Ami Jharat Bigsat Kanwal #3

Nectar is showering down, lotuses are blossoming!
The rain of ambrosia is falling and lotuses are in bloom!

Which realm is Dariya speaking of? Here neither nectar falls nor do lotuses bloom. Here life is poison upon poison. Lotuses are far off—thorns don’t even bloom here—or perhaps only thorns bloom. Is Dariya speaking of some other world?

No, not of another world. It is about this very place, but of another dimension.

You have heard of the ten directions; there is one more—the eleventh direction. The ten directions are outer; the eleventh is within. You have seen one sky. There is another—unseen. What is seen is outside; what is yet to be seen is inside. In that eleventh direction, in that inner sky, nectar is raining—right now; lotuses are opening—right now! But you sit with your back turned that way. Your eyes are fixed far away and you have gone blind to what is near. The outer draws you, and what you truly own, what you are, what has always been yours and always will be, you have utterly neglected.

Perhaps precisely because what is already yours tends to be forgotten. What we don’t have, whose absence we feel, awakens the urge to attain. What is present, whose presence is, we slowly forget. It doesn’t even come to mind. If a tooth breaks, your tongue keeps going there. Till yesterday the tooth was there and the tongue never went. The pathways of the mind are so absurd. The mind’s curiosity is always about what is not. Now the tooth is gone, the tongue goes there again and again. When the tooth was there, it never went. For what is, the mind has no curiosity. Why? Because the mind can only live if it’s excited about what is not—then there will be running, striving, craving, desire. The mind lives by what is not. The moment it sees what is, the mind dies.

Dariya is not speaking of some far-off heaven in the skies; he is speaking of what is nearer than near within you—so near it is improper even to call it ‘near,’ because even ‘near’ suggests a distance. It is the breath of your breath; the beat of your heart; your very life; your center—there, in this very instant, nectar is pouring and lotuses are blooming! And those lotuses never wither—the lotuses of consciousness! What yogis call the sahasrara—the thousand-petaled lotus! The fragrance of which is called heaven. One glance and liberation. Their form filling your eyes—and nirvana.

Keep this first in mind: the saints do not speak of the far. Saints speak of what is nearer than near. Saints do not speak of what has to be gained; they speak of what is already attained. Saints speak of your intrinsic nature.

Taking wing in this dusk-blue sky,
the bird of my mind has left its nest—
Why did it go? Which way did it fly?
Who beckoned it so today?

How did its slack and languid wings
suddenly quiver awake?
Has some stainless moon arisen
in its unclouded sky?

Restless, fevered, my mind-bird
has flown off today.
The emptiness has sent its urgent call,
the horizon’s vastness trembled its wind-scarf;
the breath-bird in the sky
has scattered longing and wonder.

The whirr of flight, the sounding pace—
this boundless sky’s wide breast
is echoing day and night,
born of the unstruck sound.
Upward flight has, lost in meditation,
encircled the cadence of song.

Taking wing in this dusk-blue sky,
the bird of my mind has left its nest.

If just once you hear the call of the One within, you will fly, you will spread your wings. If someone just once reminds you of your treasure, your kingdom, if someone gives you a glimpse, if a little window opens and you see the inner sun rising—then revolution will happen in your life. Then you will not run after the trash of the outside, nor go on collecting shards. Once one has found nectar, the curiosity about the mortal fades on its own. Once one has found the ownership within, even being a world-conquering emperor seems insipid. But the call must be heard. And the call is coming, yet you sit deaf as stone.

Dariya says:
Hari’s grace was bestowed; he sent the pang of longing.
This longing woke the monk within from sleep.

The Lord has been gracious, says Dariya: he stoked the fire seated within me, shook the ash off my live coal, ignited the fire of separation within, aroused my thirst.

Do you think that Hari graces some and not others? Do you think divine grace comes to some and not to others?

Divine grace rains down on all without condition. On that side there is no discrimination; but some accept it and others reject it.

Rain falls on mountains and on lakes; lakes fill up, mountains remain empty. Rain falls on stone as well as on soil; seeds sprout in the soil and greenness comes; the stones remain as they are, dry and barren. The mountain misses the rain, because the mountain is full of itself—great selfhood, great ego. Lakes fill because they are empty, void, with open doors. Lakes have learned the art of welcome, festooned the threshold—Come! The clouds pour without conditions, but somewhere flowers blossom; elsewhere stones just lie.

So too divine grace is not apportioned differently. As much rains upon me as upon you. As much on Dariya as on anyone else. But Dariya opened the doors of the heart, assented. Dariya did not refuse.

This consenting is called faith. This welcoming is called reverence. Inviting into your inner doorway the sun that knocks—this is devotion. And God is knocking at the door every instant.

Hari’s grace was bestowed; he sent the pang of longing.
The message of separation was sent, the call was given. It should be said—the call was heard! But the devotee will speak like this—and there is a secret in it—that God was gracious. For the devotee’s conviction—and not only conviction, the supreme truth of life—is that nothing happens by our doing; whatever happens, happens by His doing. If we can only manage not to obstruct—that is enough. The rain is from his side; that we do not hold our vessel upside down—that is enough. Turn your vessel upright; the rain is from his side. The vessel’s straightness does not make rain fall; the rain was already falling. But an upright vessel fills—fills to the brim.

The devotee’s experience is that God is not attained by human effort—but as prasad, as grace; only through his compassion. Our efforts are such little efforts—our hands so small! If we cannot touch moon and stars, how shall we touch God? Will the vast fit in our fist? How will we clench the Infinite in this tiny heart? No—only if his grace descends will this miracle happen. If his grace descends, even the ocean will fit into a single drop.

Hari’s grace was bestowed; he sent the pang of longing.
He says: It must be you who called, therefore I set out in search of you.

