Ajhun Chet Ganwar #5

Youth is a harvest of roses—
why shouldn’t the body be wine, why not moon‑faced?
Why wail about the torments of the hereafter
in these blessed months of celebration?

Bhakti is not against love; bhakti is the upward flowering of love. Bhakti is not against passion; bhakti is the transformation of passion. Bhakti is not against beauty; bhakti is the quest for the Supreme Beauty. Bhakti does not break you from the beloved—it joins you to the Beloved of all. Let this be understood first. This is bhakti’s rare condition.

Bhakti does not say, “Drop love.” Bhakti says, “Grow love. Let the small love go, invite the great love.”

Bhakti does not teach separation, not even mere union in the worldly sense; it does not preach dispassion or ascetic austerities. Bhakti teaches only this: how to be dyed in the color of the Beloved.

The reason to turn away from the world is not love. The reason is that the world is an unworthy vessel for love. The renunciate says: “Drop attachment, for attachment is bad.” The devotee says: “The object to which you have attached yourself is futile. Don’t drop attachment; change the object. Where you have enthroned the petty—wealth, pride, position—seat the Lord there. In the heart where you have seated coin, conceit, and rank—sing there the Lord’s qualities. With the very effort you spend on the world, you can find the Divine.”

In practice, sadhana demands nothing new; only a change of direction in what you already know. The same feet will reach—change the direction. The same eyes will see—change the direction. Change direction and you will enter the Divine, you will come into the Divine’s embrace. You lack nothing at all. Only your direction is wrong. You are not wrong, your direction is wrong.

This is bhakti’s foundational principle: you are not wrong; only your direction is wrong. You need not change yourself, only your direction. What you seek is right—but where you are seeking, it cannot be found.

A man wants to reach the river but sets off toward the market. That he walks is fine; that he wants the river is fine—if he is thirsty, he longs for it. But he has started toward the bazaar. His legs are fine, walking is fine; the thirst is right, the search for water is right. Only the path is mistaken. Choose the river’s way.

Bhakti consecrates your entire worldliness into the Divine. This is bhakti’s astonishing art. The jnani breaks; the bhakta does not. The jnani cuts; the bhakta does not. For the jnani, there is great struggle; for the bhakta, only surrender. The bhakta says, “Even the beauty you see here in the world—that too is of the Divine.” The day you recognize this you will know: the spring that comes here too is a moment of prayer. When within you, in your very blood, life-energy rises in storm—that too is His storm. All is His. Let it begin to flow toward Him, toward the Source—then all will be well.

Today’s Paltu verses are worth deep reflection. They lay bhakti’s cornerstones.

“Why sleep, you mad one? Spring is slipping away.”

This life is the season of spring. See—there is no condemnation of life. Life is springtime; it is a blessedness. And you are spending it asleep! Spring has arrived, flowers have opened, birds are singing, peacocks are dancing. The whole world is brimming with delight. And will you pass it in sleep? Will you remain stupefied?

“Why sleep, you mad one...?”

How foolish you are! The hour to awaken has come; spring is knocking at the door. The moment of waking has come; everywhere there is color and song. Everywhere the Divine is pouring His rain. The sun has risen, a web of rays has spread. How foolish to still be asleep! When then will you wake?

“Why sleep, you mad one? Spring is slipping away.

Spring is slipping away, and the Beloved has not been invited home.”

You never even searched for the Beloved. You never called Him into your house; you did not write a letter, you sent no invitation—and the hour for spring’s departure is drawing near.

This life is here now—and now it will be gone. It will not remain forever. It comes and goes—momentary. Let this fleeting life become a call to the Divine. If it becomes a call and your journey toward Him begins, you will reach that spring which comes and never goes. This spring comes and goes; worldly spring arises and fades. But there is another Spring—drowning in God—where flowers bloom forever; flowers of the Eternal. Esa dhammo sanantano!—as Buddha says, the eternal, the deathless—its blossoms never wither; the flowers of that dharma bloom.

Here in the realm of time, under time’s law, whatever is born will die. Spring comes and goes. No sooner has it arrived than departure is preparing. Morning breaks and evening begins. Birth occurs and death begins. No sooner do we meet than the hour of separation arrives. This spring is brief; the door opens for just a little while. But whoever uses that door well attains the Supreme Spring.

“Why sleep, you mad one? Spring is slipping away.

Spring is slipping away, the Beloved has not entered your home.”

Still you live without the Lover. No meeting with the Master; no bond with the Lord. When will you call the Supreme Beloved? Only in His meeting is fulfillment.

Even here, what are you seeking? You are seeking Him—whether in wife or husband. Have you ever asked whom you seek? In husband and wife, in son and daughter, in friends and relations—whom are you seeking? And have you examined why each search proves futile? Each time you end with melancholy and failure. Search in wife or husband as you will—what you seek is so vast that no wife can grant it to you. Then you end up angry with the poor wife. It was not her fault; your demand was immense. You went looking for the ocean in a pot. What fault is it of the pot? You went hunting God in your husband. When you did not find God there, what fault is it of the husband? Hence the resentment.

See how husbands and wives grow bitter against each other. They feel cheated: the promise, the allure they felt would be fulfilled, has not been. Even if the complaint is not explicit, the minds of husband and wife fill with bitterness. Why?

