Ajhun Chet Ganwar #9

Where is the lord of fragrance here?
Only fragrance has spread everywhere.
It has floated in on the ripples of the wind.
It won’t sit tight inside the casket of fruit,
won’t be bound within any fence of limits—
it has measured the far-flung open sky.
Where is the lord of fragrance here? Only fragrance has spread.

What beauty you see in this world is not the Real Beauty—it is only a glimpse of it.
What love you find here is not the Real Love—it is only love’s reflection.
What celebration is happening here is not the Real Festival—it is only an echo of celebration.

Where is the lord of fragrance here?
Only fragrance has spread;
it has floated in on the ripples of the wind.

The king of all fragrances is far away; yet his aroma, riding the winds, has drifted even here. Even matter carries a reflection of the Divine. Even the world has a subtle scent of Him. To catch hold of this fragrance and move toward the Beloved of all—that is what devotion is.

Whoever has learned the lesson of love in the world has made true use of the world. This is a school—a primary school—where we learn the ABC of life’s supreme treasure. Love for the beloved, for the lover, for a friend, a son, a father, a mother, a brother, a sister—these are all lessons. They speak of a far horizon. Whoever learns these lessons well, in his life the love of God is born. And until that love is born, a person remains thirsty. The loves of this world only stir the thirst, inflame it; they do not quench it. They raise the flames all the more. Hunger grows clearer. The craving deepens. Discontent awakens. That is why the more of this world’s water you drink, the thirst grows more.

There is a mention in Jesus’ life: he had come on a journey. He halted outside a village and asked a water-carrier drawing from a well for something to drink. She looked at Jesus and said, “I am of a low caste, perhaps you don’t know. Will you drink water from my hands?”

Jesus laughed and said, “Do not worry. Give me water. Your water will quench my thirst for a little while—this is just my pretext to relate to you. If you give me water, I will give you a water that quenches thirst forever. I have come to your well so that you may come to mine. Coming to your watering-place has its purpose—that I may invite you to mine.”

That woman looked into Jesus’ eyes. There was supreme contentment there. There was an incomparable radiance there. In the air around Jesus there was grace. She ran back to the village and told everyone, “Come, all of you! For the first time I have seen someone in whom God is shining. For the first time the presence of a man has given me proof of God. And he didn’t speak a single word about God. He only said: The one who drinks from my well—his thirst is quenched forever.”

Without drinking God, thirst is never quenched forever. Go on drinking the world—drink and drink, for births upon births—thirst may seem quenched for a moment, but then it returns. One thirst leads to another; one craving to the next. One desire gives birth to another. Drink God—and all thirst ends.

God means ultimate fulfillment.
God means utter contentment. Beyond Him there is nothing further to attain. Hence He is called the Supreme Beloved. And devotion is the search for that Supreme Beloved.

Today’s sutras take us deeper into devotion.

Praise only that sati who is willing to burn with her beloved.
Praise only that sati…

Praise only that lover who is ready to burn with her Beloved; who truly burns.

The notion of sati is extraordinary. It was born only in this land. In its purest form it was beyond-worldly—as if something of the other world had been brought down here! What cannot happen in the fleeting, we demonstrated through sati. Later, when it became distorted, it became greatly distorted. The British rule ended the custom of sati—that was a degenerate state; the real essence of sati had already been lost. The original vision of sati is super-human; what the British banned had become inhuman.

Man is such that even the noblest, falling into his hands, sooner or later becomes soiled. Give him what is purest—it soon gathers dust. Man is such that even gold he touches turns to dirt. Thus the highest insights, when they fall into human hands, become chains, become perversions. Merit turns into sin; ethics into non-ethics; religion into irreligion. Such is the grime of man.

The vision of sati is most rare. Sati means: having loved one, then not letting that love flow elsewhere. To drown it wholly in the One. Having loved One, to forget the many. And if the many drop away, then in the one alone the vision of God begins. For the One is God.

Understand this:
The One is God; the many is the world. So long as your love wanders among many—from one to another to a third to a fourth—so long your love is a beggar. Until your love settles unwaveringly in one place, until your love has entered samadhi—dived into one alone—till then: worldliness. But if love dives into one alone, then from that one the door to God opens. A great secret lies hidden in worldly love. If only you could love one totally, even worldly love transforms into otherworldly love!

What, then, is the difference between worldly and otherworldly love? Love of the many: the world. Love of the One: the beyond. So even within the world, if you can love one alone, and pour yourself out utterly upon that one—so utterly that in that one lies your life and your death—if your beloved dies, you too are gone. You had never conceived of life apart from them, never known it; you cannot even imagine it. Without them, breath itself will not move. It moved only by them, in their company. Their heart beat, so your heart beat. You made your two lives witness to each other, merged them into one. Two bodies remained; the life became one. Then if one dies, life has no meaning for the other.

This was a super-human ideal. Man could not rise to such heights in love. In meditation he reached heights; in love, not. Hence women became sati. Devotion is easy for woman. It is a matter of feeling, of heart.

Buddha, Mahavira, Patanjali—all are meditators. But among men, not one died for his beloved—none dissolved so wholly in one. The male mind kept flitting. Many women drowned themselves in one man; they reached the heights of sati.

Among men, the state called “saint,” among women, that is “sati.” Both words come from sat (truth). Remember this. Why “sati”? The word that makes “saint” from sat makes “sati” as well. Sati means saintliness in love. She drowned in one. So drowned that there was no purpose left to live apart; no notion of being separate, no thought. When her lover died, she climbed the pyre with him. There was neither suicide, nor coercion on herself. The question doesn’t arise. They had become one. Thus it is neither suicide nor hatred of the body, nor any violence. It is the supreme consecration of love.

