Suno Bhai Sadho #7

Before we enter Kabir’s verse, let a few things be understood.

First—and utterly fundamental—that the veil is upon your eyes, not on Paramatma. And the veil has been placed by you, not by anyone else. Had someone else put it there, you would not be capable of removing it; then someone else would have to lift it. And if the veil were over Paramatma, you still could not lift it—because Paramatma is vast; His veil too would be vast, beyond your capacity. The veil is on your eyes, and you yourself have drawn it. This is the first primary thing to understand. That is why Kabir uses the symbol of the ghunghat—the face-veil.

A ghunghat is drawn by the person himself, and over his own eyes. And this is easy. Because once your eyes are hidden, everything is hidden. If one wanted to hide the Himalayas a very great curtain would be needed. But a tiny veil—close the eyes—and the Himalayas disappear. So simple. And because you yourself have drawn it, whenever you wish, whenever you decide, you can lift it. There is no hindrance, no obstacle—except yourself. Let this sink within as deeply as possible. For ordinarily we think, the veil lies over truth itself; then the journey becomes immensely difficult. A weak person could hardly be expected to succeed. And if the veil were over truth, you could try a million methods—how would you lift it? And if the veil were over truth, once someone lifted it, it would be lifted for all. This is the difference and distance between science and religion.

When Einstein discovers a truth, every scientist who follows, every student of science, need not rediscover it—the veil is lifted! You can read it in a book; that is enough. The labor for which Einstein struggled for years, an ordinary student manages in hours.

Buddha lifted the veil, Kabir lifted the veil—then what need is there for you to do anything? Just understand a little, and the matter is finished. In a school, there can be study—of science; not of religion. For the veil Buddha lifted was the veil over his own eyes. He did not lift any veil off truth itself; otherwise it would have been lifted for all—no one in the world would remain ignorant. Then, as Einstein’s principles are written in books and people read them and need not search again, so too Buddha’s principle would be written—and reading would suffice.

It may surprise you to know: scripture is possible in science, not in religion. How will there be scripture in religion? What another lifts will not lift your veil. And what another has seen—how will it become your seeing? So long as the veil is upon your eyes, no matter how much Buddha lifts, nothing at all is lifted. It is the veil on his eyes. Therefore no tradition can truly be built in religion. Tradition, as such, cannot belong to religion. And yet the unhappy fact is that great traditions have been created around it.

Scripture cannot belong to religion. But religion is the scripture. Religion cannot be learned from another; it must be found by oneself. Yet we keep learning from others. Therefore all around religion a tremendous falsity has accumulated. No other subject has as much untruth piled around it as religion does. Why? And why around religion—which is a search for truth—has so much untruth gathered? So many scriptures, doctrines, philosophies, opinions, beliefs—why around religion? Because we have forgotten the fundamental point that the veil, the ghunghat, is on your eyes. Every person must lift it anew. And every person must lift it afresh—from the beginning. What another has lifted makes no difference to you.

Buddha will awaken, will see—and will be lost to this world; his vision will be lost with him; his seeing will be lost with him. You will awaken, you will see, you will recognize; in your life the drum of anahad bliss will resound—but it will not be heard by anyone else. Only you will hear it. In your life the descent of infinite light will happen—but even one sitting beside you in the neighborhood may not come to know it. Even a wife will not know that a ray of light has entered her husband’s heart. A son will not know that his father has awakened. People may be sitting all around you, and no one will even suspect that you have awakened. Because you have lifted the veil from your eyes, not from theirs. And no one can lift another’s veil.

Understand the second point: this veil is not external. If it were external, someone else could jerk it away. If this sleep were external, anyone could shake you and awaken you. This sleep is within. Shake as much as you wish—the body will be shaken; your consciousness will not. And this veil is within. This ghunghat is not the ordinary veil that women draw over their eyes. That anyone can lift. This veil, this ghunghat, is over the inner eye—what we call the third eye.

It is so deep within that no one else can enter there. Only when you yourself wish, only when you are aflame with longing, when your own thirst stirs you; only when you see the futility of life; only when you see how, because of this veil, you keep colliding with walls on every side, life bleeding from all directions; because of this veil the door is nowhere to be found—every door turns into a wall; because of this veil nothing happens in life except quarrel, sorrow, hell; not even a single moment comes when you can say, ‘Anand bhayo re’—Joy has happened… Not a single moment comes when you dance and say, Blessed am I: whatever suffering I went through was enough of a price for this one moment of ecstasy; nothing was lost, there was no damage. I have gained so much that the sufferings are nothing. And if I had to endure them again, I would—for this one moment of bliss. But nothing of that sort happens.

It does not happen because no storm raging outside can blow your veil away, no outer fire can burn it. Not even by accident will your veil be moved. It is within. And it is not upon these eyes by which you look—it is upon the inner eye.

There is an inner vision; the moment it opens, your whole life is transformed.

There is an outer vision; even if it remains open, life somehow goes on—the life itself does not change. Even if it is closed, life still goes on. The blind somehow manage; the sighted also manage. Deeper than these eyes is that inner eye; that alone opens when we say of someone: he has become a Buddha, a Jina, awakened, has found awareness—and then everything is transformed! Because when you awaken within, your entire cosmos changes. You see what you see because of how you are.

One night Mulla Nasruddin was arrested. He had drunk a great deal. He hassled and swore at the constable. Still, the policeman dragged him to the station. Even upon entering the station, he was very indignant and said, What is this misbehavior? Why have you brought me here? The inspector said, For liquor. Nasruddin said, Oh, then that’s different! He brightened. So when do we start?

