Ami Jharat Bigsat Kanwal #1

Human consciousness has three dimensions. One dimension is of mathematics, science, prose. The second is of love, poetry, music. And the third is the ineffable. It can be said neither in prose nor in verse. Reason, of course, is powerless to speak it; even love’s wings break trying! The intellect cannot touch it at all, and the heart too falls just short as it tries to arrive.

What can one do who has the sense of the ineffable? How to speak? How to give voice to the unsayable?

The nearest possibility is to sing, to dance, to hum; to pluck a one-stringed ektara, to keep time on a drum, to tie bells to the ankles; to make some tender, even if unsuccessful, attempt on the flute to lift the ineffable into sound.

That is why the saints have expressed themselves in songs. Not because they were poets, but because poetry feels close. Perhaps what cannot be said in prose can cast a faint glimmer in verse. What refuses to be bound in grammar may allow a hint of itself to shimmer in music.

Remember this. If you take saints only as poets, you will go astray. They have said something through poetry which is beyond poetry—what cannot be said at all. Certainly, saints chose verse instead of prose because prose lies even farther away; mathematics farther still. Poetry was chosen because it stands in the middle. On one side is the world of explicable science; on the other, the realm of inexpressible religion; poetry is the bridge between the two. Perhaps, through this middle bridge, someone’s heart-veena may begin to sing—that is why the saints sang. They did not sing in order to sing; they sang to awaken the song sleeping within you. Do not go by their language; go by their feeling. Their language will often be awkward. Nor is it necessary that all saints were learned. Many among them were unlettered.

But learning has nothing to do with truth, and being unlettered is no obstacle. The Divine is equally available to both. In fact, learning may be a slight hindrance; one’s scholarship itself may become the obstruction. The unlettered is a bit more guileless, a bit more innocent. In his innocent mind, in his simple heart, the reflection can form easily. The distortion will be less, because the distorting force of logic will not be there. The glimpse will be truer to truth, because there won’t be a web of thoughts to tangle it. Truth will reflect directly, because no dust of education will lie on the mirror.

So don’t worry about language, don’t balance accounts of grammar. Don’t get into whether their meter is proper or not either. That would be to miss. That would be to get entangled in the futile. It would be like looking at a flower—and becoming lost in the analysis of its color, its chemistry, its species and origin—and forgetting that the flower is in its beauty.

What does it matter where the rose came from? The historical mind worries: Where did the rose come from? It came from outside; the very name says it. The name is not Sanskrit, not Hindi. Gul means flower; aab means splendor. The splendor of the flower! Yes, it came from Iran, it traveled far. But even if you know it came from Iran, will that give you any experience of the rose’s beauty? Even if the word “gulab” is explained, you will remain deprived of the rose itself. You can pluck its petals, count them, weigh them, break it down to discover all its chemicals—how much earth, how much water, how much sun—but still you will miss the beauty of the rose. These are not the ways to know the rose.

The rose is recognized by those eyes that don’t get caught in the rose’s history, or its language, or its science—by one who can simply, directly, dance with the dancing rose; who can drink its beauty as it lifts itself into the sun; who can forget himself in the rose, can dissolve into the rose and let the rose dissolve into him—that one will know.

The words of the saints are roses. Do not test them on the touchstones of science, mathematics, logic, or language, or you will be unjust. They are adorations, offerings, prayers. They are eyes lifted toward the sky. They are the earth’s longing to touch the moon and stars. Recognize that yearning. If that yearning begins to make sense, the heart of the saints will open before you.

And in the hearts of the saints is the gateway to God. Your temples and mosques, your gurdwaras and churches are not the door to the Divine. But the hearts of saints certainly are. Understand the heart of Jesus and you will find the door; not in the church. Recognize the living breath of Mohammed and the door will be found; not in the mosque.

Today we enter the sayings of such a wondrous saint—Dariya. Receive them like flowers. Carefully! They are delicate. Remember: flowers are not tested on the stone on which gold is assayed. Do not press flowers upon the touchstone of gold-testing, or every flower will be “false.”

A scholar, a learned pundit, once asked a Baul fakir, “Love, love, love—you keep chanting love all the time. What is this love? Let me understand! In which scripture is this love mentioned? Which Vedas support it?”

The Baul began to laugh. His ektara began to sound. He stood and danced.

The pundit said, “What will happen by dancing? What will the ektara do? There must be an explanation of love. And there must be scriptural support. You say love is the door to God. But where is it written? And don’t dance—speak! Stop the ektara, sit! You cannot deceive me. Others you may seduce by strumming and dancing. You may charm them. You will not charm me.”

The Baul still sang a song. He said, “We have nothing but songs. These songs are our Vedas, these songs our Upanishads, these songs our Quran. Forgive me! I will dance, I will play the ektara, I will sing—that is our explanation. If it is understood, good; if not, it is your misfortune. Ask no other explanation from us. There is no other.”

And the song he sang was very sweet. Its meaning: Once a goldsmith came to a gardener and said, “I have heard much praise of your flowers. Today I have come to test whether your flowers are genuine or fake. I have brought my touchstone for assaying gold.” And the goldsmith began to rub the poor gardener’s roses on the stone and toss them aside, declaring each false, none true.

The Baul said, “What passed through that poor gardener’s heart, seeing this, is passing through mine as I see you. You ask for an explanation of love—and I am dancing love! You are blind. You ask for scriptural support for love—and I am giving music to love! You are deaf.”

But most are blind; most are deaf.

Do not do injustice to Dariya. That is my first prayer. These are simple words, but very deep. As simple as they are, that deep they go.

