Ajhun Chet Ganwar #7

Jesus has said: Whoever loses shall find. Whoever saves will lose everything.

This is the foundational principle of the scripture of love. The miser has no movement there. The one who clutches has no way there. That realm belongs to those who can lose. Those who try to save remain poor and pitiable. Those who squander are the ones who receive.

The world of love is a great reversal.

In the world one kind of arithmetic prevails; love’s arithmetic is exactly the opposite. In the world, if you save, something stays. In love, only what you lavish remains. In the world, if you squander, you become destitute. In love, if you do not squander, you become destitute.

Truth’s direction runs exactly counter to the world.

The world is God’s reflection. Stand by a lake and look down: on the ground your feet are below and your head above; but in the water you will see your feet above and your head below.

The world is the reverse of the Divine. Invert the world’s arithmetic, and it becomes the mathematics of religion.

Today’s sutras are priceless. Their worth can’t be measured. The basic foundation of the scriptures of religion is built of the bricks of such sutras. Receive them with your whole heart. Bathe in their juice.

“Take off your head with your own hands; love is not effortless.”

You’ve always heard that the path of devotion is easy. It’s both true and not true. True because for those in whom love has awakened, what could be easier than devotion? Not true because for love to happen is supremely difficult. If love happens, everything becomes simple. Then you don’t even have to try—grace descends. The devotee doesn’t have to go toward God; God comes seeking the devotee. “Let Hari remember me!” The devotee is the one who begins to be remembered by God. The devotee himself forgets. Who keeps count in love’s intoxication—mantras, recitations, worship, prayer? But the Divine begins to remember. Here the devotee’s remembrance fades; there God’s remembrance awakens. And the joy is only when it burns from both sides. If only you remember, it is no great delight. The fruit of love ripens when the fire takes hold on both ends.

So you’ve often heard that devotion is easy. You’ve also heard that in the dark age only devotion is the path. There is truth in it—and also not. It is true if you can love. But can you love? That is where the question stands.

“Take off your head with your own hands; love is not effortless.”

Paltu says: Don’t even by mistake think the road of love is easy, that romance is effortless, simple. Yes, it is simple for some—for those who can set their heads aside with their own hands, it’s not difficult in the least. But for those who try to reach while saving themselves, the path is supremely arduous. They will never arrive. Those who dream, “Let me keep myself intact and also attain God,” will wander endlessly; they will never arrive.

On the path of devotion there is simply no way to preserve yourself. On the very first step you must lay yourself down. Surrender is devotion’s first ray; it is the ascetic’s last. The ascetic drops the ego at the end; first he purifies it—by fasting, austerity, vows, yoga. He refines the ego; he cleans his “I.” When that “I” becomes crystal clear, at the final hour it dawns on him that all else is done, now this very pure “I” is the obstacle. A thin veil remains—no heavy curtain, a transparent veil, like clear glass. From afar it seems the door is open. As you come closer, closer, you discover: a glass door is there, closed; this glass too has to be shattered. Because it was transparent, from a distance it looked as if there were no door. Now you discover a glass wall still stands between. When dust clings to glass, you can see it; when it is scrubbed clean, you can’t tell it’s there. Then, as you try to pass at the last moment—from the world into God—your head strikes.

So the devotee must do at the very first step what the knower and ascetic do at the last. For devotion’s first condition is this: “Take off your head with your own hands!” You must set your head aside with your own hands. When another removes it, we resist even then. To remove it yourself is far harder. “Love is not effortless!” You must sever your own head with your own hands. And this head is such that no one else can cut it off. Another can cut off the head of your body, but it will sprout again; a new birth will come. Until you cut off the innermost head, the ego, the journey of births will continue. No one else can cut it. No one. There is no means. There is no weapon so subtle that your inner ego can be severed from the outside.

The Master can speak, call, fill you with thirst, challenge you—but he cannot cut your ego. That work you must do. Hence it becomes very difficult: to cut off your own head!

When you hear “Drop the ego,” it doesn’t seem so hard. But think a bit. Walk down the street; someone laughs—you can’t bear it. The laughter pricks like a thorn. Someone slightly insults you, flames leap within. Someone gives a small compliment and you’re puffed up like a balloon. This ego which flares at the slightest touch, ready for revenge—will you be able to cut it yourself? With your own hands? And until you do, the first condition is unmet; you cannot enter the temple of love.

“Take off your head with your own hands; love is not effortless.”

“Love is not effortless; it is not like eating sugar.
Counterfeit lovers get beaten with shoes in the marketplace.”

Devotion is no sweetmeat. Yes, it is very sweet; but not cheap like candy. You have to buy it by losing yourself. The price is that high. Lose yourself and you receive it. It isn’t cheap sugar to dissolve and drink. It is life’s supreme nectar—amrita. It is not granted without paying the price.

“Love is not effortless; it is not like eating sugar.
Counterfeit lovers get beaten with shoes in the marketplace.”

And be careful—don’t become a fake lover. Many in the world become fake lovers. Fake love is very simple. There is no difficulty in it because it is only a covering, an act. You change nothing inside; you just put on a costume. Fake love means the ego is intact, and you begin claiming egolessness; there is no surrender, and you say, “Dust of your feet.” You bow the body while inside you stand stiff. If you indulge in fake love—which is easy—that is the charm of falsehood: it’s easy. Hence such temptation in the false.