A man soaked in wine—what meanings he will see in words will be his own meanings. A man filled with the lust for liquor, so unconscious—whatever he hears, he will draw out his own meaning from it. His meaning will be the meaning of his stupor. Naturally so.

What you see is not what is. You see what you want to see. You hear what you want to hear. You seek what you want to seek. Fast one day, and then walk along the same street you walk every day: the sweet-shops you never noticed will appear for the first time. They alone will appear; all else will fade. Restaurants, hotels, sweet-shops, tea-stalls—they will stand out in bold relief to your eyes.

Fast for seven days, then go out: you will hardly notice shoe-stores and cloth-shops in the market; only places of food will be visible. For your consciousness within is full of hunger. Hunger is now seeing; you are no longer seeing. Hence, drishti is srishti—vision is creation.

There is an ancient story. In Maharashtra there was a saint, Ramdas. He wrote the story of Ram. He kept writing, and each day he would recite it to people. It is said the story was so lovely that even Hanuman himself would come to hear it. He would sit hidden among the crowd. If Hanuman comes to listen, then indeed there is some secret to the narration—for Hanuman himself had seen the story firsthand. There was nothing new to see. But when Ramdas told it, the matter had a certain flavor—so much so that the eyewitness himself would come to listen. But at one point Hanuman could not bear it. Because it was a description of Hanuman. Ramdas said, Hanuman went to the Ashoka grove in Lanka. And he saw that white flowers were blooming all around. Hanuman said, Stop. Correct that. The flowers were red, not white. Ramdas said, What fool is this who wants a correction? Then Hanuman revealed himself. He said, Now I must declare who I am: I am Hanuman himself—the one whose story you are telling. And I say the flowers there were red, not white. Ramdas said, Whoever you are, sit quietly! The flowers were white.

The quarrel grew intense. And then there was only one way—to go to Ram. Hanuman said, Then let’s go to Ram. Whatever he decides shall be final. For this is too much! I myself, the eyewitness, am present and I tell you what I saw! You are telling my story—and that too after thousands of years. And for such a tiny point you insist. What will it harm to write that the flowers were red?

But Ramdas said, It is not a question of harm; what is true is true. The flowers were white.

The dispute went to Ram, and Ram said to Hanuman, Be quiet. Ramdas speaks rightly. At that time you were so full of anger, your eyes were filled with blood—so flowers appeared red to you. Ramdas has no anger. He looks from afar, in detachment. The flowers were white. I too know it.

When you look through anger, things are different. Naturally, when you look through greed, things are different. When you look through desire, lust, then a beauty will appear in things which is not there. The seer spreads himself over the seen. Your vision becomes your creation. When you change and your vision changes, instantly the whole creation changes. Where you saw something precious, you will now see rubbish. That which you left as worthless may now appear essential; and that which you clutched to your breast as essential may appear worthless.

Life is the expanse of your vision. And if your inner eye sleeps, you are as if you are not within at all. All is asleep. Because that inner eye sleeps, you cannot see the inner dimension of life. The outer eye can see only the outer. The inner eye will see the inner. You see me—but if you see only with the outer eye, you will see my body; you will not see me. Only if you see with the inner eye will you truly see me. Then this body will remain just the house, the garment outside, and the presence of the inner consciousness will reveal itself. If you hear only with your outer ears, you will hear my words; but if your inner ear is awake, you will understand my meaning. For the word is the shell, the body; meaning is the soul.

The deeper you are, the deeper you will see, the deeper you will hear, the deeper your whole experiencing will be. If you are shallow, experience cannot go deep.

A Zen story: a Master went to a disciple. The disciple was sitting outside. The Master asked, What is truth? The disciple answered by making a fist. The Master turned back and said, The water is too shallow—great ships cannot anchor here. The disciple was greatly pained; he had replied with much thought. There was the mistake. He had heard that when this Master asked questions he did not want answers in words. He had heard an old story: the Master went to a certain disciple, he made a fist, and the Master said, Right—because a fist means One; not five, One; not five elements, the One element; not five senses, the One Atman. He had heard such stories, so he too made a fist—but his fist was false; within it there was not One. Inside that fist there were five. For a fist can be only as deep as the experience behind it. He knew that the five were true. The talk of One he had merely heard—borrowed, stale, not his own. So the Master said, The harbor is very shallow, big ships cannot anchor here. The disciple was tormented.

Years later the Master came again. He made a fist again. The Master said, Good! Much digging! You have deepened the water. Now the ship can anchor.

Onlookers were puzzled because both times the same thing happened—the fist was made the first time and the second. They asked the Master, We do not understand; you have made a mystery of it. Why come again after twenty years for the same fist?

The Master said, This time the fist holds One, not five. Then the fist looked closed, within it was open. Now the fist is closed outside and within. Now his fist has meaning. Now this fist is not a symbol, it is experience.

The words are the same, the symbols are the same—but the moment you change, the meaning of your words changes—your manner of living, the fragrance of your life changes. Everything looks as before, and yet nothing remains the same. On the surface all will be as it is today—you will go to the shop, you will work at home, you will care for children, hunger will come and you will eat, sleep will come and you will sleep—on the surface all remains—first fist! But within, everything is transformed—the second fist! You will be transformed. And with your transformation, all meanings of life, the poetry of life, the whole insight into life will change.

When the inner eye opens, matter no longer appears. Or, if matter appears, it becomes transparent. That which is hidden within matter—Paramatma—becomes visible; matter becomes His transparent shell.

Hold these two things in mind.