Not all directions could be cupped in a single palmful,
my solitary art of worship remained unfinished;
in the unbroken mountain-arms of Om’s resonance,
no link in my surrender could be completed;
even the entire sun, lifelong, as my temple-lamp,
could not become the unwavering white flame of arati;
my life-Gayatri, muttered in the stillness of afternoon,
has not yet managed to bow even a fraction to that radiance.

Even if your whole life becomes a Gayatri to the Divine, the ineffable is not defined! And even if the sun becomes the lamp of your arati, the worship does not finish!

Not all directions could be cupped in a single palmful,
my solitary art of worship remained unfinished;
in the unbroken mountain-arms of Om’s resonance,
no link in my surrender could be completed;
even the entire sun, lifelong, as my temple-lamp,
could not become the unwavering white flame of arati;
my life-Gayatri, muttered in the stillness of afternoon,
has not yet managed to bow even a fraction to that radiance.

The restlessness, the futility of this circled, circumambulated life,
you alone may know it—no one else will;
I did not seek the invocation of your compassion,
no other could find me worthy of forgiveness;
my trust remained like the rhythm of a mind beyond feeling,
my destiny ripened only in that completion;
forgetting the free pathways of dream-begotten inspiration,
my troubled worship kept staring at its own poverty.

Always my meanings broke, even my words,
no divine lineament of your grandeur could be drawn;
what stayed forever unexpressed in my accursed breath,
that helpless feeling of mine stood petrified and still;
of your boundless, all-conscious, all-illumined vastness,
no transparent knowing descends upon my prayer;
in the bottomless, forever-rending emptiness, mute, inert-like,
my enchanted incapacity keeps arriving, unfulfilled.

It has never been said, nor can it ever be said; and yet such is the compassion of the saints—they try to make the unsayable said. Knowing well it hasn’t happened, cannot happen; still, perhaps some thirsty soul may be filled with longing, perhaps some sleeping self might awaken to the call. They know well…

Always my meanings broke, even my words,
no divine lineament of your grandeur could be drawn—

Who has drawn that form of the Divine? Who has bound it in colors, in words? No outline has ever been made.

Forgetting the free pathways of dream-begotten inspiration,
my troubled worship kept staring at its own poverty.

The devotee knows his own helplessness. The saint recognizes his own poverty.

The restlessness, the futility of this circled, circumambulated life,
you alone may know it—no one else will—

And only God knows the devotee’s helplessness. Only God knows the devotee’s tireless striving—to say what cannot be said; to show what cannot be shown; to tell what cannot be told.

Therefore very subtle, love-filled eyes are needed. Very simple, innocent, trust-full arms are needed—only then can there be an embrace.

Namo Namo Hari Guru Namo, Namo Namo sab sant.
Jan Dariya bandan karai, Namo Namo Bhagavant.

Dariya says: my first salutation is to the Master. And he calls the Master “Hari.”

Namo Namo Hari Guru Namo…

This is true in both senses: first, that the Master is God; second, that God himself is the Master. What speaks through the Master is that which you are seeking. He sits within you as much as within the Master—but you are not yet aware, you don’t recognize him. Seeing your own image in the Master’s mirror, recognition will happen. The Master tells you exactly what the inner Hari wants to tell you. But you don’t listen within. If you won’t listen within, perhaps you can first listen without; you are used to outside. Your ears are trained to the outer, your eyes have expertise in looking out. How will you see within? How turn the eyes inward—you don’t know the art. How will you hear within? There is such commotion in the head that the soft, soft voice is lost who knows where.

Hari speaks within you too, but first you must listen to the outer Hari. Let a little recognition happen, a little company, a little taste—then one day what you heard outside will begin to be heard inside. Because the Master says only what your own inner soul wants to say, we call the Master Hari, and Hari the Master.

Namo Namo Hari Guru Namo…

Dariya says: I bow, again and again I bow.

Bowing does not just mean lowering your head at someone’s feet. Bowing means placing yourself at their feet. It is not about bending the head; it is about dissolving the ego.

…Namo Namo sab sant.

And the day the thing is understood, great amazement dawns: all the saints were saying the same! How many differences we had believed in—so many debates, disputes, polemics, scriptural duels! Pundits wrestling. Hindus grappling with Muslims, Muslims with Christians, Christians with Jains, Jains with Buddhists—everyone entangled with everyone—without knowing this simple fact: that there is not a hair’s difference between what Mahavira said and what Mohammed said. It cannot be otherwise. Truth is one. One who has known that truth is what we call a saint. One who has become one with truth—that is a saint.

The day you understand, you will see God in the outer Master, and the Master in the God within—and in all saints, without condition. You won’t divide: who is ours, who is other. In all saints you will hear the same single resonance.

No matter how many veenas there are, the music is one. No matter how many lamps, the light is one. No matter how many flowers, beauty is one. The same beauty in the rose and in the jasmine, in the champa and the chameli. Beauty is one, expressions different.

Certainly, the verses of the Quran have their own mode, their own style, their own beauty. Think of them as jasmine blossoms. The utterances of the Upanishads have their own unique beauty—call them champa flowers. The verses of the Bible—think of roses. But all are flowers, and what has bloomed in them is one. The same beauty—somewhere white, somewhere red, elsewhere golden.

Namo Namo Hari Guru Namo, Namo Namo sab sant.
Jan Dariya bandan karai, Namo Namo Bhagavant.