This is when the notion of sati touched the sky. Later it became perverted. Then the man’s ego warped it; the woman’s ego warped it. Women began to become sati for prestige, though they had no real connection to the husband. If they did not, people said: you are not chaste. It became compulsion. Duty replaced love. What was a great happening in love, when turned into duty, ceased to be great—became petty, commonplace. They began to die after calculation; died for public opinion, for the fear of gossip.

And people were so foolish they made it a rule. If a husband died and the wife did not die with him, people said, “Ah, she is corrupt. She is no sati.” So much insult and disrespect arose that better to die than endure it. But that dying was sorrowful; it was suicide. The state worsened yet further. Women who would not die—naturally there were such women—and naturally so: the lust for life is strong. One in a thousand may be sati. If you force the other nine hundred and ninety-nine into it, trouble will come. Perhaps nine will die just to avoid public shame; better to die than lose face. Better to die for prestige than live in disgrace. Those nine, then, are not to be praised; that is worship of ego, not worship of love.

And the nine hundred who decided not to die—that is their right. If someone will not die, and you force her—that is violence. There is no need to insult them. They are ordinary folk. But society began to kill them by force. Women were dragged to the cremation ground; they ran, they were dragged. They were thrown onto the pyre. Then so much ghee and oil was poured on them so the fire would catch quickly, they would die fast. Priests stood around with sticks; if a woman tried to run—who wouldn’t run from living flames?—they drove her back with torches, beat her back into the fire. So much smoke they raised that no one could see the deed. It was plain murder—cruel murder.

The British stopped this practice—and rightly so. The essence was lost. What remained was inhuman cruelty.

Yet the vision of sati is wondrous—once in a thousand!

Paltu says: As sati is, so is the devotee. The devotee has no life of his own; God’s life is his. His breath—the devotee’s breath. Only with God does he find relish in living. Apart from God, life has no savor. With God, even hell he will accept; without God, even heaven he will spurn.

Praise only that sati who burns with her Beloved.

To burn with the Beloved—she alone is the wise woman.
Keep the mind at his feet; know none but the One.

To burn with the Beloved—she alone is wise. That woman is truly intelligent who burns in her lover’s love; who is erased in love; who dies into love; for whom love becomes samadhi. Devotees say, if you keep God in view, then we all are women. God alone is the sole “man”; all the rest are women.

Woman means one who cannot live without the Beloved. A vine climbs a tree. The vine cannot live without the tree; the tree can live without the vine. So the vine is woman; the tree is man. We cannot live without God; He can live without us. Therefore He is the Man, and the whole cosmos is Woman.

That rasa of Krishna, with thousands of dancing gopis and Krishna playing the flute in the middle—that is a picture of the entire universe. Krishna means the Man, the One, the Divine. All those maidens mean the whole world.

Man, in himself, is not complete—he is feminine. God is complete in Himself—He is masculine. Man is dependent—hence feminine. Man needs support—hence feminine. Paltu says: Only that person is truly wise who is ready to burn with the Beloved. Those we call wise, Paltu calls fools. We call wise the ones busy clutching the world, leaving God aside. Paltu calls wise the one who leaves all and seeks God; who leaves even himself and moves to gain God; who erases himself to purchase the Beloved.

To burn with the Beloved—she alone is the wise woman.

Praise only that sati…

Praise only her. Sing only that devotee’s praise.

Now that rare notion of love is no more. With the loss of that rare notion of love, prayer too is lost, devotion too is lost.

Mulla Nasruddin’s wife once told me: “To tell the truth, it’s the children who kept our divorce from happening.”

I asked, “How so?”

She said, “Because after divorce, neither I nor Mulla was willing to keep the children.”

These are the relationships that remain now. Formal, arranged. Economic, social. For security, for convenience. The inner flame is gone. Heart is not in it. It is economic, social, political—but not religious. And when all worldly relationships turn irreligious, the eyes find it hard to lift toward the Supreme Relationship—because it’s through these very steps we climb to His temple.

In the days when the supreme notion of sati lived in the world, many women gained the chance to attain God. It is no accident that Meera could be, that Rabia could be. Today, to have Meera or Rabia is difficult. It seems unlikely the West can give birth to a Meera; and before long, the East won’t either. Because that very sense is gone—that all is to be surrendered to one. The feeling of surrender is lost. Now relationships are makeshift. If it works for two days, fine. As long as it suits my interest, fine. Exploit the other as you can; and in the meantime, the other exploits you. All relationships are exploitations.

A wife stays with her husband because where else can she go now? At this age, what other husband will she find? There are children—what will become of them? And where will she earn? A lifelong habit of not earning—now it’s too hard. Somehow manage. The husband too does not leave: Where will I go, whom will I search for now? Start again with ABC? Life has slipped by. There are children too. Then the matter of social prestige—what will people say? Stay on. But this staying is not the staying of love. Such a marriage is not very different from divorce.

Today ninety-nine out of a hundred marriages are not very different from divorce. Only legal. The bond is legal: Who will go to court now, who will make such a fuss, file cases against one another? Alright, drag it along. Some convenience is there, keep it going. It’s a few days of life, it will be over today or tomorrow. So many days have passed; a few more remain, they’ll pass too. But there is no thrill in togetherness. No joy. No stream of nectar flows.

When ordinary life is so, how will our eyes lift toward the extraordinary? Thus devotion is lost. People say that in Kali Yuga devotion is the only path—but I have some doubt. When love itself is not left, how can devotion remain? When love no longer has that exclusive mood—to dive into one only, to be bound wholly to one for lifetimes—when this is not in love, where will you learn the lesson of devotion? Devotion is love’s mathematics extended; love’s courtyard expanding into devotion’s sky. If the courtyard is gone, how will you reach the sky?

So I do not think—though people speak kindly—that in Kali Yuga devotion is the only way. Not evident. For devotion too you need as much Satyuga as for knowledge. In truth, devotion and knowledge are not matters of different ages. When a man turns toward God, he turns either through meditation or through love.

