. In that very listening within the sadh-sangat, the guru will be found. Once the guru is found, you are on the path. From sadh-sangat the guru will be found, from the guru Paramatma will be found.
There is great value—even in just sitting where good talk is going on and listening.
And how will you understand the saints? Understanding happens only when you reach the same state. But you can savor. You can allow their speech to enter you. You can be receptive—with an open mind—so that their words go within. Perhaps the unknown realm from which their words are coming may touch and stir something within you.
If near the saints you learn intoxication, you have learned all.
When the mind is intoxicated, why speak.
A diamond found, tied in a knot—why untie it again and again?
The diamond is found, you tie it in your knot—now why keep opening it again and again?
You keep opening. If on the road you find a diamond, you will tie it in your knot, but you will open it again and again to see. Why? You have doubt; you do not have firm trust that a diamond can be found—that this is a diamond—and that I have found it. You do not trust yourself; you do not trust the diamond. You are doubt-ridden—hence you keep opening it again and again.
Where there is trust, what doubt? Where there is trust, the diamond is found, tied in the knot—why open it again and again?
So when Buddha, Kabir, Nanak become fulfilled, the diamond is found, they have tied it in the knot—now what is there to open… they remain silent regarding that. If they speak of it at all, their talk is indirect.
It happened that a woman was brought to the Sufi Bayazid. She was very fat. Her husband said, No children are born—by your grace, please do something. Bayazid said: Children! Grace! Have you gone mad? She will die within forty days. I see it clearly in the lines on her forehead. For her, what can we do now? Nothing can be done.
The couple returned sad. Forty days and death! The wife took to bed; she stopped eating and drinking. But forty days came and went, and she did not die. So they went back to Bayazid: You have created trouble. Forty days passed in death, in tears—and this wife is alive!
Bayazid said: Now go—she will be able to have a child. Only her obesity had to be reduced. That talk of death was the medicine.
This was indirect. The woman would not have accepted it if told to reduce her weight. The straight talk would not have worked. Many physicians had already said it, many doctors had said it. People go to fakirs only when all doctors and physicians are exhausted; only then do they go for a blessing. It is the last resort.
So Bayazid saw the matter clearly—a woman so obese cannot bear children. And she will not reduce her weight. The talk of death was untrue. But we are so untrue that only untruth works upon us.
Thus the saints do not speak of the diamond directly. They speak of something else that will create a taste for the diamond. Even if they give you the diamond, you will not recognize it; for recognition requires experience.
It happened—a Sufi Fakir, Jhunnun. A man came to him and said: This is all nonsense. I have gone to many Sufis—only talk, I found no substance. That Sufi over there is a fraud. And that one’s conduct is not trustworthy. And one Sufi speaks loftily but has had no experience.
Jhunnun said: We’ll talk later. For now I need a job done. Take this stone to the market—to the shops of gold and silver. If anyone buys it for a gold coin, sell it.
The man went. In the market, at the gold and silver shops, no one was willing to buy it for a gold coin. At most someone was ready to give a silver coin—and that too with great hesitation. The man returned. He said: The stone is worthless! Forget gold; do not remain under that delusion. A silver coin is offered—and that man is doubtful too, unsure whether to take it or not. What should I do?
Jhunnun said: Now go to a jeweler’s shop. Do not sell it—only ask the price. He went. The jeweler was ready to give a thousand gold coins. When the man refused to sell, he was ready to give ten thousand. When he still refused, the jeweler said: You say the price—how much do you want? But do not take the stone back—let us not return it. The man said: I have not been told to sell, only to ask the price.
He returned: Incredible! Good I did not sell it, otherwise I would have got a silver coin. He was ready to give ten thousand, and asked me to name my price!
The Fakir said: The stone is not to be sold. I only sent you so that you could see: to recognize a diamond, one must be a jeweler. Are you a jeweler enough to recognize a Sufi?
What does a gold or silver merchant know of diamonds? At most, he notices the color and a bit of shine—so buy it, perhaps it may be of some use. And if you take it to a vegetable seller, he will say: Give it for two pennies—it will be useful for weighing the vegetables.
The Fakir said: Put the stone back. A jeweler is needed to recognize a diamond.
Who will recognize a Sufi? Who will recognize a saint, a sādhu? The diamond cannot be simply handed to you. You will not recognize it; you will lose it somewhere—or give it to children to play with.
The Kohinoor of today was once a child’s toy in a poor man’s house in Golconda. It was found in a field, and the children played with it.
The diamond is recognized by the jeweler; knowledge is recognized by the knower. The diamond cannot just be given to you. Even if it is given, you will misuse it. Therefore Kabir says:
A diamond found, tied in a knot—why untie it again and again?
