Suno Bhai Sadho #9

Religion is the quest for Amrit.
The most certain thing in a human life is death. There is no fact more assured. All else is coincidence—may be, may not be. Death is no coincidence—it will be! However many devices you contrive to escape, they will all prove futile. No one has ever escaped death. Except man, no animal, bird, plant, or stone is consciously aware of death. They die as well, but they do not know death will happen. Therefore, other than man, no animal can give birth to religion.
Religion is born out of the awareness of death. The deeper your awareness of death, the deeper will be your search for religion. If death were not, religion would be lost. If man were to become deathless in the physical sense, all temples and mosques would collapse. That is why, as age slips from the hand, concern for religion begins to arise. As death draws near, man begins to reflect. In youth one can keep the temple forgotten. Then the intoxication of life is deep—the ascent, the movement, the intoxication of enjoyment. But as the descent from the mountain begins, as old age approaches, assurances begin to break, trust begins to fall; life seems to be slipping away. As soon as the footsteps of death are heard, the search for religion begins.
Because death ignites the search for religion, naturally religion becomes a quest for Amrit—the deathless nectar. And until Amrit is experienced, man will remain frightened, trembling—however much you forget, however much you hide. And we have tried hard to hide death.
In this regard, one thing must be noted. There are two kinds of cultures in the world. One suppresses kama, hides sex. The other suppresses death, hides death. In the West, death is hidden; sex is given open license—wider and wider each day—but death is utterly made to vanish from sight. In the East, sex is suppressed, kama is repressed; death is not suppressed. These are two types of cultures.
Kama and death are two poles. For kama means birth. Kama means the formula of birth. If you suppress birth, you will have to look at death. Your eyes will get stuck on death. For there are only two facts in life: either keep looking at birth and you can forget death; or look at death and you can forget birth. The East decided to forget birth—to forget kama—as if it is not there at all; to shape a life in which one never comes to know that man’s life contains sexual desire.
Imagine a traveler arrives suddenly from Mars, roams in our village, wanders in the markets, meets people, goes to shops and offices—he will not even come to know that something like sexual desire exists in a human life. We have hidden it in the darkness of night. He will not come to know, for beyond our private life it is nowhere visible. We have hidden it inside the mind.
A culture that hides kama will have to look at death intently. Therefore the East became religious; because the more you look at death, the more inevitably the search for Amrit begins. The West did not repress kama; it repressed death. Hence in the West great efforts are made to forget death. It is considered uncouth to talk of death. In the East, it is considered uncouth to speak of sexual desire. If you speak of sex, people will think you lack culture, lack civility. In the West, death is not mentioned; it is banished from conversation. Speak of sex as much as you like; just do not speak of death. Even when someone dies, people have invented euphemisms to hide death—“He has gone to heaven.” Most of us would be residents of hell, but whoever dies, we say, “He has become a resident of heaven.” In place of the harsh word “death,” “gone to heaven” sounds sweet. “He has gone to Vaikuntha, become a resident of Vaikuntha.” It then seems he has not died—he is somewhere. This is a trick to hide death. People say, “He shed his robe.” As if he merely shed his garment; he has not died—he is somewhere.
We have discovered thousands of expressions to cover the fact of death—and far more so in the West. Even when a man dies, he is carried off with pomp, with arrangement, decked in flowers, as if no death has occurred—as if there is no grief or sorrow—as if it were some celebration: an arrangement to forget. And so we build cremation grounds outside the town. On gravestones in the West one reads: “Here so-and-so is sleeping”—not dead, sleeping; “He is in eternal sleep!” All these words try to hide that something has broken, dissolved, ended.
The West has hidden death; hence science was born. Because if death is removed from human consciousness, then only birth remains—kama remains, life remains. Then the mind turns to making life more comfortable—how to color it, make it artistic; how to have fine houses, good roads, good bathrooms—thus the whole consciousness engages in the workings of life. Forget death, and you plan the settlement of life. Therefore science developed in the West.
The East forgot kama; therefore life was neglected. How you live—no matter; in junk or refuse—no matter. Whether you dwell in a hut or a palace, hungry or thirsty, stench or sickness or flies swarm you—no matter. This is a two‑day play; it will end. The real thing is death. It is coming—whether you live in a palace or in a hut. So we hid life and birth. Hence science did not develop; religion did. And the day someone opens his eyes to both, true revolution happens. If you hide one and see only the other, your awareness will remain half; you will remain incomplete. And a half-truth is worse than untruth, because a half-truth looks like truth—but is not. Only the whole truth is truth. Until now no culture has arisen that has seen the whole truth.
I want to make you carriers of such a culture—that you see the whole truth: birth is, life is to be lived rightly—and to live with the knowing that death will be. Let science develop—to bring comfort to life; and let religion develop—to discover Amrit.
If there is only science, the quest will end in death. Hence science has reached the atom bomb and hydrogen bomb. Seeking and seeking, only death will be found. Whatever you hide will come into your hand—for when you go on searching intensely, that which you suppressed will surface. Wherever you hide it, you still know where it has been hidden. However much you forget, you do know. And what you have hidden will go on influencing your unconscious.