This is the age-old experience of devotees. You do not search for God; God searches for you. God probes for you. By many devices he sends you invitations, writes love-letters to you. But you do not read the love-letters… you have forgotten the very language by which they can be read. The language to read the letter of love is also love! You have forgotten love! He knocks at the door, you do not hear—for his knock is not a racket, it is silence. He touches your heart, but you do not understand, for his touch is subtle, not gross. He does not come like a whirlwind, making a noise—he whispers in your ears, confides softly. And your head is so noisy—how will you hear his whisper? Inside you is a bazaar, a fair. Your mind—what is it? A Kumbh mela—uproar and disturbance, crowds upon crowds. There, where will his soft voice vanish? You won’t even notice.

But the day you do understand, that day this too will occur to you: he had been seeking for ages, and we kept refusing to hear. Unfortunate us, our ill luck. He had long been eager to come. We never invited him. He stood at the door for so long, we did not open.

Then mount me on the lathe again,
O skillful artisan Time;
I have put together only vices,
whatever virtues I have are meager.
I am not a straight, simple line—
in me too many angles.
I am a triangle of faults; make me
a plain and simple rectangle.
I am deformed, misshapen, coarse,
no definite form at all.
I am that metal on which
no sculptor’s discipline has worked—
Give me shape, O shaper of forms!
Let an unhewn stone become a statue.

Outwardly the shrine is bright and white,
but within, in the basement vaults,
the primal man lies asleep,
frustrations laid at his head like pillows—
In the secret caverns of the mind
place a tiny lamp there.
You must say just this—
In the secret caverns of the mind
place a tiny lamp there.
Then mount me on the lathe again,
O skillful artisan Time;
Give me shape, O shaper of forms—
Let an unhewn stone become a statue.

We are unhewn stone. We need the chisel, the hammer, a master craftsman—to carve us!

And the craftsman is. But we refuse to be broken. If a little is snatched away, we clutch tighter. At sight of the chisel we run. We dodge the hammer. We want consolations, not truth.

Dariya says: People relish the sweet!

Sweet—everyone likes. Sweet means consolation. Pretty words that adorn your ego, dress you in fine garments, cover your ugliness, lay flowers on your wounds.

People relish the sweet; the sweet breeds disease.
But this very search for consolations, this sweetness, breeds all your illnesses within.

The attributeless is bitter as neem; Dariya, this yoga is rare.
Those who would attain the Nirgun—the attributeless—must be ready to drink neem.

The attributeless is bitter as neem; Dariya, this yoga is rare.
And therefore yoga is very difficult, union very difficult, because when God comes at first he tastes bitter. But that same bitterness of neem will wash away all your impurities, will make you pure, guiltless. When you meet a true master, he will feel like the edge of a sword. His blade will fall upon your neck. Kabir says—

Kabir stands in the marketplace, torch aflame in hand.
Whoever burns down his home, come with me.

You need the courage to burn your house. Which house? The house you have made in the mind—of desires, of ambitions, of longings. The palaces of deep dreams you have built. Whoever is ready to set them afire—today, now, here—can hear God’s voice. The ash within can be shaken off and the live coal glow.

Hari’s grace was bestowed; he sent the pang of longing.
Great is your grace, Lord, that you awakened my longing. Very few thank separation. Anyone will thank union. Union is sweet; separation is very bitter. Bitter as neem! Neem would scarcely be so bitter. For separation is fire. Where are consolations then! There is only burning. But gold is purified only passing through fire. Only refined by the journey through longing does one become worthy of union, a fit vessel.

This longing roused my monk within; it woke the sleeper.
Dariya says: I didn’t even know that such a supreme ascetic slept within me, that such supreme truth resided within me, that such a stainless, virgin nature—that upon it no impurity has ever fallen; no soot; no stain. No stain of virtue, no stain of sin; neither auspicious nor inauspicious. Untouched from all sides! You awakened that saint within me! With just a little call! By stirring longing you gifted me again my inner virginity! It was already given, yet blind I never looked back; deaf I never heard; foolish I never probed within. I groped in the world—far, far, among moon and stars, constellations—over births and births, wombs and wombs, who knows how many bodies, how many forms I searched—and in only one place I didn’t search: I never turned the eye within, never awakened inner vision.

This longing roused my monk within; it woke the sleeper.
You poured this fire upon me—great was your grace.

Longing is fire, keep in mind. Upon whom it pours, every hair weeps. Upon whom it pours, blood itself seems to become tears.

Says Dariya: the body has dried, the mind has parched.

Sleep doesn’t come by night; hunger doesn’t bite by day.
Now night brings no sleep; day brings no hunger. Only your remembrance torments me. Only your remembrance pricks like an arrow—deeper and deeper and deeper!

Break not, my heart,
let not my face grow sullen—
just a few more days.

The lover must learn the great art of patience, for the fire burns so that one cannot trust that on the far side of this blaze lotuses will ever bloom. Where have lotuses bloomed in fire! The body dries, the mind dries—how to trust that nectar will rain!

Break not, my heart,
let not my face grow sullen—
just a few more days.

Night is destined for dawn,
sunset for sunrise.
Whose time
ever stayed the same?
If smooth days cannot remain,
how will these hard ones?
Just a few more days.

Drooping shoulders, bent neck,
and empty hands—
but do not rest your brow
on sorrow’s threshold.
Let no sigh be on your lips,
bring no frost to your lashes—
just a few more days.

Let not my vow surrender,
do not lose faith.
Some more days of crisis,
some more days of anguish.
Pay the last installment of sweat,
and be debt-free—
just a few more days.

Weary from creating, do not
shatter your resolve.
The life of your remaining lacks
is now brief.
Do not forget the gallop
of your deer-like dreams—
just a few more days.

The fire of longing is terrible. Only a few courageous pass through it; otherwise most turn back. Patience is needed, waiting is needed. Waiting is the root and source of prayer. One who cannot wait cannot pray.