And the knower has no doubt, for the experience is indubitable.
People ask me—and have always asked—How will it be certainly known that meditation has happened? How will it be certainly known that Paramatma has been found? How will it be certainly known that this is Samadhi? I say to them: If someone strikes your skull with a club, how is it certainly known that there is pain? Do you go to ask someone: Brother, tell me, am I in pain or not?
If you can experience pain, will you not experience bliss? If you can recognize suffering, you are already informed about recognizing bliss—for suffering is only the absence of that. When you can detect illness, you will detect health. When you can recognize hell, you will recognize heaven. You will not have to ask whether what has happened, has happened or not.
No—when the diamond is found—A diamond found, tied in a knot—why untie it again and again—there is no doubt. The experience is beyond doubt.
The experience of Paramatma is beyond doubt. When it happens—it has happened. Even if the whole world says it has not, there is no question. Even if the whole world proves it has not, there is no question. Even if the whole world says there is no God, nothing changes. Once you have the experience—that alone is the proof.
The experience of Paramatma is self-evident, self-proving. It requires no other proof. It is its own proof. Happened—happened. But until it happens, it is very difficult. If someone else places his experience in your hands, you will not recognize it; for only one’s own experience is recognized, not another’s. Hence, even if Kabir pounds his head a hundred thousand times, you will not trust; trust will arise only when the event happens to you.
And then—
A diamond found, tied in a knot—why untie it again and again?
When the pan was light, it rose; when full, why weigh any more?
So long as the weighing pan is light, it stays higher. As it becomes heavy, it descends. And when it is filled completely, it rests upon the ground—then weighing stops.
When the pan was light, it rose; when full, why weigh any more?
Then weighing comes to an end.
In your life right now there is only weighing. Weighing means comparison. Whenever you think, you always think in comparison.
There was a beauty contest. Twenty beauties of the nation had gathered. One was to be chosen as the first beauty of the whole country. The judges invited Mulla Nasruddin too—an old and experienced man. He had seen many ups and downs of life—many relationships with women, marriages, divorces—he had seen it all. The first young woman came; he said—Phoo! The second came, the third—he kept saying phoo-phoo. One more beautiful than the other, it was difficult to decide who was more. Those who had invited him became doubtful. The twentieth came—still he said phoo! They asked: Nasruddin, none of the women pleases you? You keep going phoo-phoo!
He said: I am not saying it to these women; I am saying it to my wife!
They are comparing.
Your life is filled with comparison.
Are you rich? Truly rich? You cannot be rich. Yes, in comparison to someone poor you are rich; in comparison to someone rich you are poor.
Thus even the richest remains poor—because someone else is richer. There is no escape from comparison. You leave ten behind, but ten are always ahead.
Are you beautiful? Yes, in comparison to someone perhaps. But you are also ugly—because another comparison runs.
Are you healthy? Intelligent?…
All the time comparison goes on. When you say, I am healthy—even then a comparison; when you say, I am beautiful—even then, comparison.
With comparison you will never be at peace; because someone or other will remain ahead. It is impossible. And life is so complex that it may be that in one matter you reach the top—say you gather the most wealth.
The Nizam of Hyderabad perhaps had the most wealth in the world. He had gathered so many diamonds and jewels from Golconda that none was richer. Once a year, when he would take out his jewels to show them the light, seven terraces were needed to spread them. He stood at the peak. But at night, when he slept, one leg was put into a big jar filled with salt—tied and fastened. Because he was very frightened of ghosts. And this was his trick to prevent them: if salt is near, ghosts do not attack. Because of this fear—this fear of ghosts—he was more wretched than the weakest, poorest servant. Even servants laughed at him: Sir, what is this—you, and so frightened! We are not afraid—what ghost? Why do you tie such a big jar around your leg? Yet he lived his whole life sleeping with that jar tied. Because of that fear his life was miserable; twenty-four hours the same anxiety. He would say to himself often: I would prefer to be the poorest of the poor, but fearless. What is the essence of being the richest man in the world—such fear! Seeing a fakir, a naked beggar, he would be filled with jealousy—he walks fearless, sleeps anywhere; no worry, no fear.
What will you do? The Nizam of Hyderabad had five hundred women—even in this age. You have heard of Krishna’s sixteen thousand women. Do not doubt it; if in the twentieth century five hundred are possible, sixteen thousand are not much—only thirty-two times more… possible.
He had five hundred women, yet he was always miserable. He had wealth, yet he envied the destitute. The fear of death was so great that living was impossible.
There was a very big American multimillionaire—Andrew Carnegie. When he died, his secretary asked him: You are the owner of immense wealth—he left a billion rupees cash in the bank—are you dying happy? Are you leaving this world joyously?
