Ajhun Chet Ganwar #21

Well then, beloveds, the final day of Palatu’s nectar-words has come. These words were dear. They shone like diamonds. They were not meant merely to be heard—they were meant to be absorbed. And not only absorbed, but lived. In these plain, simple sayings Palatu has poured out the very essence of religion. He has held nothing back. He didn’t keep his fist closed—he opened it wide. He scattered treasures! Blessed are those who fill their begging bowl; unfortunate are those who remain deprived.

The true Master gives. Those who are ready, receive. Those who won’t receive, miss. And to miss the true Master is the greatest misfortune in this world—because the one who misses the Master misses the Lord. There is no other bridge to the Lord. But man’s ego is such—so strong, so poisonous, like a wall of stone—that whenever a word of nectar touches the ear, the ego rushes to deny it. The ego searches out all arguments against it. The ego protects itself.

And whoever protects himself, loses himself utterly. He will wander birth after birth. Our very protecting of ourselves has become our wandering. From protecting ourselves this whole world spreads. By effacing oneself, one meets the Divine.

Don’t drag these sayings into the net of argument. They are the words of a simple, straightforward man. There is no pedantry in them—there is the voice of wisdom. No scriptural analysis here, no web of logic, no theories and their elaborations. Here is a direct blow to the heart. These are arrows. If you open the door, they will pierce straight into your heart, lodge in your innermost core. They will sink like seeds into your very life-breath. And soon you will find: spring arrives. Soon you will find: the seed sprouts, grows. Thousands upon thousands of flowers bloom, and your life becomes fragrant.

What Palatu has spoken are not doctrines. They are seeds—seeds of revolution. They can transform you from the roots. Do not take them as thoughts. Thoughts are dead. Who has ever been transformed by thoughts? Thoughts can give you a little decoration, they can inflate your pride of knowledge a bit… Thoughts are no more than garments. In beautiful clothes you can fall into the illusion that you are beautiful. Thoughts are ornaments. But these are not thoughts; they are revolution. They are fire. You will burn in them. And only the courageous will dare to enter. That is why Palatu has challenged the Rajputs, called the brave.

Remember, by “weak” I don’t mean powerless. The powerless is never weak—“the strength of the powerless is Rama.” The powerless receives the strength of God; none is stronger than that. By weak I mean the fearful, the timid, the frightened. They cannot take a single step into the unknown. They cannot venture a little way along a dark path. Such frightened people—and the Divine is unknown.

The Sufis tell the story of Laila and Majnun. You know the story—but not the Sufi sweetness it carries. Majnun is the seeker; Laila is God. It is a Sufi symbol—for the Sufis see the Divine as the Beloved, as feminine, not masculine. Laila is a symbol for God. In Arabic, “Laila” means night—dense night. God is like a great dark night.

Only if you have the courage to enter the dark night can you become a Majnun. And only if you are a Majnun can you enter the dark night. Only a Majnun can seek Laila. “Majnun” means mad, crazed. Who goes into the dark night? Who leaves the neat, ordered yard of home to wander in the thick forest? Who leaves order to descend into chaos? Who abandons the world of maps to enter an existence without maps? Who abandons security?

The one who drops security—that one is a sannyasin. The one who clings to security—that one is a householder. “House” is the symbol of security. One’s own land, one’s own house, one’s own wall, one’s own gate, one’s own door. At night you lock up and sleep: security. Money is buried in the ground; wife and children are near, at hand. And what trust is there in others? Who outside is “ours”? All are strangers. Who knows who will betray?

“Householder” doesn’t only mean one who lives in a house—that is just the outer symbol. A householder is one who lives in security; who never enters insecurity; who, seeing darkness, turns back; seeing danger, will not step; seeing life must be risked, never goes that way; where anything must be staked, he does not go. Then, if you live like the oil-press bullock, going round and round the same path, what wonder is there? The same well-worn route. The familiar ways. Everything safe, everything arranged. No danger, no fear. You go on circling—and die circling. This is no life.

Life is in the adventure. Life is where you leave the known behind each day, where you become new each day. Life is where you never lose the child-mind’s sense of wonder; where you remain forever young; your eyes keep seeking, searching; you wait for challenge—life is there. Not in security—in challenge. Let some challenge come! Let some difficulty arise! For only by climbing the steps of difficulties does one reach the high summits of life.

I go, laughing and at play, upon the waves of calamity.
If everything were easy, life would become hard.

If everything were only easy, life would become difficult—then living is hard. This is the mood of the sannyasin.

I go, laughing and at play, upon the waves of calamity—

These storms that rise, these gales that blow, the sea churning into upheaval, the boat now sinking, now afloat—these waves of havoc, the river’s stormy mood, the river’s tandava dance—and with my little dinghy I go, laughing. The one who can walk laughing…

Each fresh storm is a fresh adventure. Each fresh storm is a new challenge. Each fresh storm is an invitation from God: Rise—rise above this as well.

I go, laughing and at play, upon the waves of calamity.
If everything were easy, life would become hard.

This is the sannyasin’s mind. One who makes insecurity itself into life, whose song is the unknown—such a Majnun. For whom the dark night becomes the Beloved. For whom Laila is the Beloved.

You have often heard: God is light. You have hardly ever thought that God is Supreme Darkness. Why do people keep saying God is light? Not because they know God is light—they know nothing. If man knew God, he would not remain man; knowing God, he himself becomes divine. The one who knows Him becomes Him. In knowing, the one who knows dissolves.

