Ajhun Chet Ganwar #17

Life is now, and then it isn’t. It is the play of a moment. A bubble on the water! While it is, it feels as if it will last forever. When it is gone, one wonders, “Was it ever? Did it ever even happen?” A bubble on the water! It swells and floats, turning rainbow-hued in the sun. When it is, it gives the illusion of the eternal; when it is not, even its dream feels untrustworthy.

Over life hangs the sword of death by a very flimsy thread; who can say when it will snap? Now, any moment. So the wise are those who, within life, attain that which is eternal. The unwise are those who, within life, gather only what is transient. Life itself is fleeting. Will you employ the fleeting in the service of the fleeting? Life will go, and what you collected will go too. Nothing of worth will fall into your hands.

Take this small life and devote it to the search for the eternal. Life will go anyway—it never meant to stay. But the one who seeks the eternal—yes, his life will pass, yet he has used it; he has made a ladder of it. What he found remains. Time is spent, but time is squeezed into treasure.

Very few are fortunate enough to say, at the moment of death, “My life has been fulfilled.” Death is the touchstone. When death stands before you, that is the test—the day of examination. Only then is it known whether you found anything in life. Why then? Because death decides whether what you found can go with you. If truly it was found, it will travel with you. If you only played games with soap-bubbles, nothing will go with you. Naked you come, naked you go. Empty-handed you come, empty-handed you go.

To come empty-handed at birth is fine; but if you leave empty-handed too, what was the meaning of your entire life?

The eternal is hidden in time, and the doorway to the timeless lies within the transient. Death will be the test. But if you first wake up at the time of death, what will you do then? There’s no time left in your hands. That is why Paltu says: “Even now, wake up, simpleton! Wake up now!”

I have not yet poured out love upon the earth—
O Death, withdraw your step a little!
On the parched lips of time’s thirsting soul
I still must become a drop of nectar;
In some dark hut I still must descend
Like a sweet moonlight;
A new bud fallen into dust
I’ve not yet lifted and adorned as a goddess—
O Death, withdraw your step a little.

Having sung a tear-filled song into a silent eye,
Let me lodge a dream in that very eye;
One walking alone without love upon the road—
Let me ease that traveler’s fatigue a little;
In someone’s looted, extinguished life
I’ve not yet celebrated a festival of lamps—
O Death, withdraw your step a little.

We are to walk far on this thorny path;
Let me pick the thorns and clear the way a little.
I’ve done some wrong, I’ve suffered some wrong—
Let me be forgiven a little, let me forgive a little.
One whose gaze is straying—
I haven’t yet shown that eye a colorful world—
O Death, withdraw your step a little.

Let me still roam the fields, the threshing grounds, the village square, the well’s steps,
Along the riverbank;
In the surging, thundering monsoon clouds
Let me be drenched a little, let me sway a little.
Life is waning, the journey is advancing—
Yet no resonance has arisen from the heart—
O Death, withdraw your step a little.

But death does not withdraw her step. The step death has taken never steps back. Cry all you want, scream all you want. Say, “I have not yet even lived; I was entangled in futility; I hadn’t even lifted my eyes toward the essential.” Beat your head all you like—death will not retrace her step. Therefore, those who mean to awaken must awaken before death arrives.

Without awakening, an entire life bears no fruit. And even if for a single moment you awaken before death, just one moment, a window opens onto the Divine.

This is Paltu’s cry—“Even now, wake up, simpleton!”—so much has gone, a little remains; this too will go. So much went—what came of it? And the little that remains—will you waste it the same way, or do something with it? Conquer the world as you will, there’s no victory—death arrives and upsets the whole game. Only the one who conquers himself wins. Victory lies in the mind’s victory. Today’s words are for that victory.

Rule your body; take devotion as your estate.
The true warrior fights with knowing.
With the sword of forgiveness he brings the world under sway—
The battlefield is love.

Having scattered the ranks of greed, attachment, and pride,
Lust and anger do not survive.
Says servant Paltu: only he is truly anointed,
He whose light rises across the three worlds.

Paltu says: we call him a warrior, a kshatriya, who conquers that which cannot be taken away. The warriors you call warriors fight for toys. Even if you snatch something from someone, what then? Death will snatch it from you. Death makes all equal—the rich and the poor, the defeated and the victorious—she takes from all. All that snatching and grabbing proves futile. The defeated lose; the victorious lose too.

