Ami Jharat Bigsat Kanwal #6

Anand Maitreya! Truth has many facets, and all of them are true at once. There is no question of choosing. Each one has spoken as he saw.

The Upanishads are right, because to walk the path of truth is risky—very risky! The crowd is steeped in untruth, and when you walk toward truth, the crowd will oppose you. It will throw a thousand obstacles in your way, laugh at you, call you mad. There is a certain safety in the crowd; the one who walks the path of truth becomes solitary. The crowd breaks ties with him, severs relations, and society treats him as an enemy. Otherwise, would people have crucified Jesus? Would they have cut off Al-Hillaj Mansoor’s head? They were people like you who crucified Jesus and beheaded Mansoor. Look closely at your hands and you will find the stains of Mansoor’s blood. They were people like you—not villains, but respectable folks: temple- and mosque-goers, priests and pundits, moral, virtuous, even saintly. Those who crucified Jesus were highly religious people; those who killed Mansoor cannot be called irreligious.

What goes wrong? Whenever a man with eyes comes among the blind, the blind are deeply disturbed. Because of the one who can see, it becomes hard to go on forgetting that they are blind. Their ego is hurt; wounds open in the chest. “If only this man with eyes were not here, we would not seem blind.” His presence offends. Let him be removed and they can again merge into their blindness and believe they know, that they can see.

When a knower is born, those who have piled up heaps of borrowed knowledge begin to see that their knowledge is hollow—dead. It has no breath, no heartbeat, no blood. They see their flowers are market-bought: fake, paper, plastic. If the real rose were not there, there would be no difficulty—there would be no comparison. The birth of a buddha creates comparison.

You live in a dark house; your neighbor too lives in a dark house; and their neighbors as well. You have become at ease. Darkness is no problem; you have accepted that this is the way life is. Then suddenly, next door, someone lights a lamp. Now either you must light your own lamp to be at ease, or you must blow out his. To light a lamp is hard, to extinguish one is easy. And to light lamps is harder still because many, many people will have to light their lamps before relief comes; to extinguish is simple—blow out one lamp and darkness is acceptable again.

The Upanishads are right: one aspect of truth is that to walk its way is to walk on the razor’s edge. And Saint Dariya is right: in the search for the Divine there is burning, nothing but burning. Without the fire of longing (viraha), how will you be refined? Until you burn, are tempered, until you are reduced to ash in longing, the possibility of union cannot arise within you. The one who is annihilated in separation becomes worthy of union. Worthiness lies in dissolution. And the burning will not be ordinary; every hair will burn, every particle will burn. Only when the burning is total will union with the total be possible. This is the touchstone, the test, the process of sanctification. This is prayer. This is devotion.

So Dariya is also right. This is the inner aspect of truth; the first was the outer aspect.

Society will torment you—that can be endured. Who cares? At most they can take away the body—and the body will be taken anyway. They can insult you—but what name ever remains fixed in this world? It is a line drawn on water; it is bound to vanish. People will throw stones, hurl abuse—these are trifles. One who is aflame for truth accepts these easily; they are no great price.

The inner fire will scorch far more. It will burn fiercely. It will be as if you have placed your own life on the sacrificial fire with your own hands. A thousand times the mind will want to turn back: even now, turn back—there is still time! Doubts will arise: What madness is this? Why burn yourself? The whole world sleeps peacefully; you alone are awake, sleepless, counting the stars!

And it is not as if it is for a day. Days will pass, months, years—and who can guarantee that union will happen? Who can even guarantee that God is? Certainty only comes to one who has already attained union; for the rest, it is trust. He walks by the faith that it should be so, that it will be so. There are glimpses—at sunrise, under the night sky jeweled with stars, in people’s eyes—glimpses come. Such an immense orchestration surely has a hidden hand behind it. Such a musical existence must have an unseen musician. If such a sweet veena is sounding, it is not playing by itself. This cannot be mere accident.

Scientists say the world is an accident; there is no God behind it. One scientist calculated the odds: if the world is accident, what are the chances of it forming as it is? His calculation is astonishing: twenty billion monkeys, for twenty billion years, banging away on twenty billion typewriters—there is a chance that one song of Shakespeare may appear by accident. A chance. If twenty billion monkeys keep at it for twenty billion years on twenty billion typewriters, something would be produced; but to produce a single song of Shakespeare, you would have to wait twenty billion years—just for one song!