He said: What joy? It would be difficult to find a man as unsuccessful as I am, because my intention was to collect ten billion, and I could manage only one. I am a defeated man.
He spoke of a billion as if someone said—ten pennies. But for him, they were only ten pennies. For one whose goal is one hundred, to achieve only ten is to be a loser—defeated by ninety.
Hence he died unhappy. His secretary wrote his life story, and recorded: If someone had told me to exchange places with Andrew Carnegie, I would not have. If he wanted to be a secretary and I the owner, I would not have become the owner. For as his secretary I was more happy than he was as owner.
He wrote: The peon comes at ten, the clerks at ten-thirty, the managers at noon; the managers leave by three, the clerks by four-thirty, the peon by five. But Andrew Carnegie would sit from seven in the morning to midnight.
Stories are told that Andrew Carnegie did not recognize his own children, because where was the time! One who works from seven in the morning to midnight—will he recognize his children! Never played with them, never spoke two words, never sat with them.
If you acquire wealth, then there are a thousand other things. If you acquire status, there are other thousands. Whatever you acquire, you will not be fulfilled—so long as comparison exists, so long as the scale keeps weighing. The day you drop comparison, on that day you are liberated. The day you drop the very notion of measuring yourself against another, that day suffering disappears. That day you will find that you are you, the other is the other—the matter ends there.
A Zen fakir was asked: Why is there so much joy in your life and not in mine? The fakir said: I am content with my being, and you are not content with your being. Still the man asked: Tell some trick. The fakir said: I know no trick. Come outside with me. This shrub is small, that one is big. I have never seen them troubled—“I am small, you are big.” In thirty years I have heard no dispute. The small is happy in being small; the big is happy in being big—because comparison has not entered. They have not weighed yet.
A blade of grass sways in the wind with the same joy with which a great cedar sways—no difference at all. The grass flower blossoms with the same joy with which the rose blossoms—no difference at all.
For you there is difference. You say: This is a grass flower, and that is a rose. But for the rose and the grass flower, there is no comparison. Both are absorbed in their own joy. One who drops comparison becomes absorbed. One who is absorbed—comparison drops from him. So Kabir says:
When the pan was light, it rose; when full, why weigh any more.
Now when the whole joy has rained, when the stream of amrit is flowing in the sky-cave—what is there to weigh?
The reverse is also true: Stop weighing and the door of the sky-cave will open. Stop weighing and you will be joyous now; or become joyous and weighing will stop—two sides of the same coin: begin anywhere.
Kabir speaks accurately of the state of the Siddha: so long as the pan was light, it kept weighing—now that it is full, what is there to weigh?
But your state is not that of the Siddha, it is that of the seeker. From where will you begin? Drop comparing. As you drop comparing, I tell you—the pan will become heavy. Who told you to measure yourself against anyone? You are alone; there is none like you. There is no mind like yours, no face like yours; no eyes like yours; no hands like yours; even your thumbprint is uniquely yours.
Today there are four billion people on earth; among those four billion there is not a single thumbprint like yours. Dig up all the billions who have lived till now—even among them, not one thumbprint like yours. In the future too, among billions, there will not be a single one whose thumbprint is like yours. You are absolutely unique—what is there to compare? You do not compare yourself with a rooster—Look, what a beautiful comb upon its head, and ours is not—and you sit sad. You do not compare yourself with a tree—Look, it rises a hundred feet into the sky and we are only six—done, done for! If you do not compare yourself with a tree or with a rooster, why compare with a neighbor? Why with anyone?
If you compare, you will remain miserable; because you will go on comparing. Someone will remain different, someone more in some way—thousands of differences will remain, and you will sink deeper into sorrow. Stop comparing—the pan will become full. This I say for the seeker.
Of the Siddha—Kabir speaks rightly:
When the pan was light, it rose; when full, why weigh any more.
Remember: what is right for the Siddha, you begin exactly the opposite, because his description is of the final state; it is not a description of where you are standing. There your scale keeps weighing. And you remain needlessly miserable. Sorrow is not in existence—it is in your weighing mind.
The drinkers have become the tavern itself, intoxicated—they drank the wine without weighing.
This last line Kabir gives. Let it sink deep.
The drinkers have become the tavern itself, intoxicated—they drank the wine without weighing.
Kalari is the name of a wine-shop—a tavern. All the drinkers—The drinkers have become the tavern itself, intoxicated—they drank the wine without weighing—without weighing! Then all the drinkers became drunk.
