Ajhun Chet Ganwar #1

Even now, wake up, you bumpkin! Unaware one! Wake up even now! Even as it is, it’s very late. Later than it needed to be. Yet if the traveler who lost his way in the morning returns home by dusk, he is not lost.

Even now, wake up, simpleton! Awaken even now! Gather your awareness even now!

These beloved verses are of a rare saint. If you dive, you’ll find many diamonds. Not much is known about Paltoo Das. Saints are like birds: they do fly across the sky, but leave no footprints. Little is known about saints. To be a saint is to be unknown—nameless. A saint’s life is an inner life. The outer life leaves traces in history; it produces chronicles, events. About the inner life, not a single line is inscribed anywhere. On the sands of time, it leaves no mark. The inner life is eternal, timeless, beyond time. Those who live within can only be recognized by those who also go within. That’s why of Alexanders, Hitlers, Genghis Khans and Nadir Shahs you’ll find complete chronicles, full histories. They have no inner life—only the outer; and that everyone can see.

A politician’s life is an outer life; a religious one’s life is inner. Very few have eyes deep enough to see it; it is invisible, subtle.

If you keep accounts only of outer deeds, then saints have done nothing at all. Then all the “doing” in the world belongs to the un-saints. In fact, action springs from the un-saint. A saint has no action because he has no doer. He lives in God. He lives having erased himself—wiping out the “I.” He does not know he has done anything, that anything happened by him, that anything could happen by him. The saint is not. So neither the shadow of any act nor the trace of any doer remains anywhere.

Paltoo Das is almost entirely unknown. Only a few details are known—countable on the fingers. One: from his own words we learn the name of his master. Govind was his guru. Govind was a disciple of the saint Bhikha, a disciple of a supreme saint. And Govind was Paltoo’s guru.

Though saints say little about themselves, they always remember the master. They erase themselves, but they merge in the master. They wipe themselves clean, in every way bring themselves to an end. In that ending, a link is forged with the guru. And they remember the Divine, but they never forget the remembrance of the master. For how could one forget the one who connected him to God?

…So Govind was his guru—that much is known. The second thing, known from his verses, is that he was a trader, a Vaishya, a merchant. We know it because he uses the language of a merchant. Just as Kabir was a weaver, so in Kabir’s songs the weaver’s idiom appears. Naturally: “A finely, finely woven sheet!” No one else could write that—one who never wove a sheet could not. Gora the potter speaks of clay and pots. In Paltoo’s verses we find proof of a merchant’s tongue. And he says it with great zest: “I am Rama’s wholesaler—Rama’s grocer; I sell Rama! I don’t run any small shop.”

Listen to these astonishing words—

Who could do this trade? Tell me now, who could match my trade?
My stock is stored in the brow-center; my cushion is on the Sushumna.
My mansion stands at the Tenth Gate, where the beginningless Person is seated.
Ida and Pingala are the two pans of my scale, lit by the lamp of awareness.
Holding the staff of the True Word, I weigh out pearls by the handful.
The moon and the sun keep watch while the heap of Truth rises.
Climbing into the Fourth state, I began to sell—such is my sovereignty!
By the Satguru’s recommendation I received Rama’s dealership.
At Paltoo’s doorway the royal drums resound, and each dawn the assembly gathers.

“The Satguru recommended me…”

The master wrote a letter on my behalf to the Lord, vouched for me. Without his recommendation nothing happens. By myself I could never have reached. It was through his intercession that I arrived. Otherwise how would I have ever found God?

By the Satguru’s recommendation I received Rama’s dealership.
He pressed my case well; since then I became Rama’s merchant—Rama’s grocer; since then I sell only Rama.

And these words—

Climbing into the Fourth, I began to sell…

There are four states of consciousness: waking, dream, deep sleep, and the fourth—turiya. Paltoo says he crossed the first three.

Climbing into the Fourth, I began to sell—such is my lordship!
Now I sell only the Fourth. That’s all I have left. See my abandon! See my sovereignty. See my wealth—I sell the fourth state!

The sun and moon stand guard, while the heap of Truth grows.
Holding the staff of the True Word, I weigh out pearls by the handful.

What else remains? I shower only pearls now.

But the idiom is a merchant’s.

Who could do this trade? Tell me now, who could match my trade!
My stock is stored in the brow-center; my cushion is on the Sushumna.

I’ve set up my throne in the super-subtle. And my treasure is now in the brow-center. The third eye has opened—there lies my true wealth.

My mansion stands at the Tenth Gate…

We know the nine gates—the nine openings of the body the saints speak of: eyes, ears, nostrils…these nine apertures. There is a tenth opening. Slip through that and you reach the Divine. It is not visible. It lies in your innermost. The supreme aperture—the tenth gate.

My mansion stands at the Tenth Gate, where the beginningless Person sits.
Ida and Pingala are my two pans, lit by the lamp of attention.

Ida and Pingala are the two pans of my balance.

Holding the staff of the True Word…

Between them stands the staff of Truth—the balance of the Real.

This is a trader’s language.

Remember this much—it must be said lest you forget: wherever you are, the path to God begins there. If you are a merchant, the path begins there too: become Rama’s grocer. It’s not that only the Brahmin has a claim on Brahman. Nor only the Kshatriya. Brahmins have realized truth, Kshatriyas too, Vaishyas too, Shudras too. Each mode of life has its own ease and its own difficulty.

