Suno Bhai Sadho #5

Kabir is a weaver, and his symbols too are the symbols of a weaver; yet even within the weaver’s symbols he has said all that the Upanishads fail to say, what the Vedas grow tired of uttering, what Buddha and Mahavira leave aside as ineffable.
The nearer a symbol is to life, the more capable it becomes of revealing truth; the farther it drifts from life, the more its power to express truth diminishes. Kabir lives right next to life — to ordinary life!
And remember, there is no such thing as an extraordinary life in the world. The extraordinary is hidden within the ordinary. And whoever tries to become extraordinary will escape the ordinary and thereby also miss the extraordinary hidden within it.
Ego hunts for the extraordinary. Ego wants to perform great deeds; but life is made of little things. One has to get up, sit down; weave cloth, sell it; eat, drink; sleep, wake — life is woven out of these small acts. Whoever tries to be extraordinary will be deprived of life. Whoever begins to awaken within these ordinary acts, whoever performs these very acts with wakefulness, will attain the extraordinary. That is the meaning of effort — jatan.
Jatan means: to do even the ordinary consciously; to yoke awareness even to the most commonplace. The moment awareness joins the small, the small becomes vast. And if unconsciousness joins even the vast, the vast shrinks into the petty. Go to the temple — you will not find Paramatma there; because you will go there asleep. What you will see will be only the reflection of your own desires.
Alas, if there were awareness, what need would there be to go to a temple at all! If there were awareness, right where you are you would find that it is His temple; that besides Him nothing else is. Kashi and Kaba are pilgrimages only for the ignorant. The knower finds his Kashi wherever he stands, his Kaba right there. For all around is the expanse of the One alone. Brahman is not less here and more there, not dense somewhere and thin elsewhere, not available at one place and unavailable at another — He is everywhere, equally diffused.
Buddha has said: Taste the ocean anywhere — it is salty from every side — from this shore or that, in the middle, in the depths, in the wave; taste the ocean, the taste is one everywhere; taste Brahman everywhere, His flavor too is one.
Temples and mosques are the constructions of the ignorant. Therefore they build them in their own image. They are their own reflections. Your God cannot be bigger than you, until you yourself become as vast as God. But here lies the complexity. If you desire to become great, you will remain small; for the demand to be great is the demand of a small mind. If you can be content in the small, if you can awaken there, suddenly you will discover that there is nothing small — all is vast.
The petty has no existence of its own. The petty is only a boundary given by your eye.
As if I open a window and look at the sky — the frame of the window appears to delineate the sky. The sky seen through the window-frame seems to be the sky itself. And if I have never stepped outside, never seen the open sky, and have always peeped through the window, naturally I shall believe that the slice imprisoned in the frame is the whole sky. But that is not the sky. The frame is giving it shape. The boundary arises because of the window — the sky has no boundary. Your eyes are no more than windows. Your ears are no more than windows. Your hands are no more than windows.
The senses are small windows through which we have glimpsed Brahman; hence Brahman appears small. Remove the senses and see — the minute instantly becomes the vast, boundaries fall away. Boundaries were never there — we had imposed them. They are imagined. Do not call any work small.
This is Kabir’s primary message: do not call any work small. For the vast is hidden in that small. The moment you call it small, you turn your back on it. And wherever you turn your back, He is there. So your back will always fall upon Him.
And where will you go to search for the great? What is this great? Is serving the nation great? Is serving humanity great? Is sacrificing yourself great? Is being a martyr great?
Remember, anyone can have the capacity to die as a martyr in a single moment. Who is incapable of committing suicide in a moment! Martyrdom looks very difficult; it is not that difficult — because the matter is settled in a single instant. The cross is mounted in an instant; the bullet pierces life in a moment. The true martyrs are those who live with awareness in the long expanse of life — for they have to carry the cross on their shoulders for their whole life.
The true martyrs are those who discover the vast within the small. Their discovery will never be printed in newspapers; no one will come to garland them, no one will offer them flowers. Silently, alone, they will remain awake while eating, awake while weaving cloth, awake while bathing. Who will honor them? People will say, You’ve gone mad! We honor martyrs who hang on crosses. You became aware while eating — that is your business! What concern is that of ours? Don’t bring up small matters, people will say. But in the small the vast is hidden — as the tree is hidden in the seed. Plant a tiny seed, and a vast tree arises. That tiny seed — it is the seed of jatan, the seed of dhyan.
Whatever you do, do it mindfully.
But our mental condition is very strange. When we get bored with one thing, we immediately choose its opposite. You grow weary of the world, then you become religious. But just as you were unconscious in the world, you will remain unconscious as a religious person. The act changes; you do not. Before, you sat in the shop chanting the mantra of money, money, money; now you sit in the temple — you chant Ram, Ram, Ram. You will not change. While saying rupee you were unconscious; while saying Ram you will remain unconscious. The rupee too was your sleep; Ram will also be your sleep. Then you were sitting in the shop; you are still sitting in the shop. It is you who have turned all temples into shops. Wherever you go, naturally you will remain yourself. How will a difference arise in you?
No one ever changes by changing circumstances — one changes by changing the state of mind. Not the situation but the inner state has to change. That is transformation. Thus Kabir remained a weaver but he awakened — in this sutra he has said very precious things. Let us try to understand each word.
'Fine, so fine, is the cloak woven.'
If you have ever watched a weaver at work, or if you have ever spun at a spinning wheel, one thing will occur to you: the finer the thread you wish to draw from the spindle or the wheel, the more awareness is needed; the coarser the thread, the more sleep can do — but if the thread is to be very fine, then that much care, that much awareness is needed; a slight unawareness and the thread will snap.