Why are you drinking by weighing? Why allow bliss to enter inch by inch? Why are you so afraid of bliss? Why not let it descend in its totality? The whole sky is yours. The whole Paramatma is yours. What is the need to weigh? Is this a marketplace? You have not come here to buy anything. Existence stands open. Why are you afraid? Drink without weighing.
Understand this a little.
Man is not as afraid of sorrow as he is of bliss; because for sorrow there are remedies—bliss has none. You can escape from sorrow with medicines—there is no medicine to save you from bliss. Man fears bliss because bliss is so vast you will be lost under it; you will not be able to save yourself. On sorrow you can sit, on the bundle of sorrow you can sit; bliss will sit upon you. Bliss is so immense.
You are not as afraid of sorrow as you are of bliss—understand this fact well.
From childhood you are taught to fear bliss. If a child dances for no reason, the parents will say—Why are you dancing? If a child laughs without reason, the parents will say—What’s the matter? What is the need to laugh? If a child jumps, is exhilarated—and children are exhilarated without reason. The world of reasons has not yet opened. The doors of the intellect are still closed.
Small things, and without cause! A butterfly goes past—and the child is delighted and runs after it. He finds a red stone—he brings it, and believes a diamond has been found, and is joyous. Sometimes nothing at all happens—he sits and rejoices.
I stayed once as a guest in a house. Two small children, around six years of age—a boy and a girl; and one even smaller, perhaps three and a half—the three were playing. The family was out; I was alone. I saw that two children were in a room—a girl and a boy—and the smallest sat outside by the stairs, very delighted, ecstatic. There seemed no reason. He was not even a participant in the game being played.
I went to him and asked: What is the matter? You are not playing?
He said: I am playing.
But you are sitting outside on the stairs! The play is going on inside!
He said: That is the play—the boy is the daddy, the girl is the mommy, and I am the child-to-be. I am not yet born.
He is not yet born—and already ecstatic! And you—how many years since you were born, and you have not yet been ecstatic. When will you be? Are you waiting to die?
He is rejoicing because the time is coming soon.
Children are joyous without cause; and we break their joy. We want to make them serious. Seriousness is a disease. But the father is reading, or calculating accounts, or counting notes—he thinks he is doing a very heavy task. He says to the child—Be quiet, you make me lose my count.
You are counting notes—a more futile occupation is hard to find; by counting them you will reach nowhere—and you say to the child: Be quiet! And the child was counting joy; he wanted to dance for no reason, to jump for no reason—you halted the vast for the trivial!
And when obstacles press from all sides upon the child, slowly he becomes serious. He understands that this society values control—be controlled! And the more you control yourself, the more the doors of bliss close. Bliss descends into a free, spontaneous mind—where there is no control, all controls laid down. Only then can you drink the whole tavern.
All our education trains a person to be useful, not to be blissful. Useful means—to become a clerk somewhere; a school teacher somewhere; to fit into some office, some machine, and work a lifetime; to earn money a lifetime; to produce children; and to prepare them for the same—so that in the future they run the factory.
No meaning is seen: your father ran a factory, you run a factory. He never knew joy; you never knew joy—yet he prepared you to run the factory; now you produce children and prepare them to run the factory. As if a factory is something so great that everyone must be born to keep it running.
If the factory does not run, nothing is lost. If it runs, what is gained? We have made man inferior to occupation. The more the factory runs, the more man becomes inferior.
What is your use? Only that you become useful within society’s structure. Our entire education is so that man becomes a machine and works in place of a machine. The more skillful he is at being a machine, the higher he climbs in our system. We say, This man is very skillful. The less skillful he is, the lower he remains. But what is the meaning of such skill from which no bliss is attained?
Life is not an occupation. This is the difference between householder and sannyasin—for me. One who thinks life is an occupation is a householder. One who sees life as a celebration is a sannyasin.
I have given you the sannyas color of red—only in the hope that you will understand the natural color of flowers. A life that hankers for fruit is householder; a life that simply wishes to become a flower is sannyasin. Fruit has utility; what utility has a flower? Fruit you can eat, digest, turn into blood; what will you do with a flower? A flower is utterly useless. Therefore when we are joyous, when we participate in celebration, we bring flowers. The flower is non-utilitarian. It is like poetry. It has no use. It can make you happy; it cannot fill your coffers. To fill coffers you need dead notes; a living flower will not do. For if you fill your safe with living flowers they will rot. You need dead notes, which never rot. That which is already dead does not die again; living things die.
Sannyas means: one who sees life as a flower, not as a fruit. This is what Krishna tells Arjuna in the Gita. The symbol is different, the story is other, the background is different—but the essence is the same. He says: Do not hanker for the fruits of karma. Do not hanker for the fruit. Do not hanker after result. Become like a flower. Let what happens, happen; do what can be done; but do not make it a means—remain only a vehicle.
