Ami Jharat Bigsat Kanwal #11

Today, in the inner court of my heart, come play your heart-delighting play.
Pour into me the honeyed ache of longing, the tingling nectar of your vision.

Shy hope of your darshan stands apart in a corner,
intoxicated yearning for your touch sways and rises,
tell me, stubborn Beloved, why this insistence on delay today?
With a heart-stealing, elephantine grace, set your feet in the temple of my mind.
Today, in the inner court of my heart, come play your heart-delighting play.

I am very small—an ultimate atom—finite, constricted.
Helpless, bound by qualities, my movement blocked, astonished, overcome.
Yet I carry the hope of the whole cosmos, and in that I am eternally pained.
Come play the radiant play that unveils the beautiful, hidden mystery.
Today, in the inner court of my heart, come play your heart-delighting play.

Why do you scold that this courtyard is narrow?
Your soft footfall will widen it to the sky.
Today, the limited has sent you, the limitless, an invitation—
O Lord of Love, pour yourself down and dispel this cramped, timid shame.
Today, in the inner court of my heart, come play your heart-delighting play.

There is only one prayer, one invitation, one longing of the devotee—that in this little heart of mine, this drop-like heart, you let your ocean enter. The ocean can descend into the drop. From above, the drop looks small; within the drop there is as much sky as there is outside. If there is a delay, it is only in offering a heartfelt invitation. If there is a hindrance, it is only this much—that you have not called.

The Divine is eager every moment to come. But how can He come uninvited? And if He comes uninvited, how will you recognize Him? If He comes uninvited, you will drive Him away.

Call Him with your whole life-breath. Let every hair of your body become prayer, every heartbeat your thirst. You will flame up. A single longing alone will remain within you—to attain Him. In that very instant, revolution happens. In that very instant, His arrival takes place. He had already arrived; only you were not present. He stood before you, but your eyes were closed. The Divine is not far—you are the one avoiding Him. The Divine is not far—you are forever turning your back on Him.

And there is a reason. Your avoidance is not without cause. The drop fears: if the ocean descends, what chance do I have? I am gone! If the ocean comes, I am erased. The same fear—that I might be annihilated! The same fear—that I might come to an end! That the very definition of me might collapse! That my existence itself be endangered! And thus you do not call with total life-breath. Even when you pray, it is hollow. Even when you pray, it is untrue. Even when you pray, it is formal. And can prayer ever be formal? Can love ever be a mere ritual? Your formality has become your label—your disease. When will you call naturally? When will you call with your whole being? And you don’t have to call again and again. One call is enough. But you must be utterly included in that call. If even a tiny part of you remains outside the call, then the call will not work.

Water boils, becomes steam at one hundred degrees; not at ninety-nine. If there is even one degree less, water will not turn to steam. If even a small part within you remains full of doubt, reserved, eager to save itself, holding back—unmerged in your prayer—you cannot vaporize. And without vaporizing, a devotee cannot experience God. A devotee has to vanish. Not even a trace should remain. Not even a line should be left behind. The very moment a devotee disappears so completely that nothing remains which can say “mine,” nothing remains which can say “I”—in that instant, that very instant, a great revolution happens. Prayer is fulfilled, the Divine descends.

Today, in the inner court of my heart, come play your heart-delighting play.
Pour into me the honeyed ache of longing, the tingling nectar of your vision.

Shy hope of your darshan stands apart in a corner,
intoxicated yearning for your touch sways and rises,
tell me, stubborn Beloved, why this insistence on delay today?
With a heart-stealing, elephantine grace, set your feet in the temple of my mind.
Today, in the inner court of my heart, come play your heart-delighting play.

Call Him, that He may come and play in the courtyard of your heart. Say to Him that the courtyard is small; but the moment you enter, it will grow vast. Only set down your feet, and the courtyard will become the sky. If the ocean comes, the drop becomes capable of containing even the ocean within itself. In truth, whether the ocean contains the drop, or the drop contains the ocean—these are two ways of saying the same thing.

In that supreme state—for which we have been seeking for lives upon lives—neither the devotee remains nor the God remains. What remains? Godliness remains. On one side, God disappears; on the other, the devotee disappears. When the devotee is gone, how can God remain? God was the devotee’s notion: since I am a devotee, you are God. God was the devotee’s conception. The devotee is gone, God too is gone. What remains, what shall we call it?

I call it bhagavatta—godliness. The whole world becomes conscious. Every hair becomes filled with the Divine. Every atom begins to call out that Brahman. His signature appears on every leaf. Standing up, sitting down, walking about—everything is within Him. Rising in Him, sitting in Him, walking in Him, sleeping in Him, living in Him, dying in Him. Then life has a different fragrance. The fish that writhed on the shore has found its ocean. Now the taste of life changes, the joy changes.

And until such a festival arrives in your life, do not stop. There are many halting places, and each halt is beautiful. But recognize a halt as a halt. In the night, stop and rest. Remember, in the morning you must rise and move on. The call is from afar, the call is from the infinite. Let nothing entangle you, let nothing delay you. This state of mind is called sannyas. In the search for the Supreme, let nothing become an obstacle. This unconditional surrender is sannyas.

The sutras of Dariya are dear.

Adi anadi mera Sai.
Prayer has been fulfilled. Prayer has borne fruit. Flowers have blossomed upon prayer. Spring has come. From the flower of prayer, fragrance has begun to rise.

Adi anadi mera Sai.
He is my master, my lord—both. He is the beginning and the end. He is the seed, He is the tree. He is birth and He is death. In that supremely Beloved, all dualities have become one; all oppositions have dropped their opposition.

