Suno Bhai Sadho #4

The guru is the quest of the Eastern consciousness. In the languages of the West there is no word like ‘guru’; they have teacher, instructor, professor, but nothing that carries the fragrance of ‘guru.’ First, understand the word guru, for subtleties live within it. A teacher is one who gives knowledge—so that we learn something, our memory grows, our information increases. The guru is not a teacher. He does not give knowledge; your information will not increase with him. In fact, he is the very opposite of a teacher. He takes away all your knowledge. He shows you ways to drop your memory. He first makes you utterly ignorant; because the moment you are flooded with the taste of utter ignorance, the doors of Paramatma open. Those doors open only for the one who does not know. For the one who knows, ‘I do not know’—only for him do the doors open. For one who believes ‘I know,’ the doors of Paramatma remain forever closed—not because of Paramatma, but because of his own delusion of knowing.

There is no arrogance greater than ‘I know.’ What do you know? Whatever you know is rubbish. And that rubbish isn’t even yours; it is borrowed—learned from others. This burden of rubbish we call erudition. We go on lugging it around; it grows on our chest like a stone. But this burden can never become wings. With it you will never fly in the sky of Paramatma. It has nothing to do with liberation, for liberation requires lightness. Only when all burdens drop can wings enter the open sky. And there is no burden greater than knowledge. What you ‘know’—that is your misfortune, your bondage. The ego quickly accepts ‘I know,’ because to accept ‘I am ignorant’ is agony for the ego.

Hence Socrates said: when someone becomes wise, the first thing he comes to know is that ‘I do not know.’ Then doors open. And those doors are not of knowledge either; they are of experience. Only when one experiences ‘I do not know’ does the capacity for discipleship arise. If you come to me carrying even a little bit of your own understanding, you will go back as a fool. Your understanding will stand as a barrier. You will not let me find an opening into you; your understanding stands at the threshold. Understanding has to be put aside. Whatever you know must be set aside. For one thing is certain: by your knowing you have attained neither truth, nor life, nor light. What have you really gained by all this knowing? Except ego—nothing. From this knowing you got only a stiff pride: ‘I know.’ And this stiffness is hollow. It is like the stiffness of a rope after it has been burned: rigid, yet powerless. Nothing of life becomes dense, profound, by this knowing. It takes you nowhere. In fact, because of this knowing you wander astray. The one who does not know will sit down, will not move; he will say, ‘I don’t know. Where should I go? What path? What goal? I don’t know.’ So the right thing is to sit until it is known. At least the one who does not know will not wander.

The knower carries maps and information. On their basis he embarks on great journeys. And the longer the journey you take, the farther from yourself you go.

The ignorant sits down—and by sitting he attains. Because that which you seek is hidden within. Had it been outside, maps might help, scriptures might serve. No scripture will serve.

A teacher transfers scriptures. The knowledge society has accumulated over centuries he hands over to the new generation. The teacher is a link between two generations.

The guru is not a teacher. Whatever society has given you, the guru takes away and frees you from society. He frees you from knowledge—from that so‑called knowledge with which you are stuffed. The guru makes you weightless. Therefore you do not go to a guru to learn; you go to a guru to unlearn.

Someone said to Sri Raman, ‘Teach me something, give me some instruction.’ Raman said, ‘Then go elsewhere. Here, come only if you wish unlearning. Here we erase, we wipe clean. We do not wish to write anything on the sky of your consciousness. Too much has already been written; we want to clean that. Here we will empty you, not fill you. You are full enough—that is your calamity.’ But you take your calamities as your treasures. You are eager to be filled even more. You think you are wandering because you are not yet full enough. You think, ‘Perhaps I go astray because I have too little information; if I acquire a little more, I will arrive.’ You will not arrive. Your information is what Kabir calls, ‘What skill is this—holding a lamp and falling into a well!’ What is your cleverness? What is your knowing? You lie in a well, yet say, ‘A lamp is in my hand!’ If a lamp were in your hand, how did you fall into the well? And if you have fallen into the well, the lamp must be extinguished. We still call an extinguished lamp a lamp. We still call borrowed knowledge knowledge.

There is Kabir’s knowledge—like a lamp aflame; and there is the pundit’s knowledge—like a lamp blown out. We use the same word ‘lamp’ for both. The extinguished should not be called a lamp—language errs. Borrowed knowledge should not be called knowledge—language errs. But one’s own knowledge happens only once in millions. What of all the rest? They too want to believe they are knowledgeable. That belief gives a deep satisfaction. It gives nothing but one consolation: ‘I too know.’

You will not find a man more deluded than the pundit. That is why I repeatedly say: even a sinner may reach, but a pundit does not. Have you ever heard of a pundit attaining liberation? Some sinners have arrived; the pundit has not—for scholarship is the greatest sin. All other sins are petty. Why?

A thief steals someone’s wealth—this is sin. Not a great sin, because wealth is dust. Not a great sin, because how much can he steal? Not a great sin, because the thief still feels, ‘I have done wrong.’ The ego does not get stuffed by it; rather a thorn pricks the ego.

Then there is one who steals knowledge—the pundit. A thief he is, yet struts as if a great banker. And what he has stolen is subtler. And there is not even a thorn pricking him that says, ‘I have stolen.’ The thief feels the thorn; that thorn can take him to liberation. The pundit feels no thorn. He rides a flower—and that very flower will drown him. That is his doom.

So the first thing: the guru does not give knowledge; he snatches your knowledge away. The guru does not fill you; he empties you. The guru makes you a zero. For only into zero can the Whole descend. The guru empties you, so that there is space for Paramatma. Hence the fundamental difference between guru and teacher.

The second thing: the teacher uses words, because there the medium is words. Whatever is to be said, given, transferred—words are the medium. The guru too uses words, but knowing well that words are only a preface. Truth cannot be given through them.

The teacher is fulfilled in words; the guru is fulfilled in the wordless. The guru also begins with words—there is always the danger of confusion: we may mistake a teacher for a guru, or a guru for a teacher. One has to begin from where you are. If you are ill, the journey must begin with medicine; but medicine is not the end—health is the end. And health means: where no medicine is needed.