Man has not known God, yet he repeats: God is light. No one bows to the dark night—neither Hindu nor Muslim nor Christian. People bow to the sunrise, to the morning. “Sun-salutation.” Why? Is the night not His? The sun is His, agreed; whose is the dark night? Light is His, agreed; whose is the darkness? And remember, light has a limit; darkness has none. Darkness can be a greater symbol for God because darkness is infinite. Light comes and goes; darkness remains. You light a lamp—it must be lit; you blow it out—it must be blown out. You light, you extinguish; but you neither light nor extinguish darkness—darkness is. The lamp lights, and darkness hides for a while, is not seen; the lamp goes out, and darkness is present again. Darkness is eternal.

And have you seen the peace of darkness? Peace is in darkness. That is why at night, in the dark, you sleep; by day, sleep is difficult. Rest is in darkness. That is why you close your eyes, extinguish the lamp, draw the curtains, make it dark—and you sleep. In the dark, you sink within, into your depths.

In the dark of deep sleep—where do you go? Wherever you go, there God is. Hence Patanjali said: sushupti and samadhi are somewhat alike. Deep sleep and samadhi are somewhat alike. Where even dream is lost—it is like samadhi. For you have dived into the Divine. That is why, in the morning, you say, “I am fresh! Renewed!” The night you have slept deeply, when even dreams didn’t flap their wings and stir, when dream-activity ceased, when dream-noise didn’t arise, when the crowd of dreams was absent—even if for a little while—how fresh you return in the morning! How alive! How luminous! As if the world is new again. As if rebirth has happened. And when one night it doesn’t happen, when dreams mill around you like a troop of monkeys that won’t leave you alone, you rise more weary than when you went to bed. What happened? That slight event of samadhi did not occur. The prasad from God that deep sleep brings—you missed even that.

Darkness—deep darkness—is a symbol of rest.

And note this too: creation emerges only in deep darkness. A seed sprouts—in the earth’s darkness. Leave a seed on the surface; it won’t sprout. It must be pressed into the darkness of earth. Where night falls, where it grows dark—there the seed bursts forth; there birth happens.

In the same way a child is born in the mother’s womb; there is deep darkness. No light reaches there. There, birth takes place. In deep darkness, life emerges.

But very few have conceived of God as darkness. People have always thought of Him as light. Why? Not because He is only light—He is that too—but because people are afraid of the dark. They are afflicted by it. So scriptures keep repeating: God is light. In light you feel less fear; in darkness more. The same place—if there is light, you are less afraid; if it goes dark, you are more. Even if you are alone—if a lamp is lit, less fear; if it goes out, much fear. Why? In darkness nothing is seen—what is where? Nothing is seen—who is where? Darkness erases boundaries, muddles everything. The distinctions of limit dissolve in darkness; everything is absorbed in the limitless; boundaries are lost. It creates panic.

One who can befriend darkness—that one is a sannyasin.

So Laila’s meaning is very sweet: dark night—seeking the dark night; seeking the unknown.

And remember: the sun too is His; light too is His. I am not saying light is not His. All is His. Light is His too. But why does man insist God is light? Out of fear. Out of panic. And the panic-stricken never come into relationship with God.

You have heard Palatu’s sweet words. Be a little courageous. Step with Palatu into the journey of the unknown.

“To meet the true Lord,
my heart has embraced renunciation.”

Palatu says: I have become a renunciate—to meet the true Lord!

Understand the difference.

Some leave the world because it is bad; because it is sin; because it is full of suffering. That is negative renunciation. Some become renunciants because there is pleasure in the world, but it is fleeting. They have tasted all it offers; it does not satisfy; it only inflames the thirst further—it pours ghee on the fire. In the desert of the world, now and then a drop falls—now and then a drizzle, an inch or two of rain—but those drops bring a message: water exists somewhere; there must be lakes from which these clouds rise. And if a few drops can fall, there must be inexhaustible sources. The seeker sets out to find them.

Understand the difference.

One seeker found suffering in the world; therefore he leaves it: there is nothing here but misery—what is the point! His leaving is negative. There will be sadness in it, deep despair, dejection. He will not be cheerful in his leaving. Who becomes cheerful by leaving sorrow? He has not known any joy here—how will he trust? He has not known even a drop in this desert; how to trust that somewhere, far away, hidden in the Himalayas, there is a Manasarovar? His trust will wobble.

This is the difference between the devotee and the ordinary religious person. The devotee leaves the world not because it is only sorrow, but because there is joy here—yet it is momentary. There is joy, but only drizzle. How long to sit in a drizzle? You cannot bathe; the heart’s thirst is not quenched; the soul is not purified. Yet the few drops give enough faith: that bliss exists; that joy has reality. So let me seek the ocean from which these clouds arise, from which this drizzle descends.

The devotee goes with great trust. The “knower” goes with great despair. The knower thinks: who knows whether God is or is not? The world I have seen—futile; now let me search that too—maybe, maybe not. In the knower, doubt remains. The devotee goes with deep faith: He was here too. A little. God peeped now and then. Sometimes a window opened—for a moment. Fresh air touched me. A fragrance filled my nostrils. God was here too—but veiled, behind curtains, veil upon veil upon veil… Yet sometimes the veil lifted and eyes met eyes. Now I want God unveiled. He has faith. He has trust. He has ardor. He walks already knowing this much: God is. In the world he has caught a slight glimpse—distant, very distant, a thousand miles away—but a glimpse. As from thousands of miles, on a cloudless day, when the sun is clear, the Himalayan peaks can be seen: the virginal snow, the scattered silver—it is almost like a dream, but the quest begins.