A scientist completed the search of his life. He ran home. The work he had pursued for fifty years was finally done. At the door he found his little son sitting. He said, “Son, you too will be glad to know: the quest I was on is completed, the goal reached. I have discovered that amazing thing I was looking for.” The son asked, “What is that amazing thing?” The father said, “I have discovered the secret by which, if I wish, I can kill all the people of the world in a single second.” The son said, “Daddy, then kill me first to show it.” The child was delighted, as children say: “All right, first do it to me!” So he said, “Daddy, kill me first.” The scientist grew sad.
All scientists today are sad, for unwittingly they have discovered death. They went to seek life—and found death. What they hid has come into their hands.
The people of the West have found the formula of death: how to kill easily, quickly, efficiently. Now the whole world can be destroyed in a moment. Strange indeed—they went to search for life, and came upon death!
The people of the East, hiding and hiding kama, have filled the whole mind with sex. They went searching for Brahmacharya; Brahmacharya was not found. What was found was a base lust. The mind hums with sex twenty‑four hours. And as long as sex hums at every pore, the music of Kabir will not arise. As long as kama surrounds your every fiber, the tenth gate—of which Kabir speaks—will not open.
Kama is the first gate. Whoever is stuck at the first gate—how will he reach the tenth? The tenth is the last gate. If entangled at the first, who will go to the tenth? But the more we repressed sex, the more we were filled with sex. And the more the West repressed death, the more death has come into their hands.
I want to tell you: whatever you hide will surface today or tomorrow. Do not hide anything. Look at the facts of life straight on. In life birth is a fact—and death too. Look at birth and look at death. Then you will be able to transcend both. What you hide out of fear will come again and again across your path. No one has ever become free through fear—fearlessness is needed.
Romain Rolland wrote a very precious sentence in his diary: “I know only one fearlessness. He who learns fearlessness has learned all. And that fearlessness is: see life as it is in its total truth—neither hide anything, nor add anything. See life wholly as it is. And live with the total experience of life as it is.” If you hide, you will be in trouble; life becomes incomplete, fragmented. If you suppress, you will be in trouble.
Remember, kama is the formula of life. Its end is in death. That which begins with birth ends in death. That which was before birth remains after death.
If you look intently at birth and death, soon there will come such sharpness and light in your eyes that you will see beyond birth and death as well. But if you hide one pole, you will become so frightened that you will be incapable of seeing anything; fear will fill your eyes. An eye filled with fear is smothered in smoke. Then you will go on seeking arguments—arguments everyone can find. But argument is no truth. Even madmen find arguments.
Mulla Nasruddin went to a psychiatrist. To test him, the doctor asked, to see how unsteady his mind was: “Nasruddin, if we cut off one of your ears, what will happen?” Nasruddin said, “It is obvious: I will hear half as much. My hearing capacity will be halved.” The psychiatrist said, “And if we cut off your other ear?” Nasruddin said, “Then I will not be able to see.” The doctor was puzzled: “What do you mean? How would cutting off your second ear stop you from seeing?” Nasruddin said, “You fool—my glasses will fall off.”
Even eccentrics have logic… You cannot refute his logic. He is, after all, saying something that connects—for him.
The moment you hide one side of life, and exaggerate the other until it absorbs all your attention, a kind of monomania enters your heart and your life. Monomania means imbalance—you have leaned too far to one side. Balance is samyaktva—being in the middle. Like a tightrope walker: if he leans a little left, he immediately leans right, so that balance is not lost. Balance has to be created every moment. Balance is not something you set once and it remains. Every moment balance must be held. At every step the tightrope walker has to balance anew—for every step is a new step, a new situation. Not that once balanced he can go to sleep.
Life too is like a tightrope walker. There is nothing to choose; there is to be balance between the two. Lean left—you fall left; lean right—you fall right. Fall either way, and death happens. Remain in the middle, and you can be saved.
So do not become one with birth, nor with death. Do not make kama everything, nor make the desire to be free of death everything. Neither kama is all, nor moksha. Transcend both, go beyond—transcendence. Let no desire remain—not even the desire for moksha—only then can you go beyond both. And the moment someone goes beyond both, these unique happenings begin in his life, of which Kabir is speaking.
These happenings are illogical. And to say them in language is full of paradox. Whatever is said seems incomplete. Whatever is said, much remains unsaid. Whatever is said, seems to set limits upon the limitless. And whatever is said will sound like drunken talk to the listener, because he hears from where he stands, from his own experience—and these things will not tally with it.
You have only one kind of experience of life—that of the first gate. Or if your experience has gone very deep, even then it does not rise beyond the ninth gate. Of the tenth gate you have no experience at all.
Our body has nine gates: two eyes, two nostrils, a mouth, two ears, the anus, and the genitals—nine gates. Your whole life is encompassed there. And all these gates belong to the body. The tenth gate is the Sahasrar. It is in the body and yet not the body’s gate. For through these nine gates you connect with other bodies. What do you see with the eyes? The other. What do you hear with the ears? The other. What do you touch with the hand? The other.