So whom shall we call a warrior? The one who wrests something from death. And to wrest from death, there is only one way: catch a glimpse of the eternal. Only the eternal is untouched by death. Let there be some wealth of ours beyond time, let the door to the timeless open, let samadhi happen—then death cannot rob us. If some note of immortality is heard within us, death cannot erase it.

Rule your body; take devotion as your estate,
Paltu says. If you must rule—nothing wrong in that—then rule your body.

You do not even have mastery over your own body. Your body does not obey you. And you are busy commanding other bodies! You aspire to run the whole world, but you cannot run this little body. Even this small body does not heed you; it is your master. How will you be a king? You haven’t escaped the body’s slavery yet.

Rule your body...

So spread your first reign over your own body. First discipline: let your body follow you; do not be dragged behind it. Taste seduces. Music lures. Lust seizes. When the body burns with some fever, some fever of desire, you become utterly unconscious; your awareness is lost. Flames of anger arise and you do things you would never do if you were alert. Afterwards you repent. But afterwards! “What’s the use of repenting when the birds have eaten the field?” Afterwards even the foolish repent. Intelligence is to awaken in the very moment anger arises, to gather your awareness right then. Mastery arises from that awareness.

Understand mastery rightly. Mastery is not forced control—whipping the body, starving it, fasting it into submission. That is false mastery. The body should be healthy, strong, vibrant—and yet mastery should be there.

There are two kinds of mastery in the world. One is to weaken the body so much that it has no strength to resist. Is that mastery? That’s self-deception—like keeping a corpse at home and claiming to be its master. “When I lift it, it rises; when I seat it, it sits; if I take it out, it goes; if I bring it in, it comes.”

Your so-called renunciates have turned the body into a corpse. They are afraid. That is not mastery. Where is fear for the master? It is like riding a horse that won’t obey, so you starve it, whip it, wound it until it grows so weak it has no choice but to obey. Is that mastery? The horse has become half-dead. Mastery is a joy only when the horse is alive, racing the wind, powerful. To make it weak and then “master” it is a fraud. Let the horse be full of vigor—and then master it.

So remember, Paltu is not speaking of mastery by suppression. He speaks—this will become clear—of mastery born of awareness. There is a revolutionary difference. By suppression you do not awaken; only the body grows weak. By awakening, the body remains as it is—perhaps stronger—while a lamp is lit within. In that lamp’s light, you begin to glow. A peace takes throne within. In that peace is balance; in that balance, self-restraint; in that restraint, samadhi. One leads to the next. Little by little, a vast mastery is born, which the Jains called Jina-hood: you become a conqueror. And the body need not be slain or cut. There is no fight with the body at all—and victory happens. The best victory is the one won without fighting.

Rule your body; take devotion as your estate.

Paltu says a most delightful thing: ruling the body becomes easy if you receive the fief of devotion. Do not fight the body; love the Divine—and rule happens. Do not fixate on the body at all.

There are two kinds of body-fixation in the world. One adorns the body with ornaments, stands before mirrors, forever concerned with beautifying the body. The other—whom you call a “mahatma”—is also engrossed in the body all day: what to eat, what to wear, what to drink, what not to drink, when to wake, when to sleep. There is no difference. One stands before a mirror; he is in love with the body. The other is the body’s enemy; he torments it. But both are stuck on the body. Neither is soul-oriented.

The soul-oriented one is he who takes devotion as his estate.

Soul-oriented means: the body ceases to be a concern; the eyes lift inward toward the Divine. The moment your gaze turns toward the Divine, the body falls in line; it does not need to be forced. One who has invoked the Divine, who has connected a little with the Beloved, suddenly finds that the body’s turbulent passions quiet down on their own. Why? Because when divine love showers, one no longer hankers for other loves. When God’s wealth arrives, one ceases to crave other wealth. And one who has found God—what anger, what greed, what attachment can remain? These were nuisances of the dark night when there was no divine light. Simple words, but very deep.

Rule your body; take devotion as your estate.

Once you obtain God’s fief, rule comes by itself. You don’t win the Divine by fighting the body; on finding the Divine, the body is won.

That’s why the real issue is not austerity but devotion—love, and turning the current of love upward. Let your love rise. Notice the difference.