Understand the difference.

One man sets out to find flowers because he found only thorns in the world; perhaps God has flowers. Another sets out to find flowers because he found a few flowers here—though there were many thorns, now and then a rose bloomed among them. For him God is not a “perhaps.” He goes seeking a garden where flowers only bloom, where there are no thorns. Such roses exist, without thorns. The two quests differ. Palatu says:

“To meet the true Lord,
my heart has embraced renunciation.
It is not so much about rejecting the world
as it is about seeking God.”

There is a vast difference. It looks small in words, but it is the difference between earth and sky. This world too is His.

Imagine you heard a musician’s record. A record is a record; the music it holds is provisional. But it brings news—the musician is somewhere. A voice has been captured; that voice must exist. You hear the record and set out to find the musician. Strength comes to your steps.

So Palatu says: “As a wedding procession sets out buoyant with joy.” The procession moves in high spirits. We are the groom and we go to seek the bride.

Kabir said: “Ram is my bride.” The wedding procession moves with great exuberance. There is firm trust: the bride is. Perhaps I saw her from afar, or in a picture, or in a mirror; but she is. Not a grain of doubt. Her being is more certain than my own. The devotee is ready to lose himself to gain her. Her being is more certain than his being. This is a creative way of seeing life.

There is a negative way: “Only sorrow is here; leave the world; then God will be found.” At best, a promise. Doubt remains. If there is no joy in His creation, will He be joy? If He made such a sorrowful world, how will He be bliss? Questions will arise: would a blissful being create so much suffering? One suspects there is no God; it is all an accident. An accident can be this full of pain. No director behind it; no guiding hand behind this vast turmoil. Or if there ever was, he is dead now.

As Nietzsche said, God is dead—maybe He once was. Fine, let us grant it; since this is, someone must have made it. But the maker has died. So much disorder, so much anguish upon anguish! Here, sorrow heaps upon sorrow. Not a ray of joy is seen. Still, if someone renounces, it will be negative. In his renunciation there will be no love for God—only rejection of the world. There is resentment toward the world, not love toward God.

Love toward God becomes possible only when you have also accepted the world with ease, embraced it; when here too you have found some flowers—if not a flower, at least a petal—something that gives you trust. A distant sound heard, a shadow seen in the water—some hint. And such hinting is possible here because the doer is present in the deed; the dancer is present in the dance.

“To meet the true Lord,
my heart has embraced renunciation.
In the night of delusion I fell asleep,
startled, I awoke.”

“In the night of attachment I slept!” In this world I fell asleep, was lost, became unconscious, filled with negligence; I dozed. My sannyas is simply that my eyes have opened. Now I am awake. Now I will not stumble along with closed eyes. My eyes are open. That is all.

The difference between the worldly and the sannyasin is only this: one walks with eyes closed, the other with eyes open. The place is the same—house, market, temple, mosque; the same people, wife, husband, children, family—all the same. The difference is that the sannyasin walks with eyes open. And opening the eyes is such a great difference—what more could you ask? No greater difference exists. Just the difference between eyelids closed and open. A small difference.

“In the night of delusion I fell asleep.
Startled, I awoke.”

Palatu says: nothing else happened; a sleep had come, a dream was being seen; a trance of attachment had taken hold: I am, this is mine—a world was born. In the night of delusion I lost remembrance of what truly is; I began to take my imagination as reality.

You do this every day. At night you dream, and in the dream you forget it is a dream. You don’t remember that it is a dream; it appears to be the truth—the truest of truths. In the morning you wake and laugh at yourself. You are amazed, you cannot believe: how foolish—I saw a dream and took it for real! Never again will I do this. I won’t make this mistake.

Yet how many times has it happened? Thousands of times. Thousands of times you woke and laughed at your stupidity, decided never again—and again at night you slept, and again the dream became true. In sleep, dreams appear true.

When a man sleeps, how can he distinguish true and false? In awakening there is a touchstone. In awakening, the distinction between essence and non-essence becomes clear. Nothing needs to be done; the awakened one simply sees what is and what is not. What is not, disappears of its own accord; what is, remains.

The sleeping man projects. His cravings, passions, suppressed wishes, unfulfilled thirsts—they spread out; they become the dream. You fasted by day, and at night in a dream you feast. By day you suppressed hunger; at night it surged. So strong that it produced its own food. Hunger created a dream: an invitation to the palace, a mountain of delicacies, and you eat to your heart’s content.

How does the dream arise? First, sleep is needed. Second, some suppressed desire is needed—some half-fulfilled wish. With these two, the dream will come. This is the mechanism: the suppressed, the unfulfilled, and the trance of unawareness.

That is why one who drinks sees things that aren’t there.

Mulla Nasruddin was in a tavern with his son. Suddenly he said, “Stop now. Don’t drink more. I must teach you this essential lesson of drinking. Look there, at the far end—two men are sitting.” The boy turned—there was no one; one man was sitting. Mulla was saying, “See those two? When they look like four, stop drinking.”

