Ami Jharat Bigsat Kanwal #5

Again the ache rises, eyes brim,
from the left corner of the chest;
again a deep, deep pang.

The day somehow passed
in the world’s give-and-take;
but each moment is mountain-heavy—
how will this night pass?

This evening kite, cruel to the core,
will tear at and feed on my heart.

Thorns of babul will sprout,
unbidden, in my eyelashes.

I will keep waking even as I sleep;
and all will rouse only by sleeping.

Every joint will crack and ache
as if the wine were wearing off.

Once more, sandalwood will smolder within,
yet no smoke will show outside.

No sound will escape;
a hidden worm will gnaw me from within.

That serpent of memories
will bite me again and coil back.

When has sand ever stayed tight in a fist?
When has water ever rested in cupped hands?

What can this mute pain even say?
And who will hear in this deaf world?

Life is a drop of quicksilver—
once it scatters, it scatters.

Again the ache rises, eyes brim,
from the left corner of the chest;
again a deep, deep pang.

Do not squander this life for cheap. Because it came unasked, do not think it worthless. It has no price, yes—but its value is immense. In the dictionary, price and value may be synonyms; in the lexicon of life, they are not. Whatever has a price, has no real value; and whatever has value, has no price.

Love has value—what price? Meditation has value—what price? Freedom has value—what price? The market sells what can be tagged; but what is their true value?

Who lives only in the world of price is worldly. Who enters the world of value is a renunciate. Value is grace from the Divine. Yet since it is grace, it can be missed. If you had to pay a price, perhaps you would value life. But it was given—some unknown energy filled your begging bowl; you didn’t even notice when someone breathed life into you; you have no idea who beats within your heart—so don’t fritter life away picking up forgotten pebbles. Until the search for the Divine begins, do not imagine you have lived. Life starts only with the quest for the Divine. Birth alone is not enough for life. Another birth is needed. Blessed are those in whom a pang rises, a call is heard; who feel the ache; who set out in search of God; who are ready to stake everything.

Again the ache rises, eyes brim,
from the left corner of the chest;
again a deep, deep pang.

When has sand ever stayed tight in a fist?
When has water ever rested in cupped hands?

What can this mute pain even say?
And who will hear in this deaf world?

Life is a drop of quicksilver—
once it scatters, it scatters.

Beware! Losing life is easy; earning it is arduous. It is a drop of mercury: once scattered, it is scattered—you will not gather it again. Moment by moment the drop is spilling, and you are lost in some web of futility—money, position, prestige. Their value is hardly two pennies—perhaps not even that. You are picking pebbles when a diamond-mine lies very close—within you. How to reach that diamond-mine—today’s sutras are for this.

Carrying the scent of pain,
bound to a pact with poison,
beneath sandal shade, life’s songs grew.

A support of straws against the ambush of storms,
quivering hopes on perishable collisions.

On Death’s open palm, the yearning to live;
upon the tug-of-war of light and shade.

Sipping fire from the lips,
tenderness held within,
as a flame flickers in tempests.

Clasping rainbow seasons within your arms,
with youth’s surging tide in your desires.

Gathering depth on the edges of your eyelids,
to move unwearying along stony paths.

Claiming your own birthright,
a fresh swell in your heart,
like a wave that fades, drawing a line in sand.

On biting betrayals, tears brim-brim;
in garlands of defeats, buds fall-fall.

In fine veiling, a vermilion parting,
regarding your reflected form in the mirror, glimmer-glimmer.

At the bend of youth,
in a race to laugh,
as if your own smile cheated the full moon.

In Jeth’s blazing noon become a cool curiosity,
in the churning of dualities, become a longing for nectar.

Limit the ocean within each waterpot at the village well,
for the thirst of the seer, become life’s definition.

With detachment in the midst of passion,
renouncing the heat of burning,
that the golden body might burn to become a crown of gold.

Become a cool curiosity in Jeth’s blazing noon!

This life is a burning summer noon. Everything is aflame, blazing. Life is nothing but pyres upon pyres. And you know it—everyone knows it—for what do you receive but wounds?