The veil is not upon truth—it is upon your own eyes; therefore the ghunghat has not been drawn by anyone else. If another could draw it, man would be a slave forever—for then it would be lifted whenever that other wished. But man’s Atman is supremely free. This is its grandeur. You yourself have drawn it. If you have strayed, it is you who have strayed; if you have erred, you have erred knowingly. And therefore it is easy to return to the right path. The day you wish, that very day you can return.

Second: the veil is not upon these outer eyes; the veil is upon the inner eye. Keep these in mind; then enter Kabir’s sutras.

Lift the veil, he says, and you will meet your Beloved.

For Kabir, Paramatma is the Beloved, the dear One, the Lover.

When truth is seen through the eyes of love, truth is no longer a dry, barren philosophical concept; truth is the Beloved. Then only That is dear; nothing else remains dear. And wherever That is, everything there becomes dear.

Mark this well: if you seek truth as a dry concept—as science seeks—it is a dry search. The seeker does not get soaked in it. The seeker remains the same. No inner transformation comes—no moistness, no tenderness. The seeker remains dry.

A philosopher seeks truth; he collects arguments, builds nets of great doctrines, subjects everything to the examinations of thought—and his life remains dry. He is like a tree on which green leaves never appear; flowers never bloom. Dry branches—nothing grows. The heap of scripture grows, the webs of words grow—and the life within dries up.

Even if you listen to a philosopher’s words they will taste like desert. All dry, scorching. You will feel nowhere the rising of life’s greenery through them.

Kabir is not a philosopher—Kabir is a lover. There is great rasa—juice—in his words. And that rasa indicates that his words have arisen after being dipped in the inner stream of nectar.

Hence we have called the rishi a kavi. In Sanskrit, rishi and kavi originally meant the same. Slowly we had to separate the meanings—because there are also those who write poetry without knowing truth. Their poems may be lovely, but have no soul within. Inside they are empty. Outside there is much color and decoration; within, no life. The house is beautiful but there is no resident. The body is perfect, but the life-bird has flown—or perhaps was never there.

In the West, even when they carry the dead, they carry them well adorned. A woman dies, yet they paint lipstick on her lips, kohl on her lashes, rouge upon her cheeks—the dead woman looks very alive.

Many poets’ poems are like this; within there is no soul, though the surface is richly adorned. So keep one thing in mind: even if you like a poet’s poem, do not go searching for the poet, or you will be greatly disappointed. The poem seemed lofty—and the poet will seem utterly ordinary: no height, no depth. If you love the poem, do not go to the poet. For there is no person there—only a skill, a technique. He knows rhythm, meter, words, language; he can weave them in such a way that an illusion of music arises. But it is all on the surface—lipstick upon a corpse; kohl on dead eyes. The woman appears beautiful—as if she has just returned from a journey to Kashmir. But within all is dead. Do not fall in love with such a woman. There is nothing to do with her except to bury her.

If you fall in love with the poem, do not go to the poet; otherwise you will be in trouble—for once you see the poet, the poem too will seem futile.

In Urdu there have been great shayars, and they have spoken of great heights; but do not go in search of those men. You will find them inferior to yourself. This is the difference between kavi and rishi. The poet you will always find smaller than his poem; the rishi you will always find greater than his song. When you go to the rishi, having heard his song, you will discover that the song was nothing—and if we had remained content with the song we would have missed an opportunity. The source from which the song arose is infinite; the song was only a wave, a small cloud that drifted over your house and rained—a poem is like that. And this is the ocean—from which infinite clouds can arise and rain upon infinite homes.

A rishi always finds that what he wanted to say, he could not.

A rishi always finds that what he said became smaller than what he wanted to say.

The rishi has truth. Truth is bigger than words. Whenever truth is brought into words, it is as if one tried to fit a vast sky into a narrow space. Very difficult. And the thrill of bliss in a rishi’s words is not merely the polishing of language. That ripple of bliss gives a little news of the heart from which those words have sprung. As when a gust of wind passes through a garden laden with flowers—it will carry a little fragrance along. The traveler on the road will also be surrounded by that gust; a little fragrance will touch him. That fragrance is merely the hint that a great garden is nearby. The slight coolness in the gust is a glimpse of a lake close by.

Kabir is a rishi. What he has spoken in the mode of poetry is greater than poetry. And when a poet looks at existence, truth is no longer dry, it becomes full of rasa. Poetry is that way of seeing life which is like a lover seeing his beloved. And you may find his beloved to be nothing—but to the lover she is all. The lover does not merely see his beloved; he creates her.

Kahlil Gibran has written somewhere that the lover sees in his beloved that which she would be if God’s will were fulfilled. The lover sees in his beloved the infinite possibility of the woman; he sees today that which she could become tomorrow—if God’s will be fulfilled. He does not see the flower before him; he sees the flower that can bloom from it. He sees all possibilities present. He sees the whole future as the present.

A father sees the same in his son—not what is, but what can be. Hence people are annoyed: every father talks of his son and people say, Stop it! For people see nothing in that son, and the father sees everything. Every father sees everything in his son. And then sons turn out ordinary.

What does the father see? He sees what the son will be if he grows rightly—he has a fore-vision of him. But if the son strays, it will not happen. And sons do stray. The father is proven false. But what the father saw through the eyes of love—could have been.

Every mother sees the supreme in her child. He can be the supreme. It is a possibility. This pebble-like child, with a little polishing, a few strokes of the chisel, can become a diamond; but whether he will become so or not cannot be said.

Love sees what you can be if all goes well. Hatred sees what you will become if all goes wrong. Hatred sees hell in you; love sees heaven in you. Hatred sees the devil in you; love sees God in you.