The boy said, “Father, there’s only one. You’ve already drunk enough; stopping now makes no sense.”

“When they look like four,” Mulla said, “stop—that’s the rule if you hope to get home; otherwise you’ll never make it back. The moment you see four, stop and head home at once—so you reach your bed safely, otherwise you’ll be found in a gutter.”

But he had already drunk a lot. Where there was one, two were already appearing. A little more and he would see four; a little more and eight. And instead of people, he might see lions and bears, elephants and horses.

One day Mulla, carrying a basket on his head, was returning home. Someone asked, “What’s in it?” He said, “I’ve caught a mongoose.” “A mongoose? What for?” “When I drink too much, I see snakes. I’ll keep this in the room; it will deal with the snakes. They say a mongoose tears snakes to pieces. So I’m bringing it.”

The man laughed: “But the snakes you see when drunk are not real.” Mulla laughed: “And what makes you think this mongoose is real? The basket is empty—just an idea.”

In stupor one sees what is not. Turn this around—it is the touchstone of stupor: if you see what is not, know that you are unconscious. At night you see dreams—that proves your stupor. The awakened ones do not dream. And the one who dreams at night is not another man by day. He is the same. Inside the dreams keep flowing; even by day you see things that are not.

You walk by a house—it looks very beautiful; you feel like buying it, owning it. Is the house truly beautiful—or does your craving make it so? The day craving leaves you, will this house look so beautiful? Buddha will pass—will his eyes even linger on it? Is the beauty in the house—or is your craving painting it?

A woman appears beautiful to you. Is beauty in her—or is your lust making you see beauty? Let Buddha pass; he will not see beauty.

When someone appears ugly to you—is ugliness there—or is it your projection? A leper sits by the road, body rotting, stench rising. You hold your nose, turn your face, and hurry past—“How ugly!” But is he ugly—or is this too your projection? It is your fear: that such a fate could be yours. Out of that fear you flee.

Whatever you desire to have appears beautiful; whatever you pray may never be yours appears ugly. Beauty and ugliness are not in things; they hide in your cravings, your ideas, your fears, your wants.

The day someone’s stupor breaks—nothing is beautiful, nothing is ugly. It is as it is. Nothing need be said. Trees are trees. Men are men. Women are women. Stones are stones. Rivers are rivers. What is, is. No idea forms in you.

The awakened one passes by—no opinion arises. It is as it should be. Since he has no craving that “this should be mine,” and no fear that “if this comes to me it will be my misfortune,” no notion lifts its head. No dream is produced within him. The day what-is appears to you just as it-is, know that awakening has happened.

“In the night of delusion I slept;
startled, I awoke.”

Palatu says: nothing else happened—delusion’s night broke, I awoke. This is my sannyas. This is my vairagya. Awakening—dispassion.

Listen! Not renunciation—awakening. Not giving up—awakening. In giving up the sleep still remains. When someone says, “I renounce,” it means he still wishes to hold on; otherwise why this concern with renouncing? If someone says, “I have given up,” it means he is still holding—otherwise why would he “give up”? It would simply drop. Awakening!

“My two eyes have become mountain streams;
I have set aside ornaments and clothes.”

Palatu says the eyes have become waterfalls. Tears are flowing like a cascade that will never stop.

“My two eyes have become mountain streams”—

For a little glimpse has appeared in this world—that now torments. A great longing has arisen to seek the Beloved of my soul. The pang of separation burns. A taste has been had.

They say a man raised a lion from cubhood and made him vegetarian. He had to be; from childhood he never received meat, never knew its taste. He lived on vegetables and fruits; he knew “this is food.” One day the man’s foot was cut; blood flowed. The lion was sitting beside him, as always. The lion licked the blood with his tongue. Then the trouble began. A taste touched the tongue—like a sleeping lion who didn’t know he was a lion suddenly stood up. A roar burst out—one that had never come. Do vegetarian lions ever roar? The man panicked, reached for his gun. Now the lion was dangerous; he could not be kept at home. He had to be released into the forest. A taste had been had.

Such is the devotee’s state. A slight taste of the Divine in the world—just a hint on the tongue—and everything changes. Now the world holds no savor. Now the only quest is for the Beloved.

“My two eyes have become mountain streams;
I have set aside ornaments and clothes.”

Understand this well—it’s a lovely thing. Palatu says: what remembrance is left now for clothes and ornaments! This was a time when men in India wore ornaments too—so you may be surprised that Palatu speaks of men and ornaments. They did.

In truth, it was men who first wore ornaments; later women learned. It even seems natural that men would. Women are already beautiful; men, feeling less so, perhaps invented ornaments out of a sense of lack.

Look into nature, you’ll see: the rooster with his crest—an ornament; the hen has nothing. The peacock’s glorious plumes; the peahen—plain. The lion with his mane. All around in nature, the male is more adorned. Woman has such intrinsic grace that nothing more is needed; nature has not given her showy ornaments. Man has searched for them. Someday, if there is scientific inquiry, it will be found that the rooster’s crest was not given by nature; the rooster evolved it. Man is restless; he wants to be more beautiful than woman; he seeks to compensate, to embellish.