To whom shall I address my letter, and which wayfarer’s path shall I watch?
How shall I console my heart? My garden is bare, my courtyard empty.
My companions are only two: the thirsty earth and the forlorn sky.
My eyes are anxious on the road; my heart is thirsty, my body thirsty—
but how shall my soul-cuckoo call to her Beloved?
The clouds of hope have passed; the monsoon of dreams is empty.
All around lie scattered a thousand lifeless clay toys—
all night unashamed beds call out to me.
Often the bindi on my brow weeps and says to me,
“On whom shall I rest my pride, friend? My toe-rings are lonely, my bangles empty.”
It is the full-moon night—but how shall I bind anklets on my feet?
Whose flute shall I hear, for which Kanha shall I offer body and soul?
Upon Yamuna’s bank, the long-familiar flute-tree stands silent.
How shall I weave the rasa, when the Vrindavan of my breath is empty?
To whom shall I address my letter, and which stranger’s road shall I watch?
How shall I console my heart? My garden is empty, my courtyard empty.
The warm wind scorches my skin; seeing the blossoming moon, I grow listless.
Waves’ songs torment; seeing laughing flowers, I wither.
Frightened of loneliness, I close both eyes—but then
Whose form shall I behold? The mirror of my innermost is empty.
On whom shall I rest my pride, friend? My toe-rings are lonely, my bangles empty.
It is the full-moon night, but how shall I bind anklets on my feet?
Whose flute shall I hear, for which Kanha shall I offer body and soul?
Upon Yamuna’s bank, the long-familiar flute-tree stands silent.
How shall I weave the rasa, when the Vrindavan of my breath is empty?
Whose form shall I behold, when the mirror of my innermost is empty!

No—if love is lost, devotion cannot be saved. Only if love remains does devotion become possible; because love’s lessons point toward the scriptures of devotion. When someone loves one person with a rare, exclusive heart—loves in such a way that he is ready to lay down his life—only then, for the first time, an event happens: the ego dissolves. When I am ready to die into someone’s love, my ego cannot survive. Ego says, “Don’t die, don’t pour yourself out; suck the other as much as you can for your profit—but keep yourself safe.”

Love is the death of ego. When love’s sword falls upon the ego, its head is severed. And when the ego’s head is gone, the one you loved no longer appears merely human; as soon as the veil of ego drops, you see the Divine there. And if in one you have seen God, your eyes have become fit, skillful. Then wherever you look you see God—in near and far; in friend and foe; in stone and mountain. Wherever your eyes fall, they behold the Divine. Let Him be seen once in one—then He will be seen in many. But if not in one, how then in many?

Therefore I am not opposed to the world—devotees never were. Devotees did not say, “Abandon the world.” They said, “Make of the world a staircase.” From here, slowly, the journey of devotion begins. From here, slowly, you rise toward devotion.

Keep your mind at his feet, and know none but One.

To burn with the Beloved—she alone is the wise woman.

Let his feet remain enthroned in the heart.

Keep the mind at his feet…

Let his memory alone remain. Know none but the One. Let there be no other mood in the heart but for the One, the Divine.

Often people search for God, but God is only one desire among many desires. They seek wealth, position, prestige—and think, “Let me also spend a half-hour on God; who knows, He may exist after all. Perhaps at the end, at death, it will turn out He exists—let it not be that I did nothing. Cover all bets. Run the shop, keep the marketplace, race after rank—because who knows, God may not exist; it may only be talk. We mustn’t miss the world.” This you call cleverness, prudence, wisdom—keep both laddus in both hands. Keep this, keep that…

So a man goes to the temple an hour a day, or to the mosque, the gurudwara. He sits and reads—the Japji, or the Gita, or a few verses of the Koran. He thinks, “Alright, I’m done with God; now to the world.” He runs in the world twenty-three hours and gives God one hour. This is not devotion.

The devotee is immersed in God twenty-four hours, day and night. And it is not that the devotee runs away from the world. He performs all worldly tasks—as an actor plays in a drama. He was sent—so the role must be fulfilled. But he does not bring in the doer’s feeling. He does not create the sense “I am doing.” He says, “He is making it happen; so I do it.” If He has given a household, then the household. If He has given children, then the children. If He runs a shop through me, I run the shop. But within, night and day, the chant continues, the remembrance continues, the awareness continues. Sleeping and waking, only His memory remains. In every worldly state he is, but his remembrance is fixed upon Him.

Kabir says: a water-carrier returns home with a pot on her head, balancing two or three pots, not even touching them with her hands; chatting with her friends, singing as she walks. All that chatter goes on, she must walk the path, pots are on her head—and yet her attention holds the pots steady. Her inner awareness remains with the pots. Or as a mother sleeps at night—storms may rise, winds howl, thunder roll, her sleep doesn’t break. But if her infant whimpers the slightest, her sleep breaks. Why? A thread of awareness remains. Even in sleep she remembers there is a small child; his needs. The thread of love remains tied. The storm does not wake her; thunder does not wake her; lightning does not wake her. But the child’s little stir breaks her sleep. Such a thread of awareness is tied within. As the water-carrier keeps her attention on the pots—doing all else, but her attention remains on the pots; as the mother keeps her attention on her child—so the devotee lives in the world, but keeps his attention on God. His attention stays on God, the devotee stays in the world.

Devotion has a rare alchemy. The devotee lives in the world, but does not keep the world within; within he keeps only God. Sitting in the shop, he runs the shop; when a customer comes, he sees only Ram in the customer. A small chance to serve Ram—so he serves. Here too is Ram, there too is Ram. He does not miss Ram for a single moment.

Keep the mind at his feet, know none but the One.

The world may mock, but he does not leave the Beloved’s company.