To be like a flower means you have given place to celebration in life. Now you will dance, sing, be happy. But if I say to you, Dance—your mind immediately asks: What profit will there be?
People come to me and say: What is the profit of meditation?
Will you never step outside the bank? Will you never come out of the shop? Profit… profit… your entire way of thinking is tied to rupees. If I told them: When Samadhi happens, a thousand-rupee note will instantly appear—they would say: This is worth doing! Quickly tell the secret—what is the trick? Why such delay? But if I say to them: Bliss will rain, such a moment will come—The drinkers became the tavern, intoxicated; they drank the wine without weighing—they say: This is not our cup of tea! The time has not come! They will postpone it till death.
People become religious at the time of death. They postpone it to the last moment. Hence it is said: When you are old, then listen to the talk of saints. You are young—where are you going now?
People come to me. An old gentleman came—his son had taken sannyas. The “boy” was no boy—he was fifty! The father was perhaps seventy-five. He said: What have you done? You have started giving sannyas to boys! Is this the age? I am still alive! As long as the father is alive, the son is a “boy.” You have given him sannyas? This is the last thing to be done!
I said: Now that you have come, let it be. I made one mistake—but I will not let a second happen.
He said: Meaning?
I said: Sannyas for you…
He smiled. The smile was hollow… I will think about it, I will come.
I said: What more delay now?
He said: No, no—I did not come for that. That is not the question.
If you say the son should have been given delayed, then the delay has come for you. Seventy-five is enough. You have lived more than the average. You are living on the interest! And still you do not have the courage for sannyas?
He said: I will think. There are many tasks—entanglements—marriages of grandchildren. But I will come—one day surely I will come!
He said it—and left. But that “one day” did not come—he died. A few days ago his son wrote: Father has passed away.
Do not pass away in occupation.
Life is bliss, celebration. This does not mean do not engage in occupation. Engage in occupation for the sake of celebration. Earn—to scatter. Gather—to distribute. Save—to share. Let your goal be bliss. Let your goal be the flower—blossom, and pour out your fragrance.
The drinkers became the tavern, intoxicated; they drank the wine without weighing.
Do not drink bliss by weighing; drink without weighing. No price is being charged here! Bliss has no cost! You are not being asked to pay anything. Only the readiness to drink is enough—the tavern is open, the door of the wine-house is open!
One night Mulla Nasruddin phoned the tavern owner. It must have been around three: When will the tavern open? The owner said: Old man! Midnight—what kind of question is this! You woke me needlessly. The tavern will open by rule at nine in the morning—not one minute before. Go to sleep!
After five or ten minutes, the phone rang again. Angry now, the owner picked up. Nasruddin said: When will the tavern open? The owner said: I said once—before nine, not a single minute. Sleep quietly!
After fifteen minutes the phone again. Now the man was furious: What is the matter? Have you drunk too much?
Nasruddin said: Too much indeed. And the real thing is that I am locked inside the tavern, not outside. I need to get out, not in. When will the tavern open?
You will think he drank too much. The whole tavern without the owner! When the shop closed, he somehow remained inside.
Drink bliss in just this way—not by buying. There is nothing to buy. Why are you drinking by weighing?
But why does man drink by weighing?… He is afraid!
People come to me: If we really start dancing, a fear grips—that control may be lost. We have kept control upon ourselves; it might slip! In meditation, when the moment of explosion approaches, they become frightened. They say: It seems as if we may be lost! We have kept control upon ourselves up to now.
What is this fear of losing control?
Fear is there because your society has taught you suppression. You have repressed so many things that if control is lost, you fear they will spring forth. You are sitting upon many repressions. If you drink bliss openly, what you have suppressed will arise—then trouble! It will become difficult.
With Gurdjieff, whenever a new seeker came, the first thing he did was to give him plenty of wine. Gurdjieff was an unusual master—but very useful. Only the unusual are useful. Those dead ones you worship are of no use; you worship them because they are utterly dead and do not break your control, but cooperate with it—cooperate with your misery; they increase it, harden it.
Go to your “gurus.” One will say: Quit tea. Another: Quit cigarettes. Another: Take the vow of brahmacharya. This and that… You are already miserable; already bound; you have placed enough controls upon yourself—they will add some more. They will put more chains upon your hands. They will not incite you to attain bliss; they will push you into more bondage.
It is true that when bliss descends, these petty things fall away—the trifles which hold you today. They hold you because of lack of bliss.