Even in ordinary love, such glimpses come. It is not mere imagination. It is the eye of love that unveils the hidden; that brings forth the suppressed; before which the secret opens its doors, mysteries are revealed. But when someone looks upon the whole world with love—when he looks at every particle with love—when every morsel of this world becomes your lover or beloved—then what arises is the Vast itself; that is Paramatma.

Hence Kabir calls Paramatma Peev—the Beloved, the Dear One. For Kabir, truth is not a dry concept—it is the Beloved. The relationship between the universe and man is not of logic, but of love. Therefore what the philosopher cannot attain even as a glimpse, the poet does; and what the poet glimpses, the rishi becomes one with.

Lift the veil, Kabir says, and you will meet your Beloved.

And your eyes are pressed under the veil.

What is the veil?

Buddha has said: you have no greater friend than yourself, and no greater enemy than yourself. If you turn your back upon truth, you will be your greatest enemy. If you turn your face toward truth and walk, you become your greatest friend.

What is the veil?

You are walking with your back toward life. You are a runaway, an escapist! You want somehow to avoid life; you do not want to encounter it face to face—that is the veil.

Try to understand.

Wherever life is, from there you try to escape—and yet you want to attain Paramatma! Paramatma is the name of the Supreme Life. Why does man avoid life? There is fear. One fear is that life constantly takes you into the unfamiliar and the unknown, into the unknowable. Life is not a fixed track, not like the bullock going round a mill, circling the same perimeter. Life is not a habit, not repetition. Every moment life is new. And you fear the new; because with the old you are familiar, with the new unfamiliar; the old is known—you recognize it well. You have lived with the old, tasted its pleasure and pain. The new—who knows what it will be?

It is strange: you will choose an old disease over a new health—because the new frightens. From childhood the new frightens us. And the entire society teaches fear of the new. A stranger sits near you and you immediately ask his name: Where are you going? What do you do? What religion? Why do you ask—do you know? Because so long as he is a stranger there is fear. If you find out: all right, he follows the Hindu religion… we are Hindu, you are Hindu—he is familiar now. Family? Because a man with wife and children is more trustworthy. Congress or Communist? If he is Congress, then fine.

We are arranging to make him familiar.

A man enters the train and people at once begin asking him questions. If he does not reply, or replies incoherently, you become suspicious—danger! Pull the chain, alert the police. If the man says, Yes, Hindu or Muslim… I am Hindu, even that will arouse doubt—what is there to think about? If you ask how many children and he pauses to count—he is dangerous! Who knows—he may steal your bedding, take your luggage, pick your pocket! Not to be trusted. We quickly want to turn a stranger into someone familiar.

Mulla Nasruddin sat in a train coach, gazing fixedly toward the ceiling. The man beside him became suspicious after a while. He tried to start a conversation, coughed, cleared his throat. But Nasruddin stared, unblinking. He asked, Where are you going? No answer. Where from? He asked a little louder—maybe the man is deaf. Still no answer—only that unwavering gaze. Finally the man said, Brother! Your muffler is flying out of the window! Nasruddin said, Why don’t you keep quiet? Your cigarette is burning your coat. I said nothing!

Such a man creates a little doubt, a little fear. You will not be able to read your newspaper in peace sitting beside him; he will stay on your mind. You will have to change your seat.

The stranger frightens. Why? The familiar seems good. Why? Fear. We want security, the known circle. That is why you fear the jungle; you do not fear the garden. The garden is known, man-made, familiar. It has boundaries, paths. There is no reason to get lost. In the forest there are no paths, no boundaries; there is full opportunity to get lost. It is God-made and vast. That is why, slowly, man began to live in man-made concepts. They are like gardens.

There is fear of entering truth; it is God’s vast forest. Will you survive there? Will you return? Hard to say. And if you return, will you be the same one who went? Also hard to say. Those who went upon that path of the Infinite and returned—we saw Buddha go and return; we saw Mahavira go and return. Yet we were frightened by them. We may bow much, we may bang our heads before Mahavira—but we are frightened. For those we saw go upon that path of the Infinite and return—we found they were utterly different. No coordination remained with us. Our relationships with them broke. They became the greatest strangers, outsiders to us.

Even our worship of Buddha and Mahavira is a device—to make them familiar. This is how we make them familiar. We say, You are a Tirthankara, all right—there are twenty-four Tirthankaras, you are the twenty-fourth. We are fitting him into our arithmetic. If someone says, I am the twenty-fifth—trouble begins! Because there can be no more than twenty-four. We are making a pigeonhole. Even what has descended unknown into Mahavira, we want to give it a system, logic, arithmetic. We fit him into a pigeonhole—Right, you sit here, the twenty-fourth Tirthankara—right! Behave in this way, for a Tirthankara behaves so. Rise this way, sit this way—because this is the manner of a Tirthankara. When they seem to fit exactly into our mold, we are at ease—no more fear.

Out of fear we worship. Worship is our way of making the unknown familiar. Those we first abuse are those we later worship. We fight them first—because so long as they are strangers we fight. Gradually we make terms, we become familiar. And by then they are gone. Then we place their images and worship. It shows we are still afraid. I have heard a story. It is said that God was very tired one day… indeed, He must be tired every day. Such a vast tangle, He must be tired! So one of His servants advised, Take a little vacation. You have not been to Earth for a long time. Rest for ten or fifteen days. God said, No, I do not wish to go to Earth. Two thousand years ago I went for rest, and I fell in love with a Jewish girl named Mary. People still have not stopped talking. A boy of mine was born there—Jesus. It was a small affair of love. I had gone on vacation, and people still chatter; they keep on writing books. Some say Jesus was born of the virgin Mary; some say this, some that. They still have not stopped the nonsense. I will not go there.

