Suno Bhai Sadho #2

As I said yesterday, Maya is not a philosophical doctrine attached to Brahman; it is a process bound to every human mind. Maya is not ontological, not a matter of being—it is psychological. Therefore, those who keep searching the scriptures for the doctrine of Maya, arranging theories, arguing and speculating, will miss knowing Maya—and one who has not known Maya, how will he know Brahman? One who has not understood illusion, how will he understand Truth? One who has not rightly recognized darkness—how can he be trusted to recognize light? Only by knowing error precisely does one approach Truth. As the recognition of the false deepens, Truth draws near. There is no other way. Recognize the false thoroughly as false—and the doors of Truth open.

The first thing to recognize is: What is the mistake? Where is the doubt? Where has delusion occurred? Where have you strayed? Drop worrying about the destination; understand the wandering rightly, and the destination appears. Do not worry about what Truth is. As you are, you will not be able to know Truth yet. There is no way to know Truth while you remain joined to untruth. As long as you are untruth, how will you know Truth? And by what method will you find Truth within yourself? First, the untruth must be recognized.

You go to a physician. He does not concern himself with “What is health?” He concerns himself with “What is the disease? Where is it?” He diagnoses the illness. To worry about health is futile; if the diagnosis of the disease is accurate, the disease can be destroyed—and when disease is not, what remains is health. There is no direct way to “catch” health. Hence you can comb through all the treatises on medicine in the world and you will not find a definition of health. Health cannot truly be defined. There is no way to bind it in words.

The word ‘swasthya’—‘health’—is greatly significant. It means: a state established in oneself. To be self-established is health. To be thrown off one’s own center is ill-health. One who has slipped from his own center is sick; one who returns to his own center is healthy. ‘Swasth’—self-stabilized. But to be self-stabilized, the illness must be recognized. Diagnosis is not of health; diagnosis is of disease. Treatment too is of disease, not of health. And when disease is gone—when disease becomes zero—you become disease-free, you become healthy.

There is no method to attain Brahman. Brahman is the supreme health. There is a method to understand Maya—it is the disease. And as the diagnosis becomes clear, as your eyes begin to recognize Maya, so Maya begins to dissolve.

Understand one more thing. A physician must first diagnose and then treat. But in the medicine of the soul, diagnosis itself is the treatment. Recognize rightly—be free; no other medicine is needed. For this disease is only of delusion. It is like this: in the dark, walking a far road, a tree-stump by the path seems to you like a man standing there—a thief, a bandit. As you draw near, the delusion begins to fade. And if there is a lamp in your hand, you will know it is a stump. Will you then ask, “That delusion that ‘a man is standing there’—how do I be rid of it now?” No. By recognizing the stump, the illusion of a man is gone.

To know the false precisely is the way to attain Truth. Not even a way—Truth is attained the moment the false is recognized. Therefore Kabir first speaks of Maya—what Maya is.

The first sutra:

The mind—Maya is one; and Maya abides in the mind.
Doubt has seized the three worlds—whom shall I explain it to?

And about Maya so many theories have been fabricated that India’s entire past is filled with doctrines about Maya. Therefore Kabir says:

Doubt has seized the three worlds—whom shall I explain it to?

Whom should I explain? People are engaged in great debates. Profound metaphysics—grand theories of Maya are being built. “Your theory is wrong and mine is right”—they collect arguments, they quote scriptures. Whom should I explain this to? Doubt has seized the three worlds.

And yet the matter is utterly simple and straightforward. There is no need to search for Maya elsewhere.

The mind—Maya is one...
Maya is the very extension of the mind.
...and Maya abides in the mind.

Maya does not have to be destroyed. The moment you recognize it, it subsides back into the mind. Maya is a distortion of mind, an unnatural condition of mind.

What is illness?

Even for illness, one thing is necessary—that you be alive. The dead have no disease. The dead are at great advantage—no disease ever touches them; there is no fear of disease; they don’t have to knock at the physician’s door; they need undergo no treatment. The dead are richly benefited. They cannot die again; thus there is no fear of death either.

For illness, one thing is essential—that there be life, health. Disease cannot occur without life. Which means, disease is a distortion of life itself. Life has become entangled somewhere, has gone astray. The current of life has turned not toward the ocean, but toward the desert—yet it remains life’s current whether it flows to desert or to sea. In the desert it will be lost; the desert will suck away life’s energy, render you impotent, powerless. There will be no attainment; you will only wander, and you will be corrupted and destroyed. In the ocean there is fulfillment.

Consider this well. In the desert a river is lost and never finds the sea. In the sea too a river is lost—but there she attains the sea. In both places there is a losing. In both conditions there is a melting. But in one melting there is no attainment; in the other, everything is attained.

In the world a man is lost; in the Divine—Paramatma—too he has to be lost. But being lost in the world is like a river being lost in the desert. She dries, decays, screams, calls out for freedom, but finds no path; she splits into a thousand trickles. The desert sucks her dry. No destination is reached, no attainment occurs, and that dance does not happen which happens on meeting the ocean. That supreme Samadhi does not occur. She is merely lost—lost for nothing—lost in restlessness, lost in melancholy.

In the ocean too the river is lost—losing is alike; yet the flavor of that losing is entirely different! In that losing there is ecstasy! In that losing there is no sorrow, no pain; for there the river loses and the river becomes vast. Truly it is not losing, it is gaining. The river will vanish as a river—as a narrow, petty stream; her banks will disappear, her old name and form will be gone—but in their place the vastness! The river becomes the ocean. Till now she was small—now she is vast. Till now she was bound—now unbound. Till now she was within limits—now she is the limitless.

