Ajhun Chet Ganwar #15

They say man seeks bliss—the sages say so. But to look at man, it’s hard to believe. One hears that man is a seeker of joy; see him closely and the story flips. He seems a seeker of sorrow. He won’t let go of suffering. He clings to it. He protects it. He polishes it; locks it like a treasure in his strongbox. If he happens upon a seed of sorrow, he guards it like a diamond. He carries it across lifetimes. However much misery he gathers, he shows no readiness to throw it away.

Those who say man is a seeker of bliss must not be looking at man at all. Man is a sorrowist—otherwise why would the world be so steeped in pain? If everyone were seeking joy, wouldn’t there be at least a glimmer of it? A few would have found it. And had a few found it, they would have shared it; a hint of it would shine in their eyes, breathe in their very being.

If all are hunting bliss, why do people inflict so much suffering on one another? And it isn’t only strangers who hurt you; your “own” do it—your own do it most! Enemies hurt, yes; have you kept account of how much hurt comes from friends? Those who hate you—it’s natural they’ll wound you. But those who claim to love you—have you counted the wounds they gave? If everyone is a giver of pain, the evidence is single and clear: everyone is brimming with pain. We only give what we are full of. What flows out of us is what fills us within. Neem leaves are bitter because poison is flowing inside; a mango is sweet because nectar runs within.

Our behavior hurts others because bitterness is inside us. We may swear we love, yet even in the name of love we manufacture hell in other lives. Look at husbands and wives, parents and children—each has noose on the other’s neck. The names are noble; behind those noble names moves a hellish conduct. So it is. Why? And all the while everyone claims to be seeking happiness.

Every day people come to me saying, “We want happiness.” If you want happiness, what obstacle is there? Happiness is pouring down. Happiness is everywhere present. You are like a man who stands on the bank beating his chest and crying, “I’m thirsty, I want water!” while the Ganges flows before him. Bend and drink! The Ganges flows right here. It always does. And for the Ganges you may have to take a few steps; bliss is nearer than that. Bliss is your very nature. Sink into it.

Whoever has known bliss has repeated one thing again and again: bliss is your birthright. It pervades every pore of you. The day you decide to be blissful, in that very instant you will be blissful. There’s not a moment’s delay. There is no reason for delay.

Understand it this way. If bliss is your nature, then suffering is what you have to manufacture. If bliss is your nature, it means that even if you do nothing, bliss will be there. As breathing goes on by itself, so bliss flows in your being. It does not depend on your doing. You are sat–chit–ananda. But for sorrow something must be done. Sorrow is acquired. You work hard for it. You labor, you perform austerities. With great difficulty you manage to be miserable. And still you say you seek happiness! Yet you refuse even a single formula that leads to joy, while hugging to your chest every formula that breeds sorrow.

Anger has brought you pain—thousands of times. Why not drop it now? And you call yourself a seeker of happiness! A strange search indeed! You ask for water and then walk toward fire. You cry, “I’m thirsty,” and you look for embers. Since when did embers quench thirst? You know lust has given you nothing but suffering; as desires multiplied, so did anguish. Each desire became a step and you climbed to the peaks of pain. And yet you say you seek happiness! Every desire has tormented you. Every craving has thrown you into a pit, hurled you into an abyss. Whenever you wanted something, a wound was made; the wound grows and never quite heals. Still your wanting has no end. You go on wanting—and for the very things that have wounded your soul. How many times will you need to experience this before you wake up? Still unawakened, foolish heart!

A pain, an uninvited guest—
if it took its leave,
there was no cause for despair within it.
But O heart,
O astonishing heart!
You are so disconsolate,
as if some beloved had slipped away.
This single breath of joy that has entered the door,
I know it well—
it is the return for your lifetime of discipline.
But O heart, O astonishing heart!
Already you suspect a calamity is upon you,
ah, O heart,
O astonishing heart!
So old a patient are you,
you’ve fallen in love with your wounds.

Yes, exactly so. “You’ve fallen in love with your wounds.” “A pain, an uninvited guest.” Pain was an uninvited guest. You never called it—so you say. You claim you don’t want pain. It wasn’t a guest you invited. “A pain, an uninvited guest. If it took its leave—there was no cause for despair.” Then why sit so desolate when sorrow goes?

Yet when sorrow leaves, people do fall into dejection. I have seen it too. When joy arrives they can’t accept it; when sorrow departs they grow sad. Friendship with sorrow has been forged. A bond of many lifetimes. Sorrow feels like a companion, familiar, intimate—every vein and fiber known to you. How many nights you writhed with it. How many days you bore its pangs. For how many births you walked arm in arm. When suddenly sorrow slips away you feel empty—like something precious has been lost.