Kabir is saying:
'Fine, so fine, is the cloak woven.'
So fine is the cloak — which means: it has been woven with great care. Which means: it has been woven with great awareness. Which means: not a tremor in the hand, not a quiver in consciousness — it was woven unshaken.
The finer and subtler the work to be done, the more awareness it demands. Sleep may suffice for crude work; it cannot do for the subtle. Hence we call the subtlest work art — because in doing it consciousness must be very watchful. A slight error and everything is deformed.
So, the first thing: the more you live life awake, the subtler and more delicate the experience of life becomes. And the more you experience the subtle, the more you will awaken. The two are conjoined and mutually supportive.
You walk on the road — a drunkard also walks on the same road; but look at his feet — not one step falls in its right place. Even so he will reach home somehow. You also walk. Then see a Buddha walking. You will find that the difference between you and the drunkard is as much as between you and a Buddha. The drunkard reaches home somehow, you reach, Buddha too will reach; but the quality of your walking is different. The drunkard is utterly asleep. The Buddha walks utterly awake; you are somewhere in-between. Sometimes a little glimpse of awareness comes, then darkness returns. Sometimes you are awake, sometimes asleep. Sometimes your eyes are open, sometimes closed.
If you watch carefully you will find that as awareness grows, there enters into your movement a grace, a skill — what Krishna in the Gita calls: the yogi becomes skillful in action — that skill. Because the yogi has to weave a very fine cloak. He has to place each step with care, take each breath with awareness. Life is very delicate and immensely precious. He does not walk like a drunkard. Kabir has said, he walks as a pregnant woman walks — carefully, with care. A new life is within! And the life within the pregnant woman is only physical; the sprout ripening within the seeker, within the sadhu, is the sprout of Paramatma.
Think that Paramatma is to be born through you — how carefully will you walk! A slight lapse, and there may be a miscarriage. A small mistake, a twist of the foot and a fall — and the labor of centuries may be wasted. The nearer the goal comes, the more awareness is needed. When you were far from the goal, there was no fear of wandering; for if you wandered, what more could you wander — you were already astray. As the goal approaches, more awareness is needed, because now you can go astray.
The Sufis say: What fear has the worldly? The fear is ours! What has the worldly to lose? It is we who have wealth to lose! And the worldly may walk anyhow — he has nothing to be effaced; but we cannot walk just anyhow, for a great treasure is there which can be lost as it is about to be gained, which can slip away as it comes into the hand; the goal at the point of being reached can be lost. And the higher you are, the deeper will be your fall.
Therefore guard the word jatan well.
What fear has the man already sliding into the gorge! The one who stands atop Gaurishankar’s peak — the fear is his. But this fear is not cowardice. This fear is alertness. This is the sense that I have something which can be lost.
It so happened that in Japan there was a fakir, Bokuju. He lived in the capital, Tokyo. The emperor — an old tale, of some three hundred years ago — as old emperors would, used to ride out at night in disguise to see the city: what goes on where. The whole city slept; there was one fakir who remained awake under a tree. Often he would stand. If he sat, he kept his eyes open. At last the emperor’s curiosity grew. Whenever, at any time of night, he went, he always found him awake; sometimes pacing, sometimes sitting, sometimes standing — but awake. He never found him asleep. Months passed; the curiosity thickened. Finally one night he could not restrain himself. He stopped and said, Fakir, I have a curiosity. It is without right; I have no claim to ask — but the curiosity has grown heavy, and now I cannot refrain from asking. Why do you remain awake the whole night?
The fakir said: I have a treasure; to guard it. The emperor was even more puzzled. He said, I see no treasure. There are broken potsherds here. Your begging bowl, your rags — do you call these treasure? Are you sane? And who would steal these?
The fakir said: The treasure I speak of will not be comprehensible to you. You can only see potsherds and filthy clothes... whether clothes be filthy or fine, what difference — they are clothes; and whether potsherds be broken or of gold, they are potsherds. I am not speaking of these. There is another treasure to be guarded.
But the emperor said: I too have no small treasure, and yet I sleep.
The fakir said: With the treasure you have, you may sleep soundly; even if it is lost, nothing is lost. With what I have, if it is lost, everything is lost. And I am almost at the point of arrival. It is just in my hands — if I miss now, who knows how many lives it will take!
Kabir speaks of that same treasure. For it great care is needed; nights must be spent awake; days must be lived in awareness; each step must be placed with care.
A sadhu is one who lives with care, with remembrance, with mindfulness — whatever he does.
And as you fill with remembrance, you will begin to see: 'Fine, so fine, is the cloak woven.'
The cloak of life is very fine! And the more fineness you can see, the more you will understand the delicacy of its weave; the more you will fill with grace; the more precious the treasure will become. Where there were pebbles and stones, diamonds will begin to appear. And the more you sense that the treasure is near, the more awake you will become. The more you awaken, the greater the gates of treasure will open. The two depend on each other.
Where will you begin? You can begin anywhere. Either begin by seeing the fine cloak of life. Kabir explains just this in this sutra:
'What is the warp, what the weft — by what thread is this cloak woven?'
This cloak of life — there is nothing subtler in the world than this. This body of yours which is visible is hiding the invisible. In each hair of yours, what you can touch is concealing what cannot be touched. Within your eyes sits the seer who is invisible. When you stretch out your hand to touch someone, it is not only your hand that touches — within you, He too touches with that hand which cannot itself be touched. Your body is gross, but within your body the bodiless is hidden. It is the warp and weft of the gross and the subtle. And the cloak is very fine. Even this body you see is not as gross as you have assumed. If at first you enter, you will find that even this body is very subtle; because you have not known it, you have not seen it.