Scientists even say: man’s many inventions—painting, sculpture, music, science, going to the moon—all spring from one sting: he cannot give birth. He is defeated by woman. She gives birth to living children; this gnaws at man. He too tries to “give birth”—as a substitute. “See, I have made a painting.” He cannot make a child, so he makes a painting, a poem, music; he climbs Everest, he reaches the moon. Behind it is a slight disquiet: there is one thing a woman does that he cannot—she gives life.

The other side is: women do not, as a rule, write poetry, carve statues, worry about music, or traveling to the stars—they laugh: “For what? To what end? What meaning?” Climbing Everest—for what? She doesn’t understand. She is content.

Look closely at woman and you feel a fullness; when a woman becomes a mother, she is deeply fulfilled. There is a roundness in her being. Man has rough edges; he keeps sanding them, trying to become round. The competition to be creator, to be beautiful.

So men first discovered ornaments; then slowly the contagion passed to women. When women began to use them, men dropped them—it offended their ego to appear effeminate. Now women too are dropping them. It may well happen that in the coming century men begin wearing ornaments again—if women discard them. In the West, women are letting go; in the East too it is reducing. Being laden with ornament looks vulgar, gaudy, unnecessary.

Palatu speaks of a time when men wore ornaments.

“My two eyes have become mountain streams;
I have set aside ornaments and clothes.”

This has been relinquished. The eyes weep in separation—the waterfalls flow. Tears upon tears. Who now cares to put on ornaments? Who will adorn? All that was to attract women; now I go to charm the Beloved—these won’t work there. There, other ornaments are needed—simplicity, innocence, integrity, trust, love, single-pointed devotion, prayer, worship, adoration. Inner ornaments. Gold and silver cannot charm the Divine. These are outer things; now inner adornment is needed. If the outer garments are soiled, it will do—now the inner being must be cleansed. Bathe there. And when the eyes become streams, the soul begins to be purified.

“How will this age pass, Saif? The night refuses to end.”

Each moment becomes hard to pass for the devotee. On the one hand he is elated—he has set out toward the Lord. On the other, in pain—when will the union be?

“How will this age pass, Saif?
The night refuses to end.”

He gives everything away. Everything! Ornaments and clothes, whatever he has—little by little it is all squandered.

“I squandered the springs, I squandered my youth,
for you I spent my whole life.”

He holds nothing back. He cannot. Whatever he can give, he gives. He cannot commit the sin of withholding—he would only wound himself, only create his own guilt. If he has not left everything for the Beloved, he himself will think: I am still clinging to something—if the Beloved does not come, how can I complain? Only if I have dropped all can I cry out:

“I squandered the springs, I squandered my youth;
for you I spent my whole life.
Now come! What is left? Now take heed of me.”

“Palatu gave up the body while alive—
the fire of separation has been lit.”

Palatu says: these ochre robes—don’t take them as anything special. A fire has arisen—the fire of separation has been born. The ochre robe is a symbol of fire.

“Palatu gave up the body while alive”—

I have already dropped my body. To gain the Beloved, what would I hold onto the body for? This life is gone from my side; I no longer hold it in my hands. All energy is flowing toward Him. A flame of separation has been lit. Without Him, a moment does not pass.

“My two eyes have become mountain streams;
the fire of separation has been lit.”

“Call yourselves the Lord’s servants, friends,
then do not keep hopes in the world.”

He says: Friends, you say you are servants of the Lord—you say you long for His feet—and yet your hopes are tangled in the world! You say you want only God, and you keep trying to attain the world! You say your whole life is flowing to Him, yet your grip on the world remains!

“Call yourselves the Lord’s servants, friends—
do not keep hopes in the world.”

Drop hopes from the world; place all hope upon Him. When all desires and hopes and thirsts and longings become one powerful stream, surging toward God—then union is. If you remain fragmented—one hand here, one there; one stream east, one west, one north, one south—you will not reach the ocean. To reach the sea, become one, become concentrated. Anchor all your hopes in Him. Like gathering sunrays to a single point creates fire, so when all hopes converge on God, fire is born—the fire in which you will burn.

You—the false you.
You—the illusory you.
You—the maya.

And whatever remains as ash—there lies the supreme treasure: the Divine; or say, your true form. That is your real self.

You have a false “I” and a real “I.” The false “I” hopes in the world; the real “I” hopes in God.

“Call yourselves the Lord’s servants, friends—
do not keep hopes in the world.”

“When the Almighty Master is found,
do not beg from the world.”

Once your eyes have turned to the Emperor of emperors, why still beg from the world? Do you still hope the world will give you something? Still gather pebbles? Still dream?

“When the Almighty Master is found,
do not beg from the world.”

Drop this beggary. How long have you begged? What did you gain? The begging bowl remains empty; not even a little is filled. The more you ask, the more asking grows. Here nothing ever truly satisfies. No one has ever been content.

“In the Lord’s house, what lack is there?
Why knock at any other door?”

Do you think the Lord’s house lacks anything—that you must beg elsewhere too? Then you have no trust. The supreme event of trust has not happened in you. When it does, the Lord is enough. The ultimate Giver has been found—the one who gave you life has been found. In His house, everything is.

“In the Lord’s house, what lack is there?
Why knock at any other door?
Palatu, whether a thousand joys or sorrows come,
keep tasting the nectar of His Name.”

