Suno Bhai Sadho #3

Before entering the sutra, a few fundamental points must be understood.

There was a Sufi fakir, Bayazid. He was sitting at the door of his hut. A seeker asked: What is religion? What is sadhana? What is the path? Bayazid said: What will you do by knowing? The young man said: I want to be free of bondage. Bayazid laughed. He laughed loudly, like a madman. And he said: First go and find out properly—who has bound you, that you want to be free of bondage? Until you come back with that certainty, I will not answer.

It is said the youth went away, and returned after years—the same mad laughter was now with him too. Bayazid asked: Found it out? The youth said: Now I have nothing to ask, I have come only to answer your laughter. I myself had bound myself, and even my search for freedom was a slyness; that too was only a way to avoid the fundamental truth. I used to ask: How can I be free? The search for the path was also postponement—a method of deferring: when the path is found, then I will arrive; when the method is found, then the bondage will be cut. When the path itself is not known, when the method is not known, how will I come out of bondage? You did well not to answer and to laugh like a madman. That laughter struck deep. It made a wound in the heart. I searched a lot. And the more I searched, the clearer it became: I am the one bound; no one has bound me. And if I myself am bound, then what need is there to be free? Do not bind—and you are free.

This is the first thing that must be understood.

Even the search for moksha is a device. It too is only a way to escape. Otherwise—when were you ever unfree? Who bound you? You are not even sick, and you keep looking for medicine! If the medicine is not found, you think: What can I do! You go on looking for a guru, you go on searching for Paramatma—and you have never lost Him; He is hidden within you. While you are searching, He is present. And you too have a faint glimmer of this. It is not that you have completely forgotten that no one has bound you. A faint glimmer is there, because this truth is so vast it cannot be utterly forgotten. These chains you have worn by your own hands. Although you did not wear them as chains—you wore them as ornaments. You studded the chains with diamonds and jewels. You made your chains not of iron but of gold. You have poured great relish into your chains. Now you are afraid even to drop them. Because those chains do not appear to you as chains at all. You have decorated the prison well. And you have made the prison your home. Now you certainly ask: How to be free from the prison? But you know well that you do not want to be free. Otherwise—who prevents you?

If the house catches fire you jump out. You do not ask: Where is the guru to ask the way? You do not ask: What method is there to get out? You do not study the scriptures. The moment you know there is fire, you yourself find the way. But in order to come out of the world, you ask: Where is the path? You do not want to come out; and the fire does not appear to you an enemy, it appears a friend. Then why do you ask at all? If the truth is that you do not want to come out—if the truth is that it delights you to make the prison your home—then do it; why ask for the path?

The mind is very cunning! By asking about the path you tell yourself a double story: I am not an ordinary worldly man, I am spiritual. I am in bondage, but I want to be free; I become angry, but I aspire to non-anger; I am caught in lust, but I intend brahmacharya. Like this you hide your filth under ideals; like this you place flowers on top of the wound. You neither want to remove the wound, nor even to look at it—hence you go around asking: Where is the path, where the method, who is the guru, how to be free! Who will rescue you from this dishonesty?

You will have to look at this dishonesty with wide-open eyes. It is painful. To see another’s dishonesty is delightful; to see one’s own is very painful. Because in it your own image falls in your own eyes. And what grand images you have built of yourself!

Even the worst man believes: I am basically good; sometimes I do bad things, that is a different matter. Evil is in the act; as a person I am good. By coincidence, by circumstances, out of helplessness, by fate I sometimes do wrong; I do not want to. And the day I have the right situation, I will not do it even by mistake. It is compulsion—wife, children, house—so I do a little stealing, a little dishonesty, a little untruth, but I am not a bad person.

Even the worst man keeps a beautiful image of himself. That beautiful image assists his evil—because because of that image you cannot see the wound of evil; because of that image you cannot perceive how terribly evil has bound you, how its poison has permeated each pore. That image is the way to avoid the perception. Hence you ask for the method, the path.

So the first thing is to understand that you are bound because you want to be bound. However painful it may be, grasp this well—that the chains are in your hands. No one else has put them on you; you have put them on yourself.

To throw the blame on another is always easy. The husband thinks: the wife has chained me. What foolishness! The wife thinks: the husband has chained me. What madness! How can another bind you? If you do not desire bondage, can anyone hold you even for a moment? Can a wife stop you? Can a husband stop you? Can children stop you? Who can stop you? No power in the world can put you in chains. Your freedom is invincible—it cannot be conquered. If you have knelt down and stopped, then you are responsible. No one binds anyone. How can anyone bind anyone? At least one thing there is upon which no one has power—your inner, supreme freedom.