Understand the cause—it is profoundly religious. The wife loved in the hope that God would be found there. But what she found was an ordinary man—full of petty desires, fenced by small limits. She hoped to befriend the Infinite; to find a temple. She found a house, not a shrine. She became a housewife, he a householder—but the temple did not appear. The mind’s thirst is only for a temple; it longs for the eternal. Instead came the perishable—here now, gone now.

You loved a woman thinking: through her I will find beauty, supreme beauty; my heart will be satiated. Slowly the beauty faded and the heart was not filled. Far from being fulfilled, even that beauty stopped appearing beautiful to you. What you took for a flower was thorny—you soured, you grew bitter and resistant. You think: the wife deceived me; she was never beautiful, she only pretended. She thinks: you deceived me; you were never as vast as you seemed.

No one pretended. Your yearning is for God.

I have heard: a Muslim emperor would sometimes invite a Sufi fakir to his palace for satsang. One day the fakir said, “This is against the rule. I come by your kindness. But the Quran says a fakir should never go to a king’s house. You call me, I cannot refuse. Yet the Quran says that when there is a visit, the king must go to the fakir’s hut. This will be my last visit. By now you are mature enough to understand. Satsang has ripened you. Had I said this on the first day, you’d have felt insulted. Now you will understand. If you wish to come, come to the well. You are thirsty—why do you call the well? That is not quite right. When you wish to come, then come.”

The emperor had grown attached to this fakir; he had tasted a few drops of his love. He had glimpsed something not ordinarily seen. One day he went to the fakir’s hut. The fakir was in the fields. His wife said, “Please sit. I’m waiting on the ridge with his lunch. Sit here on the bund; I’ll call him from where he’s working.”

The emperor said, “I’ll stroll; you go call him.” The wife thought perhaps there was no mat for him to sit on, so she ran home and brought a poor man’s rug—patched and frayed. She spread it on the ridge with love and said, “Please sit.” He looked at the rug and kept walking. “I will stroll,” he said. She thought, “Perhaps the ridge is unfit for an emperor.” She said, “Come inside, sit on our cot.” She took him in, but the cot did not please him either. It too was poor. And the hut...

He came out again: “I’ll stroll; don’t worry. Go fetch the fakir.”

On the way she told her husband, “The emperor is strange! I asked him to sit on the ridge—he didn’t. I spread a rug—he didn’t. I took him in to sit on the cot—he didn’t. What is this? Why won’t he sit?”

The fakir laughed. “Foolish one! How can an emperor sit? Our rug is not worthy of him, nor our ridge, nor our cot.”

And he laughed again. She asked, “Why do you laugh?” He said, “This is the story of mankind: our mind will not sit anywhere, because the mind is an emperor. You try to seat it in a shop—it refuses. You try to seat it in a body—it will not. It will not sit until God is found. It is a sovereign. Only when God is found does it settle so completely that it never stirs. All trembling vanishes.”

Sings Paltu:
“Spring is slipping away, the Beloved has not entered home.”

You have neither called the Master nor has He entered your house, and the days of spring’s departure draw near. This is madness. Drop this madness.

“Fie on your life if days pass without the Beloved.”

If there is any sin in life, it is only this: to live without that Supreme Beloved.

“Fie on your life...”

Your life is futile, a pain, worthless—ill-fated. There is no other misfortune in the world than living without God. It is a lamp without light. It is a riverbed in summer—sand, sand, and not a thread of water. It is a desert where no trees grow, no flowers bloom, no birds sing—where spring never comes.

Without God, life is without rasa. Raso vai sah—the Divine is flavor itself. Invite Him and you will be drenched in rasa. Without Him you will remain dry. Without Him your eyes and heart will never moisten. Without Him there is no song, no samadhi, no solution.

And remember: love for the Divine does not oppose your worldly love; it transcends it. It is because you are searching for God that you get entangled in worldly love—you are groping. Like a blind man wanting to get out of a dark room—he gropes with hands or a stick. He touches the wall, the window, the chair—he is seeking the door. Because he seeks the door, he gropes.

Your worldly love is just this groping for God. Sometimes you feel a woman, sometimes a man, sometimes husband or wife, sometimes child or friend—yet your stick is searching for the Divine. When the stick hits a wall, you move on: this is a wall. When it strikes a chair, you move on: this is furniture. In just this way, after groping through the world, the door is found.

This world is a part of the search for God.

“The tinkle of anklets and the jingle of instruments—
sweeter than any azan or temple conch, O cupbearer.”

Devotees have said: sweeter than the rote call of prayer or the conch is music—love—rasa.

The jingle of anklets, the music within—that is far more soaked in nectar than the dry call to prayer or the hollow blare of the conch. Why? The conch’s sound is lifeless; the azan too can be lifeless.

What you seek in this life—the way you look upon your child, your daughter, your brother, your beloved—hold on to that gaze. That loving gaze contains the essential secret.

Imagine you are in a temple and it catches fire; your son is inside. Will you save Krishna’s statue or your child? You will drop the idol and run out with your son. There it becomes clear where the reality was. The idol held no such attachment. The child was real; there was love. The true music of love is there. The devotees say: raise that music higher—let it ascend. Aim it toward God. Conches will not help; the heart’s voice alone. Not the azan—it is the little spring of love within you that must be allowed to flow. Flowing, it will one day reach the ocean.