And Dariya says: the day it became visible that the same One is outside and inside, and the same One in all saints—then ultimately it became visible that even in those who are not saints, it is the same One. Recognition deepened and deepened.

Jan Dariya bandan karai…

Now Dariya says: I no longer worry whom to salute—I simply salute!

…Namo Namo Bhagavant.

Now I don’t fuss whether someone is saint or non-saint, good or bad. At first I saw him in flowers; now I see him in thorns. Once he appeared in diamonds; now I see him in pebbles and stones too. Who will worry now! Who will take care! I simply bow—bow in all directions. All temples, mosques, gurdwaras are mine. Leave aside the good—he is in the bad too. Other than him, there is no one else. So now only bowing remains. Now I bend and bend. Whether tree or stone, I recognize his image everywhere.

Dariya satguru sabd sau, mit gayi khainchatan.
Bharam andhera mit gaya, parsa pad nirban.

I was in great tug-of-war—who is right, who wrong; what is auspicious, what inauspicious; to which temple shall I go, which idol shall I worship; which scripture to hold, which boat to board; how to cross the ocean of becoming—such a pulling and dragging!

Dariya satguru sabd sau…

But once I heard the Satguru’s Word—

…mit gayi khainchatan—

the entire tug-of-war vanished; because in that one word of the Master all words of all Masters are contained. In one Master all Masters are present—who have been, are, and will be. In one Master all Masters are present.

Bharam andhera mit gaya,
parsa pad nirban.

Let a single word of truth fall in the ear, a single ray of light enter your dark house, a single stroke touch your heart and set it ringing—only once, that is enough.

Bharam andhera mit gaya…

In that very instant, all the darkness—the darkness of delusion, illusion, attachment—disappears.

…parsa pad nirban.

In that very instant, the Great State is touched, the hand reaches it; the touch of nirvana is felt.

In yesterday’s lifeless words I must speak of today,
my feeling must find expression in the language of society.
Yet compelled as he is, a poet is given his own voice;
I grant, saying it is hard—but silence is harder.
Poetry is not only the means; it is the practice, the goal, all of it—
temple, worship, offering, and the worshiped, all of it.
It is an illusion to say the poet constructed the poem.
Was it composed—or did the sun awaken the lotuses?
Put away the dictionary; it’s futile to search
in a printed book for this living architecture of words.
Ask this very moment for the intent of my poem:
if you can hear the echo in your mind, ask your mind.
If I could meet you, not be so far away,
I would not be forced to take shelter in words.
In breath itself it would take form,
you would hear me—and the poem would become itself.

The Satguru’s words are the words of society. And he must say something that society has no inkling of. His language is that which has come down through centuries—worn, dust-laden. Yet he must pour into it something ever-new, like the fresh morning dew, like the first ray of dawn. Old words are stale, tired from long travel; into them he must breathe life. He must fill them with the truth he has just now known—ever new, never old.

In yesterday’s lifeless words I must speak of today,
my feeling must find expression in the language of society.
Yet compelled as he is, a poet is given his own voice—
but say it he must anyway!
I grant, saying it is hard—but silence is harder.

To speak is hard, but to remain silent is harder. One who has known must speak. Whether anyone hears or not, he must speak. He must light lamps before the blind. He must sit by the deaf and play the veena.

But one in a hundred will open an eye, one in a hundred will sip that music. That is enough. That is plenty. And never think the words descending through the saints are theirs. The saints are only instruments.

Poetry is not only the means; it is the practice, the goal, all of it—
temple, worship, offering, and the worshiped, all of it.
It is an illusion to say the poet constructed the poem.
Was it composed—or did the sun awaken the lotuses?

When the sun rises, does he construct the lotuses? The lotuses were already there; the sun’s coming wakes them.

Existence is brimming with poetry.
Poetry flows in the rivers.
Poetry is green in the trees.
Poetry is taking whitecaps on the seas.
Only poetry everywhere.
All existence is an Upanishad, is a Quran—but asleep. With the shock of a Satguru, the lotus opens. Blessed are those who do not get tangled in words but catch the wordless hidden within; who know how to read between the lines; who know how to peer between words. Then a single word is enough.

Dariya satguru sabd sau, mit gayi khainchatan.
Bharam andhera mit gaya, parsa pad nirban.

Touched the Divine! Felt it! There is no distance between you and God—you can touch him now! Right here you can touch—open your ears, open your eyes. Let the lotus of consciousness bloom.

Sota tha bahu janam ka, satguru diya jagae.
Jan Dariya guru sabd sau, sab dukh gaye bilae.

The Master did nothing more—he awakened the sleeper; he shook the sleeper. The same one is hidden in all; someone must shake you awake.

But even when you go to temples and mosques, you go seeking consolation, not truth. Even when you go to saints, you want sweet words to help you dream more successfully. You go seeking blessings to fulfill your dreams. Those who bless you in that way will be pleasing to you. Those who pat your back and say, “You are a great virtuous soul. You built a temple, a dharmashala; you went to the Kumbh, you performed Hajj—what more remains? God is pleased with you; your heaven is assured”—they will be dear to you. Lies are often sweet. If lies were bitter, who would accept them? Lies require a coating of sweetness—of consolation. Truths are bitter, because truth doesn’t console; it awakens you. And if you are enjoying very sweet dreams, the awakener will seem a foe.

The Satguru will always seem harsh. He will always seem to be breaking your assumptions, disturbing your mind, shattering your expectations. He must. It is his grace to do so, because only then will you awaken. Only when your dreams are broken will you wake. Sleep feels sweet; it seems restful. One who awakens you appears an enemy. But without awakening, you will never know who you are and what incomparable wealth is yours.