That’s why people fall into the web of lies—because lies are easy. Truth seems difficult. Truth demands a price; the lie asks for none. The lie says, “Take whatever you like from me, I ask no price; I am with you.” Truth says, “Take what you will, but pay my price.” Yet when you pay the price of truth, you receive something in return. To the lie you pay no price—but you receive nothing, and after speaking the lie you will have to pay a thousand kinds of prices. Lie, and you get trapped. You will pay—and gain nothing. The trick of the lie is: “No cost at all, I come free! The Ganges is flowing by, wash your hands! Why do you stand there? I ask nothing—just accept me. I’ll even be grateful to you. And I’m so easy—the river flows right in front of you—why not wash?”

You too think: “Since there’s nothing to pay, why not take it?” Take it—and you’ll be caught. Caught like a fish snared by dough hiding a hook. The fish comes for the dough. When the angler drops his line into the riverbank, he’s not feeding the fish dough, he’s feeding it a hook. No fish is so foolish as to swallow a bare hook. So the hook must be hidden in dough. The fish will swallow the dough and in fact swallow the hook. It will think, “I’m getting dough,” and get the barb.

Such is the lie. “You won’t have to spend a thing. Nothing of yours is at stake. No turmeric, no alum—yet the color will turn brilliant. I’m free, take me!”

You take it—and later you pay dearly. You pay across births. Because to protect one lie you must tell a second; to protect the second, a third. A chain is forged. And as the queue of lies lengthens, the noose tightens. You’re entangled on all sides. And to protect what you’ve already said you must say more—and remember, lies cannot be protected with truth; they can be protected only by further lies. In fact, small lies are protected by larger lies. Tell one little lie, and within a month you’ll find yourself telling bigger ones. To protect that little lie you had to build a bigger house, then bigger. Slowly you’ll find your whole life’s arrangement has become a lie; you have become untrue. And when you become untrue, you’re lost—you’ve paid the price without receiving anything. Your wealth is gone and your hands are empty. Understand this.

The lie says, “There will be no expense—take me for free, I come as a gift.”

Truth says, “The expense is great; you will have to pay with yourself. I do not come free. But if you pay the price of truth, truth is surely attained.” This is the paradox.

The lie is crafty; it tempts. Truth is straight, clear: “This is the price. For less, it won’t be.”

“Counterfeit love, and you’ll be thrashed by the world.”

Even in this world you’ll get a beating if you love falsely. What does “beating with shoes” mean? Even in this life you will know only sorrow. If your love is false here, there will be no current of sweetness flowing in your life; no flowers will bloom. No koel will call in your courtyard. No veena will sound. Your life will be a life of darkness where the sun never rises. In this world and the other, you’ll be beaten. For if you can’t love here—ordinary men and women—how will you love God?

Ordinary love does not demand the whole ego. It asks only a little humility, a slight bowing. No wife demands your entire soul; nor any husband, friend, son, mother, father. They cannot.

In this world, bend a little and your bowl will fill with sweetness. Bend a little; sweetness fills—and then the taste of bending grows. Bend more; more sweetness fills. Then the sutra dawns: if you fully bend, you’ll be filled with fullness; tastelessness ends. The desert of your life will be gone, and you’ll become a garden. Dry, barren days will pass; days of rain will come. Greenery will arrive, flowers will bloom.

From this art of bending—little by little—one slowly understands the formula of prayer: the art of bending completely. But here too we cheat.

Reflect. Do you truly love those you say you love? Have you ever thought what love means? Have you ever truly bowed? Have you melted before anyone? Or do you remain stiff? If you remain stiff, you will remain empty. You will dry up. Your life’s music will never manifest. You will, without doubt, harvest sorrow, pain, thorns—live in hell.

Where there is no love, there is hell. The absence of love is hell. And if you’ve cheated here—cheated at home—remember, being a cheat, you will cheat in the temple too. If you’ve never loved your wife or husband—if there too you’ve been a fraud, saying, showing, pretending, but never doing—because doing costs something. You exploit each other and call it love. You try to enslave one another and call it love. You sit on each other’s chests and call it love. You become gallows for each other and call it love. You destroy each other’s freedom, you turn each other’s life into a prison—and call it love. Then with this same language of love you one day go to the temple, and bow your head there too. But even there the real head does not bow. There too the play-acting continues.

Have you noticed? If you go to a temple and you’re alone, the worship ends quickly—the prayer finishes quickly; if no one is watching, what’s the point? There’s no prayer to God happening anyway. But on the day of a festival when crowds come, the aarti goes on longer. That day you sing the prayer with great emotion, eyes filled with tears—all plastic tears. That day you’re performing for people.

I’ve heard: the Queen of England went to church on her birthday, as she did each year. There was a huge crowd; thousands had come. The queen said to the chief priest, “People still have faith in religion—so many have come!” The priest laughed and said, “Majesty, try coming without warning. No one comes. They’ve come to see you. They have nothing to do with God.”

Even when people go to the temple, they go with motives. Not with a naked heart. Yes, when there’s a need they go—wife is ill, son is sick—so they pray. But there’s always a motive. Can religion be born out of motive? Can truth be born out of self-interest? Can love arise from a purpose? Love is unconditional.