“Fie on your life if days pass without the Beloved.

The proud, vain woman struts—the clay of her youth.”

And yet—how mad you are, strutting in great ego!

The proud, vain woman struts—the clay of her youth.

You swagger in your youth, your strength, your beauty, your color! And you do not see: “Spring is slipping away.” It is going. It will pass in your sleep. You will not even notice when it slips from your hand. Do not be so proud of what is fleeting.

The proud, vain woman struts—the clay of her youth.

For the devotees, all are women; the one Man is God. Hence “woman.”

The proud, vain woman struts—the clay of her youth.

Intoxicated with the pride of youth and beauty—this is the wine you have drunk; this is your high.

“The Master is sulking, and you don’t even send a letter.”

Because of this pride you do not even see that your true Lord sits offended, and you have not yet appeased Him. Your pride stands in the way. Because of pride you cannot win God’s grace. Because of pride you cannot call Him. Only if you beckon, will He come.

“The Master is sulking, and you don’t even send a letter.”

Think a little: if you cannot charm God, all you have done is wasted. If you charm that Beloved—if His eyes meet yours, His hand finds your hand—you have succeeded. There is only one success in life, one blessedness: the day you succeed in inviting God within. Until then all is failure. You may convince yourself: I have wealth—see, I am successful; I have status—see, I am successful. Delusions! Death will break them. When spring has passed, suddenly you will find: the body is dry, the green leaves have fallen, flowers no longer bloom; birds no longer roost; no song, no music. All gone. Only death remains as your companion. Before death settles in your house, form your bond with the Immortal.

The proud, vain woman struts—the clay of her youth.
The Master is sulking, and you don’t even send a letter.

“Your heart won’t settle, you won’t appease the Beloved.”

And your heart won’t settle—that too is true. How could it? If an emperor is to sit, he must be seated on a worthy throne. Your heart cannot rest anywhere before God; it perches only there. The bird of the heart rests only there; no other place pleases it. You say, “Sit on this heap of money”—to it, that is trash. “Sit on this post”—that too is trash. You offer it a thousand toys; it tires of each and drops them. It says, “Bring me the real.” Hence the heart is restless.

If you think the heart’s restlessness is a disease, you are mistaken. People come to me: “Do something so our heart becomes peaceful.” I say: in this very unrest lies your hope; if it becomes calm now, you are lost. Its unrest is your good fortune. It is telling you: peace is not where you seek it. And you want to pacify it? If it were pacified now, you would remain stuck in the world. Therefore it will not quieten—until you enter the Divine. Try whatever you like; it will not be still. How could it? Without the supreme treasure, how will you convince the heart? It feels: I am a beggar, poor, hungry, tormented; and it trembles. That trembling is your good luck; don’t call it misfortune. It refuses to settle; it says, “Take me where I can rest.” And you do not take it; puffed up with pride you say, “We’ll calm you here—take a little money.”

You have taken the heart for a child: “Come, we will buy you ice‑cream, a toy, some sweets!” You keep giving—but the restlessness does not end; it grows. As spring passes, the heart feels: this day too is gone, the chance is slipping away; how long will I fiddle with these toys?

Thus with age, the heart’s unrest increases. Children seem calm; the old become agitated. The old one’s spring is gone, the chance has passed, and the Beloved was never met.

“Your heart won’t settle...”

It simply cannot. Try all you may. And it is your good fortune that it does not settle; otherwise who knows what rubbish heap you would have stuck it in forever. This is the heart’s grace upon you—that it will not cling. Otherwise you might have clasped counterfeit coins to your chest for life. The heart pushes you on: “Move forward; nothing is here—seek elsewhere.”

The heart’s restlessness means: the search must be elsewhere. This search is not proceeding in the right place. The moment you start seeking in the right place, you will find the heart calming.

People say: “If the heart becomes peaceful, you will reach God.” I say: start moving toward God and the heart will grow peaceful. People tell you: “Quiet your mind; then you will reach God.” I tell you: only by moving toward God does peace arise. Without moving toward Him, peace cannot be. In that movement, coolness grows; in that movement, restlessness falls away; confidence arises within: now the direction is right—now the journey is homeward.

“Your heart won’t settle, you won’t appease the Beloved.”

Your heart is unsettled—whose heart have you seen settled in the world? Those with great riches or high rank—do you think their hearts rest? They are as uprooted as you—perhaps more so. They spent their whole spring collecting wealth and their minds did not quieten. Their restlessness—you cannot imagine it. They are deranged; they do not know what to do.

“...you won’t appease the Beloved.”

Yet out of arrogance you do not turn toward God; the heart is restless; all kinds of madness gather. Not a drop of joy. You run and run—heat, hurry, ambition! More and more—this much achieved, and nothing found.

A friend came to me. He said, “When I was young I decided: the day I have one million, I will drop all this scramble and sit in peace. Only a little while now—half a million is with me.”

Born poor, to gather five lakhs is great. With difficulty he had amassed it.

“A little more—two, four, five years. Now that I have five, ten will be easier; the first five were the hard part. I’ll soon renounce.”