A Brahmin has one advantage…And note, when I use these words I mean not birth. No one is born a Brahmin, no one is born a Shudra. What has birth to do with it! Brahmin, Shudra, Kshatriya are temperaments—vrittis. It concerns your way of being. These four varnas—“varn” means color.

Think a little. There are four colorings of people in the world—four ways of being. This fourfold typology was settled five thousand years ago by the Hindus; it can’t be improved. Even now, when Carl Gustav Jung reconsidered human types, four ways appeared again. Call them what you like, but people fall into four categories. You can’t escape it.

Some live in intelligence—they are Brahmins. Some live in the arms and will. Some make their quest in thought—Brahmins. Some seek power, worship power—Kshatriyas. Some chase ambition, prestige, wealth—Vaishyas. Some have no quest at all; they drift like a log in a river—going nowhere, reaching nowhere; no goal, no destination, no great future ambition—Shudras. They get by doing small tasks. They live life; they don’t try to make anything of it.

These are four temperaments. Each has gains; each, losses. One who lives in intellect—used rightly, intellect refines into consciousness, awareness, attention. So the Brahmin has an advantage: more easily than others—Kshatriya, Shudra, Vaishya—he can turn toward meditation. But the danger is equal: just as easily he can turn his mind to hoarding scholarship.

Every gain carries its shadow of loss. The ease the Brahmin has is mirrored by a hardship. If he turns toward filling memory, not awakening understanding, he becomes a pundit, not a buddha. Filling memory is like walking downhill—no effort. Awakening understanding is a mountain climb—great effort. So the probability: ninety-nine out of a hundred Brahmin-types end up stuffing memory—pundits. Rarely, one in a hundred becomes wise.

So too the Kshatriya-type. He has the advantage of resolve; he is a fighter—against others and, if need be, against himself. He has the art of battle. And when he fights, he holds nothing back. As skilled at taking life, so ready to give his own. One who would take life must be ready to offer his own.

If the Kshatriya finds the right path, he becomes a Tirthankara. The twenty-four Jain Tirthankaras were Kshatriyas. All the Hindu avatars—Kshatriyas. Buddha—a Kshatriya. Fighters! The sword long swung outward; one day understanding dawned and it turned inward. The day it turned inward, the ego’s head was cut off. The art of cutting he already knew.

Among Brahmins—Yajnavalkya, Ashtavakra, Shankaracharya. Walk straight and you become Shankara; miss, and you become a pundit.

So too the Vaishya’s prospects. He has a grip on wealth. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred he gathers gold and dies with gold; people say he’ll be born a snake and coil around his hoard, guarding it. Even dead, he guards money. But if the memory of the Ultimate Treasure arises in a Vaishya—since he is a seeker of wealth and stakes everything—if once he realizes the treasure is within, not without, no one can go inward with such ease as a Vaishya.

Likewise the Shudra. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, he will simply do small jobs and finish life: eat, drink; a cot to lie on, a roof overhead, food and drink—no more worry. Usually: eat, drink, make merry; nothing to achieve, nowhere to go—no search for meaning. That’s how ninety-nine end. But if the direction turns right, one in a hundred can become a Lao Tzu. If that rare one sees: indeed there is nothing to achieve, he sits in supreme rest—and no one can sit in such rest as a Shudra.

Within the Kshatriya something is always moving. In the Brahmin’s head thoughts are always moving. In the Vaishya’s heart there is a constant rustling—money, status! “Here too, there too; in heaven too!” Always making arrangements. The Shudra has one advantage—little worry: not of wealth, not of position, not of power, not of knowledge. Desires are minimal, very slight. The fall is not far. So Shudras like Gora or Raidas attained supreme knowledge.

Wherever you are, whoever you are, never conclude that from where you stand God cannot be found. From every place, one in a hundred finds the Divine. Become that one. From where you are. Ninety-nine go astray; avoid that ninety-nine’s wandering.

A third thing emerges from Paltoo’s words: he had a brother. Both turned around. They dropped concern for outer wealth and began to seek inner wealth—no, not “began to seek”—they found it.

Outwardly, who ever finds wealth, even by searching! There is no real wealth outside; only the lure, the mirage. The horizon looks as if it meets the earth; as you approach, it recedes. You will never reach where the horizon truly touches the ground. So too desire never meets satisfaction. Desire is like the horizon.

Both brothers turned. Because of this turning the master named them both Paltoo—“the turned one.” One brother he called Paltooprasad; the other, Paltoo Das. The master gave a very sweet word: Paltoo! What Christians call conversion. Turned around! What scientists call a one-hundred-eighty-degree transformation. They turned utterly. Where they were going, they began to walk in the exact opposite direction—and turned in an instant. No delay, no dithering. No long deliberation. From keeping a shop in the marketplace to establishing their seat in the subtle. From weighing grains and vegetables—whatever they weighed—to weighing by the heap of the True Word. From selling ordinary wares to “selling” the Fourth, selling samadhi! Such a revolution that the master said, “You’ve completely turned!” Rare indeed. A revolution.

“Paltoo” means revolution—a unique revolution happened. We don’t know the original birth-name given by parents. The master’s name for him was this—and it is perfect, a symbolic name. Once they fussed over a few coins in the shop; when they turned, a revolution burst forth!

The priests and pundits were very upset. They always are with people who turn like this. Because such turning strikes their business. If someone starts “selling” the Fourth—starts “selling” samadhi—priests are troubled; they have no stock of samadhi to sell. They deal in stale, borrowed, secondhand words. And here arrives someone with a fresh spring; new flowers bloom in his soul, and he is offering fresh inner lotuses. Who will buy your stale lotuses, rotting for centuries! So temples and mosques have always been angry with saints.