The tenth gate is the gate of the Infinite, the Whole. On one end is kama; on the other end is the tenth gate. What is born of kama dies. Whoever enters through the tenth gate attains Amrit. Kama gives birth to the body; the body is mortal. Through the tenth gate there is a glimpse of the bodiless—there is no death for that. This tenth gate is in your head. And between the first and the tenth gate lies the whole play, the whole drama.
Through the first gate you enter the world; through the tenth you exit the world. The first gate—there is written: Entrance. The tenth—there is written: Exit. And it is certain: where there is an entrance there will be an exit. Where there is a gateway in, there will be a way out.
Through kama you have entered the world. The genitals are your gateway in. This too we have hidden. We never even think of it. No one even wants to imagine: my mother and father made love, therefore I entered the world. To think such a thought feels sinful—as if mother and father and lovemaking! Those are things bad people do!
Have you ever thought, with awareness examined, how you came into this world? Just to think it brings a great shame: mother and father made love. It brings a great unease to think you arrived through the gateway of the genitals! We have hidden such things. But these are truths. Hiding them will not make them untrue; they will remain truths.
You never think how you came into this world. And if through the first gate you came, and you remain stuck there, you will remain in the world. If you sit at the entrance only, there will be no movement in life—you will keep circling like an ox tied to the oil-press. For endless births you have circled so.
As there is a way in, so there is a way out. To seek that is religion.
Religion is the search for Amrit. In this life there is death. And as long as you think this life is all, you will be afraid of death—you sit upon a volcano; death can come any moment. And it will—there is not even the certainty of a single moment!
There was a Sufi fakir, Bayazid. He was setting out on pilgrimage for the Hajj. Times were cheap; a single paisa would cover a day’s food and expenses. He put one paisa in his pocket and was about to depart, when a wealthy devotee said, “What are you doing? Going to Hajj with one paisa—have you ever heard such a thing?” He brought a pouch full of gold coins. “Keep these with you. Can a Hajj be done on one paisa? Such a long journey, going and returning, at least six months will be needed.”
Bayazid said, “I will keep your pouch—but first give me firm assurance that I will live more than one day. That I will still be here tomorrow. If you assure me of tomorrow, I accept your pouch.”
The rich man said, “How can I assure you that you will be here tomorrow? Who has any certainty of tomorrow?” Bayazid said, “Then this one paisa is enough for today. If there is no assurance of tomorrow, why prepare for it?”
In the crowd around Bayazid sat another fakir. Bayazid had not yet attained enlightenment, but he must have been very near the edge; the leap had not yet happened. Hence he was going on pilgrimage—have the enlightened ever gone on pilgrimage? Yet his understanding was deep—that is why he told the rich man to keep his money; it would be useful to him. “As for me, only if someone assures me of tomorrow will I worry about tomorrow.”
The other fakir began to laugh and stood up. Bayazid ran after him and asked, “Why did you laugh?” He said, “If you have trust for one day, what difficulty is there in trusting for tomorrow? If you can keep one paisa, then the matter is decided—whether you keep one or one crore, what is the difference? Do you have trust in today? And when you trust in a coin, how much trust do you have in God? None at all!”
Bayazid dropped even that one paisa then and there. And it is said, along with that paisa falling, enlightenment happened.
There is no assurance even of a moment—and what a vast arrangement you go on making! Making arrangements, you will be finished. Money is like petrol; it is not the destination. Yet some people go on collecting petrol. Their house fills up only with petrol. There remains no space for themselves; they live outside. They are preparing for the journey—because only when preparation is complete will they go! But in this world nothing is ever complete; hence they never set out. They die collecting petrol.
Money is not the goal. Money is a means of exchange along the way. Your grip on money shows how much faith you have in tomorrow. There is no reason even for a moment’s trust—death can knock at any time. In this life death is hidden. With birth, death entered you. At the moment of birth it is already decided how you will die, when you will die. Each chromosome out of which the body is built has its predetermined age—will it live seventy years, eighty years. That will be your age. With some orderliness, a few years more; with some disorderliness, a few years less. But generally the span is decided; with birth death has entered within. Do not sit at the entrance. Seek also the way out! The Buddha called that exit the door of Nirvana. It is the Sahasrar.
In your brain, at the ultimate crown point, where Hindus grow the tuft—the choti—that tuft is only a symbol of the Sahasrar: the center is there. But by growing a tuft nothing happens. They would shave the whole head and keep only the tuft. It was only to indicate the place—“Here is the tenth gate; keep awareness here.” Many keep the tuft; none does meditation. Their attention remains at the first gate, however big their tuft. It is called choti—crest—because it is the summit. The summit of life is hidden there; therefore choti. Perhaps you never wondered why it is called the crest. It is the peak—the Gaurishankar. There lies the last gate of life, through which you will enter the Divine.
And these utterances are after the attainment of that tenth gate. Therefore they will be difficult to understand; logic will be troubled. Mind will say, “How can this be?” Do not decide quickly. Decide after experiencing. Then you too will dance, as Kabir must have danced.