You will have to steady yourself. For a few more days you will have to bind yourself not to turn back, not to flee, not to show your back.

For her beloved the forlorn one
searches through forests and hills;
the night passes—no beloved found,
she clings to her pain and sleeps.

Such a bad plight befalls the lover. He searches forest after forest.

The night passes—no beloved found…
And the night passes and the dear one does not appear. Seeing no other recourse she falls asleep clasping her pain.

…she clings to her pain.
What else does the lover have? Who knows when God will be found! He has awakened a longing. Now the longing is all the devotee has to clasp to his chest. This is the test. Whoever does not pass this test has never reached the other shore, nor can.

A devotee passes through many moods. Naturally, at times it feels—what a dark day has come! What trouble have I entered! All went well—what tears have seized my life that won’t stop! The heart keeps being wrung, every hair trembles. And who knows if God even is! Who knows if I’ve not entangled myself in the web of imagination! All doubts arise, ill-doubts arise. Sometimes the devotee also gets angry with God—What is this you have given! I asked for flowers, you gave thorns! I asked for morning, you gave dusk! I asked for nectar, you gave poison!

Be generous if you like, but let me remain unbegging;
my self-respect is dear to me.
I would rather die of thirst than ask for water.
A princess in body,
but my youth became a renunciant.
Become the Swati star if you wish, but let me remain
a thirsty chatak bird.

Whenever thirst petitions you,
place a coal upon my lips.
Slay the dreams of satiation,
banish the mind into exile.
Become the Himalaya if you wish, but let me remain
a mist-seeking flame.

What want of beauty-wealth for you?
Pour forth your treasury of charm;
my poor reed-flute is mine,
do not lure me with the veena.
Keep your empire of notes; let me remain
a forgotten singer.

Often self-regard wells up, pride arises. The devotee says: Leave me! Let me remain thirsty. I don’t want your Swati-drop.

Be generous if you like, but let me remain unbegging…
When did I ask? When did I call you? You called. If you enjoy being generous, be so—but don’t make me a beggar!

Become the Swati if you wish; let me remain a thirsty chatak…
You are bent on being Swati, then be! But why torment me? Let me remain a thirsty chatak. I don’t want your longing, your ambition.

Become ice if you wish, but let me remain a fire seeking mist…
Leave me be! Let go of me! Do not haunt me like a shadow day and night!

Keep your empire of notes; let me remain a forgotten singer…
You are emperor of melody—fine! Be in your house; I’m fine in my poverty.

My little reed-flute is poor,
do not turn it with the veena…
When did I pray that my reed be made to mimic the veena? You called; why now burn me? Many times the devotee, in the fire of separation, doubts, suspects, gets angry, sulks, turns his back; but there is no remedy. Once his voice has been heard, there is no escape. As long as it is not heard, it is not heard. Once it is heard, the whole world goes pale; then whatever you do—doubt, pride, sulking—everything is futile.

For her beloved the forlorn one
searches through forests and hills;
the night passes—no beloved found,
she clings to her pain and sleeps.

And the devotee’s pain is dense. Flowers bloom on trees—within there is no sign of flowers, only thorns! Clouds gather in the sky, the monsoon arrives—and within, a desert: no rain, no cloud, no monsoon. Outside, beauty spreads; inside, all is dry. The body dries, the mind dries. Even if trust comes—how?

These clouds are amethyst, yet you are not here.
Ah, what a monsoon sky—and you are not here.
The anklets of drops laugh and dance,
the season is so full of love—yet you are not here.
Lightning lies slack in the arms of clouds,
surrendered—still, you are not here.
Soaked through I smolder on,
each drop steeped in fire—and you are not here.
Without you my vow, like a chaste one,
each breath is a nun—yet you are not here.
From tickle to tears it has carried me,
this seven-colored pain—yet you are not here.
Love itself is my crime these days;
every finger points at me—yet you are not here.
Soaked through I smolder on,
each drop steeped in fire—and you are not here.

All the world’s beauty, all poetry, all music becomes utterly futile—once his call is heard! When you have seen a diamond, how can your mind revel in pebbles? Try as you may to forget that you saw the diamond—how will you forget?

It is an eternal law of life: what is known is known; it cannot be unknown. What is recognized is recognized; you cannot un-recognize it. What has been experienced has been experienced; you cannot put it outside experience, try as you will.

The lover’s home is in longing; then the body is not flesh and blood.
For the sake of the Master, with every breath
only a sob remains.

Dariya says: Longing itself becomes home, becomes temple.

The lover’s home is in longing…
Get up, sit down, walk, go anywhere—longing surrounds you. An invisible atmosphere of longing holds you. You work in the world, but the mind finds no delight. You meet friends, loved ones, but the remembrance of the Beloved grips you. No loved one can entangle the mind anymore. However lovely the music you hear, before his voice everything is pale. However many beautiful flowers you see, until his flower blooms, no flower will seem a flower.

The lover’s home is in longing; then the body is not flesh and blood.
And longing takes you into depths where there is no body, not even its shadow.

For the sake of the Master, with every breath there is a sob.
There, only the remembrance of the Master remains and a sob that perhaps no one else hears. Every breath is filled with a sob. Even if the devotee wants to speak, words fail. He becomes dumb. He wants to speak and cannot. With every breath a sob. The sob itself is his prayer. The tears pouring from his eyes are his worship.