The pundits and priests were furious. But those who had eyes began to gather. People came from distant regions.

Paltoo says:

The wealthy bring offerings—by the glory of the Name!
The wealthy bring offerings—by the glory of the Name!
Everyone rubs their noses in the dust—peasants and kings alike arrive!

He says: What a marvel! I was an ordinary shopkeeper—just by joining to Rama’s Name I became extraordinary! I was a two-cowry man—filled with the Name I became a precious jewel!

The wealthy bring offerings—by the glory of the Name!
Great rich men began to come to my door with costly offerings! By the glory of the Name!

But Paltoo doesn’t claim any talent—it’s the Lord’s radiance, his shine has entered me; he peers through my eyes! It’s his excellence!

Everyone rubs their noses—people and kings alike arrive.

Without army or troops, the cry spread across the kingdom.
I have no army—Paltoo says—no other means either.

Without army or troops, the cry spread across the land.

But the air grew warm across the country; news reached everywhere. When such fragrance arises, it slips over walls, crosses all borders. People start arriving from far unknown places—some unknown force calls them, invites them.

Behold the glory of the True Name—ordinary Paltoo the grocer became Rama’s merchant.

By the grace of the True Name, Paltoo grew deep.
Hands folded, the rich come forward, bringing their offerings.

Those whose darshan was once impossible, whose doors would not open to Paltoo if he went, now come to his door with lavish gifts. By the grace of the True Name, Paltoo became profound! Such depth arose in him just by remembering rightly the Lord! He touched the touchstone; iron turned to gold. Closed doors open; great ones come bearing gifts.

His brother Paltooprasad wrote a few lines about Paltoo:

Born in Nanga Jalalpur, he came to live by the precincts of Ayodhya.
Says Paltooprasad: a stir has arisen in the world.

He was born in a poor village—Nanga Jalalpur! You can imagine: “Nanga”—naked—Jalalpur. A village of the poorest. “Born in Nanga Jalalpur…then came to settle near Ayodhya.” Symbolic: born in a poor village; then settled in Rama’s city. Born a householder; then renounced. Once immersed in wealth, power, pride—one day plunged into the glory of Rama.

Born in Nanga Jalalpur, he came to live by Ayodhya’s gate.
Says Paltooprasad: the world is astir.

He erased the four varnas and set bhakti in its root.
He erased it all—Brahmin, Kshatriya, Vaishya, Shudra—the four varnas gone. In devotion all dissolve. A sannyasin has no varna. He goes beyond colors, beyond ways—he becomes God’s. God has no varna; so the sannyasin has none. A householder has varna, because he has ways; he lives in the world.

He erased the four varnas and set bhakti at the root.
In Guru Govind’s garden, Paltoo bloomed as a flower.

In the guru Govind’s garden this flower named Paltoo blossomed.

Casually he had his head shaved in Jalalpur; in Ayodhya he broke his sacred thread.
He trades now within the body—Paltoo, the formless merchant.

“Casually he had his head shaved in Jalalpur…” Note “casually”—sahaj. The saints’ whole process is effortless; not an effort of will, but of understanding. The day it is seen, the head is shaved and sannyas happens. Turned in an instant.

Casually, at Jalalpur, he shaved his head…

There was no elaborate plan, no long reflection. No balancing of accounts for merit and heaven. He simply saw: there is nothing in the world. Symbolically, he shaved his head—right there in Jalalpur. You must shave your head in the marketplace.

…In Ayodhya he broke the sacred thread.
Having reached Rama’s city, what varna? What vow? Who is Hindu, who Muslim? What sacred thread? All rules dropped. Free of rules. Un-vowed.

“In Ayodhya he broke the thread…” And know: Only those enter Rama’s Ayodhya who are neither Hindu nor Muslim, neither Brahmin nor Shudra. Only those who drop varna. Only those who cross beyond the rules and norms that are necessary for society and worldly life. They transgress—and enter Ayodhya.

He trades now in the inner shop—Paltoo, the formless merchant.
Once a merchant, now he is beyond qualities—formless.

Beyond this, little else is known about Paltoo Das.

One last thing before we dive into his verses—

Paltoo’s words are as fiery, as fire-full as Kabir’s. Lofty words with tremendous bite. If we could stand anyone next to Kabir, it would be Paltoo. Among saints it’s been said that Paltoo is a second Kabir—and it isn’t an exaggeration. When you enter his songs, you’ll see. The truths are high and the utterance is sharp—piercing to the core. As juicy as it is precise. The same intoxication as Kabir’s. From each word wine drips. Dive in.

A boat you have, but no boatman—how will you cross over?

How will you cross, traveler—no trust arises.
Dispassion does not catch fire, friend—how then to obtain it?
He holds no knowledge in his heart; he keeps no holy company.
He talks, but will not listen; without love, what speech is this?
His wavering won’t leave; he won’t heed the saint’s word.
The fool abandons discernment, parades his cleverness.
Paltoo won’t consider even a little the Satguru’s Word.
A boat you have, but no boatman—how will you cross over?

Understand! You may find a boat. But a boat is dead. Without the boatman, it’s of no use. You must cross the river; a boat you can find—since the boatman ties up his craft at the bank and goes home at night. Even at midnight you may find the boat—but you won’t cross by boat alone. You need the ferryman.

Scriptures are like boats—lifeless. Without the living master their meaning won’t unfold. Scriptures remain; masters come and go. Like a boat tied to the bank while the boatman sleeps at home. The boat is always there. Finding a boat is no obstacle.