Dostoevsky, the great Russian writer, a profound man of insight, was put in prison. From prison he wrote in a letter: Coming to prison I have come to know that the world can only put my body in chains—not me. In prison I am as free as I was outside; no obstacle has arisen in my freedom.

Who can obstruct the sky within you? And yet you think: my wife has bound me!

Once it happened—Sheikh Farid was passing through a village, two-three disciples with him. Suddenly, in the marketplace, Farid stopped and said: Look! I am raising a great question. A question of essence—think, and answer. A man is leading a cow with a rope. Farid asked: Tell me, is the cow tied to the man, or is the man tied to the cow?

The disciples said: What is so great in this? What kind of essential question is this? And for a man like you, such jokes do not befit. It is obvious the cow is tied to the man; because the rope is in the man’s hand, and around the cow’s neck.

Farid said: A second question: If we cut the rope in the middle, will the cow go after the man, or the man after the cow?

Then the followers became a little concerned. They said: Now this is something to think over—not a joke. Because if you cut the rope, the cow will run away and the man will run after her.

Farid said: I tell you—the rope is not in the man’s hand; it is around the man’s neck. From outside it appears that the cow is tied to the man; from within, if you look, you will find the man is tied to the cow.

No—how will a wife bind a husband? How will a husband bind a wife? You want to be bound, and you do not want even to take the responsibility for wanting it—you put it on the other. Then being bound becomes easier: What can I do? People all around hold me—the world is vast, and it binds me.

The shopkeeper thinks customers bind him. The greedy believes money binds him. The lustful thinks a woman binds him. The worldly thinks the world binds him. No—no one binds you. You are cunning. Your cunning is deep. You are deceiving yourself—skilled deception. The other binds me, so what can I do—thus it becomes easier to remain bound.

We always blame the other. Someone abuses you—you say, This man made me angry. How will anyone make you angry? You speak of the impossible. It has never happened. You want to become angry—then the abuse finds meaning. If you do not want to be angry, the abuse becomes futile. A beautiful woman passes—you are bewitched. Is she bewitching you? You want to be bewitched. You see a diamond on the road—you pounce and pick it up. Did the diamond invite you, or were you walking with desire—and the desire jumped? Stop blaming the other, otherwise you can never be free. Because if another has bound you, how will you be free until the other frees you? And the others are infinite. Then freedom cannot be. If it is true, as you say—that the other has bound us—then there is no such possibility as moksha. You can never be free. The bondages will be endless—since the others are endless. And if this wife releases you—there are countless other women; someone else will bind you. What will you do? You will be naked of power—utterly helpless. Wherever you go, someone will bind you; some collar will be around your neck. If another has bound you, moksha is impossible.

Hence Kabir, Nanak, Farid—all the knowers make this truth the first step: make this absolutely clear, otherwise no journey begins—that you have bound yourself. Then there is possibility of freedom, because then you can break it. You are the bound, you can be the free. No one binds you, no one can bind you.

Then another point must be understood—very deep. Mahavira has said: No one can free you either. Worship as much as you like, recite as much as you like—no one can free you. Because if someone can free you, then someone can bind you. If another has not bound you, then the other cannot free you either.

Therefore Mahavira says: Do not fall into this illusion that someone else will liberate you. Even the greatest guru cannot free you. Freedom through another is possible only if you were bound by another.

Therefore Buddha says: The Buddha only points—where the bondage is; he cannot free you. You are bound; you yourself will be free. Mahavira can show how the bondage is cut, what this bondage is—but Mahavira cannot cut your bondage. And it is a blessing that no one else can cut it. Otherwise here Mahavira would cut it, and someone else would bind it again. If it can be cut, it can be tied. When it cannot be tied, it cannot be cut either.

The guru can give you the path, but you must walk. The guru can give you the method, but you must use it. The guru can indicate, but you must make the indication into your life. The guru can be a catalytic agent; in his presence you may awaken—but the awakening must be yours. And the great difficulty is... Kabir has said somewhere: To awaken one who is asleep is easy; but to awaken one who lies pretending to be awake—impossible! You are in that state... If you were completely asleep, you could be shaken awake. You are sleeping deliberately. You have drawn the sheet over your face, eyes closed. In every way you show that you are in deep sleep—and yet you are awake. How to awaken you? Sleep can be broken; how to break false sleep? You are deceiving. Self-deception has become almost your very nature.