You are ill—ill with words. So one must begin with words. But the goal will be the wordless. The teacher begins with words, and ends in words. The guru begins with words, but does not end in them—he ends in silence. He uses words to negate your words. If a thorn is lodged, we use another thorn to remove it. The guru uses words like that. Thorns of words are stuck; he removes them with other thorns of words. But he does not leave the new thorn embedded in the wound, telling you how lovely it is, how gracious, how it removed the old thorn. The teacher keeps pushing thorns into you.

The more informed you become, the harder it becomes to know. The more ‘clever’ you become, the more understanding eludes you.

The guru removes one thorn with another, then says: throw both away. Become utterly weightless. Become free of thorns. The goal is silence, emptiness.

With the teacher you form a relationship of intellect—two heads connected, not hearts. The heart has nothing to do with the teacher. The guru relates not head to head, but heart to heart. That is why Western people cannot understand why reverence for a guru is needed. ‘Learn what you need, the guru is a technician, a specialist—learn and the matter is over! What need for reverence?’

If only the relation were of intellect, the West would be right: learn, say thank you, pay the fee—the account is settled. On the road you ask a passerby the way to the station—do you need reverence? He tells you the way, you thank him—it is finished. You go your way, he goes his. He does not expect you to be reverent, to surrender; and you cannot imagine you need reverence for such a small thing. You ask where God is, the guru tells you. You ask how to meditate, the guru tells you. You thank him, offer a gift, go home—the matter is finished.

The relationship of teacher and student is professional; no reverence is required. Professors who expect reverence from students are in error. It cannot happen. But because of the Eastern tradition they carry this illusion in their minds. In the East the guru was revered, honored—they think they too are gurus; they deserve reverence and respect. No, they are not gurus. The student is not a disciple and the teacher is not a guru. The student pays fees. He will say thanks—the matter ends. There can be no heart-connection with a teacher.

But in India the sentiment of reverence toward the guru is so ancient that the university teacher also imagines himself a guru—without caring to ask: where is the guruness? He does not care to see that being a guru is not for the ordinary. Only one who has attained that guruness can be a guru: one who has attained the ultimate glory; who has known the ultimate truth; for whom nothing remains to be known; in whose being the final event has happened; who is established in Samadhi; for whom Paramatma has become transparent; who has become one with Paramatma; in whom not a hair’s breadth of difference remains between himself and Paramatma—he is the guru.

The difference between teacher and student is quantitative—not qualitative. You think the teacher knows a little more and the student a little less? No. Between guru and disciple the difference is not ‘more or less.’ Between them is a difference of dimension. They live in different realms. Their very being is different. But between a university teacher and a student, the difference is quantitative. The teacher knows a bit more, the student a bit less. Therefore if the student is skillful there is no difficulty in knowing more than the teacher. No difficulty at all—it is only a matter of quantity. A very talented student often knows more than his teacher. A little talent, a little labor—so much is enough. If not today, then tomorrow. The teacher holds an M.A.; the student will also hold an M.A. tomorrow. The distance is quantitative. As far as being, the Atman, is concerned, both are the same. As far as memory is concerned, they differ—one has more, one less. But where is qualitativeness in this? Where is guruness?

Between guru and disciple the distance is qualitative. The guru is elsewhere, the disciple elsewhere. Not a matter of more and less. Only when the disciple undergoes a total transformation will this gap break. It cannot be broken by learning. Even if the disciple keeps learning for lives, it will not break. And it can happen that in the world of information he knows more than the guru—still the gap will not break. In information what difficulty is there? Anyone may know more than Buddha.

In truth, a university student today knows more than Buddha knew—if it is a matter of information. What did Kabir know? Anyone knows more than Kabir. Kabir did not know Einstein, Heisenberg; he did not know of the atom bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. What did Kabir know? If you ask about facts, seat Kabir for a high school exam—do you think he would pass at once? Tutors would be needed, years of hard work—and still no guarantee. Information is not the question. But if you keep studying, writing, collecting degrees all your life—collect twenty-five degrees, universities honor you with D.Litt.—even then you will not attain a dust mote of Kabir. Not you, even your Einstein cannot attain a mote of Kabir.

Einstein too died in this pain: ‘I am dying without knowing anything; the mystery of existence remains untouched.’ How much Einstein knew! Psychologists say that in the history of mankind none has known as much as Einstein—in the realm of information. Even Einstein was surprised: how does so much information remain organized within me? Dying, he willed that his brain be scientifically examined. His brain lies in a laboratory, investigations continue—unique brain, immense information! But the soul? The Atman is where yours is—no difference there.

So remember two things: one, the quantitative expansion of information; two, the qualitative expansion of being.

Kabir has nothing that is more than you—house, shop, memory, experiences—you have more. Yet Kabir is greater. And if you continue on your present path for lives, you will not touch even the dust of Kabir’s feet. What is the matter?

Kabir lives in another dimension—Being, existence.

Keep the two dimensions in mind: knowing—information; and being—existence.

We give Buddha, Kabir, Christ, Krishna such reverence and devotion—not because of their information, but because of the purity of their being. Their very way of being is other. While among us, they are not with us; they inhabit another realm. Hence we call such men Avatars—descents. Avatar means: they are among us, but not born of us. They come from across.

As in a dark room, there is a small hole in the roof and a ray of the sun descends—this is descent. The ray is present in the same room filled with darkness; the outer manner of being is the same, yet the inner is entirely different. What comparison between darkness and ray! The ray comes from the sun’s realm—descent. Darkness belongs to the earth; it comes from nowhere, it is always here. The ray breaks it; the ray departs, darkness reassumes its place. Darkness neither comes nor goes. There is no movement in darkness, no growth, no transformation. Darkness remains as it is. More lifeless than darkness you cannot find anything. Rocks move a little, mountains slide, continents travel—there is movement, there is life. Darkness is the most dreadful death in this world. Hence everywhere we depict death as darkness—Yama’s messengers, the lord of death—black. There are reasons. Nothing is so empty of life as darkness. It does not stir, does not grow or diminish—just lies there. Rays come, pierce; rays go, darkness again thickens.

We call it ‘descent’ when someone sits next to us, yet is not near us.