The yogis say that there are millions of nadis, and now science agrees. Science too says the yogis’ intuition is right. In your brain alone there are seventy million nerve-fibers. The brain is small — hardly a kilo and a half in weight — that too for Einstein’s brain, not everyone’s! In a brain of a kilo and a half there are seventy million fibers. Nothing in the world is subtler than they. They cannot be seen with the naked eye. Your hair is very thick in comparison. If we stack a hundred thousand brain fibers one upon another, they will equal the thickness of a single hair. This is why brain surgery could not develop quickly; you cut one thing and something else is cut — everything is so fine. To take an instrument inside is dangerous. You want to cut one thing — thousands of fibers will be cut merely by introducing the instrument. Hence brain surgery took so long. To develop instruments so subtle was very difficult. And to find hands so steady was very difficult. Even now brain surgery has not yet become a complete science, because full knowledge of the brain eludes us.
Within that net of seventy million fibers your consciousness is hidden. The net is subtle — and consciousness is subtler still. That net cannot be seen by the bare eye — and consciousness cannot be seen by the eye at all. Even the biggest microscope will not reveal it. Each tiny fiber among those seventy million can store ten million bits of information. One fiber can store ten million items of knowledge.
Brain scientists say that all the libraries on earth could be accommodated in the brain of one human being, if we knew how. A single person could contain that much information. You use no more than two percent of your brain. The greatest genius uses fifteen percent; eighty-five percent goes unused. We cannot even imagine what kind of super-genius would be born on the day someone used one hundred percent of his brain. Einstein would be like a small flickering lamp before him. He would blaze like a great sun.
It is not only the brain that is subtle; the whole body is woven of such fine threads. The yogis labored greatly — and their labor is unique. The scientist has instruments to investigate; they had none. The scientist has the convenience of laboratories, methods of observation, the technique of dissection. The yogis had nothing of the sort. They never dissected a dead body, nor did they observe another. Their observation is unique — they awakened within and observed from within. They had no means from without.
There are two ways to see this house. One is to stand in the street and look from outside — that is its outer face, the external wall. And there is another face seen by the one who lives in the house, from within. The scientist sees from outside — his eye is that of the passerby. He is not the householder. He does not stand within. The one who sees from outside too says: there is a vast subtlety. Then what of those who saw from within, who, awakened within, perceived this weave from the inside... The day you see these seventy million fibers within, that day you will understand what Kabir means: 'Fine, so fine, is the cloak woven!'
The muslin of Dacca is no match for it. The muslin you carry in your brain — no craftsman has ever woven its like. Nor will any ever weave it — for this is the weaving of the greatest Craftsman.
Kabir says: Even that Lord takes ten months to weave it — even Paramatma takes ten months to weave a single cloak, to fashion the body of a human being.
'Fine, so fine, is the cloak woven.
What is the warp, what the weft — by what thread is this cloak woven?'
He is astonished. An illumination has happened within. Light has filled the inside. In that light the warp and weft of the body are revealed. Each subtlety is manifest. And Kabir, in wonder, says: What is the warp and what the woof? By what thread is this cloak woven! — It is the gush of his amazement and wonder.
Whenever a yogi awakens within, he is filled with wonder. Wonder is the first happening — he is stunned, speechless.
This outer world you have seen is nothing. A far greater world you carry within you. You have not seen it because to see it one must be still within; and one must raise awareness within. When your consciousness becomes a lamp within, then the inner house appears. And I say to you with certainty, no one in human history has used a better word than this. The weaver has struck the exact point:
'Fine, so fine, is the cloak woven!'
'Ingla and Pingla are the warp and the weft; on the thread of Sushumna is the cloak woven.'
These are the technical terms of the yogis. Sushumna, the yogi says, is the spine — but not merely the spine; the spine is its outer sheath. Through the exact middle of the spine flows an extremely subtle stream of light, an exceedingly fine energy, like electricity. That is the basis of life in your body and brain. Your brain, with its seventy million fine fibers, is a terminal of the Sushumna, a far end of the spine. Scientists say the spine evolved into the brain. So your brain is but one pole of the spine.
Try to understand it.
There are two poles in your life — even in bodily life. One pole is the brain; the other is the sex-center. Hence yogis have accepted two poles: one they call muladhar — your sex-center; and the other they call sahasrar. You have no idea of the sahasrar. Two ends of the spine: on one side lust — on the other, the experience of Paramatma, the longing for the Supreme. On one side kama, on the other Rama. And the current of energy that flows between these two poles is named Sushumna. The spine is only its outer casing. As the tree is hidden within the seed — the seed is only the shell — exactly so, what we call the spine is the shell within which lies the Sushumna of the yogis. And as you awaken, this energy begins to flow upward. The more asleep you are, the more it flows downward.
Sleep means: your life will know only lust; you will know nothing else. You will be familiar with only one end. That end was only the first gate. You have wasted your life on the steps outside the palace. You thought that was the house and remained there. Most people end their life in the porch; not even the steps within are entered; not even a knock is given at the door.