Keeping these matters in mind, let us try to understand Kabir’s sutra.

Kabir is a villager, rustic. He has no grand philosophical vocabulary, but the deep experience of a simple rural heart—and the freshness of that experience. The symbols he chooses are the natural symbols of village life, yet their stroke is very deep. The more cultured a word becomes, the more dead it becomes. The cleaner, the more refined language becomes, the more it is painted, the more it becomes empty of life.

The language of the villager is as alive as the villager himself. Kabir’s language is very alive, and his symbols are straight and simple. In Hindustan, only Kabir stands comparable to Jesus.

Mahavira, Buddha, Krishna, Rama—all belong to a very refined world; pure, cultured, noble tradition. Kabir is utterly rustic—just like Jesus. Jesus is the son of a carpenter, Kabir a weaver. Jesus too uses the language of the village. And you may be surprised to know: the vast influence of Jesus across the world—half the world with Jesus—its cause is the freshness of his language.

The language of Mahavira and Buddha appears like paper flowers—discussions of very pure principles; but they do not wound the heart. They touch the intellect and scatter. The language of Kabir and Jesus is simple; it comes from experience, not from shastra. All their images are of experience.

Kabir said:

You yourself have forgotten your own Self. You bound yourself—and you blame others.

You yourself have forgotten your own Self. Like a dog in a palace of mirrors—wandering, barking—dying.

The story is told: an emperor made a great temple of glass. A vast hall lined with thousands of mirrors. A dog strayed inside by mistake. At night the doorkeeper closed the door; the dog remained within. He was in great trouble. Everywhere he looked there were thousands of dogs, for each mirror reflected one. Never before had he found himself amidst so many enemies. If one or two—he could fight and win. But they were in their thousands. Wherever he looked—they were there. Below, above—on every side. The dog panicked. He barked to frighten them.

Remember—whenever you try to frighten another, it is because of your own fear. First you are frightened—otherwise why would you want to frighten another? The frightened man wants to frighten the other. If the other is frightened, his own fear gets a little relief.

So remember—one who is truly fearless never frightens another. One who is himself afraid frightens others too. The ways of frightening can be very subtle. Someone may put a sword on your chest to frighten you. Someone else may frighten you by describing the entire arrangement of hell—that there will be flames, there will be fire, cauldrons of oil, and you will be thrown in them! The soldier frightens with the sword; your sadhus frighten with hell. Subtle devices—but your sadhu is also afraid, your soldier is also afraid. One who is not afraid—why would he frighten another?

We frighten the other for self-protection. That dog too did the same straightforward thing men do. He barked—wanted to scare them. But he got into great trouble. Because when he barked, those thousands of dogs also barked. And his own voice echoed and returned in the empty hall. His every hair must have trembled. There was no way to escape, nowhere to run. Where to run, when you are surrounded on every side—below and above! You may not understand the dog’s pain, but if you look at your own life—that same pain is there, and you will understand.

Like a dog in a palace of mirrors—wandering, barking—dying.

In the morning when the door was opened, the dog was found dead. No one had killed him. There was no one there to kill. The hall was empty. But his whole body was full of wounds—bloody. The blood was scattered all over the hall. What happened? He barked, he leapt, he crashed into the walls—killed himself by his own hand.

You yourself have forgotten your own Self.

And this is the story of life—yours too!

With whom are you angry? With whom are you infatuated? Against whom is your hatred? Have you ever noticed that all your relationships are like mirrors? Every relationship is a mirror. Because you will see only your own image. All the relationships you weave around yourself—they are all your own images. In them you do not see the other—you see yourself. Where your image looks good to you—a friend; where it looks bad—an enemy. Mine, and not mine! All your relationships—mirrors. They only reflect you; no one else.

Consider—an irritable person finds everywhere that people are insulting him. Someone laughs—he thinks they are laughing at me. Two people whisper—he believes they are talking about me. If you say nothing and stand silent, he thinks they are silent because of me. Whatever you do—he will see his own image.

A friend of mine—he has only one son. The boy said to me: Now I am in a fix. I see no way out. You must do something! Make my father understand. If I dress properly, he says, All right—play the prince. When I die you will learn. If I dress simply, not properly, he says, So we are already dead? For now at least dress well; later this state will come anyway. That youngster said: There is no way. I have tried everything. But the conclusion he draws is always what he wants to draw. And his conclusion is perfectly logical—there is no flaw either way.