If one is an alcoholic, there are two ways to help. One: make him vow, give him a command, extract an oath—Now I will not drink. You have tied another chain on his hand. The other way: lead him towards the wine of Paramatma. The day he drinks the divine wine, this wine will drop away. You lead him towards liberation, towards bliss. You do not put on chains; you shatter them.
Alcohol will drop of its own accord; after tasting the divine wine, this wine will stink. Having tasted His wine, this wine will seem like filthy gutter water. Having found His love, brahmacharya arises by itself; it need not be enforced. Having gotten His wealth, your insistence upon these coins will fall away by itself. Attain—that the world may drop. This is the message of the supreme knowers since always.
But the dead ones you worship will only place more shackles. It is they or their ancestors who placed them; they have bound you from all sides. You cannot even laugh freely, for people will say: Uncultured! Is this how one bursts into laughter? You laugh only on the surface; your laughter does not reach the belly—for there is fear. In the belly lies all repression. There lust is suppressed. If laughter reaches the belly, lust begins to stir—so you fear. You laugh only on the surface; you do not breathe fully.
Psychologists say you will breathe fully only when your antagonism towards sexuality has dropped. You breathe shallow and high in the chest—not deep. If the breath goes deep, it strikes the center of sex.
People come to me. When they do active meditation rightly, they say: What is this? We thought brahmacharya would come—but lust is stirring. I say: It will stir, because you have suppressed it. Let it stir—do not be frightened. Let it arise so that the fear may end. Pass through it. And continue meditation. Because the very energy of sex, when it rises upwards, becomes brahmacharya.
Brahmacharya is not the enemy of sex—it is the transformation of sex. For transformation, first the energy must awaken. Only if there is energy can it be transformed; if there is no energy, what will be transformed? So do not fear.
Your sadhus and saints frighten you from all sides. Understand one sutra: whoever frightens you—avoid him. Whoever makes you fearless—go to him.
When someone came to Gurdjieff, he first made him drink—so much that people asked: Why do you do this? He would say: Now sit. When a man drinks, his whole form changes; whatever is suppressed begins to come out. When he had not drunk, he was saying Ram-Ram, Ram-Ram; now he begins to hurl abuses.
You know drunkards? A decent man—but after drinking… you say: This is because of alcohol. No alcohol can produce an abuse. No chemistry can prove that alcohol gives birth to abuse. The abuse was suppressed within. The alcohol removed the control; the abuse rose up. Now he does not say Ram-Ram—he throws off the Ram shawl. He seemed utterly peaceful—now he becomes enraged.
Go to the tavern—you will see the true picture of man. That is your picture too. You only hide it. Therefore you fear drinking—if you drink it will be revealed.
Have you taken bhang and such? The man begins to blabber nonsense! That too is suppressed inside. How will bhang produce it? Bhang only removes control. You forget society, culture, civilization—now you are the bare man, as you truly are within. Now the real man begins to be revealed. When you were sober, you said: Great grace that you have come! Great auspiciousness! When you come, showers of blessings fall on this house. Your face alone brings flowers to bloom. After drinking, you say: Out! You brought your face here this morning! Whenever you are seen, the day goes bad.
This is what was inside—now it has come out.
Gurdjieff first brings the inner man out. He says: First it is necessary to know what this man is like within; then methods will be devised accordingly. You do active meditations, kundalini, other meditations—in them whatever is suppressed within comes out. Gurdjieff used wine; I do not consider it necessary. Active meditation brings it out. Look! In active meditation one who was utterly quiet—now shouts, calls out! One who seemed so good—who would never hurt—his fists fly in the air, he is at war; as if he could kill someone. This is the real man.
No need of wine—just loosen control a little; things will come out. This is the real—and only this can be transformed. That fake surface is paint and polish. It has no worth. Changing it changes nothing. The real alone can be changed, for there lie the sources of energy.
The drinkers became the tavern itself, intoxicated—they drank the wine without weighing.
You are afraid of attaining bliss—because of control.
Awaken! Drop worrying about control; bring the concern for bliss into your heart! In a few days, as bliss descends, control will fall by itself. This does not mean you will become uncontrolled. Nor does it mean you will become anti-social, begin doing wrong things. No—now there is fear; then there will be no fear. Now you can commit anti-social acts at any time.
Read the lives of murderers. None among them was such that anyone could say: This man will commit murder. They were decent people like you; one day they murdered! Psychologists have reached a very contrary conclusion: those who get a little angry every day—such people never commit murder. They are good people because their anger is released daily. Those who keep a face of peace every day and keep accumulating—one day they can murder.
Explosion needs enough fire. If a spark escapes daily, what explosion? That husband is better, that wife is better who quarrels once or twice a day. Dangerous is the husband whose wife quarrels but he remains like Buddha. This is dangerous. Someday he will press her throat—nothing less will do. He will accumulate so much that one day he will kill.