So you lie here too—and slowly the same lie colors your prayers. Naturally. What you do in the marketplace is what you will do in the temple. You are the same you. Do you think that when you leave the bazaar, take off your shoes, wash your hands and feet at the temple door, you suddenly change? How will you change? You flow unbroken. You are the same.

The Ganges descends from the mountain; when it flows past Kashi it doesn’t suddenly become holy—and then become unholy after leaving Kashi’s ghats. Either it was holy from the beginning, or it never becomes holy. In life nothing happens suddenly, accidentally, causelessly. There are chains.

You have come here, haven’t you? Within you your entire marketplace has come, your home, your relationships, your past—it has all sat down within you. As you have lived, so will you listen to me. Naturally.

So whoever has lied in love—Paltu says it plainly—saints don’t bother with polite niceties and formalities; they say it straight:

“Love is not effortless; it is not like eating sugar.
Counterfeit lovers get beaten with shoes in the marketplace.”

If you want to be beaten, then go on and love falsely. You’ll get thrashed here and there. You’ll suffer in this world and in the next. You will not find joy.

At least let one thing be true—let love be true!

“Die while yet alive; make no hope of the body.
The lover’s dwelling, day and night, is on the gallows.”

“Die while yet alive...”

Everyone dies. No one escapes death. Then what is the difference between the lover, the devotee, and the ordinary worldly man? The worldly man dies out of compulsion. He is killed; he dies when death drags him away.

Read the worldly myths about death—you will understand. Your Puranas were not written by the wise: what they write is born of ignorance. They say when death comes, the lord of death sends a black, terrifying messenger riding a buffalo. The wise have seen God himself in death—not some dark demon on a buffalo. The buffalo-rider death you imagine is born of your cravings. You feel death is an enemy. So you color the enemy black, mount him on a buffalo. You don’t know death as a guest; you relate as to a foe, coming to snatch you from life by force. You cling to this shore with all your might. You won’t let go—not to your last breath. You hold the body, attachment, illusion. Because your vision is to clutch, death seems to be coming to pry your fingers loose. But one who has already let go—“die while yet alive”—one who died at the feet of God before death arrived, who made his being a zero, who said, “Now I am not; only You are”—for him death does not come as Yama’s demon on a buffalo. Even death’s face is lovely. It too is a portrait of the Divine. He sends it. He is the one who one day brings and then takes away. But this is possible only when in death you can see the Divine—when death is filled, like samadhi, with bliss—only when you die while living.

This is the difference between a devotee and a worldly man. Both die. The worldly dies unwillingly, reluctantly; he is killed. The worldly is murdered. The devotee dies by death; he dies of his own accord. He says: “What will be snatched anyway, why not give it myself? If it’s anyway going to leave me, why cling? Why this needless struggle to hold? What will anyway be taken—why not taste the joy of giving? Why not lay it at the Beloved’s feet first, so that when you come and take it, I won’t miss the chance to offer it to you?”

“Die while yet alive; make no hope of the body.”

If you hope in the body, how will you die while living? Then you will cling. Even when death comes, you’ll try to push it back: “Wait a while.” You’ll set doctors to fight the messengers of death: “Hold the buffalo back, let me live a bit more.” Many patients who are in fact dead are kept alive by force. They hang in hospitals; their legs tied every which way. Oxygen is being pumped, glucose drips. No consciousness. They are suspended for months.

In America there is much debate: What to do? Some hang on like this for months, years. Should we let them die, or keep trying to save them? Doctors say, “Saving them has no meaning. They are as good as dead. We are just pushing Yama back—placing an oxygen cylinder between, glucose and a long row of medicines, so Yama with his buffalo can’t enter. Do we sustain them, or let them die? For they are neither alive nor dead.”

Such is man’s attachment to life... so much hope in the body... “Just a little longer. One more day. Even a day is fine; even an hour more.”

If, at the moment of death, you were asked, “If you had one more day to live, what would you say?” You’d say, “That would be wonderful—let me live a day!” And all these days you’ve wasted, having never found anything—what will you do with one more day?

Do the truths of life ever dawn on you?

A devotee is one who sees that nothing of worth is found here—needless pushing and shoving. We’re tossed from here to there, and nothing is gained. No destination arrives. Then: “Let me lay this life down with my own hands.”

“Die while yet alive; make no hope of the body.
The lover’s dwelling, day and night, is on the gallows.”

The lover is the one who says, “When you call—this very moment I am ready. Not a moment’s delay. I won’t even ask for time to pack my bedding; I’ve kept it ready.”

Every night, when a devotee goes to sleep, he lies down saying, “If you lift me tonight, I’m ready.” In the morning, when he wakes, he is surprised: “Even today you didn’t lift me. Well then, if you let me live this day, I’ll live.” Each morning is new—and each evening he goes to sleep thinking, “The last night has come.” For such a one, day and night the dwelling is on the gallows. He turns the gallows into a throne.

And this is life’s highest art: the cross becomes a throne. Usually we practice the opposite art: we turn thrones into crosses.

Look: those on thrones look crucified. They sit atop piles of wealth—and life is only a wound. They sit on lofty thrones of office, but their condition is miserable. Because from all sides someone is pulling at them, someone is tugging their leg, someone shoving. Others too want that same throne. It becomes a cross. Only upon reaching office do people realize it; before that they don’t. They fought all life to reach the throne; upon reaching, another fight starts—to not fall off. Enemies pull, friends too—because friends also want to sit there.