“The nectar streams eternally in the sky‑cave.”
The sky‑cave—gagan‑gufa—is a name for the tenth gate. It is the sky‑cave because beyond it the sky begins, the infinite Akash begins; boundaries end—the boundless begins; form bids farewell—the formless begins—hence, sky‑cave.
“The nectar streams eternally in the sky‑cave.”
An endless Amrit‑nectar pours in that sky‑cave.
You have known one kind of rasa—juice—in sexual climax. When your semen flows, you feel a momentary bliss. The rasa of which this speaks—imagine the whole of the Divine raining upon you; you are bathed in it; every pore is bathing, every pore thrills and dances. And it is eternal. Once it begins, there is no end. It is timeless, not momentary. Not like: rain today, drought tomorrow. The rain is happening even now—you do not know it. The rain is happening even now—you have not awakened to that side. The treasure is present even now, but you have not paid attention. It has always been so. It is the very nature of life that there the deathless Amrit keeps raining.
“The nectar streams eternally in the sky‑cave.”
“Where the resonance arises without instrument—only when understanding dawns does attention abide there.”
“Where the resonance arises without instrument…”
There are two kinds of sounds. One is called struck sound—ahat dhvani. If I clap, two hands strike; the sound that is produced is struck sound—born of collision. Beat a drum or a tambura or any instrument—collision—all is struck sound. But the Divine is one, existence is one; there is no other hand there to clap. Yet there too is a music. Its name is anahat—the unstruck. Hence the sages say again and again: seek the anahat.
Anahat means the clap of one hand. Zen masters in Japan tell disciples: go and find how a clap sounds with one hand. This is their special meditation. Years may be needed. The seeker can think up many tricks, but the master says, “No need to tell me; when it happens, I will know. When it happens, your whole being will resound.”
“The nectar streams eternally in the sky‑cave.
Where the resonance arises without instrument…”
There is no instrument, nothing is being struck, no collision—and yet an infinite proclamation of sound is. The Hindus called that sound Omkar. Om is the symbol of that sound.
Nanak says: Ek Om Satnam. That single Omkar sound is the Name of Truth; it has no other name. All other names are concocted by man. The word Om has no meaning. Om is not a word; it is a sound.
Whenever, anywhere in the world, a person reaches the tenth gate, that sound is heard. Languages have written it differently—that is all. Hindus called it Om. Muslims, Jews, Christians call it Ameen—therefore their prayers end in Ameen. It is a form of Om—the sound heard at the tenth gate. Its explanation may vary, because sound has a difficulty: how will you transcribe it? A train passes—do you say “chak‑chak‑chak,” or “thak‑thak,” or “fak‑fak”? It depends on you. It is the same train. And if you carry a prior notion, that will appear. Hindus carry the notion of Om; when they go with that notion, the moment the sound resounds, they hear Om. The notion you carry will give form to the sound. But the marks of the sound have been described the same by sages everywhere. The greatest mark is: resonance without instrument—nothing produces it. Understand this a little.
Whatever is produced by something will die. For whatever is produced by two, its power and limit are set. I clapped with both hands; the sound will last as long as the energy I put in. When that energy is exhausted, the clapping dies. Shout as loud as you can; the sound will last as long as the force you gave it; once the force is over, it vanishes. So with the very birth of a thing, its limit and power are decided.
Suppose a woman and a man meet—if their lineage, their parents and grandparents lived to a hundred, then the clap that sounds from their hands—the child—can live a hundred years. But if in their lineage people died around fifty, then the clap from their hands—the child—will die around fifty. Your age can be roughly calculated. Add up the ages of your past five or six generations; take the average—your age will be around that. It is not very difficult. Your mother, her mother and father; your father, his mother and father—go three or four generations back—add their ages. If you add ten people’s ages and divide by ten, the answer is roughly your age. Seventy sometimes seventy‑one, sometimes sixty‑nine—that is your span. Because the clap of two hands can travel only as far as the hands give power.
Whenever something is produced, its end is decided in its very production—how much power…
The unstruck will never end, because it is not produced by anything. Therefore we call the Divine Sanatan—eternal, beginningless—because it is not born from anything. If it is born, it will die. Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh will die, because they are born. Rama, Krishna, Buddha will die, because they are born. But That from which they arise, and in which they dissolve upon death—that never dies. That is Brahman. That is the One Omkar Satnam.
“Where the resonance arises without instrument—only when understanding dawns does attention abide there.”
When it begins to be understood, then one holds attention there. It is always sounding. That resonance is ever resounding. That resonance is what you are. That resonance is sounding in you even now; but when understanding dawns, one gives attention there. And remember: wherever your attention goes, that becomes your truth.
A youth is playing hockey on the field; his foot is injured; blood is flowing. But he is absorbed in the game. All the spectators can see the blood streaming from his foot, leaving lines on the ground; he, absorbed, does not know he is hurt. He does not know pain is there; he does not know blood is flowing. When the game ends—suddenly he knows. He sits down. Blood is flowing; his face goes pale. For the first time he feels pain.