What happens?

Why do people go on talking for two thousand years? Because we still have not become familiar with Jesus. We have to keep the talk going. This man is still unfathomable. Some corners of him remain unknown to us. We have not succeeded in understanding him wholly. There are still aspects that lead us into darkness; so the discussion continues. New theses, new research, new scriptures are written. On Jesus alone millions of books have been written. And people go on writing. It seems this man will never be exhausted.

On Mahavira so many books are not written—because Mahavira’s life is straight and clear. We became familiar with him. The truth is, there is not much to write about Mahavira. A few facts—and we have finished them; so the Jains keep writing the same things again and again—there is nothing new to say.

But Jesus seems more unfathomable—for he does not fit any pigeonhole. He stays at the house of a prostitute. He stops with a thief. He befriends gamblers and drunkards. You cannot rely on him. From the very beginning the story goes awry. He is born to a mother who is a virgin. Trouble begins and continues to the end. Born of a virgin mother. And until the gallows, the story is sensational. And there remain corners untouched, hard to understand. We have settled Mahavira—his life is simple, straightforward. We have fitted Ram in a mold—simple, straightforward life. Krishna we cannot fit, so commentaries on the Gita are written. Discussion on Krishna will go on.

Our entire effort is that the world should not be larger than our knowledge. Wherever we find that it is larger, we hesitate. And remember—it is larger than your knowledge. What do you even know? The infinite remains to be known.

And if you are frightened of the unknown and the unfamiliar, you will never know truth. Therefore we draw a veil. Whatever lies outside our knowledge, we cover with the veil. We tuck our little world under the veil—our knowledge, our limits—and throw outside the veil what lies beyond our limits.

Psychologists say: thus our consciousness has been split into two: the conscious, and the unconscious. The curtain between them is the veil.

Consciousness is one. But we have cleared a small clean patch of it, like clearing a corner of jungle. We cut the brush, made a boundary, put a fence. A small part—we have cleaned one-tenth of our consciousness. There we have ethics, religion, ideals, principles, scriptures, gurus, temples, worship, prayer—we have put everything there. Nine times larger, with infinite expanse, within is the unconscious: between it and this conscious we have put a curtain, so that it may not be seen—for our logic is the same as the ostrich’s. Seeing the enemy approach, the ostrich hides his head in the sand and thinks: what cannot be seen is not. This is what we say: Where is God? First show, then we will believe. What is seen exists; what is not seen does not! The ostrich is a thorough atheist. He hides his head in the sand and says, No enemy is visible, therefore no enemy can be. If there is one—show him!

We fear the unconscious, so we have made a curtain—and we live in the small cleared place. Sometimes the unconscious gives a jolt. Sometimes the veil slips. The arrangement breaks somewhere. Then we call that man mad—that he has gone mad. But we do not know he has gone mad because the unknown has entered the boundary of his knowledge.

I am reading Elie Wiesel—this Jewish thinker. In the second world war, in Germany, his mother-father, brothers-sisters were all killed. Only he somehow escaped—a small boy. He narrates his journey: they were being taken by train to a camp where all were to be burned… Everyone suspected it, but there was no way to escape. Hitler burned millions. He built furnaces never built before.

Timur, Genghis—all proved childish. For Hitler built furnaces in which ten thousand could be thrown at once and become ash in a second—electric furnaces! The train moved toward that place. All were frightened. But man somehow consoles himself—something will happen; a miracle; the order will be canceled; this will happen, that… People conversed as they rode the prison-like train.

A woman went mad. With a little child—both were there, and she went mad. Her son tried to console her: Mother, don’t be afraid, we will soon meet father. Don’t scream or cry, soon all will be all right! And she would cry again and again: Look, the flames are visible! See, the chimney rises into the sky! People panicked for a moment—thinking she is mad—peeped out the window. No chimney anywhere, no flames rising, nothing visible. Then they scolded her: Be quiet. But her madness grew. Then they beat her, to silence her. The more they beat her, the more she laughed. She said, Beat me as you like—but the chimney is there, the flames are rising, thousands are burning! Don’t you smell it? In fear people even sniffed—but there was no smell. Then there was only one way—whenever she cried out—for she would stir their inner fear too, their unconscious would begin to enter the conscious. They too were anxious inwardly: Who knows what is to happen! And this woman was a new trouble—touching the wound again and again. So they struck her head with sticks. When she sank into unconsciousness she became silent, and when she regained consciousness she laughed and cried: See, come to your senses, run away, there is still time! Gradually people concluded she was mad; no need to listen.

On the third morning, when the train reached the station of the camp and they looked out—there was the chimney burning, and flames rising. Exactly as the woman had described—those were the flames, that chimney. And she had been mad! And they had been in their senses.

Often the mad begin to see things you do not see. Often the mad get a glimpse of the future which you do not. Often truths arise in the mad that do not in you. But no one listens to the mad.

New research says: out of all the mad in the world, ninety percent are not mad. The curtain between their conscious and unconscious has broken. And the whole of psychology tries only to weave that curtain again—so they become normal. Kabir too says: lift the veil. So there are two ways in the world of lifting the veil.

One is that the veil lifts without your understanding—then you will go mad. If it lifts with your understanding—you will become a paramhansa. If the veil slips by itself somehow, the unconscious will flood your conscious. Darkness will fill the house of your light. All your boundaries will be shattered; an earthquake will come. Then you will be deranged. But if, with awareness, by method, you yourself lift the veil—knowingly, step by step—then you will be liberated. Deranged or liberated—two events can follow the breaking of the veil. Perhaps that is why we are also afraid that if we lift the veil we might go mad…

The meditations I have devised are such that by method you can lift the veil. They are methods of becoming “consciously mad.”