The one seated on the throne hangs on a cross. That is the worldly condition. But the devotee’s condition is the reverse. He knows an art: he climbs the cross and it becomes a throne. For one who has embraced death, sorrow vanishes from this world. Death vanishes. Accept death and you have drunk the nectar of immortality.

“Die while yet alive; make no hope of the body.
The lover’s dwelling, day and night, is on the gallows.”

He has only one tune. Only one remembrance. Within him runs one mention, one memory, one unbroken mindfulness.

“In every word of mine the fever of my inner wound throbs,
In every breath, O cupbearer, there rises the smoke of love.”

In every word of mine my inner fire flashes forth—the fire of love. The day and night call to meet the Divine burns within. He says, “If it is through death’s door that I meet You, then let it be that door; wherever You meet me, I am willing to pass there.”

“In every word of mine the fever of my inner wound throbs,
In every breath, O cupbearer, there rises the smoke of love.”

And in his every breath there is only one mention: love, love! Only the notes of love arise in him.

“Love is an unending heat.
It has no morning, no evening.”

Love is a perpetual fire, a yajna, a sacrificial flame that never goes out—ever burning. It has no morning, no evening.

The devotee slowly loses track of when youth came and went; when old age came and went; when life came and when death came—he knows nothing of that. Only one tune remains. Within him a single-stringed ektara hums—the love of the Lord. If life meets him, life; if death meets him, death. Joy meets him, joy; sorrow meets him, sorrow. He has no other choice.

“He loses honor and status; he cannot sleep a wink.
Not a drop of blood or flesh left—yet the lover does not lament.”

The body may dry up, bones remain—he does not notice. So long as the remembrance of the Lord continues inside, that is his life, his sole hope.

“He loses honor and status...”

He loses all honor and prestige. When the ego has been placed at the feet, what worry remains?

Meera said: “I have lost concern for what people say.” Meera, of a royal house, a queen of Mewar! She must never have even stepped outside her veil; no one would have seen her face. And then she danced in the streets like a madwoman. “I have lost concern for what people say.” Everything was placed at his feet—what worry remains? Let Him worry now.

“He loses honor and status; he cannot sleep a wink.”

Where is sleep for a devotee? The body may sleep; but inside the rhythm of Ram continues. The body lies in slumber—if it is tired, it sleeps—but inside the devotee’s awareness does not tire. The stream there flows without stop.

It happened: Swami Ramtirtha returned from America. Sardar Puran Singh, his devotee, stayed with him in the Himalayas. One night Puran Singh could not sleep—some worry, perhaps. Usually he slept and missed a certain miracle. That night, awake, he was astonished. The bungalow was alone on the mountain; no one came near. Night—no one could come. Only Ram Tirtha and Puran Singh were in the house. And he heard someone chanting “Ram, Ram”—a continuous hum. He got up, walked the verandah, looked outside—no one. When he went outside, the sound diminished; when he came inside, it grew. He became more curious. “Could Swami Ramtirtha be chanting?” He went near—the sound grew louder. He saw: Ram Tirtha was sleeping, deep. Where was the sound coming from? He went near his head, his feet, his hands, pressed his ear to the body—and realized: every hair on his body was saying “Ram, Ram”!

Such a thing is possible. If the plunge into remembrance is so deep that you do not forget, then even in your unconscious the echo goes on. This happens to you too, without your noticing. Fall asleep thinking of money—you dream of money. The mind expands at night what it did in the day. You mutter in your sleep; your muttering betrays what occupied your day. Someone starts quarreling in sleep, cursing—this happens often.

So the other thing can happen too: if one remembers God twenty-four hours without break, the remembrance becomes so deep that even when the body sleeps, inside the echo remains.

There are four levels of mantra, of remembrance. One: using the lips—you say “Ram.” This is with the body—the shallowest level. But one must begin here; beginnings are from the shallow. Then the lips are still, and you say “Ram” within—only in the mind. This is a little deeper. But even in the mind you are still saying—you are using the mind’s instrument. Before it was the body’s instrument; now the mind’s. Then you drop that too. You don’t say “Ram”; you let “Ram” arise by itself. You sit silently. One who has chanted much—first with the lips, then with the mind—if he sits quietly, suddenly he finds someone within is chanting: “Ram, Ram, Ram!” He is not saying it. There is no volition. Someone chants, you become the listener. This is the third level. Then there is a fourth: when “Ram” blossoms like a flower and your entire mechanism—body, mind, life—resonates in that one tone.

In some such state Puran Singh must have heard the remembrance in sleep.

“He loses honor and status; he cannot sleep a wink.
Not a drop of blood or flesh left—yet the lover does not lament.”

The lover does not complain—even if there is not a drop of blood and flesh left. The lover does not know complaint; he only knows gratitude. Not even by mistake does complaint arise within. “As it is, so it should be.” It is all right as it is—suchness. Even in pain and hurt he says: “Blessed am I—today it is much less than yesterday!” He finds a way to thank.

“The charm of their favors is enough magic for me—
Far less than before is the heart’s ache tonight.”

Isn’t the magic of their grace enough? This much of their favor is plenty.

“Far less than before is the heart’s ache tonight.”

Less pain than before—thank you.