Man too is lost in two ways; the river of life too is lost in two ways. One is Maya. Maya means the desert—where you do much yet gain nothing; run much yet arrive nowhere; you make much noise, yet no music is born in life; you struggle hard, but victory does not come; there seems only defeat upon defeat.

Defeat—that is the story of the world! Whoever goes there returns defeated. There, you do melt—but that melting is like rotting.

Place a seed upon a rock—there too it will perish, without sprouting. Bury the same seed in the earth—there too it will perish; but here, perishing, a new sprout will arise. As a sprout it will live, as a seed it will die—and it will become a vast tree. You can rot the seed—that is Maya. You can make the seed a tree—that is Brahman. Both are hidden in you.

Maya is your own wandering. And Brahman is your coming back to the path. The disease is yours; the health is yours. Diagnose the disease—so that you no longer wander.

The mind—Maya is one; and Maya abides in the mind.

And when you come to know, what happens to Maya? Where does Maya go? That power of yours which was wandering ceases to wander, comes onto the path, begins to flow toward the ocean. All of Maya subsides into the mind itself.

You become angry—anger is Maya. Because you will melt in it and gain nothing. Make this the touchstone for testing Maya: anything through which something within you is destroyed and nothing is created; through which there is demolition within and no creation at all; through which the seed within rots but no sprout emerges; the river is lost and does not become the sea—make this your criterion.

A destructive tendency is disease. Health is creative. You become angry; in anger your energy is spent—but what is gained? Nothing but a residue of sadness. You weep, you scream and shout, you brood; in depression the energy is lost into the desert—what do you gain? Does any flower ever bloom from depression? Does any dance enter life from depression? You hate—again you expend energy: what is the outcome?

Always test within as on a touchstone: that which I am about to do—will it go into the desert or into the sea? If it is headed into the desert, become alert. That is not a path of pilgrimage, that is wandering. And if you do not indulge anger, what then? The energy that would have been wasted in anger—where will it go? It will settle back into the mind. When you are saved from anger and the energy that would have been destroyed in anger is freed and returns into the mind—the name of that returning energy is compassion. The energy that was being lost in the desert was anger. The energy that, instead of being lost in the desert, sinks into itself, disappears into the sea—this is compassion.

So anger and compassion are two names for the same energy. Anger is that energy in a diseased state. Compassion is that energy in the state of health. Hatred and love are two modes of the same force. When the energy of hatred returns and dissolves within you, boundless love arises. It is hard to find lovers greater than the Buddhas. Hard to find lovers greater than Christ and Krishna. Hatred has dissolved—not lost in the desert, but having found the sea. The seed has found soil. Keep this as your constant touchstone. And whenever you set out to do anything—because Maya is clinging to you; it is involved in your every action; in every pore of you there is illness—you will have to awaken from place to place, and you will have to be free of Maya from pore to pore.

The mind—Maya is one; and Maya abides in the mind.
Doubt has seized the three worlds—whom shall I explain it to?

Kabir says: people are bogged down in disputes and scriptural wrangles; some assert, others refute. And the mind—Maya is one. They do not see that this is simply your particular way of being. Certainly it is a wrong way—but it is your way of being. Maya is your way of being wrongly; Brahman is your way of being rightly. And remember, do not make efforts to “be Brahman”—for there is no direct method to seek it. Simply be free of Maya—and Brahman finds you. Therefore the whole of sadhana is negation—of Maya, of disease, of distortion. When distortion ceases, energy naturally becomes virtuous.

You fenced the field—and the fence devoured the field.
Doubt has seized the three worlds—whom shall I explain it to?

We put a fence around the field—to protect it. The mind too is a fence—to protect you. But you can raise such a fence that it devours the entire field. Your fence can spread so much that it overgrows the whole field. Then it does not protect, it destroys. The fence was meant to guard the field—but your fence can become a forest and leave no space in the field to sow a crop.

The mind is a fence. Useful—as a fence. But if it eats you up—if you become only mind—what is the point of the fence; the field itself is gone!

This happens often. And this is the second sutra of Maya.

In life the fence devours the field—and people do not notice it. Understand! To run life you need food; you also need shelter. A kind of security is needed; convenience is needed—absolutely necessary. But then a man spends his whole life only building a house, only enlarging the house. The time never comes when he actually lives. He never gets to dwell in his house. You need food, clothes—so some money will be needed. But then a man gets involved only in accumulating wealth. He forgets that money was a fence—the money becomes the field; the fence has devoured the field!

There is a need for money. Need has a boundary. No need is infinite. Desire is infinite. Needs are very small—bread, water, clothing. If the world had only needs, not a single person would be hungry, not a single person poor. Because needs are limited! Even animals and birds fulfill theirs; how strange that man cannot! Trees satisfy their needs—without even having legs to go anywhere. Standing in one place, their needs are met. Animals and birds—without big intelligence, without university degrees—fulfill their needs. Why does man fail to fulfill his? Somewhere a mistake has happened.

Needs are fine; craving is dangerous. What is the difference? Need is the fence; craving becomes the whole field. Your needs can be satisfied; your desires can never be.

To stop at need is wisdom. To go on expanding desire is madness. There is no end to it. Look at people.

I know a man who owns seven houses. Every month he receives many thousands in rent. But he lives himself in a little rented room—one small room! He has a bicycle—and that is that. He uses that bicycle to collect rents. He lives in that small room; he eats at a cheap hotel. I had occasion to live in one of his bungalows. On the first of every month he would come to collect the rent. I asked my friends who lived in his bungalow and were hosting me, “Who is this man?” They laughed, “He is the landlord.” His clothes have holes; his bicycle looks like the first edition of the bicycle. From far away you can tell—clatter-clatter he’s coming. No one would imagine this man owns seven houses. Roughly worth two million rupees. He collects thousands each month, yet for himself he rents a room for five rupees. In his life, the fence has eaten the field.