The season’s adornment is fragrant—
as if it were the first love!
A lone fragrance has awakened,
the whole grove sleeps.
One who has not done it, how can he know
what happens in love!
Nights dissolve into the eyes,
days fly off on spread wings!
Again and again someone calls,
again and again from the mango orchard!
I ask my own shadow
for my own address!
No one speaks a word,
all the doors and houses stand in silence!
In the colorful city of flowers
the fragrance is still unwed.
Some bud is in the arms
of some thorn, unwanted.
Compulsion has strung together
countless festoons of desires.
On every path fire is strewn,
even the shadows are scorched!
Every crossroads is smoky—
how shall we get home?
How long with empty pockets
shall I watch a brimming market?
Where shall I file my complaint of pain?
Every court here is false.
In this new age anything may be,
but man is deeply broken.
Smiles on the outside,
inside a cry of woe!

Compulsion has strung together
countless festoons of desires.
Nights dissolve into the eyes,
days fly off on spread wings!
No one speaks a word,
all the doors and houses stand in silence!
The season’s adornment is fragrant—
as if it were the first love!

All around all is lovely, lovable. And within a vast emptiness fills.

What is the meaning of longing? Longing means: inside I am empty. Where God should have been there is no one; the throne is vacant. Longing means: outside everything, inside nothing. Longing means: this inner emptiness cuts, this inner silence cuts.

But one must pass through this longing. Without passing through it, no one reaches the owner of the throne. This is the price to be paid. Perhaps that is why most are not eager for God. Who will pay such a price? On what assurance? Perhaps that is why more people have raised false and formal religions. Go to the temple, offer two flowers, ring the bell, light a lamp—done, finished. The inner bell did not ring, the inner lamp was not lit, the inner arati was not sung; the outer arrangement was made. Your shop is outside and your temple too is outside. Then how can there be much difference between your shop and your temple?

Let the shop be outside; the temple must be inside. The temple can only be inner. But to choose and build the inner temple, you will have to become its foundation. You must be the buried stone on which the temple rises. You must die for God to be attained.

Longing melts and erases you. Longing wipes you clean. A moment comes when you are not. And the very moment you are not, God is.

When does union happen? A most absurd condition is laid upon it. Such an absurd, unreasoning condition that only a very few courageous ones fulfill it. You too would like to meet God. But the condition is: as long as you are, union cannot be. As long as you are, God is not—that is the arithmetic. And when you are not, then God is.

Who will fulfill this condition? Who will gamble such a stake? On what guarantee? What is certain that if I vanish, God will be found? Except that people like Dariya, who vanished, have said he is found. But who knows if Dariya speaks true or not? Maybe he fell into delusion! Or there is some conspiracy behind these things, a great web to keep people entangled! How to trust?

There is only one way: to meet a living person who has vanished—and become, vanished and fulfilled! One who has known the void and, descending into the void, recognized the Full. In whom the ‘I’ has not remained and now only ‘You’ reigns. In whom godliness speaks—if a living meeting with such a person takes place, if you find the good fortune to sit at his feet, if you gain the chance to taste his silence, if the auspicious moment comes to look into his eyes—then something can happen, faith can arise, trust can be born.

Without satsang, trust does not arise. And without a true master this assurance cannot come that you may gather the courage to erase yourself and gain God.

Dariya says:
The Guru’s arrow—only a brave and wise one can bear it.
Once it strikes, pain spreads, cell by cell, through the whole being.

So Dariya says: You won’t understand this by yourself; you won’t muster the courage for longing. You will only gather it when—

The Guru’s arrow…
When the arrow of a true master pierces your heart.

…only a brave and wise one can bear it.
He uses two words—brave (sur) and wise (sudheer). There are brave people, courageous—ready to die and kill—but that’s not enough. They have courage but no insight. That won’t do. And many are very understanding but not courageous. Because of their understanding they become even more cowardly. Their cleverness prevents them from taking even a single step into the unknown. Their very intelligence binds them more tightly to the shore. They cannot untie the boat into the ocean. Such an immense ocean! Such towering waves! Such a tiny boat! Will any sensible man launch it? No map in hand; no certainty there is a far shore; no certainty the boat will ever arrive. Seeing the towering waves, one thing is certain—the boat will sink, sink forever.

The clever are not courageous; the courageous are not clever. Often they are courageous precisely because they are not clever. Not clever, they plunge anywhere, wrestle with anything. That is why the intellect of soldiers must be destroyed during training. Otherwise they cannot fight. If they are intelligent, they will not be able to fight. Intelligence will raise a thousand objections. So the special point of all military training is to finish your thinking. Left turn, right turn; left turn, right turn—from morning till dusk. Neither does left have any meaning, nor right. You cannot ask, what is the point? What will come of turning left?

A philosopher was recruited into the army. In the great war everyone was being enlisted, he too was. The country needed soldiers. When his captain said, left turn!—all turned left, he stood still. The captain asked, why don’t you turn?

He said: First it must be established why we are turning. What will turning left achieve? So many have turned left—what did they gain? Then they’ll turn right, left again, and end up exactly where I am—standing. What is the point of all this turning? I do not take a step without thinking.

That is a philosopher’s training—no step without thought. He was famous. Had it been another, the captain would have showered abuse—those are an essential part of a captain’s and a policeman’s language. Or given some punishment. But this philosopher was renowned; the captain thought, well, he is right in a way. He too, for the first time, understood—what is the purpose of left turn, right turn? What is the use?

There is a use. If a man, three or four hours a day, keeps doing left turn, right turn, run, halt, go, come—obeying every order—his intelligence will gradually wither. He will become mechanical. Then one day, when told to shoot, he will shoot—as easily as he turned left or right. He won’t even think that the man into whose chest he is firing has a mother at home, old, waiting; has children, has a wife. And this man has done nothing to harm me. I don’t even know him—unfamiliar, unknown. As I enlisted for four rotis, perhaps he too enlisted. Why should I kill him?

This philosopher who won’t turn left will not fire either. When ordered—fire!—he will ask, why? What is the sense? And what has this poor fellow done? I have no quarrel with him. I don’t even know him; where is the question of quarrel?

Thinking thus the captain felt—he is a good man, kind. He has enlisted now; it would be wrong to expel him. Give him some other work. So he was sent to the kitchen. A small task: separate the big peas from the small.