A beautiful woman passes and your mind is drawn. The devotee too passes the same way; he sees her as well—he is not blind. His appreciation of beauty is keener than yours, for he has seen the Supreme Beauty. In this woman’s beauty he glimpses a glint of that Supreme. Like seeing the moon reflected in water, he sees a small reflection of the Divine in this form. Seeing her, desire for the body does not arise. Seeing her, remembrance of the Beloved arises. This beauty reminds him of the Supreme; he dives again into song, begins to sway within. It will be so when he sees a flower bloom, or the sun rise, or waves arise on the sea. One who has once glimpsed the Supreme Beauty sees its hint wherever beauty is.

A devotee does not need to fight. His path is artful: he wins without fighting.

You pass by, a beautiful woman draws you; the body surges, lust arises. You are not its master. Then your so-called saint passes; he too sees, but he quickly lowers his eyes, holds his breath, starts chanting “Ram-Ram, Ram-Ram,” erecting a wall of Ram-Ram to forget—even to forget that he saw.

A Zen tale: an old monk and a young monk were returning to their monastery. A small river lay ahead. A beautiful young woman stood there, afraid to cross. The old monk, eyes down, hurried into the water. He sensed she wanted a hand—he was afraid: “A hand? Not right to get into this!” The young monk, following, asked her why she stood alone at dusk. She said, “I’m frightened. It’s deep, swift.” So the young monk hoisted her onto his shoulder, crossed, set her down. They walked on in silence for two miles. The old monk, unable to bear it, said, “This won’t do—I must tell the Master. You violated our rule. Why did you carry the girl on your shoulder?” The young monk said, “You must be very tired. I put her down on the bank; you are still carrying her on your shoulder. You must be exhausted. The thing came and went—you’re still clinging!”

Your “mahatma” may lower his eyes, but does that end desire? Blind yourself and desires remain. What have eyes to do with desire? Do you think the blind are free of desire? They have as much, perhaps more—they are helpless; they ache within. Lowering the eyes is self-deception.

So the ordinary person’s body burns with lust at the sight of beauty; your so-called saint’s body also surges, but he suppresses it, perhaps fasting for days in repentance, or whipping himself.

Sufi ascetics, Christian monks, Zen monks—around the world countless sects of ascetics sprang up, riddled with diseases of many kinds. Companies of self-flagellators. Companies of fasters, of all-night vigil-keepers. Those who wore belts lined with spikes, shoes turned with nails inward to wound their feet. Those who gouged out their eyes, severed their genitals. These are pathological bands. Paltu does not endorse them.

Paltu says: there is another way. Do not fight lust—where will you go fighting? You’ll only be scarred. Arouse a greater longing—the longing for God. Fill yourself with a bigger love. Lift your eyes a little higher. Even worldly beauty tastes sweet only because for a fleeting instant a shadow of the Divine’s beauty falls upon it. You are obsessed with the shadow because you haven’t seen the original. You cling to the picture because you haven’t seen the one pictured. See Him—receive the estate. Then there is no fight, no forcing. A mastery arises that is effortless.

Rule your body; take devotion as your estate.
The true warrior fights with knowing.

Awaken bodh. Kindle awareness. That is the true warrior.

There is only one way: awakening; awareness; alertness. As alertness deepens, mastery over the body grows. And on the day you gain mastery over your body, when awareness is complete, a blessed moment dawns—the auspicious drums sound in your life.

With the sword of forgiveness he brings the world under sway—

For one who has seized his body through awareness, deeper events occur quietly. In one who awakens, compassion and forgiveness arise for all beings. They must. Where there is lust and craving, its corollary is anger. The lustful will be angry; it is impossible to be lustful and not angry. Anger is the sheath of lust’s sword.

Notice when you burn with anger: whenever someone obstructs your desire. You are mad after a woman and someone interferes. You want to buy land and someone bids higher. You run for office and someone else enters and draws away votes—you rage. Where desire is thwarted, anger arises. In a world full of desiring people, conflict is natural. Lust invites rivalry, struggle, throttling contests. So lust—so anger.

The reverse also happens: as desire falls away and prayer arises—when the fief of devotion comes—its companion is forgiveness. Forgiveness is the opposite of anger. When you have no craving left in the outer world, nothing you must have—what quarrel remains? With whom to be angry? Forgiveness becomes natural.

Note: Paltu is not asking you to “practice” forgiveness. If you have to do forgiveness, it is no longer forgiveness. If it must be done, anger has already come.

The Jain scriptures say: Mahavira was supremely forgiving. I asked a Jain monk, “What does that mean?” He said, “It’s simple—he forgave everyone.” I said, “But forgiveness follows anger. Without anger, how can there be forgiveness?” He grew uneasy. “You may be right.”