The angry man will generate anger out of every situation. The greedy finds that everyone around him is ready to rob him—friends, sons, husband-wife, relatives—all intent on picking his pocket. It is the greed reflected in the mirror.

The lustful man finds the whole world determined to drag him into lust. The renunciate finds the whole world pointing him to renunciation—Leave, escape!

What you are—that same resonance you hear all around. The whole world is a mirror—the palace of glass that Kabir speaks of.

Like a dog in a palace of mirrors—wandering, barking—dying.

And in the end, when you are finished—and your whole life you go on finishing yourself—in the end you will think: All of them together destroyed me, killed me.

In olden times—and even today among the tribes—if someone falls ill, they go to find out who has cast a spell to make me fall ill. You get sick—but he goes to the shaman to ask: Who is it who sent the sickness against me? The logic is: If illness has come, there must be a sender. If I am unhappy, someone must be giving me grief. If I am troubled, somebody must be troubling me. The arithmetic seems simple: without someone troubling me, how can I be troubled? But you know nothing of the human mind. Even if you are left utterly alone and all your needs are cared for—still this will be your state.

In the West many experiments were done. One experiment they call sense-deprivation—a very valuable experiment. Many psychologists worked on it. They created womb-like chambers, where every facility exists. Food is transmitted directly into the blood through a tube—there is no need to do anything. When thirst arises there is an automatic arrangement—water reaches the body, food reaches the body. Total darkness. No sound. They created the exact chemical environment a child has in the womb. Such tubs were made with that same chemical fluid, and the person floats in it, sleeps in it. All around the tub—darkness. No worry for food or water. No discomfort—all comfort. But within fifteen minutes a person becomes restless. Within fifteen minutes he begins to signal: Take me out! Longer experiments were done. Some had the courage—and a twenty-one day experiment was conducted. And during those twenty-one days they were asked to send signals from time to time. There were buttons with them. When they felt angry—press the red button so the observer above notes: now he is angry. When they felt fear—press the green button. When jealousy—press this button. Buttons were placed for all emotions. And the astonishing thing: there is no one there to bother them, yet at times a person gets angry. No cause for anger. He himself is puzzled: Why am I angry? But he is angry nevertheless.

Anger, greed, attachment—all are inner states. They have nothing to do with people outside. People outside are like pegs on which you hang your clothes. When you hang your anger on them—they are the peg; your greed, your lust—you hang them on pegs. All of it arises from within you. And when you fill up with desolation and everything is wasted, when death approaches, you say: The whole world ruined me. What I could have become—I was not allowed to become. What brilliance and light could have dawned from my life—the world destroyed it! Is this world your enemy?

There is no reason the world should be your enemy. Why would anyone be eager to destroy you? Everyone wants to fulfill himself, and everyone thinks all others are eager to destroy him. Whom are you eager to destroy? You want to fulfill yourself—others want to fulfill themselves. But in relationships there is nothing but mirror—you see only your own image.

I have heard: there was an exhibition of modern paintings. Modern art is irrational; it is difficult to derive meaning from it. And Picasso says: Meaning is not there—how will you derive it?

Someone asked Picasso: What do your paintings mean? He said: Those trees outside—what do they mean? These flowers—what do they mean? The waterfall murmuring—what does it mean? When these have no meaning, why throw me into trouble? When God is meaningless, why trap a poor fellow like me? I am meaningless too.

So modern art is utterly meaningless—just like nature. Looking at it you can feel pleased, sad, unhappy, happy—but there is no meaning there.

Mulla Nasruddin went to see that exhibition. He got bothered looking—everything beyond his understanding. No beginning, no end. Not even clear whether they were hung straight or reversed. Finally he stopped before one piece and said: This is too much—what is the meaning of this?

The curator said: Sir, you are standing before a mirror. This is not a painting.

All life stands before a mirror. Therefore behave with relationship just as you do with a mirror. Relationship is just as delicate as a mirror—if it falls, it breaks. And once a relationship breaks, it is as difficult to mend as a mirror. Even if you join the pieces, the cracks remain. If love breaks once, you may try a thousand devices to mend it—even if you mend it, the same thing never returns.

Relationship is exactly like a mirror; just as fragile—and it shows only you. You stand before every relationship. Do not blame the other. If life is wasted, know that you yourself have wasted it. And the sooner you understand that no one else has a hand in destroying you, the sooner the process of creation will begin in your life.

Like a dog in a palace of mirrors—wandering, barking—dying.