Become a cool curiosity in Jeth’s blazing noon!

Raise up inquiry. Seek that which is never lost. Seek that, which once found, ends all seeking.

In the churning of dualities, become a longing for nectar.

How long will you remain entangled in twoness, in duality? How long will you be split by conflict?

In the Middle Ages, Europe had a punishment for prisoners. The convict would be laid down and his hands and feet tied to four horses—one horse for each limb—and the horses were whipped in four directions. The man was torn into quarters—hence “quartering.” A fitting name.

Look closely at your life and see: you are doing the same to yourself. You have tied yourself to a thousand desires, each running in a different direction—east, west, south, north. Not four, a thousand horses. You are being torn apart, fragmented, scattered. Call this tension, anxiety, restlessness, madness—call it what you will: it is scattering. In this scattering, you will never find rest. You will burn, be cut, rot, die; you will never truly live.

Life begins when all your desires are gathered into one longing; when your separate cravings racing in different directions are transformed into a single inquiry; when you drop this and that and become bound, dedicated, committed to seeking only the One. Drop the two, drop the many—hold the One. In holding the One, you become one. Grab at the many, and you become many. And the joy of being one, the rest of being one!

Become a cool curiosity in Jeth’s blazing noon!
In the churning of dualities, become a longing for nectar.

Is your search for what perishes? Are you chasing what death will snatch? When will you seek the immortal?

In the churning of dualities, become a longing for nectar.

Limit the Ocean within each pitcher at the well!

In each little pot, in each heart, the whole sky can descend—such is your dignity, your glory. Each drop can contain the sea—such is your capacity, your possibility. But you never lift your eyes to the sky. Eyes fixed on the ground, you spend your life with pebbles, trash. And in what do you place your trust! A great storm comes, a bird has built a nest of straws and sits in it believing he is safe. A fierce tempest comes and you have made a house of playing cards in the sand, believing there is nothing to worry about. Death will come and bring down your card-houses. Before death arrives, taste a little of the nectar.

A support of straws against the ambush of storms,
quivering hopes on perishable collisions.
On Death’s open palm, the yearning to live;
upon the tug-of-war of light and shade.

You sit on Death’s palm. When that fist may close—no one knows. Still your worry runs to the trivial.

There is a famous Buddhist tale. A young prince, defeated in battle, flees into the forest. Enemies pursue; the sound of hooves grows louder. The prince comes to the edge of a cliff, the path ends. In front, a terrifying gorge; behind, the riders are closing in. Death comes closer with each moment. Your situation is the same as his. He gathers courage, makes a last resolve: I’ll jump. If caught, my head is cut at once. A leap is also dangerous; the chasm is deadly; but compared to the enemy’s hand, there is at least some hope—perhaps I’ll break a limb, but live. Who knows—sometimes a miracle happens: you fall and survive, without breaking even a hand or foot.

He looks down. Two lions, mouths open, stare up. Now all hope is gone. The hooves grow louder; the lions roar below, having seen the prince above, waiting to tear and devour him if he falls. With no other option, the prince grabs a tree root and hangs there, hoping the pursuers might not see him, might assume the path ends and turn back; and thus he might escape both lions and enemies, if they retreat.

As he clings to the roots, another trouble appears: a white mouse and a black mouse begin gnawing the very root he holds—symbols of day and night. Now there is no chance. The enemies approach; the lions roar; and the mice keep gnawing—now cut, any moment cut. Just then, a drop of honey drips from a nearby hive. He catches it on his tongue. The taste is sweet—so sweet that he forgets everything: the hooves, the roaring lions, the mice gnawing the root. Honey is very sweet.

A lovely Buddhist tale—about you. You are that prince. Death surrounds you from all sides, and you savor a single drop of honey. And you imagine in that drop you have found everything; now you need not worry about death—as if you had found immortality! What are your pleasures? Drops of honey; a little taste on the tongue—while death encircles you.

A support of straws against the ambush of storms,
quivering hopes on perishable collisions.
On Death’s open palm, the yearning to live;
upon the tug-of-war of light and shade.