This happens here every day. If someone tastes a little joy in meditation, a ray of bliss breaks through, they rush to me in panic: “What’s happening? I feel such happiness—am I all right? Am I making a mistake? Am I going mad?” Trust in sorrow has become so absolute that when joy comes, you can’t trust it; you suspect, “Maybe I’m going crazy!” The arithmetic of sorrow has settled so deeply in the soul that faith cannot form that joy is possible. And when joy dawns, it feels as if something is going wrong, as if madness is taking over. On a planet drenched in sorrow, to be happy feels like insanity. It seems something that should not happen is happening; something that is happening to no one is happening to me; where the crowd does not go, there I walk alone.

The crowd stays on the royal road—the royal road of sorrow. Bliss has only footpaths; on them one must walk alone. And the moment you are alone, you begin to tremble. With the crowd, assurance stays. Companions remain. Companions in weeping, yes—but companions nonetheless! You are not alone.

You would not choose to be alone in heaven; you would prefer a crowd even in hell. Think about it. Look within. I’m not offering theories; I’m pointing to your psychology. Until you understand this, there can be no further movement.

A pain, an uninvited guest—
if it took its leave,
there was no cause for despair.
What is there to be so sad about when sorrow goes? Yet people do grow sad when sorrow goes. When it suddenly lifts from the chest, there is an emptiness inside. You were filled with sorrow—that was your wealth. Because of sorrow there was at least some bustle within. When sorrow goes, there is a hush—a void. And the void frightens you.

Bliss is like a void. Sorrow has a great clotted fullness. Garbage, yes, but if a man fills his pouch with trash, it still feels full.

Joy is emptiness; the world is sorrow. In sorrow, your fist feels as if it holds something; in joy, the fist opens. In joy, you become empty. Or see it this way: in sorrow, you are; in joy, you dissolve. That’s why joy feels unnerving. The greater the joy, the more it effaces you. When a glimpse of bliss arrives, you are lost. And when supreme bliss descends, you are nowhere to be found.

Never imagine, even by mistake, “I can be blissful.” The “I” has never been blissful. As long as I am, sorrow is. When I go, bliss is. And the “I” lives on sorrow; sorrow is the food of ego. If there is a race of ego inside you, do not even think you are seeking bliss—you will seek sorrow, whatever you say. Words change nothing. You may say you’re heading west, but I see you going east. Ego feeds on pain. It lives by eating the worms of suffering, by sipping the pus from wounds. In bliss all wounds heal. In bliss the worms depart. No food remains for ego; fasting, it dies. First sorrow dies, then ego dies. Only one who is ready to lose the ego can truly seek bliss.

Test this within yourself, observe, and meditate on it: are you prepared to lose sorrow?

But O heart, O astonishing heart!
This heart is most strange!
O heart, O astonishing heart!
You are so desolate—
as if a dear friend had slipped away,
as if a beloved had been lost!

You are so disconsolate
as if some beloved had slipped away.
This single breath of joy that has entered the door—
this slight breeze of happiness touching your face—
I know it well:
it is the return for your lifetime of practice.
You asked for this all your life, prayed for this. You banged your head at temples and mosques. You did austerities for this. It hasn’t come by chance—it has come after much calling, much inviting; it is the fruit of great prayer.

This single breath of joy that has entered the door—
I know it well:
it is the return for your lifetime of practice.
Yet you are not pleased. You are sad—for what has left. You do not welcome the guest you invited, to whom you sent invitations, for whom you prayed for years, “Come!” The summoned guest has arrived, but you do not receive him; you have not lit auspicious lamps at the door, set a ceremonial pot, hung garlands. You have made no arrangement of welcome. You weep for the sorrow that has departed. And pain was an uninvited guest. You never called it; you always said: let it leave, let it leave, when will I be rid of this?

But there is a reason behind it. If only sorrow were to leave and you were to remain, you would happily let it go. Yet when sorrow leaves, the bricks of your house begin to fall. The house of ego is built with bricks of sorrow. As each sorrow is removed, the house collapses. Then only the empty sky remains. In that empty sky the dance of bliss happens.

Only if you are ready to be empty can you be blissful. Only if you are ready to vanish can you be blissful. Who is ready to vanish?

That’s why I say: where are people seeking bliss! They are seeking sorrow. They are seeking bigger sorrow. Small sorrows do not satisfy. If someone has the grief of a hut, it doesn’t satisfy; he seeks the grief of a palace. People want great sorrow. The sorrow of Poona doesn’t satisfy; they want the sorrow of Delhi. They want bigger sorrow. The sorrow of the village is distasteful; they need the sorrow of the metropolis. The sorrow of the poor doesn’t attract; they want the sorrow of the rich.