Once, a doctor lived across from me—retired from the military. He never married. Due to injury he retired early and received a good pension. He owned a house worth around a lakh, had about two lakhs in the bank. But his total daily food was tea and papad—he lived on that! He had a heart attack; his voice failed. He had no one. Half the house was rented. The tenant came to me, “Doctor-saheb has lost his speech; he seems in grave danger.” I went and asked, “Shall I call a doctor?” He gestured, “Who will pay?” I said, “Don’t worry.” The doctor said, “It’s critical; he must be taken to hospital at once.” We called an ambulance. Before getting in, he asked me to lock his door and give him the key. He had me lock it in front of him—he could not speak—and an hour later he died. But he had kept the key in front of him. When he died there were five thousand rupees in his pocket. And to me he had said, “Who will pay the doctor’s fee?” He could not even speak.

The fence becomes the field.

The mind is useful—if there is understanding, the mind is immensely useful. Mind is a radar. Travel by airplane and a radar is installed; it gives news two hundred miles ahead. Images appear—because the plane moves so fast that if you don’t know two hundred miles ahead, collision would be inevitable. The radar shows clouds, aircraft, birds—pictures form on the screen. Two hundred miles in advance you must take care, or danger will be upon you at that speed.

Mind is a radar through which you keep getting glimpses in all directions. Very useful—in the hands of the wise. In the hands of the unwise it is very dangerous. The unwise cannot use the mind; the mind uses them. The slave becomes the master; the master becomes the slave. This is your condition. My definition of a householder is: one whose fence has devoured his field. And my definition of a sannyasi is: the field is a field and the fence is a fence—neither eats the other; both are needed. A fence is required; the field needs protection.

As a fence, mind is very useful. It has great utility in life. But one must know where to stop.

Money is necessary—but to go on piling money is insanity. A house is necessary—but to spend your whole life only building, and never get the ease to dwell in it, to waste your life—that is insanity. Clothes are needed—but if a man goes on only amassing clothes and is lost in clothes...

If one lives rightly, with a discerning intelligence, there is no instrument more skillful than the mind. No scientist has yet made a device that compares with it. It can see far and near; it can comprehend the arithmetic of circumstances; it can find measures of safety; it can devise a thousand ways to preserve life—all necessary. But this is not life itself. You put a doorkeeper at your door—necessary. But if you yourself stand there like a doorkeeper, you are mad. Then whom are you protecting?

People often spend their lives only arranging life. The moment to live never comes. You keep postponing: “We will live tomorrow; first let us make the arrangements.” The arrangements will never be complete. Then how will you live?

Remember, one who wishes to live must learn the art of living amid incomplete arrangements. The arrangements will never be complete; the mind will go on reporting: there is this flaw, and that flaw—do this, and do that; the mind will keep informing you that the time to live has not come: “Until the Taj Mahal is built, how will you live?” If you keep obeying the mind, you will get no opportunity to live.

Life is short. The mind’s cravings have no end. Needs are limited; everyone’s needs can be fulfilled.

Here a curious thing happens. Either a man turns his needs into desires—then there is no end—or when tired of that race he begins cutting even his needs—and that has no end either.

There are two kinds of people in the world—two kinds of madmen. One sort has lost everything in needs alone; then, when they are wearied by this speed, the other sort appears—an upside-down version of the first—who begin cutting down even their needs. He will not eat regularly; he will fast. Either you keep eating and eating—or you fast. Is there no possibility to stop somewhere in between? Is balance impossible?

Mulla Nasruddin was ill—cough, asthma. He went to a doctor. The doctor said, “It is nothing serious; your clothes, your breath, smell of cigarettes. How many do you smoke?”

“Not many—ten or twelve.”

The doctor said, “There’s no disease. Nicotine has been accumulating in the lungs—you must reduce smoking. No real treatment is needed; slowly reduce. For now, smoke only after meals. After a month, come back and we’ll think further.”

A month later Nasruddin came back; the doctor barely recognized him—his whole body puffed up with swelling. The doctor was alarmed, “Has reducing cigarettes done this? You are unrecognizable.”

Nasruddin said, “It’s all because of cigarettes.”

“Did you follow my instruction?”

“I followed it. And got trapped. Now I have to eat ten or twelve times a day to be able to smoke after meals.”

Either you will stay mad for food—or, if you are saved from that madness, another is waiting.

Madmen have their own logic. Madmen are very consistent in their logic. Once you start obeying the mind’s logic, madnesses will change: from one madness to another—but the logic remains the same.

What is the mind’s logic? The mind says: if eating once gives such delight, eating twenty times will give twenty times the delight. The arithmetic is clear. If life were arithmetic, all would be fine; but life is not arithmetic. Eating once benefits; eating twenty times does not give twenty times the benefit. If you eat twenty times, you will soon be in trouble—you will become sick; your whole body will rebel, will want to expel the food. When you are fed up, you will say, “Food creates trouble—fasting is good; stop eating.” The arithmetic seems clear even now: if food brings so much discomfort, and is the root of suffering, then around the world there are sects of fasting—stop food. Now you are going to the opposite extreme; there too you will harvest suffering.

To stop in the middle is the process of becoming free of mind. The mind lives in extremes—like the pendulum of a clock: from one corner it swings to the other; it does not stop in the middle. Stop it in the middle and the clock stops. On the day you stop in the middle, the clock of the mind will stop. That day Maya stops. And the whole restlessness of Maya subsides into you; and from that very restlessness a vast beauty is born. Buddhahood is born. From it Kabir is born, Krishna, Christ are born.