You yourself have forgotten your own Self.

Such is your condition!

Seeing his own lion’s form reflected in the well’s water, he leapt at the image—and fell in.

And similarly: a lion, seeing his reflection at the river’s edge, pounced and leapt! An enemy cannot be tolerated! He died.

Whenever you pounce—pause a little. Think for a moment: upon whom are you pouncing? Is someone really there—or are you pouncing upon your own reflection?

Someone criticizes you—you instantly pounce.

Have you ever noticed: slander hurts because it is true—otherwise it would not hurt. If someone says something utterly false about you—can you not laugh? But if someone says something true—something you are hiding, and he exposes it—you pounce. Slander hurts not because of the slanderer; it hurts because your covered truths begin to be uncovered before you.

If you thoughtfully consider the slanderer, you will usually find that ninety-nine times out of a hundred he is right. And the reason is clear: it is always easier to see another with detachment. To see oneself with detachment is very difficult. For seeing there must be some distance. Others see you in a way you cannot see yourself. You do not know how others see you.

The psychologists say: If everyone became real and truthful, as the religious leaders teach—that everyone speak only truth—the world would not last four days. Because if people began to say the truth as they think about you, everyone would be enemies. Finding a friend would be difficult. Your friend appears a friend only because he does not say what he thinks—or he says it behind your back.

You can observe one thing. If someone comes to you with a problem, you are able to give him precious advice. But if the same problem arises in your life, you cannot apply your own advice. Why?

It is easy to advise another because there is distance. The greatest surgeon will not operate on his own wife—his hand will tremble; the distance is short. With another’s wife he has no difficulty—what has he to do with her? He performs the operation as if doing a post-mortem—alive or dead, no difference. But with his own wife there is attachment—children, family—what if she dies? What if I make a mistake? He is frightened; his hand shakes. Therefore, even the greatest doctor, if his own wife is to be operated on, calls another surgeon. Even the greatest doctor, if he himself must be diagnosed, goes to another. Strange! You know everything—why need another to diagnose? Diagnose yourself. But the distance is even less than with your wife. And about your wife there may be some unconscious wish that she die—who does not want to be rid of the nuisance! Perhaps the fear behind the trembling is also: What if I actually kill her? Because in the unconscious it is difficult to find a husband who has not thought ten or five times: If only the wife would be gone... It is hard to find a wife who has not thought ten times: How to get rid of him so the hassle ends. When she actually dies—you will weep, beat your chest.

That has a reason too. When someone dies and you cry so much, in that crying there is a sense of guilt—because you had wanted her dead, and now she is dead. You feel you are also responsible. If you had never wished someone dead, you would take his death lightly—you would have no guilt, little repentance. Repentance is in direct proportion to the sense of guilt.

The father dies; the son weeps much, because while he lived, never did he touch his feet; never sat by him and spoke words of love. Now there is no chance. Now this guilt will remain on the heart forever. There is no way to untie it. But the son who served the father, pressed his feet, listened to him, cared for him, loved him—he will not go mad. The father will die and he will understand: all die. Death is natural. I too will die.

But if you have done something with the father that you ought not have done, your repentance will be heavy. A strange thing—the son who beats his chest loudly over his father, the society thinks: How much he is suffering! And the son who sits quietly, bearing the sorrow—people say: A rogue! The father died and he sits quiet! But the situation is this: the one who sits quietly—he has no guilt. The one who is beating his chest—he is compensating, seeking a substitute. If he had put that much energy into pressing the father’s feet, there would be no meaning in this weeping.

So that unconscious fear may also be there—that I may kill her. Therefore the hand trembles. With oneself there is not even that much distance. When I am ill, diagnosis cannot be done by myself. The fear is greater—that I may miss.

Mulla Nasruddin went to his doctor. The doctor said: Why do you worry? When I am here, the illness will be cured. And to reassure you—I tell you I too have suffered from this same illness. Don’t worry at all.

Nasruddin said: My worry does not end—because you may have suffered from this illness, but your doctor must have been someone else.

It is hard to treat oneself; therefore one’s own knowledge does not work in one’s own life.

Hence Kabir says: What skill of yours! You had a lamp in your hand and fell into the well! The lamp was for others. One who has a lamp for himself—he becomes a Buddha. One who has knowledge for himself—he becomes lit within. His skill is endless. But our lamp is for others; for ourselves we are blind.