You may have seen such an image or painting of Mahavira—found in Jain homes and temples—where a lion and a lamb sit together. The Jains say it is a symbol of Mahavira’s influence. Such a profound atmosphere of nonviolence arose within him that lion and lamb could sit together. The lamb is not afraid, and the lion has no urge to eat the lamb.

As I see it, that picture means something else. It is not an indicator of Mahavira’s nonviolence. It symbolizes a greater glory: Mahavira is now in that state where natural dualities dissolve; opposites become one; enmities are absorbed; extremes, standing at far ends, come close. It is not to showcase the influence of nonviolence; for if Mahavira’s nonviolence had such an influence, then those who drove spikes through his ears and hurled stones at him—did nonviolence not affect them? No impact on human beings, but on lions and lambs? That does not ring true. The matter is something else.

In the supreme state, when the devotee is absorbed in God and God is absorbed in the devotee—when the drop and the ocean unite and godliness alone remains—no duality remains there. Day and night are one. All dualities disappear. That is the state beyond duality. Two do not remain. Twoness does not remain. Only One remains. Dariya sings the song of that One:

Adi anadi mera Sai.
Drasht na musht hai agam agochar. Yah sab maya unahin main.
He is not seen. Nor can we say he is hidden. In that supreme state He is both unseen and seen. The categories of logic are no longer useful. Now statements must be made beyond logic. This statement is trans-logical.

The Upanishads say: He is farther than the farthest and nearer than the nearest.
You may ask: if He is farther than the farthest, how can He be nearer than the nearest? And if He is nearer than the nearest, what meaning has “farther than the farthest”?

All the wise have given paradoxical statements. They had to. There is no other way. If the Divine is to be expressed, we must say: He is darkness and He is light. Our mind stumbles: how can darkness be light? How can light be darkness? We have divided, labeled everything—birth here, death there. But truly, look a little closely: is birth separate from death? Even a little? Could there be death without birth? With birth, death arrives—perhaps the other side of the same coin.

Dariya says: He cannot be seen; He is not an object. But He is not hidden either. He is not concealed in a fist so that none may see. He is seen and He is not seen. What does this mean? What purpose has this lovely paradox?

He is seen by those who close their eyes, and not seen by those who keep their eyes open. For those who try to see with the eyes, He is unmanifest; for those who see with the heart, He is manifest. For those who think with the intellect, it is impossible to see Him. But for those in whose life waves of love begin to rise, He is so simple, so easy—nothing is easier, nothing simpler.

Drasht na musht hai agam agochar.
He is immeasurable, hence inaccessible. No definition can contain Him. The intellect cannot grasp Him. But fortunately, you have not only intellect—you have something more. You have a heart—untouched, virginal—which you have not touched, not used; because in the world there is no need for it. In the world, intellect suffices.

Hence from school to university we teach intellect. For twenty-five years we make people masters of mind. We sharpen their logic. And we kill their hearts. We leave the heart aside. It is neglected— as if it were not there at all.

It is as if an airplane fell into the hands of those who do not understand, and they begin using it as a pushcart. They could. The municipal garbage could be hauled to the outskirts on a plane. Somewhat wiser ones might even make a bus out of it; but it would run only on the ground. That which could fly in the sky, you turned into a bus!

Such is the human condition. Intellect walks on the earth; the heart flies in the sky. The heart has wings; intellect has feet. Intellect is earthly. Therefore those who think only with the intellect will never get even a glimpse of the Divine. Not even in dreams will His shadow fall. Those who think only with the intellect will one day come to the conclusion that God does not exist. They must—if they are honest. If people who think only with the intellect say God exists, know they are being dishonest.

In this world there are two kinds of people. There are honest theists; that too is not a good situation. They only appear honest; they cannot be truly honest. It is a hypocrisy of honesty. To speak the truth, in this world there are dishonest theists. They think with the mind, live by the mind. They even gather evidence for God. And there can be no evidence for God. He is self-evident. Who will testify for Him? Who will serve as proof? Whoever becomes the proof would be greater than Him; then God would depend on the proof, and whatever depends is lesser. These so-called honest theists are not honest and cannot be—because their theism has not risen from the heart: it is merely intellectual, imprinted, acquired from education.

So let me say: the world is full of dishonest theists. Their plight is equally bad. Theistic—and dishonest! How will dishonesty connect with God? For imān means dharma; to be without imān is adharma. Irreligious theists.

And on the other side are honest atheists. A great puzzle in human life: honest atheists! They are at least honest, because their intellect says there is no God. The intellect seeks arguments and finds none, so they say: there is no God. At least that much honesty. But their honesty, their sense of righteousness, throws them into atheism. Honest atheists—they cannot reach God. Dishonest people are praying in temples, mosques, churches. Their prayers and worship are false, pretence—because their God is only a concept of the mind.

A third kind of human being is needed. A third man has become absolutely essential; for with this third man lies the future of humanity. He is the ray of hope. A third man—an honest theist.

But then we must change the whole process of man. We must change the entire structure of man. We must put the heart above the intellect, not the intellect above the heart.

This revolution is transformation. The day you begin to value feeling above thought, that day the first glimpse of religion has come into your life. The day you hold love more precious than logic, the door of the Divine begins to open for you. To the eye of the intellect He is unmanifest; to the eye of the heart, manifest. If the intellect goes searching, it will find no bottom. If the heart goes searching—then instantly, here and now! Even the bottomless yields a bottom. The impossible becomes possible.