I asked him, “Tell me one thing. You wanted ten; five have come—half the wealth. Has half the peace come?”

He said, “Peace? You ask about peace? Whatever little I had is gone.”

I said, “Then think: by the time you reach ten, even the little sense that brought you here will be gone. Five lakhs took what peace there was; when you reach ten, will you have any awareness left? Won’t you go mad?”

He pondered and said, “You are right. I am worse off than before. Since I reached five, I can’t sleep. Day and night the counting runs; the intoxication of ten is on me.”

In India we call the intoxication of wealth dhan‑mad; that of position pad‑mad—mad means intoxication. The English word “mad” derives from the Sanskrit mad—drunk.

I said, “Now that you still have a bit of sense and you’ve come here—five years, ten years later, when you have ten—will you remember me? Will you come?”

He said, “I can’t promise. My state is bad. To tell the truth, I doubt I’ll even survive till then—I am getting very disturbed.”

“So if five have made such misery, why make them ten?” “Pride!” he said. “I once decided—ten I must and will make—so I will.”

Man goes on even in directions where nothing is found—for ego’s sake.

“Your heart won’t settle, you won’t appease the Beloved.”

And still you swagger on; you make no move to please the Lord.

“You adorn your body, you spread a bed of flowers.”

Tell me, for whom is this adornment? For whom do you make a bed of flowers? If there is no humility even fit to appease God, then for whom this adornment, for whom this floral bed? For whom this temple? For whom these lamps?

“You adorn your body, you spread a bed of flowers.”

For whom are you dressing up? If you dress to go to the temple, then your adorning has value. If you go to charm the Lord, then it has value.

I have heard: Akbar once said to Tansen, “Your music is unparalleled. I cannot imagine anything higher. But a question returns in me: you must have learned from someone; you have a master. If your guru is alive, I want to hear him—invite him to court.”

Tansen said, “This is difficult. My guru lives, but he cannot be summoned. He is a fakir—Haridas. He sings and plays in his own ecstasy; he does not sing for people—he sings for God. When His mood comes, he sings. He cannot be brought to court. He does not sing on request. He says, ‘If God requests, I sing.’ You will have to go; he cannot be brought. And there is no schedule; prayer has no fixed rules. Love overflows by breaking all banks.

“Sometimes he rises at 2 a.m. and sings on and on—till the sun rises, till noon—and dances in rapture. Sometimes two or four days pass in utter silence—no note from his hut. Sometimes he offers the oblation of silence to God, sometimes of song—but it is all uncertain.

“Haridas is free, self‑moved—a sannyasin.”

Sannyasin means one who lives by his inner rhythm.

Akbar said, “You have tempted me more. I must hear him—find a way. I am willing to go at midnight.”

Tansen added, “One last difficulty: if anyone arrives, he stops at once. We must eavesdrop—listen secretly from outside the hut. Even we, his students, listened to his own singing in hiding. He taught us—that was different. But when he entered his own ecstasy, we listened secretly. If we appeared, he would stop. The thing would be lost.”

So at two in the night Akbar and Tansen hid near Haridas’s hut, by the Yamuna in Agra. At three, the incomparable music began. Akbar swayed; tears flowed from his eyes. At five it ended. Returning to the palace, Akbar remained silent; nothing could be said—any words would be small. This was not music of this world; a bed had been prepared for the Divine. The adornment was for God—something otherworldly, celestial. What to say? Silence remained.

At the palace steps, as he bid Tansen farewell, Akbar said, “Until today I thought no one could match you; today I think, before your guru you are nothing. I am troubled. Until today I thought no one stood beside you; today I see—you cannot be compared with him. Why such a difference? Why has what arose in your guru not arisen in you?”

Tansen said, “It is simple. I play for you; my guru plays for God. I play to gain reward—petty rewards: money, position, fame. My guru plays out of gratitude, seeking nothing. I play to get; he plays because he has gotten. From that fulfillment, song arises. I am a beggar; he is an emperor.”

The day you adorn yourself for God, the day you spread the flower‑bed for Him—that day joy will enter your life; that day music and meaning will arise. Before that, all is futile.

“You adorn your body, you spread a bed of flowers.”

Says Paltudās: people adorn themselves, lay out flower‑beds, build houses, arrange comforts—for whom?

“For whom is all this display? And spring is slipping from their hands.”

“Paltu, play through the season—else at the end you will repent.

Why sleep, you mad one? Spring is slipping away.”

“Paltu, play through the season...”

This small moment—this life—become intoxicated with rasa, drunk with the Beloved’s love; play, dance, sport. Surrender it at the feet of the One who gave it.

“Paltu, play through the season; else at the end you will repent.”

At death you will regret: God gave a great gift; I returned nothing; I gave no answer. Death came and took everything. The flowers on the bed withered; the adornment drooped. Death came and snatched all. When we could have offered, we hesitated to offer to God. What will be snatched anyway—why not turn it into a gift? And if you must give, first remember the One who gave it—return it to Him: “Tvadiyam vastu Govinda, tubhyam eva samarpaye.” It is yours, Govinda; I return it to you. There is no reason to give to any other.

“Sleep is a bride, reverent and blessed,
in the arms of the far‑off Lover.

O maker of my dreams,
O witness of my waking,
do you not know—my limited practices
are bound by your desires?

