Suno Bhai Sadho #8

O saints, do not sleep while awake.
There are two meanings to this utterance. Both are essential, both worth understanding. The first we already know in a familiar, ordinary sense—that even while awake we remain half asleep. There is no urgency, no sharpness to our waking. Our wakefulness is not a flame. It flickers like a dim oil-lamp. Sleep is mixed in our wakefulness. We get up, sit down, walk, work too—yet as if someone were walking in sleep.
There is an illness—somnambulism—sleepwalking. A sufferer moves with eyes open, gets up at night, does work, even goes to the kitchen, eats, then returns and sleeps again. In the morning he remembers nothing of having gone to the kitchen. He himself is astonished. If he lives alone he’ll think there are ghosts—who ate at night? Who tore the clothes? He himself tears them at night. Who lit the fire? Who threw the pots? Morning leaves no memory.
That sleepwalker’s condition—such is ours too, in a lesser degree. But our sleep never quite breaks. A slow, soft sleep veils us continuously. A deep inertia surrounds us. A darkness abides within. And the primary symptom of this sleep is: whatever we do, we are not present there. We eat; the hand, like a machine, makes a morsel, puts it in the mouth. The mind—who knows where it wanders! The mind is dreaming somewhere else. The mind is not here at all. Even so, we shape the morsel, put bread to the mouth, chew, finish the meal, get up. An onlooker would say we are doing it awake. But we are not doing it awake; we are doing it asleep. To be awake is possible only when our total awareness is centered in the present moment—whatever we are doing, our whole mind is there. Total consciousness.
To be linked to the present is awakening; to be severed from the present is sleep.
We call it sleep precisely because our entire connection with the present is broken. You lie on your bed, while thinking you are resting in some emperor’s palace! You are here sleeping—yet dreaming of Calcutta, London, New York. And while you dream you do not recall for even a moment that you are resting in your home, in Poona. In the morning you will awaken and laugh at yourself—what a journey I made, how far I went!
Dream means: to go far from where you are; to go far from what you are; to become what you are not; to arrive where you are not.
When the false appears as the true—that is dream.
When the true appears as the true—that is awakening.
Thus, we are all asleep. Understand this first meaning well.
O saints, do not sleep while awake.
Do not doze while waking!
Mulla Nasruddin once went to hear a discourse. The speaking master became a little uneasy, for Mulla and his wife were seated right in front. Soon the wife began to snore. And a little later, when she began to really snore, Mulla picked up his stick and walked out. The speaker felt even more hurt. After the discourse he asked the wife—he didn’t feel right asking “Did you fall asleep—was my talk so boring?”—but he could not refrain from asking, “Your husband got up and left—did I say anything that offended him?” The wife said, “No, please be at ease. From childhood he has the habit of sleepwalking.”
O saints, do not sleep while awake.
When you are awake, be utterly awake. One consequence is: when you sleep, you will sleep utterly. As of now you can neither truly wake nor truly sleep. Sleep remains in your waking; waking remains in your sleep. Everything is mixed—a confusion. All topsy-turvy. You are a mishmash, not clean and clear. Hence, those who sleep while awake will find waking intrudes into their sleep. It is natural. That is why people across the world are losing sleep. The biggest question facing modern man is—how to save sleep?
There are thousands of tranquilizers, sleeping pills—but they grow more and more futile. In Russia they have made small electric devices in use now. We give electric shocks only to the insane. Those too are shocks—but in very small measure. They place the device on the head at night—gentle currents are sent into the brain, then sleep can come. In thousands of homes such devices have been installed for daily use. Psychologists say that before this century ends it will be hard to find a person—at least in the West—who sleeps naturally; who says, I put my head on the pillow and I am gone. A hundred years hence people will not believe there was a time when human beings slept without doing anything. We too cannot believe it when we hear that Mahavira or Buddha, sitting or standing beneath a tree, attained meditation. When we hear Buddha did nothing and meditation happened—we cannot trust it.
A similar condition is happening with sleep—indeed it has already happened. Tell an insomniac that you do not do anything—you will put your head on the pillow and sleep. He will say you are lying. I too put my head on the pillow, toss all night—sleep does not come. Surely there is some trick others keep secret. Surely there is a conspiracy against me—the whole world sleeps and I lie awake!
What has happened to the man who cannot sleep at night? He is sleeping in the daytime. When he is supposedly awake, he is sleeping. And when sleep enters your waking, then naturally waking will enter your sleep. You become a total muddle. Nothing remains clean in your life. Hatred intrudes in your love; love intrudes in your hatred. You will hate your friend; you will love your enemy. Your life becomes an incomprehensible riddle.
This is the first meaning: during the day be awake, so that at night you can truly sleep. Night is night; day is day. Be fully awake in the day so you can fully sleep at night.
But nothing in your life is clean. At home you think of the office. In the office you think of home. You look insane. If you are at the office, finish the office.
I used to be a guest in the home of a High Court judge. When we became close, his wife one day said, “My husband is your devotee. Please explain one thing to him: leave the judge inside the court. Even at night in bed he remains a magistrate. We are like servants—or criminals. He never steps down from being a magistrate. The whole house is going mad from his magistrate-hood.”
You bring your business home. You sit with your wife, but between you stands the safe, a pile of ledgers—and then you cannot meet your wife, cannot love, cannot play with the child, cannot laugh. You reach the office—and there stands your wife, your children around you.
Whatever you do is incomplete. The incompletion, the hangover, follows you. The awakened person completes every act. He does it with total awareness; he puts his whole consciousness at stake—even in the smallest act. Thirst arises and he drinks water or tea with total awareness. He finishes the act then and there. He leaves no accounts pending before or after. Such a person is fully awake when awake, fully asleep when asleep. In such a life a profound peace spreads. None of his acts is left incomplete. If death were to come right now and say, get up, she would find him ready, for nothing remains to be done. Whatever asked to be done, he always completed.