What happened? When the wound occurred, he did not know—attention was not there; it was in the game. When blood flowed, he did not know—attention was not there; it was in the game. Where your attention is, that alone you know. Therefore people in this world know different things.
If a poet enters a garden, he comes to know certain things; a scientist comes—he comes to know other things. There will be no correspondence. If both report their visit to the same garden, no one will believe they went to the same place. The poet will see beauty; poetry will be born; he returns with the feeling of romance. The scientist will not have poetry born, nor romance; he might return with notes of species, names, classifications—what minerals constitute which plant. Reading their diaries, you cannot tell they came from the same garden. Impossible.
They say a cobbler, when he looks at a man, does not see the man; he sees the shoe—and from the shoe he recognizes the man. The condition of the shoe tells all—it tells the economic condition, whether the shop is doing well; whether he is getting along with his wife; the shoe speaks. The cobbler knows how to read.
A doctor, when he looks at someone, does not see the person; he sees illnesses. The moment you enter a doctor’s house, he sees disease—even if you came as a friend.
A great painter—Manek by name—painted a portrait of a poor hungry man, moaning in pain. He invited a doctor friend to see it. The doctor stared for ten minutes. Manek was amazed: “I never knew you had such interest in painting!” He said, “What painting! The man has appendicitis. The subject of your painting has an inflamed appendix.”
A doctor sees what he can see. A cobbler sees what he can see. Where attention is, that alone appears. Attention is your truth. Within you too flows the stream of nectar—but you are engaged in games. One plays the game of wealth, another of power. You are engaged in games; the stream of nectar is not visible. You collect potsherds. You are entangled outside. When you will disentangle from the outside, then attention will go in. To disentangle from the outer—this is understanding.
Understanding does not mean collecting many informations. Understanding means understanding the game. Understanding means understanding the outer nuisance. Understanding means: now enough of the outside; we have seen much—now we will close the eyes within; we have played a lot—now we will rest, repose; we have run enough—now we will stop a little. The day you see that the outward race bears no fruit—however much you gain, you get nothing; however much you accumulate, all remains empty; mountains of money arise, yet you remain poor—that day attention turns inward.
Kabir says:
“…only when understanding dawns does attention abide there.
Where the resonance arises without instrument…”
“Where lotuses bloom without a lake—upon them the swan sports.”
There is no pond, yet lotuses bloom.
“…upon them the swan sports.”
The lotus is a deep symbol in the East. And the lotus itself is mysterious. If the outer lotus is so mysterious, what can be said of the inner lotus? Understand a few virtues of the outer lotus, for in it there is a hint of the inner lotus.
First: the lotus grows out of dirt, from filthy mud—and there is no flower more pure! Out of refuse, garbage, slime—the lotus arises; yet you will not find petals more pristine, more delicate, fresher than the lotus. The lotus is the greatest transformation: from mud to lotus—the greatest revolution. So do not be vexed by your mud. Granted there is mud, much mud—do not focus on it. Within that mud, lotuses are also blooming. Give your attention to the lotus. There is theft, dishonesty, lies, deceit, jealousy, hatred, maya, attachment—much mud. But if there is mud, there will also be lotus. Attend a little within—outside mud, inside lotus. Do not set about to eliminate the mud. From that very mud the lotus draws nourishment. Do not become an enemy of the mud; rather, seek the lotus. The day you recognize the lotus, that day you will thank the mud. You will say, “I am grateful even to this body, for without it how would this lotus bloom?” If you were only mud, who would think to transform? Who would think of revolution? Who would think to journey toward Satyam, Shivam, Sundaram—the True, the Good, the Beautiful? It is the call of the lotus.
Look within—you will see lotuses blooming there.
Second: the lotus lives in water, yet water does not touch it; it remains in water and is untouched. This is the seeker’s journey: to live in the world—and remain untouched. Water is all around, yet the lotus rises above it. It does not run away; it remains there—yet rises. Then, whether raindrops fall or dew falls, the lotus is not wetted. Droplets come and go—slide off.
Sit by a lotus sometime and watch the pearl of a drop sliding—meditate on it. The drop falls, yet does not touch; it remains separate, though so near. It rests on the petal, yet no contact happens. The drop seems not of water, but of pearl—for if there were contact it would spread. There is no contact; it remains rounded. And as soon as it gathers weight, it slips off of its own accord. The lotus remains untouched, separate, unpenetrated. The droplet falls by its own weight.
The world, too, will fall by its own weight—do not be troubled. Anger will fall by its own weight—do not be troubled. Greed will fall by its own weight—do not be troubled. Do not even attempt to make it fall. Become lotus‑like. Just be like the lotus. Do not allow things to touch you. If anger comes again, keep yourself untouched within; play the drama of anger without—because perhaps it is needed in life; without the drama of anger life is difficult. Sometimes it is useful. Do anger—as a drama, as an actor—and remain untouched within.