You fenced the field—and the fence devoured the field.
Doubt has seized the three worlds—whom shall I explain it to?

Mind is very useful—if you use it. If you make it the master, it is dangerous. Do not obey the mind. Listen to the mind, but ponder yourself. Let the mind speak—listen; but weigh it yourself. Do not let it decide; decide yourself. If you gather the capacity to decide within, the mind will not be able to harm you. Then you will neither overeat nor overfast—you will settle into right food. And right food is a rare thing: neither the body hungry nor overfull. Then in life, rightness will arise on all sides.

Wherever balance arises—wherever you become right, stop in the middle—there rightness dawns. Either you talk day and night, or you declare you will remain silent. Is it impossible to be right? Either you remain in the world, or you run to the Himalayas! Is it not possible to live in the world in such a way that the world is outside and not inside? Then rightness arises. You will pass through the world—but pass in such a way that not a line of the world falls upon you.

Kabir has said: “With great care I wore this sheet of the world. With much care I wore the sheet—and I returned it exactly as I received it.” As I received it, so I gave it back—neither stained nor specially cleaned. “Returned it as it was, the sheet I wore with great care.”

All is in the care. Care means: awareness, understanding, rightness, awakening.

Kabir says: whom shall I explain? No one is willing to listen.

This is my experience too. If I speak of extremes, you are ready to understand.

If I say, “Fast,” it makes sense to you. If I say, “Eat rightly,” it does not. If I say, “Leave the home—this world is sorrow,” it makes sense—because till now you have followed one extreme: “Enjoy the world—here lies bliss.” Now that extreme is exhausted; you have had enough suffering from it. Now you are almost ready—someone tells you, “Leave everything; run away—it is all futile, unsubstantial,” and you run. Hence the world has so many congregations of escapees. Those congregations are because of you. When one extreme tires you, you wish to run to the other—hence the hordes of escapees.

Your so-called sadhus and sannyasins are only escape artists. They are your own reflection. You are the pendulum to the left; they are to the right. You run behind women; they run from women. You hoard wealth; they are afraid to touch it.

Neither is wealth worthy of love, nor worthy of fear. There is no wisdom in hoarding wealth; there is no wisdom in fearing it. The point is the right use of wealth. One who knows the right use will neither hoard nor flee—for wealth is a means. A means can be used rightly.

This too is my experience, for all my effort is to stop you in the middle. You do not understand me. You want extremes. You have already indulged in one extreme; now you are ready for the other. And I say, stop in the middle. You do not know how to stop; you only know how to run. Whatever the direction, you are ready to run. And I say, sit—do not run.

Therefore Kabir says:

Doubt has seized the three worlds—whom shall I explain it to?

Kabir is perfectly a man of the Middle Way. Kabir is samyak—rightness. His rightness is to be understood. He goes to the market every day, weaves cloth every day, sells it in the bazaar; but at dusk whatever remains he gives away. He has not renounced the world, yet he does not cling to it. This is the art. He has not left the world, for he weaves, he sells, he earns, he brings money home, the needs of the house are fulfilled; at dusk, whatever is left, he distributes. By night he is a sannyasin; by day a householder.

Your sannyasins are sannyasins by day, householders by night; outwardly sannyasins, inwardly householders. Kabir is outwardly a householder, inwardly a sannyasin.

And life—in everything there are extremes. And the mind is a glutton for extremes. Rightness is the mind’s death—balance.

The mind knows all things—knowing, it still does wrong.
What cleverness is this? With a lamp in hand he falls into the well!

This saying is sweet, precious. Not only memorize it—install it in your heart.

The mind knows all things—knowing, it still does wrong.

Knowledge by itself accomplishes nothing, because the mind already “knows.” And having known, it still does the opposite.

You know perfectly that anger is bad—yet you do anger. You know hatred is sin—yet you hate. You know greed entangles and binds and becomes a prison—yet you are greedy.

The mind knows all things—knowing, it still does wrong.
What cleverness is this—
With a lamp in hand he falls into the well!

So what is this cleverness of the mind?

With a lamp in hand he falls into the well.

If you fall, the lamp is false. The well is real; false lamps won’t help. Therefore Kabir says: what is this cleverness?

Look at the pandits! Their lives are just like the lives of the ignorant—there is not a whit of difference. Perhaps one difference: the ignorant are not as skilled at hiding as the pandits are. But in life there is no difference: the same anger, the same Maya, the same attachment, the same greed—no difference.

This knowledge is stale and borrowed. Otherwise, knowledge is like fire. Throw gold into fire—it comes out purified. So is the fire of knowledge—whoever throws his mind into it, the mind becomes pure, shines. But knowledge can be stale; it can be borrowed. Then it is not fire—it is ash. Once there was fire there; now only ash remains.

While I am speaking to you, this is fire; after my death, it will be ash. And while I am alive you do not listen; after I am gone you will ponder greatly. Then it will be ash. Then you will wrap yourself in ash and sit as an avadhut. But your life will not change thereby.

Have you seen sadhus wrapped in ash? Fire transforms; ash does not. Ash marks the spot where once a fire burned. But revolutions do not come from the past; revolutions happen in the present. Now, wrap yourself as much as you want in Mahavira’s ash—your mind will not ignite, will not change. Carry as much as you wish of Buddha’s relics—precious, yes—but no revolution comes from them. A living guru is needed—only then is there living fire.