Paltoo says: A boat you have, but no boatman—how will you cross?

How will you cross? You have no map, no guide, no sense of direction. Who will take you? Who will stay with you? Who will support you? You need the living. No scripture—neither Gita, nor Quran, nor Veda—can take anyone across. Whatever meaning you make of the Vedas will still be your meaning. If you’ve never rowed, and you set off, the odds of drowning are greater than of arriving. Without inner experience, outer words cannot give inner realization. The scriptures hold the words; meanings surge from within. Scriptures are symbols, signs. Someone must unlock the signs.

Therefore all saints have emphasized the Satguru more than scripture. If the living master is found, scripture is found. Even without a boat, if the ferryman is with you he will find a way—carry you on his shoulders, perhaps. Or teach you to swim so you cross yourself. Or lash together logs and make a makeshift raft. But someone is needed who knows the other shore.

Satguru means: one who knows this shore and that. One who stands in this world yet recognizes the other. He may stand in the marketplace, but his experience is of God. He stands with you, like you—but within he is unlike you: he has known life’s depths.

Kabir said: “Kabir stands in the bazaar, club in hand.”
I stand in the marketplace, cudgel in hand. Let whoever dares come—I will knock his head off. Let whoever dares, come along. Burn down your house and walk with me. Whatever you call home—wherever you have woven attachments, cherished desires—be ready to burn it all, and come.

Kabir says: I stand in the bazaar. I am fully prepared to go to the other side. Let the courageous come behind me.

You need someone who stands in the world but carries no world within. That one is the Satguru.

A boat you have, but no boatman—how will you cross?

How to cross when trust won’t arise. How to trust the scripture? No one to make it plain. Probe the scripture as you will—you find nothing but paper and ink. No heartbeat. How then will trust arise? Did the writer of the scripture know truth, or weave a net of imagination—how to trust?

You can peer into the living master. Sit beside him. Relate heart to heart. Slowly, slowly, from his conduct—his standing, sitting, speaking, silence—you can infer what has happened. But in scripture there’s not even room for inference. Scripture is dead as a grave. Circle a tomb all you like—what will you learn of who lies within? A true man, or false? Awake or asleep? Tombs all look alike.

Often it happens: when you go to those who wrote beautiful poems, you discover the verses are empty—no life within. Hence the saying: if a poet’s poetry delights you, don’t go to the poet; illusion will shatter. Poets write poems; their lives lack the music of poetry. In the verse there may be soaring skies; and when you meet the poet, you find him in a tavern, cursing. You’ll be hurt. In the poem there seemed such fragrance—the rhythm of words creates a fragrance-like illusion—but seeing the poet, you find he’s worse than you. Words can lie; they can deceive. They can be only nets; structures of argument. How will you assay words—what’s the touchstone?

It’s like holding a touchstone for gold while a paper says “gold.” You cannot test “gold” written on paper on a gold-stone. Paper is paper whether it reads “gold” or “dirt”—no mark will appear. The touchstone in hand is useless without actual gold. A word of gold is not gold.

Satguru means: where there is a way to assay. So Paltoo says: How to cross—no trust arises. The boat is tied here, but will it carry or sink you? Has anyone ever taken this boat across? Or was it made to remain tied here? Has anyone ever crossed in it? The boat is there—but does it know the other shore? Are there hidden defects? Will it betray midstream?

How to cross—no trust arises.

Trust cannot arise in a scripture. That’s why the world is full of “believers,” yet belief is absent. Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jain, Buddhist—so many believers. Do you meet a truly trusting man? Eyes in which the lamp of faith burns? A heartbeat singing devotion? Everywhere distrust. Everywhere unbelief. The stench of doubt fills the earth. And so many believers! Something essential is going wrong.

No trust can arise in a boat. Had Muhammad been there, it would have been joy; but you got the Quran—your misfortune. Had Krishna been there, intoxication would have descended. Krishna’s presence births trust. Only presence works. In Krishna’s presence you immediately begin to fly. When he spreads his wings, you remember your own hidden wings. Every word of Krishna wakes your sleeping soul. Only the awakened word awakens. Had Krishna been found—blessed! Instead you sit with the Gita. You can memorize it parrot-like, repeat it till you die. The boat remains tied; you worship it till death. But worship doesn’t carry anyone across—you must voyage.

People worship scriptures. There is much exegesis, commentary; but if the commentator hasn’t crossed over, his commentary has no value.

A pundit cannot be your helper—only the knower can. And without trust nothing happens. The voyage demands an undoubting mind. Doubt is holes in the boat. Seeing holes, how will you sit in it? Water already seeping into the tied boat—how will you embark? Clear trust is needed that the boat will not sink. When you see the boatman in the boat, his strong wrists, his hand on the oars, his hands calloused by the grip, his face sun-browned by a thousand crossings—when you see all this, that a ferryman is present—trust arises. Then even if there is a hole, no worry; the boatman will handle it. To assure you of the other shore, he needs tell no lies. His eyes are enough. Looking into them, you glimpse the farther bank. His heartbeat is enough. Sit quietly by him and you will feel trust bloom.

Thus in the presence of Buddha, or Nanak, or Kabir, or Paltoo, trust is born. Trust awakens only in the presence of the living. From an extinguished lamp, how will you light your own? You need a lit lamp. Go near—and in a flash the flame will catch your wick.

A boat you have, but no boatman—how will you cross?

How to cross—no trust arises.
Dispassion does not catch fire—without a friend, how will you gain it?