The world will certainly mock; it always does. This will seem madness to the world. What is this? In whose remembrance are you lost? What tune are you playing? What God? Where is the proof? Speak of useful things. Earn a little more. Gain a little more position. Build a bigger house. All this the world says and finds sensible.

Nanak’s father tried hard—let him do some work, learn a trade. Naturally, every father wants the son to do something, earn something. Someone advised, “Give him some money. Send him to buy some goods, then sell them. If he gets absorbed in business, fine; otherwise he’ll go bad, falling among sadhus.”

They gave him some money and sent him off. They told him, “Look, keep profit in mind; without profit there is no point.” Nanak said, “Alright, I’ll keep that in mind.” He returned home the next day, empty-handed—and very happy. Father asked, “What happened? You seem very pleased! And so soon! Where is the merchandise?”

He said, “Forget the goods, I made a profit. I was buying blankets when I met sadhus. They sat naked in the cold. I gave them all the blankets. You had said, remember profit…”

The father must have slapped his head: “For this profit I did not speak! You gave blankets to some vagabonds! Is this how business is done?” Nanak said, “But you said, earn some profit. I saw if I bring blankets and sell, I will gain ten-fifty rupees. But if I give them to the Beloved of God, the profit will be great.”

Then they placed him in a job, at the governor’s house. Simple work: weigh out daily rations to the soldiers. He weighed all day at the scales. One day, while weighing, he slipped into samadhi. His relish was inward, in God. He sat at the counter, weighed as father required; but within, remembrance of God kept running. From that remembrance arose a great, revolutionary event. Counting came to thirteen—Punjabi for thirteen is teraa, which also means “Yours.” The word “teraa” brought the remembrance surging. The thread connected. “Teraa”—all Yours. He became intoxicated, ecstatic. He went no further than “teraa.” He went on weighing for whomever came—“Yours and Yours!” News reached the governor: his mind is gone. He’s stuck on “teraa” and weighing out to all. He’ll empty the store. They summoned him. He was drunk with God, eyes shining. “What are you doing?” they asked. He said, “The last number has come. Beyond ‘Yours’ there is no further number. Everything else is the expansion of ‘mine.’ The talk of ‘Yours’ has come—my ‘mine’ has ended. Now forgive me, let me go. The delight I found today saying ‘Yours’—I do not want to miss it. Now, twenty-four hours, I will say only ‘Yours.’ All is His. He alone is. Today ‘mine’ is gone. Today it is all ‘Yours.’”

As your remembrance grows dense, the world will mock. People said, “Nanak has gone mad.”

The world mocks, but he does not leave the Beloved’s company.
He spreads the bed of love, he wraps himself in the shawl of grace.

Do not worry about the world. Spread your bed of love and call to God: “Come—I have prepared the bed for You.”

Spread the bed of love; wrap yourself in the shawl of compassion. Keep compassion for the world, love for God—let these two be attained. Keep compassion for those who laugh; keep no anger. If you keep anger, they win. If you keep compassion, then you win. Let them laugh; accept that from where they stand, it is natural to laugh at us. Keep compassion for them.

Live in such a way that the cravings and indulgences drop of themselves.

This is a rare sutra. Paltu says that in a devotee’s love and compassion, and in the remembrance of God, indulgence slips away of itself.

Live in such a way that indulgence falls away—without being forced. In the life filled with God’s remembrance, where is there room to remember indulgence? He tastes the supreme enjoyment; small pleasures have no appeal. If diamonds are showering, who gathers pebbles? If nectar is flowing, who brings home the gutter’s dirty water? Where flowers rain, who collects stench? Where true joy is found, who bothers with fleeting pleasures?

Live in such a way that indulgence falls away on its own. Remain in God’s ecstasy. Abide in God’s bliss. Stay in God’s love, filled with compassion for the world, and let the stream of remembrance flow. Then a way of living is born in which indulgences fall away by themselves. If they have to be dropped, something is wrong. If they drop of themselves, great health and beauty arise. If you have to drop the worthless, it means it still seemed somewhat worthwhile, so effort was needed. When the worthless is seen as worthless, no effort is needed—the hand opens, it falls. One does not even look back.

Hunger and thirst are stilled; breath itself flows with remembrance.

Then even hunger and thirst are forgotten, for with each breath only His memory moves. What indulgence, what pleasure then? Who hoards wealth? Who bothers for position? Who seeks respect and honor? One who is honored from the Beloved’s side, finds worldly honor meaningless.

Hunger and thirst are stilled; breath flows with remembrance.

When remembrance flows with the breath, even hunger and thirst die away.

Consider something deeply psychological: when you are unhappy, you feel hungrier and thirstier. When unhappy, you eat more. The unhappy man feels empty inside—he tries to fill it somehow, with anything. The happy one eats less. In supreme joy, hunger is forgotten. In supreme joy you feel so full within—where hunger, where thirst?

Whenever happiness comes, one is filled. When sorrow comes, one force-fills oneself; one feels empty—“Let me fill up with something.”

A happy man can remain empty, for happiness fills him. How can an unhappy man stay empty! Psychologists say: people with love in life seldom suffer from overeating. Those without love eat more; they try to fill the lack of love with food. What should be received from love, they try to receive from food. There is a reason for this. The child’s first experience in the world is hunger and love together. From the mother he gets love, and from the mother he gets milk. So his very first experience binds food and love. The bond is so deep it does not vanish. That is why, when you wish to express love, you invite someone to a meal. Why? What need to invite to food to express love? Because food and love are linked. Whoever you invite to your table becomes dear, becomes a friend.

People often experience: if they want to get something done by another, they take him to dinner. While eating and talking, it’s easier to settle matters. Thus salesmen, insurance agents invite to dinner: “Come, dine with me.” It becomes easier—the person relaxes, becomes less rigid.

You’ve seen how people at night, before sleeping, drink a glass of warm milk and sleep well. Why? The warm milk makes them again a small child. Warm milk reminds them of the first milk—from the mother, warm, and with love. Filled with that love and milk, one sleeps deep.