People come to me and say, What madness are you making us do? I tell them, I am doing it knowingly. This is your fear—that you might go mad. So I have you do it knowingly, so that you can become mad consciously and return consciously. Consciously enter the conscious, consciously move into the unconscious—learn the art of removing the veil in between. Then you can never go mad.

Hence there is a certain kinship between supreme saints and the mad. Often they seem mad to people—often they appear mad. One thing is common: in both, the veil has been lifted. In the mad it has lifted into the unconscious; in the paramhansa it has been lifted knowingly. So in both there is one similarity—the veil is gone.

If you want to be saved from madness, there is no other way than to become a paramhansa. Because where you stand, any day the veil can break. You stand exactly in the middle. If you fall unknowingly into madness, to bring you back will be near impossible. Before the entry into madness happens, awaken—you yourself pass through madness consciously. One who passes through madness with awareness becomes a paramhansa. To become consciously mad is the art of becoming a paramhansa.

Kabir says:

Lift the veil, and you will meet your Beloved.

In every vessel that One pervades—speak no harsh word.

In every form, in every particle, the One alone abides. Life is one. Somewhere it has become tree, somewhere rock, somewhere moon-star; somewhere animal-bird, somewhere man; somewhere deranged, somewhere liberated. Life is one; forms are many. And hidden within all forms, the formless is one. From That all forms arise and into That all are dissolved.

Therefore Kabir says: Stop seeing enemies; there is no enemy here. No one is a stranger here, no one unfamiliar… He alone is! In the thief, He; in the saint, He. In the sinner, He; in the virtuous, He. So—do not utter even a harsh word.

…Speak no harsh word.

It is the indication: do not bring a hard word in between. Do not bring anger in between. Do not bring hatred in between. Do not bring jealousy, hostility in between. For whom will you hate? Upon whom will you be angry? The One is everywhere!

But this is a method of sliding the veil aside. What do we do? We strengthen the veil. Our common outlook is that the entire world is our enemy. Whether you think it consciously or not, you assume that the whole world is your enemy. In this great world of enemies you have made a small family. Wife, children—these are your own; the rest, strangers. Even this family is shrinking. Once a hundred, a hundred and fifty lived in a family—they were “ours.” Now only five remain—husband, wife, children. Even they do not seem sure to be ours; there can be divorce; the wife may be another’s. If you look closely you will find you remain alone. The whole world is enemy! And you must fight the whole world!

This is the consequence of our education, culture, conditioning. We are taught competition—fight! Because you desire the same things as others. Things are few; struggle is necessary. Without cutting each other’s throats how will you reach? Make each other into steps. Place your foot upon the head of the other and climb. There is only one way to rise—fight! If you relax a little, become a little humble, you will be misled and will never reach. The struggle is hard. Every person is an enemy.

When everyone appears the enemy, the veil grows stronger. Then you do not call anyone a friend until reasons are found. But all are enemies—without reason. Until it is proved that someone is a friend, you do not accept him as a friend. But as enemy, all are accepted without proof.

Kabir says the exact opposite: until it is proved that someone is an enemy, at least see everyone as friend! But notice a strange thing: if one person steals from you, the entire humanity becomes thieves. From that day your trust in man is gone. There are four billion humans, and one man steals, and four billion become thieves! Now you cannot trust anyone. Do not trust the one who stole—exclude him. But those who remain—four billion—they did nothing.

A Muslim did something bad to you—all Muslims became bad! A Hindu deceived you—all Hindus became bad. One Jain turned out dishonest—all Jains became dishonest. As if you are ready to assume that all are enemies! One proves it, and all are proved. But if one person is good, all do not become good by him. This is a strange bias. One Muslim may help you greatly and be a saint, risk his life at the moment of your death—still all Muslims do not become saints. You will say: this one was good; the rest are scoundrels.

I wish to say: you proceed assuming all are enemies. And when you proceed so, your veil grows stronger. The method to break this veil is to drop your ill-will toward others.

Mahavira calls the dropping of ill-will—ahimsa. Buddha calls the dropping of ill-will—karuna, compassion. Christ calls the dropping of ill-will—service. Words differ. One thing is certain: do not see an enemy in the other; because—in every vessel the Beloved dwells! The One is permeating all—see Him. The Beloved pervades everyone. In all heartbeats, in every breath!

…Speak no harsh word.

Be not proud of wealth or youth—the five-colored robe is false.

Arrogance… the pretexts are many; arrogance is one. One is puffed up by wealth, another by status. One by knowledge, another by renunciation. One because he is young; another because he is powerful. The more the arrogance, the stronger the veil. The more the ego, the stronger the veil—stone-like. The less the arrogance, the weaker the veil. And what is there to be proud about? Does youth remain? You will not even have time to strut—youth will be gone. It is a gust of wind—comes and goes. And what abides not forever—what pride in it?

Strange: those who have found That which remains forever, they do not strut; and those who have caught a fistful of wind—who clutch at a gust—strut and strut!

What will you do with wealth? What will you attain by wealth? The petty can be obtained, yes! The Vast cannot be bought.

What is pride?

Who is poorer than the rich? He has money, and nothing else. The money will become a burden. And how long will it remain? Today it is, tomorrow it is not. Death will take it. Youth—how many were not young before you! How many did not strut in their youth! How many did not think in youth that they were unique! As if youth would remain forever! A gust of wind, a wave of water…

Go to the shore and watch: a wave rises with great pride—before it has even risen, it begins to fall.