This dispassion comes only when a beloved appears—a friend—what Buddha called a kalyan-mitra. Paltoo calls him “yar,” the dear one. Until you dive into the beloved’s friendship—until a friend of well-being appears—until a lover appears…the guru is the lover.

You don’t yet know God. He is a distant shore. But someone who has passed through God and returned—until such a friend appears, dispassion does not take color. You’ll keep talking of dispassion; the dye of renunciation won’t take.

Only one dyed himself can dye you. Only one who has drowned can drown you.

Sit beside a drunkard and his breath smells of wine. You know for certain. His intoxication is visible—his feet sway; he places his foot one place, it lands another. No certificate is needed; his gait testifies.

When the beloved is found and friendship ripens—this is the disciple–guru union: the ripening of friendship. When such love grips two hearts that you feel: this one has been to the other shore—then, as that sense deepens, the far bank comes nearer.

Dispassion won’t take; without the friend—how will you gain it?
The boat lies there, but the friend is not seated. The scripture is there, but the master is absent.

He holds no knowledge in his heart; he keeps no holy company.

So long as you don’t seek satsang, however much you read and write, polish your memory—nothing of essence will happen.

He holds no knowledge in his heart; he keeps no holy company.

People don’t hold knowledge in the heart; they only stuff the memory. Understand the difference. You hear me; two things are possible. You hear—and instantly file it in memory: “If needed, I’ll use it; I can explain it; if someone asks, I’ll define it.” You don’t use it for yourself. You store it for someone else’s use. Most of your “knowledge” is like this.

The other way—the real way: you understand it, drink it, digest it. It seeps into flesh and marrow. You don’t make a memory—you make a life of it.

He holds no knowledge in his heart…

Most never digest; they remain pundits. Pundit means indigestion. He ate, but did not digest; he took in food, but it didn’t become flesh. Sickness results—vomiting, diarrhea. The body won’t be healthy; it will be harmed.

As there is food for the body, so for the soul—knowledge. Digest it.

He holds no knowledge in his heart; he keeps no holy company.

Without satsang, you won’t even grasp that there are two: holding in the heart by digestion, and storing in memory.

Scripture can be stored only in memory. The Satguru alone can be held in the heart. Scripture will be mere information: you know what the Vedas say about God. But what is God?…You know what the Upanishads say about God. But knowing “about” is not knowing God. That is a different matter.

Without ever loving, you can learn much “about” love. Libraries are filled with books on love. Study them all. You never loved; you’ll know about love—but will even a drop of love’s nectar touch your tongue? Will you taste? No—you’ll be a pundit. Write a thesis; some university will give you a doctorate. That’s what universities do. You’ll be learned. You’ll write treatises—intellectual vomit. First you swallowed texts without digesting; then you vomited them onto others’ heads.

Without the Satguru, the second event never happens. The second event means: you tie the thread of your life to someone. You bind your knot to someone—like a wedding. Like taking vows around the fire. That’s why Paltoo says “yar”—this is love’s marriage. The disciple is wed to the guru. They become one, blended. Then digestion begins.

He holds no knowledge in his heart; he keeps no holy company.
Without holy company it won’t happen; knowledge won’t enter the heart.

He talks, but won’t listen; without love, what speech is this?

Even when you listen, you hardly listen! Even when you read, do you read? First, scripture is dead—and you’re reading a corpse; then even that you barely read. You go to hear a pundit—and don’t really listen. As if hearing the pundit were going to help; even that little help you don’t take. The pundit keeps speaking; you keep thinking other thoughts. True listening happens only when a tune of love has been struck—when the mind falls in love.

Without love there is no hearing.

Friendship must come first; love must come first—then knowledge. Knowledge follows love. Whoever thinks love will come after knowledge is mistaken. He has yoked the cart before the oxen. The cart will go nowhere. Love comes first. Feeling comes first. The heart first—then the head. Whoever thinks head first, heart later—he will never reach heart. Mind is against heart; it will never allow it to bloom. Mind is doubt; heart is trust, reverence. The mind will raise a thousand doubts. In the head, only doubt grows. From the head, devotion never arises. Devotion arises from the heart. You need simplicity, humility, the absence of pride—the courage to fall in love.

He talks, but won’t listen—without love, what speech is this?

Without love, all speaking is futile; all listening, useless.

Dispassion won’t take; without the friend—how will you gain it?

His wavering won’t leave; he won’t heed the saint’s word.

In the head, wavering is constant. The head is full of double-mindedness: “Who knows if this is right or wrong? Maybe thus, maybe so…” Its business is to generate doubt. As trees sprout leaves, the head sprouts doubts.

His wavering won’t leave…

Endless tremor inside the head. The head is never still—earthquakes proceed 24/7. The heart never quakes. The heart is unwavering. Earthquakes never visit the heart. Whoever enters the heart goes beyond trembling. Doubts don’t sprout there. Flowers of devotion grow. Lotuses of trust bloom. One’s whole life is transformed.

His wavering won’t leave; he won’t heed the saint’s word.
And if wavering doesn’t cease, how will you heed the saint? Even if by lucky accident you reach a saint, you won’t be able to follow; the head will stand in the way, like a rock. Even if his spring flows, it won’t reach your heart. You must set the head aside.

Kabir said: If you would come to me, take off your head and set it on the ground.

His wavering won’t leave; he won’t heed the saint’s word.
The fool abandons discernment, parades his cleverness.