An hour later, when the captain came, the philosopher sat as before. If you have seen Rodin’s statue—the Thinker—chin on hand, a thinker sits. In that precise posture the philosopher sat. The peas were as they were. Not a single pea had been moved. The captain asked, sir, at least do this much!

He said: First everything must be clarified. You said, big to one side, small to the other. Where shall the medium ones go? And I do not move a step until all is clear.

With such intelligence, you will not launch your boat into the infinite ocean. Therefore a soldier’s mind must be destroyed. Then they fight mechanically, get cut, cut others. Now the man who dropped the atom bomb on Hiroshima—one lakh people reduced to ash in five minutes—had he thought even a little, could he have dropped it? At most, he could have gone and said, I cannot; if you like, shoot me. That would have been more fitting. One man—let me die, what loss! But to kill a hundred thousand in five minutes for no reason! Little children, preparing for school, packing their satchels. Wives cooking at home. People going to their offices. Upon these unarmed people, who are not soldiers but civilians with no hand in the war—I should drop an atom bomb?

No, the question did not arise. That left-right training destroys questions. It produces blindness. He dropped the bomb. Next morning, when reporters asked—did you sleep at night? He said, I slept very well. Because the task given to me, I completed it. What else is there but good sleep? I fulfilled my duty; I slept deeply.

A hundred thousand burned to ash, and the one who dropped the bomb slept soundly! Surely intelligence has been wiped clean. Not a trace of thought remained.

On one side are intelligent people with no courage. On the other, courageous with no intelligence. Neither reaches God. Hence Dariya is exact: someone brave and wise! When that nectarous conjunction occurs—when there is fragrance added to gold—then God is attained.

The Guru’s arrow—only a brave and wise one can bear it.
Here, both kinds come to me. Some are learned pundits, much in thought, but they cannot bear the arrow. Between them and me stand so many scriptures that the arrow gets perforated in the texts and never reaches their heart. Their excessive cleverness has drained their courage. The courageous come too, but they misunderstand me. I speak of freedom; he hears licentiousness. He lacks intelligence. I speak of love; he hears sex. He lacks intelligence. I say one thing; he makes it something else.

Only those in whom both dwell—courage and good sense—can bear the Guru’s arrow.

Once it even slightly strikes—then it spreads.
…pain through every pore.
In every hair arises the pain of longing. God’s call begins to rise. Prayer awakens.

The saint shares a trait with the warrior—neither can bear falsehood.
A saint does not abandon Ram; nor does a warrior show his back in battle.

He says that the saint and the brave share one thing: both minds cannot stomach falsehood.

A saint does not abandon Ram; nor does a warrior show his back in battle.
As a warrior never turns his back in the field—come what may, whether life is saved or lost—he does not run, does not turn back, does not show his back. So the one who sets off in search of Ram—however searing the longing, even if he must walk on embers—does not turn back. He cannot. Turning back is impossible, for those embers both burn and cool. Contradictory! Those thorns prick and yet a great sweetness fills within. Neem is bitter and purifying.

Dariya is the true warrior; he smashes the enemy horde.
He establishes Ram’s reign; a teeming city is raised.

Dariya is the true warrior…
He alone is the true fighter who finishes the enemies within.

Who ever finished enemies outside! Finish the outer enemies and new ones are born. Even if you triumph over external foes, the triumph does not last. He who wins today will lose tomorrow; who loses today will win tomorrow. Outside life changes every moment. Nothing is eternal there—just a flow.

But inside there is a war—and one must become the inner warrior! There are enemies, the real enemies—anger, lust, greed, delusion… a thousand enemies. He who conquers them becomes their master, and is entitled to meet the Great Master.

Become a small master, and you can meet the great Master. Earn that much worthiness. To meet the Master, become a little like him. To meet the Lord, have a little lordliness within—then there will be welcome at his door.

He establishes Ram’s reign; a teeming city is raised.
Establish Ram’s reign within. Right now lust rules within you. Establish Ram’s reign. Right now there are only desires, and they drag you, and you are pulled like a bound prisoner. A mind besieged by lust loses all dignity and glory.

But remember: whether lust, anger, greed, delusion—they are not to be killed but transformed. Kill them and you have destroyed your own sources of energy. For anger, when joined to awareness, becomes compassion. Do not cut anger off, connect it with awareness. The truly wise turns poison into medicine. The true intelligent turns stones into steps, uses obstacles on the path as supports.

Fools set about killing inner enemies. For centuries religion has been ruled by such fools. You can kill inner enemies, but after killing you will find you have cut off your own limbs. The Bible says: if your hand steals, cut off the hand. Yes—but the same hand could give charity; how will you give now? And if your eye looks with lust, pluck it out. Yes—but the same eye sees God’s beauty in the world; how will you see God? The eye is neutral. It does not say see evil or see good. The eye is only an instrument of seeing. See what you will. If you want to see God, the eye becomes the means.

So I do not agree with such stories. There is a tale that Surdas plucked out his eyes. His songs convince me he could not have done such a thing. And if he did, his life would be wasted. Surdas sang such lovely songs of Krishna’s beauty; it is impossible he blinded himself because eyes lead to lust. Eyes do not lead anyone into lust. Surdas must have understood this. Eyes do not lead to lust; lust within uses the eyes as means. And if prayer is within, the eyes become means for prayer. A sword in your hand—kill someone or save one being killed. The sword is neutral.

All the senses are neutral. Through these ears the Upanishads are heard; with these eyes the morning sun is seen. With these eyes a thief searches others’ treasure; with these eyes people have found their inner treasure. All depends on you.

So inner enemies must be won, not killed. If you kill them—what victory is that over the dead?

In a teahouse people are gossiping. A soldier has returned from war, boasting of great bravery. He says, In one day I cut fifty heads, piled them high.