But if death were to come to your door today, you would not find yourself ready. You would say, a little time—yesterday I abused someone, I must seek forgiveness. And I borrowed money yesterday, I must return it. Who knows how many yesterdays have gone by and how many unfinished snares remain—they all must be tied up. Not yet, not now.
Thus every person dies out of season. Only the awakened one dies on time—whenever he dies you cannot say he died untimely. Buddha cannot die before his time. For whenever death comes, that is the time.
There was a rich man. He kept a precious parrot, hanging in a cage at the door. He had trained it: whenever I go out, keep saying, Master! Lord! Hurry. It is already very late. In the hustle of the world he had trained even the parrot to urge haste. Whenever he came down the stairs the parrot would at once call, Master, hurry, it is already very late. Then the man died. When the bier was being carried out, the parrot cried, Master, hurry, it is already very late.
What would the parrot know that the master has died! But the master died in hurry, hurry—and nothing was completed. He ran in everything. This was not done here, he ran to complete the next; the second not done, he ran to complete the third... the whole life becomes a race—a rush! In the end you find nothing was completed.
Remember, if all your works remain incomplete, you remain incomplete. If all your works are completed, you are complete. There is one perfection—that all acts are completed. There is one contentment—when your works are complete, a deep peace descends upon you; a sky full of peace pours into you. It is the sky of fulfilment. The sky of contentment—everything is complete. But your little things will not even be completed. Even your petty acts remain unfinished. They haunt you. While eating you are in a rush. Somehow you ate—now on the road you are thinking about the meal! While making love, somehow you did it, hurried—now on the way you are looking at other women or men and desire arises again. Everything is unfinished in you.
Incompletion is your disease. If you taste fully, the thought of food will not return. If you truly love, lust will be dissolved. Whatever we live with totality, we become free of it.
Liberation is the name of fulfilled experience. Any incomplete experience will keep you bound.
O saints, do not sleep while awake.
This is the first meaning. The second meaning may not occur to you yet; it occurs to those who are going deep into meditation. There comes a moment—as I said yesterday—that Samadhi and Sushupti are alike. The only difference is: in Sushupti there is deep sleep; in Samadhi there is perfect awakening; the rest is the same.
Those who go deep in meditation will understand. There comes a time when, as meditation nears fulfilment, you stand on the line between Sushupti and Samadhi. There you can either fall asleep or remain awake. Patanjali found a separate name for it: Yoga-nidra. Exactly when you have become utterly quiet—perfectly still—and bliss has not yet descended—you cannot yet say with Kabir, “Anand bhayo hai, anahad bajat dhol re”—no drum is beating yet, no bliss has happened, no rain of nectar has begun—but you have fallen utterly silent. The world is gone; moksha has not yet arrived. Night has passed; the sun has not yet risen—dawn, you stand in-between. Hindus call this the sandhya, the twilight. Hence they created two sandhyas. Morning—night is gone, the sun has not yet arisen—that is a moment for prayer. Evening—the sun has set, night has not yet come—that too is a moment for prayer. These two sandhyas are symbols. The real sandhya happens within. When sleep, world, darkness have departed; the sun has not yet risen; bliss has not occurred; no drum has sounded; the worldly noise has faded. A music of stillness is within—but bliss has not yet flowered. The false is gone; the true has not yet arrived. This shore has receded; the other shore has not yet appeared—midstream. In that state two possibilities arise: either you fall asleep—because the silence is so dense, the sleep will be most delightful; such sleep you have never known—so deep. And when you rise from that sleep you will feel so fresh—as if you have slept for a thousand years. So much freshness! But that sleep is dangerous; because if you drown in that sleep—though it is pleasant—then the event of bliss that was about to happen will be missed.
Yoga-nidra is deeply restful; but it is negative. And at the time of Yoga-nidra it is very difficult to hold yourself together. For you cannot hold yourself even with ordinary sleep—when a yawn comes, eyelids grow heavy as if weighted with stones. If someone says, stay awake for one more moment—it becomes difficult. If ordinary sleep grips so strongly, this is no ordinary sleep—it is yogic trance. At that time every hair of you is so silent—you have become an ocean of peace. At that time there is a complete urge to just let go and sleep. And such bliss will be felt in that sleep that you may forget yourself. You may even take it to be the very bliss Kabir and Nanak speak of.
Many methods lead only to yogic trance. For example, Maharishi Mahesh Yogi’s technique leads only to Yoga-nidra. His so-called “Transcendental Meditation” does not take one beyond yogic trance. Hence it impacted the West greatly; the East not much. The West was impacted because there sleep has become difficult. In the East people still sleep easily. In the West sleep is a great problem. So the method influenced America. People began to sleep. This is no small event—it is valuable. And people felt much pleasure.
But pleasure is not bliss. Pleasure is only the absence of pain. The illness is gone, but the dance of health has not yet happened. The mere departure of illness is not health. Health is positive, creative, overflowing.
Try to understand this a little.
If your body has no disease, the physician will say you are healthy; I see no disorder. All tests done—no illness—fine. But you know there is a difference between being fine and being fine. There is a state of being well in which a sense of well-being, a joy within, wells up—as if flowers are blooming everywhere—as if the river of life is in flood, breaking both banks. A drunkenness of health! You step and there is a dance in your feet; you speak and there is music in your voice; you open your eyes and a sweetness flows. Energy streams profoundly. That is one kind of health. Another is simply the absence of disease—you sit slumped, like a corpse. No headache, no stomach ache, no broken limb, no cast—you are fine; but there is no zest anywhere, no “ah!”-ness. Not as if you would rise and dance; not as if a song will burst. Just sitting—dull, corpse-like.
A corpse too is not ill. You also are not ill. Illness cannot be found in a corpse; nor in you. Your health is only a lack—a non-presence of disease. Exactly such a thing happens in yogic trance. Tensions evaporate, mental fever is gone, worry dissolves—no care remains. A great calm is felt. But Yoga-nidra is not Samadhi; it takes you to the door of Samadhi. The real journey begins beyond it.