As you awaken... Now, there are two possible methods of awakening. One is Patanjali’s. That method is to raise the life-energy in the spine — called kundalini — upwards. Hence headstands are used. In the headstand posture the energy naturally begins to fall toward the brain. Asanas are useful because through them pressure is exerted on consciousness so that energy is impelled to rise upwards. Hence the value of brahmacharya. If energy goes on flowing downwards, nothing will remain to go upward. You close the lower gate, as we build dams on rivers. When dams are built, vast electrical energy is gathered. Similarly, the method of damming is brahmacharya. One gate is closed; energy accumulates. When it is abundant it seeks a path.
If there is brahmacharya and along with it headstands, then the bound energy will start falling toward the brain. These are bodily methods. Patanjali and Hatha Yoga will awaken you through bodily means. As the energy flows upward, so will awareness grow.
The second method — Kabir’s, Buddha’s — is this: as you become more and more aware, the energy will begin to rise. As you use awareness in life — you walk with awareness, sit with awareness, rise with awareness; when you go to bed you carry awareness until the body slips into sleep; slowly there will come a moment when the body falls asleep but awareness remains. Then awareness will continue even in sleep.
Hence Krishna says, the yogi does not sleep even when all others sleep. This does not mean he sits with open eyes. He too sleeps — but only the body sleeps. The witness within remains awake.
So as witnessing grows, the energy rises. The relationship is mutual. Either take the energy upward and witnessing will grow.
But moving energy upward is exceedingly arduous and a path of many troubles. It needs long discipline, long training of the body. And it is a very long journey — not to be completed in one life; it is like traveling by bullock cart. Hence slowly Hatha Yoga went out of use, and Raja Yoga took its place. For Raja Yoga works directly on consciousness; consciousness moves swiftly; there is no need for bodily discipline. The discipline of consciousness is very simple — you have only to cultivate awareness. If you want Hatha Yoga, the body must be completely healthy — which today is difficult. To find a wholly healthy body is hard now, for nature has been distorted and natural living disarranged. Everything is unnatural. The air is unnatural — the breath you take.
Scientists have discovered that the air of Bombay, Tokyo, New York is so saturated with poisonous gases that they wonder how men are alive in such air! They should die. But man adapts. He adjusts to everything; the stream of life slows down, but he does not die. His way of living becomes dull, sleepy — but he does not die. The air is toxic everywhere; Hatha Yogis did not know that there would be cars on the roads, trains running, motorcycles — petrol burning everywhere and oxygen slowly getting depleted. A time is approaching when soon only the very rich will have access to oxygen.
Before this century ends, every man will have to wear an oxygen mask on his face — everyone — experiments have begun in Russia; in America too. For by century’s end oxygen will have departed from the air. Then each will carry his own oxygen cylinder... but only the rich will be able to use this. The poor will suffer. As the poor today must stand in queues at the tap for water, so soon they will have to queue for air — to take two or four deep breaths of oxygen so that they may somehow last twenty-four hours.
Food is toxic. Everything is unnatural. The mineral elements needed in nature are gone; man has used them up and not returned them. The fertilizers we now put in are all artificial and man-made. They are poisoning the food. Nuclear experiments are going on all over the world; they are poisoning the whole air — radioactive elements have entered everything. Nothing is pure now — cannot be. In such a condition Hatha Yoga is no longer feasible. Hatha Yoga belonged to an earlier, natural world. Even in that natural world it took many lives to arrive; it is a long journey — for whoever starts from the gross travels by bullock cart.
Whoever uses the subtle has found faster vehicles. Therefore Raja Yoga gradually replaced Hatha Yoga entirely.
Buddha, Kabir, Nanak, Dadu — all are Raja Yogis. And all of them opposed Hatha Yoga — because by it now no one can arrive; that matter is finished.
Kabir says: the more you awaken within, the more the energy will flow. The channel of that flow is named Sushumna. Kabir calls it Sushuman. Sushuman is the middle channel, and on either side of it are two other nadis: Ingla and Pingla. These two are also in the body, and life-energy flows through them as well. You may not have noticed, and modern physiology has paid no attention; but some scientists are becoming curious. When you breathe, for some time the breath flows through the left nostril, for some time through the right. When it flows through the left, the whole state of the body is different; when through the right, it is different. Yogis have linked these two gates of breath with Ingla and Pingla. And they are linked.
When your breath is running through the left, your energy moves along one path; when through the right, along another. Yogis have given many names: Surya-nadi and Chandra-nadi. For one nostril is like the sun — when you breathe through it your whole body is suffused with warmth. The other nostril is like the moon — when you breathe through it your whole body is suffused with peace. Your right current is of the sun, your left of the moon. So try this: if you have a headache, block the right current and breathe through the left. In a little while you will find the pain gone — for the left current is lunar, soothing. If you feel lethargic, dull, tired, block the left and breathe only through the right; in a little while you will find energy flowing, warmth arising, activity returning — it is the current of the sun.
Modern physiology has paid little attention to this, but a few new scientists are intrigued — there is certainly some mystery here. A person who rises in the morning with the right current flowing will be active the whole day. One whose left current is flowing upon waking will be sluggish the whole day. The left-current person will feel more alive at night; he will remain awake late — night is his day. The right-current person will be ready to sleep by dusk; he will awake at brahmamuhurt by himself — day is his day.
Everyone should discover his own nature; otherwise great troubles arise. The people of the sun-current are more active. Those who are not naturally so active condemn them. They say, You are lazy, slothful — get up, get to work! They will say, Rise at brahmamuhurt! Generally men are of the right current, women of the left — and so it should be. Hence the ancient Indian custom: the wife sits to the left — she symbolizes the left current, she is lunar. Night is her day; at night she blossoms fully. Women do not like to rise early; they must, because their husband-gods are sleeping then. But it does not suit their nature; and the results are harmful.