Food and love have a deep connection. So when food increases too much in your life, know there is a deficiency of love; you are compensating for it with food. Often it happens that a mother who loves her child—the child does not drink much milk. He creates a thousand hurdles. He has to be coaxed; the mother must circle around. He is not worried; when love is there he has trust that when needed, milk will come. Love gives trust. But if the mother does not love—if, say, she is like a nurse; as many mothers are, nurses rather than true mothers—if she does not love and only forces, “Well, it has been born; now we must somehow drag it along…”—then such a child never leaves the breast, because he fears: once I let go, who knows if milk will be offered again? There is no trust.

Often, from lack of love, children begin to overeat right from the start. There is a ratio.

Says Paltu:
Live in such a way that indulgence falls away.
Hunger and thirst are stilled; breath flows with remembrance.

Live so that God’s remembrance resounds within, filling you so completely that hunger and thirst vanish. Now this is a big difference: one, to fast by effort; another, fasting happens of itself.

We have two words with different meanings, but we’ve mixed them badly: anshan and upvaas. Anshan means restraining from food by effort. Upvaas means dwelling near—up+vaas—sitting near the Divine. Being near Him, hunger and thirst are forgotten. His memory is so close, He is so close—who cares to eat? When your beloved friend arrives home, you say, “Leave it, first let’s talk; food we’ll see later.” At night you say, “Let’s chat all night; if sleep is lost, who cares? Two lovers meet; neither hunger nor sleep matters. We are drowned in the old nectar.”

To be near God means the Supreme Beloved is found—the One lost for lifetimes is found. For endless ages we searched and searched—He is found. Where then hunger, where thirst; where pleasure, where indulgence! They fall away spontaneously. Such effortless renunciation has infinite glory.

Live so that indulgence falls away.
Hunger and thirst are stilled; breath flows with remembrance.

Day and night, he is drunk—dyed in the color of the Beloved.

Day and night he remains unconscious—in ecstasy—drunk on the wine of the Beloved’s love.

Day and night drunk, dyed in the Beloved’s color.
His color pervades, his style pervades. His song resounds. He sways, dances in His intoxication. His flute plays, and with that flute, inside you too the tremor of bliss runs.

Day and night drunk, dyed in the Beloved’s color.

Now understand the difference.
Ordinarily those you call renunciates leave the pleasures of the world—but have not found God’s joy. Their life becomes dull. You will not find celebration in them. You will not feel a divine tune playing. Even the small rush of the world is gone; the fleeting joy was there, yet now not even that; the eternal has not arrived. They are like the washerman’s donkey—neither of home nor of the riverbank. Your so-called mahatmas are often in such a state.

Paltu says: first learn to drown in God’s juice; then leaving the world brings no obstacle. First attain the eternal; the fleeting will drop on its own.

Day and night drunk, dyed in the Beloved’s color.

Bhakti drinks God as a drunkard drinks wine.

They say, the night Jesus bid farewell to his disciples, he gave a supper—the Last Supper. He broke bread with his own hands and offered it to the disciples. Then he poured wine with his own hands and offered it. When he offered bread he said, “Remember, this is my body.” When he offered wine, he said, “Remember, this is me.”

This is symbolism.

Only one who is ready to drink God like wine is a devotee. Devotee means drunkard. The gathering of devotees is a tavern. Let intoxication be in the eyes, dance in the feet, celebration in the heart.

Day and night drunk, dyed in the Beloved’s color.
No awareness of his body remains; he keeps speaking with the Beloved.

No awareness of oneself remains. When God stands before you, what awareness of the self? No awareness of the body; but the remembrance of Him is total. Conversation with Him continues, prayer continues, worship continues, adoration continues.

The devotee speaks to God as if He were standing before him. A dialogue with God flows. He forgets himself; only God stands before him.

Day and night drunk, dyed in the Beloved’s color.
No awareness of his body; he keeps speaking with the Beloved.

Says Paltu: by the Master’s grace, I have taken the Beloved in hand.
By the Guru’s prasad, I’ve taken hold of the Beloved.

But how to take hold of Him? There is only one way:

Praise only that sati who burns with her Beloved.

A paradoxical method: erase yourself—and God comes into your hand. Annihilate yourself—and He is yours. Lay yourself at His feet—and He falls into your grasp. God is in the devotee’s power. But you must erase yourself. That condition must be fulfilled.

This is no casual coming, that by ritual you show up.
This is no true meeting, if heart does not meet heart.

Your prayers are false. Your worship is false. Because heart never meets heart—you cannot forget yourself.

“This is no true meeting, if heart does not meet heart!” Heart meets heart only when you drop all defenses, all securities—when you surrender, lay down every weapon. “I take refuge in You. Save me if You will, burn me if You will. Whatever You do is my blessing. Your will, my will.” When the devotee can say this with a complete heart—that moment, God is in his hand.

Why are you bothered with others? Settle your own case first.

And Paltu says: hearing these things, don’t get lost thinking of others: “Ah! Others have no God—how shall we give them God? How shall we bring light into their lives?” Do not get into this worry. This too is a trick—to save yourself. Many are like this.

Just the day before yesterday, a young man came from Germany. He said, “Everything else is fine—I came to ask, there is so much poverty and suffering in the world; what can I do for that?”

I asked him, “First let me ask you: are you beyond suffering, beyond worry?”

He said, “I am not.”

I said, “Then first take yourself out. This trick—‘the world suffers, I will bring the world out’—is a trick. It allows you to forget your own suffering. It gives you the convenience of turning your back on yourself.

“How will you bring light to others when you have no light? How will you relight others’ lamps when your own is out? The danger is you might blow out someone else’s flame. Do me a kindness—don’t worry about others yet. Worry about yourself first.”