And if pleasures come or sufferings come, do not be shaken. Keep tasting only the wine of His Name. Keep immersing yourself in that nectar. Don’t pause, saying, “A joy has come; let me enjoy it, then I’ll remember God.” And when sorrow comes, don’t say, “Let me fight this sorrow; then I’ll remember God.” Let joy come; let sorrow come. Let them come and go. You stay drowned—enchanted in your own taste.

“Palatu, whether a thousand joys or sorrows come,
keep tasting the nectar of His Name.”

Joy and sorrow are tests. Passing through them, one is refined. Passing through, what is true in you remains; what is false falls away.

You’ve heard that sorrow is a test; you haven’t heard that joy is a test too. I tell you: joy is also a test. People call sorrow a test to console themselves—“God is testing us; it’s for a while; dawn is near; just a little more.” But they don’t call joy a test; they call it a reward, the fruit of virtue—“We chanted God’s Name, and this is the prize.” So they cling to joy.

But Palatu speaks right: “Whether joy or sorrow a hundredfold…”

Call both tests. Joy too—and by my reckoning, joy is the greater test. No one wants to cling to sorrow; everyone wants to cling to joy. That is why joy tests you. And when even joy cannot tempt you—when you remain absorbed in God, saying to joy, “Come and go; such joys always come and go; I have no taste left for you”—then you are free. When someone abuses you, staying quiet is not as difficult as when someone praises you. About abuse we have been trained: “If someone insults you, remain calm—that is the mark of a gentleman.” Why? To avoid social trouble. But when someone praises you, garlands you—then? No one tells you to remain calm then. Because the teaching about abuse is social; it prevents conflict.

The spiritual teaching is: whether abuse or praise, let no ripple arise within. No reaction. Be unrippled. If someone places flowers—fine; if someone puts thorns—fine. Remain as you were before either event—before flowers or thorns, before abuse or praise. Let nothing alter you. Stay in balance; stay still.

“Palatu, whether a thousand joys or sorrows come,
keep tasting the nectar of His Name.”

Do one thing: remain drowned in the wine of the Beloved. Slowly, neither sorrow nor joy will come. One day you will find: none comes—only God comes. At your door none else arrives—only God; every moment, in ever-new forms, yet only God.

“Beg a pinch from door to door,
and throw some fodder to hunger.
Keep a cracked gourd by your side,
take a single sheet for covering.”

Palatu says: the body needs two loaves—go ahead and ask.

“Beg a pinch from door to door,
and throw some fodder to hunger.
Keep a cracked gourd by your side,
take a single sheet for covering.”

That’s enough—a sheet to cover, a cracked gourd at hand. When hungry, ask anyone—someone will give.

“Sleep in the market or the mosque;
day and night drink the nectar of satsang.”

Sleep anywhere—bazaar or mosque. But keep one thing in mind: that the nectar of satsang flows on. These are secondary matters—two loaves can be begged anywhere; a sheet will protect the body; sleep where you can. For such small tasks, why employ your whole life? They are not that important.

What do people do? They spend their lives building houses and shops. In the end, what do you do? You lie down at night covered by a sheet, and you put two loaves into your belly. Whether you drink from a gold cup or a cracked gourd—it doesn’t matter. Thirst relates to water, not to the vessel. Yet people worry less about water, more about the golden cup. They devote their lives to it. Thirsty and hungry, they run after golden cups, thinking only then will their thirst be quenched. What is the relation between a golden cup and thirst? Thirst is quenched by water. A cracked gourd is enough.

Palatu is saying: take care of what is necessary, but do not become mad chasing needs. Lest you forget God altogether—turning the gourd into gold, plating the thatch with silver, stitching jewels into your clothes. You forget the essential: clothes are to cover the body; a roof is to shelter from sun and rain.

Look into your own life. You pour your strength into the non-essential; none into the essential. If gloom comes, who is responsible?

“A single sheet to cover,
throw some fodder to hunger.”

These are peripheral. The essential is: “Day and night drink the nectar of satsang.”

Seek that. That is the gold. Satsang is gold. Seek it. Wherever someone has awakened, seek him. Where the Beloved’s words shower, hold those feet. Where His Name is sung, His story told—where a few mad ones hum and dance drowned in the Beloved—seek that place. Go there. For only that will quench the real hunger, slake the real thirst. Only there will you receive the real sheet you can spread and sink into rest forever—our knot untied in the Void, our rest in the Unstruck.

“Palatu, remain disenchanted with the world;
this is the first step in renunciation.”

Palatu says: the first step of vairagya is that there is no hope left in the world. I have seen what it offers—what can be got has been had, known, recognized. Now hope no longer flows toward the world. It is clear: here you get a little—but the little does not satisfy. Here the fleeting is found but doesn’t fulfill. Here dreams are sold, shadows and reflections—but you never find the real.

The world is like the moon reflected in a lake. Beautiful, if you sit on the shore and watch. But jump in to grasp it and you’ll be in trouble. And it is not that the reflection has no relation to the real—without the real moon, there would be no reflection.

When you see a certain radiance on a woman’s face—that is the moonlight on the water. When you see a glow in a man’s eyes—that too is the moon’s reflection. When a voice carries the ring of truth—that is a glint of the moon in water. Understand the glint—and set out to find the moon. Diving into the lake will not give you the moon; you will stir the water and even the reflection will be lost. So the more people chase in the world, the farther they go—diving and diving, holding their breath; finding only sand. The moon is not there.

God is somewhere—and His glints fall in the world. The world is the lake.