These are the two virtues of the lotus. These two are also the virtues of the inner lotus. The one difference is: “where lotuses bloom without a lake.” There is no pond—yet the lotus blooms. For the lotus that blooms in a pond will wither—today or tomorrow it will end. The lotus that blooms without a pond, the uncaused lotus—will remain forever.
Uncaused is the formula of the eternal.
If your love has a cause, it will end. The cause may be money, beauty, status—any cause. Love born of cause will end. Uncaused love remains forever. If your prayer too has a cause, it too will wither. When the cause is fulfilled, why will you pray?
A mother asked her little boy whether he had said his night prayer. It was a Christian home; I was a guest there. The child said, “But there is no need right now. Everything is going fine—why should I pray?”
When everything goes fine, why would you pray? Prayer that arises from cause will wither when the cause is fulfilled. Uncaused prayer!
Have you ever prayed without cause? Only then will you taste the rasa of prayer. You do it because doing it is bliss—there is no cause. Have you ever loved without cause? Then your love itself becomes a doorway to the Divine.
Whatever you can do without cause—that is sadhana. A man falls on the road; you lift him without cause. If there is even this much cause, that people are watching, they will praise your service—even that feeling is there—then it is no longer sadhana. Someone is drowning in a river; you jump and rescue him; if you desire even that he say “thank you,” and if he does not, you feel hurt, you think, “I risked my life, and he did not even thank me”—then that is not sadhana. Then you are simply expanding the world, in new ways.
A woman drowned in a pond. Mulla Nasruddin stood on the bank and just stood. Later a crowd gathered; when the corpse was taken out, they asked Nasruddin, “You were here—you could have saved her.” Nasruddin said, “I have read stories and seen films. I would have saved her—but what if she proposed marriage, as happens in all the films—then who would have saved me?”
Cause—this way or that—and you are in the world. Uncaused—and you are outside the world. For the Divine has one property: it is uncaused. It has no why. You cannot ask, “Why is God?” The very question is absurd. You cannot ask, “Why is existence?” It simply is—without cause.
If you become uncaused, you become like existence.
Kabir gives news of the uncaused:
“Where lotuses bloom without a lake—upon them the swan sports.”
The day uncaused flowers bloom in your life, that day your Atman, like a hansa, will play upon them. The play of your inner swan begins only then; the blossoming, the festival of your soul begins only when uncaused lotuses bloom in life. Otherwise you will harvest sorrow. Your swan will go on weeping. If you live by cause, your soul will go on thirsting—its thirst will not be quenched. Live uncaused—then the inner hansa can play. That swan that plays is what we call Paramhansa. All are swans—but weeping, harried, unnecessarily beggarly, begging for what never comes.
The day an uncaused lotus blooms within, your swan becomes a Paramhansa.
“Light appears without a moon—wherever the swan’s gaze goes, it sees.”
Wherever your inner eye goes—and there is no limit to its reach, for there is no barrier to the inner eye. It goes wherever existence is—and existence is everywhere, all around. Existence ends nowhere. There is no sign that says: “Stop here, the road is closed.” Existence is infinite, boundless. The inner swan’s eye goes everywhere, roams all directions.
“Light appears without a moon—wherever the swan’s gaze goes, it sees.”
And as far as the gaze goes, there is a light—without a moon. Understand this a little.
One kind of light is of the sun. In the sun’s light there is both light and heat; there is brightness and burning. There is light, but there is pain in it. You cannot bear it for long; you cannot even look at the sun. In that heat there is a pain that soon scorches you. In the moon’s light there is a difference: there is light, but coolness. You can look at the moon; you can sit for hours in the moonlight—you will become cool, you will grow peaceful.
Meditation is not like the sun’s light; meditation is like the moon’s.
Secondly: Kabir says, there is no moon there at all—only light—without source, without cause. Because if there is moonlight, the moon will set; it will wane and wax. Sometimes full moon, sometimes new moon. Sometimes the moon will appear, sometimes not. The light without source remains forever.
“The tenth gate brings a trance—upon the Unknowable Person the attention rests.”
This “trance”—tari—at the tenth gate… The word is very sweet. The dictionary will say: “sleep came—tari lagi.” But tari is not mere sleep. Tari means a condition of a hypnotized mind. As you look at your beloved—as Majnun must have looked at Laila—that is tari. Tari means: the awareness of the whole world is lost—only Laila remains. For the whole world Majnun has fallen asleep—only for Laila he remains awake.
If you have seen a hypnotist, when he puts someone to sleep, then for all others he sleeps, but remains awake to the hypnotist. If the hypnotist speaks, he hears; if he says, “Stand up, run,” he runs. But if someone else speaks, he does not hear. He sleeps to the whole world, but remains awake to the one who hypnotized him. The gaze is fixed, unwavering, upon one.
Tari means: asleep to the whole world—as if the world is not—only the eye is transfixed on the Divine. Unblinking—the eyelids do not even flicker. This will happen. For when one stands at the tenth gate for the first time and sees that vast Beauty, hears that infinite sound, bathes in the stream of Amrit, tastes for the first time the rasa of Brahmananda—tari befalls. Tari happens. The whole world is forgotten.