In my experience women suffer more from headaches — heaviness, melancholy. One reason, among many, is that they wake before their natural time. The natural thing would be that the husband makes the morning tea.
Even scientists are arriving at this through another route. They say: in each person’s twenty-four hours there are two hours when the body-temperature drops. Those two are the real hours of sleep. Whoever sleeps in those two hours will remain fresh the whole day; whoever stays awake then will be troubled all day. Those two hours are not the same for all. If they were the same, it would be easy — we could legislate that from three to five every person must sleep. But they are not the same. For some, they come between two and four; for some, between five and seven; there are even those for whom they come between seven and nine in the morning. And you can discover yours — by charting your body-temperature through the day; you will know when your hours are. In those two hours you must sleep — whether or not it is brahmamuhurt. Whoever sleeps in those two hours will feel his sleep complete. Eight hours are not necessary — those two suffice. If you miss them, you may sleep twelve and still find no solution; because when the body-temperature drops, the whole body relaxes; all activity ceases; you are almost like a corpse; at that time no dreams appear — it is the deepest sleep.
These researchers also found that for men those hours come earlier, for women later. If for a man they are between three and five, or four and six, for women generally they are between five and seven, or six and eight. So in the West they have begun to recommend that women rise a little later; it is no harm if they stay awake late. Men should rise early. Even here there are differences — not all men are alike, not all women alike. Some women are more manly than men; some men more womanly than women.
Mulla Nasruddin came to see me just yesterday. He said, Believe it or not, but I have made my wife walk on her knees. I said, Really! He said, Absolutely true — not a grain of falsehood. I asked, Did she say anything? He said, Why not! She said, Just come out from under the cot, then I’ll tell you. He had hidden beneath the cot — and made his wife walk on her knees!
There are men who are feminine; women who are masculine. Then there is a difference. Each person must discover his own. And just as your fingerprints differ, all the marks of your life differ — they match no one else’s. I was reading a recent physiology text — the author cites the latest research: not only fingerprints — each person’s kidneys differ, each heart differs; every single hair differs. Each person is a unique process. God has not only woven a very fine cloak — He has woven immensely diverse cloaks.
The creativity of God is infinite. He does not repeat. He will not make you again; never again will there be one exactly like you. You are blessed. If you can understand this blessedness, great peace and great joy will arise in your life. Never before has He made anyone like you; never again will He make anyone like you. Do not waste this great opportunity which will never come again. His attention is upon you; because never has there been another like you, nor will there be. You are utterly unique! Therefore do not imitate by mistake. Do not, by mistake, try to become like Ram, or like Buddha, or like Krishna; for God wants only this: that you become wholly yourself, authentically you. Let your own flower bloom. No one else has that flower. If you become like Ram you will be counterfeit, paper — Japanese. If you become your own kind, you will be real, true.
'What is the warp, what the weft — by what thread is the cloak woven?
Ingla and Pingla are the warp and the weft; on the thread of Sushumna is the cloak woven.'
Recently in Russia a great experiment happened. A photographer named Kirlian discovered a new kind of photography — among the most important discoveries of this century. He prepared films so fine, so sensitive, that even the subtlest energies could be photographed. Understand this a little, for only then will Ingla, Pingla and Sushumna become clear. These are energy-fields — not objects, but fields of electricity.
Kirlian’s discovery was accidental. He was merely a photographer, obsessed with making ultra-sensitive films. One day while taking a photo, his hand accidentally came before the lens, and his hand’s picture came. He was astonished: three fingers were fine, the thumb was fine, but one little finger looked in a strange condition — diseased it seemed. And in the hand the finger was perfectly fine; yet in the picture it looked diseased, as if afflicted. Six months later the finger fell ill. When six months later he took another picture and compared them, the two pictures were exactly the same. Then an idea struck him: Could it be that disease first enters the electrical field before it enters the body? For if the picture of the disease appears six months earlier, and the disease arrives six months later — then he began other experiments. A door opened. He photographed buds of flowers, and the photograph of the flower came; because he used extremely sensitive film. This flower will blossom four days later — but its electrical energy blossoms earlier; then, because of that electrical energy, its petals open. We do not see the electrical energy; we see the flower. When he compared the photographs, he was amazed — they matched exactly. First the electrical energy blossoms — an energy-flower forms. Four days later the flower opens. And when that photo is compared to the earlier one, they are identical.
For the last thirty years Kirlian has done many experiments and has established with authenticity that deeper than the body there is another body — an electrical body. And if we become capable of photographing electrical energy, whatever takes six months to descend into the gross body will already have happened there earlier.
Its uses are immense. The day Kirlian photography becomes a complete science, no one in the world will need to fall ill; because we will catch the illness six months before it manifests. Treatment can be given there. The person himself does not know he is ill; he is not ill yet. It takes six months for disease to travel from the subtle to the gross. And the photographic image of your electrical energy is what the ancient yogis called your aura.
Kirlian also finds that the color differs. When a person is healthy there is, around his body, an aura of a particular color extending four inches; when ill, another color; when joyful, another; when sad, another. You do not first become sad and then your electrical energy assumes the color of sadness; unless the electrical energy is changed, you cannot become happy. Your gross body is only the shadow; the real body is hidden within. That real body is what we have called: 'Ingla and Pingla are the warp and the weft; on the thread of Sushumna is the cloak woven.'
'Eight lotuses, ten spinning wheels; the five elements and three gunas — such is the cloak.'