And when the fire is within, it becomes impossible to go against what you know. Then your knowledge is your life. If you have seen that anger is futile—how will you be able to be angry? But you have not seen; others say so. Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna say anger is bad—you have heard it. It is not the experience of your eye; it is a collection at your ear. Between knowledge and knowledge there is this difference: one comes through the ear—hearing; one comes through the eye—seeing. Between Maya and Brahman is a distance of four fingers—the distance between ear and eye. What comes through the ear is hollow; what comes through your own seeing is the real. You know everything. Kabir says: “The mind knows all things.” There is nothing to tell the mind. The mind says, “I know it all—what will you explain to me? What is there to understand? I have read it all.”

...knowing, it still does wrong.

But the conduct, the behavior of life remains exactly like that of the ignorant. From life there is no fragrance of knowledge—only the odor of ignorance. Yet the mind is stuffed with knowledge. This is the difference between a pandit and a knower. From the pandit you will smell staleness; beyond words there is nothing. In the knower there is a fragrance—because what he speaks, he has known.

Remember, Truth can only be one’s own—not borrowed. Neither can you steal it, nor buy it in the marketplace, nor beg it from someone. Truth must be found by oneself. Only what is found by oneself transforms life.

The mind knows all things—knowing, it still does wrong.
What cleverness is this—
With a lamp in hand he falls into the well!

What is the value of scholarship, of knowledge, of the mind’s cleverness, when the vices go on as before? What will you do with such cleverness? This cleverness does not become a lamp. What kind of lamp is this, what kind of skill—
with a lamp in hand he falls into the well!

Ramakrishna used to say: the kite flies very high in the sky—do not be deceived by this; its eye is fixed on the dead rat thrown on the garbage heap. It flies high; do not think therefore that the kite is high. The question is not of flying high—where is the eye fixed? The eye is fixed on the dead rat lying below in the rubbish—circling in the sky but waiting for a chance: the road clears, people move away—then a swoop, and it snatches the dead rat.

The pandit flies in the sky—but his mind remains fixed on dead rats, on the ground.

The knower flies in the sky—and is in the sky. That is the difference. Your knowing and your being must become one. If there is a gap between what you know and what you are—become as great a pandit as you like—Kabir says: “What cleverness is this? With a lamp in hand he falls into the well.”

Mind is the ocean, and the mental impulse the wave; many, unconscious, drown.

The mind itself is the ocean—when it is healthy. The mind itself is the wave—when it is unhealthy. When you are excited, the mind fills with waves; when you are calm, the mind becomes an ocean—silent, still.

Anger, hatred, attachment, greed have been called sins by the wise. Why? Because when you are in anger, the mind is filled with waves—you become unwell, excited. Whatever excites you is sin. Whatever quiets you is virtue. Keep this definition in mind.

Sin and virtue have nothing to do with the other.

Ordinarily people think anger is sin because it hurts others. Not necessarily. If the other is a Buddha, no matter how much you rage, he will not be hurt. Yet anger will still be sin—whether it hurts a Buddha or not. Anger is sin because it hurts you. Hurting the other is incidental, it may happen, but it is not the point. The important thing is that you are hurt—you become disordered within, agitated. You lose inner peace; the mirror within becomes clouded. And if you are continually in anger, greed and attachment, your inner lake never gets the chance to become still—it stays in storm. Then you gradually forget that beneath the waves the ocean is hidden, because there is no occasion to see it. Only when all waves fall asleep—when not a single ripple remains—will your ocean be revealed to you.

Between Brahman and Maya there is just this difference. Brahman, when excited, is Maya; when Brahman is at rest, Brahman is Brahman. Or when Maya becomes still, it is Brahman. Maya is Brahman’s excited state—diseased, unwell, distorted.

Mind is the ocean, and the mental impulse the wave; many, unconscious, drown.

And in the waves of the mind, countless have drowned. These waves are no small thing—and whoever is unconscious will drown.

...many, unconscious, drown.

Whoever lives in stupor, asleep, without awareness—he drowns. Only the boat of awareness can save one from drowning.

...many, unconscious, drown.

Says Kabir—those are saved whose hearts hold vivek.

This saying can have two or three meanings—and all are useful, so all should be understood.

Mind is the ocean, and the mental impulse the wave; many, unconscious, drown.
Says Kabir—those are saved whose hearts hold vivek.

Kabir says: those will understand this whom there is vivek—discernment—in the heart; otherwise, they will not. Vivek in the heart! The skill of the intellect will not help—no matter how logical, how learned in scriptures, how well-versed in doctrines—it will not help. Only those whose hearts hold vivek will understand.

What is “vivek in the heart”?

Generally we think vivek belongs to the intellect and love to the heart. Poets have popularized this: vivek is in the head, love in the heart. This is mistaken. There is a vivek that belongs to the heart. What you call love is mostly your blindness. Until the heart’s vivek awakens, the love that flowers in the lives of Krishna and Christ will not be born.

What is the heart’s vivek? How to find it?

Remember, the intellect has no vivek; it has thoughts. The mind can think—but not discern. The mind can judge: this is right, that is wrong. The mind can gather arguments for and against—and then see on which side the arguments outweigh. This is not vivek—this is arithmetic.

A problem arises in life; you think, “What shall I do?” The mind offers many alternatives. Then for each alternative the mind supplies pros and cons. You examine all the arguments, ponder—and you follow those which appear weightiest, strongest, most profitable. This is thought—not vivek.

What is vivek? Vivek is a state of wakefulness where you do not have to think; you see. Your eyes are open—and there are no alternatives. You do not stand at a crossroads, “Shall I do this or that?” Your eyes are so intensely open that what is right is seen—you do not have to think.

As if a blind man is here and wants to go out. He will ask, “Where is the door—left or right?” He will probe with his stick, search, then go. But one who has eyes does not ask, “Where is the door?” He wants to go out—he does not think about the door; he simply gets up and goes out. The thought of the door does not even arise. Where is there a question of the door if there are eyes? He gets up and goes out. The door is as though not there. Without eyes, you must think, “Where is the door—left or right?” probe, then exit.