The fool’s greatest foolishness is to think himself clever. To protect his stupidity, he calls it cleverness. “We are not the sort to fall into anyone’s talk; not the sort to trust; not the sort to be hypnotized. We will think it through. We will calculate everything. Fall in love like that? We are not naïve—we’re clever!”

Paltoo says:

The fool abandons discernment, parades his cleverness.

And in his own cleverness, he loses the chance for discernment.

Discernment and cleverness are worlds apart. Cleverness is mere dullness. Discernment is the awakening of the soul. But you will awaken only by joining the awakened. Cleverness won’t let you join them. Your unlit lamp, full of cleverness, wobbles: “Should I go near or not? Is it right or wrong? Maybe this, maybe that!” Even when you glimpse the flame, you can’t muster courage. Stay far and you miss. Courage is needed.

Often it happens: the courageous slip into the company of truth, and the weak—the so-called “smart”—stay far. They die in their own smartness.

Beware of smartness! It is the trick by which you hide your stupidity. Always ask yourself: if you are so clever, where is the evidence in your life? Where is joy? Flavor? What have you attained? What light burns within? What fragrance arose? What music formed? What dance happened? Where is the celebration? Where the moonlight? Darkness upon darkness—and you call yourself clever! Inside, snakes and scorpions of craving crawl—still you call yourself clever! Think a little! If you were truly clever, God would dwell in your life; bliss would bloom; a thrill would run through your being.

Why this gloom? Why so much illness within? Where are you? Pushed by the crowd from here to there—from this birth to that, from this trip to that. Where have you reached? The goal does not even seem to approach—and you say you’re clever.

If you are clever, show the proof in your life. If there’s no proof, please set down this cleverness. It isn’t cleverness; it’s the device by which you dodge discernment. It is a trick of dullness. Your ignorance disguises itself as smartness to protect itself. The fool abandons discernment, parades his cleverness.

Paltoo won’t consider even a little the Satguru’s Word.
He keeps forth his own—clings to his own.

Paltoo won’t consider even a little the Satguru’s Word.
A boat you have, but no boatman—how will you cross?

Until you give thought to the master’s word—until you drop your stiff neck, quiet your inner mischief, move yourself out of the way—and say, “Now I wish to consider plainly. My life has been wasted; one true thing is clear: I have no discernment. I have only wandered. I’ve gathered only wounds. This has been my life. I’ve wandered enough. Now why follow my own ‘understanding’? I’ve followed it and where did I reach?”

The seers say: if a child blows his own trumpet, excusable—he has no experience. But if, with age, you still blow your trumpet, you are very ignorant; beyond pardon. With age, it should be clear what your cleverness has yielded. When that becomes clear, a first event happens: you begin to doubt your own mind. That is the first step of God’s advent. Doubt on your own mind—then trust in the master begins. As long as you think you will cross by yourself, why take another’s hand? Why enter a friendship?

A boat you have, but no boatman—how will you cross?

Your cleverness can take you at most to the scripture—to the boat. But the boatman? The boatman is found by friendship. Cleverness leads you to books. Many read my books. They don’t come here. They write: “We read your books; we feel great joy—but we hesitate to come; we’re afraid; we want to come, but don’t yet have the courage.”

What is the fear?

The fear of friendship.

Love is dangerous. If love forms, your life will never be the same. A book is no danger; you read it and shelve it. The book is yours—you bought it. You underline where you like; cross out what you like; make red marks where you like; you twist its meaning as you like. The book is yours. But me—you’ll know only if you come.

Only he is a fakir who has reached the Other.
One who has reached—that is a fakir.

Now understand “fakir.” People think a fakir is one who has renounced the world. Not so. One who has reached! Many “fakirs” have nothing and wear poverty like a badge. They had nothing to renounce anyway.

Ninety-nine out of a hundred so-called fakirs, monks, sadhus, mahatmas are negative fakirs: they dropped the world—but did they find God? Dropping the world is like a man preparing a garden: he clears the land, uproots weeds, burns brush, removes stones, waters the soil—and then sits down and says, “The garden is ready.” Is that a garden? The soil is ready—good. But don’t mistake the bare ground for a garden. In that empty earth roses won’t bloom. Soon enough the world’s weeds will return.

Note well: roses don’t grow by themselves; weeds do. You don’t need to fetch weeds from the market; they appear on their own. Clear the ground and they grow better—no stones—lush. Soon the field is green. Roses won’t appear by themselves; someone must plant them.

Paltoo’s exact definition: Only he is a fakir who has reached the Other! In whose life roses have bloomed—God has bloomed—that is a fakir. Merely leaving the world is not enough. Finding God is necessary. An affirmative definition—not negative.

It’s like defining “a man with eyes” as “one who is not blind.” True enough—but even one who is not blind may have his eyes shut, or bandaged, or be asleep. He is not yet “sighted.” Sighted means: he sees. Only that definition is adequate. “Not blind” is a makeshift.

“Fakir is one who has left the world”—that’s like “sighted is one not blind.” Sighted is he who sees—who has vision. Leaving the world—fine; but did God appear? There the real thing is decided.

Only he is a fakir who has reached the Other.

Whoever has reached—beneath him the canopy of light shines.
One around whom God’s light can be felt; whose aura is luminous; in whose little lamp a sun has descended.

Whoever has reached—the canopy of light shines.
Seated upon the throne of contentment, the trumpets sound day and night.

Seated on the throne of contentment—sabr, sabr—satisfaction.

Seated upon the throne of contentment…

Find a master seated on that throne—fulfilled; nowhere to go, nothing to gain—what was to be attained has been attained. After finding God, what remains? The race to get ends; the hurly-burly ceases.