O my enchanting stranger,
your Radha, in bark‑cloth dressed,
sits with a lamp of hope
at every moment on your path.

Let the warp and woof of these breaths
not halt their coming and going.
Ages pass within my moments;
I drown in my sighs.

Your foot‑dust—kumkum and vermilion;
when you were there, every day was Holi.
You are the tree, I the vine;
as a flower I grow in your shade.

O maker of my dreams,
O witness of my waking,
do you not know—my limited
practices are bound by your desires?

Sleep—the blessed bride—
in the arms of the far‑off Lover.”

That far‑off Lover—the Divine—hidden who knows where—our life’s joy lies in His arms. Only in His embrace are harmony, fragrance, and music born.

The world holds only sorrow—the sorrow that what we seek is not found there. It is not found there because it is not there. Our search is right, our longing is right—our direction is wrong.

But we are stiff with pride. We say: I—and my direction—how can it be wrong? I will prove it! Others may have failed—even Alexander failed—but I will prove it can be found.

This is the story of humankind: all who searched outside, found nothing. All who searched outside returned empty‑handed. Without exception, the outward seekers became tired, defeated. Not one has ever proclaimed, “I searched outside and I found.” Could there be a greater scientific fact? Without exception.

What do you call scientific? That which admits no exceptions. Boil water, and at 100 degrees it becomes vapor; if sometimes at 99, sometimes at 101, it is no law. When thousands of experiments show: always at 100—it is a law.

There is no greater nonexceptional rule in human history: billions have tried to find happiness in the world—and failed. Yet each person is born full of ego: others did not get it—I'll break the rule; I will be the exception; I will show it can be gotten.

That is one side.

The other side: all who searched within found. Without exception: some Mahavira, some Mohammed, some Krishna, some Christ, some Raidas, Paltu, Nanak, Kabir—whoever went inward found. It has never happened that someone went within and said, “I did not find.” Thus the rule is tested both ways: within it is found; without, it is not. Yet man’s ego is astonishingly blind. He thinks: though no one yet has found, let me try once more.

The impossible attempt fails. Then only acting remains. Truth does not come to hand. The world becomes a stage. We pretend when we do not get it. The real laughter does not arise, so we paste a false smile on our lips. We have to console the mind somehow. We celebrate false joys, false festivals. Inside, the fire keeps burning; outside we feign coolness. Within, heaps of tears; outside, we laugh.

Watch people’s laughter—how empty, hollow, lifeless. Look into their eyes. They try to show: “All is fine!” Nothing is fine. Inside, only death is approaching; spring is departing; their legs tremble, but they somehow stand, hiding their trembling.

“Act—act out love!
Do not stop yet.
Once, twice, thrice—no, no,
act every day,
act every day.

It looks so nice,
like a raga running along the breath.
What harm if like this
we cheat our very life,
and thus the simple,
easy routine keeps moving on?”

What is simple here? What is easy? Slowly only a chain of acting remains—display what is not; be poor within, display wealth without; be ignorant within, display knowledge outside. Within, torment—outside, “All is well; I am very happy.” This world is full of acting. And a danger arises. At least children are deceived. Even when children grow old, it makes no difference—only children can be deceived. You too are deceived: “Everyone seems so happy; look how people rejoice; only I am unhappy!”

This is everyone’s experience: “Why am I alone unhappy? O Lord, why only me?” The world looks so joyous—people walk hand in hand, singing and dancing. Everyone seems happy—why am I unhappy?

But no one is happy here. As much as you suffer, so does everyone else. Outward differences may be there; inward heaps of sorrow are the same.

A story: a man would weep in the mosque, “O Lord, why have you made me so unhappy? What harm have I done? This is injustice. I have heard You are just, compassionate, merciful—but all false. Why so much sorrow? Everyone else is enjoying; only I rot in misery. If You cannot give me joy, at least exchange my sorrow with someone else’s; give mine to another, give me theirs.”

He dreamt a voice from the sky: “Let everyone bring their sorrows to the mosque.” He hurried, tied his bundle of woes, and ran. He was astonished: the whole village brought their bundles. He had thought some had none—yet kings, ministers, leaders, priests—all trudged with bundles. And another surprise: no one had a small pouch; everyone had a big bundle. He began to wonder with whom to exchange. These bundles he had never seen—because the acting was on.

In the mosque a voice said, “Hang your bundles on the pegs.” All hung them up—eager to be rid. Then the voice: “Now choose whichever bundle you want.” He ran—and everyone ran. But to his astonishment, he grabbed his own bundle lest someone else take it. And so did everyone—each took his own.

He was surprised, but understanding dawned. Why did he pick his own? “At least I know my sorrows; the other’s bundle looks big—and who knows what snakes and scorpions are inside!” Each, frightened, grabbed his own and ran home happy that he got it back. In the morning he understood the truth: so it is.

Everyone is miserable—only acting prevails.

To awaken from acting—that is the birth of sannyas. People ask me, “What is your definition of sannyas?” I say: waking from acting is sannyas. No more acting. No more deceit. We will examine life’s truths. From such examination, you are slowly linked to the Supreme Truth.

“As the pond dries, the fish grows miserable.”

Spring is passing. The pond of life is drying. Time’s stream is ebbing; man grows old.