Thought is the compensation for the absence of vivek. Just as the blind man’s asking and probing are compensations for the lack of eyes, so thought compensates for the lack of vivek. One who has vivek sees—and moves in accordance with what he sees. He does not think, “Shall I go or not?” In vivek there is no duality; in thought there is duality. In thought there are alternatives; in vivek there are none. Vivek is choiceless—seeing is, and one moves.

Understand a surprising thing: whatever you decide by thinking—you will always repent. Because whenever the mind urges you to do something, another alternative is present.

Suppose you are to marry, and you are attached to two women. You cannot decide which to marry. One is wealthy but not beautiful; you are attracted to wealth. The other is beautiful but poor; you are drawn to beauty. Now what to do?

Someone asked Mulla Nasruddin, “What shall I do? One woman is rich but ugly; the other is poor but beautiful.” Nasruddin said, “Marry the rich one, and keep your love for the beautiful one.” The mind either seeks such compromises—which are dangerous—or it chooses one and then repents. If you marry the rich one—every morning you will have to see her face. No matter how you avoid your wife, where will you go? You must return home. And whenever you see her face, remorse will arise—“If only I had married the beautiful one.” But do not think that marrying the beautiful one solves anything. Beauty will fade in two or four days; you become habituated to a face—what will you do with it? But daily poverty bites; the roof leaks and you cannot buy shingles; the belly is hungry and there is no bread. Daily it will prick—and the mind will wish, “Better had I married the rich one.”

Whatever the mind chooses, it will repent. Repentance is the outcome of mind—because an alternative always remains. Whatever vivek does, it never repents—because there was no alternative. What is there to repent for? Therefore the man of vivek never repents; for whatever has happened in the past, he has no remorse. He never looks back—because there was no second option. What had to be, happened; and what will be, will be.

Therefore the man of vivek is always at rest; the man of thought is always restless. The intellect thinks; the heart gives vivek.

How to awaken the heart’s vivek?

Meditation is the process to awaken the heart’s vivek. Universities are training grounds to awaken the intellect’s thought. It takes twenty or twenty-five years to train an intellect.

People come to me: “Five or seven days we have been meditating—nothing has happened yet.”

The intellect is circumference; the heart is center. You spend twenty-five years on the circumference, yet perhaps emerge with a third-class certificate. But for the heart you are not ready to give even three days. For the heart, twenty-five births would be few—because the heart is the center.

All meditative processes are processes to awaken the heart-center. Only in ancient India were there such universities where both experiments were done. But those experiments were lost. At Nalanda and Taxila, under the shadow of the Buddhas, arose unique universities—never again has such an experiment been. There we tried to train the intellect and to awaken the heart’s vivek—both. The experiment could not succeed. Many obstacles came. The greatest is: when the heart’s vivek awakens, a person cannot remain worldly. The world stands against that. Fathers fear to send sons to such a place where vivek may awaken—because vivek is the opposite of attachment; when attachment breaks, it breaks even from the father. Wives fear sending husbands where vivek may awaken—because vivek is freedom from desire; when vivek arises, lust falls. All are afraid of the awakening of vivek. The experiment was made—but failed. It was the greatest experiment in the realm of human consciousness.

At Nalanda we were concerned that as knowledge increased, meditation should increase in the same measure; the balance never be lost. But whoever emerged from Nalanda emerged renunciate. How could such an experiment continue? How long would the world allow it? We uprooted Nalanda; we expelled from the country those Buddhists who were conducting that great experiment.

Buddhism perished from this land because it attempted to awaken so much vivek that those whose vivek awakened ceased to be useful for our petty world. They became useful for a vast world—but not for our world of trivial cravings.

If a son’s vivek awakens, a father cannot yoke him to earning money. The son will say, “Fine, we will do as much as is needed.” But the nonessential is the real grip. For with the essential, what will happen? A man becomes “rich” only when he has the nonessential. As long as you have only the essential, you remain poor. Luxury begins only with the nonessential. The man of vivek, of meditation, will abstain from the nonessential. A great difficulty arises. Kabir says:

Says Kabir—those are learned who have vivek in the heart.

What I am saying will be understood only by those whose hearts have vivek—who have meditated. Why? Because to the meditator it becomes immediately visible: mind is the wave, and mind is the ocean. In meditation there come moments when the waves cease and only the ocean remains. That experience will make Kabir’s words meaningful. Without that experience, you will not understand Kabir.

People come to me who have written doctorates on Kabir. Universities have honored them, given them degrees. But I do not see that they understand Kabir—because they do not possess the heart’s vivek.

There is a second meaning to this verse: “Says Kabir—those are the ‘read’ who have vivek in the heart.” Kabir says: only those are truly educated whose hearts have vivek.

The mind knows all things—knowing, it still does wrong.
What cleverness is this—
With a lamp in hand he falls into the well!

Only those whose hearts have vivek are truly educated; all others are illiterate. Only those whose hearts have vivek are such as have truly “read.” Not reading books—but reading the heart. Reading oneself.

“Says Kabir—those are the read,” those and only those are truly educated, whose hearts have vivek.

Through the mind the mind is found; without the mind, the mind is not.
The mind turned un-mind, like the cosmic egg; as fire and sky are one.

Through the mind the mind is found—
Through the mind we got lost; through the mind we will arrive. Through the mind we became beggars; through the mind we will be emperors. It is this mind that has fallen sick; if healthy, what is lost will be found.

Through the mind the mind is found; without the mind, the mind is not.