Within that inner energy-field there are eight lotuses — eight chakras. There are ten doors of the senses — 'ten spinning wheels'. The cloak is made of the five great elements. It is composed of the three gunas.
Kabir says: the eight lotuses, which we call chakras — to understand them rightly... They are called lotuses as a symbol. You have seen in a river when a whirlpool appears, the water spins in a circle. Similarly, in your body’s electricity there are chakras — places where energy whirls, vortices; and the form of those vortices resembles a lotus turning. When a person is ignorant, it is as if the lotus is drooping downward — the stem above, the lotus hanging below, withered. As energy begins to flow upward, the stem of the lotus straightens and the lotus stands erect. We have placed Buddha and Vishnu upon a lotus — a blossomed lotus upon which they stand! That lotus is the symbol of the electrical energy. Their lotus has fully bloomed; by the full blossoming of that lotus they have attained the Supreme Truth. Our lotuses are drooping so long as our energy flows downward. Our energy flows down.
Imagine a pond of lotuses, and rain is pouring heavily — the rain makes the lotuses tilt and turn their faces downward. So long as lust pours down in your life, as it rains intensely, the energy flows downward. All the lotuses are bent. The day energy begins to move upward, the ascent begins — which the Vedas call urdhvaretas — when you become urdhvaretas and your energy rises upward, all lotuses will lift their faces up, all lotuses will bloom! The ultimate lotus, the eighth, which Kabir speaks of, is the sahasrar.
Counting differs. Some count seven lotuses, some eight, some nine, some eleven. This variation is possible. For lotuses are many — in every hair of your energy there is a lotus. You can count as you like, according to your convenience. Every person’s journey-stages differ. As if you travel — one person halts every ten miles on a hundred-mile journey and makes ten stops; another stops every fifteen miles and makes fewer; a third goes twenty miles and makes five stops.
Buddha says six lotuses — he must have made six halts; on that endless journey he paused at six places. He discovered obstacles at six — he had to make six flowers bloom, hence six. Kabir says eight — there is no controversy. Pandits quarrel heavily about who is right. Where is the difficulty? I may make my halt at ten miles — my wish; or at twenty — my wish. Where I stop is my first station.
There are also those who never speak of lotuses, like Mahavira. It seems he made no halts at all — a jet jump! It seems he leapt from the first center straight to the last. This too is possible — especially for a being like Mahavira. Hence we named him Mahavira — great energy! The greater the energy, the longer the leap — no intermediate station is needed. He did not speak of the intermediate chakras — but that does not mean he did not pass them. Whether your train halts or not at intermediate stations, it passes them. You may ride from junction to junction by mail — it makes no difference. The one traveling by fast train will have no reason to discuss intermediate stops; he will speak of junctions. Then there are those who travel by passenger — there is no harm in traveling by passenger.
I have a friend — very wealthy — but he always travels by passenger train. He says poor people travel by fast trains, those who have a shortage of time. His point also appeals to me — he says, What is the joy of travel otherwise? At every station he alights, drinks water, buys pakoras, does this and that; what is the joy of travel otherwise! He chats, mingles; the train stands... and stands...
Once I had to travel with him. Where I would arrive in twelve hours, he took three days. But he is a lovable man; with him those three days felt like three moments, and I felt his point too was true. It is a matter of taste; how one travels. There is no dispute.
Therefore to me it makes no difference whether someone says nine lotuses or ten or eleven. Kabir says eight — perfectly right.
'Eight lotuses, ten spinning wheels...'
And there are ten doors of the senses — ten indriyas: five of action and five of knowledge. He calls them the spinning wheels — the weaver’s symbols. The five elements. The three gunas — rajas, tamas, sattva. Of all these the inner cloak is woven.
'For the Lord, it takes ten months to sew; pounding and pounding does He weave the cloak.'
Even for Paramatma it takes ten months to make a single cloak.
'Gods, men and sages wore this cloak — and each one soiled it.'
'Kabir the servant wore it with care, and returned the cloak just as it was.'
It takes time even for Paramatma to construct — because what is being made is so precious! You assign no worth to yourself. The whole Existence spends ten months upon you — to make you. But you have no sense of your value. You live as if you were worthless. You are willing to sell yourself for two coins. You have no idea how great a treasure has been given to you. You waste it. You do not know how to use it.
Here Kabir is saying something important and subtle — listen carefully. He says:
'Gods, men and sages wore the same cloak...'
He chooses three symbols: sur — the gods who dwell in heaven; nar — ordinary men; and muni — the renunciates. All have worn the same cloak; but Kabir says: 'Each one soiled it.'
It is difficult to understand. Let us try.
Sur means the gods in heaven. Gods are the pure symbols of enjoyment — they only enjoy. Heaven means the place of enjoyment. There we have imagined wish-fulfilling trees: a person sits beneath and whatever he wishes is fulfilled instantly — desire and fulfillment without action. Hence heaven is no field of action — it is a place of enjoyment. This is the desire of all of us — that it may be so: I wish here and it is fulfilled there; not even the time to press a button should be needed. But here on earth it takes time.
You want to build a great house — you cannot just wish and have it. Perhaps all your life you will struggle and only then it may be built; perhaps when it is built you will be unfit to live in it. When it is ready you will find that life is gone. You will earn money with great desires and dreams; when money is in hand you will find that the one who could enjoy it is lost. Time is wasted. Hence our ultimate imagination of enjoyment is heaven — where between desire and fulfillment no time elapses. Here you wish, there it is fulfilled. You ask here, instantly it is granted. That is the joy of being rich. What is the difference between a poor man and a rich man? A poor man cannot have his wish fulfilled at once; a rich man can have it fulfilled at once. The more money he has the less the distance between desire and fulfillment. He says, I want a great palace — it is built.