Sipping fire from the lips,
tenderness held within,
as a flame flickers in tempests.

The tempests are great, and you are a small lamp. Your extinguishing is certain. No one has ever been saved, nor will anyone ever be.

Yet this small moment in your hand can be put to good use. This moment can become satsang. This moment can explode as light within you. This moment can become meditation within you. This moment can become the flavor of witnessing within you.

Think again of that prince. If only he had not been entangled by the drop! Seeing death all around, he could have become utterly still. In his last moment he could have become a witness. Awake and purely conscious in that final instant—then death would have been futile, and he would have been linked to the deathless.

In witnessing is the nectar. In awakening is the nectar. Nectar showers, the lotus opens! The moment you become a witness, the rain of immortality begins, and the secret lotus within you starts to bloom.

Daria says:
Abandon the impure and the formed; attend to the Formless.
Penetrate the Formless, and bring back the supportless flame.

He says: Do one thing and all is done. Do not get caught in corruptions. Do not be entangled in honey-drops—deceptions. Do not be trapped by forms and figures—mirages, illusions. Attend to the Formless.

How to meditate on the Formless? People come and ask: One can meditate on form—on Rama with his bow, Krishna with his flute, Christ on the cross, Buddha, Mahavira—but the Formless?

Understand a little of the process. What you call meditation is not meditation—it is concentration. Concentration requires a form, a point: Rama, Krishna, Buddha, Mahavira; an image, a mantra, a word, an object, a prop—then you can concentrate.

Concentration is not meditation. Meditation is almost the opposite. Though all the popular books equate meditation with concentration, they are wrong—written by the inexperienced. Concentration narrows the mind; it is the effort to fix yourself on one point. Useful in science. But meditation is much more. It means pure awareness. Not concentration on a thing—simply being awake.

Think of a torch. A torch is not meditation; it is concentration. You switch it on and the beam focuses on one spot. Light a lamp—that lamp is meditation. It does not concentrate on one thing; it illumines whatever is around. With a torch, one thing is seen and the rest remains in darkness. With a lamp, all is gently lit. And meditation is such a lamp that it has no base for darkness to gather beneath—no wick, no oil! Only pure flame, pure awakening—so there is no “dark under the lamp.”

Understand “meditation” as the flavor of witnessing. For example, you are listening to me. You can listen in two ways. Newcomers listen with concentration—eager not to miss a word, excluding everything else, tensing around my speech. Those who have been here awhile are listening in meditation. The difference is great. With concentration, you tire quickly; tension arises; the birds’ song won’t be heard, nor the sound of cars on the road. Everything else is shut down. With meditation, you hear what I am saying—and the birds’ tivit-tut-tut; the car on the road, the passing train—you simply listen. You remain a witness to whatever is. There is no strain, no fatigue. A freshness grows; the mind becomes innocent, at rest.

You don’t meditate on the Formless; when you are in meditation, the Formless is. Concentration focuses on form; meditation connects you with the Formless.

Penetrate the Formless, and bring back the supportless flame.
There, all supports fall away. One becomes supportless, without props—simply is. That pure hour of being, that sheer being—unprecedented. There showers the nectar. Nectar rains, the lotus opens!

First taste meditation; from it knowledge is born.
This sutra is precious. You have always heard the reverse: first read the scriptures, collect knowledge; then meditation will happen. First learn about meditation, then you can know meditation. Daria says otherwise—exactly what I say to you.

First, the experience of meditation.
From it, knowledge is born.

You are doing the opposite—you’ve yoked the oxen behind the cart. Hence you never arrive. Knowledge first, then meditation? No—meditation first, then knowledge. Truthfully, knowledge follows meditation the way your shadow follows you. If I wish to invite your shadow, I must invite you; the shadow cannot come on its own. Knowledge is the shadow of meditation. It does not come from the Vedas, the Koran, the Bible. What you gather from them is not knowledge, only hollow erudition, parrot-talk; paper flowers. Real knowledge sprouts from meditation. Meditation is the womb of wisdom.