If Kabir sits by you he is still not near you. He is near Paramatma—far from you. This nearness to Paramatma is their greatness.

So between guru and disciple there is a qualitative gap. Between teacher and student, a quantitative one. Between teacher and student no reverence is required. Between guru and disciple nothing happens without reverence, because guru and disciple are joined by the heart. Heart means love. And the purest form of love is called Shraddha—reverent trust. The lowest form of love is Kama—lust.

Love has three forms. One is Kama—the lowest. There love is only in name—one percent love, ninety-nine percent lust. Then there is a middle level—fifty-fifty; love and lust in equal measure. If even that second love enters our life, it is a great event. Then there is a third state where lust remains one percent and love is ninety-nine percent—this state is called Shraddha.

Which one percent of desire remains in Shraddha? Only the longing to be free—Mukti. Where ninety-nine percent is lust and one percent love—what love is that? The love of bondage, the urge to be tied to someone. One percent love is the rope of bondage. We fear aloneness; we want to be tied, to have a companion. Ninety-nine percent is exploitation; the one percent is that small thread of love—bondage. Hence we rightly call marriage a bondage. There is only that much love which is needed to tie a rope; ninety-nine percent is mutual exploitation.

In Shraddha all exploitation disappears; only one percent desire remains—the longing to be free. And that desire is only this much: ‘Let me remain bound until the path of liberation is found. The moment it is found, that bond too breaks.’ In that very moment the disciple becomes the guru.

Shraddha means single-pointed love. Understand a little more. Where there is lust, there is reason. You love for a reason: she is beautiful, her personality suits yours, her eyes are pleasing, her voice sweet—these are reasons. Such love cannot last, because reasons perish. The woman will age, the voice will turn harsh, the face will become withered, the skin shrinks, beauty fades—how will love remain? It was bound to reasons; reasons vanish. Hence love often begins but rarely lasts; then we drag it. We only perform; the reality is long lost. But to accept that love is gone is painful, so we keep up appearances and deceive each other. Therefore there is so much falseness in our life: where love itself is false, what else can be true?

Shraddha is causeless. In love there are reasons because there is lust—ninety-nine percent. Shraddha is utterly without cause; only one percent desire remains—the desire for freedom. Then how does Shraddha arise? And if it is without cause, it is beyond logic. Hence you cannot answer questions about Shraddha. If someone has Shraddha in me, ask him why, he will not be able to satisfy you. You may be able to satisfy him that his Shraddha is wrong; you may give twenty-five arguments to demolish it; but he will not be able to give a single argument to support it. If he has understood the essence of Shraddha, he will not even try. If he has tasted the nectar of Shraddha, he will laugh at your arguments. His behavior will appear illogical to you. You can raise twenty-five arguments against Shraddha; yet your arguments do not touch him—they fall and drop.

Shraddha is illogical. If it happens, it happens; if not, it does not. No effort can create it. How then will you choose a guru? Try as you may, can you manufacture Shraddha? There is only one way to choose a guru—let the guru choose you. How can you choose? But you can obstruct the guru from choosing you. So there is only one art of being a disciple: be available. You cannot choose. There is no reason, no argument for choosing. If you choose by argument, know well it is not Shraddha; it is a game of intellect. You say, ‘What this man says is right—therefore I make him my guru.’ You have not chosen a guru—you are still searching for a teacher. You saw, ‘This man’s conduct is proper.’ Who are you to know what is proper and improper conduct?

If only you knew what is right and wrong, you yourself would be the guru! You would need no one to seek. How will you decide his conduct is right? You will apply what society has taught you—right and wrong, morality and immorality. You choose the guru through knowledge, not through Shraddha. You will choose the one you have always thought a guru should be. If you were born in a Jain household—‘He fasts, eats once a day, does not eat at night, does not touch water at night, drinks boiled water’—you will choose him. The exam is finished! If only tests were so cheap—determined by whether one drinks cold water!

Digambar Jain monks do not bathe. If you bathe, the matter is finished.

I stayed once in a home. I bathe twice a day. They said, ‘What are you doing? A knower, and bathing twice? There are living beings in water—you are murdering them.’ A Digambar Jain muni does not bathe. The body smells. If your society has taught you cleanliness, you cannot accept a Digambar muni as a guru—‘What kind of guru is this! The mouth smells; he cannot brush properly, cannot use toothpaste; or if he does, he must steal and hide to do it.’

If you choose by your notions you have not chosen a guru—you are your own guru. You carry your beliefs and project them.

Shraddha means: I drop all my notions. Shraddha means: I set aside all ideas and look at you directly. I will not think, I will see. I will not conceptualize—I will breathe your fragrance. I will not bring my prejudices between us; I will not raise a curtain. I will look straight into your eyes.

Shraddha arises when intellect is set aside. And whoever is willing for this—will find the guru available. The guru is always present; when you are ready, he is available. The lack is only in your readiness. Then such a person will go from one guru to another with an open heart. Wherever it happens, he will stay. It is an event—you cannot make it happen. So I said: be available. Many gurus are there. In every age many attain. Go into their presence in availability—somewhere the hearts will meet. And when hearts meet—no one can arrange that. As love happens, so Shraddha happens. Can you give reasons why you fell in love with this woman? Your reasons are false, for you will look for them after love has happened. Then you will search for rationalizations.

Love is an event. Hence people say, love is blind. They are right. But without love, eyes are useless. What will you do with eyes? Even blind love sees, because it has a capacity to see which your eyes do not. Shraddha too is blind. That is its very meaning—illogical. If it happens, it happens; if it does not, it does not. Nothing you do will make it happen. Just remain available. Sit in the company of the wise—Satsang. Somewhere it will bloom. And when it blooms, you will find you have nothing to say. No argument can you offer; for twenty-five counter-arguments can destroy any argument you give. If you say, ‘Kabir is my guru,’ the Jain will say, ‘How can he be your guru? He has wife and child—he is not a brahmachari. He still has not left them; how can he be a guru! He still weaves cloth and sells it. He cannot be a guru.’ So even if a Jain lives beside Kabir, no connection will form.