Later he said he thought hard, but could not resolve it. I asked, “Have you experienced even a little forgiveness? Then you wouldn’t need to think.” For Mahavira, forgiveness does not mean he became angry and then forgave. I wouldn’t even call him forgiving; I would call him non-angry. Anger never arose. Someone abused him, he remained still. Someone drove nails into his ears, he was silent. Someone pushed him out of town, insulted him, threw stones—he remained silent. So people said: “He is supremely forgiving.” That is the outer view. Inside, no anger arose; there is no question of forgiveness. This is Paltu’s meaning.

Rule your body; take devotion as your estate.
With the sword of forgiveness he brings the world under sway—
The battlefield is love.

This is a rare utterance:
The battlefield is love.

The more you ponder it, the more meanings unfold.

Paltu says: there is only one war in this world—the war of love. But love for what? Money? Status? Wife? Husband? Friend? Family? God? This is the world’s whole struggle: where to anchor love? On what altar to offer its flame? Whom to enthrone as the object of worship? Whose door to sing before? At whose feet to bow? Someone bows at wealth’s door. Someone bows before cash itself. Someone worships gold and silver.

You see, when Diwali comes, people worship Lakshmi. And then we say: this is a deeply religious land! Nowhere else is wealth worshipped—only here. Worship of money! And you think your country is religious. I suspect some even worship Narayana because he’s Lakshmi-Narayana—Lakshmi is attached, so Narayana must be included. But your heart is in Lakshmi’s worship.

Worship of wealth! On Diwali you light lamps, sparklers, burst crackers—and worship Lakshmi! People heap piles of cash and worship it. Now there’s hardly cash—still people save a few notes just for worship.

But worshipping wealth is supreme greed. Use wealth, fine—at least don’t worship it. Yet you claim religiosity.

Reflect. Look clearly at what you worship. Some worship status; they bow before the chair. Bring the post, and their heads drop. The same man without position tomorrow will draw no bowing. Seat even a donkey on the post, and you sing its praises. Pull down God from the post, and no one will bow. This is worship of position, ravenous love for it.

Some worship the ego—stand before the mirror and garland themselves. Paltu is right: one war rages here—the war of love. Who holds your love? Note this too: you become like what you love. This is precious. If you love stone, you become stony. That is love’s alchemy: you become like your beloved. So if people, worshipping stone idols, become stone-hearted, don’t be surprised. One seeks to become like one’s ideal.

Some love machines. In America there is great love for machines. People fill their homes with them. Living among machines, a person becomes a machine; his humanity slips away; his behavior grows mechanical. Some love their cars more than they pat their children’s heads or embrace their spouse. I know people who won’t drive their car out of the porch lest it be scratched. The car is a deity! Then if you become machine-like, what surprise?

And one who worships his own ego—there is no growth possible then. Let the object of worship be higher. When it is higher, you must rise to touch its feet. If you yourself are your deity, you will go mad. Bend to touch your own feet and you sink lower. Find feet that are even a step above you—at least you will climb that far.

Paltu says: if you must love, love the vast—so you become vast. Take devotion as your estate. If you must love, love God. Loving God, one day the devotee becomes God. This is the alchemy of love: you become like the one you love. Choose your beloved with care.

You have often noticed—and perhaps wondered—that husband and wife, living together long, become almost alike. Their behavior, speech, mannerisms grow similar; their faces start to resemble each other; their eyes too. Why? The alchemy of love.

Love thoughtfully. With profound reflection. Pay attention: your beloved will ultimately decide your destiny.

Rule your body; take devotion as your estate.
The true warrior fights with knowing.
With the sword of forgiveness he brings the world under sway—
The battlefield is love.

In this world only one war goes on: the lesser love against the greater; then the greater against the still greater. Ultimately, it is the war between the world and the Divine. Ultimately, the choice between Rama and Ravana. This is the Mahabharata within.

Do you love wealth? Don’t be crazy. If you must love, love awareness. Wealth is Ravana; awareness is Rama. Do you love matter? Love consciousness. Matter is Ravana; consciousness is Rama. Do you love what is seen? How will you go beyond the world? Love the unseen. The visible is Ravana; the invisible is Rama. Move from the seen to the unseen, from the known to the unknown, from the petty to the vast. You will find an incomparable kingdom of peace descending into your life. The greater the beloved you find, the greater you will become.