The rich are miserable; the poor too. The unknown are miserable; the famous too. But for fame, a man endures his misery. Why? He bears a thousand anxieties to be known. The carefree anonymity of obscurity brings no joy. Would you prefer to be unknown and happy—or known to the whole world and miserable? Think carefully. You’ll be shocked: you will choose to be known, even if your inner life is hell. To be prime minister, to be president—even if it robs you of sleep. No morning would dawn, no night be night; moon and stars would vanish, the sun would not rise, flowers would not bloom—only the filth of politics all around, a whole stench! And still you would choose it. Why? Because on that stench your “I” becomes strong. For that stench you have craved all your life. That sorrow you will endure. And if someone says, “Sit in a silent corner and be happy; no one will know you,”—truth is, if you become truly happy you become so empty that people might pass you by and not even lift their eyes to you. Would you like that? If not, then at least be honest enough to stop saying you seek happiness. Admit this much: we are seeking sorrow.

But O heart, O astonishing heart!
You are so disconsolate
as if some beloved had slipped away.
This breath of gladness at your door—
I know it well,
it is the return for your lifetime of practice.
But O heart, O astonishing heart!
Already you suspect a calamity has come!
This glimpse of joy—your trust won’t settle on it; you feel it is some divine calamity, some madness, some derangement. This little window of happiness must be denied—because it will wipe you out. Before it can erase you, you begin erasing it.

Already you suspect a calamity has come—
you fear this is some trouble, some bane fallen upon you!
Ah, O heart, O astonishing heart!
So old a patient—of course you love your wounds.

Ask the psychologists—they’ll testify in a thousand tongues: people cling fiercely to their suffering. Notice how people talk endlessly about their woes. Does anyone talk of happiness? They talk of their diseases, their troubles. Listen in on people’s conversations—you will be amazed how much they dwell on misery. Are there never breezes of joy in life? They come—but they are not discussed. Newspapers don’t print them. Newspapers publish the painful—the murder, the theft, the lies, the scandal, the runaway wife. Some paper might report a neighbor lifted a fallen man, or a rose bloomed in someone’s garden—who would read such a paper! People read papers for the thorns. Their own thorns already prick them; they collect others’ thorns too. Their own suffering is not enough; they gather the world’s.

Listen to people. Listen to yourself. You will find you speak while remaining constantly engaged with sorrow. And when you speak of sorrow, you look strangely pleased. That too is astonishing.

People come to me. When they begin to weep out their woes, they oddly brighten. A certain glow comes to their eyes, as if they’re singing a grand song. They open their wounds like they’ve brought lotus blossoms. No one speaks of joy.

It isn’t that joy is absent; we refuse to attend to it. We select sorrow, and we neglect joy. Whatever we neglect naturally drifts away; and what we relish draws near.

The first point to remember in today’s sutras is this: the words of the saints will only touch you when you stop clutching sorrow; when you wake up and begin an eager search for joy. Then each of their sutras is a treasure. Otherwise you will hear and not hear. If within you the arrangement to hold sorrow is still running, the saints’ words will echo in your ears and vanish—they will not reach your heart. Their words are drenched in joy, filled with nectar. Turn toward joy—set out in search of bliss—and each word will pierce into you like an arrow. Each word will blossom into a thousand flowers inside you, as never before. Lamps upon lamps will be lit within you—a whole row of lamps. A great radiance will dawn.

The words are small, not grand—but they are full of meaning. Listen.

Chant the Name, drop every craving,
liberation will happen for you, simply, of itself.

Chant the Name, drop all “work.”
“Work” here means wanting. Lust, desire, thirsting—“let this come, let that come—let me get something!” As long as we are in the race to get, we are beggars. And as long as we are beggars, the divine does not reveal itself. God is not for beggars; God is for emperors, for those who are masters of themselves. He comes to those who ask for nothing. In truth, only those who ask for nothing are able to “ask” for God. Those who have asked for anything else—how will they ask for the divine? The tongue becomes unworthy. It is defiled. With the same tongue you begged for a son, a daughter, money, position, fame—and now with that same tongue you would “ask” for God? Would you keep nectar in a cup filled with poison? As long as the tongue is asking, you remain in the world. The day asking ceases, the journey to God begins. Then, unasked, he is given. Ask and you do not receive; unasked, pearls are showered.

God is not granted because you ask—he arrives when your asking stops. Meditate on that state. When there is no voice within that asks—where are you then? When no desire arises, silence, stillness—no race, no goal, nowhere to go—you are sitting at home, inside, at rest. This state of rest is meditation. In this very still hour, the divine enters you. He comes each day, every moment; he’s always coming—but you are away. You are never at home. You’re never found at your address. He comes to your house—you are in the marketplace. Understand God’s difficulty a little too. If he looks in the market, he won’t find you—you’re sitting at home. If he looks at your home—well, your body is there, but your mind is in the market. You are never where you are; desire drags you elsewhere. You sit in Poona while you are in Calcutta. If God looks for you in Calcutta, he won’t find you, because you aren’t there; if he looks in Poona, he won’t find you either, because your mind has gone to Calcutta.