There are Sufi fakirs. If you say to them, ‘Mahavira attained knowing—he is our guru,’ the Sufis will not accept him. They will say, ‘A guru always hides himself. This one moves naked—this is a way of exhibition. A guru conceals himself so completely that the seeker barely finds him. A guru does not display himself; the guru is not a worldly phenomenon. He is only for the one who longs for Paramatma. And the one who longs for Paramatma will find him even if he is hidden anywhere.’

Hindus did not even mention Mahavira in their scriptures—as if the man never existed. Why mention him? He did not appear as a guru to them. Beliefs… and then obstacles arise.

I was speaking with a devotee—learned, a pundit. Jesus came up. He said, ‘Whatever else, I cannot accept Jesus as an Avatar; Avatars do not die on gallows.’ Certainly neither Rama nor Buddha died on a gallows. Jesus died on a gallows. He added, ‘Remember the law of Karma: man reaps the fruits of his actions. Jesus must have committed sins in a past life; he is suffering on the cross.’ In India, no one is ready to accept Jesus as a guru—how can a guru hang on a cross?

Jains say when Mahavira walks, if a thorn lies upright in the path it immediately turns aside; how could it pierce Mahavira? Suffering comes only from one’s own Karma. So if a thorn is upright, seeing Mahavira approach, it turns over lest it pierce him. A cross for Mahavira—can you even think it? Impossible! How could the cross touch him?

But ask a Christian: he will say your Mahavira, your Buddha, your Rama, Krishna are nothing. What comparison with Jesus, who gave his life to free people from sin; who suffered the cross so the world might be redeemed! Your Mahavira and Buddha are selfish—absorbed in their own meditation; they do not care for the world. They worry for their own liberation. Jesus cared that all be freed—this is the son of God! The rest are small, self-centered people.

How will you decide who is a guru? There is no way to decide. Just be available. If you remain available, suddenly one day you will find the birth of Shraddha near someone. A flower has blossomed within you—illogical, indefensible; if you try to justify it, you will be defeated; if you try to explain it, you will find yourself in trouble. Anyone can demolish it. Without Shraddha, the guru does not happen; only with the eye of Shraddha can he be seen. And the relationship of guru and disciple is not of thought; it is of Shraddha, of love. It is supremely intimate. No relationship in the world is more intimate. Not husband-wife, not father-son, not brother-brother. Distances remain in all those, for they are relationships of the body. Why is someone your father? Because your body was born of his body—what other connection? Why is someone your mother? Because your body was born of her body. These are bodily relationships—what of the soul in them? You are connected to brother and sister because you are offspring of the same body. Bodily ties. There is a single relationship in the world that is not of the body—that of guru and disciple. There the connection is of the soul. And only through a soul-connection can Paramatma be attained.

Now let us enter the sutra.

This sutra is supremely important. Understand each word with care, and hold it in your awareness.

‘Those who take the guru as a mere man—know them to be blind.
They suffer greatly in the world; ahead, they are bound by Yama.’

Those who see the guru as just a man—know them to be blind. For only when you see the guru as divine does the connection happen. If the guru is a man to you, your relation will be bodily. Respect may arise, but it will be with cause, with logic—not Shraddha. This is the difference between respect and Shraddha. Respect is based on reasons: the man knows more, is virtuous, is renunciate—so you respect. Shraddha is causeless. So respect can be broken; Shraddha cannot. Tomorrow you discover he is not as virtuous as you believed—respect will break; Shraddha will not, for it never depended on conduct. Tomorrow you discover he is not as knowledgeable as you thought—respect breaks; Shraddha does not.

‘Those who know the guru as a man—Kabir says, call them blind; they have no eyes.’

Certainly, the guru is a man—but not only a man. He is a man, like us—he has a body like ours; he feels hunger and thirst as we do; in the heat he sweats. He is a man. To help the blind, many tales had to be invented.

So Jains say: Mahavira does not sweat… this to persuade the blind! Mahavira will sweat—unless he is made of plastic. Sweat is natural. Why invent such stories? Because if he sweats the devotee will say: then he is just a man. Mahavira does not defecate. Then what constipation! But to pacify the devotee, one must trap Mahavira—otherwise if he goes to the toilet, ‘He is like us, then what is the difference?’ To erect a difference… But what difference does that make? At most respect will arise; Shraddha cannot. Shraddha happens only when—even if Mahavira sweats, hungers, falls ill—you still see Paramatma in him.

The body is a house—the same as yours. Otherwise how would Mahavira die, how would he be born? The body is just like yours. But you have taken yourself to be only the body, while Mahavira has known himself beyond it. You are identified with the body; Mahavira has transcended. He is in the body, but not the body. There is an earthen lamp, but the flame is not clay. If you see only the lamp, you are blind, Kabir says—see the flame!

That flame certainly does not sweat, has no stench, does not feel hunger or thirst. But that is the flame; the lamp will need oil, will tire, will break, will die.

Those who see the guru as man—Kabir calls them blind. Blind, because no connection can happen. Lift your eyes upward.

Mansoor was crucified. When he was on the cross, he was laughing. Someone in the crowd asked, ‘Mansoor, why do you laugh? What is there to be happy about?’ He said, ‘At least you have lifted your eyes a little upward.’ Crucified, he hung above; people had to raise their eyes to see him. Mansoor said, ‘I rejoice that you have at least for a moment looked upward.’

Mansoor spoke in symbol; the crowd could not understand. Those who crucify—what can they understand! But Mansoor’s meaning was: even if my crucifixion causes you to lift your eyes a little higher, it is enough; the fruit is gained. Not my crucifixion, but your eyes turning upward…

To see the guru—yes, he is in the body, but he is not the body. Only with Shraddha will you see. Whenever you look at someone with Shraddha, the body disappears. When you look with deep love, the body disappears; you begin to sense the person, the soul, the being. When you truly love, there is no human being there—there is the divine. In ordinary life too, when you fall in love—though it is one percent love and ninety-nine percent lust—the other appears extraordinary; but when Shraddha is born—ninety-nine percent love, one percent desire—the presence of the divine is immediate. Hence, in this land we have called the guru God, and even placed him above. There are reasons for this too.