“As the pond dries, the fish grows miserable.”

Naturally, the fish that lived in the water is unhappy as the pond dries. Hence the old are sad.

You rarely find a sad child; you rarely find a happy old man. If a child is sad, it is past‑life earnings. If an old man is joyous, it is this life’s attainment. Otherwise children are happy—unconscious; they haven’t learned sorrow; no experience yet. They haven’t entered the marketplace, not been robbed—though the robbers are ready.

The old you will find sad—robbed in the market; nothing remains. If an old person is blissful, know he is a saint. If a child is sad, know he is a saint—he remembers past births. If an old man is happy, he has found God.

“As the pond dries, the fish grows miserable.

When the Jyeshtha heat arrives, the water is gone.

Childhood went, youth went, and now old age too passes—yet the secret of bhajan is unknown.”

The lotus‑senses—eyes, ears—wither. The very faculties you took for life grow dim.

“The lotuses have withered, the swan prepares to fly.”

The swan of life will go—into what darkness, what realm, who knows? You made no preparation, because you never learned the secret of bhajan. Had you learned, you would be ready for what comes after death. One joined to the Immortal does not die. The body goes still, but one linked to nectar feels no sting of death.

“The lotuses have withered, the swan prepares to fly.”

And what are we doing? We have no concern for the swan. We worry about the lotuses that bloom today and wilt tomorrow. You have no concern for yourself, but are anxious about body, color, form. You apply kohl to the eyes, lipstick to the lips, paint to the face—make every effort to beautify the body. But the swan within—the one that will fly—no concern. Body, powders, garments, cosmetics—all will be left behind, yet you spend your life on them. You neglect the essential and waste life on the nonessential.

“The lotuses have withered, the swan prepares to fly.

Some fisher will catch the fish...”

Sooner or later, death’s net will come—who knows by whom.

“...some fisher will catch the fish; only clods will remain in the cracked bed.”

What was once a pond becomes baked earth; cracks, dry clods.

The water you took for home is gone. The fish were slain and taken. The swan has flown. Only a dry basin remains. And the ground is clods—split, cracked.

Thus one day the body will remain—clods of dust. Dust unto dust.

“...some fisher will catch the fish; only clods will remain.

Such is the human body—and you waste it like a fool.

Forgetful of your pledge, you yourself have ruined your work.”

A vital utterance: “You forgot your pledge...” Paltu says: you came after giving a word to God that you would remember Him—and you forgot it. You forgot all vows. You forgot the promise. You do not even remember from where you came; you do not remember what you pledged. There is no effort to fulfill it—not even remembrance.

Do not break your vow. Everyone, when coming from the Source, is filled with this assurance: I will not be lost; I will return untouched. That is what Kabir means: “Jyon ki tyon dhar dinhi chadariya—carefully I kept this cloth.” He remembered the vow. He passed through the world untouched. This is a house of soot, yet he went through unstained—keeping his inner whiteness intact.

We do not remember. We don’t know from where we came, nor where we go.

Religion means only this: to remind you of the vows of your own life.

“Forgetful of your pledge, you yourself have spoiled your work.

Paltu: years and months and days, watches, hours, moments slip away.

As the pond dries, the fish grows miserable.”

See—each day passes—years and months and days; watches, hours, moments are stolen. The pitcher empties. Soon there will be only emptiness.

“As the pond dries, the fish grows miserable.”

Do something before the chance is gone.

“Paltu, play through the season; else you will repent at the end.

Why sleep, you mad one? Spring is slipping away.”

“I set out to search for the Beloved—and I myself was lost.

I myself was lost—who now will carry the message?”

In these two songs Paltu has said your condition. One: spring will not stay forever; if you would make a song, make it now; if you would dance, dance now—and dance not before others, but before God. If you would build a house, build it in God’s heart. Do not postpone to tomorrow; the pond dries daily. Who knows when death’s fisherman will cast the net—once caught, nothing can be done. Later is always too late.

This third song he speaks of himself:

“I set out to search for the Beloved—and I myself was lost.

I myself was lost—who now will carry the message?”

This is the final moment of love. God and you cannot both be—only one can. As long as you are, God is not. The day God is, you are not. When you are gone, His coming is easy. This is invitation—the secret of bhajan. What is it? Efface yourself. Say, “I am not—only You, only You.” Slowly empty. As you vanish, God descends. As you move out, He moves in. Within there is little room.

“The lane of love is extremely narrow—two cannot pass.”

You step aside and He enters.

“I set out to search for the Beloved—and I myself was lost.

I myself was lost—who now will carry the message?”

Paltu says: trouble! I had prepared many messages, rehearsed what I would say: this, and this, and this. Now who will say it? Even the messenger is gone. Thus in the final hour, prayer falls silent; nothing remains to say.

“I myself was lost—who now will carry the message?”

This happens daily. My sannyasins come to see me at dusk. They come determined to say many things. Then they sit before me and say: “We forgot—nothing comes.” What happens? So long as there is distance, there is something to say. As nearness grows, words vanish. At the ultimate nearness, only silence remains.

“The tale of love’s sorrow—how could we tell them, why and how?
Not a syllable escaped our lips—and tears gathered in our eyes.”