I found companions for my joys by the thousand,
But not one who could share my sorrow.
As long as youth bloomed in my outer garden,
Whoever came to my door came with the moon,
But the day the rose-petals fell,
Even my tears were ashamed to visit me.
Whoever loved, loved my flowers,
No one loved my thorns.
Crowds that keep me company at fairs—many,
But none to console my emptiness.
Companions for joy by the thousand,
Not one to share my sorrow.

Some were charmed by my colorful clothes,
Some by the fairness of my face,
Some by the cuckoo in my voice,
Some by the curls of my hair.
Whoever looked, looked only at my palanquin,
No one saw the innocent bride within.
All came to float on the body’s waters,
None came to bathe at the heart’s ghat.
Companions for joy by the thousand—
But none to share my sorrow.

When I woke one day, I saw
A throng of swindlers around me.
One from here, one from there, looting,
My life-pitcher emptying, drop by drop.
Every eye fixed on my bundle,
Quarreling “mine” and “yours.”
All I met were thieves of wealth,
None a thief of the heart.
Companions for joy by the thousand—
Not one to share my sorrow.

A sulking dawn stole my toy away;
Midday took my youth.
Laughter and joy were parceled out to sun and moon—
Only the deep night remained in my hands.
Whoever came, left taking something;
This small life grew smaller still.
All who came tore my robe—
None came to mend what was torn.
Companions for joy by the thousand—
But none to share my sorrow.

One night a firefly in a dark settlement
Wandered, bewildered,
Boundless darkness all around,
Only its own small flame above.
I asked, “Where has your sleep gone?”
It kept silent, but its flame wept:
Those who rob sleep—that’s all I met;
None to cradle me to sleep.
Companions for joy by the thousand—
Not one to share my sorrow.

You have loved much in this world, forged many friendships. Now review them a little. Draw conclusions. Everyone tried to share your joy—but who came to share your sorrow? All pledged friendship in life; when you die, who dies with you?

This “love” we know is mutual exploitation. Only the Divine can be with you always; no one else can. And only that which is with you always is worth befriending—that is the true estate, which even death cannot seize. Even at death’s hour, in that ultimate sorrow, the One who is with you—that is the estate.

Having scattered the ranks of greed, attachment, and pride,
Lust and anger do not survive.
Says servant Paltu: only he is truly anointed,
He whose light rises across the three worlds.

As soon as the fief of devotion is received—and it is available to all. It is everyone’s birthright. If you do not receive it, it only means you did not ask, you did not long. It could have been yours; you did not even stretch out your hand. When this estate is received, sovereignty over the body arises; an unbounded lamp of knowing is lit; the radiance of forgiveness spreads; and in love’s battle, victory is won. With this victory, greed falls away; attachment and pride fall away.

Greed, attachment, pride—all belong to the dark. As soon as love’s light shines, they vanish.

Lust and anger do not survive.
Says servant Paltu: only he is truly anointed—

What a sweet jest! Paltu says: you smear tilak on your foreheads—sandal paste rubbed and rubbed. This is not true anointing. The true “tilak-bearer” is he who has mastery over body and mind. The symbolism of the tilak is beautiful: when awakening dawns, the third eye opens; a steady flame glows between the eyebrows—that is the true tilak. The tilak is within. Painting sandal paste outside is not it.

We are imitators. We saw a Kabir, a Paltu, a Dadu—their third eye blazing like a diamond—we thought: let’s do something; we put a mark in the same spot, as if that would do.

Sandalwood was wisely chosen: it is cooling. When the third eye opens, supreme coolness pervades life. Sandal is uniquely fragrant—even snakes forget their venom; they coil upon the sandal tree, but its aroma is not tainted. They are gentled by its scent.

So the one in whom sandal-like fragrance and coolness arise—the one who bears the inner tilak—is the true tilakdhari. Paint as many marks as you like—this is all pretense. Seek the inner tilak.

Says servant Paltu: only he is truly anointed—
He who has received Rama’s estate—and that estate opens at the third eye. That is why it is called the ajna center, the command chakra: the one who arrives there, his command begins to run over body and mind. From that point one becomes master. Then only a step remains to divinity. This is the sixth center; the seventh is the sahasrar. When one’s command runs over body and mind—he becomes swami, master. This is the state of a true sannyasin—hence we call a sannyasin “Swami.” When such an inner tilak is set, you are truly a renunciate. One final step remains: from the sixth center into the seventh—there one is lost, as the river is lost in the ocean. The devotee is no more; only God remains.