‘Those who see the guru as a man—know them blind.
They are greatly miserable in this world; ahead, bound by Yama.’

Here they will be miserable, for without Shraddha no joy is possible. Without Shraddha there can be no experience of the soul, no sense of the presence of Paramatma. And if you do not sense Paramatma in the guru, how will you sense him in trees, rocks, mountains? If not in the living, how in the dead? If not in the living guru, how in a statue in a temple?

It is strange—you stand before a stone image in the temple and chant ‘Bhagwan, Bhagwan’; but before the guru your tongue hesitates to say ‘Bhagwan.’ What do you think? If the very person whose statue you worship were alive before you, would you not face the same difficulty? You would. Before Mahavira’s statue you easily say ‘Bhagwan’—because the marble does not sweat, does not hunger; the marble is forever fasting—no question of food; it does not thirst, does not fall ill, does not die. We have crafted stone statues with great calculation—so that all that appears human does not appear there.

Marble images…

Once I lived in a village for a time. A gentleman lived next door. People thought him a little eccentric. He had retired—once a professor of logic perhaps. Logicians already tend toward imbalance; retired—and then…! I thought I would meet him someday and see.

One day I doubted it myself. Passing by his door, I saw him with a tin watering-can, watering flowers in a pot. But no water was coming out, and he stood like a statue. I looked closely—the can had no bottom! I said, ‘Sir, perhaps you are lost in thought—you haven’t noticed there is no bottom in the can.’ He said, ‘Don’t worry—the flowers aren’t real either, they’re plastic.’

Plastic flowers have one virtue—they do not wither or die; they seem eternal. A real flower blooms in the morning and withers by evening. The real Mahavira is like a real flower—he will bloom and wither. Then you will feel: ‘He is just like us—what is the difference?’ You will see only the human; worship will be difficult.

A marble image neither withers, nor is born, nor dies—eternal! There you bow easily. You are so false that you can worship only the false; worshipping the true is hard. You are so dead that you can worship only the dead; you cannot connect with the living. The guru is a living phenomenon. Make a statue of him and nothing will happen; after he dies, nothing will be solved by it, no path opened.

And remember: before a statue your ego suffers no wound. There is no one there—after all, you bought the statue. You are the master. If you wish, you can throw it out. The statue can do nothing. If you offer food, it is offered; if you say ‘God, sleep,’ he must sleep; if you close the door, ‘the doors are closed’—they are closed. You are the lord. This God is your toy. Before him your ego is not hurt. But before a living person, when you bow, the difficulty arises. Your ego is the obstacle in Shraddha.

Know well: logic is not the obstacle—ego is. Logic is only a strategy to hide the ego. You say, ‘How can I bow? Until I find the person worthy of bowing—how can I bow?’ You will never find such a person; your logic will always find something to object to.

Mulla Nasruddin remained unmarried for a long time. I asked him why. ‘Enough time has passed. Find someone, or time will pass you by.’ He said, ‘I am searching. But I need a woman who is perfect in every way. I have met hundreds, but none was perfect; and unless she is perfect, I will not let love happen.’

I asked, ‘Not even one in a lifetime of searching?’

He said, ‘A couple of times I did meet such a woman—but they too were searching for a perfect husband.’

Even if someday you meet a perfect guru, know well he too seeks a perfect disciple. You will never meet. This is only a device to escape.

‘Those who see the guru as man—call them blind.
They are miserable in the world; ahead, bound by Yama.’

Here they will suffer. Suffering is the news that you are wrong. Joy is the news that you are right. Make this your touchstone. If your life is miserable, know that you are in error; whatever you are doing is delusion—there is a flaw in the foundation. Flowers of joy bloom only when you are right at the foundation.

And remember: if someone is joyous, do not use argument to destroy his joy; for being joyous is the only proof that he is right.

People come to me. Two days ago a friend said, ‘You are driving people mad. I do not see that there is any God anywhere, or that he can be attained. You are making people crazy.’ I said, ‘That is between me and those people. You are not involved. You are healthy and happy—that is good.’ He said, ‘That is the difficulty—I am neither healthy nor happy.’ I said, ‘Then concern yourself only with becoming healthy and happy. Today or tomorrow you will come close to Paramatma. Do not worry whether God is or is not—for Paramatma is not a conclusion of logic. Paramatma is the “ah!” that arises in the depths of joy. When you are joyous, you cannot believe there is no Paramatma—how else this joy? When you are joyous and your heart overflows and every pore sings, you cannot believe existence is devoid of consciousness. You will see in existence what is happening within you. If you are miserable, existence is hell, God is empty. If you are joyous, existence is heaven—every atom brimming with God. This is not a matter of logical conclusion—study philosophy, scriptures, gather arguments—this is all madness. If you are joyous—he is. If you are miserable—he is lost.’

I told him, ‘Leave me and my madmen alone. If they are joyous, what does it matter whether God is or not? And if you are miserable, what does it matter whether God is or not? The final reckoning is joy or misery. The final decision is whether the flower of bliss has blossomed in a man’s life or not—that alone decides. So take care of that. And wherever you find that the flower of joy begins to bloom in your life—drop argument, set aside intellect, open your heart. There Shraddha will sprout, there the guru will arise.’

Because the guru is not an outer event—he is the experience seen through your Shraddha. As when you open your eyes, the sun’s light is seen; close your eyes and there is darkness. Open Shraddha—and the guru appears; close Shraddha—and the guru is lost.

The guru is the experience of the eye of Shraddha. To the intellect that eye will always seem blind. And to those who have attained Shraddha, there is no blindness greater than the eye of intellect. But one thing is certain…

Consider: a small child—whatever he says is without experience. A youth speaks with a little experience—he has seen childhood and youth. An old man speaks with even greater experience—he has seen childhood, youth and old age. When a youth and an old man speak, their words will not coincide; the youth has only seen two stages, not the third. What the old man says about youth deserves attention; he has seen youth and its passing and now stands on the peak of life. Therefore in the East we respect the old man—he has seen all. We do not respect the young—he has more to see.

In the West the young are honored. It is a mistake. Only the one who has seen all can speak with value. The one who has only seen doubt and logic has no value. The one who has seen doubt and logic—and then Shraddha—his words have value. He has seen both.