Even in sorrow and pain, he finds some thread of joy. You are the opposite. Even if you receive happiness, you manage to find a reason to complain. “Yes, the rose is fine—but so many thorns; what about them? Yes, sometimes light comes—but a day sits between two nights; what about that?”

You escape complaint never—even when joy comes, complaint stands by it like a flood.

“Lover” means: now what complaint? Of the one you love, can there be wrong? The lover cannot conceive of wrong. Even sorrow is sweet.

“Not a drop of blood or flesh left—yet the lover does not lament.
He loses honor and status; he cannot sleep a wink.”

Do not go to the temple carrying your tales of woe. Don’t go to mosque or gurdwara with complaints, or you will not have gone at all. If all you have is complaint, don’t go. Go the day there is no complaint—the day a unique gratitude rises, a “Ah, how wondrous!” swells, a deep thankfulness floods your heart. Go then. Only then will you arrive.

“Paltu says: they are great fools who set out to be lovers.
Take off your head with your own hands; love is not effortless.”

A wondrous utterance! Paltu says: Hear it straight. Falling in love is the work of madmen, of fools—because you have to lose yourself. If you are clever, don’t come this way. This is not a place for the cunning and calculating.

“Paltu says: they are great fools who set out to be lovers.”

Those who are completely foolish, naïve, simple, innocent, childlike, mad—who don’t have their wits, who don’t grasp the world’s arithmetic—this path is for them.

“Paltu says: they are great fools who set out to be lovers.”

Only the mad walk on love’s road. It is the path of guileless, stainless hearts. The clever and crafty, skilled in calculation and trade—this isn’t their path. They say: “If I lose myself, what’s the point in gaining?” If “I” remains and something is gained, it has value.

An emperor came to Buddha: “You say become zero. What kind of talk is that? If I become zero, what’s the point? If I myself am not, what will I do with liberation, with nirvana? If I am not, then at least in the world I am!”

This is worldly math.

The emperor doesn’t know there is another arithmetic—the great arithmetic. Becoming zero doesn’t mean you are annihilated; it means you become still. It means the disturbance within ends. The ego is disturbance—crowd, clamor, restlessness, stress, anguish. The “I” within you is a storm. Like a sea under a gale: high waves rising. When the waves subside, the sea doesn’t vanish. When the waves subside, the sea can be at peace, settled in itself, at home.

This “I” of yours is not your true being.

Hence the devotee says: “Take off your head with your own hands; love is not effortless.” Put down the head—for it is only a burden. This head is a load.

“Paltu says: they are great fools who set out to be lovers.”

Mad are those who choose to be lovers. Only the mad should come this way. Paltu warns at the outset: this is the path of madmen.

“Take off your head with your own hands; love is not effortless.”

If you are ready to vanish, walk in this direction. If you are ready to be lost, take this path. Only if you are ready to throw yourself away does the door of devotion open.

Speak one note!

Like something arriving in life
and circling away,
life awakening
in a helpless resolve,
like a far-off beckoning,
like jasmine coming into bloom—
speak one note,
only one single note!

A million paths awaken,
a million lamps are lit,
that clear and fiery flame
wicked with love’s oil.
The burning has arrived,
turning life into an offering.
The gods rejoice,
and it becomes aarti.
Part your lips a little—
speak one single note!

Your life becomes aarti only when you ignite, when you blaze up.

A million paths awaken,
a million lamps are lit,
that clear and fiery flame
wicked with love’s oil.
The burning has arrived,
turning life into an offering.
The gods rejoice,
and it becomes aarti!

Not only you rejoice when you are lost; the whole cosmos rejoices. The birth of a devotee is an occasion of unique joy for all existence.

“The gods rejoice!”

The entire creation, all the gods, become filled with bliss when some brave one sets his head aside.

“This is the house of love; it is not your auntie’s house.”

This is not your aunt’s parlor where you drop in for comfort, where nothing is demanded, where you are a pampered guest.

“This is the house of love; it is not your auntie’s house.”

This is no family favor, no hospitality. This is the house of love—here you must come to be erased.

“Not your auntie’s house—set your head down outside.”

It has a condition—and a strange one: leave your head at the door. If you bring your head into the temple, you never came. Leave your head on the steps—only then you have come.

“Even if hands and feet are cut off, the saint raises no complaint.
This is not your auntie’s house—set your head down outside.
Even if hands and feet are cut off, the saint raises no protest.”

Let all be erased; let your head be severed; hands and feet cut off—what remains?

Understand a little. “Head” means thinking, thought—that endless stream of ideation running in your skull must cease. What are hands and feet? The itch to do something—“Let me do, let me accomplish, let me become.” Hands and feet—your action and your motion. The sense of doership resides in your hands. Your life’s rush, your race to become—resides in your feet. And in your head, the schemes—how to become, what to become, what plan to lay, what arithmetic to fix? That’s all you are. What do you think about? How to increase wealth? How to expand the house? How to raise prestige? This is what you think, this is what you do.

The saint is one whose head is cut off—hands and feet, too. The saint is one in whom the sense of doership disappears. There is only one Doer—God. The acting One! Only One is the doer. We, vainly, pretend to be doers.

“Even if hands and feet are cut off, the saint raises no complaint.”

All vanishes; the race to be dissolves; nothing remains—emptiness. Yet no moan is born, no groan, no refusal. Whatever is, the saint accepts; he does not refuse. He says, “Thy will be done—exactly thus.”