Thus two reckonings arose in this land. Some count seven chakras, including sahasrar. Some count only six, placing the seventh beyond man. Up to the sixth you remain; crossing into the seventh, you are gone—only the Divine remains. This is Paltu’s “tilakdhari.”

Says servant Paltu: only he is truly anointed—
And “tilakdhari” also means “one enthroned”—anointed to the royal seat.

Swami Ram Tirtha called himself an emperor—in this sense: tilakdhari. He had nothing—and was a sovereign.

At Buddha’s birth, astrologers gathered. When the king asked what was special about his son, they all held up two fingers: either a world conqueror or a supreme renunciate. One young astrologer alone held up one finger. The king asked, “Do you disagree?” He said, “No—when one is a supreme renunciate, only then is he a world conqueror.” Profound! “I raise one finger: he will be both—supreme sannyasin and supreme sovereign—because these are not two. One becomes emperor only when he leaves all grasping; when nothing clings.”

In this sense too, understand Paltu: “Only he is truly anointed.” A sovereign arises.

He whose light rises across the three worlds—

Such a person shines in all three worlds. Not only on earth; his radiance reaches the darkest hells and the highest heavens. There is no corner where it does not reach. Wherever there is an eye to see, his light reaches; wherever there is an ear to hear, his voice arrives. Beings from all three worlds are drawn.

We have marvelous stories—today they are just stories, hard for modern minds to trust. When Mahavira awakened, gods gathered; the heavens descended to listen. So with Buddha. The Jain narratives say: animals, birds, ghosts, gods, humans—all were present; beings from all three worlds. And Mahavira remained silent. For in what language should he speak? Animals understand one, humans another, spirits a third, gods a fourth. Mahavira kept silence—silence is the one tongue understood by all.

Thus the lore says Mahavira did not speak. Then whence his words? They are expositions—those who understood Mahavira’s silence explained it to those who could not. The ganadharas spoke; Mahavira remained silent. Gautama, his disciple, grasped Mahavira’s silence and rendered it in human speech.

So Jains have two sects: Digambara and Shvetambara. The Digambaras have no sutras of Mahavira; they say he spoke not, so no scripture. The Shvetambaras possess sutras—the discourses of the ganadharas, the expounders.

Both are true. However much the ganadharas try, the words can never be exactly what Mahavira “said.” If I tell you something here and you explain it to your children, differences will creep in. The Digambaras are purists: “We will not collect words. If we are to hear Mahavira, we will learn silence and understand directly—no mediators.” Significant indeed. But man is weak; not all can be silent. So the Shvetambaras compromised; at least the ganadharas are beyond us, can take us partway. As far as they carry us, we go—then we walk on alone.

The Shvetambaras compromised with human weakness—hence white robes. The Digambaras did not. Their monks dwindled; today only twenty-two remain in the whole country. Such asceticism: naked, no possessions, not even bedding—sleep on straw or floor; cold and heat; no blanket; cannot light a fire, for it harms life. Hard indeed.

But when awakening happens, one’s voice reaches all three worlds—without being sent. Whoever, wherever, in whatever womb, longs to hear, is drawn—as by a magnet. The thirsty come, not knowing why or how.

He whose light rises across the three worlds—
Pass this time singing and playing;
Listen to others, and say a little yourself.
Laugh and play, speak sweetly—
And the whole world comes under your sway.

Eat, drink, and wear what comes;
Fall into neither hoarding nor renunciation.
When you speak, be absorbed in singing God’s name;
When you fall silent, abide in meditation.

Each word is a gem—worth weighing against diamonds.

Pass this time singing and playing—

Do not pass this little span in gloom, with long faces. Sing and dance; be drunk with joy. Do not make religion dour and diseased. The saints’ religion is dancing; your so-called saints’ religion is sick-bed religion.

Pass this time singing and playing;
Listen to others, and say a little yourself.

Do not fall into argument. Listen to another; if something is worth saying, say it. Dialogue, not debate. One who wants to sing his way through life—why would he argue? Where two lovers meet, listen a little, say a little, speak of the Beloved. No need to quarrel.

If a flower blooms within you, share its fragrance. If someone else pours his rasa toward you, receive it. Let there be satsang—where devotees meet, let the talk be of God. Let it be singing and playing—not dry, logical, scholastic. Let there be sweetness and spring in it, not the stale smell of controversy.