Beware of the saints! They become the murderers. Look—a Hindu-Muslim riot breaks out—the decent, the good, those who till yesterday ran their shops, went to the market, bought and sold, who were friends—suddenly all is over. The one who went daily to the mosque and prayed five times; the one who went daily to the temple and wore the Ram shawl—those very ones burn each other’s houses, commit murders, cut little children!
How does this become possible? It is all suppressed inside. You are dangerous as you are—only a little excuse is needed and the fire catches. Hence psychologists say that once in ten years a great war is needed in the world; people accumulate so much that if it is not released in war, life will become impossible. And small madnesses are needed—any excuse and madness finds an outlet; any pretext will do. People are playing football. Astonishing—hundreds of thousands gather to watch—what are they doing? Throwing a ball from here to there. And these people stand in the sun and jump more than the players. Brawls begin, beatings happen.
Horses run in a race; people go to bet—rejoice, become sad, cry, laugh. If you watch closely—you will find this is great madness. How does it go on? You will not be able to persuade any horse to come watch men run. Try to run men; no horse will come to watch! Horses will say: What nonsense! Donkeys also will not come—leave the horses! But horses are running and men are standing. Very intelligent people—they have money, status, everything; intelligent—what are they doing? Some madness is there that needs outlets.
They are making roosters fight! Nawabs sit, big ones, and pit roosters. By making roosters fight, violence is released. If my rooster kills your rooster, it is the symbol: I have destroyed you. It is a pretext. If my rooster loses, I cannot sleep at night—defeat has happened.
Roosters are expensive—so people take cheaper means—chess! There, horses, elephants—false ones. The real is expensive—you would need to keep real elephants, real horses—those days of kings are gone—so chess! People sit and play chess. And so absorbed—as if Kabir’s line was for them: The drinkers became the tavern, intoxicated; they drank the wine without weighing. Violence, anger oozes out through chess.
Our games are condensed versions of war, forms of violence. We are filled with useless rubbish of every kind. You will have to remove it; otherwise you will remain afraid of bliss. And one who becomes afraid of bliss becomes corrupt—because the whole of life is for bliss. The journey of life acknowledges a single goal—bliss.
The drinkers became the tavern itself, intoxicated; they drank the wine without weighing.
Once the swan finds Manasarovar, why would it wade in ponds and puddles?
This is the essence: Once the swan finds Manasarovar, why would it wander in little ponds?
Once the swan finds Manasarovar, why will it wander in ponds? One who has found Paramatma—why will he wander in the trivial? One who has found the ultimate wine—why will he go to these taverns! Even there he goes in search of the same.
In the wife you seek that love which can be found only through prayer; in the husband you seek that love which can never be found in a husband—only in Paramatma. In wealth you seek that which can be found only in the supreme treasure. In status you seek that which can be found only in the supreme status. In the world you seek that which is not in the world.
Once the swan finds Manasarovar, why would it wade in ponds and puddles?
Therefore the real question is not of leaving the ponds but of finding Manasarovar. It is not a question of dropping the trivial. The trivial is not even worth leaving—it is so trivial. Raising the issue of leaving it is itself futile. If you set about dropping the trivial, you will give it great importance. It does not deserve even that. Seek the vast.
Do not leave the world—attain Paramatma. This is the deepest message of Kabir and Nanak. Therefore they did not make sannyasins; their sannyasin is a householder—he lives in the home.
What is there to leave in the world! Not even worth leaving. Find Paramatma. And one who finds Paramatma—what obstacle is the world for him? Let it remain. Ponds and puddles—let them remain where they are. My Manasarovar is found; I do not wade in the ponds. There is no need to flee from the ponds; no need to dry up the ponds. Those who have not found Manasarovar—leave them something, at least ponds and puddles! Let something remain for them.
There are two ways of life. One negative, one positive. One way—leave what is wrong; the negative. The other—attain what is right; the positive. Avoid the negative, for negation leads only to death.
I do not say to you: Leave wealth. I do not say: Leave home. I say: Awaken! This home is not enough for you—seek the great Home! Once the great Home is found, you will even live in this home, but like the lotus. This home will not touch you. You will be in the world and outside the world; the world will not enter within you.
Once the swan finds Manasarovar, why would it wade in ponds and puddles?
Your lord is within the house—why open your eyes outward?
Says Kabir: Listen, O brother seekers, the Lord is found—if the mote in the eye is removed.
Your Lord is within the pot of your body—why open your eyes outward?
The world means: that which is inside we seek outside. Religion means: that which is where it is, we seek there itself.