No sooner do you become young than old age begins to come; youth is like the very door by which old age enters. What are you proud of? Proud of life? Behind this life there is nothing but death. This whole life, whatever road it takes, ends in the pit of death. All roads may or may not lead to Rome, but they surely lead to the cremation ground.

Kabir has a saying: This is a village of the dead.

Kabir says: This village where you dwell—you think it is life? I see you all as corpses. Corpses—standing in a queue; when each one’s turn comes. Some a little sooner, who stand in front. And the great joke is that all are trying to get to the front of the queue—to be number one. Corpses! When all must die here, do not call these settlements towns; call them cremation grounds. Sooner or later—because the cremation ground has no vacant plot. You have to wait in line. When your time comes, when there is room, when a grave is empty—you too will go. Where are you going—except to death? The paths differ, the directions are different; the hand of death comes.

What is there to be proud of?

Be not proud of wealth and youth…

For if you become proud, the veil will be strengthened. If you see that all this is a line drawn on water—drawn and erased before it is even drawn—and drop pride, you will find the veil begins to lift, the ghunghat slides aside.

Be not proud of wealth and youth—the five-colored robe is false.

And this five-hued garment—the body woven of the five elements—is completely false—like a dream. Granted the dream lasts long—seventy years—but it is only a matter of time. Whether a dream lasts seven minutes or seventy years—what difference does it make?

Have you noticed—at night, in seven minutes of dream, seventy years can pass. Seven minutes of dream, and a lifetime in it. You wake and say: unbelievable! From childhood to death—seventy years—passed in seven minutes! Sometimes you doze in a chair, glance at the clock—twelve o’clock. When your doze ends you look again—twelve-oh-one. Only one minute. And inside you saw such a long dream that it cannot even be told in a minute. To narrate it takes ten minutes. How did it fit into one? A whole life can fit into a moment.

Some findings in psychology indicate that the length of life makes no difference. Some birds live five years. Some insects live four months. Some live only an evening—twelve hours at most. But in twelve hours they live as much as you do in seventy years. They fall in love, they beget children, lay eggs, manage house and home, worry and fear… struggle, quarrel—everything happens. In twelve hours all is completed and they die. If rightly seen, they are more efficient—what you manage in seventy years, they do in twelve hours. Efficiency is theirs. They do it all. Nothing remains undone.

Whether a dream runs for seventy years or seven moments—what difference? A dream is a dream. The length of time cannot make it true. Then what is the difference between dream and truth? Only one: a dream begins and ends; truth neither begins nor ends.

If you must be proud, seek truth and be proud of that. And one who has found That never becomes proud. You roam with dreams in your hands, and you strut.

Be not proud of wealth and youth—the five-colored robe is false.

Light the lamp in the silent palace—do not move from your seat.

This is a most precious utterance. It is the very essence of all the saints.

Light the lamp in the silent palace…

Within you is that palace of shunya—emptiness—light the lamp of knowing there. In that inner silent void, awaken.

Light the lamp in the silent palace—do not move from your seat.

And there are two indispensable steps to lighting that lamp. One, become unmoving.

…Do not move from your seat.

In Japan, Zen fakirs developed a method they call zazen. Zazen means: just sitting, doing nothing. Simply sit and do nothing. Keep only one awareness: let the posture not move. Priceless.

If you can sit a little while without the body moving, as the body’s movement ceases, the mind’s movement will cease. Body and mind are not two things; they are two aspects of one. When the body does not move, how will the mind move? Or if the mind does not move, the body’s movement stops. Begin anywhere—but become unmoving. What Zen calls zazen is what Kabir says: Do not move from your seat. Sit without movement, do nothing! Keep one thought: let not even the slightest tremor remain. Let the body become like a stone statue. In this turning of the body into stone you will find first the mind relaxes; thoughts lessen, lessen, lessen… Sometimes, for a moment, when the body is perfectly still, in that very moment thoughts disappear; shunya happens. This is the first step. By becoming unmoving you will open the door of the silent palace.

Then the second step—awaken in the silent palace. Attain complete discrimination there. Be aware—do not fall asleep!

Light the lamp in the silent palace—do not move from your seat.

Because you can also fall asleep. If you fall asleep, you miss. If you become shunya without seeing, shunya is not experienced. You reached the door—and slept on the steps, did not enter the palace.

In deep sleep this happens—the body becomes unmoving. You may have noticed: on nights when sleep does not come well, you change sides often. On nights when sleep comes well, you change sides less. On nights of true rest—when you have “sold the horses”—you do not change sides at all. The body becomes unmoving. And when the body is unmoving, dreams subside within; then comes sushupti—dreamless sleep. Even a single moment of that sushupti yields a sense of great joy and freshness in the morning. But if someone asks you: how did sleep alone give joy and freshness?—you cannot tell. You reached the door of the silent palace, but you were asleep; you returned from the door, did not enter within.

Patanjali has said: between Samadhi and sushupti there is only one difference; otherwise they are identical. The difference: in sushupti you have no awareness; in Samadhi you do. Otherwise sushupti is exactly like Samadhi. For the first step is the same—the body perfectly unmoving, the mind perfectly void. The second step: you awaken, filled with awareness. Then sushupti becomes Samadhi. Then sleeping itself becomes the supreme awakening.

Light the lamp in the silent palace—do not move from your seat.

Awaken by the art of awakening—in the palace of color you will find the priceless Beloved.

By the technique of awakening—jagu jugat so—you find the priceless Beloved.

Light the lamp in the silent palace—do not move from your seat.