This silvery vine of shade,
binding the sky in its writhing clasp.
Spreading over the black branches of the night-tree,
it plays with the soft shimmer of every star-bloom.
This silvery vine of shade.
Those fine silver threads whose light sways
from sky to earth,
tangled tenderly in every leaf of night.
In this white-sky creeper,
a sixteen-petaled nectar flower swings,
whose fragrance makes the directions blind,
seeking some unknown root of relation.
Rootless the vine—
and still the flower blooms;
Destiny has not erred.
There is a secret linking heart with every heart.
Everywhere it spreads—
this silvery vine of shade.

In every heart an extraordinary fragrance is stored; it is only a matter of joining the link. You are the musk-deer—musk itself! Running, searching far and wide for the scent which is rising from within. You own that musk. Kasturi kundal base—the musk is housed in you. Let someone awaken you, shake you, make you aware. And whoever makes you aware will annoy you. Remember this, and you will find the Satguru. Keep only this much awareness: that one who awakens you will certainly offend you, and finding the Master will not be difficult.

Beware of those who console, who put balm and bandage on your wounds, who hide your darkness, who paint you over. Where consolation is offered, know that the Satguru is not there. The Satguru will shake you; he will uproot you from where you are, because he must give you a new ground, a new sky.

Sota tha bahu janam ka, satguru diya jagae.
Jan Dariya guru sabd sau, sab dukh gaye bilae.

And Dariya says: I am astonished that as soon as I awoke, all sorrows dissolved! I had thought each sorrow would need its own remedy. Anger—its remedy. Greed—its remedy. Attachment—its remedy. Ego—this, that—thousands of diseases. For so many ailments, so many medicines. But one medicine, and all diseases vanished! Because all our sicknesses are only dreams; they have no reality.

The sinner dreams the dream of sin, the virtuous dream the dream of virtue. One who is awakened is neither sinner nor virtuous—he is simply awake; he has no dream. The thief dreams himself a thief, and your so-called sadhus dream themselves saints. One who is awake is neither non-saint nor saint—he is simply awake. And on awakening all diseases disappear. One samadhi carries away all afflictions.

My wings,
you do the deed each time;
the sky only waits.
Swell and curve and circle the firmament,
in that unruly time-flow, find your truth;
blow breath into death with your fierce speed,
give earth her due above these useless fancies.
Be the act of beauty,
accept the void as well:
you shape the form; the sky only waits.
Rise—till new faith—you till the barren field,
split the deaf sky’s silence with peals of joy,
make the mute threads of light ring with song,
wherever you fly, let that wasteland bloom.
You are the act of song—
accept the silence as well:
sing and pour a stream of nectar; the sky only waits.
Let these balanced wings overrun the unresisted vast,
in the balance of the small, find the great;
there challenges pile up—here stubborn creation;
flag that tears the sky, O earth’s proud brow.
You are the act of the road—
accept the unreachable as well:
unfurl the shoreless; the sky only waits.

Let someone awaken you, shake you, say—

Rise—till new faith—you till the barren field,
split the deaf sky’s silence with peals of joy,
make the mute threads of light ring with song,
wherever you fly, let that wasteland bloom.
You are the act of song—
accept the silence as well:
sing and pour a stream of nectar; the sky only waits.

We can only be what we are. We can only be our nature. But we don’t know it. We have forgotten our own nature, our own face—that we have great capacity; that the Creator dwells within us; that God has chosen us as his dwelling.

You are the act of song—
accept the silence as well:
sing and pour a stream of nectar; the sky only waits.

Don’t sit staring at an empty sky; the sky will do nothing. Don’t keep praying with folded hands in temples; nothing will happen that way.

The sky only waits.

The sky is emptiness; you must awaken, you must create, refine yourself, dust yourself clean.

Let these balanced wings overrun the unresisted vast,
in the balance of the small, find the great…
You are the act of the road—
accept the unreachable as well:
unfurl the shoreless; the sky only waits.

Who can say this to you? One who has spread his wings and known the heights. One who has dived into the Pacifics and known the depths. One in whom flowers have bloomed; in whom silence has awakened. One who has embraced God within. Only such a one can awaken you too.

But you keep circling around pundits and priests. They are neither awake, nor can they awaken.

Ram bina feeka lagai, sab kiriya shastra gyan.

Dariya says: to whom are you drifting? To those who have not found Ram, who have not become Ram, in whom Ram has not awakened.

Ram bina feeka lagai…

Look into the eyes of pundits and priests! Probe their hearts! Mostly you will find them in darkness deeper than your own.

…sab kiriya shastra gyan.

Certainly, they know rituals, and they possess many scriptures, and parroted knowledge learned from scriptures—but it has no value. It leaves no imprint on their lives.

I once went to Mulla Nasruddin’s town. He took me around the city. Seeing the grand building of the university I said, “Nasruddin, is this the university? Beautiful, magnificent!”

“Haou,” Mulla replied.

Then we came to a vast field. “Is this the Gandhi Maidan?”

Mulla said, “Haou.”

Hearing “haou” in answer to everything, I asked, “What is this ‘haou’?”

“Haou,” Mulla said, “it’s a local word. Illiterate people say ‘haou’ for ‘haan’—yes.”

I said, “But Nasruddin, you are educated!”

He said, “Haou!”

What good is being educated? Scriptures remain on the surface; they do not touch your core. Rituals are mechanical. You can repeat the Gayatri daily, but it’s like a parrot.