So Palatu says: “Remain disenchanted with the world—this is the first step. Feed hunger a little, take a single sheet, and drink satsang day and night. Begin with this.”

If even this much begins, it is a lot.

“For hearts to meet hearts is a great thing;
for now, may at least eyes meet eyes.”

Don’t talk at once of heart meeting heart.

“For hearts to meet hearts is a great thing;
for now, may at least eyes meet eyes.”

If for a moment eyes meet, it is much. If eyes meet, hearts will meet too—the heart is not far from the eyes; it is connected.

That is why we do not meet the eyes of strangers. We do not want heart to meet; so why meet eyes? Eyes we meet only with those we love—because behind the eyes is the heart. If two pairs of eyes meet in silence, the doors of both hearts open. That is the next step.

“Drink the nectar of satsang day and night.”

What is it? A place where remembrance of the Beloved arises easily; where no other talk goes on; where the very air sings of Him; where the pangs of separation are spoken; where madmen weep; where people sway in His intoxication.

Satsang is the night of longing. Alone, you may forget—you have slept for lives; alone you might fall asleep. In company you will not. When you sleep, someone else will be awake and will keep you awake; when he dozes, you will wake and keep him awake. Keeping each other awake, let this night of longing pass. Then, when the meeting comes, you discover even those nights of separation were wondrous, sweet. Looking back, you see—though He was not there, His remembrance was. Though He remained far, the heart cried for Him. Like the chatak bird awaiting the swati drop; like the papiha calling, “Pi kahan?—Beloved, where?”

“The nights of separation from you I will never forget;
in those nights I received the joy of a lifetime.”

But you see this only afterward; while separation lasts there are only tears. Later you realize: the days spent in your remembrance were sweet. The days I forgot you—those were wasted. The days I lost myself in wealth, status, something else—wasted. The days spent weeping for you—when tears fell for you, when the heart was rent for you…

“The nights of separation from you I will never forget;
in those nights I received the joy of a lifetime.”

“When I was not, He came;
‘I’ not—He is—who will believe this?
A mute has tasted jaggery—
without a tongue how can one describe the sweetness?

The ocean and its wave are not two.
Who will sift the lamp from its light?
Palatu, God’s way is unique—
God alone knows God’s way.”

On this final utterance we complete. It is incomparable.

Understand: “When I was not, He came!” Only when the I-sense disappears does He appear. Truly, even to say “He comes” is not right. Because of the I-sense He remains hidden; when the I is gone, He is revealed. The I is like the shell on a seed; when the shell cracks, the sprouting begins. In language we must say, “When the I goes, He comes.” But where would He come from? Where would He go? He is everywhere—only He is. He sits within you even now. But your I-sense clouds the eyes. You are drunk on “I, I, I!” Because of this cry, He within is unseen. He’s lost in the fog of I. The sun has risen, but is lost in the clouds of ego. It has not been destroyed. When the clouds pass, He will not come from anywhere—He was.

“God” means that which always is—eternal, timeless; neither coming nor going; neither can He come nor go; there is no “elsewhere” to go to. But our eyes can be fogged; we do not look within.

The I looks outward; it is extravert. Its satiation is outward. The I says: wealth—more and more! The more wealth, the stronger the I. How can the poor ego be strong? With what? The rich ego grows fat. The I says: I must have high position. What is this—being a peon? I must be president! It says: Go search for something. Go somewhere. In the I there lurks ambition—and ambition is fulfilled only outside. And even there, it never really is—only seems to be. You reach one place; another appears. You run after mirages. Ambition is a mirage. And what you seek is within. “Kasturi kundal basai”—the musk deer runs mad searching for the fragrance rising from its own navel. That is why it is called kastura. From its own navel musk’s scent rises; from its nose, from its breath; it spreads all around and he goes mad. He searches: where is it coming from? He runs.

Such is man’s state. The one you seek sits in your house. No need to go searching for Him. The one you seek is hidden in the seeker. So long as the seeker remains, and the seeking, you will not find. So long as this I remains, you will miss.

Palatu says: “Who will believe me!”

“When I was not, He came;
‘I’ not—He is—who will believe this?”

Who will accept that as long as I was, He was not; and now He is and I am not? Our mind says: then what kind of union is this? We set out to find—and if we are lost, what is gained? People asked Buddha, “You say that in the ultimate state all becomes shunya—void—I too become shunya?” Buddha said: “Surely—all is silent; there is a great emptiness.” People said: “Then why seek such emptiness? Strange—spend life seeking to lose oneself? Better to remain here—at least we are. Good or bad, we are.”

Man’s love of life is deep—he says, “We will live in hell, but let me be. Let me at least exist. I don’t need heaven if it means being annihilated.” And herein lies the calculation: whatever is truly attained here is attained by losing yourself. But understand: losing yourself doesn’t mean you are negated, that you become a zero. It only means the noise is gone. Existence remains; the I-sense is gone. Like a river entering the ocean—it has not ceased to be; now it is vast, one with the ocean.

In losing, the vastness is found. Smallness is lost. Riverhood is lost; oceanhood arrives. Ego is lost; Brahmanhood arrives.

This is what Mansoor meant: “Anal Haqq”—I am the Truth, the Divine. This is what the Upanishads said: “Aham Brahmasmi”—I am Brahman. But remember, this “I” is not like your “I.” It is only a way of speaking. The rishi who says “I am Brahman” is saying, “I am no more—only Brahman is.” That is what “Anal Haqq” says: Truth is; I am not.