I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin was telling a friend, “What a dream I had last night! In the dream I was in Paris, at the biggest gambling den, drinking to my heart’s content and winning millions!”

His friend said, “That’s nothing, Mulla. I dreamed I had taken Hema Malini to a deserted island. No one else there. We were having a grand time.”

Mulla said, “Why didn’t you take me along?”

The friend said, “I called your house, but your wife said you’d gone to Paris.”

It’s all in dreams—no one has gone anywhere.

As long as there is demand, you are elsewhere. You are never found at home; God comes every day, every moment—better to say: he is present all around you. But you are not present. How can there be a meeting? If you would simply be present here and now, the meeting would happen immediately.

People ask, “Where should we seek God?” As if God were far and you had to go find him! He is the one seeking you. Please come home. Return to where the body is; be present. The waves of mind carry you away. To live in those waves is the world. Hence Patanjali said: Yoga is the cessation of the fluctuations of the mind. When all movements of mind are stilled—yoga. Yoga means union. Then there is union with the divine—samadhi.

Chant the Name, drop every craving.
Drop all desire, all wanting. For how long will you run—and what have you gained? What is in your hand? Only emptiness. When will you awaken? Enough running. Time has come to stop. The moment you stop, the possibility of the Name arises.

Where craving goes, there Ram arrives. The same energy that was running in lust—when it is not running outward or downward, it flowers as Ram. The upward turning of sex-energy is Ram. Then there is rest at home—rest in the unstruck sound.

So Palatu is not telling you to sit and mechanically repeat “Ram, Ram.” Do not think he’s asking for rote chanting. He says: transform lust; then the Name will chant itself. You will not be the doer. Mechanical doing has no value; done by you it remains desire. People do chant “Ram, Ram,” but while chanting they think, “Will I get something from this or not? I’ve chanted so much—nothing comes. Who knows if God even exists?”

And what are you asking for? Petty things. What you could not get by your desires, you now want to get through prayer. You have defiled prayer itself. Prayer is only prayer when it is free of asking.

See how corrupted the word “prayer” has become; it now means “asking.” The petitioner is the “man of prayer”! We have spoiled prayer so much that when someone says, “I am praying,” the inevitable question arises: for what? What are you asking?

Prayer asks for nothing; it is not for begging. It is a state of mind in which asking is gone. A state of rejoicing. An ah! of gratitude. Asking carries complaint: things are not as they should be—make them so.

Prayer means: thank you. As it is, it is beautiful. What could be more beautiful than this? As it is, it is enough—more than enough. I am content.

Prayer is the feeling of contentment: you have given me so much; thank you. You have made me—that alone is enough. What more do I need! You have given me consciousness, this witnessing—what more do I need! You have given me this deathless soul—what more do I need! You have given me the capacity to know—what more do I need! This capacity flowers as Buddhahood.

Chant the Name, drop every craving,
liberation will happen for you, simply, of itself.
Palatu says: liberation happens simply; don’t ask. Do not desire—even God. He is ready to give; do not spoil it by asking. Do not lower your dignity by begging. Liberation is already in motion; naturally, without doing anything, it will happen. Sit quietly, be silent, relax into rest. Let the running of desire cease—liberation will be.

Chant the Name, drop every craving—
liberation will happen for you, simply.
No price is charged, yet this is the greatest work.

Listen well: no price is charged, yet this is the greatest work. The greatest possible achievement, the ultimate peak. Beyond this there is no further bliss, no higher good.

No price is charged, yet this is the greatest work—
the greatest work of human life—and yet nothing is charged. It happens on its own. Just set aside your demands; drop the beggar’s pose. The meeting is between master and master. Until you are a master, you cannot meet the divine.

No price is charged, yet this is the greatest work:
circle forever in satsang.

Naturally the question arises: how does this happen? Even if the point is understood—how does it happen?

We ran our whole lives and found nothing—how will this come effortlessly? Without doing? It sounds absurd, an upside-down paradox, the kind fakirs love to utter: “It will happen simply; nothing to do; the Name will explode.” But how? Where to begin? Suppose we agree and accept it—how to drop desires, and how does Ram happen?

And the moment we ask “how,” the obstruction arises. Because “how” means we’ve made a new desire. Now we want the Name, we want liberation. Desire has not gone; it has come in from the back door. Desire says, “Don’t ask for wealth; ask for liberation.” And if it is said that it comes unasked, then desire says, “All right, don’t ask, because then it will come.” But this is only another trick of asking. “Since it comes unasked, I will not ask”—yet inside, asking persists. You will keep peeking from the corner of your eye: “Has it come yet? Not yet? Was the teaching true—or false?”

People come to me and say, “Meditation isn’t happening. We are trying hard.” I ask, “Are you harboring any expectations?” They say, “Well, yes—peace of mind, health, this or that.”

I say, “As long as you have expectations, it won’t happen.” They reply, “All right, since you say so, we’ll drop expectations. But then will it happen?”