The devotee thinks he will tell of the sufferings of love—how he burned in the world, how viraha tormented him, how he remembered You.

We had wanted to complain—“Why did you send me into the world, why did you make me wander, why so much trouble?”

But not a syllable escapes. Only tears remain—tears of joy. Make no mistake: in love’s realm, tears of sorrow dissolve; only tears of bliss remain. Love is such an alchemy it turns even sorrow’s tears into joy’s.

“I set out to search for the Beloved—and I myself was lost.

I myself was lost—who now will carry the message?

Whoever meditates on the Beloved becomes the Beloved’s very form.”

A lovely saying—beyond gems in worth.

“Whoever meditates on the Beloved becomes the Beloved’s very form.”

Whoever sinks into His remembrance—becomes Him; becomes one with Him. Knowing the Lord, you become lordly; knowing God, you become God.

“Who falls into fire becomes fire.
The bhanrgi meets the grub and makes it its own.
The moth falls upon the lamp—and becomes flame.”

“Who falls into fire becomes fire.”

“The bhanrgi meets the insect and remakes it into its own form.”

The moth travels far from dark corners with desires and prayers, seeking the lamp through births upon births. Today it finds the light—and falls into it, becoming light. There is no time to speak, no means to carry a message. The messenger is gone.

This revolution also happens with the guru. If the disciple is truly surrendered, in the guru’s presence nothing remains to be said. A vast silence remains—alive, luminous, conscious, brimming with joy, tears of bliss, intoxication, dance—but nothing to say.

“The stream, flowing, merges into the ocean.
When Shiva and Shakti unite, Shakti never returns.”

Once the lover meets the Beloved, there is no return.

“The stream, flowing, merges into the ocean.”

Khalil Gibran says: as the river nears the sea, it hesitates; for a moment it stops, looks back. The ghats it passed, the sacred fords, the people met along the way, good and bad, a thousand memories—alpine peaks, dirty plains, trees’ shade, birds’ songs, clouds, moon and stars—reflections, refractions. A long tale. The Ganga travels from Himalaya to the sea—thousands of miles, countless experiences.

Gibran is right: before falling into the ocean, the river pauses, looks back, remembers—and fears. The ocean stands before it—vast, shoreless. If it goes, it will be lost.

Reaching the guru, the disciple too trembles, fears, shakes, wants to escape. But one must learn to fall into the guru—only then can one someday fall into God. Falling into the guru is rehearsal for falling into God—the alphabet, sri ganeshaya namah.

“The stream, flowing, merges into the ocean.
When Shiva and Shakti unite, Shakti never returns.”

Once Shiva and Shakti meet, return is no more. Once the lover and beloved unite, the beloved is lost—she is us; the lover is God.

“Paltu: the wall of laughter—let no one try to peek.
I set out to search for the Beloved—and I myself was lost.”

“Paltu: the wall of laughter...”

He points to the Great Wall of China. About it, a legend: it is the world’s largest wall—wide as a mountain, crossing rivers, plains, peaks; a cart can roll atop it. It is so high no one can cross. A saying among the invaders who sought to climb it: there is a danger—if you climb and look to the other side, you burst into laughter, intoxicated, and you leap—and are lost, never to be seen. The warning ran: do not climb; do not peek—there is a great magic; whoever peeks longs to jump.

Paltu uses it beautifully.

“Paltu: the wall of laughter—let no one try to peek.”

Paltu warns: I tell you beforehand—this God is a wall of laughter! Do not later blame me. You are searching for God—understand this: you will not be able to find Him as you find wealth to lock in a safe. Many search thus—ego’s search: “We obtained money, rank; now we will get God and lock Him in our treasury.” They think they will possess Him. That is not true search; it is the journey of ego. “We have gotten everything—now we’ll get God too.”

The day Morarji Desai became prime minister, a journalist asked, “Your life’s ambition is fulfilled—you are happy?” He said, “This is nothing. Now I have to search for God.” Sounds religious—but is not. If God is your goal, what need to go to Delhi? The effort to reach Delhi would, with far less strain, carry you to God. In truth, Delhi is opposite to God; the further you go to Delhi, the farther from Him. But it seems to Morarji that the ladder to God comes after the PM’s ladder! As if until you climb the PM-steps you cannot climb God’s steps.

It is ego’s quest. This talk of God is ego’s talk. It only declares, “I will not be satisfied—this I have done; now I will do that too.” But whoever seeks God this way will never find Him. God cannot be sought like money or rank. He must be sought like a lover seeks—ready to lose, ready to die. Only one who can vanish finds; like a stream falling into the sea.

Therefore Paltu says: be warned—do not take my words lightly when I say, “Seek the Beloved; spring is passing; the pond is drying; the fish is miserable—seek God.” Do not be trapped by my words. Remember this condition:

“Paltu: the wall of laughter...”

Once you climb the wall of meditation and peek beyond, you will never return. Go, but go knowing this; later do not complain: “What a search you taught—one in which we were ourselves lost!” You want a search where you can remain and the finding happens. This is not such a search.

“Paltu: the wall of laughter—let no one try to peek.”

If you want to keep yourself intact and get God—if God is only an extension of ego’s journey—then please do not go. This wall is laughter; peek beyond it and you must jump. Whoever jumps is gone—and never returns.