And this existence is filled with songs. From a thousand throats, song pours. Thousands of Shakespeares have flowered and keep flowering. Look at the vastness of the stars, their movement, their rhythm. Look at the order of existence, its discipline. Everywhere the stamp is that there is no chaos. Somewhere, deep down, there is a heart orchestrating harmonies. Some consciousness is sustaining all; otherwise it would have fallen apart long ago.

Who holds together this infinite? Who sustains this expanse?

If in the desert you find a watch lying there, can you even imagine it was formed by accident? That over thousands, millions, billions of years, bits of matter happened to meet and finally a watch formed? And what is a watch? Not much. Yet if you find one lying in the desert, you are certain a human being passed by before you, that someone came earlier. The watch is proof; it cannot form itself. If the watch cannot form itself, how could this vast existence?

If the watch cannot, how could the subtle human mind? Mere production of matter, as Marx says? Then Marx’s beautiful works—The Communist Manifesto—cannot arise without cause; Das Kapital cannot be written without a hand. It is not mere accident; deft hands are behind it.

But this is faith. Until union happens—until your heart and the Divine embrace, until the drop dissolves into the ocean—until then it is faith. Faith is right, meaningful; but faith is faith, not experience.

So before union, there will be the fire of separation. And because the condition of union is that you disappear so the Divine can be, as long as you are, God is not; and when God is, you are not.

Kabir says: Wandering and wandering, O friend, Kabir disappeared.
He set out to seek, Kabir says, and seeking, he himself was lost. Only when you are lost is God found. As long as there is selfhood, there is no God.

So yes, the burning is great—like placing yourself upon your own funeral pyre.

You know the burning of ordinary love! When you fall in love, what an urgency to meet! Twenty-four hours, waking and sleeping, the same note throbs within like a one-stringed lute: to meet, to meet! One image fills the eyes, one call rises within. Engaged in a thousand tasks—market, shop, home—again and again a pang shoots through.

If this happens in ordinary love, then imagine devotion! Millions of times deeper—and the difference is not only of degree but of kind. This love is transient, yet it torments so. Today you love; tomorrow it may be gone. The one you cannot forget today you may not be able to recall tomorrow. It is a water-bubble, and it blisters the soul—then when love for the eternal awakens, naturally the whole being begins to burn.

Saint Dariya is right: another facet of truth is that on its path there is burning upon burning. And because the Upanishads say it is walking on a sword’s edge, and Dariya says it is passing through a forest on fire, I tell you: go dancing, go singing! Otherwise you will not be able to cross. If you must walk on the sword, walk smiling. A smile will become your shield. If you can dance, the sword’s edge will lose its bite. If you can sing, even fire will become cool. Because the Upanishads are right, because Dariya is right—therefore I am right. Go singing, go dancing, humming your song. This is the third facet.

If you are going to meet the Divine, why be gloomy? When you go to meet an ordinary lover, how you adorn yourself! Have you seen a woman going to meet her beloved—how she dresses, how she composes herself in joy and ecstasy, how her lips tremble to speak words of love, how her heart brims with nectar, eager to pour, how every pore of her body dances! And you would go to meet God—gloomy?

Gloomy, you cannot traverse this path. It is difficult already; your gloom will make it harder. The path is arduous; if you go sad, it is as if you carry a mountain on your head. Walking a razor’s edge with a mountain on your head—you will not survive. If you must walk the edge, tie ankle-bells to your feet!

Meera is right: “Pad ghungroo baandh, Meera naachi re!” Tie the bells to your feet and dance. I say to you: if there are bells on your ankles, you have dulled the sword. If there is a song on your lips—carefree, intoxicated, like the peacock dancing at the first monsoon clouds—then dance along. The swords will become soft as flowers, the thorns will turn to blossoms.

Celebrate as you go. Celebration will surround you with coolness on all sides; no flame will be able to scorch you. Let the forest burn, but you will be so cool that the fire will grow cool near you. Embers will go out as they approach you; flames will turn into garlands as they come close.

The Upanishads are right, Dariya is right, and I am right. There is no contradiction. About the Divine, a thousand statements can be made that seem to contradict one another, yet they do not. The Divine is vast; it contains all opposites, absorbs them all. In it are flowers and thorns, nights and days, the clear sky when the sun shines, and the sky wrapped in cloud when the sun is lost. All is in God because God is all.