The atheist is like a child; the theist like an old man. Everyone must pass through atheism, but not all become theists—many children die children. The theist has seen both faces of life. He denied and found: the more you say no, the more you shrink. Say no, no, no—you become smaller and smaller. He tried the other way too: the more you say yes, the more vast you become. Say no—and finally only you remain, shrunken, stale. Say yes—you disappear; the vast remains; Paramatma remains. Say no—you become like an atom—tiny. Say yes—you become like the Atman, like the sky—immense.

‘They suffer greatly in the world; ahead, bound by Yama.’

They will suffer here, and again and again they must die—bound by Yama. Time and again death will come, bind them, take them away. Because of them Yama too must labor hard. Again and again they will be born and die, suffer and pass through death.

For one who awakens, birth and death both disappear. The one who becomes one with Paramatma—there is no coming, no going. The East calls this freedom from the cycle—release from coming and going. The journey ends; the goal is reached.

‘In the three worlds and nine regions, none is greater than the guru.
What the Doer cannot do, the guru does—and it is done.’

A difficult utterance. Only with deep Shraddha can it be understood. Even the theist will hesitate: Kabir seems to be going beyond limits! One may accept that the guru is to be revered; but Kabir now says—

‘In the three worlds and nine regions, none is greater than the guru.
What the Doer (God) cannot do, the guru does—and it is done.’

Greater than the whole of existence—guru. That is why we call him ‘guru’—the weightiest, the most immense.

‘What the Doer cannot do…the guru does—so it happens.’

Meaning the guru is placed even above God? We might agree to place him beside God—that the guru too is divine—but above… Kabir seems to exaggerate. No, Kabir is saying: the means is greater than the end, because without the means you will never reach the end. The path is greater than the goal, for without the path there is no way to reach the goal. When without a ladder you cannot climb to the roof, then the ladder becomes greater than the roof.

‘What the Doer cannot do, the guru does—so it happens.’

Even if God wants to do it, he cannot; but what the guru wants to do, is done. Why? There are reasons—let us understand.

Man’s first state: darkness, ignorance, wandering. God’s state: supreme knowing, arrived. The guru stands between—half man, half divine; a bridge between man and God. God cannot even understand your pain. Cry and scream as you may—God has no ears to hear; that state has no ears. He is the ultimate emptiness. Your cries reach the sky and are lost; no answer comes. That is the final state; from there you cannot form a relation. But the guru stands in the middle—half like you, half like God. He is the point where both touch, where your boundary ends and God begins. There some conversation is possible. You can speak to the guru; he will understand, for he has passed where you are passing. He has lived through the same pains, anxieties and sorrows that you now live in. What is your present was his past; what is your future is his present. He stands where you and God meet. If you say something and the guru hears it, it is heard by God through the guru. If you make a prayer, your language will be understood by him, for he speaks your tongue. God cannot understand your language. What language would he understand? How?

In the Second World War, a German soldier and an English soldier met in the field. The Englishman said, ‘Our victory is assured; you are striving in vain.’ The German asked, ‘Assured—why?’ The Englishman said, ‘We pray daily. God is with us.’ The German said, ‘We also pray; God is with us.’ The Englishman laughed: ‘You are mad. Have you ever heard that God understands German? He understands English!’

You laugh, but every nation claims the same. Ask the pundits of India—they say Sanskrit is the language of the gods. Meaning: God understands this tongue. Speaking Hindi—useless! Sanskrit! And perfectly grammatical—God is very particular about grammar! Hence the pundits of Kashi ignored Kabir—his language is ‘nonsense.’ They named it sadhukkadi—not even human, just vagabond saints’ tongue. They have no fixed place—say anything! Kabir uses Persian words, Sanskrit, Pali—mixes them all. Even God must be in trouble, needing a dozen interpreters: ‘What is this Kabir babbling? Translate!’

Whatever your language—Sanskrit or English—God cannot understand. Human language is understood by humans. But if only a human understands—how will that help?

The guru is such a human that he understands your language—and on the other side his life and breath are absorbed in God. One hand holds yours, the other holds God’s. So what you say, he will understand; and what he wills, can be done—for the other hand is God’s. He is both.

Hence Kabir says—and I agree; it is no exaggeration, it is exact:

‘What the Doer cannot do, the guru does—so it happens.’

‘There is no giver like the guru; no beggar like the disciple.
The wealth of the three worlds—the guru gives as gift.’

There is no giver like the guru—his very meaning is: one who gives. But what he gives is subtle. If you go asking for the petty, you will return empty. If you go asking for the vast, you will receive.

There is no giver like the guru—but his gift is possible only when the disciple comes as a beggar. If you come arrogant, as if you deserve it—as if it must be given—you will miss.

‘…no beggar like the disciple.’

The disciple must be the supreme beggar, his heart only a begging bowl. The supreme supplicant—then the guru meets him. Only the supreme giver and the supreme beggar fit. If he pours and your pot is upside down, all is wasted.

A beggar means: whose pot is upright.

It happened in China, a great sage of Lao Tzu’s lineage, Lieh Tzu. A disciple came and asked a question. Lieh Tzu said, ‘When the time comes I will answer—preparation is needed. You ask—but do you have the courage to receive? I will give—but will you be crushed by it? Do you even know what you are asking?’ The disciple trembled, kept silent for a year, then left. He went to another guru: ‘I stayed with Lieh Tzu for a year—received nothing; so I have come here.’ The guru said, ‘Leave at once. You have no vessel. If Lieh Tzu could not fill you—he is a vast lake—what will a poor man like me do? If you return saying you stayed a year with me too and got nothing—you’ll ruin me. Go!’