This happened often to Ramakrishna—he would remain senseless for six days—that was the state of tari. Tari would come to him anywhere. He would be walking on the road, and someone would say, “Hail Rama”—tari would strike—he would stand there on the road; his hands and feet would freeze as they were. People thought he was insane. He had to be carried home. Hours would pass before he returned. If someone asked, “What happens?” he would say, “These words are such that memory returns—Rama!—and I go within.” He would reach the tenth gate. The word becomes a key; it opens the tenth gate in a flash. And when someone reaches the tenth gate, he is lost to the world. He may be standing in the road; there may be the danger of traffic, a bus or car might crush him—no worry—he will stand there.
When devotees took Ramakrishna anywhere, they were careful that no one utter the Divine Name on the way—otherwise trouble on the road. People do not understand; they think he is mad, possessed. Ramakrishna was not invited to public celebrations, for if he came, he himself would become the celebration. Whom would you restrain—someone might say something!
A wedding was at a devotee’s house. They invited Ramakrishna, and requested beforehand: “Please be careful; it is the time of marriage.” But how could Ramakrishna be careful? Who is there to be careful? When tari comes, what care! Kabir says, “I have drunk the entire tavern, and you talk of care!” Not a little wine—the whole tavern. Ramakrishna came. As he stepped through the door, someone said, “Hail Rama”—he stood there! For six days! The whole wedding went cold. Bride and groom were forgotten—their care became necessary. He would fall—and whenever he got up, he got up weeping. Tears flowed from his eyes and he cried out, “Mother, why are you driving me away? Why is the door closing? Why are you sending me back?” He would rise and weep.
Tari means: the hypnotic spell of the tenth gate. There the Divine is visible. Whoever’s gaze falls upon That—this whole world is lost. In the beginning it is very difficult. In the beginning companions, devotees are needed to look after—otherwise the man will die. He will lie senseless for six days—water must be given to his mouth, milk must be given; he must be fanned, covered. He knows nothing. He is not in this world. A corpse lies here—he has flown to another country. Kabir says—Chal hansa, va desh—“Come, O swan—to that other land—let us go there.”
Nanak was passing a village. By a lake he stood; a line of swans flew across the sky, and Nanak ran after them. Mardana, his devotee, was with him. He tried much to restrain him—“What are you doing?”—but Nanak did not stop. Mardana ran behind. Until the swans stopped, Nanak did not stop. It seems the swans understood; they stopped. Nanak reached them. Mardana was afraid they would fly off if he approached—but they did not. Nanak sat among them. Tears flowed from his eyes. He spoke words most wondrous: “O swans, you fly so far into the skies—you must surely have seen the One who made me! You travel great distances—Chal hansa, va desh—surely you have seen my Maker. I am seeking Him—give me some news, some direction!” Tears flowed and he remained seated. A supreme ecstasy enveloped him.
He always kept Mardana with him. Mardana was a musician. As soon as Nanak began to be lost, Mardana would pluck his ektara. That ektara was the device to bring him back. Hearing Mardana’s ektara, he would return at once. It was the key. Otherwise, if he got stuck at the tenth gate—the plight of Ramakrishna would be Nanak’s. Ramakrishna had no Mardana, no master musician, to play just that tune which brings one back. Slowly Nanak would return, become well, come back into the body. He kept Mardana with him all his life. Mardana was a Muslim; Nanak a Hindu. He would go to temples only if Mardana could go—because in the temple tari might strike! If any temple said a Muslim cannot enter, that temple was closed to Nanak.
Tari means: when someone stands at the tenth gate. When someone goes beyond the tenth gate, tari no longer happens. To Buddha and Mahavira tari did not happen. Standing at the tenth gate and beholding the infinite beauty—then tari happens. Understand this. The kind of swoons Ramakrishna had—Buddha’s or Mahavira’s life never shows such swoons. They did not stop at the gate to behold. They crossed over; they never looked even to the other side—Who is beyond the gate?—they simply went. They became one with That. Then tari does not happen, because tari needs duality—God separate, I separate. I stand at my door; God is visible—then tari happens. When I am drowned in God—become one—then there is no tari. Upon whom would it be? Tari befalls the devotee, not God.
So this is a subtle event. People ask: why did that which happened to Ramakrishna not happen to Buddha and Mahavira? Either Ramakrishna is wrong, or Buddha and Mahavira are wrong. None is wrong. Ramakrishna stands at the tenth gate and takes a glimpse—that is the bhakta’s mind. The devotee says, “O God, keep a little distance, so I may behold You, drink Your rasa, gaze upon Your beauty—keep a little distance.” The devotee does not want to become God. The devotee says, “Maintain a little distance till the end. Let me come near Your throne; let me touch Your feet—that is enough. For births upon births let me remain a bhakta.”
There is indeed a beauty the jnani misses, which the devotee attains—because the devotee keeps a little distance: “You the Lord, I the servant.”