Hence Kabir says:
O saints, do not sleep while awake.
He addresses sadhus, sannyasins. That is why I did not speak on Kabir for so long; first, let sadhus and sannyasins be with me. Only to saints can Kabir truly be spoken. Those who are going deep in meditation will understand this. This is an inner experience: everything falls silent, a deep relief arises. This is not enough—do not stop. The goal has not come; this too is a halt. You must go beyond.
Yogic trance is pleasant, but it is not Buddhahood; not the supreme state. The perversion of the world is gone, but the taste of the Divine has not yet arrived. The futile is gone; the meaningful is about to come. If in that moment you doze—you miss; you fall back into the world; the same shore again; the other shore has receded.
O saints, do not sleep while awake.
Time does not consume him, sorrow does not seize him, the body does not wither.
The Ganges runs backward and dries the ocean; the moon and sun get devoured.
The nine planets sit slain by the invalid; a radiance appears in water.
He runs to the ten directions without feet; he sees the world without eyes.
The hare turns and devours the lion—who will fathom this wonder?
In Kabir’s utterances there is a distinct key—understand it, and these sayings will open. That key is called “Ulattbansi”—the inverted saying. As if someone plays the flute, and a time comes when the player becomes the flute and the flute becomes the player—everything reverses—so that the flute starts playing the player.
Ulattbansi means—the flute plays the flautist. There comes a moment when everything in life inverts. Understand this a bit, then these utterances will be clear, for they are symbolic—like riddles. They appear like riddles to us.
Consider: you breathe. Breath goes in, breath goes out. You think, I am the one who breathes. But have you ever considered—if you are the breather, then you could never die; for as long as you wish, you would keep breathing.
Mulla Nasruddin turned a hundred. People came to congratulate him and asked, what is the secret of such a long life—teach us a trick!
Nasruddin said: just keep breathing.
But how will you keep breathing? If breath stops, what will you do? The moment breath stops you are gone. If you could remain even a moment after the breath, you could breathe again—but you do not remain. Breath is you; it is your life. As breath departs, so do you. Not even a moment will be available in which breath stops and you know it has stopped and you take another. No one will be inside to know it. That breath has stopped, others will know; you will not. Household members will know; the neighbours will weep and cry—the breath has stopped. You will not know. If you were to know you would keep breathing—how would you allow it to stop?
If you understand breath rightly you will see—you are not breathing; breath is happening. You are not the doer.
Then another vision becomes possible—Kabir says, drop the very idea that you breathe; breath breathes you. You do not live in the world—the world lives in you. You are not alive—God is alive. He is breathing in you. Then the inversion happens—the one who “breathes” is not the taker of breath; breath itself is your life.
This may help you grasp another point. Psychologists use a little device they call “Gestalt.” In children’s books you may have seen a drawing—a vase. If you keep looking at the vase intently, after a while the vase disappears and two faces appear in profile meeting at the vase’s edges. Their noses—the lips of the vase; their foreheads—portions of the outline. The empty space between the faces had looked like a vase. If you look intently at the two faces, after a while the faces disappear and the vase reappears. Look more intently—again the vase vanishes and the faces appear. It keeps changing, shifting. The amusing thing is—when you see the vase, you cannot see the faces, though you know very well they are there; and when you see the faces you cannot see the vase, though you know the vase is there—because the mind can know only one at a time. And the mind is so constantly shifting you cannot even look at a single vase for long; the perception will flip—faces will appear, then the vase again. The German word for this is Gestalt. And an entire psychology was built upon this—Gestalt psychology. They say: life is a gestalt.
If you see as “I am breathing,” your entire vision will be atheistic. If you see as “Someone else is breathing in me,” your entire vision will be theistic. With such a small shift, the whole panorama changes. If you understand that someone else breathes in me, your ego dissolves. When even breath is not ours, what meaning do our other doings have?
You say, I love—this too is breath. Love is done through you; you are not the doer. For if you are the one who loves, then I say—here is a woman, fall in love with her. You will say—how can we fall like that? We do not fall for every woman. When it happens, it happens; when it doesn’t, it doesn’t. Yes, you can act—but acting is not love.
Have you ever loved—or has love happened? If you have done it, that is one thing—you will think you are the doer. If it happened, you will know—you were a medium, not the doer. Through you, something else loved. If you insist on being the doer, your love can only be with a prostitute—and is there love with a prostitute?
I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin once went to a prostitute’s house. He said, I want to love you. The prostitute said: do it. He said, I want to make you the lamp of my life. She said: make me. He said, I want to treasure you in my heart. She said: do. He said, I want to die for you. She said: die—but whatever you have to do, do it quickly; other customers are waiting outside.
Drama is one thing; business is another. The more you understand life, the more you will find—you are not the doer; happenings happen. Love descends, happens. Hence the great trouble with love. People advise: You are a husband, you have four children, you have a wife—what madness is this? The husband understands. It is simple: four children, a wife—and you have fallen in love? Be sensible. The husband tries to be sensible. But he says—what can I do? It happened. He knows something wrong is going on, yet he cannot halt it. He knows it would be better if it did not happen. He thinks of his children and wife—but what can he do! The happening has happened! We blame him, but that is our illusion.
The happening of love is beyond man’s hands—until you attain Buddhahood. When you attain Buddhahood a new dimension of love opens. You do not fall for anyone—you become love. From you love flows, is distributed, showers—but you do not fall for anyone. You become the lamp that is lit; whoever passes by receives its light. You become the flower in bloom; its scent reaches every passerby. But then your love is not the old love—in which you helplessly fell; in which you felt overpowered; in which you said, what can I do! You understood, reasoned; the intellect argued rightly—but the heart does not obey. You can suppress, shut the door; you may follow the head and not go to love—yet the heart beats for the other, beats only for the other. You massage your wife’s feet, worry in her sickness, you embrace—but you find it’s all false—it is done by the head.