Therefore it may well be that your slanderer speaks truer about you than you can about yourself. Kabir is right: Keep your slanderer close. And think over his words. You will be astonished—the things that sting are the ones that are true. Truth pricks. If someone speaks falsehoods about you—no harm.

It is told of Oscar Wilde, the great Western writer—he wrote an article slandering another writer. That man came to him and said: Why are you breaking enmities like this? Why do you write such lies about me? Oscar Wilde said: Be quiet. If I begin to write the truth, you will be ruined. They say the man slipped away silently—and complained no more.

If someone speaks lies about you—it can be endured. Truth hurts. Whatever stings—know that some mirror showed you your face. And you feel like breaking the mirror.

I have heard: a woman who was very ugly became an enemy of mirrors. Wherever she saw a mirror, she instantly broke it. It was her mania, her madness. She was taken to a psychologist for treatment. She said: Do whatever you like, but I cannot tolerate mirrors, because because of mirrors I become ugly. Because of mirrors I become ugly! If there were no mirror I would be beautiful; when a mirror appears, I become ugly.

Why would the mirror want to make you ugly? What has the mirror to do? What interest? The mirror simply tells what you are. All relationships are mirrors.

And what that woman was doing—people are doing the same regarding relationships. They break relationships. The sannyasin runs away, leaving his wife—This cannot be tolerated! But the wife was the mirror—she revealed your lust. Breaking the mirror—what will happen? You are as mad as that woman. What will you do in the Himalayas? Lust will go with you; only the mirror will be left behind. The danger is greater in the Himalayas—because when there is no mirror, you will think yourself beautiful. But after thirty years—or after thirty births—if you return from the Himalayas, the moment a mirror appears, you will become ugly again. You were ugly already.

Therefore the real sannyasin does not run away from relationships—he awakens in them. He looks carefully into the mirror. And the real sannyasin will thank his relatives: You showed me, awakened me, made me aware of what I am. The false sannyasin runs; the true sannyasin awakens.

Therefore I say again and again: Do not run—awaken! Make it your sutra. Do not run from any relationship, because every relationship awakens you. Awaken—and transform yourself. What will you gain by breaking the mirror? The day you are transformed, these very mirrors will give you another news. When you are beautiful, the mirror will declare you beautiful. The mirror is utterly impartial.

Seeing his own lion’s form reflected in the well’s water, he leapt at the image—and fell in.

Likewise, an elephant, seeing his face in a crystal slab, charged—and broke his tusks.

The monkey’s fist—he does not know the taste; yet he runs door to door, ranting.

Kabir’s symbols are so plain. It often happens that a monkey puts his hand in a pot to take out something to eat—chickpeas, or something. He makes a fist. And naturally—he makes as big a fist as he can. We do the same.

There is certainly kinship between monkey and man. Darwin cannot be wrong. When there is a chance to fill the fist, who would make a small one? We would call him foolish. A clever monkey will take as much as he can. But once the fist is full and the mouth of the pot is narrow, the hand cannot come out. The monkey hangs on to the pot and suffers—runs from door to door, leaps from house to house—but he will not open the fist. He screams and shrieks—certainly in pain—and perhaps he thinks there is some trick in the pot that has trapped him. But he will not open the fist.

This is your condition. You have clenched a big fist; you do not open it—and you go on knocking at every door: I want peace, bliss, life! And you are caught in one pot. Because of it, great misery.

Catchers of monkeys exploit this foolishness. They bury the pot in the ground so the monkey cannot even run; neither can he open the fist. If you will not open it, how will the monkey? Is he less intelligent than you? He tries to pull the clenched fist out—that is exactly what you are doing.

People come to me; they say: Let everything go on as it is—and let the mind become peaceful. Let the fist remain clenched—and let the mind be at peace. Tell us such a method. Let everything continue as it goes; let nothing be disturbed—and let the mind be peaceful. The mind is restless because right where the fist is clenched there is pain.

A wealthy man comes to me—he often says: I will leave, one day I will leave everything—but until then, give me some method! One day I’ll renounce all—but till then... Till then at least do not make me suffer restlessness! As if I am making him suffer! Give me some method so that till then the mind becomes peaceful. And I told him: If there were a method for peace till then—when you are not leaving in your unpeace, how will you leave in your peace? Then you will say: Now there is no need. If the monkey, with his fist clenched, could pull his hand out of the pot—if with a clenched fist the pot became weightless—then would he be mad to open his fist? He is not opening even in such suffering. You are in such pain and do not open your fist—will you open it in comfort?