Awakened—yes, awakened is that sleeping, unheard raga.
Filled—yes, filled is the heart with immaculate love.
Opened—yes, opened is the window of the eyes today;
Washed—yes, washed is the long-stored shame of the heart;
Drenched in the colors of love, the playful eyes toss colors of spring.
Awakened—yes, awakened is that sleeping, unheard raga.

The heartbeat keeps time like a swift dhrupad’s beat;
From sobs rise vast waves of sound;
In the gravity of a sigh, the drum of delight;
In the ruthless wail, the clash of cymbals’ color;
The stray smudge of love’s god has left his mark.
Awakened—yes, awakened is that sleeping, unheard raga.

Borne away like a secret lover in love’s shoreless sea,
the mad pleading boat of the heart rocks, ancient,
thin, unbound, a crumbling cluster of planks—
how shall it cross? A profound, difficult question!
Sound-waves are rising, rising—love increases.
Awakened—yes, awakened is that sleeping, unheard raga.

Soft tender vine-like arms swing, childlike,
make blessed today the hard secret signs;
Let me write your name among your worshipers;
The heart’s fever has found its fulfillment, Beloved;
The doors of raga and love have opened now.
Awakened—yes, awakened is that sleeping, unheard raga.

Within your heart lies a song asleep, a raga asleep. Touch it, and that sleeping raga awakens. That sleeping raga is devotion. And God exists for devotion—not for thought, not for logic.

Awakened—yes, awakened is that sleeping, unheard raga.
What was never heard, forever asleep, is now awake.

Filled—yes, filled is the heart with immaculate love.
And as it awakens, the heart overflows with love upon love—Amrit drips, the lotus blooms!

Opened—yes, opened is the window of the eyes today;
Washed—yes, washed is the hoarded shame of the heart;
Drenched in love-color, playful eyes toss colors of spring.
Awakened—yes, awakened is that sleeping, unheard raga.

In the very moment your heart opens, brims, stirs, waves, grows intoxicated—that moment is the Divine. For that God no proof is needed. Even if the whole world says there is no God, within you an unshakable trust is born which cannot be moved. Perhaps the Himalayas might shake, but your inner trust will not.

But let me repeat again and again: trust is born in the heart. Beliefs belong to the mind; trust belongs to the heart. Do not be satisfied with belief; otherwise you will be satisfied with paper flowers. True flowers bloom in the thicket of the heart.

Drasht na musht hai agam agochar. Yah sab maya unahin main.
Once you begin to glimpse Him, then the entire world is His play, His lila, His magic. He is the painter, and all these paintings are His colors. He is the musician, and all these ragas He has struck. He is the sculptor, and all these images He has carved. But first you must come to know Him. Until then you will not find His imprint in His images. How will you find it? Even if it appears before you, recognition will not happen.

Jo banmali seenchai mool, sahajai peevai daal phool.
A most important saying—simple, direct. He says: the gardener who waters the roots finds that leaves, branches, flowers all naturally receive sap. You need not water leaf by leaf.

You need not go searching for the Divine—shall we seek Him in trees, mountains, rivers, people? That would be leaf-by-leaf searching. How long will you search like that? Lifetimes will pass and you will not find Him.

No—seek at the root, and the root is within you. His root is in your heart. Recognize Him there. After that recognition, when you open your eyes, you will be stunned, speechless. It is He, He everywhere. And this will happen naturally. No effort is needed. You will not have to sit and force yourself to believe that this is Krishna’s image. You see stone, yet you claim it is a deity. Inside, you too know it is stone, yet you insist it is a deity.

A Zen madman once stayed the night in a temple. A cold night—very cold. He was a great carefree fellow—utterly carefree. His name was Ikkyu. In Japan, Buddha statues are carved from wood. He picked up a statue and burnt it. Night was cold, wood was needed for warmth. At night, where would he search for wood? Fire burned; he warmed himself in bliss. Seeing fire in the temple, the priest woke up—what’s going on? A blaze, bright light. He ran. One statue of Buddha—gone! He was furious: What have you done? You burned Lord Buddha’s statue! Aren’t you ashamed? Have you no sense? Are you sane or mad? And you—a Buddhist monk!

Ikkyu picked up a stick lying nearby and began poking in the ashes of the burnt statue, digging, searching.

The priest asked: What are you looking for now? It’s all ash.
Ikkyu said: I am looking for the Buddha’s bones.
The priest slapped his forehead. He said: You are a fool of the highest order. First you burn the statue, and then you look for bones in a wooden statue?
Ikkyu said: Then the night is very cold, and this temple has many statues. Bring a few more. If there are no bones, where is the Buddha? How can it be the Buddha? You too know it is wood—you only pretend it is God.

When knowing and believing are different, there is hypocrisy in your life. When knowing and believing become one, trust appears. If knowing and believing are separate, call it belief. You know full well those standing here as Rama are not Rama. You know it well, but you believe they are Rama. You bow and touch their feet. If knowing and believing are so divided, won’t you split in two? Won’t duality arise inside you? And how will religion be born within you? You are not even one—you are split—and you set out to seek the One! Become one, and then the One can be found. As long as you are two, you will remain stuck in the world of duality, slogging in the same mire, unable to go beyond it.

Dariya is right—
Jo banmali seenchai mool, sahajai peevai daal phool.
A simple man, in simple language, has said the deepest truth. A wise gardener does not water the leaves.

Mao Tse-tung wrote in his memoirs that his mother loved her garden dearly. It was so lovely that people came from afar to see it. The result of her love and labor—flowers so large that visitors were astonished.

Then his mother grew old and fell ill. Her worry was not about her illness or death; her only worry: what will happen to my garden? Mao was a boy, twelve or thirteen. He said: Mother, don’t worry. Your garden needs watering—I will do it.