The Upanishads speak one facet; Dariya speaks another. They are not saying different things. And between them you can still see the link—walking a sword’s edge and burning in fire relate. I tell you what seems the opposite: go dancing, singing, celebrating. You are going to meet the Beloved—adorn yourself. You are inviting the Great Guest—prepare a welcome. Draw rangoli at the threshold. For so great a Guest, light lamps in the house. Celebrate Diwali! Throw gulal—let Holi and Diwali be together. Strike up the instruments; let song arise, let music awaken. Only then will you be able to receive that Great Guest into your heart.

He surely comes; you only need to be ready. And without celebration you will not be ready. Into a celebration-less heart, the Divine has never come and never can. Because God is celebration. Raso vai sah—He is rasa, the very essence of delight. Become rasa yourself, and rasa will meet rasa. The similar meets the similar.

Nirmal Chaitanya! That song is already being sung. That melody is resounding through a thousand-thousand throats. Every particle of existence is repeating only that. Its recitation is going on in all four directions—day and night.
And you say: “May that song—the nightingale’s colorful, new melody—happen once.”

It is that! It is playing! On all strings it rides; at all doors it stands. You say: once? It is happening again and again.

“May the bud’s eye open, may the garden awaken.”

The buds have blossomed, the garden is awake; you are unconscious. Do not blame the buds, and do not blame the garden either. And do not sit thinking, “If that song were to be sung, I would be willing to listen.” That song is being sung. That song is. It cannot remain unsung. Who is singing in the birds? Who is singing in the flowers? Who is singing in the winds? In infinite forms, it is only his expression.

But we often think so. Not only you, Nirmal Chaitanya—most people think this way: “If only God would appear once, if only there were union once!” And every day you meet only him, but you do not recognize! Whoever comes to your door, he alone comes. There is simply no one here other than him.

You ask: Where is God?
I ask: Where is God not?

But we look for excuses. We say: “If the song played, of course we would listen.” We do not think that we are deaf. Because if we say we are deaf, then something would have to be done. The responsibility would land on us. We say: “If the sun rose, we would have his darshan; we would bow in sun-salutation.” We do not say that we are blind, or that we have kept our eyes closed. Because to say “I have kept my eyes closed” makes the fault our own. And when the fault is our own, what escape remains?

“The sun hasn’t risen, so what are we to do? His lute did not play—what are we to do? His flowers did not bloom—how are we to dance?” Fine excuses—beautiful excuses. Behind them we find a way to hide ourselves. “If the Beloved has not knocked at our door, whom should we call to come? For whom should we open the door? Let him at least knock! For whom shall we spread out these welcome mats? Let there be some sign at least, at minimum the sound of his footsteps!”

These are human tricks—tricks to save ourselves; tricks to maintain that we are fine as we are. If there is any mistake, it is his. “If the bud’s eye opened, the garden was ready to awaken. If the bud’s eye does not open, how can the garden awaken?”

And I tell you: the eyes of thousands upon thousands of buds have opened. The garden is awake! You are asleep—only you are asleep! If there is responsibility, it is only yours. Let this arrow lodge in your heart—that if there is responsibility, it is only mine; I have kept my eyes closed; I have made my ears stone-deaf—then the revolution has begun. The first ray has dawned. The first step is taken. Now something can be done. If I have closed my eyes, then I can do something; something has come into my hands. I can open my eyes!

When we shift it onto the other, and when we shift it onto the Infinite, we sleep at ease. “Roll over once more, pull the blanket up a bit more, and sleep a little more. Morning hasn’t come yet; when it comes, we’ll get up.”

And I tell you: it is morning, only morning. Every moment is morning! The sun has risen. The divine is knocking at your door. You do not hear. You are not quiet enough to hear. Inside you there is a great din. Inside you there is a great storm, great gales and whirlwinds—of thoughts, of desires. Your eyes are closed—by pedantry, by scriptures, by so-called knowledge. There are so many books on your eyes that even if the poor eyes wanted to open, how could they open? Someone’s eyes are sealed by the Vedas, someone’s by the Koran, someone’s by the Bible. You know so much, and therefore you are deprived of knowing. Become a little ignorant.

I tell you: become a little ignorant. I am teaching my sannyasins to be ignorant. I am snatching away their knowledge. Because knowledge is dust on the mirror. And if knowledge is taken away and the mirror becomes bare—innocent, like the mind of a small child, so innocent—then there is no delay, not even a moment’s delay. Instantly his footfall begins to be heard. Instantly the knock at the door begins to be heard. Instantly the whole garden seems awake. Nothing but ecstasy! His songs begin to resound everywhere. Then wherever you are, there is a temple; and wherever you are, there is a place of pilgrimage.