Mulla Nasruddin has been listening. He says: That’s nothing. I too went to war in my youth. In one day I cut a thousand men’s legs.

The soldier says: Legs? Never heard of such a thing! Heads are cut, not legs.

Mulla says: What could I do? Someone else had already cut off their heads!

If you bring back the legs of the dead, you are no victor. If you kill your inner energies, you are not wise. And if you killed those you took as enemies within, you will find after killing that all the springs of your life’s energy have dried up.

That is why there is no rejoicing in the lives of your saints, no festival, no bliss. A deep gloom hangs. No creativity in their lives. No songs bursting forth. No dance arising. For the energy that could have been song or dance, they destroyed. No compassion is seen either. Because having killed anger, from where will compassion arise?

And I tell you: one who burns out lust within does not attain celibacy; he becomes impotent. And the difference between being impotent and being celibate is as great as earth and sky. What greater difference could there be?

In Russia there was a Christian sect that cut off their genitals. Will you call them celibate? By cutting organs, will lust go? By blinding yourself, do you think the yearning for form will vanish? By deafening yourself, will the pull of sound end? If only it were so easy, religion would be simple. Go to the hospital, have a few operations, become religious. We’d need surgeons, not masters.

A true master does not cut; he transforms. The unhewn stone is not to be thrown away; it is to be sculpted, the statue to be revealed. The statue is hidden within. In your anger, the statue of compassion is hidden; some refinement, some filtering is needed. And the energy of lust is your Ram-energy. These are your riches. They are enemies now because you don’t know how to use them. The day you learn, they become your servants.

Thousands of years ago, in Vedic times, lightning flashed in the sky just as it does now. But then people trembled, shook, thought—Indra is angry, Indra is threatening. Understandably so. Five thousand years ago we knew nothing of electricity. When lightning cracked in the sky, chests would pound, fear arise. Some explanation is needed. Only one was at hand: the rainbow—like Indra with his bow drawn. Indra is angry; we have erred. People would fall on their knees and pray.

Now no one prays to lightning. Lightning still flashes, but you don’t kneel and pray. Now you know what electricity is. Now electricity serves you at home. Press a button and electricity stands ready, saying, Yes, sir, your command! Press and the fan turns. Press and the light comes on. Press and the radio plays. Press and the television starts. Now electricity is a maid in your house. Now you don’t take sky-lightning as Indra’s wrath. Those stories are for children; even children won’t believe them.

As soon as we know something fully, we become its master. Outer electricity has come under control; inner electricity has not. The name of inner electricity is lust. It is living voltage. So far religious people have feared and trembled before it. Their trembling has gained them nothing, and their fear much harm. Those who know will say: this inner electricity too can be changed. It too can be your maid.

When lust stands in your service—that is celibacy. As long as you serve lust—that is non-celibacy. The difference is only this—who is master? Everything depends on that. You can cut off lust; that is easy. Very easy! You can go to Ajit Saraswati. It is easy to cut lust. Your genitals can be removed, your body’s hormones—by which one is male or female—can be taken out; new hormones inserted. You can be emptied of lust.

But do not think you will become a Mahavira or a Buddha; that joys will surge within like Dariya’s, that you will dance like Meera. Nothing of the sort. You will sit sluggishly in a corner. A great melancholy will shroud your life. Your life will be an amavas night, not a full-moon. You will simply become dull and sad. You will be like a corpse.

You know this well. If not, ask a farmer. What is the difference between a bull and an ox? Do you take an ox to be celibate? The bull’s splendor! His sheen! His pride! And where the poor ox? Farmers long ago found a trick—castrate the bull and you can yoke him to a cart, enslave him. He becomes weak, needy. Try yoking a bull to a cart! Neither you will survive nor the cart. You’ll be in a ditch with broken bones, the cart’s skeleton scattered—and the bull taking rest in some Shiva temple! But castrate the bull and he becomes pitiable. Now yoke him to a cart, a plough—do as you please.

Man becomes pitiable if lust, anger, greed are cut away. You have long worshiped that pitiableness. I remind you: stop this worship! The days of the pitiable man are over. Let the days of the magnificent man come! Let the man arise who will transform energies, not repress; who will use every energy.

And I tell you: whatever God has given you he has not given in vain. God is not mad. If he has given lust, surely some treasure is hidden in it. Dig, search. If he has given anger, surely some energy is hidden—release it. They appear as enemies only as long as you are their slave. The day you are master, they all become friends.

Dariya is the true warrior…
He alone is the true brave one—

…he smashes the enemy horde.
He casts them to the ground.

He establishes Ram’s reign; a teeming city is raised.
But note—A city teeming! Ram’s reign is not an empty place—full of life, festivity is born. Diwali and Holi, the festival of colors rises. Lamps are lit.

He establishes Ram’s reign; a teeming city is raised.
Until you see within someone a full Ram-rajya—color dust rising, lamps aflame, drums beating, the flute singing—know that he is no saint; just a corpse holding himself together somehow, not alive.

From the tongue it descended and made the heart its home.
Dariya, the monsoon of love pours, six seasons, twelve months.

Hear this beloved line: From the tongue it descended!
As long as Ram’s name remains on your tongue alone, nothing will happen. It must descend into the heart.

From the tongue it descended and made the heart its home.
When Ram descends into your heart. When the fire of longing burns so that all of mind burns—thoughts, imaginations, memories, noise, crowd—and peace remains within. And it is not the word Ram but the feeling that matters. The word Ram will remain on the tongue. You cannot take a word into the heart; no way for words to enter. Only feeling is there. But you understand. You recognize feeling. Before any word becomes a word it is feeling. Feeling is the soul of word; word is the body of feeling. Let the shell of word go, immerse in feeling, in the ecstasy of feeling.