Learning verses from the Vedas, or memorizing Koranic ayat, is like adopting someone else’s child—your lap is filled, but falsely. It is another thing when a mother carries a child in her womb for nine months—the long pain ripens love. When the child is born, the mother is born too. Without the child, the woman remains just a woman, not a mother. Adoption may mimic it, but it is borrowed.

So, too, people never become mothers of wisdom. They do not conceive meditation but adopt knowledge. Adoption is cheap. Scriptures are easy to read; to know God, life must be staked.

Daria is right. I agree a hundred percent. Only one with experience could say this. Such lines drew me to speak on Daria: only the experienced can speak so!

First taste meditation…
…from it knowledge is born.

Had he said knowledge comes from the Vedas, I would never have spoken on him. Had he said the Bible contains knowledge, I would have turned away. This one line bound me to him. He is a true connoisseur, a jeweler. He did not adopt knowledge; he gave birth to it from the womb of meditation. He bore the labor. He raised the child. He has self-realization.

And you know: what is possible through experience cannot be reached by borrowed experience. Parents warn children endlessly—don’t do this, don’t do that—but children don’t listen. And rightly so. If they listened, they would remain impotent forever, hollow; no spine would grow. Only experience convinces. Tell the child a thousand times not to go near the lamp; until he burns his hand, your words have no value.

Mulla Nasruddin’s friend asked: Mulla, do you know my wife?
Mulla said: No, brother! Knowing my own wife is already too much.

Only your own experience gives life a sound foundation; another’s cannot. You cannot truly understand another’s experience; there is no bridge. Borrowed information remains information; it does not become knowing.

Keep this sutra in your heart, for those who go against it go astray; those who follow it arrive. Their arrival is certain.

Daria says: Many live by hearsay, subsisting on words! They gather beautiful sayings, collect subhashitas; they know the Vedas by heart; they have memorized the Koran—but even that will not do.

The Koran descended into Muhammad’s meditation. It was not read; it descended. He could not read. On a mountain, in solitude, he was meditating—silent, witnessing—when suddenly a voice from the inner sky proclaimed; a spring burst forth; a sweet murmur began within. Hence the Koran’s song and music unlike any other scripture—the tarannum that makes hearts sway. The very languages shaped under its influence carry that cadence. But Muhammad did not read the Koran—it descended. It was ilham—revelation—born.

And whenever you become a witness, a scripture descends. Not the same Koran—for the Divine does not repeat itself. It does not believe in carbon copies. It sings a new song each time; brings a new dawn; signs freshly.

Just as your thumbprint is uniquely yours—among billions, no two alike—so the stamp of the soul is beyond compare. When a song descends in your meditation, it will be neither Veda nor Gita nor Koran—though it will contain what is in them. But the song will be yours; the hum yours; the rhythm yours. You will dance in it; it will be original.

And this is good. If the same song returned again and again, what boredom! The Divine is ever-new.

Mulla Nasruddin was riding a train with a famous poet. The poet was composing as the train ran. Mulla asked if he had a book or magazine to read. The poet promptly handed him a volume: my collected poems. Mulla said: Thanks, keep that with you; for reading I have a timetable.

There are poets who keep repeating with small changes—rhyme-mongering. An old Rajasthani tale: A Jat carrying a cot on his head meets a poet who quips, “Jat re Jat, sir par tere khat!” The Jat retorts, “Kavi re kavi, teri aisi ki taisi!” The poet says, The rhyme doesn’t fit. The Jat says, Rhyme or no rhyme, I’ve said what I had to say. You keep fitting your rhymes!

The Divine is not a rhymester. It is infinite; its expressions are infinite—ever fresh.

When you gather secondhand knowledge, it is stale. You don’t trust the Divine, so you cling to Veda, to Koran. If only you trusted the Divine, you would drop even Veda, Koran, Bible, and say to God: I consent—descend into me! My doors are open. Come within. Hum in me also. What is my fault? Touch me too. Turn my clay to gold. Give me fragrance. Why are you displeased with me?