Have you ever heard of anyone leaving the world because of happiness? People do not leave in suffering. While suffering, they do not leave. Let the greatest suffering be there—they still do not leave. Will anyone leave because of happiness? Impossible. If now it looks impossible, then how will it be possible then?

He says: Whatever you say is right. But at present it is not convenient to leave. Should I go on writhing like this? He cannot sleep at night. When I am a guest at his house he does not let me sleep either. He sits awake. Out of courtesy I sit and talk. At last his wife said to me: This will not do. I made the same mistake once—go to sleep. He does not sleep the whole night—numbers are so large, accounts of money.

Once, when he picked me up from the airport, he was very sad. On the way he said: This time there has been great loss—five lakhs lost in the last few days. He is a speculator. His wife was also with us; I was sitting between them. She pressed my hand and said: Do not fall into his talk. At home I asked: What is the matter? His wife said: There has been no loss at all—there has been a gain of five lakhs. But it should have been ten. So he goes around announcing: I have lost five lakhs.

This is the monkey’s fist—and he wants peace! The profit that was in his imagination—because it did not happen, he calls it loss.

You too, when you come near death, will count as loss everything you thought should have happened but did not. What you were to receive—what you were worthy of, entitled to by birth—you did not get.

You will have to open the fist. Monkeyness will not do. And sannyas means exactly this: to be free of monkeyness. It is so obvious that you are troubled due to too much greed; troubled due to too much anger. You have gathered so many desires that you have no way to hold them. Your fist is small—and you have stuffed too much into it. For need the fist is enough; but the moment need becomes desire, the fist becomes too small. The larger you make your fist, the deeper you get stuck in the world’s pot.

Kabir says:

The monkey’s fist—he knows not the taste; he runs door to door, ranting.

He ran from house to house, wailing—but kept the pot hanging. The pain was heavy—but the greed was heavier. Remember this.

Wherever you are, the pain there is less than your hope of pleasure. There is no pleasure—only hope. Man is bound by hope: If not today, then tomorrow—a trick will be found, a method will be found, a miracle, someone’s blessing—everything will be fine. By hope! Do not let go. If once you take your hand out, who knows whether you will get a chance to put it in again. Pots are few—monkeys are many. Each monkey has his own pot. If you leave yours, another monkey will put his hand in. You leave the suffering, another will suffer—what will you do then? So keep it hanging. Suffer. Even if you cannot sleep—no harm. Even if life becomes restlessness and hell—fine. But hope—someday, somehow, some method will come! Pray, worship, go to the temple—but carry your pot with you!

Listen to the prayers of people in the temple. What are they praying? They are praying that the clenched fist be pulled out of the pot.

Kahlil Gibran has written: I heard thousands of prayers; I found they meant only this—that two and two should not make four; something impossible should happen.

Kabir says:

Says Kabir—oh parrot of the maiden, who has trapped you?

Trappers who catch parrots use a simple trick. They tie a rope between two trees. In the rope they stick small sticks. Parrots sit upon those sticks. With their weight the stick flips—and the parrots hang upside down. The parrot thinks: I am trapped! He fears—if I let go I will fall and die. He tries to sit upright. But the rope is thin; he cannot sit on it—his weight will make him fall. The more he flails, the more he is trapped. And in that panic he entirely forgets: I have wings—I can fly. There is no question of falling. But the headstand traps him.

Beware of headstands! People are standing upside down—and then they are afraid.

Kabir says:

Says Kabir—parrot of the maiden, who has trapped you?

Who has trapped you, fool? Let go—you yourself are holding the rope. The moment you release, you are free.

Bondage is not the problem—grasping is. Moksha is not freedom from bondage—it is release from grasping. Bondage is outside; grasping is within. Another may bind—but only you can grasp; no one else can.

Wherever you have grasped—you are bound. And now you are afraid. You have forgotten your wings—that you can fly; there is no fear of falling. But the process of bondage has become so long that you have forgotten you were ever free—that you have flown in the sky.

If parrots live in cages too long, they cannot fly; memory of wings is lost. If the wings are restrained from flying for long, their capacity grows feeble. That is what has happened.

Kabir’s satire is deep. He says: O parrot of the maiden, who has trapped you? No one has trapped you. You have grasped a few wrong things—and you suffer.