Start at home. Change yourself. If you change, rays will arise from your life that will change others as well. Do not start with others. There’s great pleasure there: the ego feels gratified—“See, I serve!”

Beware of “servants,” “uplifters of all.” They are dangerous people. They deceive themselves and others. First bring the light into yourself.

Paltu says:

Why are you bothered with others? Settle your own case first.
First settle your own confusion; your own illnesses are many. With them you go to heal others—you will bring greater trouble.

As much disturbance has come from social workers, none has come elsewhere. The sick roam giving medical advice; the insane roam offering mental health; the dead roam gifting “life.”

Why are you bothered with others? Settle your own case first.
Settle your own case first, else you’ll leave jaggery and eat poison.

Amrit has not yet descended in your life, and you’re worrying about others! First digest God a little; otherwise others’ worries will become your food.

…you’ll leave jaggery and eat poison.
Where there could have been great sweetness by bringing God into your heart, you will become sour and bitter, filled with venom, by totting up others’ miseries.

You yourself are in a well, and you’re showing others the road!

You are in the well, and you point the way to others! Your words are dangerous. You’ll draw others near only to drop them in the same well—you know only that way. How else will you know? How can you know a path you haven’t walked?

Kabir said: “The blind leads the blind—both fall into the well.” The blind gave the blind a path; both fell.

Jesus also said: open your own eyes first. If your eyes are not open, do not fall into the delusion you can guide someone.

Yesterday I read a verse:

How many here have passions for thrones and crowns—what can one say?
When the beggar often cannot even find a begging bowl.

How many are out to claim thrones, while the state is such that the beggar cannot find even a bowl. In this world even a begging bowl is not to be had—yet there is a race for thrones!

Good tidings to the broken-footed, glad news to the weary on the road:
the guide himself has no clue to the road to the destination.

Do not be disheartened that you have not found the way or the goal—your leader has not either. Rest easy. Do not think someone has found it elsewhere. Those who lead you have not found it.

Paltu speaks an important thing:

Why are you bothered with others? Settle your own case first.
Settle your own case first—else you’ll leave jaggery and eat poison.
You fall in a well, yet show the way to others.

Lighting others’ path, the torch-bearer walks in darkness.

See, at night the torch-bearer walks with a torch—but he himself walks in darkness, because the light falls behind. The torch on his shoulder casts light backward for those following, but the torch-bearer walks in the dark. Strange! The one forced to walk in darkness—where will he lead? The torch does not lead the bearer; the bearer moves and carries the torch; others follow the light, while the bearer himself is in darkness.

Lighting others’ path, the torch-bearer walks in darkness.
So it is with your so-called pundits. Great torches in hand—great loads of scripture. Themselves encircled by illusion, they show others the way to Brahman.

Lighting others’ path, the torch-bearer walks in darkness.
So the talk of “knowers,” yet they remain enshrouded by illusion.

He roams selling camphor, yet himself eats chalk.

He sells camphor in the market but eats chalk at home.

He roams selling camphor, yet himself eats chalk.
Fire breaks out at home; he runs to douse the dump by the road.

The garbage heap outside catches fire, he runs to douse it—while his house burns.

He roams selling camphor, yet himself eats chalk.
Fire breaks out at home; he runs to douse the dump.

Paltu speaks the truth: this is a trick of the mind.
Why are you bothered with others? Settle your own first.

Paltu says: I speak the truth. Remember it, do not forget.

Paltu speaks the truth: it is a mind’s ploy. This is a mind’s net, a mind’s cunning. The mind does not want to die. So it saves you from your own troubles. It says: “What are your troubles? See, there is so much suffering in the world—first help them.” The mind finds very good arguments. The mind says: meditation, prayer, worship—these are selfish.

People come to me saying, “It is selfish. There is so much suffering, and we meditate! Suppose we become happy—that happiness is selfish. There is so much suffering!”

I ask, “If you remain unhappy, will the world’s suffering lessen? Why is the world suffering? Because you suffer. You spread waves of suffering. A suffering person can only give suffering. You can only give what you have. If you are happy, at least one part of the world will radiate joy; from one side, a fragrance will arise. Whoever has some understanding and seeks joy will come to you. You won’t have to go—thirsty ones seek the well. If the well goes to the thirsty, beware—the well won’t quench his thirst; it may drown him. If the thirsty truly thirsts, he will seek the well.

“If people insist on remaining unhappy, who are you to make them happy? How will you do it? If they have decided to be unhappy, no one can make them happy—not even God. Otherwise He would have done so long ago.

“God respects your freedom. If you choose unhappiness, He is with your choice. When you choose happiness, only then can you be happy.”

Then people say, “Alright, we shall meditate; still we are restless because the world is unhappy.” I ask, “The world has always been unhappy; after you die it will still be unhappy. Have you come resolved to leave the world happy after you go—or can you? Buddha did not leave it happy, nor Krishna, nor Rama, nor Mohammed, nor Christ—what are your ambitions? Were all these men selfish—and you the first altruist to be born?”

The mind plays tricks. It finds clever arguments. “Why meditate? The world suffers—first remove that!” The argument sounds convincing. In such reasoning, people get entangled.

There is suffering in the world—in that suffering your hand is there. Because the unhappy spread unhappiness. An unhappy man marries; he gives unhappiness to his wife. His children will receive his sorrow. An unhappy woman gives unhappiness to husband and children. The family becomes a factory of sorrow. It spreads sorrow to whomever it relates; it saddens the neighborhood. Thus sorrow spreads.

If you would bring joy into the world, light the lamp of meditation, of prayer, of worship. Complete this “selfishness.” Serve yourself first; then great service will happen through you.

Paltu speaks the truth: a trick of the mind.
Why are you bothered with others? Settle your own first.