Therefore Kabir says again and again: “Says the servant Kabir.” Not “the Master”—“the servant.” “Let me hold Your feet—that alone is my goal; that is my Vaikuntha, my moksha.”
The devotee stops at the tenth gate; he does not go beyond—because beyond, one enters the ocean. Like Ganga halting exactly where she meets the ocean, standing and seeing the ocean—that is Nanak, Kabir, Ramakrishna. Buddha and Mahavira go straight into the ocean; they become the ocean. There the gap of devotee and God does not remain. They themselves become God. Then tari does not happen—upon whom would it be, and how? Duality is gone; tari is gone.
“The tenth gate brings a trance—upon the Unknowable Person the attention rests.
The terrible Time comes not near; lust, anger, pride, greed are burned.”
At the tenth gate neither death comes near—for at the first gate is death, at the tenth is Amrit. At the first gate there is life and death, both. At the tenth, there is the life beyond life—no birth, no end—the Great Life.
“The terrible Time comes not near; lust, anger, pride, greed are burned.”
Now kama, anger, intoxication, greed—all are burned of themselves. They need not be removed or fought. They belong to the first gate as appendages. Whoever stands at the first gate—the gate of kama—will have anger, pride, greed. For as long as there is desire, how will you be free of anger? Whoever obstructs your desire—you will be angry with him. How will you be free of intoxication? If you are free of intoxication, who will fall into kama? How will you be free of greed? Greed means only this: collecting equipment to fulfill desire. If you live in a hut, you cannot obtain a very beautiful woman. To obtain a beautiful woman, a palace is needed. In a hut you get the woman of a hut.
So greed simply means gathering provisions so that desire may be fulfilled properly. As long as desire remains, anger and greed will remain. How will desire end? Never by fighting. When life‑energy reaches the tenth gate, suddenly one finds—all is burned. No desire, no anger, no greed.
“The thirst of birth after birth is quenched…”
And the thirst of countless births is quenched. For what you seek in the world is not in the world—hence thirst remains. Drink howsoever much of this water, the thirst is not quenched.
In the life of Jesus it is told: he came to a well. A woman was drawing water. Jesus said, “Give me water; I am very thirsty.” It was hot; it had been a long journey; he had come from a village far away. The woman said, “Forgive me, but I am of an untouchable caste, a low caste. It is only right I tell you—people of the high caste do not drink water touched by my hand.”
Jesus said, “Leave them aside. And if you give me water from this well, I shall give you water from that Well from which thirst never again arises. I can give you that water—drinking which thirst never again returns.”
The Well Jesus spoke of is the tenth gate. “The thirst of birth after birth is quenched; the secret of karma, the itch of diseases departs”—sins, karmas—all end, all burn.
Says Kabir, listen, O seekers: he becomes immortal—never dies.
Religion is the search for Amrit. Amrit is the experience of the tenth gate. How your energy, your life‑force, can rise from the first gate to the tenth—that is the aim of all meditation methods.
Here we are using the Kundalini meditation. That meditation is a way to raise your energy from the first gate to the tenth. Therefore, for the first ten minutes, you let the body shake. Shaking means: wherever energy is stuck, frozen—let it melt; let it become mobile where it is stagnant. If you shake the body rightly for ten minutes, with totality, all suppressed energy will be released and begin to flow.
Then the second stage is dance. Dance means: the energy that has now spread everywhere is transformed into ananda—a rejoicing; you dance as if you are in a festival; as if a great event has happened; as if some light has descended in your life. Dance with a sense of celebration—because the more you rejoice, the more energy rises upward; the more energy rises, the more you rejoice. So if you become drunk with joy, if you dance as if you have drunk the whole tavern… A miser’s dance will not do—that you dance as if under compulsion, “What to do, I am trapped now,” or “Let me see—perhaps something may happen.” No, that will not do. Lukewarm work will not work. Urgency is needed. Dance as if mad.
Without a divine madness, the Divine is not found. If you go by your intellect, you will remain where you are. One needs to go a little beyond the intellect. And when your whole energy is ecstatic, flowing upward—ecstasy simply means flowing upward—for the feeling of joy comes from the upward flow. The more it flows downward, the more sorrow; the more hell descends. Hence we say hell is below, heaven above. It means only this: the first gate is connected with hell; the tenth gate with heaven. There is no other meaning of up and down.
When your energy falls below the first gate, you are creating hell in your life. When your energy, standing at the tenth gate, flows toward the Vast—you have created heaven. Both are hidden within you. When energy is flowing and you are ecstatic, then stop—stand or sit—so that the energy has full opportunity to flow. Sitting is useful—so that only the spine remains; the whole body disappears; only the spine remains. From the spine the energy rises upward and is gathered there. Then lie down—so that the gathered energy rising upward finds it even easier, and begins to strike the tenth gate.
The whole experiment of Kundalini is to strike at the tenth gate. If you do it rightly, you too will be able to say:
“The thirst of birth after birth is quenched; the secret of karma, the itch of diseases departs.
Says Kabir, listen, O seekers: he becomes immortal—never dies.”
Enough for today.