Laugh and play, speak sweetly—
And the whole world comes under your sway.

Religion has been made grim. People think it must be serious. Make it laughter and play; song and festival. Do not make it sickly. The Divine pervades everywhere—inside and out. Where is the room for gloom? Let the drums beat; dance, sing, hum.

Eat, drink, and wear what comes—

I tell my sannyasins this: tie it in your hem.

Eat, drink, wear what comes—receive what comes with gratitude, with joy, with “Ah!”

Fall into neither hoarding nor renunciation.

This is the revolutionary sutra: get trapped in neither. Your so-called saints say, “Give up hoarding; renounce.” The wise say: fall into neither hoarding nor renouncing. Both are foolish. Some are busy gathering rupees; others are busy throwing them away; both obsessed with money. If money comes, use it, enjoy it. Laugh, sing. If it doesn’t, sing your bhajan and sleep. No clinging, no rejecting. If He gives, good; if He doesn’t, also good. If He makes me king, I’ll be king; if He makes me beggar, I’ll be beggar. No insistence to be anything. His will be done.

Understand it like a play: you join a drama. You don’t insist, “I will only play Rama.” The director says, “You fit Ravana perfectly.” You don’t drag him to court for defamation. You gladly play Ravana—it’s only a play. If you must be poor, be poor; if rich, be rich. Neither makes you what you truly are.

Pass this time singing and playing;
Listen to others, and say a little yourself.
Laugh and play, speak sweetly—
And the whole world comes under your sway.
Eat, drink, and wear what comes;
Fall into neither hoarding nor renunciation.
When you speak, be absorbed in singing God’s name;
When you fall silent, abide in meditation.

Two more instructions: when silence comes, meditate; when speech arises, sing God’s name. If you must speak, let the words be offered at God’s feet. Let speech be devotion; when quiet arrives, let it be meditation. Meditation for when you are alone; love for when you are together. Meditation for oneself; love for the whole world.

The beautiful one seeks the Beloved, calling “Beloved, Beloved,”
Becoming intoxicated with “Beloved, Beloved.”
Many lotus-maidens have died seeking,
Chanting “Beloved, Beloved,” one by one.
All become satis, burning without outer fire—
The hard, austere One doesn’t even glance.
Says servant Paltu: chop off your head
And dance upon it—then the Beloved looks.

A tender utterance.

The beautiful one seeks the Beloved,
Becoming intoxicated with “Beloved, Beloved.”

Calling “Beloved, Beloved,” like the papihā bird, the devotee sinks into ecstasy. This very calling brews its own wine.

Try it. Call with abandon; soon you’ll find intoxication flooding the eyes. You haven’t tried calling; you don’t know this is a way to distill a wine—the loveliest of all. If it takes, blessed you are; if once it takes, it never leaves. And one who has drunk it finds nothing else of the world appealing; having found the Kohinoor, pebbles don’t dazzle.

Repeating and repeating, one becomes beside oneself. Sit, sway, chant “Ram-Ram” or “Allah-Allah”—soon it will feel as if a subtle wine is entering from some unknown realm. The eyes warm; hands and feet fill with a new energy. Don’t be afraid—it will feel “crazy” at first. Keep going; perhaps after forty-five minutes the ecstasy will be complete, you’ll be drowning. Don’t panic. At most you’ll fall unconscious; after a while you’ll awake. Such “unconsciousness” is not loss; it is entry into your innermost.

Many have died seeking thus—repeating “Beloved, Beloved.” But in that dying, the supreme life begins. Where the devotee dies, there God is born.

All become satis, burning without outer fire.

This devotion’s sati is unique; no outer fire is needed—the inner fire of yearning is enough.

The hard, austere One doesn’t even glance.

Note this: God does not care for your harsh austerities. Those are modes of ego: “I fasted so many days, kept so many vigils, gave so much.” He doesn’t even look that way.

Says servant Paltu: chop off your head
And dance upon it—then the Beloved looks.

He looks only toward the one so full of love he beheads his ego. The talk of austerity is talk of “I.” “How great I am, having renounced so much.” The one who cuts the “I,” lays his head in the dust—and not solemnly, not sullenly—

Chop off your head and dance upon it—

Drop your ego and dance upon it. Then the Beloved looks once—and that one glance is enough.

The east has become a temple, the west Mecca—
Hindus and Turks run both ways.