First lift your eyes toward yourself; first take attention toward your own being. Later, involve with others. When one is resolved, others too are resolved—effortlessly. Your presence does it. Your blessings do it. Your words do it. Your silence does it. Your very being does it. There is nothing to do. You do not go out to serve—service begins to happen through you.

Paltu says: Look at me. I was born in a very low, poor home; there was no height in me. Look! I settled my own case—and a great revolution happened. What happened?

Paltu rose from the low to the high;
no one calls him low now.

As soon as I lit the lamp of devotion within, suddenly I rose from the low to the high. From the pit to the peak. From groping in darkness, with no path, to a flash of lightning—light everywhere, and the path revealed.

Paltu rose from the low to the high; no one calls him low now.
Now I am astonished—people come and bow at my feet; rich kings and the renowned come for counsel. I’m amazed. For I am the same Paltu—an ordinary man! What in me! This is God’s glory. They are not bowing to my feet—they bow to God through me. And had I gone to help them earlier, I would have been turned away at their door; I couldn’t even enter. Help aside—they wouldn’t have listened to a word. Today what has happened? What glory!

Paltu rose from the low to the high; no one calls him low now.
No one calls me low since I took refuge.

Since I entered His refuge—lay at His feet—no one calls me low. Tied to the High, I became high. Joined to the Blissful, I became blissful. Joined to the Supreme Festival, dance and fragrance have come into my life.

No one calls me low since I took refuge.
A drain, having merged in the Ganga, is called the Ganga.

I was like a dirty drain, but I merged in the Ganges. Since merging, even I am worshiped. Having merged in the Ganga, I am called Ganga. I know well who I am. I know how I was. I remember those dark days, those long journeys of night and sin. But everything was washed in a moment.

…since I took refuge.
A drain, having merged in the Ganga, is called the Ganga.

By the touch of the philosopher’s stone, iron is called gold.

The company of the touchstone came; iron turned to gold. Seek first the company of God.

Why are you bothered with others? Settle your own first.
By the touch of the philosopher’s stone, iron is called gold.
Who falls into the fire, burns and becomes fire.

Since I burned in Him—since I entered His fire—since I surrendered in the Beloved’s flame…

Who falls into the fire, burns and becomes fire.
Since then, I am fire. Since then there is no Paltu—only the Divine. He speaks, He rises, He walks. Paltu has vanished.

Praise only that sati who burns with her Beloved.

Paltu says: I burned with the Beloved. I surrendered myself to His fire. When I burned, all my entanglements burned too. When I burned, all my problems burned. When I burned, all my sins burned. When I burned, my past burned. I emerged stainless, guileless, pure, free of taint.

By the touch of the philosopher’s stone, iron is called gold.
Who falls into the fire, burns and becomes fire.

The house of Ram is vast—every fault finds hiding there.

Paltu says: Only then I came to know—Ram’s house is so vast all sins are concealed. So great is His glory that upon joining Him, sins dissolve. Man cannot resolve his problems. He tries—and knots multiply. Man’s problems are resolved only by joining the touchstone.

By the Guru’s grace, I have taken the Beloved in hand.
Praise only that sati who burns with her Beloved.

Take Him fully into your hands—and all else happens by itself.

Jesus said: Seek first the Kingdom of God, and all else will be added unto you. Without seeking Him, seek whatever else you will—nothing will come to hand; you will only squander your life, waste the opportunity.

The house of Ram is vast—every fault finds hiding there.
As oil lies in the seed, so the flower’s fragrance enters the sesame.

See—keep sesame near a flower, the flower’s fragrance enters it; then its oil carries that scent—but only because it was kept with the flower.

Find a blossoming flower somewhere—sit with it; do satsang; the fragrance will enter you too. And when you sit with the Supreme Flower of God—

By the Guru’s grace, I have taken the Beloved in hand—

then a fragrance arises that, once arising, never departs. However much you share, it keeps increasing. An eternal spring is found. As oil in the seed, so the flower’s fragrance enters the sesame.

By the power of bhajan, body and mind are made pure.
Paltu rose from the low to the high; none calls him low now.

By the power of bhajan… by the glory of song. I did nothing else; only sang His song, did nothing else. Only danced dyed in His hue. Did nothing else—only drank His intoxicating wine.

Day and night drunk, dyed in the Beloved’s color.
No awareness of his body; he keeps speaking with the Beloved.

Bhajan means: my own self-awareness is lost; only the awareness of prayer remains. By the glory of bhajan—body and mind are purified.

Understand this. The knower says: first be pure, then God will be found. The devotee says: find God—and purity will arrive. Note the difference. The knower says: you must strive, cut sins, wash karmic filth, scrub every vein with soap; there is garbage of lifetimes—you must cut it yourself. Then when purification is complete, union with God; then the vision of truth.

The devotee says: will this happen by my doing? He raises a crucial question: will this happen by my doing? By my doing this very garbage was produced—lifetimes of pain and darkness. Will light come by my doing? Will the filth be cut by my doing? Can the very ego, which created the filth, become the soap?

The devotee says: I have no faith in that. I know myself too well. If liberation depends on my doing, then there will be no liberation. Let Someone lift me. Let me get the Beloved’s hand. Falling into the pit—I am skilled at that; climbing out by myself—I have no confidence. In trying to climb, I fall further.

The devotee says: I have lost faith in myself; experience of lifetimes says—what faith can I keep in me? Only one miracle can lift me: the Divine must take me. What shall I do—lying in the pit? The devotee says: I will do bhajan, I will call Him. I need help.

By the power of bhajan…
Bhajan means: I am a sinner, I am bad, I am wicked. By my doing, only wrong has happened; by my doing, wrong will happen. Only hope hangs on You. Your assurance. If You lift me, I will rise. If You pull me, I will be pulled. What can I do lying in this pit? I will call out.