In that “will it happen?” expectation has slipped back in. Man is caught in such a subtle net—he escapes on one side and is caught on the other. So what does Palatu suggest?

No price is charged, yet this is the greatest work:
circle forever in satsang.

Where do we begin? You ask “how”—the mistake is made. Palatu says, do not ask “how.” Ask “where.” Where? In satsang: where one or two abide in this emptiness—even one will do. Wherever someone rests in this effortless ease—frequent that place, keep circling there. It is worth circumambulating. Go there; spend as much time as you can. Sit near the one in whom it has happened. Sitting near him, the base metal turns to gold.

Satsang is immensely precious. In the path of devotion, satsang is what all the processes of yoga are on the yogic path. The eightfold path—yama, niyama, asana, breath—Patanjali’s whole ladder, from yama to samadhi; the Buddha’s noble eightfold path—right view, right conduct, right effort...thousands of methods in yoga and tantra. What is the method of bhakti? Only one: satsang. The sum total of all methods is this: sit near the one in whom it has happened. His presence acts like a catalytic agent. In his presence something begins to happen.

You see it every day: things happen by mere presence, but you don’t notice. Dawn: the sun hasn’t yet risen; buds are closed, birds asleep. Then the east blushes, buds begin to open. The sun does not go and open each bud by hand; just his presence, his light. He doesn’t knock on each bird’s head, “Wake up, brother, it’s dawn!” As soon as light spreads, the earth awakens—trees, animals, birds—everything stirs. It happens naturally. The sun’s presence awakens. Evening: the sun departs, nature sleeps. In his absence, sleep deepens.

So it is with one who is awake: stay near him, and his rays—his light—will fall upon you. Even if you are blind, they fall. A blind man entering a lit room still receives the light’s warmth. Light does not say, “I will not fall on the blind.” Even if you sleep, it falls. Even if you are unconscious, it falls. Slowly, slowly those rays permeate your limbs; that fragrance makes a home in your heart. Satsang is the devotee’s only path.

No price is charged, yet this is the greatest work:
circle forever in satsang.

Do not think that once satsang happens, all is done. Satsang is the beginning; the final flowering is within you. In satsang the first ray breaks; the full sun will rise in you. Do not become bound to the guru. Keep company with the guru, but don’t become a captive. Bow at his feet, but do not stop there. From there the journey begins—then go within. Sitting by him, you will taste a little of ease; a drop will slip down your throat. Once the taste arrives, everything becomes simple.

This faint ray of light that has broken through—
who says it is the full bright morning, my friend?
I feel it still: the starry night has not yet ended.
But my friend, let me dance a little!
At least the light has lifted the veil once,
for a moment the spell of the night has cracked.
This proves that morning is possible,
the curtain of night can be torn.
Even the false dawn is the preface to the true dawn,
even the false dawn announces the bright day:
an announcement that the night is bidding farewell,
the caravan of the morning light is very near,
soon the radiant sun will reveal itself.

This faint ray of light—you see, before morning there is the dawn. The sun not yet risen; the night gone; the in-between—that is the twilight, the sandhya, the small bridge. Night is gone; day not yet. In such a moment, sitting by the guru, you find you are not yet free, but neither can you say you are still fully in bondage. The bridge has come: chains loosening, night departing, day arriving—between the two.

This faint ray of light that has broken—
who will call it the full bright morning!
Who will say the sun has risen!

I know still the starry night remains. Yet, my friend, let me dance! Let me rejoice! Welcome this slight ray of light.

In satsang, the devotee becomes intoxicated, though his morning has not yet come. But someone’s has! He has seen another’s dawn. He hasn’t touched God directly, but has seen through someone else’s eyes, held the hand of one who held God’s hand. That too is no small thing—it is revolutionary. Dawn has come.

But my friend, let me dance!
This is why the devotee rejoices in satsang—he sways, he dances; a wine of ecstasy floods him.

I know the starry night remains,
but my friend, let me dance—
at least once the light has lifted the veil.
At least once the curtain rose, the veil fluttered, a window opened. He has glimpsed the sun through another’s window; it is true the window is not his—he knows that.

This faint ray—who will call it full morning?
I don’t claim my morning has come—but I have been a guest for a while in another’s dawn; I have shared, for a time, another’s blissful world, another’s dance. Let me celebrate.

Often friends ask: even though it hasn’t happened to me, it feels on the verge. And what is on the verge I feel like sharing—should I? Should I speak or remain silent? They are saying the same thing: Let me dance a little, my friend.

Share it. Dawn is enough. The sun hasn’t risen in you yet, but it is near. Celebrate! Dance! Enter the festival.

Seeing the devotee rejoice, many are puzzled. They ask, “Has it happened to you?” And naturally there is a hesitation: how to say, “It has happened”?