Where are you the doer? Not even breath is yours, nor love, nor life. This is what Krishna says to Arjuna in the Gita: become merely a nimitta—a vehicle, an instrument. Drop the thought that you are the doer. These warriors standing before you—for me they are already dead. You are merely the instrument. You will but push them—a little—and like corpses they will fall. They are already dead. Their death is certain. If you do not do this, someone else will. They will die. Who kills—this is secondary.
If life is nimitta—if this is realized… The word nimitta is precious. Few languages have an equivalent. It is Eastern, Hindu, and deep. Nimitta means: I am not the cause, not the doer—I am only the excuse. Through my excuse it happened. If not through me, through another excuse. What must happen, happens. Any peg will do for hanging—what has to be hung, is hung; what has to occur, occurs. Let me not bring my ego in-between.
If your sense of doership drops and the sense of being a nimitta becomes deep—then Ulattbansi becomes clear. For then everything will begin to appear reversed. The Gestalt has changed. The world as you saw it yesterday, you will no longer see that way; it will appear utterly inverted. To inform you of that inversion, Kabir chooses symbols. Kabir says:
Time does not consume him; suffering does not pervade; the body does not wither.
As the sense of being a nimitta arises—not the doer—so long as you are the doer, time will eat you; death will happen; you will die. For only the sense of doership dies—the Atman never dies. But if you think I am the doer—you will die.
The fear of death belongs to the ego, not to the Atman. As long as you chant I, I, I—decorate and nourish that I—you will be frightened of death.
The more egoistic a man, the more terrified of death; the more egoless, the less the fear. If total egolessness happens, death ends; for what remains does not die. The Gestalt has changed.
Time does not eat him; no sorrow pervades
the body does not grow old.
We do see the body age. The body goes to death; the body dissolves. But you are this body only so long as you hold the notion “I am.” The day you drop it, your entire mind shifts. Then you are not the body—you are God. Then that which is hidden within you becomes visible.
Remember—you can see only one at a time, not both together. As long as you feel you are the body, the Self cannot be seen. The day you see “I am the Self,” the body disappears.
Thus the wise say the world is maya. Because the moment Brahman is seen, the world is not seen; and as long as the world is seen, Brahman is not seen. Gestalt. Only one can be seen. Your capacity is to know one, not two.
Time does not consume him; sorrow does not seize him; the body does not wither.
The Ganges runs backward and dries the ocean…
The situation is entirely reversed. We see the Ganges falling into the ocean; Kabir says the ocean falls into the Ganges.
Kabir has two related utterances. One says:
Searching and searching, O friend, Kabir was lost.
A drop merged into the ocean—how can it be found?
This is one side of the Gestalt. Kabir says: seeking and seeking, Kabir disappeared—a drop fell into the ocean; how to find it again? The second, joined to it, says:
Searching and searching, O friend, Kabir was lost.
The ocean merged into the drop—how can I find myself?
In one he says—the drop fell into the ocean; how to find myself? In the other—the ocean fell into the drop; how to find myself? Two sides of one coin.
As long as you assert “I am,” you will fear the ocean—because a drop will be lost in the ocean. The day you know “I am not,” the ocean will dissolve into you. It is the same event—whether the drop dissolves into the ocean or the ocean dissolves into the drop—but the vision is vastly different. When you dissolve into the ocean, you tremble. When the ocean dissolves into you, you do not tremble—you feel your treasure has grown. So long as you dissolve into God, you are afraid; when God dissolves into you, you dance in bliss.
Even regarding God there is fear in your mind because you feel—you will be lost; your identity will vanish; your name, address, everything will go. What will we do with such a God, where we get lost! But the other side—which is closer to truth: you do not get lost in God; God gets lost in you. You do not perish—you become vast. The drop becomes the ocean.
Kabir says:
The Ganges runs backward and dries the ocean; the moon and sun get devoured.
The Ganges drinks the ocean; the sun and the moon are absorbed into it. This is the outer meaning. The inner meaning: sun and moon are symbols of your two breaths. The right nostril is the sun; the left is the moon. Within you are two nadis connected to them—Pingala and Ida—one solar, one lunar. These are yogic symbols.
When your consciousness becomes merely a medium, when you cease to be the doer, when you drop the ego—you no longer say I; you say Thou alone are—neither was I, nor am I, nor will I be—I was a mere illusion. As you descend into this feeling, then the ocean dissolves into the drop. Then your consciousness absorbs both sun and moon. Now you breathe, and depend on breath, now if breath stops you are gone. Now breath is your support. Without breath you cannot live. Then you live from consciousness—and breath dissolves into consciousness. That is why a yogi in Samadhi sometimes becomes breathless. It becomes hard to determine whether breath moves or not.
Those among you who are going deep into meditation—tell your family that if such a moment comes when you become like a corpse—not to panic—because the breath may almost stop. Even a physician may come and pronounce you dead. For breath almost stops—if not a hundred percent—then ninety-nine percent. A faint whisper remains. And when the breath becomes utterly still, the mind becomes utterly still.
You already know the deep link between breath and mind. When you are angry, breath moves in a different way—agitated; like a vehicle bumping over a rough road without springs—that sort of breath when you are angry. When you are filled with lust, breath changes—becomes erratic; you are drenched in sweat. When you are calm, breath slows—a rhythm, a cadence, a lilt. When you are utterly blissful, breath moves differently. With every mental state, breath changes. And if you become a little alert, then if you change the breath, your mental state will change—because both are linked. Next time anger is coming, watch how the breath moves; learn its pattern well.
Next time you are calm, observe how breath moves in calm. When you are elated, note the breath. And if you become expert in recognizing the breath’s patterns—with bliss, with anger, with pleasure, with peace—then you can experiment. Anger is about to come—do not allow breath to assume anger’s pattern; sit quietly and give to breath the same pattern that it has in calm—you will find anger evaporates; it cannot enter without the breath changing first. If you recognize well the pattern of peaceful breath, keep that pattern twenty-four hours—you will find profound peace filling you. If you understand the breath of delight, keep it so—and delight will flow incessantly.