Only one who trusts the Divine can meditate. Do not forget: meditation means awareness, witnessing. Read all the scriptures you like—you will understand only what you are capable of understanding. How else could it be? To grasp a Vedic richa, you need the rishi’s state of consciousness. Meaning does not reside in words; it lies in the eyes that see. Words are only pegs; you must hang your own coat. When a fool reads the Vedas, they become foolish with him.

Mulla Nasruddin said: Last night my neighbor pounded my door at midnight. You must have been very disturbed, I said. Not as much as he! Mulla replied. I kept singing as before—the very reason he was pounding.

He once began to learn sitar and kept sawing on one string: rehn—rehn—rehn. Family and neighbors begged: touch the other strings! Mulla said: Other musicians touch other strings because they’re searching for their note; I’ve found mine.

You will read scriptures—and what will you read? I heard there’s a verse in the Koran: Drink wine, frequent prostitutes—and you will rot in hell. Mulla drinks, frequents, and reads the Koran. I asked: Didn’t you notice this verse? Many times, he said. But I do what I can. So far I fulfill half. Capacity differs! Great men say great things; do as much as you can. “Drink and fornicate”—clear command. “Rot in hell”—that’s later; we’ll see.

You will extract only the meanings that support you.

No—without meditation there is no knowledge. First meditation makes you a rishi; then the meanings of the richa open like buds in spring. And the delight is: once you become a rishi and the Vedas open before you, you no longer need the Vedas—your own Veda starts flowing within. You become the Veda; every word becomes scripture. Seek that which, when found, gives you the essence of all scriptures.

A bird flies in the sky; no footprints mark the path.
A fish moves in water; no wake shows the way.

Marvelous lines Daria gives—each a jewel beyond weighing.

A bird flies in the sky…
Have you seen birds flying? They leave no footprints. So is the rishi’s gait. No prints are left in the sky of God. Therefore, do not become someone’s follower—it cannot be done, for there are no footprints to follow.

A bird flies in the sky; no trace is found.
The bird is gone; no marks remain. So how can another bird follow?

Daria: As the fish swims—no path appears.
In the river or ocean, a fish moves and leaves no trail. In the vast inner sky of meditation, no marks, no path.

A bird flies in the sky…
A fish swims in water…

Such is the inner sky. No footprints, no paths. Therefore there can be no following there. You must make your own way. Being Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jain, Buddhist will not do—those assume a ready-made road. “The Tirthankaras built the superhighway; we only need to walk.” But truth leaves no road.

Remember: Mahavira, Buddha, Krishna, Christ—birds flying in the sky. You cannot follow them. The footprints were fabricated by pundits.

Buddha said: Make no statue of me. Today there are more Buddhas in stone than of anyone. Think! All his life he said, Don’t make my image; my worship will do nothing. Go within. Be a lamp unto yourself. Yet so many images were made that in Urdu the word but—idol—is a transformation of “Buddha.” “Buddha” came to mean “idol.” There is a temple in China of Ten Thousand Buddhas—ten thousand statues in one hall. Why? Because latecomers need signs—milestones, clear paths. No one wishes to carve his own way through the jungle—walking and making the path, step by step.

This point is fundamental: truth cannot be followed; it must be discovered. Not imitation—investigation. Follow someone, and you remain outside. Go within, then! It is trackless, dark, a forest; the way is not clear. It is hard. But that hardship is the price.

A trembling, tender body, a lovely mind, youth so restless,
a boat without nine binding pegs, adrift on the ocean of becoming—
friend, take me by the compassionate arm!

Thoughts woven of illusion, sorrow soaked in illusion,
deluded knowing, unsteady feet,
an indomitable tangle of darkness, the terrible instant of death,
the unknown future, the bittersweet past, and dying—
conquer the present!

May new hymns awaken, day and night,
immersed at those lotus feet;
may the intoxicating gift of signs cut the bonds of time and space;
for the weary who seek refuge, a smile that never fades—
brother, grant fearlessness!

Cloud-bursts overflow, the ocean of life surges,
the garment of wind is sheer, the fling of fate is so hard to cross,
the two-footed creature writhes in doubt and fear,
the boatman’s shore is blind and deep—
let the drop dissolve into the sea!