Hearing this he returned to Lieh Tzu: ‘Strange! What shall I do? A place or two I went—they said: If you came thirsty from that great lake, we are only small puddles. We won’t do. So I have come back.’ Lieh Tzu said, ‘Listen. When I came to my guru, for three years he did not even look at me. Questioning did not arise—he would look at everyone and leave me as if I were empty space. I understood his hint: I must become like empty space so he does not see me. If you had been there, you would have run away. Your ego would hurt—“I am here, and he does not look at me!” After three years, one day he looked at me—showers of bliss! I felt a thrill I had never felt. Three years of sitting silently, as if I am not… And then one glance! Enough—I was filled. I no longer cared whether he looked or not. Three more years passed. First he hinted: become void. When he looked into my eyes I understood his second hint: become the seer. As he saw me, so I should see myself. For three years I watched myself. Then one day he looked again and, for the first time, smiled. Blessed my fortune! I was complete. I understood: become empty, become witness, become joyful. Then I began to smile for no reason, laugh for no reason, celebrate for no reason, be happy for no reason. People thought I had gone mad. Three years later he came to me, placed his hand on my head and said, “Your sadhana is complete. There is no difference between us now. Go and awaken others. You have received—now share.” And you—though you sat here for a year—were not quiet for even a moment. Your mind rang with the same question: “When will he answer?”—as if the answer mattered more and the guru less!’

Your questions seem important—because of the ego. You want an answer—also the demand of ego. But until you look at the one from whom you seek—no answer can happen. This is the meaning of Satsang.

Sit silently by the guru. When it is his will, when you are ready—he will fill you. Surrender yourself into his hands.

‘There is no giver like the guru; no beggar like the disciple.
The wealth of the three worlds—the guru gives as gift.’

‘The guru is a potter, the disciple a clay pot—he shapes and removes flaws.
Inside his hand supports; outside his hand strikes.’

A lovely image! Have you watched a potter? He shapes the pot. The guru is the potter; the disciple, a vessel being prepared—why a vessel? So that you can be filled. A pot is emptiness; its walls are not the pot—its emptiness is. The guru raises a thin wall of clay around you and creates an inner emptiness.

‘The guru is a potter, the disciple a clay pot—he shapes and removes flaws.’

He removes what must be removed, shapes what must be shaped.

‘Inside his hand supports…’

The potter supports the clay from within and strikes from without. This is the guru’s whole method—within he supports, without he strikes. If you see only the outer blows you will run away. If you sense the inner support, the outer blows become sweet. Both are needed: with inner support the wall is formed—without it, it would collapse; with outer blows it becomes strong—without them, at the first pouring of water the pot would crack. Outer blows give strength. He will strike you in many ways—blows you would otherwise suffer later and break; he gives them now. This is difficult, because as soon as the blow falls the disciple runs—‘He did not look at me; he did not honor me; he said something that insulted me; he answered to wound me.’

Outer blows are necessary; otherwise you cannot be strong. When the full rains of the Whole pour, you will burst. Inner support…

The guru has two hands—inside he supports so you do not break now; outside he strikes so you never break.

‘The guru is a potter, the disciple a clay pot—he shapes and removes flaws.
Inside the hand supports; outside the hand strikes.’

‘Keep the guru upon your head; walk in his command.
Kabir says: such a servant knows no fear in the three worlds.’

Keep the guru on your head; walk in his command. What does it mean? To put the guru on your head is easy; to live in obedience is hard. But living in obedience is what it means to keep him on your head. To place your head at his feet is easy; it changes nothing. Inside you do not bow; only outside. Inside you remain stiff.

I was a guest in a home. A mother scolded her child—he was creating a great nuisance. Finally she said, ‘Enough. Go and sit on that chair—right now.’ Children know when the limit has come. He went and sat, glaring at his mother. He said, ‘All right—I am sitting outside, but inside I am still standing!’

To bend outside is easy. To show outward respect is easy. Obedience is hard; it is the inner bowing.

Whatever the guru says—do not apply your logic to it. If you think, evaluate and then obey, you are obeying yourself, not the guru. Your mind said ‘right’ and you did it. But even if your mind says ‘not right,’ still do as the guru says—that is obedience. Only thus will the intellect crack and fall. If you keep listening to the intellect you will never go below the head; your roots will never reach the heart.

Often the guru will ask you to do what he knows is illogical; he knows the intellect will not agree; any ordinary person will say, ‘What madness!’

Gurdjieff used to give such commands. A man came who had never drunk and was very virtuous, a vegetarian. Gurdjieff said, ‘Eat meat, drink wine.’ Clear—this man is mad. The man must have been shocked. He ran away. A disciple asked, ‘What was the purpose?’ Gurdjieff said, ‘Simple: this man is against meat, against wine—and because he does not eat or drink he has nourished a tremendous ego: “I am pure! I am moral! I am religious! I am vegetarian!” That pride must be broken.’

If a vegetarian came, Gurdjieff said, ‘Eat meat!’ The whole intellect would scream, ‘He is corrupting me! Is this a guru?’ Some stayed—and because the guru said so, they ate. Then Gurdjieff never again told them to do it. Sometimes as the disciple lifted the meat to his mouth, he would stop him: ‘Enough—the work is done. Meat-eating was never the point.’

Women came to Gurdjieff. He said, ‘First remove all jewelry—give it to me.’ One woman came—a great musician, very wealthy, wearing precious jewelry, as people go to temples—many eyes to see… She did not know. Gurdjieff said, ‘We will talk later. First put all your jewelry in this handkerchief.’ She removed it all. Gurdjieff tied the cloth and put it in his coat. They spoke; she left. That night he sent the bundle back. The woman was astonished—there were more jewels than she had given. Gurdjieff had added some.

Fifteen days later another woman came to the ashram and said, ‘I have heard Gurdjieff often asks for jewelry—did he ask you?’ ‘He did,’ the first woman said. ‘But he returned it at night.’ ‘Then there is no fear,’ said the second. She went. Gurdjieff asked for jewelry—she removed all. And because she had heard that he had returned more, she brought all she had. Gurdjieff kept it—never returned!

You cannot deceive the guru. His very work is to break you, to unmake you as you are so he can make you anew—reshape your pot. Your intellect will not do. Shraddha means: now I am not; only you are. Whatever you say, I will do. Astonishing events have happened.

Marpa went to his guru—a Tibetan fakir. A simple man. So simple and innocent that other disciples became anxious: he will soon become the successor. He was indeed the successor. They started creating obstacles. One day they told Marpa, ‘The guru has commanded…’ The guru knew nothing. ‘If your Shraddha is true, jump from this mountain.’ Marpa jumped. The disciples ran down—deep ravine, impossible to survive. Under a tree he sat in meditation. They thought it a coincidence. It could not be otherwise.