And Mao watered from dawn to dusk, a large garden, daily. Months later, when his mother recovered enough to go out, she saw the garden had withered completely. Not a single flower. Not even leaves—only dry skeletal trunks stood. She asked Mao: What do you do all day? From morning to night I hear the creak of the water wheel. What happened to the garden?

He said: How would I know? I washed each leaf, gave water to each flower. I do not know—I did all I could. I myself was puzzled what the matter was! There is not a leaf I did not water.

But leaves and flowers are not watered. If you water them, the garden dies.

We can forgive Mao—he was a child. How could he know that hidden in the womb of the earth are roots—invisible—and they must be watered. If the water reaches there, then even the topmost branches that converse with the clouds receive the flow. You don’t have to carry it up—it arrives by itself. Take care of the root, the entire tree is cared for.

The root is in your heart. Hidden deep in the heart’s inner womb is the root.

If you truly wish to find the Divine, do not set out with the intellect. If you have decided to prove that there is no God, then set out with the intellect. Intellect is perfectly adequate in the search for matter; in the search for consciousness it is utterly impotent.

Jo narapati ko girah bulavai, sena sakal sahaj hi avai.
Dariya says: If you invite the emperor, then his ministers, courtiers, commanders—all come naturally behind him. You don’t need to send separate invitations. Invite the emperor—invite Rama—and the rest happens by itself. The whole splendor of the world, its beauty and dignity—these are his shadow. If the master arrives, his shadow arrives.

Do you ever invite someone’s shadow? Do you? Do you invite a friend’s shadow to dine at your home? No one invites the shadow. Shadow—that is maya; it appears to exist and yet is not. Invite the friend and the shadow comes on its own. If the master arrives, maya will arrive as well. If the magician has come, all his magic comes with him—it is the play of his hands.

But in life we continue to act foolishly. We seek wealth, we seek prosperity; not God.

Look at the words—how lovely! Two forms of the same word: Ishwar and Aishwarya. Aishwarya—affluence—is the shadow of Ishwar—God. If God comes, affluence follows on its own. But people seek affluence. It never truly comes; and if by mistake you catch hold of the shadow, it will not remain long in your hands. How can it? If the master slips away, the shadow slips away.

In a village an opium-eater bought sweets at night from a sweet-seller. An old tale—eight annas bought plenty. He paid a rupee; the shopkeeper said keep the change till morning. The opium-eater was in his haze, but not so hazy that he would forget about a rupee. Some sense returned—what if by morning things change? Some proof is needed. He looked about. A Shiva’s bull was sitting right before the sweet shop. He said: Good. This is the shop. I should remember which shop; otherwise in the morning I might wander to some other shop and a quarrel may arise. This is the shop.

In the morning he returned, grabbed the shopkeeper’s neck and shouted: Outrageous! I suspected last night, but never imagined you would change your entire trade for eight annas! From sweet-seller to barber! Even your father’s name has changed! For eight annas!

The barber couldn’t understand a thing. He said: What are you talking about? What sweet-seller? I have always been a barber!

He said: You cannot fool me. See that bull—still sitting in the same place! I left a mark.

What reliance is there on a bull? He sat by the sweet shop at dusk; in the morning he sat by the barber’s shop.

You grasp at the shadow, the shadow slips away. Catch it here, it escapes there. It is here today, gone tomorrow. Your life is spent in a futile scramble, trying to grasp shadows.

Swami Rama writes: I was passing a house. A small child was trying to catch his shadow. It was a cold morning; the mother was at her chores, the child basked in the courtyard sun. He saw his shadow, and tried to catch it; but as he moved forward, the shadow moved forward. He used all the intelligence a child can muster, circling this way and that, but wherever he went, the shadow moved with him. He began to cry. His mother tried to explain.

Rama stood watching. That is the very game the whole world is playing, so he watched. The mother said: You cannot catch a shadow like this. It will always move away. But how do you explain to a child? He insisted: I will catch it; there must be a way.

Finally Rama stepped forward. He said to the mother: You cannot explain; this is our trade. This is what we do—how.

He took the child’s hand. What do you want to catch? He asked. The child said: The head of the shadow. Rama placed the child’s hand upon his own head. The child burst into laughter. I knew there would be a trick to it, he said. Look, I have caught the shadow! As his hand rested on his head, it rested on the shadow’s head too.

Invite God, and all affluence comes. Jesus has a famous saying I love: Seek ye first the Kingdom of God, then all else shall be added unto you. First seek God’s kingdom; the rest comes on its own.

But we are upside down. We say: Let everything else come first.

People come and say: Not yet, not now—first the world, house and home; first all that, sannyas later. First the rest, then God. First the shadow, then the owner of the shadow.

This world is very childish. Look at yourself. You run outside to grasp—what all do you not want to get! Do you ever truly get anything? Does anything land in your hands? And within you are treasures of treasures! Within you is the empire of empires!

Jo narapati ko girah bulavai, sena sakal sahaj hi avai.
What army is this emperor’s? In another sense, this sutra is important. Some try to control anger, others greed, others lust. A thousand other ailments. But the knowers say: There is only one medicine—Ram-baan, the infallible remedy. However many diseases, drink the medicine called Rama—and you will be freed from all afflictions and encumbrances. Enter the samadhi of the Lord’s name.

You will not conquer anger directly. One in whom the lamp of Rama has not been lit—what else will be there but anger? He is angry at life. Angry at being. Angry that the world is such. Angry—asking: what harm if nothing existed? If I did not exist, what would be lost? Angry at every little thing. Yes, sometimes anger bursts forth, but anger is dense within, simmering. Sometimes the pus overflows and comes out; otherwise anger rots within, corroding him.