All the play is of the mind. The power within you that becomes thought—this is the whole play of that power. That power can be in two forms—either it becomes thought: then it becomes waves; or it becomes meditation: then it becomes the ocean.

Hence “no-thought” is the essence of all religions. The moment you are without thought, the power that was being lost through mind into the infinite—the losing stops. The river does not get lost in the desert. All the energy begins to fall back into you. You stop losing. Your leaks are sealed.

Right now you are like a bucket with a thousand holes. You lower it into the well—it makes a great splashing; while submerged it seems even to be full. But the moment you pull it above the water, it starts emptying. You pull and pull, tire yourself out; and when the bucket reaches your hands—empty. This is the experience of millions. All life you pull; sometimes the bucket seems full; as it rises above the water there is so much commotion it seems it is coming up full—but by the time it is in your hands—empty! At death, an empty bucket is in your hands. So many holes!

Every thought is a hole. Through it your energy is leaking. The moment you become without thought, the routes of loss are closed. Then your energy falls back into you. You are the ocean; you are Brahman; you are the Supreme. The divine power of this universe—you are that. But your pores, your holes, keep exhausting you.

Through the mind the mind is found; without the mind, the mind is not.
The mind turned un-mind—like the egg that holds the universe; as space pervades fire.

As space is hidden in everything—whether seen or unseen. Where is space seen? In every particle of air, there is space. In every particle of fire, space is. Neither fire can burn space, nor air blow it away. In every drop of water there is space—water cannot drown space. As space is concealed in all, so the supreme divine is hidden in all. It is hidden in you too. Kabir names that supreme state with a precious word—the same word Zen masters in Japan use. They call it “no-mind.” Kabir calls it “unman”—un-mind.

There is a state of consciousness where the mind is not.

What does this mean—that there is no mind? It means simply that thoughts have disappeared; the waves have fallen still. Mind became unman. Kabir has another saying: “The mind became unman—then the sky thundered and nectar rained.” Mind became no-mind.

When the mind is full of its agitations and distortions, the sky too thunders—but poison rains.

The sky around you is thundering even now—but poison rains.

The mind became unman—the sky thundered, and nectar rained.

Unman means: the mind became without thought.

The mind turned un-mind—like the egg that holds the universe; as space pervades fire.

In unman the divine is hidden just as the entire Brahmanda—the cosmic egg—is hidden in every seed; as space is hidden in every particle.

The mind is Gorakh; the mind is Govind; the mind alone becomes the adept.
Who keeps the mind with care—he himself becomes the Doer.

Gorakh was a unique siddha. His name has almost been lost. Often it happens that the most unique go beyond our understanding, so their names fade. Of Gorakh we remember only one phrase—“Gorakh-dhandha,” a perplexing hocus-pocus.

Words carry long stories. This “Gorakh-dhandha” arose from Gorakh—not created by him, but by those who saw him. Gorakh discovered many significant methods of meditation—but to ordinary folk, those methods looked like “What is all this craziness?” As people feel about my work too—my own “Gorakh-dhandha.” People think, “Have you gone mad? Lost your senses? What are you doing?” Gorakh discovered so many methods that his disciples engaged in all sorts of extraordinary practices—and so it spread among the people: this is all “Gorakh-dhandha.” Thus only that phrase remains for us. Whenever someone does something unconventional, we say, “What Gorakh-dhandha are you up to!” But behind that word stands a rare man.

In India no one has discovered as many methods of meditation as Gorakh—neither Buddha nor Mahavira equals him in methods. In finding devices to break the mind, no one matches Gorakh. He is a unique inventor.

And Kabir remembers him: “The mind is Gorakh; the mind is Govind.”

The mind is both—method and goal. Kabir uses Gorakh and Govind thus: Gorakh—the method; Govind—the goal. Gorakh—the path; Govind—the end. Gorakh—the means; Govind—the end. Hence the usage.

The mind is Gorakh; the mind is Govind; the mind alone becomes the adept.
Who keeps the mind with care—he himself becomes the Doer.

And whoever understands the care of the mind—he becomes Brahman himself.

...he himself becomes the Doer—
he becomes the very Doer of the cosmos.

Who keeps the mind with care—

Remember this word “care”—jatan. What does it mean?

If on the road you found a diamond, how would you keep it? With care. Quickly you would hide it. You would not even look at it there—lest others notice. You would slip it under your clothes, not examine it fully, because it is a public street, people are passing, home is far. Only on reaching home would you lock the door, light a lamp, and then look at the diamond. But before reaching home you would touch your pocket many times to feel it—“Is it there?” This is jatan—care. Many times your hand would go to your pocket.

Pickpockets know well who has money—by his care. He keeps touching, and that informs them. He does not even know he is checking again and again—the pickpocket then knows there is something.

Jatan means: to guard with great alertness. As Kabir says in another place—women returning from the well talk, gossip, sing—yet the pot on the head they do not steady with a hand! Then how is it steadied, with what? With care! They return from the well—today there are no wells, only taps, and there too is much hassle.

In Kabir’s time there were wells, and women returning from them. There was a sweet poetry in that returning. They talk, they sing, and the pot is on the head, no hand steadying it—then how is it steadied?

Within there is a vigilant steadiness—subtle, with care; the pot does not fall, does not break. The chatter goes on; the care goes on.

Kabir says: live in the world as a woman returning from the well keeps the pot—with care. Go to the shop, but guard your consciousness. Move through the bazaar, but do not be lost—guard yourself. Wealth, woman—guard yourself.

Jatan means: an inner remembrance.

Gurdjieff used the phrase “self-remembering.” Whatever you do—keep the remembrance of yourself—that is jatan.

Buddha’s word is samyak smriti—right mindfulness.