From the tongue it descended and made the heart its home.
And when the wave of feeling rises in your heart, that miracle happens.

Dariya, the monsoon of love pours…
The rain of love pours upon you. It keeps pouring. Then it no longer stops.

…six seasons, twelve months.
In all six seasons, all twelve months it rains. It’s not that the rainy season comes and goes. Then only monsoon remains. Then there is unending rain of love.

But do you feel such a rain of love around your saints? Do your temples seem to overflow with love? Your churches, cathedrals, mosques, gurudwaras are empty of love. Your sadhus—empty of love. Yes, gloom they have. A dejection. A darkness lies upon their souls, but no light is felt. This is what passes for religion. For centuries this has gone on; gradually we began to think this is religion.

It is not; it is worse than irreligion. It is not theism; it is lower than atheism. An atheist may become a theist; these so-called religious will never become theistic. They have taken life from the wrong end. Their God is against life. How can God be against life? He is the creator of life—this is his song, his poem. He painted this picture. Can the painter be against his painting? Can a sculptor be against his statue? If a dancer were against the dance, why dance at all?

Dariya, the monsoon of love pours, six seasons, twelve months.
Then the rain of love will be, the festival will be; the monsoon will gather and not pass.

Pour, pour, pour, O clouds of compassion!
Shiver, shiver, shiver, O blades of grass and trunks of trees!
Pour, pour, pour, O clouds of compassion!

Sound-drunk, this echoing of sky and mind;
the earth’s drum resounds, the mind is undone;
forever green, filled with conscious life,
quivering with delight the clay particles.
Pour, pour, pour, O clouds of compassion!
Shiver, shiver, shiver, O blades of grass and trunks of trees!

Whistling, whirling, the wind rings;
the cricket’s jingle, anklets’ chime;
the arbors and groves churn,
the storm roars—har-har—hahar!
Pour, pour, pour, O clouds of compassion!
Shiver, shiver, shiver, O blades of grass and trunks of trees!

The sun’s fire and earth’s fatal moment
calmed and sated by the cloud’s libation;
offering the sky’s oblation—
the courtyard of the earth trembles
shaking—shaking—the ground quivers.
Pour, pour, pour, O clouds of compassion!
Shiver, shiver, shiver, O blades of grass and trunks of trees!

Let it pour! Open your heart! Let love’s cloud pour! Only then will you know God is. Dance, sing, hum, sway! Learn the lessons of ecstasy. Only the intoxicated, the mad, know him. Others talk—parrot-talk. Their talk has no value. No meaning.

When the heart is joined to Ram, O Dariya, even once,
waves of love rise—like monsoon clouds pouring rain.

If even once your mind is linked, your heart linked, with Ram—

Waves of love rise…
Love will flow from you—

…like monsoon clouds pouring rain.
As it rains in the monsoon.

But in the name of religion, one falsehood after another thrives. In religion’s name, love is denied. In religion’s name, every green thing in life must be dried up—so goes the effort—everything wither and fall away! In religion’s name it is not gardens that are praised but deserts that are sung.

When, O people, in the heart of Dariya
there dawned the light of knowing,
where the lake of love is brimful
there the servant takes his plunge.

As soon as his arrow reaches the center of your heart, his feeling comes into your heart—

…the light of knowing dawns.
Just so the light of knowing blazes.

Where the lake of love is brimful…
Where the lake of love is full—

…there the servant takes his plunge.
Then it is all surging waves. Then only ecstasy.

When God comes, he makes you drunk like a wine-bibber. Nectar rains, lotuses bloom! In that supreme state, that inner condition, nectar pours and lotuses blossom.

Nectar falls, lotuses bloom; experiential knowing is born.
Only then know that knowledge has taken birth—when your lotus has opened and you have felt the rain of nectar within. Until then do not mistake words from scripture for your knowledge. Do not take erudition for wisdom.

Dariya, man of that land, speaks of it each in their own way.
Though that supreme country has been spoken of by different people in different ways, the land is one. Buddha speaks in his way, Zoroaster in his, Chaitanya in his. I am speaking in mine. And the day you experience it you will speak in yours. The styles are different. The experience is one. Expressions are many.

I invite you—drop gloom, drop repression, drop life-negation. Come, let us call the monsoon.

The first Ashadhi shower has begun—come, let’s get drenched.
The palanquin of the season stands ready—come, let’s get drenched.
Without checking planets, muhurta, or almanac—
this is the auspicious hour of union—come, let’s get drenched.
The beloved calls like a parched papiha, while you
are busy with household chores—come, let’s get drenched.
The age of these loving moments
is longer than our total lifetime—come, let’s get drenched.
Decency rules, but as for shyness
break this handcuff—come, let’s get drenched.
If we ourselves miss these wet omens,
we deceive ourselves—come, let’s get drenched.
On the paired lips love’s moist rubai
the monsoon recited today—come, let’s get drenched.
Your form bathed in the rains—
dew encrusted upon fire—come, let’s get drenched.

The invitation to be drenched—this is the invitation to sannyas. The door of sannyas opens only to those ready to be drenched. But people keep saving little things. People don’t even get drenched in ordinary rain—what if the clothes get wet! Try getting drenched in the simple rain; there is great joy in it. Clothes will dry. You are not made of such raw clay that you’ll melt away. But even in ordinary showers people walk with umbrellas. Some carry them always—who knows when it might rain.

Mulla Nasruddin was walking through the bazaar with an umbrella. It began to rain, yet he didn’t open it. Two or three saw him and said, Nasruddin, why don’t you open it?

He said: It is full of holes.

So they asked: Then why carry it?

He said: I thought—who knows, it might rain on the way!

As far as the inner sky is concerned, you all walk with umbrellas—arrangements of safety. People come here too; I see them sitting with umbrellas, listening. Fortunately, sometimes their umbrellas have a few holes, and a little drizzle gets through—despite them! But they hold up the umbrella.