“I set out to search for the Beloved—and I myself was lost.”

I went searching for the Lover—and lost myself. But this losing is blessed.

Your being—what is it but wound and pain? What is there in being human to preserve? If you try to save this, you will miss God. Prepare to lose it.

Thus when you go to the temple and offer flowers, you deceive. If you have not offered yourself, all your flowers are worthless. If you offer money, you deceive; you think God values your coins; you imagine Him as foolish as you.

If you must offer, offer yourself. Nothing else can be offered. Man has offered everything—money, flowers. Those flowers are not yours—they are God’s; they were already on His trees, in His temple. Their fragrance was already on its way to Him; you plucked them and killed them, then took dead flowers to the shrine. You lit incense and lamps; you sacrificed animals; you even sacrificed humans.

In Buddha’s time a king was sacrificing a goat. Buddha came by. “What are you doing?” “Sacrificing a goat; great merit comes.” Buddha said, “Then sacrifice me—greater merit will come.” The king trembled. To sacrifice a goat is one thing; to sacrifice Buddha! His limbs shook. Buddha said, “If you truly want benefit, sacrifice yourself. What will a goat do?” The king said, “The goat will go to heaven—no harm.” Buddha said, “Wonderful—I am seeking heaven. Sacrifice me—send me there. And why not send your parents? Why hold yourself back? If heaven is so easily reached, why cut the goat? Perhaps the goat does not even wish to go. Let the goat choose where it wants to go.”

The king understood—this was precise.

Man has offered everything—money, flowers. Even the flowers are His. You plucked them from the tree; you took what was on its way to His feet and brought it, dead, to the temple. Sometimes incense, sometimes animals, sometimes men. When will you offer yourself? Only one who offers himself attains Him.

Thus Paltu speaks truly:

“Paltu: the wall of laughter—let no one try to peek.”

First the warning: if you go, know this wall is laughter. Whoever goes does not return. Whoever goes is lost.

Kabir said: I went searching—and lost myself, as a drop is lost in the ocean, and as the ocean is lost in a drop. But this losing is not loss. Your being is the real loss; your loss is your true being. The day the stream enters the sea, on one side it is true the stream is lost; on the other, see—she became the ocean! She dropped the trivial and joined the vast. From nothingness she joined the All. Shores vanished—but she found the shore of the infinite.

Drink Paltu’s words slowly—they are like wine. Sip them; each word will make you tremble, sway. What all is hidden in you! But because you search outside, you do not discover within. Everything lies hidden within—you carry the whole Divine—but you run everywhere else. Come home!

“Why sleep, you mad one? Spring is slipping away.
Spring is slipping away, and the Beloved has not entered home.
Fie on your life if days pass without the Beloved.
The proud, vain woman struts—the clay of her youth.
The Master is sulking, and you don’t send a letter.
Your heart won’t settle, you won’t appease the Beloved.
You adorn your body, you spread a bed of flowers.
Paltu, play through the season; else you will repent at the end.
Why sleep, you mad one? Spring is slipping away.”

Why not wake? What do you gain by sleep? Dreams—pleasant and unpleasant—spin their web. Why fear waking? Because when you wake, you disappear. “Paltu: the wall of laughter.” Wake—and be gone. When awareness arrives, the play ends. You fear that.

But whether you fear or not, death comes.

“As the pond dries, the fish grows miserable.
When the Jyeshtha heat arrives, the water is gone.
Childhood, youth, old age—all have passed; the secret of bhajan unknown.
The lotuses have withered, the swan prepares to fly.
Some fisher catches the fish; only clods remain, cracked and dry.
Such is the human body—wasted by fools.
Forgetful of your pledge, you have spoiled your work.
Paltu: years and months and days, watches, hours, moments slip away.
As the pond dries, the fish grows miserable.”

Day by day your pond dries. The fish of your life grows sad, withered, troubled. The shadow of death falls—from the first day. The child is born and begins to die. One day older means one day gone. The first breath is drawn—and with it the last has entered. Now it is a matter of going—now or then. You must go. If you must go, there are two ways: into death—or over the wall of laughter. Either you will be caught by death’s net and helplessly dragged, then hurled back into life—or there is the other way: samadhi and sannyas. Another way: jump by yourself into God. Before death kills you, die. One who dies by his own hand—into himself—finds the Immortal abiding.

“I set out to search for the Beloved—and I myself was lost.
I myself was lost—who now will carry the message?
Whoever meditates on the Beloved becomes the Beloved’s very form.
Who falls into fire becomes fire.
The bhanrgi meets the grub and makes it its own.
The stream, flowing, merges into the ocean.
When Shiva and Shakti unite, Shakti never returns.
Paltu: the wall of laughter—let no one try to peek.
I set out to search for the Beloved—and I myself was lost.”

I too tell you: if you go, you will not return. But go. Paltu too says so. Go—by all means go!

Die! There is no greater blessedness than to die willingly.

Die by your own hand and samadhi blossoms; refuse—and it is death.

Offer yourself by your own hand and it is samadhi; if someone comes and catches the fish—it is death.

It is in your hands to turn death into samadhi—or to miss samadhi’s chance and die.

One who turns death into samadhi is the sannyasin.
One who turns death into samadhi is wise.

Enough for today.