A newly rich man, to impress his guests, trained his servant Mulla Nasruddin that whenever guests asked for anything, he should ask which kind they wanted. If they asked for paan, the servant should immediately inquire, “Which paan, sir? Maghai or Banarasi? Mahoba or Kapoori?” Thus the guests would be overawed that this was no ordinary rich man; every variety was available at home.

One day they called for sherbet. As instructed, Nasruddin rattled off the list: “Which sherbet shall I bring, sir? Khus or pomegranate? Kewra or almond?”

After drinking, as the guests were leaving, they said politely, “It’s been long since we paid respects to your father—may we see him?”

The nouveau riche told Mulla, “Go, call father.”

Obedient Nasruddin immediately asked, “Which father? The one in England, or France, or America?”

A man trapped in ritual can’t rise above such hollowness—everything is shallow. He doesn’t understand what he is doing. As instructed, he does it. How many aratis to wave—so many are waved. How many circumambulations around the idol—so many are done. How many flowers to offer—he offers them. How many mantras to chant—he chants. How many rosaries to turn—he turns them. But the heart is touched nowhere. There is no awareness.

Ram bina feeka lagai…

Dariya is right: until the inner Ram awakens—or until you come into the company of someone in whom Ram is awake—everything is tasteless.

…sab kiriya shastra gyan.
Dariya deepak kah karai, uday bhaya nij bhan.

And when the sun rises within, no external lamps are needed. No scriptures or rituals are required. When one’s own knowing happens, it is no longer necessary to carry borrowed knowing.

Dariya deepak kah karai, uday bhaya nij bhan.

Dariya says: now there is no need. Let the Upanishads say what they say—they speak rightly. Let the Quran say what it says—it speaks rightly. But my own Quran has awakened. Verses have begun to bloom within me. Upanishads are being born inside.

The Satguru doesn’t hand out doctrines; he gives awakening. He doesn’t give scripture; he gives self-knowing. He doesn’t give rituals; he gives direct experience, samadhi.

Dariya nar-tan paaye kar, kiya chahae kaaj.
Rao rank dono tarain, jo baithe nam-jahaj.

Dariya says: you have received this life—do something! Do the essential work!

…kiya chahae kaaj.

Don’t get tangled in the futile. Someone amasses wealth, someone climbs to high office—all will be wasted. Death is on its way. When death comes, it will pour water on all you have done. Whatever death can wash away is not the real work.

Dariya nar-tan paaye kar, kiya chahae kaaj.

This wondrous human life is given. Do the real work. What is the real work?

Rao rank dono tarain, jo baithe nam-jahaj.

Remember the Divine. Board the boat of the Name. Before death takes you, step onto God’s boat.

Musalman Hindu kaha, shat darsan rank rao.
Jan Dariya Hari-nam bin, sab par Yam ka daav.

And know this: death doesn’t care whether you are Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jain. Death doesn’t care whether you are poor or rich. Death doesn’t care if you are a peon or a president. It makes no difference.

Musalman Hindu kaha, shat darsan rank rao.

Nor does it matter if the six systems of philosophy are at your fingertips, if you can recite the four Vedas, if you know the Quran by heart. Death will not consider any of this.

Jan Dariya Hari-nam bin…

Only one thing lies beyond death’s reach—Ram awakened within you, the birth of remembrance.

…sab par Yam ka daav.

Death has a claim on all. Only Ram is nectar; all else is mortal.

And no matter how much wealth you acquire, when is desire ever satisfied? It asks for more, and more. No matter how high the office, there are always further rungs. Wherever you arrive, the race continues; the scramble never ends.

Tell awakening to pause—my dream is still unfinished.
Lines are drawn, no picture yet.
Meditation is not yet worship,
Imagination has only just risen,
And the sandal-breeze still walks beside me—
Do not reward me as a god;
My effort is still unfinished.
The moon’s chariot has just set out,
The bud has not yet learned to smile,
No sadness has fallen on the stars yet,
The lamp has not asked farewell—
Sing no dawn-songs, call not the morning;
My question is still unfinished.
The fire is not yet an arati,
Feeling is not yet Bharati,
Prayer speaks, but silent offering is not,
There’s much petition, no surrender—
Do not put me on the touchstone yet,
My pure gold is still unfinished.
When wind rings the anklets of the branches,
When rays make the flower’s tresses bloom,
When the bee plays its flute to the garden—
And when, then, I remember you,
Come to the door then, and return then:
My broken heart is still unfinished.

Man is scared, because everything is unfinished. In this world nothing ever ripens—and death arrives. Nothing is ever completed—and death arrives. So the scramble is vain, all effort futile. If you must do something, do the essential work.

…jo baithe nam-jahaj.

He has done the real work.

Musalman Hindu kaha, shat darsan rank rao.
Jan Dariya Hari-nam bin, sab par Yam ka daav.

Jo koi sadhu grihi mein, mahin Ram bharpur.
Dariya kah us das ki, main charanan ki dhoor.

One who begins to see Ram in saint and non-saint alike—know that he has arrived.

Jo koi sadhu grihi mein, mahin Ram bharpur.

One who sees only Ram even in the worldly man, in the householder; in renunciate and worldly, no difference; in both he sees the same Ram—he sees only Ram.

Dariya says of that servant: let me be the dust of his feet. It is enough. Just this much longing is enough. If the feet of one who has known Ram fall into your hands, Ram has fallen into your hands. If the words of one who has known Ram fall into your ears, the words of Ram have fallen into your ears.