Buddha worked deeply on breath and mind. His meditation—Anapanasatiyoga—is purely the art of breath: watching breath, recognizing breath, linking breath to emotions—and then dropping the breath-patterns of the states to be dropped; and those to be nurtured—adopting their breath-patterns and gradually strengthening them. With transformation of breath, the whole mind transforms. But when mind dissolves utterly, breath will also dissolve. One end is breath, the other end is mind—two ends of one energy.
If such a moment arrives in your life when you find the breath stopping—many sannyasins have told me—fear will arise. Do not be afraid. And tell your family as well, for they will not listen to you. If you “die,” even falsely, and a doctor declares you dead—they will not believe you.
I have heard: a man “died.” He had not died—his breath had only gone very slow. The physician declared him dead. The bier was prepared. They carried him to the cremation ground. On the way he regained consciousness; he moved. People were terrified. He shouted from inside, Open up, I am alive. They said, Impossible. Not some ordinary doctor—an expert declared it. Should we believe the expert, or this fool? A hundred had come to carry him. The priest who came to perform the last rites said, Brothers, you all are present. The man inside cries, I am alive—open up—and the priest starts taking a vote! Because these are the days of democracy! He said, You were all here. Raise your hands—what did the expert say? Whom shall we believe—this fool, uneducated, who knows not even the ABC of life and death—and claims he is alive—or the expert, educated in London, an F.R.C.S.! who has studied the living and the dead in their thousands.
Everyone raised hands for the expert. This man was not reliable in life—how can we trust him after death! They burned him.
People believe the expert. So inform your family that if such a moment comes and the breath stops—there is no need to panic. Do not shake or jostle the body either—that can be dangerous. When breath is utterly still, if someone shakes you hard, the connection between body and soul can break—for then the link is at its most delicate. At that time you are farthest from your body. Only a thin thread remains. If someone shakes, difficulty will arise.
So in meditation—do not be frightened within; for this is the supreme moment we seek. This very moment is our search. In this moment you will know the nectar. In this moment you will see—the body lies apart, I stand apart—body separate, I separate. Once this becomes visible, your life can never be what it was—the Gestalt has changed. Now you will find it is God who breathes, God who lives in you. You are not—He is. You are but His vehicle. You are only His hands. You are only a medium. Life is His. You are the flute; the player is He.
Until now you believed you were the player. You think you sing the song. You are the medium—the song He sings. If the flute had some wit, and had studied a little, it too would think—I am singing; this man unnecessarily puts in effort by pressing his lips to me. The song comes from the flute—how will the flute trust that it comes from the man? What has the man to do with it? And the flute could say, Sing without me then… it is I who sing.
You are no more than the flute.
Kabir has said, I am a hollow reed of bamboo. The songs are Yours, the melody is Yours—and I believed they were mine; that conceit arose from that.
One who becomes the hollow bamboo—that one becomes a saint; then there remains nothing to achieve.
The Ganges runs backward and dries the ocean; the moon and sun get devoured.
The nine planets sit slain by the invalid; a radiance appears in water.
Everything is inverted. The nine planets are slain by the sickly one—he who thought himself sickly because of the planets.
The nine planets are slain; a radiance appears in water.
Everything reverses. Fire appears in water; radiance in the liquid.
He runs to the ten directions without feet; he sees the world without eyes.
Then a moment arrives when you find that feet are not needed. Consciousness can move to the ten directions without feet. Feet are needed by the body. For consciousness there is no barrier of space and time.
He runs to the ten directions without feet; he sees the world without eyes.
And to see the Truth there is no need of these eyes.
Mahavira’s eyes are closed. Look at the images. Among Jains there are two sects—Shvetambara and Digambara. They argue—should Mahavira’s eyes be open or closed? The Shvetambaras keep them open; the Digambaras closed. There are temples where both worship; so they divided the time—half the day open, half the day closed. Artificial eyes are placed on the idol during the “open” time. In this matter the Shvetambaras are wrong, because there is no purpose to keeping Mahavira’s outer eyes open. With these eyes truth is not seen. These eyes close. There is an inner eye—but not of the body—of consciousness; of awakening; of awareness.
Without eyes the world is seen.
No need to open these eyes. With them the truth of the world is not visible. With them only the surface appears. For the inner, an inner eye is needed. These feet will lose their power; these hands their strength. They lose their meaning. The energy of life within you—this can roam in all ten directions; see without eyes; touch without hands.
For consciousness, for the Atman, there is no barrier of space and time. Time and space do not exist for it; they exist for the body.
Someone asked Buddha—when you leave the body, where will you be? Buddha said: either everywhere, or nowhere. For the body exists somewhere—in space and time; for the Self there is neither space nor time. As you go deeper into meditation you will see—there is no space, no time—both transcended.
The hare turns and devours the lion—who will fathom this wonder?
As if the rabbit turns around and eats the lion—such a wonder occurs.
Who will fathom this wonder?
You—so weak—suddenly you find yourself vast power. The hare devours the lion. You—so poor and miserable, begging your whole life—suddenly you find yourself the master, the emperor.
Who will fathom this wonder?
Swami Ram went to America. He called himself an emperor—Badshah. He had nothing—two loincloths and a pot. Yet he called himself Badshah Ram. He wrote a book—Six Edicts of Badshah Ram. Even while speaking he called himself Badshah Ram. “Badshah Ram is thirsty—bring water.” Strange—and in America stranger still. The American President met him and said, Everything else is fine—but I cannot understand in what way you are a king. You possess nothing. Ram said, Precisely because of that I am a king—because I have no demands, no needs. I am complete. Your richest man is poor, for his demands remain.
A Sufi fakir, Junnaid. A king came to him. He brought ten thousand gold coins and placed them at his feet. Junnaid asked—You have enough, do you not? You have no more demands, you want nothing more? The king said, Do demands ever end! That is why I came to your feet for blessing! Junnaid said, Take back these coins—for through them you will become poorer, and my being a king will not increase. They will add nothing to me, I am already full. But you will become a little emptier. You are poor—take them.