Let the dust be removed from the eyes… and the dust is of knowledge—that is the difficulty. For if you took dust to be dust, you would remove it immediately. You are taking the dust to be gold, diamonds, jewels. You have stored it carefully!

The hardest thing to renounce in this world is knowledge. People leave wealth—many have left wealth. People leave home and hearth—that is not very difficult. Leaving home is very easy, because who has not grown weary of home? In truth, to remain in the home is a great austerity. Those who remain should be called ascetics—hatha-yogis! They are getting thrashed, but they stay. You call them worldly, and you call the escapees sannyasins! Those cowards who ran away—you call them sannyasins. And these poor fellows who get a hundred shoes, who push into the melee to watch the show—you call them worldly! Shoes upon shoes rain down, yet not even a louse crawls on their ears. They stand their ground! I call them hatha-yogis! Look at their stubbornness! Look at their resolve! Look at their firmness! Look at their chests! They are very strong! And you call them sinners?

To run away from the world is absolutely easy. Who does not want to run away? What is there in the world? Troubles upon troubles, entanglements upon entanglements. Sorrows upon sorrows keep coming. The clouds grow denser and darker.

There is an English saying that every black cloud has a silver lining. If you look at the world, the situation is exactly the reverse: every silver lining has a cloud. Behind every silver lining there comes a huge, black, terrible cloud! That silver lining flashes and ends in a moment. Then the black cloud sits upon your chest and does not leave your side. That silver lining is like the fisherman who hides a hook in dough and sits with the line dangling by the pond. He has not brought the dough to feed the fish. There is a hook hidden in the dough. He has come to ensnare fish; he has not come to feed them.

There was a lake where fishing was prohibited. A big signboard stood there: Fishing is prohibited—strictly prohibited. Whoever fishes will be prosecuted in court. Naturally, there were plenty of fish in that lake. Mulla Nasruddin was sitting there merrily fishing. The owner came with a gun. He said, “Nasruddin, did you read the sign?”

Nasruddin said, “Yes, I read it.”

“Then what are you doing?”

He was dangling his line. He said, “Nothing—just teaching the fish how to swim.”

Do fish need to be taught to swim? Is anyone eager to feed dough to fish? People do not get dough even for themselves. But without dough the fish won’t take the hook. The point is the hook.

That silver lining which glows in the cloud—that is the dough. The black cloud is following behind! Hopes are like that silver lining. In the world there are only hopes; their fulfillment never really happens. Only assurances. From afar everything looks good.

A woman once said to me, “I have a big problem: I look beautiful from a distance.” And it was true. From afar she looked very photogenic—you felt like taking her picture. But her trouble was that when you came close, she became very ugly. There are people who look beautiful from a distance; come close… “So what should I do?”

I said, “Do one thing: eat as much onion and garlic as you can.”

She said, “Onion and garlic! Will that make me beautiful?”

I said, “You will not become beautiful, but no one will come near you. You will keep looking beautiful.”

In this world everything looks beautiful from afar. Come close and everything starts to distort. The nearer you come, the more dreams begin to come loose, hopes begin to break. The nearer you come, facts begin to emerge. The dough is gone and the hook is in your hand. But by then it is very late. By then you are entangled. Then getting out of the entanglement becomes difficult. The more you try to get out, the more the entanglement grows. Because in the effort to get out you have to set up new entanglements.

Have you seen this—ever tried telling one lie? Tell one lie, then you will have to tell ten, because that one lie must be saved. And if you tell ten, you will have to tell a thousand, because those must be saved. Once you get caught by a lie, you may have to lie all your life. This is the beauty of truth: once spoken, there is no series behind it. Think of it this way: truth is barren; it has no children. Truth believes in family planning. Falsehood is a true-blue Hindustani! Until it has produced a dozen, two dozen children, falsehood is not satisfied—goes on producing children.

The biggest lie man has told is that the fault is someone else’s. This is the biggest lie—the greatest lie—the foundational lie. Then all the palaces of lies stand upon this.