When you get angry, do not think the cause is outside and that is why you became angry. Anger existed within you already. The gunpowder was prepared within; outside only a pretext appeared, a spark, and there was an explosion.

Buddha said: Throw a bucket into a dry well, rattle the rope and pull—no water will come up. In a full well, drop a bucket—no need to rattle; as you drop it, it fills. Pull, and it comes up brimming. Do you think the water wasn’t there before you dropped the bucket? If there wasn’t, how would it come into the bucket? It was full—that is why the bucket filled.

Someone abuses you—an abuse is like a bucket dropped in you. If there is no anger within you, the bucket returns empty. If anger is full within, it returns full. Abuses are buckets. Situations are buckets. Whatever your inner state, that is what will fill the bucket. The same bucket lowered into a dirty drain pulls up filthy water; lowered in a pure lake, it brings up clear water. Lower it into Buddha, and it brings up Buddhahood.

The occasion is outside, the real cause is inside. As long as you remain asleep within, without remembrance of the Lord, in deep inner slumber without awareness of Him or yourself—you will not win against anger, delusion, maya, however much you fight. Suppress it here, it will erupt elsewhere. Diseases are not cured by suppression; one must remove the root cause. You are fighting the symptoms.

This is what is happening the world over—people fighting symptoms. They go to the temple and swear never to be angry again. Do you think a vow will stop anger? If only it were that easy! If only vows could solve things! People take vows—small and great! If only vows transformed life! Vows break, nothing changes. And remember: broken vows do immense harm.

So I tell you: never take vows. First, because no transformation ever happens through vows. If you truly understand that anger is useless, you won’t need a vow; the matter ends. You don’t try to walk through a wall—you use the door, because you know a wall will smash your head. Even a staunch believer in Shankara’s maya-vada does not walk through walls. The Shankaracharya of Puri also looks for the door! Sir, at least you should go through the wall! You say all is maya, the door is maya, the wall is maya—what difference in maya and maya? If the wall does not exist—only appears—then go on through. But doctrines don’t work there. They too know. They say: Brahman is real, world unreal. But they act otherwise: the world is real, Brahman unreal! What Brahman?

This tradition of vows exists because of ignorance. There is anger, and anger burns, scorches, wounds—so you swear a vow. But how will a vow stop anger? When anger rises like a storm, what will you do? You will repress it, choke it down, swallow it. But swallowed anger becomes poison within, pervading your every pore. Had it come out, it would have been fine—like vomiting, the poison would have left the system. Now it becomes part of your system.

Your sages do not become Durvasas for nothing. By suppressing anger, they become Durvasas. Then the smallest matter—fumes. A trifling thing that would not irritate even ordinary folks makes Durvasa erupt. And he erupts so badly that he doesn’t just ruin one life, he curses away two or four future lives!

Have your rishis and munis been cursing? A rishi and muni’s life should be pure blessing—only blessing. Curses?

But the cause is there—suppressed anger, envy, hostility, violence—where will they go? They gather, condense. Repress lust, and the mind fills with lust alone—only those thoughts arise. However much he chants Rama and twirls the beads fast—faster to avoid noticing what is happening within, keeping himself busy—it makes no difference. What is happening within, happens. A film runs inside him.

No one watches more obscene films than your rishis and munis. No one can. To see obscene films requires a certain attainment—maximum repression of lust. Why would any Indra send apsaras to a dried-up rishi sitting like a corpse? For what? To punish the apsaras? What fault is theirs?

No apsaras come from anywhere—they arise out of the rishi’s own repressed lust, becoming so ferocious that projection begins. Psychology says: repress any desire and projection—hallucination—begins. You will start seeing it outside. First in dreams, then in daydreams. And the more you repress, the clearer the images. When repression is complete, the images become three-dimensional—utterly real. I do not blame the rishis and munis; they did see three-dimensional apsaras—touchable, conversational. They had earned that by repression.

What will you do by taking vows? Will vows increase understanding? If there were understanding, why take vows? And if only understanding can increase, you won’t need vows. You don’t go to a temple to swear an oath that you will dump your household trash every morning at the dump—regularly, without fail! If you did, even the monk would be puzzled at such a vow.

Narendra’s father is a bit eccentric—carefree; people call him crackpot. He set off on pilgrimage—as the mood took him—without telling anyone. He says he’s going east, then goes west—so the family won’t track him. Free of worry! He reached a Jain pilgrimage—Shikharji. He visited a naked Jain monk. Others were there, all taking vows. It is a special business of Jain monks—take vows! On pilgrimage, take vows here; swear in this holy place. One swore to give up dinner at night. Another: I shall not take salt. Another: I shall not use ghee. This and that. When his turn came, he said: Master, I swear that from now on I will smoke a bidi.

Eccentric indeed—but what a pointed statement! The monk too was startled. A lifetime spent giving vows—but this vow! He asked: Are you in your senses? What kind of vow is this?

He said: I have taken many vows; they break. This vow will never break. And unbroken vows strengthen the soul.

A profound point! Whenever a vow breaks, the soul is weakened. It is a psychological truth. Sometimes the eccentric strike deep truths. They speak far-reaching things, because they have no concern for what people think—they speak as it comes. No social fear—who would vow to smoke from tomorrow? And since then he smokes, regularly. A religious rule now! No one can make him quit. He took such a vow as could be fulfilled. If God is anywhere, He will be pleased with him: at least one vow-keeper! Though petty, a small vow—but fulfilled.