In this vast ocean, dissolve your drop.
Brother, grant fearlessness!

Do not grasp out of fear. Drop fear.

You have clutched temple and mosque out of fear. Your God is the icon of your fear. You know nothing of God, because you know nothing of meditation. There is a God who descends in meditation; and a god you manufacture out of fear. The idols in your temples belong to your fear-god—you crafted them. They are not the real God—the One who crafted you. You repay him thus? He fashioned you; you fashion him! You deck your trays, compose your prayers—whom are you deceiving? Self-deception.

Brother, grant fearlessness!
Let the drop dissolve into the sea!

Do not be afraid. Religion has nothing to do with fear, and the timid have nothing to do with religion. In every language there is this phrase: “god-fearing.” In Hindi, dharm-bhiru—afraid in religion. Gandhi wrote: fear none but fear God. I say: fear whomever you must, but never fear God. If you fear, there can be no relationship. Love him. Does love fear? Love is fearless.

Link yourself through love. Fear never binds; it breeds resistance, not love.

Tulsidas said: “Without fear, there is no love.” I say the exact opposite. With a club over your head, you frighten someone and he declares love—is that love? He will bide his time to take revenge. Tulsidas is a mere pundit—unlike Daria. Many ask me: you speak on Kabir, Nanak, Farid, Daria, Meera; why not Tulsidas? Because in Tulsidas I do not hear meditation, experience—he is a great poet, a great scholar; but that is not my concern.

It is said when Tulsidas was taken to the Krishna temple—Nabhadas writes in his memoirs—he did not bow. When asked to salute, he said: I bow only to Rama the archer. One to whom meditation has happened—will he perceive a difference between Rama with a bow and Krishna with a flute? For the realized, even temple and mosque are one; Mahavira, Buddha, Muhammad—no difference.

Yet Tulsidas still saw a difference—both are Hindus! He said: My head bows only if you take bow and arrow. To put conditions before God? Is that bowing? It is making God bow! “If you want me to bow, first you take up the bow.” A bargain. This is not prayer; it is demand: fulfill my expectation, then I will fulfill yours.

Tulsidas appears a devotee out of fear. From fear does bhakti arise? Bhakti is love refined. Out of fear you walk others’ paths—seeming safe. If a crowd goes into a pit, you go comfortably, too—so many people cannot be wrong!

A Christian priest once told Bernard Shaw: You don’t consider yourself a Christian—yet millions are Christians; can so many be wrong? Shaw answered brilliantly: So many cannot be right. Truth descends into the life of the few. If so many were true, the earth would blaze with truth. I am not Christian precisely because so many are—something is wrong.

Where the crowd goes—be alert. Crowd-following is sheep-following. Only those with a lion’s heart can seek the Divine—the roarers.

It is frightening to walk alone. But in meditation you must. No wife accompanies you, no friend. Here we sit together; close your eyes and enter meditation—you become alone. All neighbors vanish. Each meditator is alone. People fear meditation for this. The meditator must enter the jungle trackless, pushing through thorns; the path is made only as he walks.

Daria is right:
A bird flies in the sky; no trace is found.
A fish moves in water; no path appears.

Mind, intellect, and heart do not reach there; words cannot go.
Blessed are those simple ones, says Daria, who live where the flame abides.

Words have no reach—how will scriptures explain? Mind, intellect, heart cannot arrive—no amount of thinking, study, reflection can take you there.

Blessed are the simple who arrive in that realm where words cannot go; where mind, intellect, heart fail; where scripture has no entry; where thought is left far behind.

Of what use the chameleon that keeps changing colors?
So in the world—tired of one color, you switch to another. The worldly tires of the world and runs to the jungle—same mind, same beliefs, same Gita now carried into the forest. A Jain friend left society, became a monk. I asked: Why call yourself a Jain monk? If you left the Jain community and home, how Jain? The dropping is only on the surface; within, the same clinging, the same scriptures. The real does not drop so easily—it is chameleon-coloring.

Hindu turns Christian; tired of being Hindu. Christian turns Hindu; tired of Christianity. Changing colors does nothing until your soul transforms.