Dariya sumirai Ram ko, sahaj timir ka naas.
Ghat bhitar hoye chandana, paramjyoti parkas.

Dariya remembers Ram…

Just remembrance of Ram, and all darkness disappears—as when a lamp is lit, darkness vanishes!

Keep this in mind. You have been repeatedly taught the reverse. You were continually given lessons in morality and deprived of religion. So much morality was forced on you that you mistook morality for religion.

Morality and religion are opposite dimensions. Morality means: fight each disease separately. If there is anger, cultivate non-anger; if greed, cultivate non-greed; if attachment, cultivate detachment. Every disease, its separate cure. Religion means: cut the root of all diseases. The root is your sleep, your stupor. Cut that root—wake up—and all diseases disappear.

Morality fights with darkness—push it here, push it there. But does darkness vanish by pushing? Light the lamp! Religion means: light the lamp! Leave darkness alone.

People ask me, “How to be rid of anger? Of greed? What to do with lust?” I give them one answer: meditate.

One day a man asked, “How to remove anger?”
I said, “Meditate.”

He was still sitting when another asked, “How to remove greed?”
I said, “Meditate.”

The first said, “Wait! That’s what you told me. My disease is anger, his is greed. How can the treatment be the same?”

Morality assigns a separate arrangement to each ailment; therefore it appears logical. However logical morality may seem, it is futile. By practicing morality, no one becomes moral. Yes, by knowing religion, people become moral. The moral man is not necessarily religious; the religious man inevitably becomes moral—naturally moral.

Only one thing to do—wake up.

What is sleep? What is waking?

There is a thing, an image—and I am between the two—
my eyes are between the two!
However I turn my glance,
whether I try to see one alone,
both keep appearing in my eyes—
lotus and mud in my head!
There is a form, a picture—and I am between the two—
my eyes are between the two!
Even if I close my eyes,
they both arrive as dreams,
what can I draw—They themselves draw
my mind to them!
There is a truth, a dream—and I am between the two—
my eyes are between the two!
A thirsty land, in hope of water,
when it chirps in bird-language,
then rays of the sun fill the pitchers of clouds
and go to water the woods!
There is a Brahman, a nature—and I am between the two—
my eyes are between the two!

This “I-sense,” just this “I,” is our sleep, our drowsing, our fainting. One who drops the “I” awakes. Because of the “I,” the world becomes two—nature and the Divine appear separate, because I stand in between.

Take a clay pot to the river and dip it. Water fills the pot. Outside is water, inside is water; between them stands a wall of clay. Now the pot’s water appears separate from the river’s water. A moment ago they were one; even now they are one; just a thin wall of clay.

So too, a tenuous, thin state of ego separates us from God. Because we stand in the middle, nature and God appear different. Where the “I” disappears, nature and God are one.

Dariya sumirai Ram ko, sahaj timir ka naas.
Ghat bhitar hoye chandana, paramjyoti parkas.

Let the Divine be remembered… ego must dissolve for remembrance to happen. Either I, or Thou—remember. They cannot be together.

Recall the Sufi Jalaluddin. The lover knocks at his beloved’s door. From within a voice asks, “Who is it?” He says, “It is I, your lover! Don’t you recognize me?” But the beloved replies, “This house is small. The house of love is small. Two will not fit. Go back for now—prepare yourself; two cannot live in the house of love. Two swords will not rest in one scabbard.”

The lover returns. Moons come and go. Suns rise and set. Years pass. Slowly, slowly he reduces the “I,” reduces it and reduces it. When the I has melted away, he returns and knocks. “Who is it?” “You alone. You outside, you inside.”

Rumi says: the door opened! When one remains, the doors open. As long as there are two, there is obstruction. Duality is our dilemma. When duality goes, ease arrives.

Ghat bhitar hoye chandana…

Let this “I,” this darkness of ego, fade—then the moon rises within.

Ghat bhitar hoye chandana…

Moonlight, moonlight everywhere. Silver of the moon spills over.

…paramjyoti parkas.

And the light that is eternal is experienced—without wick and without oil. With neither wick nor oil, there is no question of being consumed, of being extinguished.

Satguru-sang na sanchara, Ram-nam ur nahin.
Te ghat marghat sarikha, bhoot basai ta mahin.

One who never moved in the company of the Satguru, who did not seek him, who did not breathe the air around him—

Satguru-sang na sanchara, Ram-nam ur nahin—

whose heart never awoke to the Name of Ram, to the feeling of Ram, to the music of Ram—he is like a cremation ground.

Te ghat marghat sarikha…

He is not alive; he is dead. What life does he have? He is a walking corpse.

Te ghat marghat sarikha, bhoot basai ta mahin.

His soul does not dwell within; only ghosts. “Bhoot” is a lovely word; it means “past.” That’s why we say, “former minister.” This country is full of ghosts—former ministers, former prime ministers, former this and that! “Former presidents”—ghosts everywhere!

“Bhoot” means the past, that which has passed. One in whom nothing but the past dwells and who has no touch of the present—he is a ghost. He seems to live, but stay a little careful around him, lest he rub off on you. The mind’s way is past. The mind is “bhoot.” It lives only in the past. It keeps collecting what has gone by—yesterdays upon yesterdays. What is the mind, other than memory? Memory means the past.

Break your ties with the past; connect with the present. If for a single moment no “past” remains within you! When the past goes, its shadow—the future—also goes. The future is the shadow of the past. When the past goes, the future goes. Then what remains is pure present—this diamond-bright, shining moment! And in this very moment is the door to the Divine.