I know the night remains—so I cannot say “it has happened.” But it has happened somewhere. I come from there. I looked into another’s eyes. I held the hand of one who has touched the divine—and that touch assures me it happens. Morning does come. It is not night forever.

At least once the light lifted the veil—
even if on another’s face, I have seen the stamp of the divine. If it can be on one face, it can be on mine too. This trust is everything; this trust is the foundation. This is what is meant by shraddha.

Shraddha is not belief. Never mistake it for belief. Belief is borrowed—someone else convinced you. They themselves don’t know—and they have convinced you. Your parents convinced you, the priest convinced you—none of them knew. You adopted belief.

Belief means the blind leading the blind.

Shraddha means you have looked into the eyes of someone who sees. Your own eye has not yet opened, your window is still closed, but you have seen as another’s guest. And the one whose guest you became—that one knows. That is shraddha.

At least for an instant the spell of the night has cracked.
For a moment—a flash—but the night’s magic broke. That magic has ensnared you so completely you cannot believe morning is possible, that it ever was or ever will be.

Guru means: one in whose presence, for a heartbeat, the spell of night breaks for you. For him it has broken; in his vicinity it breaks for you. Palatu says: keep circling there. Circle forever in satsang. As much as possible, go. Don’t be hasty, don’t be impatient.

For a moment the spell of the night broke—
this proves morning is possible;
the dark curtain can be torn.

Even the false dawn is a preface to the true dawn,
a herald of the bright morning—
an announcement that the night is bidding farewell.
That is what I say to Ajit Saraswati: it hasn’t happened yet, but the time of the night’s departure has come—an announcement! When you hear the announcement you will want to announce it too. What will you do? When trust arises, you have to share it; otherwise it becomes a burden. Clouds full of water must rain. When fragrance comes to the flower, it must spread.

An announcement that the night is bidding farewell,
the caravan of morning light is very near,
soon the radiant sun will appear.

That great sun is near. Satsang means: where it has manifested, in whom it has manifested—once your trust settles there, stop worrying about the world. And know: you will never be able to “prove” it to others. This matter is of the heart. Either it strikes—or it doesn’t. You cannot prove it by logic. Who has ever proved it?

It is like falling in love with a woman or a man. However you try to explain their beauty, how will you? It is beautiful to you—otherwise, why fall in love? But how will you convince anyone else? People will laugh. So it is with loving the guru; so with satsang.

Delay not—lay your head-load down,
drop the hopes of the world.

Palatu says: once you’ve found the guru, do not delay. Lay your heavy head-load at his feet. Drop all worldly hopes. From there a new journey begins—drop hope in the world. Don’t imagine there is anything more to gain here. When the guru is found, what could the world give? In this world, to find a Buddha, a Mohammed, a Nanak—what more is there to receive! Finding the guru—everything is found.

Understand why. What is a guru? The gateway out of the world. If in this world you find the door out, that is enough. The Sikhs are right to call their temple the “Gurudwara”—the guru’s door. In this world we have wandered for lifetimes, taking wounds from desire; beyond disappointment, nothing is gained. The day you find the guru, drop every hope from the world. The matter here is finished, the journey complete. You have come near the door where God begins.

Drop the hopes of the world.
Delay not—lay your head-load down.
There is nothing more to hope for here; what could be had, has been had—the ultimate.

Says the servant Palatu: only this company goes with you—
let your mouth speak the Name—that is my plea.

Secure satsang. Only satsang goes with you. All else is left behind. Tie a deep bond with the guru. What shines in that relationship will go with you; the rest will be left.

Palatu says: this is my petition to you. Let your mouth speak the Name—drop craving. Liberation will happen simply of itself.

In the East they call him Ram, in the West, Allah—
then who dwells in the North and South?

He says the “Ram” he speaks of is not the Ram of the shrines and sects—do not mistake me. In the East they say Ram, in the West they say Allah—then who lives in the North and South? All directions are his. He pervades everywhere. Don’t get caught in temple–mosque loops. This whole existence is his temple. Every inch of earth is sacred. Wherever you walk, you walk in the temple. Therefore be alert everywhere; remember Ram everywhere. Don’t think you must bathe and arrange your mind for a temple, then step out and run the world. The whole is his. He pervades all.

Where is the Lord? Where is he not?
Do not ask where God is; the real question is where he is not. He alone truly is. In all beings, only he is hidden.

Hindu and Turk make a storm of quarrel.
Hindus and Muslims, Christians and Jains, Buddhists and Zoroastrians—all tangled in quarrels. They argue where God is. Palatu says: the real question is—where is he not! Do not fuss over his form; all forms are his. Do not fret about the name; all names are his.

Hindu and Turk pull and tug together,
each drags to his own camp—both poor and wasted.
They tug and pull: “Come here, truth is here.” Don’t be caught in the tug-of-war. Take refuge with a true guru. Lay down your head-load. Drop worldly hope. The supreme treasure is in your hand—now dive.