Of what use the chameleon that keeps changing colors?
The swan is good, says Daria, for it remains one color.

The color of meditation is white—simplicity, purity, innocence. A child’s innocence—that is the hue of meditation. Only one who attains meditation can remain one. Without it, you must change like a chameleon.

You know from experience—you are a gentleman for a while, then a rogue; loving one moment, aflame the next; in the morning, heading to temple, you look devout; on your shopstool you become a bandit. How many colors in a day! Drop this chameleonhood; it drops only when meditation’s white spreads within.

The heron is white; the swan is white.
But mark the difference, says Daria.

Herons have long worn white homespun—Gandhi revealed this late; they knew it early. Great yogis! They stand on one leg—bagulasana—to fool the fish. Two legs would betray them, the water would ripple. The heron’s whiteness is deceptive.

I speak of white—do not mistake me. Swans are white, herons are white.

The heron is white; the swan is white.
One picks pearls from the lake; the other grasps at flesh.

One, at Manasarovar, picks pearls; the other snatches at meat and scraps. One’s beak holds pearls; the other’s, flesh. Recognize by the pearls—who is heron, who swan. Where words drop pearls; where showers of pearls fall—sit there. Give your life there. Unite your soul there.

A lady on a bus said to her fellow passenger, Mulla Nasruddin: Perhaps you wish to say something? Not at all, said Mulla. Why would I? Then let me at least tell you, she said, that the leg you are scratching as if it were yours is mine.

Mulla went to the Lucknow fair—color everywhere. He jostled a pretty woman, even pinched her when he could. She turned and said: Aren’t you ashamed? In spotless khadi, Gandhi cap! Ashamed? Mulla said. When no one in Delhi is ashamed, why me? Have I taken a contract on shame? “Forget khadi,” she said. “Your hair is white—at least respect that whiteness!” Hair may be white, Mulla replied, but my heart is still black. Should I listen to my hair or my heart?

The heron is white outside, black inside. The color is only skin-deep. Within—darkness. And remember, it is easy to become a “heron-devotee”—a hypocrite.

Says Daria: Consider the swan noble—its behavior large-hearted.
Body white, mind white, and pure food it takes.

Do not be deceived by outer behavior alone. Look within. Look at conduct; look at nourishment; look outside and inside.

That is satsang: to sit near the master and look from all sides, in all colors, so that the glimpse of his inner being falls upon you.

White outside, filthy within—
then better a crow than a heron, says Daria,
at least body and mind are one color.

Better an honest sinner than a saintly hypocrite. For centuries you have been taught hypocrisy: one face outside, another within. People keep their drawing room decorated while the rest of the house is dirty; their lives are like that—drawing room tidy, face smiling, “Ram” on the lips, knife under the arm.

Mulla said to me: I laugh out of fear.
People laugh from joy, I said—fear? You must be a follower of Tulsidas: “Without fear there is no love”! He said: You don’t understand. When my wife starts telling jokes, I have to laugh from fear. She’s told them many times—but I still laugh.

Hypocrisy is a ritual. On the street: “Jai Ramji! Auspicious to see you in the morning!” Inside: What a wretch to meet at dawn—what will this day be! Someone comes home: “Come, sit, welcome!” Inside: This nuisance—why today!

A couple knocked at Mulla’s door. He half-opened it, naked but wearing the Gandhi cap. The wife was shocked. “No one visits me at this hour,” Mulla said. “So I sit naked at home.” Then why the cap? she asked. Just in case someone comes by mistake.

Two arrangements: a life lived in the dark; another displayed in the light. Daria says: better the crow—at least one color throughout. Black, yes, but one.

If you must be bad, it is not so bad—provided you are guileless and the same outside as inside. The hypocrite is worse than the sinner. Yet the hypocrites are worshiped, the sinners punished. To sit on heads, people put on hypocrisy.

Remember: hypocrisy is the worst fall. Nothing lower. Be a swan if you can—white inside and out. If not, at least be a crow—one color within and without. But don’t be a heron-devotee—that is worst.

The swan who has lived at Manasarovar finds shallow ponds dreary.
O Daria, chant the Name while breath remains in the cage.