Seated upon the throne of contentment, the trumpets sound day and night.
Around him the music resounds, the festival flows—the trumpet sounds all eight watches. Sit quietly with him and you’ll begin to drown in an uncanny music. Sit silently and your body will sway, like a serpent to a flute.

The trumpet sounds day and night; he sits on the throne of contentment.
Thus do they define.

Who is the boatman? Whom will you choose as Satguru? Look for contentment. Test by contentment.

Astonishing, deep criterion. Nothing else will do. If you go to a “great man” and he is still searching for God, still practicing techniques, still doing headstands and shoulder-stands, still busy with prayer and ritual—know: he is not seated on the throne of contentment; union has not happened.

After meeting God, will you still do headstands? Mock God? Stand on your head before him? Will you continue ritual after meeting God? What ritual then? After meeting him, will you still go to temples and mosques? What temple, what mosque? All is his now.

They say of the fakir Bayazid: he went to the mosque every day for years. Even when ill. He never missed. All five prayers in the mosque. People forgot a mosque could be without Bayazid. He wouldn’t leave the village lest he be somewhere without a mosque. One morning he didn’t come. People were shocked. “Unless he’s dead, no other reason.” They hurried through prayers and ran to his home. He was sitting under a tree, playing a one-stringed lute. “Bayazid,” they said, “in old age have you gone mad? A lifetime of namaz—and now you quit?” Bayazid said: “I prayed until I found. What would I do now? Where would I go? Now I play the one-string.”

That one-string is a symbol.

The trumpet sounds day and night…

If you still “do” meditation, you haven’t arrived. One who has arrived is meditation—how can he “do” it? He is worship—his life is an offering. Hence Kabir: “Rising and sitting, I circle him.” How can I go to a temple to circumambulate? Rising and sitting are my circumambulations, for whenever I rise, I rise into him; whenever I walk, I walk in him. “Eating and drinking, I serve.” How offer food in a temple now? When I eat, it is his service, for he eats.

“Eating and drinking, I serve.”

Seated upon the throne of contentment, the trumpet sounds day and night.
The sky is my tent; the earth my carpet.

What need of small temples and mosques now!

The sky is my tent; the earth my carpet.
We sprinkle forgiveness like scented water…

As one prepares for a great guest—sprinkling water to settle the dust, raising the tent—Paltoo says: now the sky itself is our one tent and the whole earth our flooring. And what to sprinkle? Not water—now we sprinkle forgiveness. Forgiveness is an expression of love. Now we water with love—with forgiveness.

We sprinkle forgiveness; we anoint ourselves with the musk of joy.
What perfume now? Joy is the musk. Day and night, waking and sleeping, waves of bliss surge. That’s the fragrance.

The treasure of the Name is full; the pennant of remembrance flies.
The Lord himself is the watchman; seeing him, even the Devil is afraid.

Now a wondrous thing: a true fakir needs no longer guard himself. God stands watch over his life. You don’t have to worry “this I should do or not do; this is right or wrong”—all that is gone, good and bad gone.

The Lord stands watch—seeing him, even the Devil trembles.
Now the Devil himself fears, for the Lord stands guard. God takes care.

You know the sweet tale: Tulsidas sleeps while bow-bearing Rama stands sentry at his door. A symbol. Whoever surrenders all to God—God guards him. As long as you guard yourself, you’re in danger. The Devil will harass you and win. How will you resist him? His ways are subtle.

The treasure of the Name is full…
There is only one treasure now: his Name, his remembrance. That alone is wealth.

The treasure of the Name is full; the pennant of remembrance flies.
The spear of remembrance flashes in every breath, all day. Prayer happens by itself—not something to do.

A saint is one in whom prayer happens by itself—in whose very being prayer is; whose rising and sitting is worship; whose eyelids blinking become prayer; in whose presence you feel God standing guard.

In both worlds, none is greater than the fakir.
The fakir is the greatest—here and hereafter.

Only he is a fakir who has reached the Other.

Take the hand of such a fakir; strike up a friendship—find the ferryman, and you will cross. On your own you will not reach. Your insistence on going alone has stranded you on this shore for lifetimes. Even now, wake up, o simpleton! Wake up!

The only profit in this world is of the True Name. Whoever wants it—take it.

There is only one profit, one wealth.

The only profit here is of the True Name. Whoever wants it—take it.

Apart from remembering the Lord, there is no other wealth, no other profit. Whoever wants it, take it. There is no hindrance—none is stopping you; only your own hands refuse to take. Remember this.

Jesus said: Knock, and the door will be opened to you. Ask, and it shall be given. Rabia went further: The doors are not even closed—don’t knock—open your eyes. The doors are open.

The Sufi Hasan used to pray every day: “Lord, open the door! Lord, open the door! It’s been so long—open the door. I am in anguish.” He stayed at Rabia’s one day. He began his usual morning: prayed, cried, beat his chest. Rabia listened one day, two, three. On the third she came and said, “Stop this nonsense! The doors are open. Open your eyes!” They say Hasan awoke. For a lifetime he had cried, “Open the door!” Rabia’s blow—“You fool! Open your eyes!”—woke him.

Paltoo says:

The only profit here is of the True Name. Whoever wants it—take it.

Whoever wants, receives. In the very moment of wanting. Not even an instant’s delay. But you don’t want. You want rubble. Someone runs after money, someone after position. Who runs after God! Even when you remember God, it’s for position—you stand for election, you go bargain with Hanuman: “Sir, keep me in mind; I’ll offer a coconut.” When it’s election time, you chant the Hanuman Chalisa, you run to mosques and temples, perform rituals, visit saints.