A house caught fire. They said, ‘It is the guru’s order—enter.’ He never asked the guru whether he had given such orders. ‘Even that much doubt?’ He entered the fire—his clothes did not burn.

Crossing a river, they said, ‘Jump. You can walk on water—scriptures say one with unshakable Shraddha can walk on water.’ Marpa walked on water. Then it was hard to call it coincidence. They went to the guru: ‘Amazing! Forgive us. In your name we tormented him. But the glory of your name is vast! He went into fire and did not burn; jumped from a cliff and did not die; walked on water.’

The guru became proud. He was not an enlightened man—virtuous, a practitioner of yoga, but not yet arrived. He said, ‘If Marpa could do it in my name, I myself can do it.’ One day they were in a boat. The disciples said, ‘Today you walk on water.’ He said, ‘What is difficult?’ He stepped out and sank. Barely did they rescue him.

Marpa was not walking by the guru’s name—he was walking by Shraddha.

If you see rightly, Shraddha itself is the guru. The guru is a pretext, a peg. Through him your Shraddha is awakened. Sometimes it has happened that the guru was not truly a guru—and the disciple arrived. And it happens daily that the guru was a guru—but the disciple did not arrive.

Shraddha is the key.

Obedience means: whatever he says, whether your mind agrees or not, do not calculate; tell the mind to step aside—‘I will listen to the guru.’ As your capacity to listen to the guru grows, so does your capacity to bow. The guru comes upon your head. The day your intellect steps down from the head, the guru becomes your intellect—your discernment. This is the meaning:

‘Keep the guru upon your head; walk in his command.
Kabir says: such a servant knows no fear in the three worlds.’

‘When guru and Govind both stand—whose feet shall I touch?
Blessed be the guru, who showed me Govind.’

This sutra has two possible meanings—both lovely.

‘When guru and Govind both stand—whose feet shall I touch?’

Kabir shares his experience: the moment comes when both guru and Govind stand before you. The guru is the door—today or tomorrow, Govind will appear. The guru is the path—today or tomorrow, the goal arrives. And in the first moment it will be so: both are present. In such a moment, whose feet to touch first?

Kabir says, ‘I stood in a great dilemma—whose feet to touch first?’

The second line can be read two ways. First: ‘Blessed be you, O guru—you hinted at once: touch Govind’s feet.’ The moment I was in dilemma, you signaled immediately: ‘Touch Govind’s feet.’ I am but a milestone on the road that says: the destination has come; now my work is done. Leave me—touch Govind’s feet.

This is the common meaning. The second meaning is more precious; I lean to it, for the previous sutras fit better with it.

Second meaning: ‘When guru and Govind both stand—whose feet shall I touch? Blessed be the guru—who showed me Govind.’ In the dilemma I left Govind and touched the guru’s feet; for blessed is he—without him I would not have reached here; through him I came here. This meaning is right, for the later sutras say: ‘In the three worlds and nine regions, none is greater than the guru. What the Doer cannot do, the guru does—and it is done.’

When Kabir places the guru above God, this second meaning accords. And it should be so. At the last threshold—from where you bid farewell to the guru and the journey to Govind begins—it is fitting to touch the guru’s feet. After that there will be no guru—only Govind. On that day the bridge is removed; the hand that brought you so far withdraws. In that moment of farewell it is proper to touch the guru’s feet again; for blessed is he—without him you could not have come; because of him you arrived. And the next sutra makes it even denser:

‘If Hari is displeased, the guru is the refuge; if the guru is displeased, there is no refuge.’

If Hari turns away, there is a way—go to the guru.

‘If Hari is displeased, the guru is the refuge; if the guru is displeased, there is no refuge.’

If the guru turns away, there is no way—for without the guru you cannot go to Hari. Without Hari you can go to the guru; without the guru you cannot go to Hari.

‘If Hari is displeased, the guru is the refuge; if the guru is displeased, there is no refuge.’

The disciple’s entire sadhana is to become the guru’s shadow—to surrender in totality, to dissolve the self. Only thus can the guru prepare you for that supreme event where your self dissolves into Paramatma. How will he prepare you? He is primary training for that ultimate experience where the Atman dissolves into Paramatma. By dissolving in the guru you rehearse. When it is complete, the door opens at once; in that instant, both guru and Govind stand. There the guru bids farewell and the journey to Govind begins.

Think of three paths. One you choose by your intellect—the path of ego. The second is the path of the Supreme Brahman. They are parallel—never meeting. A third is a small lane in between that joins the two—the guru. He dissolves your ego and leads you to the egoless near Brahman.

The more you melt, the denser Paramatma becomes. The more you disappear, the more he appears.

People ask, ‘Where is God?’ They should ask, ‘Why am I so solid?’ Where is the space for God to enter? Your house is crammed—with yourself. The guru will empty it. Before Paramatma can descend—he is too unknown; you will be frightened. Even if he came to your door today you would not open it. You would run away, leave your house and never return. Paramatma is vast. That abyss will unnerve you; you will grow dizzy. The guru persuades you slowly.

As a river falls into the sea—if you wish to take your boat to the sea, first you put it in the river, practice sailing there. In the river practice is possible—danger is less. In the sea, practice is not possible—danger is great. If you want to learn to swim, learn in the river—with banks on both sides, with people on the banks who can hear your cry; where someone can save you, where help is possible.

The guru is the current of the river—Ganga. Learn to swim there. Then slowly Ganga will take you to the ocean. All banks will vanish. There no support remains. There you are utterly alone. Before that supreme aloneness, the companionship of the guru is essential. Before the guru you live in the crowd—the many. The guru is two—duality. Brahman is one—nondual. Before leaving the crowd, you must consent to two; then you can leave two and consent to one.

Kabir is right:

‘When guru and Govind both stand—whose feet shall I touch?
Blessed be the guru—who showed me Govind.’

‘If Hari is displeased, the guru is the refuge; if the guru is displeased, there is no refuge.’

Enough for today.