Who would stand near Sahajo? She was just a simple village woman. The scholars would say, “What does she know? We know more than her.” Perhaps they had the same in their minds about Mahavira and Buddha, that “We know more than them,” but they could not say it because they were princes. The fame of their splendor had spread far and wide. By standing close to them the scholars could share a little of their fame. Why would a scholar praise Sahajo? Kabir lived in Kashi and no scholar ever appreciated him. Who would praise him? He knew neither Sanskrit nor Prakrit; he had no idea about the Gita, or the Samaya-Sar or the Dhammapada. Who would praise him? What he was saying was said in the language of a weaver, not of a scholar. Kabir says, “I weave a cloth so fine….” Buddha does not say this, Mahavira does not say this; they have never woven any cloth. Only a weaver can say it, he has no other language.
But I say to you that Buddha’s and Mahavira’s language looks pale by comparison. It is the language of the palace, it is less alive. It is like an over-protected plant. It is not a plant in the open sky, it is a plant from the greenhouse. It has not grown in the wild, in the open sun and the wind, in storms and hurricanes. It can be beautiful but it is very fragile. This beauty has no strength.
When Kabir talks it has a uniqueness. The words have come from the actual facts of life so they look simple to you. Because they look so simple you think, “What is in it?” Because you think that you understand it, then you think there is nothing to be understood.
And this is my effort with you: I am bringing Sahajo, Kabir and Dadu to you just for you to see that when you think you have understood everything, there is much more left to be understood.
Shankara wrote a commentary on the Gita. He wrote a commentary on the Upanishads. He wrote a commentary on the Brahma Sutra. In India, these three scriptures have always been commented on. No one has ever commented on Sahajo, Kabir, Dadu…there seems to be nothing to comment on. The matter is so simple, what more is there to explain?
Whenever something looks simple, only that needs to be understood. The mystery is hidden in the simplicity. Wherever there is complexity you will find only words. You can create as much complexity as you want, but in the end you will find that you have come with empty hands and you are going with empty hands. Remember it: wherever things appear to be very simple, stop there – that simplicity is itself a great mystery. Simplicity proves that there is something to say. Complication proves that there is nothing to say: it is a net of words to hide the poverty of content.
When the content is rich, when what you want to say is a diamond, then there is no need for it to be embellished with anything else. A Kohinoor can stand alone, it is enough. What else is there to add? If you add anything its beauty will diminish. Sahajo’s words are like the Kohinoor. Their beauty is unparalleled, but it is a beauty of simplicity. So if you try to understand intellectually then it will not be understood because the intellect enjoys complications, it enjoys solving riddles. If you see through your heart, then in this simplicity you will find such mysteries which can never be solved. Enter into it, drown in it – you will be lost. But the moment will never come when you will be able to say that you have known.