Says the servant Palatu: the Lord lives in all,
not separate at all—I speak the truth.
He is in all—even in you. No need to join any temple’s tug-of-war; those are politics—numbers games. It’s useless to be Hindu or Muslim. Take the hand of a living master. Where a guru is alive, there is no Hindu, no Muslim. When Christ was alive, there were no Christians. When Buddha was alive, there were no Buddhists. When Krishna was alive, who was Hindu? The word “Hindu” didn’t exist. Where a living guru is, religion has no adjectives. When the guru departs, priests gather, and the adjectives become important. Where adjectives grow important—run. The fire has gone; only ash remains.

Says the servant Palatu: the Lord lives in all,
not separate—even a little—this I say in truth.

Only the one whose body is touched by it knows—
only the one who lives in satsang will understand.
But what I’m saying—you won’t know by hearing. You will only know by being touched.

Only the one whose body is touched by it knows.
Only the one who lives in satsang will know.
The one who falls in love with a true guru—that one will know.

Only the one whose body is touched by it knows—
this wind that strikes you, this divine “illness” that seizes you, this wine that slips down your throat—only that one knows.

A hundred medicines won’t cure the ache of separation
of the one pierced by love’s knife.
In whose heart the dagger of divine longing has sunk—no medicine will cure it. Western medicine has no hint of this illness—the lover’s illness, the devotee’s—no cure in the world.

In Japan, after centuries of Zen, doctors discovered a strange condition not linked to madness though it resembles it. Japan is the only country whose medical science names a particular ailment “Zen sickness.” It is a great recognition. When a doctor sees that someone is ill with Zen—with meditation—he doesn’t treat him; he sends him to a true master, to an ashram: “Go there. We have no treatment. This is neither bodily nor mental—it is spiritual.”

Man lives on three planes—body, mind, soul. First the West treated only the body; then, with great reluctance after Freud, it accepted that there are illnesses of mind. Yet it still refuses the third—that there are illnesses of the soul—for which there is no cure. That “no cure” is a blessing: they are healed only through experience—through meeting the divine.

In the West, a great thinker, R. D. Laing, studied many “madmen.” He worked hard to show that many in asylums are not mad; in another century they would be called “devotees.” In the East they would be meditators. But they are locked up, injected, shocked with electricity, tortured—because the West has no notion that beyond mental illness there is a third illness. As Palatu says—

Only the one whose body is touched by it knows...
A hundred medicines will not cure the ache of separation
of the one pierced by love’s knife.
As a lover goes mad for his beloved, so a devotee goes mad for God. The lover’s madness is a little stream; the devotee’s is an ocean. Majnu goes mad for Laila—small madness. When Meera goes mad for Krishna—it is vast as the sky.

A hundred medicines won’t cure the ache of separation
of the one pierced by love’s knife.
This is what happens in satsang: the guru’s presence, his light, his flavor—stab the devotee’s heart like a knife: “When will this be mine? When will my blessed day come?” He weeps, cries out, beats his chest, dances, sings, calls. Palatu gives the right word: the knife of separation. A great blade sinks in. But blessed is he who falls ill like this.

The eyes become a waterfall; hunger and sleep vanish—
a noose of love is tight around the neck.
This will happen in satsang—so Palatu warns beforehand. Tears flow like a spring. Note: these are not tears of sorrow; they are tears of supreme joy. Even separation from God is sweet. The joys of human meetings turn into sorrow tomorrow; the sorrow of divine longing becomes bliss tomorrow. Hence the devotee weeps with an “ah!”—tears of gratitude.

The eyes become a waterfall; hunger and sleep vanish—
a noose of love tight around the neck.
A noose is around the neck; until union happens, there is no rest. Until dissolution comes, what hunger, what thirst?

Says the servant Palatu: once stained, it will not wash off,
let the whole world laugh.
Once this color soaks in, it never leaves. It is no cheap dye. Let the world mock—nothing will loosen it.

Only a Rajput should enter the field—
and slay the “five and twenty” in the farm.
Therefore beware: only a warrior should step onto this field. This is not for the weak or fearful. “Five and twenty” are your five senses and their multiplied projections. Each sense branches into many directions, dragging you.

Only a Rajput should enter the field—
and slay the “five and twenty.”
The one who conquers the senses is the victor. That is why Mahavira is called Jina—the conqueror. To call oneself “Jain” is quite a claim; the title belongs to Mahavira. To be Jina your senses must be yours. Are they yours? You walk, a beautiful woman passes—your eyes are enchanted. You yank them away, but they want to go there. Even if you hold them by force, at night you will dream of her. The eyes wanted to see—they’ll see in dream if not awake. You pass a restaurant; aroma rises—nostrils flare. You restrain yourself.