People come to me: “Master, I’m standing for election; I need a blessing.”

Why drag me into trouble? You will commit sins and implicate me? The day you leave politics, come—I’ll bless you. But don’t take a blessing for election. Then I’ll be responsible for what you do; I want no part of it.

They are amazed; for other saints rush to bless. Blessing costs nothing! The receiver gets hope and the giver loses nothing.

Even when you remember God, you do so for wrong reasons. Remember him for his own sake—no other motive.

The only profit is of the True Name. Whoever wants it—take it.

Whoever wants, take it—else the loot will pass by.
Will you sit waiting till the whole village has plundered?

Don’t delay—lest others “loot” it and you sit empty-handed!

Whoever wants, take it—else the loot will go by.
Will you “plunder” it when the whole village comes with their sacks?

Do you have a vow to wait till everyone else has looted it—then you, last of all?

Will you “plunder,” friend, when the whole village comes in line?

That’s why I call you a bumpkin—because you’re waiting for the whole village to plunder first?

That’s why I call you a fool—untie your bundle and quickly fill it brimful.

Hurry—quickly tie up your bundle; fill your heart with the Divine. What are you waiting for?

He who delays the looting meets ruin.

Whoever delays suffers for nothing. Until you have “looted” God, you will live in suffering—in hell.

People think hell is somewhere else. Where you are—that is hell. Until God is “looted,” you are in hell. A clever trick the pundits devised: hell somewhere under the earth—later. You relax: “We are not in hell!”

You are.

I heard of a man who died and reached hell. He was astonished—it seemed rather fine. He asked the Devil: “We’d heard terrible things—conditions here are good. On earth things are worse.” The Devil said, “That is the pundits’ trick—truth is, hell is there.”

Look within, around. What else is hell? What worse could there be? Until God is, it is hell. Thus Paltoo:

He who delays the looting meets ruin.
That’s why I call you a fool—tie your bundle brimful, quickly.

Hurry—tie your bundle.

Never again will such a chance come—no human birth again.

After millions of lives, one is born human. After eighty-four million wombs, once a man is born. Like a potter’s wheel: when it completes a turn, the notch comes to the top again. If you miss now, the whole wheel must turn. Who knows when you will be human again? Never again such a chance—who knows if, or when.

Never again such a chance—no human birth again.
Why stand watching? The gold is slipping from your hands.

Why stand idle? What are you staring at? Why be a mere onlooker? Plunder it! Even now—wake up, fool!

Never again such a chance—no human birth again.
Why stand watching? The gold is slipping from your hands.

Paltoo: I am released from my debt—don’t blame me.
The profit is of the True Name—whoever wants it, take it.

What I had to say, I have said; my debt is paid. I have received. This debt remained.

Whoever receives bears this debt: to tell others. Paltoo says: I have filled my bundle—filled to the heart’s content, left nothing lacking. I am seated on the throne of contentment. The trumpet sounds day and night! One debt remained—to tell you how I looted, how I found, and how, finding, I was blessed.

Paltoo: I am released from my debt—don’t blame me.

My trouble is over—don’t blame me later.

…Don’t dare blame me.
Don’t dare say later, “Paltoo, you found and didn’t tell us. We were near you—why didn’t you tell us the treasure was so close? You dug it up, filled your bundle, sat on the throne, immersed in bliss—while we wandered, groping in the dark. You should have called out, warned us.”

Paltoo says something very sweet:

Paltoo: I am released from my debt—don’t blame me.
The profit is of the True Name—whoever wants it, take it.

I have thrown open the door; I’ve said it plain: here is the profit of the True Name—this wealth of remembrance—whoever wants, take it. Don’t later say I misled you. If I had told you, you would not have wandered. I have told you.

Meditate on Paltoo’s words. Your life is hell. What are you watching? How long will you keep on? You’ve become a stone statue. Move a little. Stand up. Give life a turn. God stands before you, around you. Awaken this remembrance. Let this exultation descend within. This ray longs to enter you—to break your darkness. This sun longs to rise in you. Open your eyes.

Even now it’s very late. For how many lifetimes have you wandered! What a long journey—and in your hands nothing but dust. Wealth never comes to hand until meditation happens.

Meditation is the key to wealth—the real wealth. Real wealth is that which once found is never lost. The wealth you have—found today, gone tomorrow. Even when you have it—you don’t. People with much are so poor within. Outside, their safes grow full; inside, their souls grow empty. As the safe fills, the soul is sold.

Jesus said: If you gain the whole world by selling your soul, what’s the use? A bad bargain.

Wake up! Gather a little awareness! A few right steps—and the goal is near! A little steadiness of awareness—and the goal is near! A little flare of devotion—and the goal is near! And don’t keep worshipping the boat—find the boatman.

The only profit is of the True Name—whoever wants it, take it.
No one is stopping you; no guard stands at the gate. No price is asked. All is free—God is being given freely.

The profit is of the True Name—whoever wants it, take it.

Whoever wants, take it—else the loot will pass by.
Will you plunder it when the village lines up?
That’s why I call you fool—tie your bundle brimful, quickly.
He who delays the looting meets ruin.
Never again such a chance—no human birth again.
Why stand watching? The gold is slipping from your hands.
Paltoo: I am released from my debt—don’t blame me.
The profit is of the True Name—whoever wants it, take it.

Enough for today.