Junnaid was a poor man—nothing in his possession. What manner of sovereignty is this? What manner of ownership!
Kabir says:
The hare turns and devours the lion—who will fathom this wonder?
One utterly poor—suddenly, as the Gestalt changes, with the shift of meditation away from the body inward—becomes a master! The weak becomes a Mahashakti. The ignorant—the supremely knowing. The bound—the liberated.
Who will fathom this wonder?
One who wept for trifles, writhed—begins to dance with bliss. He becomes divine.
Who will fathom this wonder?
Kabir says—both are hidden within you. Poor you will remain as long as there is desire. Poor you will remain as long as doership remains. You become master the very moment desire is gone. And desire will not go by fulfilling desire—desire is never fulfilled; it is insatiable. Buddha said, desire is insatiable. However you run, it has no connection with your efforts. Its nature is insatiability.
You have ten thousand rupees; desire says—if only I had a lakh, all would be well. You get a lakh; desire says—now a million. However much you increase, desire multiplies by ten. A thousand—ten thousand! Ten thousand—one lakh! One lakh—ten lakh! A crore—ten crore! The distance between you and desire remains—tenfold. How much you have—what difference does it make! Multiplied by ten—the desire keeps asking. The distance never reduces—it is insatiable. You remain poor.
Two kinds of poor in the world: those with wealth; and those without. Two kinds of poor—those with much—and those with nothing. The master arises only when this vision changes—having chased desire and found nothing—then one inverts the Ganges. He no longer runs outward towards objects; he turns toward himself.
There are two journeys of consciousness—towards objects, or towards oneself; either keep running to get something, or be still and go within to find yourself. He who finds himself, finds all. And if you find all and lose yourself—you will find nothing. In the end you will find you die a beggar; your death is that of a mendicant.
An upturned pot will not drown in water; with a straight pot the water fills it.
For this very reason many, varied ones have crossed—by the grace of the Master.
This is a most precious utterance.
An upturned pot will not drown in water…
If one must cross a river, the pot must be turned upside down. An upside-down pot becomes support. You can cross the river leaning on it.
An upturned pot will not drown in water; with a straight pot the water fills it.
If you carry a straight pot to cross, you will drown because of the pot itself.
An upturned pot does not let in water; a straight pot fills with water. As you are, you are drowning. Surely your pot is upright. As you are, nothing but sinking is happening. You drown daily, moment to moment. One thing is clear—your suffering does not decrease; it grows. Yesterday it was—today it is more—though yesterday you thought it would be less today. Yesterday you worried—today more; tomorrow more still. You drown every day. All your supports, all boats, keep sinking. One thing is clear:
An upturned pot will not drown in water; with a straight pot the water fills it.
Your pot is upright—turn it over. Whichever direction you run, turn to the opposite. Whatever you are doing, thinking—do the opposite, think the opposite. Now there is ego—make the journey to egolessness. Now there is thought—make the journey to thoughtlessness. Now there is desire—make the journey to desirelessness.
An upturned pot will not drown in water; with a straight pot the water fills it.
For this very reason, by the Master’s grace, many—varied ones—have crossed.
Many and varied—diverse kinds of people—different temperaments—different arrangements of their inner energies—still they crossed. The essence is one:
An upturned pot will not drown in water; with a straight pot the water fills it.
By the Master’s grace they crossed.
Kabir adds one more thing—hidden in every saint’s speech. Even if you turn your pot upside down—without a Master you will not cross. First—without a Master you cannot even turn it. Suppose, mistakenly, accidentally, you do turn it—still you will not cross. For your ego—“I am crossing”—who will remove it? Your ego—“I turned the pot”—who will erase it? Your ego—“Now I am no longer miserable, I am serene, meditative”—who will dissolve it? And at any moment that ego can turn the pot upright again. For a pot becomes wholly inverted only when the ego is utterly gone. Then you are the upturned pot. Who will keep watch over you? Who will guard you again and again?
This is the meaning of Master—one who has crossed will keep reminding you. If ten people travel through a dense forest with danger, what do they do? They keep a watch by turns. Nine sleep; one stays awake. For if danger comes, the one awake can awaken the rest. When his time to sleep comes, he wakes another—Now you wake, I will sleep. One must be awake, else danger comes unnoticed—everything happens in sleep.
The meaning of Master is—one who is awake will be of use while you sleep. Again and again you will fall asleep. Again and again the pot will turn upright. Again and again you will forget. Again and again you will miss.
It happened—there was a Sufi fakir. His real name is unknown, but he is known as Khair Nassaj—Khair the Weaver. He sat under a tree—serene. A man had gone looking for a slave—a strong slave. Seeing this healthy man sitting in rags beneath a tree—the man thought he is a runaway slave hiding in the forest. He looked strong—useful. He asked, Are you not a runaway slave?
Nassaj opened his eyes and said, You speak rightly—I have run away and I am a slave. He meant—I have run from God, and therein lies my slavery. The man was delighted. That is the trouble—between worldly and saintly language there is no meeting.
Nassaj said, You are right—I have run away and I am a slave. The man said, You have come at the right time; I too am seeking a slave. I am ready to be your master. Come with me. You are looking for a master? The slave said, Wonderful man! That is precisely my search—I seek the Master.
He took him home. He said, I am now your master, you are my slave. Whatever work I tell you—do it. He said, That is what I want—that someone tell me what to do and what not. Doing on my own, everything is undone. Doing on my own, I get entangled. Good that you came.