Whatever you do—let the remembrance remain: I am. Buddha’s “smriti” became “surati” in the folk tongue. What Kabir and Nanak call “surati” is Buddha’s “smriti.” In common speech smriti turned into surati. Surati is sweeter. Smriti reminds one of memory; surati became something else—an inner sense of I-ness, a simple awareness.

“Jatan” too comes from “yatna”—effort—but not in that sense. It means: a continuous inner alertness, that nothing within be lost. As when you find a diamond and tie it into a corner of your cloth—keep an inner awareness, a remembrance. Whatever you do—remember to guard yourself.

What is the point of guarding?

The point is: so that waves do not rise in the mind. If you do not guard, waves will arise; the ocean will be lost; the mirror will be gone. If you guard, fewer waves arise; guard well—no waves arise. Guard totally—the waves become utterly still. When there is not a single wave on the mind, the mind becomes a mirror. What appears in that mirror—that is Truth.

The mind is Gorakh; the mind is Govind; the mind alone becomes the adept.
Who keeps the mind with care—he himself becomes the Doer.

All become yogis of the body—of the mind, none.
All is found with ease—if the mind becomes a yogi.

The issue is not to do something with the body. The whole issue is to do something in the realm of awareness. No matter how many headstands, postures, locks you practice—this is not important. What is important is the growth of inner consciousness—the rising flame of awareness.

All become yogis of the body—of the mind, none.

Hence you will find such yogis who have achieved amazing feats with the body. But if you look into them you will find they are worse than you. A yogi can lie buried in the earth for thirty days—this he has mastered. Thirty days in a pit without oxygen—thirty seconds are difficult! After thirty days you dig him out—alive. You will be astonished. But look into his eyes—you will not find the light that shines in Kabir, Buddha or Gorakh. Instead of that light you will find a sadness, a sleepiness. In his life you will not find the radiance that should be there. One in whom Brahman has awakened—around him should spread a fragrance, a sheen, a light—you will not find it. The amusing part is: he lay underground for thirty days because he will receive a prize of five hundred rupees. Could you persuade a Buddha to lie underground for five hundred rupees? He has mastered the body—but he knows nothing of the mind.

There are yogis who can, by resolve, stop the pulse in one hand, stop the beating of the heart. But they do all this to get money. Their place is in the circus, not in Truth. They are fit for the circus; what have they to do with Truth! You run a shop; they run a shop. Your shop is outside you; theirs is attached to the body. But their whole sadhana has become a show.

There are yogis who pull their eyes out and dangle them. When Dr. Paul Brunton first saw a yogi do this, he was stunned—being himself a doctor. It was unbelievable. He pulled both eyes out, and they hung four inches below—still he sees through them; all the muscles are out, blood drips; then he pushes them back into their sockets. Then he says, “Two rupees—my fee!” Such a miracle—and yet greed asks payment!

Therefore Kabir says:

All become yogis of the body—of the mind, none.
All is found with ease—if the mind becomes a yogi.

And when the mind becomes a yogi—what does “yoga of the mind” mean?

Yoga means union, meeting, communion.

Yoga means two becoming one.

What then is the yoga of the mind? Where the waves of mind and the ocean of mind are one; where the running of mind and the stillness of mind become one; where mind dissolves into mind, sinks into itself. The moment of supreme communion is when the mind dissolves in itself. That is Samadhi.

All is found with ease—if the mind becomes a yogi.

One who has found this alchemy of the mind’s meeting—everything becomes simple for him.

All is found with ease—
he attains all with ease. He needs do nothing else to attain.

The mind becomes so pure...

From this Samadhi—from the mind’s sinking into itself—the mind becomes so pure...

Let these words resound within you—they will serve you.

The mind has become so pure—like the waters of the Ganga.
Hari follows behind—calling “Kabir, Kabir.”

Once there is a time when the seeker calls to the Divine; he cries “Ram, Rahim”—he calls. And then there comes a time when the Divine walks behind the seeker—“calling Kabir, Kabir.”

When does that time come—that Paramatma begins to seek you, to call you?

Once you were calling—and no answer came. That was when your mind was full of waves. Your voice was not worthy to be heard—certainly not worthy of being answered.

So you may go on shouting in temples and mosques. Kabir says: “Has your God gone deaf that you must rise at dawn and cry the azan so loudly, pray so loudly? Has God become deaf? Why scream so?” Scream on—in mosques, temples, gurudwaras—nothing will happen. Your screaming is only more noise of mind. Be silent.

Prayer is not to speak; it is to become silent.

Prayer is not saying something to God; truly prayer is not to talk to God but to learn to listen to God. Become silent—and listen.

And when the mind, dissolving into itself, falls silent—when there is not even a single thought-wave—“the mind has become so pure”—then purity; then everything is clean; distortions are gone; diseases disappear. Then the mind becomes a clear mirror.

The mind has become so pure—like the waters of the Ganga.

Like the waters of the Ganga!

Hari follows behind—calling “Kabir, Kabir.”

Now everything is reversed. Now God himself follows the seeker, seeks him. When you are worthy, he himself knocks on your door. As long as you are unworthy, you may knock on every temple, church, gurudwara—your knock will not reach his door.

Therefore the real question is your becoming pure. And Kabir’s meaning of purity is: the mind dissolving into itself—the mind losing its waves.

Meditation means: the mind dissolving into itself; let no waves remain—only the sea. But this is difficult.

Doubt has seized the three worlds—whom shall I explain it to?

Whom to explain—everyone already “knows”! All have become “wise” through borrowed understanding. Hence there remains no way for their ignorance to end.

The first knowledge is to know that I am ignorant—only then can I explain anything to you.

Enough for today.