“Let the heart remain or not, let the wounds heal or not—
I refuse to flatter the healers.”

Let the heart remain or not; let me live or die; let life remain or not—Let the wounds heal or not, I will not flatter the physicians. I will not go begging for medicines to keep life going; I will not seek balms for my wounds.

“Let the day remain or not, let the wounds heal or not—
I refuse to flatter the healers.”

One who has found the final Healer—the true Physician, God—finds even his wounds turn into lotus blossoms.

“The more the wounds, the swifter the steps:
A hero goes to war—and never returns alive.”

I’m telling you a reverse arithmetic: the more wounds, the quicker the devotee runs toward God, the faster he moves. The more the wounds! You’ll say, “Mad?” Paltu has already admitted it.

“Paltu says: they are great fools who set out to be lovers.
Take off your head with your own hands; love is not effortless.”

Paltu has accepted: we are mad, we speak to madmen, and only madmen can walk this road. The clever have work in the world. Let the clever pile up wealth, build houses, expand families. Let the clever gather everything—and die one day, empty-handed. The mad squander everything—and gain all. Mad like gamblers; not shopkeepers.

“The more the wounds, the swifter the steps.”

What kind of saying is this—that as the wounds increase the steps grow quicker? Because every wound is proof of His grace. Each wound says: He has begun to purify you. Each wound says: He has started to erase you. Each wound says: He has set your inner rubbish on fire. Every wound gives birth to a new thank you.

“The more the wounds, the swifter the steps.
A hero goes to war—and never returns alive.”

Like a warrior who goes to war—he goes having burned his bridges. He does not go with plans to return. He doesn’t keep a return ticket. He goes—and he is gone.

The devotee has no feeling of returning to the world. If God erases, wounds—so be it. But worldly prestige—even that is not acceptable.

“A hero goes to war—and never returns alive.”

This battle between devotee and God is of a different kind. In worldly wars, even a brave man sometimes returns—he returns victorious. He never returns defeated—he dies first. But if he wins, he returns. In this struggle between God and the devotee, the devotee never returns—he cannot. Gone is gone, like a river that enters the ocean and loses herself; she never comes back.

“A hero goes to war—and never returns alive.
Paltu says: in such a house only great men enter.
This is the house of love; it is not your auntie’s house.”

Therefore Paltu says: Be mad, then come; be man enough, then come. Have the courage to embrace death—then come. “Only great men enter!” Generally you think devotion is for the weak. You think it’s for the lazy. Those who can’t manage life, whose grip on life is weak, those who are defeated—they pray in temples. This is the business of the feeble.

No. There is no greater courage than devotion, because you must put your whole self at stake. There is no path back. The moth that flies into this fire burns.

“In this world, only they are the brave
who have forged themselves—
and only they are the truly wise, unfathomably deep,
who have read themselves with their own eyes.”

Devotion is the process of forging the Divine within you. Devotion is the process of reading the supreme scripture hidden within you. This is the work of the daring. The weak live on loans—reading others’ books, never reading the book within. They accept what others say about God; they never go to see for themselves. “See the river—then know.” Only after seeing should you know. And then whatever must be staked, be staked.

“A hero goes to war—and never returns alive.
The more the wounds, the swifter the steps.
Paltu says: in such a house, only great men enter.”

This house of God, this temple of the Supreme, is for the brave, the audacious.

“This is the house of love; it is not your auntie’s house.”

“Take me into midstream; why skirt the shore?
Pay me no mind—I am drunk on storms.”

The devotee says: Why hug the shore with the boat?

“Take me into midstream; why skirt the shore?”

What kind of traveling is this—caution, cleverness, arithmetic, accounts? To be bound by calculations—is that traveling?

“Take me into midstream; why skirt the shore?
Pay me no mind—I am drunk on storms.”

One who has shown readiness to face the storm of God—after that, all storms are small. Now the boat can be taken into midstream. Now even drowning is delightful. Now drowning is the delight.

“Auspicious hours and dates are false; they only spoil the work.”

Paltu says beautiful things. He says: For love, don’t consult auspicious dates and hours. Don’t go to an astrologer to ask when to love, when to pray—at Brahma-muhurta, at night, at dusk? Which priest to call? What ritual to do? Which method? Don’t get entangled in method.

Love’s only method is: “Take off your head with your own hands; love is not effortless!” Only one method: “Paltu says: great fools they who set out to be lovers!” You need readiness to go mad. No other method.

“Auspicious hours and dates are false...”

Don’t get caught in priests’ circles. Devotion has nothing to do with it. You think if you get a Satyanarayan story performed, you become a devotee. These are tricks. You plan to cheat even God? Remember: “Counterfeit love—and you get a beating.”

Is there any lagna-muhurta? Any method?

“Auspicious hours and dates are false; they only spoil the work.
Don’t bother to search for lucky moments.”

The one who is stuck in auspicious times—“Let me see a good hour, follow scriptures, rituals, how to worship”—one who remains stuck in all this never descends into love’s madness.

When Ramakrishna was a priest, sometimes he performed worship and sometimes he didn’t. Sometimes when he performed, it would go on all day. Sometimes he’d be finished in two minutes. And before offering the food to Kali, he would taste it himself. Complaints arose. The temple committee called him: “What kind of worship is this? Some days it goes on all day; then for two or three days the temple is closed. Sometimes you’re done in two minutes. And we’ve heard that you taste the offering before giving it to God—standing right there in the shrine! This is all wrong.”