But Kabir says, even a god soils the cloak. Enjoyment soils the cloak — for the enjoyer identifies totally with his desires and is lost in them. Hunger arises — he assumes, I am hunger. Lust arises — he assumes, I am lust. Anger rises — he assumes, I am anger.
A bhogi — an enjoyer — is one who has linked himself so thoroughly with his desires that no gap remains. Gods too will fall from heaven. Heaven is not the final state. India has discovered a final state called moksha. Understand this well, for nowhere else in the world is there the conception of moksha. There is hell, there is heaven, there is earth; moksha is purely Indian — uniquely Indian. But Indians worked hard in this direction — they were entitled to discover. As the West has labored in science, so India has labored in religion. Heaven is not accepted as final; even from there one falls. For how long can you enjoy! Enjoyment produces boredom. Therefore if you go to heaven you will find all the gods yawning. Boredom arises.
Think: whatever you desire is granted instantly — for how long will you enjoy? Ten or twelve hours? Hardly! When whatever you desire is given at once, how long will your desires last? Enjoyment will bore you. That is why in the Puranas there are tales of gods growing bored and yearning for earth. There is one advantage here — desires are not fulfilled at once; time is involved. And the joy is in time.
Hence poets say, the delight is in waiting — in anticipation. There is not much joy in meeting — once you have it, what will you do? The joy is in waiting, in watching the road, in expectation; the goal is approaching, approaching — the joy is all in hoping. When it is attained, the joy is gone. The gods have all things; they enjoy — but with enjoyment comes identification. Gods are not awakened beings. You will not find anyone more asleep than Indra. He is lost — wine, song, dancing apsaras — and he is always anxious; in stories his throne is always trembling. A sage is meditating somewhere — what has he to do with Indra! Yet the moment a sage begins his austerity, Indra’s throne starts to shake.
The stories are significant. They mean that the renouncer and the enjoyer are two poles of one and the same thing — like two pans of a single scale. Put heavy weight on this pan and the other begins to rise and shake. Whenever some muni performs great renunciation, Indra is frightened — the other pan rises — why? Because both are linked to the same balance. If the sage, by renunciation, acquires great power, he becomes entitled to enjoyment — he can become an Indra; then Indra may be dethroned. Indra’s condition is like that of politicians in Delhi — whether Indra or Indira, it makes no difference — the throne trembles. And whether Vasishtha or Vishwamitra — or Jayaprakash — they are two pans of the same scale. Put weight on one side and the other pan rises and wonders what is happening.
Hence the tale is very meaningful. No tale is ever pointless when you enter its psychology. The enjoyer will always be afraid of the renouncer — because what is the renouncer doing renunciation for? He is creating a great noise of austerity to become entitled to enjoyment.
So the enjoyer and the renouncer differ little. They are two sides of the same coin — their longing is one. One has attained; the other is working day and night in the hope of attaining. Therefore even the renouncer dreams of enjoyment. He has left all women here — he dreams of apsaras. He has given up food here — he fasts — but he is waiting: when will the heavenly delicacies be available! Here he has withered the body — he awaits the golden body, the deva-body — never aging, never decaying. In heaven age does not increase — people remain as they are. At least women, they say, remain forever sixteen. No apsara is older than sixteen. So much time has passed, yet she is still sixteen. Age does not grow. Here too women try hard that it should not — but on this earth it will not do.
Mulla Nasruddin said to me one day, It feels terrible to grow old alone. I said, Alone? You have your wife. He said, Wife! Her age has not increased for ten years — only we grow old alone. Every husband grows old alone; the wife has stopped growing long ago. In heaven age does not increase, the body does not decay, there is no disease — only enjoyment. The only disease of heaven is boredom.
The rich man gets bored. The poor will not seem as bored. The rich appears utterly bored — nothing remains in his life; waiting has been destroyed; there is nothing left to wait for; he has it all; suddenly all motion stops — there was speed, there was running — now everything is at a halt; nowhere left to go; he is in trouble. He begins to yearn — to return to earth.
Kabir says whether gods wear it, or men, or sages — all soil it. The god soils it with enjoyment; the sage soils it with renunciation.
Kabir’s utterance is revolutionary. He says: if you renounce but do it unconsciously, it is no different from enjoyment. It may be the opposite of enjoyment, but it is not different in nature. And the gaze of the renouncer and the enjoyer is fundamentally the same. The enjoyer is mad after wealth; the renouncer is mad after leaving it — but both have their eyes on wealth. The enjoyer says, I have ten crore rupees; the renouncer says, I have renounced ten crore. But both count ten crore. The enjoyer says gold is everything. The renouncer says gold is dust. But both talk of gold. If gold is really dust, why talk of it? Who talks of dust? If gold is truly dust, why discuss it?
In Maharashtra there was a fakir named Ranka. He was a poor renunciate. He cut wood and with what remained he ran his household. In the evening even that remainder he would distribute. One unseasonal year it rained for three days. Three days they found no food. His wife too — named Banka — Ranka and Banka. On the fourth day the rain stopped; they went to the forest; while returning with wet wood — which would not sell — hungry and tired — the husband, who was walking ahead, saw a bag of gold coins lying on the roadside. Some coins were spilling out. Being a renunciate, what Kabir would call a muni, he thought: Why is this dirt lying here — it might delude someone’s mind! He put it into a pit and covered it with earth. By then the wife arrived and asked, What are you doing? He said, There was some gold here. Gold is dust; so I threw it into a pit and covered it with earth. The wife said, Are you not ashamed to put dust upon dust? If it is dust, why put dust over dust?