The swan who has known Manasarovar no longer enjoys the shallow, dirty ponds. Hear this well. I say: Don’t renounce the world—dive into meditation. Once you taste meditation, the world becomes a shallow pond by itself. No need to force, to run, to renounce. A glimpse of that crystal lake within—a single sip—and this whole world becomes futile by itself. Hence I do not advocate leaving; if it falls away, that is grace. Live in the world, but it will seem a muddy pond. The mud can only touch your body; your body itself is made of clay—what harm can mud do mud?

The swan who has lived at Manasarovar
finds shallow ponds dreary.

For him, even our deepest oceans are shallow, who has seen the inner sea.

O Daria, chant the Name while breath remains in the cage.
He lives in the world, in the market, but dwells in Manasarovar, in the Divine, in Ram.

The whole world sleeps, says Daria; none is awake.
To awaken within waking—that awakening we call awake.

In a small sutra, the entire scripture of witnessing!

The whole world sleeps. Whatever you do, you do in sleep. No one is awake here.

A bearded man stood in a bus; a very short fellow boarded whose hand could not reach the rail, so he grabbed the bearded man’s beard. For a while the bearded man kept quiet, then said: Leave my beard! Why? asked the short man. Are you getting off at the next stop?

Each with his own dimness. We go on, doing what we do, unseeing.

A poet would not leave the mike. When the audience clamored, he said: All right, be patient a little longer and hear my final fifteenth poem. You have already said that nineteen times! someone shouted. Thank you for correcting my arithmetic, he said calmly, and resumed reading.

People go on. Where, why, what are they doing, is anything happening—no concern. No awareness. Life runs in jostle and haste.

The whole world sleeps; none is awake.
To awaken within waking—that is called awake.
What you call waking is not awakening. The body wakes in the morning; the soul’s sleep remains. At night you dream; by day you think. Both are forms of dozing. If thinking ceases, the stream of thoughts breaks—then awakening, witnessing, meditation. A thoughtless consciousness—that is awareness.

The one in samadhi is awake. We called such a one Buddha—the Awakened.

Someone asked Buddha: Who are you? He was so beautiful—his body beautiful, and meditation had poured immortality upon him—nectar rains, the lotus blooms! A stranger asked: Are you a god descended from heaven? No, said Buddha. A gandharva of Indra’s court? No. A yaksha? No. A universal emperor? No. Then at least a man? No. An animal, a bird? No. Exhausted, he said: Then who are you? Buddha said: I am only awakening. I am awake—a witness. Those were all states of sleep—some sleep like animals, some like men, some like gods. One dreams of being a gandharva, one a yaksha, one a chakravartin. All are dream states—identifications with thought. I have simply awakened. I can only say this: I am awake. I see, awake. I am awakening—only awakening.

Such a one we call awakened.

The master wakes the soul; but only the intoxicated rise awake.
The true master wakes—but only a few wake. Who? The intoxicated, the carefree. Here the invitation is not for clever ones, but for the madly in love; the drunkards. At the ashram, the rule is: leave your cleverness with your shoes. Enter like a drunk.

Daria says: The master wakes the soul—but only some mad ones rise awake. The clever, the calculating, miss. They think: To wake or not? What is the profit? Sweet dreams are running—why break them? Better a half-loaf in hand than the whole at a distance. The half may be lost, the whole not gained. Waking is for gamblers, reckless ones.

The master wakes; the mad one wakes.
And one who wakes once never sleeps again; he is most fortunate.

A jeweler went with a diamond to a village of yokels.
They saw it and said it’s a pebble; they had no inner assay.

The master brings a diamond. Few recognize it. To the untrained, it looks like a stone. They laugh at the price—“Are we fools? Stones like this lie everywhere!”

Daria’s diamond is worth crores; none can appraise it.
Only if a jeweler meets him by grace, can it be recognized.

So it has always been: only a few crazies recognized Jesus; only a few accompanied Buddha. The diamond comes and goes; some mad ones recognize and are freed. Blessed are they.

Become blessed.

Enough for today.