Awaken by the art of awakening—in the palace of color you will find the priceless Beloved.

And then awaken there—see that silent palace with awareness. Instantly the palace of emptiness becomes the palace of color. The moment you are awake, it is no longer empty. The doorway to supreme enjoyment opens—the door of supreme bliss! Hence it becomes a rangmahal—the palace of color, of celebration. Raga-rang—endless hues. For life is a festival. And Paramatma is forever dancing, forever singing. Paramatma is bliss itself—His dance is bliss. The moment you awaken, the silent palace instantly becomes a palace of color.

Awaken by the art of awakening—in the palace of color you will find the priceless Beloved.

And not only does the silent palace become a palace of color, there—in that rangmahal—you meet the Beloved.

Says Kabir: ecstasy has happened—unstruck drums resound.

Kabir says, Supreme joy has happened—and such a drum is resounding, such music is playing, which is anahad—without limit.

Anahad is a precious word. It means: that which has no boundary, no limit; that which goes on resounding; which has always resounded; whether you know it or not, it is resounding now; when you were not, it resounded; when you will not be, it will continue to resound. The festival of this universe is not running because of you. Anahad—this celebration goes on. It will go on! Day or night, darkness or light, morning or evening, stars and moon or sun—this dance goes on! The whole universe is absorbed in dance, and an anahad drum is sounding.

Kabir calls it a drum. The Upanishads call it Omkar. That same nada, anahad nada—a raga, a music, resounding without anyone playing it. Because if someone plays, he will tire. If someone plays, he will stop. No—without anyone playing, it resounds; there is no player.

A very deep vision: there is no dancer, only the dance. For if there is a dancer, he will tire; he will rest. Existence is a dance—there is no dancer. Existence is creation—there is no creator. There is no person. The day you enter the silent palace, that very moment you will see: this anahad nada was always going on. You were deaf. This silent palace was always a palace of color—you were blind. And this Beloved was sitting within you.

You yourself are the Beloved; you yourself are the lover! There is no meeting with someone else—your meeting is with yourself!

Says Kabir: ecstasy has happened—anahad drums resound.

And until such a moment arrives when you too can say—Ecstasy has happened—do not relax your effort. And the effort is one, the method is one: the method of awakening. There is only one effort—whatsoever you do, do it with awareness. Do it so consciously that gradually the ray of awareness enters your sleep. Then your sushupti will become Samadhi. Then you will sleep and be awake. Then you will awaken in sleep. You will find: you are sleeping, and you are also awake. And when such a thing happens, that very day you will say:

Ecstasy has happened—anahad drums resound.

And until such an hour comes, do not stop. For many halting places deceive you as if they are the goal. But until your whole being says—Ecstasy has happened—until you begin to dance and the anahad drum is heard, that everywhere there is melody and color…

Understand it well.

At the beginning of the journey a man seeks peace. Peace will be found—even if you enter the silent palace while asleep, peace will be found. But that is a halt, not the goal. Sleep too gives peace. That is why doctors, physicians, psychologists—if you are disturbed—they give tranquilizers. If sleep comes, you will be peaceful. Good sleep brings peace. The mad too have only one remedy—tranquilizers, so they may sleep. In sleep there is peace. Hence peace cannot be the goal of religion. Peace is only the initial preparation. It is the silent palace. Religion is fulfilled only when it becomes the palace of color.

Hence bliss is the goal, not peace. Peace is negative. Peace means no tension, no trouble. But is that enough? How will you say, Ecstasy has happened, merely because you are not troubled? You will only say: there is no sorrow. But the absence of sorrow is no great attainment. It is like a thorn removed from the foot—but where is the shower of flowers?

Peace is negative; it is a halt. Bliss is affirmative; it is the goal. First peace—and peace will come if you master “do not move from your seat.”

In the meditations running in this Samadhi camp, all begin by making you move—so the body moves fully, and the mind. Because if tension remains in the body, if excitation remains, then when you sit or stand quietly, that excitation will stir; the body will want to move. So in all these methods, first let the body move completely, so its urge is spent. And then, even if for a few moments you become unmoving, the first step of peace is fulfilled. But this is half. Half the journey; half remains. Therefore every method of meditation should culminate in celebration, in gratefulness. Behind every meditation there should flow not only peace but the stream of bliss—so that you dance and give thanks, and you too can say: Says Kabir—ecstasy has happened, anahad drums resound.

Peace—the first halt. Bliss—the goal, the final resting. Where you stand now there is restlessness and sorrow. Restlessness will end with peace; sorrow will not end with peace. Sorrow ends with bliss. Buddha speaks of the first goal—peace, shunya; he does not speak of the second. Therefore Buddha’s vision is incomplete. Vedanta, Shankar, speak of the complete—of bliss; of affirmative, grateful rejoicing. Therefore Vedanta goes deeper and is complete. Buddha is the first step, Shankar the destination. And Kabir has joined both. Kabir is the confluence.

Kabir says:

Light the lamp in the silent palace…

This word “silent”—suñña—comes from Buddha, for he uses it much. He says: Shunyata is all. Emptiness is the fulfilled state. The word suñña is from Buddha. Light the lamp in the silent palace. And “lamp” too comes from Buddha—for he says: light the lamp. Even at the final moment of death, his last words to Ananda were: Appa deepo bhava—be a light unto yourself. Both words come from Buddha.

Light the lamp in the silent palace—do not move from your seat.

But the remaining portion is Vedanta’s. The first step is Buddha; the second is Shankar.

Awaken by the art of awakening—in the palace of color you will find the priceless Beloved.

Says Kabir: ecstasy has happened—anahad drums resound.

Enough for today.