The man began to suspect—either he is mad or there is some misunderstanding—perhaps a difference of language. But he thought, why worry—he is willing—fine. And free at that. Without paying a coin! Strong and healthy! He began to put him to work. He found him so good that he named him Khair—meaning good, virtuous. Then he taught him his own trade—weaving. Thus he became “Nassaj”—the weaver. Khair-Nassaj became his name. Ten years passed. He served the master so well—so respectfully—worked so hard—that the master began to feel pricked within—I am exploiting this man. I have not spent a penny on him; yet because of him I have become wealthy. I am exploiting him. Time has come to free him. He called him and said, Enough. You have proved most useful, but I feel I am exploiting you. I can bear this prick no more. I free you now. Become your own master.
Nassaj said, Great grace—that you have made me my own master! And much I have learned from you—the art of being a slave. Now there is no distance from God. For once I learned to be a slave, the ego broke. The ego broke and slavery began to dissolve. See—you now free me! I am free—but now, what of you? How long will you remain a slave?
The language of fakirs and the worldly can never be one. Their Gestalts differ, their attentions differ. They see something else; you see something else.
Kabir says—you are so asleep that if there is no one to keep waking you, it is next to impossible that you awaken; impossible that your pot remains inverted. You will drown. Who knows how many births you have drowned! And slowly you have become addicted to drowning. Drowning has become your habit. Now you are not even troubled by drowning. You think this is life. If a prisoner lives long in prison, he begins to think—this is life. When old prisoners are released, the other prisoners ask—when will you return? The prison begins to feel like home—outside they feel great restlessness. Habit! You cannot find a safer place than prison—no quarrels, no cheating, no worries, no cares. Guards all around as if you were an emperor. Huge walls nothing can penetrate. At night you sleep peacefully. No worry for food—no famine ever comes to prison. Food arrives. No worry for work. No one unemployed in prison. No anxiety—secure!
So when a man comes out he is afraid of the open sky. If you set your parrot free from its cage—see how it trembles outside! In fear, shaking! Not long before it returns to the cage—leave it open and it will come sit inside. If you try to pull a parrot out to free it, it will cling to the cage, resist. It will bite your hand with its beak—Close the door; do not take me out! What comfort can compare with the cage! The open sky is dangerous.
You have become addicted to drowning. The prison has become your home. You have decorated it well. You have painted the walls. You have forgotten you are where you drown every day.
By the Master’s grace many and varied have crossed.
Therefore, if you try on your own, it is nearly impossible to cross. Someone awake is needed to keep you alert. That is the meaning of “Master’s grace.” Grace—because he takes nothing from you. You have nothing to give. Grace—because it is an unconditional gift. He gives; you only receive—nothing else is asked in return. Therefore whatever the Master gives is grace. You can never repay it.
There is an old saying: a father’s debt can be repaid; a mother’s debt can be repaid; a teacher’s debt can be repaid; but how will you repay the Master’s debt? What will you give back that could settle it?
Ananda asked Buddha, What can we give so that we may be out of debt? Buddha said, Do one thing only—go and awaken those who sleep. There is no other way.
There is no way to be out of debt to the Master. Hence we call it grace. Whatever he gives is prasad. He may give a handful of ash—it is prasad. By his touch, even ash turns to gold. He gives—and his giving renders everything precious. In the hands of one awake even ash is valuable. In the hands of one asleep even gold is ash. For the real issue is of wakefulness and sleep. With awakening everything turns to gold; in sleep everything becomes dust.
Unconsciousness destroys all things—that is death. Awakening enlivens all things—that is life, the great life.
Entering the cave he sees the whole world; outside he sees nothing.
He sits inside the cave—the cave of the heart.
Entering the cave he sees the whole world; outside he sees nothing.
He looks within, not without. This is the way to awakening—begin to look within. Close the eyes, close the ears, let the hands become limp, let the body be as if it is not—and look within!
Entering the cave he sees the whole world; outside he sees nothing.
The arrow turns back and strikes the hunter himself—only the brave will fathom it.
Then such a thing happens that only a very fearless one can grasp—“only the brave will fathom.” The arrow turns around—“the arrow goes back and pierces the archer.” As if you shoot an arrow at a bird and it does not go outwards, it turns inward and pierces the tiger within.
This is Ulattbansi. Your consciousness is now an arrow flying outward. All targets are outside. Someone wants wealth—that is his target. Someone wants position—that is his target. Someone else—other things. A large world—endless goals. Your arrow is flying toward them. There is another journey—inverted—your arrow does not go outward. You close your eyes and the arrow turns inward. You look within. The eyes reverse. The manner of seeing changes and consciousness flows inward—as if the Ganges flows back to Gangotri. Your consciousness returns to its source. Where it arose, you lead it back. The origin becomes the goal. Then the supreme event of life happens. Then the supreme blessedness descends.
But Kabir says: only the brave will fathom. This is not the work of the weak. This is for the supremely courageous. That is why we call Vardhaman “Mahavira.” His name was Vardhaman. The day the arrow turned, we called him Mahavira. Vardhaman died; Mahavira was born. Mahavira—because this is the ultimate courage.
Remember—religion is not for the weak. Timid, frightened, fearful people—you will find them in temples—knees bent, hands joined—but they are not religious. Even there their arrow runs outward. Even there they ask for worldly things.
It happened—Vivekananda’s father died. The home became poor—debts were left behind. No way to repay. And Vivekananda fell in love with another world. Ramakrishna descended upon him. Now there was no way out. His days were spent in the company of Ramakrishna. A widowed mother, heavy debt! Sometimes there was food, sometimes none. Many days Vivekananda would return home and find there was just enough food for one person—either the mother or the son. Vivekananda would say, I won’t eat today—I have an invitation. There is a feast at a friend’s house. You eat. He would wander the lanes thirsty and hungry, drink water from a public tap, and return laughing as if he had feasted. He would belch as he entered—such a feast! He would list beautiful dishes—so that the mother would be at ease.
Ramakrishna came to know—this is bad. He said, This will not do. You have gone mad. Why don’t you go to the Mother and ask? In the temple there is the Mother’s image. Go and ask—whatever you need, ask.