The inner umbrellas must be dropped. Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Buddhist, Jain—these are all umbrellas. These are defenses, ways to hide behind words. Make a Holi bonfire of them. Gather these umbrellas and burn them. When this Holi blazes, burn your umbrellas. Become empty for once, as God made you. God didn’t make you a Jain or Buddhist or Hindu or Muslim. He made you simply and purely human. If you become as he made you, connection with him becomes easy. Only then can you accept this invitation.

The first Ashadhi shower has begun—come, let’s get drenched.
The palanquin of the season stands ready—come, let’s get drenched.
And do not ask for auspicious timing! There is no need. All hours are his. Every hour is auspicious.

Without checking planets, muhurta, or almanac—
this is the auspicious hour of union—come, let’s get drenched.
Don’t go showing your horoscope to astrologers.

People come to me and say, We showed our horoscope to the astrologer; he said in this life there is no muhurta for samadhi. Should I take sannyas or not?

Asking astrologers the muhurta for samadhi! You have taken samadhi for a racehorse, or a lottery ticket!

People are very clever at finding ways to avoid. People come and say: I will take sannyas, but in an auspicious hour.

What auspicious hour? God is now—if he is now, is this not auspicious? All days are dear, all moments dear, because all are steeped in him, held in him. Every hour is he; there is no one else.

Without checking planets, muhurta, or almanac—
this is the auspicious hour of union—come, let’s get drenched.
The age of these loving moments
is longer than our total lifetime—come, let’s get drenched.
If you get even a single moment to be drenched in his love, then your thousands of lives become meaningless in comparison; a single moment of his love is eternal. Living for years has no meaning; a single moment lived in his love is enough. The satisfaction of countless lives is fulfilled.

Decency rules, but as for shyness
break this handcuff—come, let’s get drenched.
But great is shame, great is hesitation—what will people say!

When I was a university student it was my fixed habit that whenever it rained, I would go by a deserted road on campus to get drenched. Slowly, another madman agreed to join me. At the end of that road stood the last bungalow—the physics professor’s house. The road ended there. We sat under the big tree at the end and got drenched. The professor’s wife and children took great pity; whenever it rained, they would watch the road, for when we arrived they would be at the windows, at the door.

As fate would have it, someone introduced me to the professor. He grew very interested in my talks and one day invited me to lunch. I said I have a friend who always comes with me to your house’s end—shall I bring him? He said, do bring him. He must have praised us much at home, saying he was bringing two extraordinary persons. They were very eager; great preparations made. When they saw us, all the children, his wife, the daughters-in-law, ran to the inner rooms and laughed so loudly the professor was shocked—

I told him: Don’t feel embarrassed. We are already old acquaintances. They are not laughing to insult us; they are laughing because you praised us highly, and they know us—these two are mad.

People are afraid of being drenched outside—so how will they be drenched within! Drop some shame. Mira said: I dropped the world’s propriety! I tied my anklets and danced! Only by dropping propriety will you dance, will you be drenched.

If we ourselves miss these wet omens,
we deceive ourselves—come, let’s get drenched.
On the paired lips love’s moist rubai
the monsoon recited today—come, let’s get drenched.
If ever such a conjunction comes that you meet a drenched one who invites you, drop propriety, and if he calls you into the inner house, take a look within.

A true master means nothing more than this: that he reminds you once—of all that is already within you, yet unfamiliar, unknown.

Seeing the mountain of gold, the greedy grew sad!
Dariya has said a most wondrous thing. He says: Do not bother with greed and company. I will take you within—to that place—seeing the Himalayas of gold your greed will grow sad on its own—seeing that you have already received far more than you ever asked! All craving will fall.

This aphorism is meaningful. People tell you: first leave greed, then you can reach there. Dariya says: come there and greed will drop. Greed exists precisely because you have nothing. Once you see the infinite treasure within is yours—what greed! Greed itself sits down, dejected.

Seeing the mountain of gold, the greedy grew sad.
Says Dariya: weary of trading, the heart’s desire fulfilled.

There, what trade? There all greed, attachment, the mind’s commerce falls away on its own.

…the heart’s desire fulfilled.
What you asked for—you received a thousand times more, a million times more. What you never even imagined—you received. What you could not dream—you received. You are the owner of a great empire. You are a sovereign. God resides within you.

People relish the sweet; the sweet breeds disease.
Dariya says: perhaps my words will taste bitter—because you are addicted to hearing sweet ones. You have become keen only to hear consolations. You go to sadhus that somehow they may apply salve and bandage.

People relish the sweet; the sweet breeds disease.
But remember: consolation, though sweet, is why your diseases remain, why they don’t heal.

The attributeless is bitter as neem; Dariya, this yoga is rare.
Prepare—to endure the pain of longing!

The attributeless is bitter as neem…
A very bitter medicine—but it will free you from your illnesses. Meditation is nothing but this bitter dose. No pain is greater than longing. But the bitter medicine of meditation leads you to the pool of nectar. The deep pain and fire of longing refines your gold. Makes you worthy. Makes you fit to be embraced by God.

But this yoga is rare. Only if you have courage and understanding can this revolutionary event occur. And it is not that you don’t have both—only give them a chance to meet. Hold courage and understanding together. Then that supremely fortunate moment can come in your life too when you can say—

Nectar falls, lotuses bloom; experiential knowing is born.
Dariya, man of that land, speaks of it each in their own way.
—Then the Quran, the Bible, the Vedas, the Gita will all seem right—for by experience you will know that in different languages the same thing has been said.

Nectar is showering, lotuses are blossoming!
The lotus can bloom. Nectar can shower. The truth is—the lotus is already in bloom, nectar is already raining—turn back to yourself. Turn the eyes inward. Listen within, contemplate within.

Enough for today.