People could not understand Mansoor; they crucified him. He died laughing. There was no Mansoor—otherwise worry would arise. When he was nailed to the cross, he said, “The one you are killing died long ago. Whom are you killing? And the One that is now cannot be killed; He is deathless.” But who would listen? People are blind and deaf—and, worse, heartless.

“When I was not, He came;
‘I’ not—He is—who will believe this?
A mute has tasted jaggery—
without a tongue how can one describe the sweetness?”

And Palatu says: I am in a great difficulty. People ask me: say something, explain—we do not understand. How can I explain! The mute has tasted jaggery. I have tasted the sweetness, but where is the tongue to tell it? Where are the words to bind the wordless? Where the language to express the inexpressible? The tongue is no more.

Knowing God, all become mute. Not that they do not speak—they do—but whatever they say comes close, not quite. It cannot be the whole truth. At best, a glimpse. Hints.

At most, what do saints do? The saint has eaten the jaggery; he is intoxicated, drowned in the honey-nectar; he dances. You ask him to speak. Out of compassion, he tries. But he knows you will not understand—he knows that had someone told him before he knew, he would not have believed. Others had told him, but he had remained skeptical. Till the taste comes, doubt doesn’t go. So one thing is clear: people will not accept. They will call him mad, or a fraud.

About saints people have only two opinions: either a cheat—he is deceiving—or mad, insane, unhinged, raving nonsense. They too are helpless; they must say this. Because what the saint says cannot be contained in language. He still tries to put it into words—words are too small. It is like trying to hold the whole sky in a tiny fist. If the fist proves too small, what surprise is there? The sky is vast; words are smaller than the fist.

“A mute has tasted jaggery—
without a tongue how can one describe the sweetness?”

And the tongue is lost—lost in the very sweetness. Before knowing, speaking was easy. After knowing, it is difficult. Once you know, you find: when I didn’t, how fluently I could speak—with coherence, logic, order, force, without hesitation. After knowing, you hesitate over each word; you weigh it—will it serve? With each word you find—you missed again. Again you missed. So you try again. If saints repeat themselves, understand why: they miss, and try again; again miss, try again. The message is the same; they keep missing. Only those can understand saints who are ready to lose their own tongue—ready to be silent; who say, “We will become shunya and join shunya.” But those who insist they must be convinced by language and logic, by proofs, will remain like upturned pitchers in a rain of grace—never filling.

“A mute has tasted jaggery—
without a tongue how can one describe the sweetness?
The ocean and its wave are not two.
Who can sift the lamp from its light?”

Now how to separate—where does light end and lamp begin? Where does lamp end and light begin? They are joined, one, inseparable.

So Palatu says: what can I say now—who am I and who is God? The devotee and God are no longer two.

If you walk the path of knowledge, the knower remains—God dissolves in the knower. If you walk the path of devotion, God remains—the devotee dissolves in God. What difference is there? Both are one.

Kabir said:
“Searching and searching, dear friend, Kabir vanished.
A drop merged in the ocean—how can it be found?”

And again:
“Searching and searching, dear friend, Kabir vanished.
The ocean merged in the drop—how can it be found?”

The first is devotion: the drop fell into the sea. The second is knowledge: the sea entered the drop. Mahavira and Buddha did not speak of God—they are meditators. Meera, Chaitanya, Palatu, Kabir, Nanak spoke of God—they are lovers. Yet there is not a hair’s breadth of difference. Let a drop fall into the ocean; say what you like—“the drop merged into the sea,” or “the sea merged into the drop.” It is just a difference of saying.

In the final state, meditation and love bring you to the same place. But because all life you have used a certain language, even the final experience is expressed in that idiom. Mahavira says: only the soul remains—no God. The supreme state of the soul is what people call God—there is no other God. Palatu says: You alone remain—now I am not.

“The ocean and its wave are not two.
Who can sift the lamp from its light?
Palatu—God’s way is unique;
God alone knows God’s way.”

Then Palatu adds: I am a simple man—Palatu the nirgun baniya, Rama’s shopkeeper. Words are not my great domain. I am a plain, ordinary fellow. How shall I speak of God’s supreme way?

“Palatu—God’s way is unique;
God alone knows God’s way.”

This is so sweet: Ask Him. Meet Him. If you want more, meet the Master Himself. Don’t trouble the watchman. I stand at the door on guard. I have said as much as I knew.

I heard of a house where a new maid had been hired. She was sweeping when the phone rang. She picked it up and said, “Hello.” The other side asked, “Who is this? Is the doctor home or not? I’m so-and-so.” Silence. He asked, “Brother, why don’t you speak? What is it? Why are you quiet?”

The maid said, “As much as I knew, I’ve already said—‘hello.’ Beyond that I know nothing. I’m new. I don’t know this language; it’s the first time I’ve held a phone. I don’t know much about this house either. As much as I knew, I’ve spoken—‘hello.’”

So Palatu says: Don’t ask me more—go meet the Lord Himself. Taste it yourself. I have opened the Master’s door; I am but the watchman. I stand with the door open and have invited you—come in. Don’t waste time in further questioning. The Master is within.

“Palatu—God’s way is unique;
God alone knows God’s way.”

Enough for today.