People take vows and break them. What is the result? A sense of inferiority is born. A vow is taken, then broken, unfulfilled. A guilt arises, self-condemnation. And the worst thing in this world is to feel guilty. A man who loses respect for himself will find the search for the Divine almost impossible. His self-pride shattered; he has come to see he is worth two pennies—whatever he tries, breaks; whatever he wants to do, he cannot. His feet will falter. He will drop even the hope that he could ever be worthy to attain God. Tell him a thousand times that the Divine is hidden in the soul, beat it into him that his very nature is moksha, nirvana—he won’t understand. He knows himself better than you. He knows: small things don’t succeed. Thirty years I’ve tried to quit smoking—can’t. What will become of me? I am a sinner! My place is hell! To hope for heaven is foolish. A deep despair arises. The root cause? You go leaf by leaf; you don’t cut at the root.

Dariya is right: Jo narapati ko girah bulavai.
Catch hold of meditation! Meditation is the invitation to the Divine. Let a little glimpse of Rama come within you. With that glimpse you will find: what was to be dropped drops on its own; what was to be held is already in your hand. Nothing to drop, nothing to break, nothing to grasp. In a simple ease, revolution begins. And the beauty of an effortless revolution is special.

Jo koi kar bhan prakasai, to nis tara sahaj hi nasai.
In whom light has arisen, the last star of night sinks by itself; there is no need to push it down. When the sun rises, it does not proclaim: Ladies and gentlemen! Night is over! Stars, return to your homes! As the sun rises, stars go—simultaneously, together. The sun does not request darkness to please depart.

About Albert Einstein I have heard: he was forgetful. Often it happens—those who grapple with great problems lose the small things. Those tangled in sky, moon, stars forget the ground. With such vast matters before them, they often get snagged. Once it happened he felt that the illness the doctor had warned of had come. The doctor said: one day perhaps in old age you might have to walk bent, become hunchbacked. One morning, leaving the bathroom, he felt the day had come. He sat down. Rang for his wife: call the doctor, I think I’ve become hunchbacked. I cannot straighten up. My spine is bent.

The doctor rushed over. He looked closely and said: Nothing at all—you’ve buttoned the top button into the second buttonhole. How will you straighten up?

A man tangled in heavens—if a button slips, what wonder?

Einstein was invited to a friend’s house. They chatted. Dinner passed, talk continued. The friend grew anxious—night grew late, eleven, twelve. Einstein scratched his head, yawned, looked at the clock; but did not say the one thing he should: I should go. One o’clock; the friend panicked—will he sit all night? You cannot tell Albert Einstein: please go—such a great guest! He saw Einstein yawning, eyes drooping, looking at the clock; yet he did not say the obvious. Finally the friend tried to hint: It seems you are sleepy—yawning, looking at the clock; you must be feeling very sleepy.

Einstein said: I am, but when you leave, then I will sleep.
The friend said: What are you saying? This is my house.
Einstein said: Good man! Why didn’t you say so earlier? For four hours one thing has been ringing in my head: when will this fellow get up and say, now we take leave! I’ve looked at the clock so many times, and still you didn’t understand. I yawn, close my eyes, stop listening to you, and you too yawn and look at the clock—why don’t you go? Why don’t you say it’s time to go?

Man lives in a deep forgetfulness, where he has forgotten his own home, forgotten who he is, forgotten the way within. And thus all trouble arises. Do one thing: learn to descend within. And the light is already lit within—you do not have to light it—without wick, without oil! The lamp is already aflame.

Jo koi kar bhan prakasai,
to nis tara sahaj hi nasai.
Garud pankh jo ghar me lavai, sarp jati rahne nahin pavai.
Therefore do not fight the darkness; bring in the light. You are fighting darkness. People are fighting lust, anger, greed.

You will be destroyed; greed will not, lust will not. You are fighting negations. Light the lamp! Therefore I say: meditation, meditation, and meditation! Only light the lamp, and all else will depart on its own.

Dariya sumarai ekahi Ram. Ek Ram sarai sab kaam.
What I call meditation, Dariya calls remembrance of Ram. It is one and the same.

One Ram settles every task.
Then all the countless troubles in which you are separately entangled—and going mad—are set right.

Adi ant mera hai Ram.
Dariya says: Once I knew, once I awoke, one thing became clear: He is my beginning, my end, my middle.

Un bin aur sakal bekam.
Without Him, all else is futile.

Into this empty life of mine,
you come as hope.
When the night of despair descends,
darkness spreads all around;
the path of life hides and hides,
my heart grows sad—
then you arise like the full moon,
smiling soft and slow.

Upon the empty sky of life
thick clouds gather;
adorned, the new-moon night arrives
with fresh attire;
then you come as a firefly,
kindling light upon light.

Life’s silent dreams
are emptied by the winter of sorrow;
when the tender grove
is burned by a blazing fire,
then you come as the lord of spring,
and a cuckoo’s coo is heard.

All the adornments of the restless world are momentary;
I see the dance of transience;
astonished, my mind weeps
over the folly of the world;
then you strike the raga of inspiration,
and sing a song of new life.

Lift your eyes toward Him. Amrit rains, the lotus blooms. Open your heart to Him—and death is gone, darkness gone, sin gone.

Kaha karun tera bed purana.
Listen—there is a proclamation of revolution in Dariya’s word!

Kaha karun tera bed purana.
What shall I do with your Veda and your Purana? I only want you! Don’t try to distract me with toys. Don’t think me so simple. You may fool the pundits. I am no pundit.