No, the one who says gold is dust — for him it is not yet dust; otherwise, there would be no need to say so.
Renouncer and enjoyer — both are bound at the same place. Directions are opposite; the gaze is one. You are sleeping turned to the left; he is sleeping turned to the right — the difference does not lie in sleep. Both sleep. Both dream. With backs toward each other, both sleep. Sleep is the real issue. Between the two stands man.
Kabir says: renouncer and enjoyer both destroy the cloak. The one in the middle is khichdi — a hotchpotch. Morning renouncer, afternoon enjoyer; evening renouncer, night enjoyer. He changes many times in a day — even saying a day is too long.
In America they have made a small clock — on the dial is Nixon’s picture; every second Nixon’s gaze shifts — a joke, but a good one. Each second the eye rolls. But that is a picture of man — you change every second. Hunger arises — you become an enjoyer; the belly is full — you become a renouncer; lust rises — you become an enjoyer; after intercourse you turn over and become a renouncer; thoughts of brahmacharya begin. You think, All is futile — what is there in this! You have done it so many times. After sex it is hard to find a man without melancholy. After sex, energy is depleted; you feel tired and gain nothing; and you had thought so much, built so many dreams — I will get this, I will get that! You get nothing — you fill with sadness.
After sex every man thinks of brahmacharya. For how long? In twenty-four hours energy gathers again — from food, air, work. Food rebuilds energy. After twenty-four hours lust stirs again; the thought of woman arises again. Then you forget completely that only twenty-four hours ago brahmacharya seemed so important. Now woman seems important. This wheel has been turning forever. Between the two — renouncer and enjoyer are extremes — between them stands man. Man is pure khichdi, confusion. Time is divided between both.
If you keep a diary, you can write accurately: morning renouncer, noon enjoyer, then renouncer, then enjoyer; then you went to the temple, then you came to the shop; then you sat at the shop thinking of the temple; then you sat in the temple thinking of the shop. You will find yourself a mixture of both. When the pure renouncer and the pure enjoyer still spoil the cloak, you will spoil it doubly. With your ideas of renunciation and enjoyment you will ruin the cloak. The renouncer sleeps turned to the left; the enjoyer sleeps turned to the right. You keep turning over. Your agitated state will utterly destroy this fine cloak.
Therefore Kabir says:
'Gods, men and sages wore the cloak — and each one soiled it.
Kabir the servant wore it with care — and returned the cloak just as it was.'
But Kabir the servant wore it very carefully, with great alertness, with great care, with awareness, with meditation — and 'returned the cloak just as it was' — as the Lord gave it, so he returned it.
This is moksha. This is the state of the free. Return what was given, un-deformed.
A child is born carrying a clean cloak — all pure, unstained! Then distortion begins to gather. The old man dies like a ruin — all wasted, with nothing in hand; even what was given is lost.
Kabir says: the knower too dies, but he preserves what he received. He keeps that cloak just as it was.
How will you keep this cloak unstained? Kabir is a householder — he has a wife, a child, he earns, he brings home — and still he says: 'Kabir the servant wore it with care.' What is the art of preserving this cloak? The art is awareness. The art is discrimination. The art is awakened consciousness. Do — what needs to be done, what must be done, what destiny demands, fulfill it. Running away has no use. But while doing, do not be the doer. Remain a witness — that is the key. Go to the market, do your shop — do not be the doer. Go to the temple, pray — do not be the doer. Come home, care for the children — do not be the doer. Let the doer be the One — why do you get into the mess... in between? The doer is one — let Him manage! You remain the witness. You are like an actor — you are given a part, a role in the drama; play it well.
If in the Ram Lila you play Ram, you must weep; Sita will be stolen; you must ask the trees, Where is my Sita? you must cry and shout — but within — within neither your Sita is lost nor is there any problem. It is acting. Behind the curtain you will go and chat, drink tea; you will converse with Ravana — behind the curtain. Outside the curtain you will stand with bow and arrow.
Life is a play. If you can walk carefully, life is an acting.
A friend of mine — a professor of psychology — I was his guest. He had a son, their only child. Newly married, they had a little boy. He would not eat; the wife was upset — scolded, coaxed — nothing worked. The husband said, Wait — a little psychology must be used. A professor, a new husband, a new father. I too watched to see what experiment he would do. He said to the boy: Put on your coat, your hat, take your cane, go outside; think you are our guest — our atithi.
The boy was delighted. Children always love acting — that is their innocence. If he were old he would have said: What acting? What is the meaning? What use? But the child was happy; quickly he put on the coat, the hat, took the cane, ran outside. The father said, Now ring the bell; we will open the door; you must play the guest’s part.
The boy went; after a while his little shoes were heard on the steps. He rang the bell; the door opened; he was welcomed. The father said, Please come, you are our guest; and you have come at the right time — the meal is ready. Come!
We all went to the dining table. The boy put his hat and cane on a chair. The father said, Whatever simple fare we have, please accept it — you are our guest. The boy said, Forgive me — I have brought my dinner with me.
Since it was acting — he did it fully.
Life is acting. Understand more than that and you will go astray. The stage is large — agreed; there are many roles — agreed; but life is acting. And you should not be the doer! If you keep that care, you too will be able to say —
'Kabir the servant wore it with care — and returned the cloak just as it was.'
Enough for today.