Vivekananda went in. Ramakrishna waited at the door. An hour passed. Vivekananda came out—tears streaming, blissful. Ramakrishna asked, Did you ask? Vivekananda said, Thank you for reminding me—I forgot completely. He sent him back in; an hour later he returned—delighted. Ramakrishna said, Did you ask? Vivekananda said, I cannot ask. When the Mother is before me—what asking! And does She not know? What is it to ask from God? And whatever is Her will—let that be. We cannot be wiser than Her will. If She wants this, surely there is a reason. I go in because you say so; I cannot refuse you. But once inside I am lost in Her presence. Such bliss pours—who remembers the hungry belly or the begging bowl! No, this will not be—I cannot ask.
Ramakrishna said, That is what I thought. If you had asked I would have known you are worldly—and cannot become religious. If you cannot ask—then you can walk this path. For only the brave walk this path—“only the brave will fathom.” Those with courage—the courage to enter the unknown, the uncharted; to leave the small for the vast.
Only the brave will fathom.
The singer says he does not sing; the unspeaking one sings forever.
The singer says he does not sing…
The seeker sings, yet says he does not sing. It is not a song, not music, but a state of bliss.
The singer says he does not sing; the unspeaking one sings forever.
And even when he does not speak, the song continues. These are inverted sayings. You will find Meera singing, Chaitanya singing—and Kabir will still say they do not sing—within all is silent, not a word arises. You will find Buddha and Mahavira sitting—unspeaking—and Kabir will say they sing—the inner melody sounds—the anahad nada resounds!
The saint’s state is hidden in these inverted sayings. When the saint speaks, he still does not speak. You remain silent, yet speak within. Your silence is only on the surface—inside, you chatter on. The saint speaks, yet does not speak—speaking is on the surface; within is a deep silence. When the saint is silent, still he speaks—but his silence speaks; whereas your silence speaks in its own way. When the saint is silent, he speaks through silence. He is telling you—be silent. He is saying—be as I am. He is inviting you—the door is open—come in—be silent. If you can sit in silence with a saint, you will learn all there is to learn.
When the saint speaks, he still only says—be silent. When he is silent, he still says—be silent. Silence is the door. Freedom from all kinds of words is the method.
The singer says he does not sing; the unspeaking one sings forever.
He sees the juggling of the great player—and deepens his love for the unstruck sound.
He takes the world as play.
He sees the juggling of the great player…
He sees this entire orchestration, this play, these performances, this drama—he sees it as play—a witness.
…deepens his love for the unstruck sound.
He sees this world as a play on this side—and on the other, within, he increases his love for the anahad.
As long as you take this world to be real, your love will go on growing for it. Love grows towards that which appears real. When you understand the world as play—but you are in difficulty. How will you see the world as play? You go to a movie and take the movie to be real! There, thankfully, the hall is dark—else everyone would see you wiping your tears. People carry two handkerchiefs. The darkness is good—no one sees. Quickly wipe and sit again composed. A film is nothing but light and shadow on a screen.
And the saint says: this entire world is a play of light and shadow. He makes the whole world a drama. You even make drama into the world—cry there, laugh there, rejoice there. There too, if someone is killed, you react—someone stabs someone’s chest, you sit up straight as if an accident is about to happen. You real-ize even a play—how will you play-ize the world! The art is to turn the world into play.
He sees the juggling of the great player—and deepens his love for the unstruck sound.
He watches his own saying and doing—the whole of this is an untellable tale.
He not only sees the world’s play as play; he watches his own conduct—his body, his acts, his doings—also as a witness. Hunger comes to the saint as well—but differently. When you feel hunger, you think you are hungry—I am hungry. When the saint feels hunger, he sees—the body is hungry. He does not identify with hunger. Your foot is injured—you are injured. The saint’s foot is injured—he sees—the foot is injured. He does what is required, but all is a play.
The saint remains a witness. And witnessing is the most mysterious state in this world. Therefore Kabir says: he watches his own saying and doing—“watching one’s own self”—that is being a witness. See everything as a witness. Touch nothing. Bind to nothing. Pass through all things, yet remain untouched. Live in the world, but do not let the world enter you. Be in the world—not of it. That is the mark of the sadhu.
This is all an untellable tale.
And this is a wondrous story—it cannot be said. The day the whole world appears as a drama, you enter the land of mystery. The day your own life becomes a part played—what anxiety then? What anguish? What sorrow?
This is all an untellable tale.
The earth turns over and pierces the sky—this is the utterance of the sages.
Those who have known say—when your consciousness turns inward it pierces the whole universe.
Without a cup the nectar is tasted; rivers brim with water.
Kabir says—he lives through the ages—who tastes the sweet essence of Ram.
Without a cup the nectar is tasted…
Then nectar rains—and such that it pours all around you. There is no need of cups—it fills you.
Without a cup the nectar is tasted…
It does not rain into cups—when it rains, it breaks all boundaries. A sea surrounds you.
…rivers brim with water.
It rains such that within you rivers are full—just as rainfall fills dry channels. So within you it fills—and begins to shower all around.
Kabir says—he lives through the ages—
One upon whom this nectar has rained lives forever—no death for him—he becomes immortal.
…who tastes the sweet essence of Ram.
And endlessly, forever, he tastes the flavor of God.
There are two tastes in the world. One is the taste of the body; the other, the taste of the soul. While eating, the taste you feel is of the body. In sex, the taste is of the body. The fragrance of flowers—the taste is of the body.
There is another taste—not available through the senses—and that is the taste of the Divine. But it becomes possible only when your Ganges absorbs the ocean; when your arrow pierces you; when you take the inverted journey. It becomes possible only when:
An upturned pot will not drown in water; with a straight pot the water fills it.
For this very reason many—varied ones—have crossed, by the Master’s grace.
This is the whole secret—become an upturned pot. The day the world’s water no longer fills you, that day the rain of God will shower upon you. In a straight pot the world will pour—and you will drown.
You have drowned many times. One should awaken! It has been long—let awareness arise.
Enough for today.