This is the whole meaning of satsang. Sitting near the Satguru has no other meaning. In the Satguru there is no past, no future. He is only here and now—pure present; neither looking back nor forward, simply still here. Other than this moment he has no concern.

And you know: if only the present remains, thoughts cannot be. Thoughts are of the past or of the future. There is no thought of the present. Hold this key carefully: there is no thought of the present; in the present there are no thoughts. Thoughts arise when something has passed; the tracks remain, the grooves remain, footprints remain. Or thoughts are about the future—what should be, what is desired. But what thought about the present? The present is thought-free. To be thought-free is satsang. If you sit near one who is thought-free, in whom there is silence and emptiness—emptiness is contagious. Sitting alongside, the “illness” of emptiness spreads. Silence will begin to pervade you; waves of emptiness will slowly enter you. As the company you keep—so you become.

Walk through a garden; even if you don’t touch the flowers, your clothing will carry their fragrance. Grind henna; even if you didn’t intend to stain your hands, your hands will take its color.

Sitting in satsang is sitting where flowers have bloomed. Some fragrance will be caught—despite you. That very fragrance will remind you of the source of fragrance within.

Satguru-sang na sanchara, Ram-nam ur nahin.
Te ghat marghat sarikha, bhoot basai ta mahin.

Dariya kaya karavi, mausar hai din char.
Jab lag saans sharir mein, tab lag Ram sambhar.

Listen: understand. This body is illusory, made of dust. It will go—sooner or later. It is on its way out.

Dariya kaya karavi…

It is a play of maya, a magician’s trick, a deception.

…mausar hai din char.

The opportunity is very brief—four days, as we say. Just a few days.

Jab lag saans sharir mein, tab lag Ram sambhar.

Within these brief days, in this little time, in these four days—guard Ram.

Jab lag saans sharir mein…

And remember to the last breath—so long as breath remains in the body, don’t forget Ram. One who departs remembering Ram does not have to return again to a body. One who leaves while submerged in Ram merges into Ram and need not return. He need not be narrowed again, need not be confined in this small body.

Dariya aatam mal bhara, kaise nirmal hoe.
Saban lagai prem ka, Ram-nam-jal dhoe.

Yes, there is much filth—granted. If you want to purify it, do two things, says Dariya: the soap of love! Love as much as you can. Give as much love as you can. Let love be your way of life.

Saban lagai prem ka, Ram-nam-jal dhoe.

Then lather with love, and wash with the water of the Name. Love and meditation—two things. Meditation within, love without. Distribute love, and guard meditation. Let the lamp of meditation burn, and the light of love spread—that is enough. If this is mastered, all is mastered. If not, the opportunity is lost.

Dariya sumiran Ram ka, dekhat bhuli khel.
Dhan dhan hain ve sadhava, jin liya man mel.

Dariya says: since remembrance of Ram came, I forgot all other games. And everything else is a game. Little children play Monopoly; big children also play Monopoly. The little ones have a board and fake money. But are your notes real? They are just as fake—valid only by agreement. Because we agree, they seem like wealth. When man is no longer on earth, the gold and silver will remain—but no one will call it wealth. Diamonds will lie there—but among pebbles and diamonds there will be no difference. Kohinoor and a pebble beside it—no difference in value. Man constructs value-differences. All values are man-made, imagined.

Dariya sumiran Ram ka, dekhat bhuli khel.

And what games! “Let me become famous, let people know me, let me have a name and prestige”—all games! You will not remain—whether your name remains or not, what does it matter? You will not remain, and the few who remember you will also go. First you will vanish, then with the vanishing of those few, your memory too will vanish.

How many have lived on this earth before you? Scientists say: beneath where you are sitting, at least ten corpses are buried—so many have lived that the whole earth is a cremation ground. Settlements have been raised and razed many times. Many cremation grounds became towns; many towns became cremation grounds. In Mohenjodaro, seven layers were found—settled seven times, destroyed seven times over thousands of years. How many times did it become a cremation ground, how many times a town! You fear the cremation ground—no need; where you live has been a cremation ground many times. Drop fear.

The earth is stuffed with corpses. Still the games don’t stop. They won’t stop—until remembrance of Ram arises. Until the search for God seizes your very breath, until his thirst becomes your only thirst, the games will not stop. Yes, when his thirst takes hold, the games fall away on their own.

Mark the difference: Dariya is not telling you to drop the games. He is saying: remember Ram, and the games drop on their own. If they drop, fine; if they don’t, fine. But one thing becomes certain: you know they are games. If you know they are games—the matter is finished.

In the Ram Lila, you may play Rama—but you won’t go home to weep, “What will happen to Sita now in Ashoka Grove!” In the Lila, you will wander asking bushes, “O bush, where is my Sita?” But as soon as the curtain falls, you run home—another Sita is waiting. And when night falls, you forget even that Sita, because in sleep there are a thousand more Sitas to meet. Curtain after curtain, play upon play.

A sannyasin understands the whole of life in this way: whatever role the Divine gives, he plays it. If he says “Be a shopkeeper,” he becomes a shopkeeper. If “Be a teacher,” he becomes a teacher. If “Be a station master,” he becomes a station master—waving the flag, directing trains. But one thing remains in remembrance: the play is his; I am only playing. When his call comes—Return home—the curtain will fall, the bell will ring, and I’ll go home.

It is not about renouncing the game; knowing it as a game is its renunciation. Knowing is liberation.