There was a Sufi woman—Rabia. Very precious! Among women only a few in the history of humankind have reached the heights where Rabia stands. One day people saw her searching outside her house. An old woman… people came to help—it is an old story; nowadays none would come. A small village; neighbors gathered. They asked: Rabia, what is lost?
She said: My needle is lost.
They began to search too. The sun was setting, darkness coming. Then one man asked: A needle is tiny, and the road is big—where did it fall? Tell us the exact spot; otherwise night will fall.
Rabia said: Do not ask where it fell, for it fell inside the house.
They laughed: Rabia, have you gone mad? If the needle fell inside, why search outside?
Rabia said: Helplessness. There is no lamp in the house, it is dark. And what is the point of searching in darkness? I search outside—some light from the sun remains. One can only search in the light.
People said: Crazy! Searching in light is fine—but if it is not lost there, what will light do? Light will not create a needle. Better that we carry the lamp inside. For what is lost will be found where it is lost.
Rabia said: You are very wise people, but you have not done this in your lives. And I am doing exactly what you have done. I live in your settlement—so following your logic seems right. But you call me mad!
Have you ever asked where you lost bliss?
Did you lose bliss in cars, in big houses, in safes—do you remember? When you came into this world you brought neither safes nor cars nor big houses. What did you bring? Yet bliss was with you—you were delighted. Like a child you were supremely blissful, filled with wonder. Bliss you had brought within.
Understand one thing: what we have never tasted—how will we search for it? Every man is searching for bliss. It means that once upon a time he knew it; he has some memory of its taste. How else will he search?
Every child is born with bliss. Every child comes from the world of bliss. Every child brings a tune of bliss within. Then slowly we overpower him—society conditions him.
That is why you have no memory of the first four years. Search your past—you can take your memory back to three, four, five years. Before that it disappears. Why? You were there—memory should be there. But you were so blissful—memory is formed of pain, not of bliss. When the shoe fits, there is no pain, so how will memory be created? You cannot remember before four or five, because you were so delighted—so happy—that no memory formed. There was no pain, so no line was drawn. Your mind remained blank.
Bliss leaves no trace. Bliss is like birds flying in the sky—their footprints do not remain. Hence you cannot recall. Yet some unknown tune goes on resounding within. Thus even the oldest says: Childhood was everything. He sings songs of his childhood.
Jesus says: Unless you become again like children you will not enter the kingdom of God. It means that children had some glimpse of the kingdom. Certainly they had. Bliss was within; society came to cover from above. Education and conditioning suppressed it. You will have to cut the conditioning again, and seek the bliss within.
Your Lord is within the pot of your body—why open your eyes outward?
Says Kabir: Listen, O brother seekers, the Lord is found—if the mote in the eye is removed.
Understand the word til—mote. You open your eyes and you see the Himalayas—vast Himalayas! Its towering peaks, arms touching the sky, covered in snow. This immense Himalaya—your small eyes still see it. If one had to hide the Himalaya from your eyes, what would be needed? A tiny mote placed in your eye would suffice. There is no need to hide the Himalaya; only a small grain of sand must be dropped in your eye. The eye stings, and the Himalaya disappears—hidden behind the mote. A little grain of sand, invisible—and the vast Himalaya is submerged within it!
Kabir says: So it is with your Lord. A small mote, a little dirt has fallen into your eye, and such a vast Paramatma is hidden! To find Paramatma you need do nothing else but cleanse the eye—remove the grit from the eye. A clean eye—and Paramatma is available. He is always there.
Says Kabir: Listen, O brother seekers, the Lord is found—if the mote in the eye is removed.
Behind the mote hides the Lord, the Master, the Beloved! There is no need to go far seeking—only the mote must be removed from the eye.
What is the mote? Of which eye and which mote does Kabir speak?
Your ego is just like sand upon the eye. “I am”—this is the mote. Beneath this, That which truly is remains hidden. The moment you remove the “I am,” it goes—and That is. With the going of “I,” the mote is gone; the Lord is found.
So long as you are, you cannot find Him. The moment you agree to lose yourself, He is found. He was always found; He was never lost—only a mote had fallen into the eye.
I will repeat the entire song, that it may go on resounding in your heart…
When the mind is intoxicated, why speak.
A diamond found, tied in a knot—why untie it again and again?
When the pan was light, it rose; when full, why weigh any more?
The drinkers became the tavern itself, intoxicated; they drank the wine without weighing.
Once the swan finds Manasarovar, why would it wade in ponds and puddles?
Your Lord is within the pot of your body—why open your eyes outward?
Says Kabir: Listen, O brother seekers, the Lord is found—if the mote in the eye is removed.
Enough for today.