Kaha karun tera bed purana, jin hai sakal jagat bharamana.
The Vedas and Puranas have entangled the whole world—some in the Koran, some in the Bible, some in the Dhammapada. The whole world enmeshed. People snared in webs of words—skinning words, extracting words from words. Great disputes raised. No one has leisure to lift their eyes to Rama.

In the last year of Sigmund Freud’s life, it is said he invited all his associates, friends, disciples to his home—perhaps these are the final days. They gathered from around the world—the special ones. He hosted a meal. As they sat, a dispute erupted—about the meaning of one of Freud’s own theories. One said this, another that, a third something else. Tu tu, main main—arguing. So much that a fight seemed imminent.

Freud banged the table: Gentlemen, you have forgotten I am still alive. I know that after I die, this will be your state; but to have it in front of me! I am present, and you do not ask me what my intention was! At least while I am here, ask me. You are fighting among yourselves.

The Divine is always present—ask Him. Why get tangled in Vedas, Puranas, Korans? What was whispered into Mohammed’s ear is ready to be whispered into yours. The waves that rose in the hearts of the Vedic seers—His grace upon you is no less. You are as much His as anyone. Remember, Dariya said: “Even if I am a cotton-carder, O Ram, I am yours.” Granted I am lowly—what of it? I am yours! You are as much mine as anyone else’s; I am as much yours as any other. Poor, humble, unlearned, ignorant—but I am yours! That is enough. Then I trust your grace upon me is as much as upon any other.

Kaha karun tera bed purana, jin hai sakal jagat bharamana.
Kaha karun teri anubhai-bani, jin ten meri suddhi bhulani.
All declare: it is a voice of experience. The Vedas say so, the Dhammapada says so, the Koran, the Bible—voices of experience. Yet in these voices my own remembrance has been lost. I cannot find myself. So many doctrines, such tangled nets—I am caught like a fish in the net of philosophies.

And Dariya does not even deny that theirs is a voice of experience. But another’s voice of experience does not become your experience. It cannot. Experience is non-transferable. The moment it is said, it loses truth. My experience is mine; there is no way to place it in your hands. Even if I wish to give it, I cannot. If I bind it in words, half dies. And by the time it reaches you, the half that remained dies as well. What you will understand will be something else. You can only understand what you can. You have your expectations, your notions, your conditioned mind. You have a mind; you will listen through that mind.

I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin stayed at a hotel. He had to catch a train. He ran down, loaded his luggage into the taxi. All done, then he saw he had forgotten his umbrella upstairs. He dashed up—fourth floor—old times, no elevator. Panting, by the time he reached his room, it had been given to someone else. He looked through the keyhole. The umbrella could wait, for a colorful scene unfolded. A newly married couple on honeymoon. The husband asked the wife: These lovely eyes—fish-like eyes—whose are they? The Mulla, breath held, listened.

The wife said: Yours! Yours! Whose else?
And this long, needle-like nose—whose?
Yours! Yours! Whose else?
And these red, rosy lips… and so the journey went over the Geography of the body. Meanwhile the Mulla’s train, the taxi honking below, and the Geography more and more rapturous. And the umbrella! His trouble you can understand. Finally he could bear no more. With the horn blasting and the clock showing time was up, he banged the door and shouted: One thing—listen to me too! When you come to the umbrella, remember, that is mine!

Each has their own mental fixation. For him it was umbrella, umbrella!

When you listen, you do not listen empty, silent. A thousand ideas—Hindu, Muslim, Christian—stand there. All you have read, heard, mulled over—stands there. Passing through this crowd, the voice of experience gets chopped to pieces. How many strange colors get smeared on it, how many forms! By the time it reaches you, it becomes something else.

Like a tangle of spider webs.
Life has become an unsolved riddle.
A brimming eye spills in a ruin,
some feeling passes like a pickaxe.
Since I saw the torn feet of the mountains,
every river looks like oozing blisters.
Every day I suffer the pain of exile,
like a merchant’s rounds—free thoughts broken.
Whenever I went to your city, I found
some voice surging like a boil.
Dreams lie buried in the brain’s cellar,
in times of tyranny like tracts interred.
Everyone looks like a beaten pawn to me,
this age, like the moves of a chess game.
The dark night throttles truth’s throat,
a deceit rises—disguised as light.

Your scriptures are deceits. Not that those who spoke lacked experience. They did. Buddha poured himself into the Dhammapada; Jesus tried to pour his very life into the Sermon on the Mount; Krishna sang the Gita as gloriously as could be sung. But by the time it reaches you, it becomes something else.

Like a tangle of spider webs.
Life has become an unsolved riddle.
The dark night throttles truth’s throat,
a deceit rises—disguised as light.

Words have proven great deceivers. Beware of words! Grasp emptiness, seize silence. Only in silence, in emptiness, will the Divine speak to you; your Veda will be born, your Koran will be born, your Bible will arise. And when it is yours—your own—intimate, colored by your heart, with your heartbeat in it, your breath moving within—it is such a living truth that it liberates. Borrowed truths do not liberate; they become bondage.

And don’t worry that you are uneducated, ignorant—that your words cannot be as pure as the Vedas. Don’t worry that your speech cannot have the sharpness of Buddha. Do not worry. Even if you lisp—if the truth is yours—then even the crystalline utterances of the Buddhas will pale before your lisping truths. Your own experience alone... However much you speak of light to a blind man—what will happen? Let the greatest poets sing light before him—what will happen? But if the blind man’s eyes open and he sees light—then all is accomplished.

Let my voice remain limited.
Do not tighten the strings so taut
that life’s veena must surely break.
The tones of its worn strings
are indistinct—let them be so.
Let my voice remain limited.

My current has not the strength
to touch the earth and sky.
Let only You hear it;
let it remain within You.
Let my voice remain limited.