Therefore the very essence of religion is: drop grasping—clinging. Do not clutch at anything. Live everything—do not cling to anything. Live at home, in the shop, in the marketplace—do not clutch; keep the fist open. Live the whole world; it is to be lived. By living it, maturity grows; by living it, understanding grows; experience brings wisdom. Live—but live wakefully. Do not clutch. Live free. Move through the world. There is not a single experience you must avoid. All are to be passed through—because only by passing through them does the hidden potential of awareness awaken. All experiences—good and bad—are to be traversed. But pass through them awake—so that no experience becomes a prison, so that you are not confined in any experience.

As of now that is what has happened. Once you get an experience, you are bound in it, then you want to repeat it again and again. Clinging has arisen. Wherever you taste a little joy—you clench the fist. You distrust life so much! You do not know that the life which gave this experience—can give greater experiences too. What is the hurry to bind? The life that has brought you here—will lead you to vaster shores as well. What is the hurry to build a house here? You do not even take the first step on the path before you pitch your tent. Rest, pause—the night’s shelter is not wrong. But in the morning—move on.

The rishis of the Vedas said: Keep moving! Keep moving! Do not stop—pause wisely.

Buddha used to say to his bhikkhus: Charaiveti, charaiveti—keep moving, keep moving! Pause for rest—do not build a home. Wherever you form a grip, a home is built. And where a home is built, soon a prison is constructed.

There is an old Buddhist story. A man took sannyas. He received initiation from his guru. He asked: At the time of initiation, give me some understanding that I may remember always. The guru said: Remember one thing—never keep a cat. He was puzzled—this man seems mad. We have set out in search of knowledge—moksha, nirvana, God—and the man from whom we took initiation talks nonsense: never keep a cat!

Then the guru died. And since he had never understood, he thought the old man was babbling—had gone senile. He was over sixty. Two kinds of men were not reliable in the old days—those who had gone beyond sixty. Today those who sit on the ‘chair’ are unreliable—when they get the chair, their heads go. The old man died. This sannyasin had only one loincloth—when he hung it to dry the rats would gnaw it. He asked the villagers: What to do? They said: Keep a cat. He completely forgot the guru had said, Do not keep a cat. He had spoken from experience, for the same story had happened to him. The story is the same—only the characters change.

There seemed no harm—he kept a cat. Trouble began—because the cat needed food, milk. The rats were finished by the cat—but the cat came! He asked the villagers. They said: What is the problem? We'll gift you a cow. Behind the cat came the cow. How long will the villagers bring grass? They said: There is land around the temple—do a little farming. He started to farm. Sometimes he fell ill—someone had to water. Farming took time; he had to cook for himself. The villagers said: Get married. A suitable girl was there—ready. They got him married. Then children were born. He forgot everything—the initiation, the sannyas—all finished. Now there were children to teach, the family to manage, the farm expanded, business spread...

Close to death he suddenly remembered—like waking from sleep—Goodness! The old man had said it right: Never keep a cat. With the cat, everything comes. The first step you take—then it becomes difficult.

In a house I was staying, two little boys were sitting on the stairs talking—the bigger one perhaps four years old, the smaller two and a half. The elder was giving wisdom to the younger. The younger asked: What must I beware of at school? It was his time to go. The elder said: Remember one thing—if you avoid it, you are saved. The younger said: Tell me. He said: C-A-T—cat! When this is taught at school—never learn it. If you learn it, the other things will have to be learned. Stick on this—once you learn this, then big words come; then there is no end. I am stuck—be careful!

Hearing the children, I remembered the story: Right—C-A-T—cat. The one who avoids the cat—avoids everything!

Grasp one thing—and the grasping begins. Then the second must be grasped, then the third—an endless chain.

Live—pass through experiences. Clutching is not an experience. Stay open—there is an infinity of experience—what is the hurry to clutch? And do not long for repetition. An experience once had—do not ask for it again and again. To ask again means you are ready to be stuck—you have lost trust in life. Much still remains—the life leads to where Paramatma is, if you keep moving. If you stop, you build your house at some petty, useless place—on a heap of rubbish.

Therefore Kabir says:

Says Kabir—parrot of the maiden, who has trapped you?

No one has trapped you. You yourself have kept the cat. If you wish—you can be free. For freedom only the wish to be free is needed.

And what is this grasping? It needs to be understood. A longing—let me be free. And behind this longing, naturally, understanding begins to arise: Why am I bound?

The Siddhas have said: You are not bound—you have bound yourself. If you want to be free, you can be free this very moment. Not a moment need be wasted. The intensity of understanding—the urgency, the flame—can turn the whole past to ash. This very moment you can be free.

Enough for today.