So I do not tell you to run from where you are. If you run, you will only play the game of running away. That is your trouble. Some play the game of householding, others the game of renunciation. One who leaves his wife and runs away—one thing is sure: he does not consider living with his wife a game. If it were a game, what was running away? If it were a game, why run? If it is a game, where is there to go? The children, the wife, the doors, the house—all was fine—a play—he could have gone on playing. Since he ran, one thing is sure: he took the play to be real—too real. Where will he go? The mind that takes things as real goes along. The mind will not be left behind. The house and wife may be left behind—but the mind that considered them real will simply go build an ashram and play the ashram game.

A friend of mine has a hobby—building houses. He built his own beautifully. If a friend’s house was being built, he would devote days and nights. One day I heard he had become a sannyasin. I thought: he’s in trouble—what about his hobby? What will he do as a sannyasin? Ten years later I passed by his mountain town. I said, let me take a detour and see what he’s doing; how’s the hobby?

The hobby continued. There he stood at noon under a parasol. “What are you doing?” I asked.

“Building an ashram,” he said.

Now the ashram was being built. Same man, same game. I said, “Why did you leave? You were doing this anyway. To tell the truth, when you built friends’ houses there was less attachment. Now you build your own ashram—attachment will be more.”

He said, “True. But this house-building will not leave me. Only these dreams arise—this kind of house, that kind of house…”

You may run away, but you cannot run away from yourself. You will go along with you—your mistakes and illusions will travel with you.

Let it sink deep—not merely on the surface—that life is a play, a Lila, a drama. Then play, but play with awareness.

In a village Ram Lila, Lakshman lay unconscious; Hanuman had gone to fetch the life-giving herb. Not finding it, he brought the whole mountain. It was a rope stunt—the village theater. The rope got stuck in its pulley. The audience grew restless. Lakshman opened his eyes now and then—“It’s getting late.” Rama looked up: “Hanuman, where are you? Come quickly. Lakshman’s life is in danger.” Hanuman heard it all—but what to say? He was stuck. The manager panicked and cut the rope. Hanuman fell with the mountain—thud! He forgot where he was.

Rama asked, “Did you bring the herb? Lakshman is dying.”

Hanuman said, “To hell with Lakshman! And damn the herb. Tell me first—who cut the rope?”

If it is only on the surface, this will be your condition too. Let it penetrate every fiber. Otherwise, a slight scratch and you forget. Let it sit at the innermost core: the world is a play, a Lila. Then play the play with awareness.

Dariya sumiran Ram ka, dekhat bhuli khel.
Dhan dhan hain ve sadhava, jin liya man mel.

Blessed are those who have merged their minds with Ram so totally that they do not count any separate self. It’s his play; if he makes me play, I play. If he calls me back, I go. I have nothing here; nothing brought, nothing to take.

Sakhi! Mujh mein ab apna kya hai!
Rubbing, rubbing, my pitcher—
today it cracked at the ghats;
helpless, my ego spilled,
my boundaries fell away;
what is there now to swim, or to flow?
Sister, what in me is mine?
Sin and virtue, love and envy—
I gave away all that was mine;
as soon as I offered my all,
bright burst the white and black;
what is truth now, and what a dream?
Sister, what in me is mine?
Seeing my own pains,
inscribed on your golden hem,
my voice fell silent,
once, after an unrestrained upsurge;
what is there to say to the Beloved?
Sister, what in me is mine?
In the unreachable ocean of desires,
life’s deeds became waves;
the boat of awareness goes on,
fear trembles—and becomes love;
what is near or far now?
Sister, what in me is mine?
O priestess of divine pain!
What boon you have given me—
your honeyed burden—
I rested it for a moment;
what is there for me to endure in it?
Sister, what in me is mine?

Once the mind is in union with Ram, what remains as “mine”? Then neither renouncing nor grasping. Neither denial nor indulgence.

Firi duhai sahar mein, chor gaye sab bhaj.

And as soon as it becomes clear that the mind is absorbed in Ram, all thieves flee. In the inner city, the drum is beaten—Run! The master has come! Light has come; the darkness runs.

Firi duhai sahar mein, chor gaye sab bhaj.
Shatr phir mitra ju bhaya, hua Ram ka raj.

Then anger becomes compassion; lust becomes prayer; kama becomes Rama. Enemies turn to friends. What a lovely definition of Ram-rajya—having nothing to do with the outer.

Shatr phir mitra ju bhaya, hua Ram ka raj.

Inside, the mind became one with Ram—it was one already, but now it is recognized. That is Ram-rajya! A shower of joy throughout life! Spring has arrived!

The vine’s body stirs—Phagun has come.
Beyond transparent glances mustard surges,
in the forest of scents, naked palash berries go wild;
handfuls of love are flung—Phagun has come.
Days pass, wearing the rainbow’s spread,
relations bloom like amaltas, and sink into the mind;
doubt falls like petals—Phagun has come.
A flute’s call skims the slender mango groves,
signals of ponds go mad in playful shadows,
rain drips from the bowed leaves—Phagun has come.
A rosy haze spreads over the damp, vermilion sun,
the sky is filled with rangolis, touched by kumkum,
door, courtyard, house—gooseflesh with delight. Phagun has come.

This spring is what we await, what we seek—that colors may rain, that life be filled with rainbows, that fragrance rise, that a lamp light, that Ram-rajya arrive. And the key is simple: the difference of “I-and-Thou” must dissolve. When the “I-you” falls, Ram-rajya enters.

It is your birthright. If you lose it, you are responsible. Do not miss the chance. Awake!

Ami jharat, bigasat kanval!
Nectar rains; lotuses open!

Enough for today.