Run toward the glance that is enough. And you need not run anywhere for it—simply lay down your head. Drop the ego. The moment you drop it, the Beloved begins to seek you. He had always been looking—but your ego blinded you.

The east has its idols, the west its graves—
Hindus and Muslims bump their heads there.

Banging your head on graves or idols achieves nothing. Removing the head achieves everything—the inner head, the ego.

Idols and graves neither speak nor eat—
Hindu or Muslim, what have you found?

What did you gain—pilgrimages to Mecca, Medina, Kashi? The supreme abode is within you.

Idols and graves neither speak nor eat—
You offer food to stone; it does not eat. Better feed the hungry—the Divine would receive it. Graves do not speak; better speak two words of love to the living—the Divine would hear.

Hindu or Muslim, what have you found?

Says servant Paltu: those who ever found, found within themselves.
When did a dead ox ever eat grass?

You feed grass to dead oxen! You feed stone idols, graves. Meanwhile the living God is everywhere—hungry in a thousand ways: for food, for clothing, for love. Do for this living Divine what you can.

And the real, final thing must be done within: remove your head; lay aside the ego—and not only lay it aside; dance on it.

Laugh and play; pass this time singing and playing.
Dance on your own head—the Beloved will look.

Just dance a little without your ego. Instantly the Beloved’s eye falls on you. He was always looking, a thousand eyes seeking—you were blind with ego. Drop it and dance.

But remember two things. First: don’t create a new ego—the ego of possession or renunciation; the ego of the world or the ego of sannyas. Do not let ego arise—first. Second: don’t stop at non-ego; let dance happen, song arise, celebration bloom.

Look—everywhere the Divine is in celebration: in moon and stars, trees and birds. Except man, do you see sadness anywhere? Except man, do you see sin anywhere? Except man, anxiety? Everywhere, a festival is underway—unceasing dance, song. You stand apart, isolated in your stiff, bound ego.

Drop it and join the dance! Dance with the moon and stars! In that dance you will find the Divine’s eye falling upon you.

The nearest path to God is dance. The nearest path is joy.

People think joy will come after meeting God—and that is true. But the other truth is: through joy, God is met. Joy brings God; God brings more joy; more joy brings more God—these two are linked.

When you call Him, do not call in sorrow, gloom, anxiety. That raises a thousand obstacles; how will He hear? He knows the language of celebration, not of gloom. Paltu sides with celebration. All who have known do. God is supreme delight.

Let me repeat these words:

Rule your body; take devotion as your estate.
The true warrior fights with knowing.
With the sword of forgiveness he brings the world under sway—
The battlefield is love.

Having scattered the ranks of greed, attachment, and pride,
Lust and anger do not survive.
Says servant Paltu: only he is truly anointed,
He whose light rises across the three worlds.

Pass this time singing and playing;
Listen to others, and say a little yourself.
Laugh and play, speak sweetly—
And the whole world comes under your sway.

Eat, drink, and wear what comes;
Fall into neither hoarding nor renunciation.
When you speak, be absorbed in singing God’s name;
When you fall silent, abide in meditation.

The beautiful one seeks the Beloved,
Becoming intoxicated with “Beloved, Beloved.”
Many lotus-maidens have died seeking,
Chanting “Beloved, Beloved,” one by one.
All become satis, burning without outer fire—
The hard, austere One doesn’t even glance.
Says servant Paltu: chop off your head,
And dance upon it—then the Beloved looks.

The east is a temple, the west is Mecca—
Hindus and Turks run both ways.
In the east are idols, in the west graves—
Hindus and Turks bang their heads and return.
Idols and graves neither speak nor eat—
Hindu or Muslim, what have you found?
Says servant Paltu: those who found, found within;
When did a dead ox ever eat grass?

Call the Beloved. Call Him with tears of joy. Tie ankle-bells to your feet. Call Him with dance, with song. Strike the veena of your heart; let song break forth; let the flute of celebration sound; weave the rasa-dance.

God comes—surely comes. Whoever, in egolessness, calls with the shout of joy, He surely comes to them. He longs to come. You do not call. Or if you do, you call in the wrong way—like a claimant, with the pride of austerity, with sadness. Then you miss.

Call you must—but rightly. Dance, sing! Call Him with delight. Make no claims. Does love ever make demands? Love says: Whenever you come, that is my good fortune. Come when you will; I will wait—and in waiting I will not grow sad or weary. I will dance and sing. I will turn waiting itself into joy.

Enough for today.