Ramakrishna said: “Then take back your worship. I cannot do it your way. When my mother cooked, she tasted first, then gave to me. I cannot give without tasting; how would I know if it is fit to offer? If I taste and find it delicious, worthy—then I offer.”

Now this is something else—exactly against the scripture. First offer to God, then have your share. Ramakrishna first offered to himself. But his point has force. He said: “When the heart sits, what count is hours and minutes? When the heart sits, it sits. If it runs all day, it runs all day. Is this a school that you ring a bell to start and ring a bell to close?”

I had a professor in university—a real teacher. No one enrolled in his course for years. When I went to his class, he said, “Look, for three or four years no student has come. The trouble is, I can start on the hour, but I cannot end on the hour. When the bell rings at eleven, I start. But at eleven-forty I cannot finish. Until my talk is complete, I don’t end. Sometimes it takes two hours, sometimes three. Sometimes the point ends in five or ten minutes. There’s no knowing the end. So students are afraid to come. You are coming—fine. If you get jittery, slip out quietly—don’t interrupt me. Come back if you like.” He was extraordinary. It was like that. I was the only student. Sometimes I would leave; he would keep speaking. I would return; he’d be happy. Sometimes I’d fall asleep; he’d wake me when he finished: “Now, get up.”

Ramakrishna said, there can be no timetable for worship. Sometimes it sits; sometimes it doesn’t. If heart meets heart, it flows. If it doesn’t, what can you do? “Counterfeit love gets you thrashed.” How can I do fake worship? If it isn’t happening, my heart won’t rise. And sometimes I get angry at God—how can I worship then? When I’m angry, I lock the temple: “Let it be closed—now you will repent. I won’t come.” Then I realize this isn’t right and go to make up.

So he said: “If you wish, remove me—but my worship will go like this, because this is worship.”

“Auspicious hours and dates are false; they only spoil the work.
They only spoil it—don’t hunt for lucky times.
Have not a single trust—you think your skill will do it?”

You are worrying over a world of rituals, and inside you ignore the essential: “You have no trust—how will anything go well?” You have arranged everything for the wedding—band and brass, the wedding party gathered—and you forgot the groom! When it’s time for the procession to start, you’ll remember: there’s no groom. The essential is one thing; a wedding is not made of wedding guests—it needs the groom. Trust!

“Have not a single trust—how will anything go well?
In whose hands lies all well-being, you have forgotten Him.
You rely on your own cleverness—and in the middle, act the fool.”

“In whose hands lies all well-being...”

The One in whose hands all welfare rests—you’ve forgotten Him. And you’re caught up with priests, astrologers, rituals, calculations.

“In whose hands lies all well-being, you have forgotten Him.
You rely on your own cleverness—and in the middle, act the fool.”

You are very foolish—applying your cleverness.

The clever do not reach God. Their cleverness becomes the obstacle. There, simple, innocent hearts are needed.

“Paltu says: they are great fools who set out to be lovers.
Take off your head with your own hands; love is not effortless.”

“Not a straw breaks without the Master’s grace.
Wake up, O clod—this world is a false body.”

“Not even a straw breaks without the true Master’s grace.” Without the Master’s compassion, not even a straw is bent. “Wake up, you dullard—this world is a false mirage.” This whole world is a spread of falsehood. Wake up even now. How much longer will you sleep?

“All the crystal palaces of dreams were shattered again.
As evening began to fall, even our shadows slipped away.”

Soon the time will come; death will draw near. Even your shadow recedes—what to say of others! The world is a false body.

“All the crystal palaces of dreams were shattered again.”

How many times has this not happened? How many births, how many deaths? How many times have your dream-palaces shattered?

“All the crystal palaces of dreams were shattered again.
As evening began to fall, even our shadows slipped away.”

Before evening falls, awaken! Wake up even now, you dullard!

“The sun went down; sadness spread.
Dusky evening descended all at once.
Paths once open—why did they halt?
Why did the gaze bend toward the earth?
The eye struck against a black thread—
dusky evening descended all at once.

The earth is absent-minded, the sky absent-minded,
as if a dream were left half-made.
Many slate-colored clouds gathered—
dusky evening descended all at once.

The sun’s last rays slipped from the head;
the water-mirror broke in the same place—
the image shattered as it shattered—
dusky evening descended all at once.”

Morning came; evening will come. Morning and evening arrive together. With morning, evening begins. Before dusky evening descends, before night tightens—death and darkness—and before your hands have nothing left to do, and what you built and guarded all your life is torn away—before that, learn the art of giving. Learn the art of surrender.

“Not a straw breaks without the Master’s grace.”

This is the meaning of the sutra. “I can do something”—this is the worldly vision. You come into religion and still say, “I can do something”—the same old stiffness. In the realm of religion you must say, “I have not been able to do a thing. With this ‘I,’ nothing happens.”

Lay this “I” at the Master’s feet. Say, “Now whatever You wish, do.”

“Master” means: you have not seen God, not met Him. Meet the one you can meet—lay it at his feet. If you can’t meet the king, meet the prime minister. If you can’t meet the minister, meet the gatekeeper. Even with the gatekeeper a connection begins. You have no standing; the gatekeeper has some.