Do not compare my helplessness
with my inner capacity.
Let the longing of my depths
rest upon itself alone.
Let my voice remain limited.

With my own devotion I have made
You my worshiped deity.
Do only this much:
let me, too, remain a bit.
Let my voice remain limited.

Do not worry; your voice will be limited—but let it be yours. Lisping—yet yours. Ungainly—yet yours. It will be liberating. You may not sing like the Upanishads. Dariya did not. You may not sing like the Buddhas. No matter. This is not a question of art, nor of language, nor grammar, nor style, nor meter. It is a question of self-experience. If you get entangled in others’ words and mistake them for your own, your truth will never be found. You will remain ensnared in spider webs. All doctrines, all scriptures—spider webs. Beware!

Kaha karun yeh maan badai. Ram bina sabhi dukhadai.
Dariya says: Much respect, much honor—I receive—but none of this matters. Without Ram, whatever comes brings sorrow, not joy.

Kaha karun tera sankh au jog.
Sankhya, born in India, is the subtlest philosophy; Yoga, the most scientific discipline of practice. Sankhya for contemplation, Yoga for discipline. These are the summits. But Dariya says: Of what use to me? Until Sankhya arises within me, until my Yoga is born, until I am yoked to You, until You become my Sankhya—I am not content.

Kaha karun tera sankh au jog. Ram bina sab bandan rog.
Without You, I have seen all worship as disease, all prayers worth two pennies. With You—everything. Without You—nothing.

In the empty moments of a rainbow-hued dusk,
my head has bowed in prayer.
Quiet stirrings in the empty sky,
quiet stirrings in the troubled heart,
the directions, tinged with rapture, fall silent,
restless birds have taken boughs for shelter.
Prayer has nothing to speak—no words for the heart.
Prayer’s mind is not steeped in form, quality, rhythm—
only a quiet, silent feeling of fulfilled contentment,
which the darkness of the mind cannot touch.

In the empty moments of a rainbow-hued dusk,
my head has bowed in prayer.

Prayer is not words, nor ritual. In a moment of feeling and love, if the head bows anywhere—there is prayer. But without the sense of Rama’s presence, how will the head bow? Where? Without that presence, how will gratitude arise—to bow, to thank?

Therefore your prayers are merely formalities. You are wasting your time in them. With priests and pundits you are squandering the precious opportunity of life. In your own solitude, in your own way, call out. In your own solitude, in your own way, speak a word or two with Him. If words need to be spoken, speak them; if not, sit silently, sit in stillness. And do not make prayer a fixed track—repeating the same prayer daily. It will become dead, mechanical. Can you not do even this much? Can you not find two new words each day to say to the Divine at that moment? Will you continue to use pre-planned words even there? At least with Him, create a bond of the heart.

Kaha karun indrin ka sukh. Ram bina deva sab dukh.
Dariya says: I have found nothing but sorrow. The senses gave much hope, assurance, promise—but they did not keep their promises. Each sense said it would give pleasure, and each gave pain.

At the gate of every hell in this world, a signboard says “Heaven.” Seeing the signboard you enter, trusting signboards too much. Once inside, you are trapped. When will you understand? How many times have you been ensnared? It is already so late—wake up!

Ram bina deva sab dukh.
Without Rama I have seen nothing but suffering.

I am a drop from that ocean,
yet that ocean I have not found.
Who knows by what sun, what burning ray,
I was turned to vapor and torn away,
separated from the sea with a tempting dream.
I left the earth and flew to the sky
to find a new, unfolding life—
who knew this momentary flight
would become an endless exile!
The boundless sea I left behind,
to that sea I have not returned.
I am a drop from that ocean,
yet that ocean I have not found.

Who knows how long I must wander thus,
what forms I must assume in the world.
But of this I am firmly sure:
the sea I left that day,
one day my life will merge again
in its own waves.
This ancient faith I carry still,
though I have not found the way.
I am a drop from that ocean,
yet that ocean I have not found.

What is happiness? It is the rhythm that arises between you and existence. The dance that begins between you and the whole. When there is no conflict between you and existence—that is happiness. Happiness is balance, music, harmony, a lilt. Until the drop becomes one with the ocean, there is no happiness. Rama is the ocean; you are the drop.

Dariya kahai Ram gurmukhiya. Hari bin dukhi, Ram sang sukhia.
He says: Let me say one thing of worth at the end; all the masters have said this. He condenses all gurus thus. From the mouths of all gurus, this Ganges has flowed—

Without Hari, misery; with Rama, joy.
Who lives without Rama lives in sorrow, in hell; who lives with Rama, in joy—in heaven. And if you wish, you can be with Rama now. If you wish, in this very moment your life can become a song, a dance, a festival. If you wish, in this very instant, a thousand flowers can bloom.

Seven-colored dreams
have found their life.
On the swing of memories
someone has begun to sway,
in the courtyard the laughing
gulmohar has bloomed.
Fragrance of flowers fills
this little courtyard.

In the vermilion evening,
cuckoos call,
and in the heart rise
sweet throbbings:
when will that
intoxicating monsoon come?

The season has plucked
at the dream-blue mind,
touched and awakened
this sleeping youthfulness.
For centuries thirsty,
this garden of mine—

South-winds toss
the veil, and again and again
there is a stir
in the breath,
as if someone
has taken my hand.

Seven-colored dreams
have found their life.

Let all rainbows descend into your being now. Now. Drop scriptures, drop words—grasp the void. Drop being Hindu, Muslim, Christian—be a devotee.

Amrit drips, the lotus blooms!

Enough for today.