The devotee is like a little infant lying in a cradle—he cannot rise by himself. If he tries, he will only fall and break his limbs. What can he do? He can cry. He can call. Somewhere the mother will hear.

Bhajan means: if God is anywhere, He will hear. We will go on calling. We will weep. What else can we do! We will shed tears. We will hum His name and sing. If there is God anywhere, if in existence there is a single thread of compassion, if there is any heart beating—then we are His children, we came from this existence; some mother will pull us. On that trust alone…

The devotee’s whole way is the way of calling, of remembrance, of weeping. The devotee trusts his tears, not his hands. He has seen the play of his hands for lifetimes. He trusts his sobbing now—“We will weep, we will call. If anywhere in existence there is a string of compassion, compassion will come and save. If there is no strand of compassion, then this pit it is; there is no way out.”

By the power of bhajan, body and mind are made pure.
The boundless glory of bhajan: by calling and calling, what doing never did, calling begins to do.

Try this calling—and be amazed. Sit for half an hour and weep, sway, call to God! At first, you’ll feel, “What madness am I doing?” Since you never called, you don’t know this art. Don’t worry. Say, “Let it be madness. Once in a while one should try some madness—perhaps something happens.” Make an experiment! After half an hour of weeping and calling—saying only “Ram, Ram,” or “Allah, Allah,” and swaying—you will be amazed: your heart has become so light as never before! You have become again like a small innocent child. The cry has performed a miracle. And this is only the beginning. A glimpse opens. Something blossoms within. You become light. Walking, your feet will feel as if they don’t touch the ground. Something new. Colors clearer. Life not dull. A song seems spread everywhere. As if everywhere Someone, a mystery, is hidden. You are astonished. For the first time, wonder arises in your eyes again—the simplicity of childhood returns. You will see difference in yourself. If after half an hour’s calling you encounter your wife and she says something—yesterday you would have been annoyed—today, suddenly you will find annoyance does not arise. After such calling, if outside you meet a beggar at the gate, you won’t be able to say, “Go away.” You will feel the difference. You will feel like giving. You received so much by calling—he too is calling! Who knows if God wishes to give through your hands to him. Today your urge to give will be simple, spontaneous. Sitting at the shop you’ll find you do not cheat the customer as easily as yesterday. Day by day you will see difference. In two or four months, you will find your impurities washed—washed by calling, which you could not wash by scrubbing. The soul is cleansed by tears. The soul is cleansed by prayer.

By the power of bhajan, body and mind are made pure.
Paltu rose from the low to the high; no one calls him low now.

Paltu says: “It went well! I did nothing. I only called. Even calling I cannot claim as some great act. I did nothing—I only wept. And for weeping, who will grant great credit? But suddenly, from low I rose to high. Someone pulled me from the pits and seated me on the summit.” Keep this sutra in mind.

Praise only that sati who burns with her Beloved.
To burn with the Beloved—she alone is the wise woman.
Keep the mind at his feet; know none but the One.
The world may mock, but he does not leave the Beloved’s company.
He spreads the bed of love, and wraps himself in the shawl of grace.
Live in such a way that indulgence falls away.
Hunger and thirst are stilled; breath flows with remembrance.
Day and night drunk, dyed in the Beloved’s color.
No awareness of his body; he keeps speaking with the Beloved.
By the Guru’s grace, I have taken the Beloved in hand.
Praise only that sati who burns with her Beloved.

In this is the whole sutra of prayer. In this, the essence of bhajan. Ecstasy, oblivion, divine drunkenness. Conversation with the Lord; dialogue; blessed madness, holy passion.

And leave worrying about others; otherwise you won’t be able to pray. When prayer happens, service to others will happen through you, effortlessly.

Why are you bothered with others? Settle your own case first.
Settle your own case first; else you’ll leave jaggery and eat poison.
You fall in a well, yet show the way to others.
Lighting others’ path, the torch-bearer walks in darkness.
So it is with the “knower”—he remains surrounded by illusion.
He roams selling camphor, yet himself eats chalk.
Fire breaks out at home; he runs to douse the dump.
Paltu speaks the truth: a trick of the mind.
Why are you bothered with others? Settle your own first.

First join yourself to God; then you become a bridge for many. Many will cross your bridge and join the Divine. First be filled with joy; then many will receive rays of joy from you. First dance; then many frozen, rotten feet will be filled again with dance, become alive again.

First be filled with celebration; then you will light festival lamps in many eyes. Many souls will dance with you, weave the rasa—but first you… Start there. And do not be afraid, do not think, “I am such a low man, a sinner—what can happen through me!” True, nothing will happen through you—but you can call. However deep the pit you’ve fallen in—can you not call? However steeped in sin—can you not weep? There are tears in the eyes—that is enough. With that alone, it will happen.

Paltu rose from the low to the high; no one calls him low.
No one calls him low since he took refuge.
Wherever you are, make that very pit a temple—bow your head there. Spread your prayer rug right there, and bow.

Paltu rose from the low to the high; no one calls him low.
No one calls him low since he took refuge.
A drain, having merged in the Ganga, is called the Ganga.
By the touch of the philosopher’s stone, iron is called gold.
Who falls into the fire, burns and becomes fire.
The house of Ram is vast—every fault finds hiding there.
As oil lies in the seed, so the flower’s fragrance enters the sesame.
By the power of bhajan, body and mind are made pure.
Paltu rose from the low to the high; no one calls him low now.

This very moment it can happen—call! This very day the thing can happen—weep! It can happen now. No ladder needs to be placed for you. Wherever you are, God’s hand can reach. But without your call, He does not intrude upon your life. He guards your freedom. He honors it greatly. You are free to go to hell; you are free to go to heaven. To go to hell you must exert yourself. To go to heaven, you must call—without effort. That is the essence of bhajan: call without effort. Call, having dropped reliance on yourself. Say, “By my doing whatever happened was wrong—now You come!”

Enough for today.