“Master” simply means: befriend one who has met. Through this friendship, you too will be connected.

“Not a straw breaks without the Master’s grace.
Wake up, O clod—this world is a false body.”

“Paltu says: the good day, the good hour is when the Name remembers you.
Auspicious dates and hours are all false; they only spoil the work.”

Paltu says:

“Paltu says: the good day, the good hour is when the Name remembers you.”

When the Beloved’s remembrance arises—that is the auspicious hour. If it comes at midnight—Brahma-muhurta. If it comes at high noon—Brahma-muhurta. Brahma-muhurta means: the moment the remembrance of the Divine dawns.

“Paltu says: the good day, the good hour is when the Name remembers you.”

When His memory shakes you; when His call begins to pull you; when His love binds you with a cord; when remembrance stirs within; when a small sprout of Him breaks through—call it prayer, call it meditation, mindfulness, Word, Name—call it whatever you wish. When it becomes clear to you that the world is futile, that you must go beyond, that it’s been too long, time to go home. When the Master’s memory arises, when the Lord comes to mind—

“Paltu says: the good day, the good hour is when the Name remembers you.”

Whenever the Name remembers you—that moment is auspicious, that day is blessed. Then don’t ask priest or astrologer. Why ask anyone? All twenty-four hours are auspicious, but they are becoming inauspicious because they are not connected to Him. Every moment is auspicious, but it is going to waste because it isn’t joined to the Divine. The instant you connect, the bridge goes up; revolution begins. In that instant you are no longer you; you are glorified. Here you vanish—and glory arrives.

“Paltu says: the good day, the good hour is when the Name remembers you.
Auspicious dates and hours are all false; they only spoil the work.”

Don’t get entangled in method. Love has no method, no ritual. Love is the business of madmen, the work of the possessed. Love is a matter of the heart, not of thought. Methods are for the head. Love is the heart’s affair. That’s why the first condition is to set the head aside.

These sutras are the complete scripture of love. Let them sit in your heart. If even a little of their fragrance enters your life, you will be filled with incomparable joy.

There is only one joy in life: the joy of meeting God. All other joys that sometimes seem like joy are, knowingly or not, because of Him. Morning comes: the sun rises; the east blushes; birds sing; breezes are fragrant and cool—you rise, rested from the night, and see the rising sun and say, “How beautiful!” The moment is blessed. But that beauty of the sun is His beauty. It is a piece of His picture. It is one of His limbs. You saw the Himalayas’ soaring peaks, virgin snow where no one has walked, sunlight glittering on them—silver spread, gold on the mountains—you were stunned into silence. Thought stopped for an instant. You had never seen such a thing. This incomparable vision left you wonderstruck. You said: “So beautiful, so lovely!” Again, you saw God—His shadow on the mountain.

Or sitting by the sea, seeing the rising waves, that tumultuous sound, that vast expanse—you fell quiet; your small mind hushed. “So beautiful!” Great joy. Again, a glimpse of Him.

Or looking into someone’s eyes, holding someone’s hand, a little stream of love flowed—and you said, “Such a beautiful person, so dear. I have found the one my heart sought.” Again, He arrived. Another fragment of Him.

These are small fragments. They can’t be experienced long. These are glimpses—as the moon glimmers in a lake. Beautiful, yes; the gleam is of the true moon—but it is still a reflection.

Stand before a mirror and your face forms there; you say, “Beautiful.” But the face in the mirror, though a true copy, is not the truth. The gleam is of the true—but the gleam is not the truth. It is momentary—comes and goes.

Every day such moments arise in your life when a glimpse of God peeks in, a remembering comes. These small, momentary happinesses are His, too. But they will come and go. Slowly, when you understand that all joy is His, all bliss is His, then you won’t seek in fragments; you’ll seek the Whole. You won’t be content with pieces; you’ll say, “Now the whole.”

And the Whole is attainable. The Whole has been attained. “I have found the treasure of Rama’s jewel!” The Whole is attained. But it is given only to those ready to lose wholly. To gain the Whole, you must pay with the whole.

Let me repeat these sutras:

“Take off your head with your own hands; love is not effortless.
Love is not effortless; it is not like eating sugar.
Counterfeit lovers get beaten with shoes in the marketplace.
Die while yet alive; make no hope of the body.
The lover’s dwelling, day and night, is on the gallows.
He loses honor and status; he cannot sleep a wink.
Not a drop of blood or flesh left—yet the lover does not lament.
Paltu says: they are great fools who set out to be lovers.
Take off your head with your own hands; love is not effortless.
This is the house of love; it is not your auntie’s house.
It is not your auntie’s house—set your head down outside.
Even if hands and feet are cut off, the saint raises no complaint.
The more the wounds, the swifter the steps.
A hero goes to war—and never returns alive.
Paltu says: in such a house only great men enter.
This is the house of love; it is not your auntie’s house.
Auspicious hours and dates are false; they only spoil the work.
They only spoil it—don’t hunt for lucky times.
Have not a single trust—how will anything go well?
In whose hands lies all well-being, you have forgotten Him.
You rely on your own cleverness—and in the middle, act the fool.
Not a straw breaks without the Master’s grace.
Wake up, O clod—this world is a false body.
Paltu says: the good day, the good hour is when the Name remembers you.
Auspicious dates and hours are all false; they only spoil the work.”

That’s enough for today.