I heard: Mulla Nasruddin swore off wine. But his path still passed by the tavern. He set out full of God’s remembrance. As the tavern neared and the scent of wine rode the breeze, drunkards staggered out—he weakened. Yet he pushed himself a full hundred steps beyond. Then he stopped, patted his own back, “Bravo, Nasruddin! Now come, I’ll treat you to a drink to celebrate you made it past!” He turned back. A new trick: “I’ll drink to celebrate that the tavern didn’t pull me in!” Bravo!

Watch your senses. They pull you in twenty-five directions. Force won’t hold them. Until a taste of the supreme dawns, you cannot be master of taste; until the real form is seen, the eyes will chase forms; until the unstruck sound is heard, ears will remain mad for music; until the true wine is found—the wine of divine love—you will seek some intoxication or other.

Only a Rajput should enter the field—
and slay the “five and twenty.”
Lust and anger are the two great ruffians:
turn them away with the bow of knowing.
Only two chief disturbers: lust and anger. Lust says: I must live, and live fully. Anger says: I won’t let the other live. Hence when anger rises, the thought comes: kill him—end him. To save yourself, you crush the other.

Lust and anger walk together. The lustful is bound to be angry: whenever you run in desire you find competition. A diamond lies on the road; you run—and others run too. You are not alone. If you were alone, even then what joy in picking it up? Imagine a third world war has wiped out everyone—you are alone. Go collect the Koh-i-Noor and any gems you want. Soon you will tire: “What to do with these?” Even if you wear a crown studded with diamonds, no one will come to see. Without the crowd, what meaning?

The diamond has value because competitors exist. Without them, none. Because competitors exist, you are not alone. Every desire becomes war. Others run; you must step on their chests, climb their heads. Kill if necessary.

Hence there is no “policy” in politics. It is astonishing we call it “policy”—that insults the word. Politics is by any means—fair or foul—gain the seat, the fame. Many run. In India six hundred million run; thus six hundred million enemies when you are intoxicated with ambition. Naturally there will be injustice.

Politics means non-ethics. Our entire life, being desire-based, is politics—running for wealth, the same disturbance. Wherever you run in desire, whoever comes in between, you will rage against.

Palatu says:
Lust and anger, the two great ruffians—
turn them away with the bow of knowing.
Awaken awareness. When lust arises, bring total attention. When anger arises, witness it. Do not ally with it, do not identify, do not get entangled. Stand apart as the seer. That is “turn them away with the bow of knowing.”

Leap into the fortress of the body
and set fire to delusion—burn it to ash.
If anything deserves a funeral pyre before your body goes to the pyre, it is delusion—mine and thine, possessiveness. As long as “mine” is there, the “I” persists. “Mine” is the spread of “I.” Cut “mine.” My house, my shop, my wife, my children, my religion, my scripture, my nation, my caste—wherever there is “mine,” cut it. The day all “mine” is cut, the “I” falls at once—its tent is pegged by “mine.” Pull up all the pegs, the tent collapses. Where the tent collapses, the divine descends.

Leap into the fortress of the body,
set fire to delusion—burn it.
Says the servant Palatu: only that one is a Rajput
who, after conquering the mind, lets the self be defeated.
Do not surrender before conquering the mind. Conquer the mind, then rest. Without conquering, do not rest. The one who will not rest until he has become Jina—that is the true warrior. Palatu says: conquer the mind, and then let the “self” be defeated. Only then stop—only then peace—only then rest—when one thing is sure: you have mastered the mind. That is the hero who incinerates lust, anger, attachment; who burns ignorance in the fire of knowing; who forgets “I am body,” forgets “I am mind,” and finally forgets “I am.” When all “I” dissolves, what remains—that is Om. That is the unstruck sound. That is:
Chant the Name, drop every craving,
liberation will happen for you, simply.
No price is charged—yet this is the greatest work:
circle forever in satsang.
Delay not—lay your head-load down,
drop the hopes of the world.
Says the servant Palatu: only this company goes with you—
let your mouth speak the Name—this is my plea.
In the East they say Ram, in the West, Allah—
then who dwells in North and South?
Where is the Lord? Where is he not?
Hindu and Turk make a storm of quarrel.
Hindu and Turk tug and pull,
each drags to his own camp—both wasted.
Says the servant Palatu: the Lord lives in all,
not separate at all—I speak the truth.
Only the one touched by it knows—
only the one who lives in satsang understands.
A hundred medicines won’t heal the ache of separation
of the one pierced by love’s knife.
Eyes become a waterfall; no hunger or sleep remains—
a noose of love tight around the neck.
Says the servant Palatu: once stained, it will not wash off,
let the whole world laugh.
Only a Rajput should enter the field
and slay the “five and twenty.”
Lust and anger, the two great ruffians—
turn them away with the bow of knowing.
Leap into the fortress of the body,
set fire to delusion—burn it.
Says the servant Palatu: that one is a true Rajput
who, conquering the mind, lets the self be defeated.

Enough for today.