“What can I do? God is nowhere to be seen; otherwise I am willing to bow at his feet. What can I do? I do not hear his voice; otherwise I am ready to go wherever he calls. If he calls from distant moons and stars, I am ready to go there! I am ready to surrender everything, but at least let the call be heard! Let the voice come!”

And the voice is coming every day, every moment—and you have your fingers plugged in your ears. But you have had your fingers in your ears for lifetimes; so perhaps you think that having fingers in your ears is what is natural. And there is so much dust on your eyes… and since the dust is of knowledge, and the glory and prestige of knowledge have been sung so much—that where even a king is not honored, there the scholar is worshiped! For centuries you have been told that knowledge has great dignity, great glory. Memorize the Vedas, repeat the Upanishads. And as a result you have become mere parrots. You repeat the Upanishads, you repeat the Vedas. Knowing has not happened; in the name of knowledge a mesh of hollow words has covered your eyes. A net has spread over your eyes. Now you do not see anything.

God stands in front of you. Whichever way you face, he stands there. You never come into contact with anyone other than him. It is he in your wife, he in your husband. The son born in your home—he too has come again: another edition of him! But the mesh must be cut from the eyes.

Nirmal Chaitanya! Drop knowledge, take up meditation! Darya says rightly: when there is meditation, knowing is born of itself. That knowing will come from within you—only then is it knowing. So long as it comes from outside, it is only a process of hiding ignorance, nothing else.

Sit down and reflect sometime: whatever you know—has it come from within or from without? And you will be amazed. You will find that everything has come from outside. Then it is all useless. And not only useless—it is an obstacle, a hindrance. Trust only that which has come from within you—what has welled up in your meditation. Trust only that. If only that remains your trust, you will hear his melodies now—now, here! If only that remains your trust, you will see his beauty now—now, here! If you loosen your grip on knowledge a little, become ignorant again like small children… there is an innocence in ignorance!

I tell you: pundits do not reach; the ignorant reach. By “ignorant” I mean one who has absolutely rejected borrowed knowledge from outside and who has dived within and sat there. One who has said, “What is experienced within me—that alone is mine; the rest is borrowed, stale, leftovers.”

You do not wear other people’s shoes, you do not wear other people’s clothes—and you borrow other people’s knowledge? You do not eat food left over by others, and yet the words that have become leftovers on a thousand lips you press to your chest? This is the hindrance. Otherwise close your eyes, and there is nothing but his radiance.

We are that which we are not.

Feelings that never took form,
words that were never spoken,
tones submerged in the sorrow of living
that could not resound,
that never became a raga,
the ultimate moments
on life’s uncharted margins—
of being and not-being—
stood still in their infinity,
lived continually in their trans-sensory completeness,
but did not pass, were not lived…
Formless blows
that were only endured,
unknowing, unwanted—
like tears swelled unseen
at the corners of the eyes,
stayed stuck, did not fall—
we are those
which are not.

You have become that which you are not. Because you grasped knowledge that is not yours; you grasped a character handed to you by others; you were filled with conditioning that is not only stale, not only borrowed, but dead! You never gave your inner being a chance. You never gave self-illumination an opportunity. Therefore you have become that which you are not. And what you are—you have forgotten. What you are is one form of the divine. You do not have to go anywhere else to seek it. You must dive within.

Open the windows of your own mind.
Do not stop
the sun’s rays—
let them come in.
In them
countless lamps of reverence and wisdom
are aglow!
Open the windows of your own mind.
Do not stop
the free wind—
let it come in!
In its waves
the fragrant dreams
of human love
are being nurtured!

And once you become empty, quiet, silent—then in the moon he will come as silver, and in the sun he will come as gold. Open the doors and windows. You have locked them with knowledge. Open the doors and windows. Let the winds enter; let the winds flow. Connect with existence. Break your connection with temples and mosques. Connect with trees, with flowers, with the moon and stars—because they are the living divine. You are engrossed in the worship of dead idols.

The lamps are already lit. The arati is already being waved. Flowers are already offered at his feet. Just look a little! Just wake a little! You are asleep. You are in deep sleep.

Darya says rightly: wake within waking.
Do not mistake this ordinary waking for awakening; there is more waking yet.
Wake within waking.
That alone is the definition of samadhi. And the one who wakes within waking wakes in God.

Sandeep! No one here is new; neither you are new, nor am I. Those sitting around you are not new either. Who knows how many times, along how many paths, in how many realms, through how many journeys and wombs, we have met. We are travelers without beginning or end—parting and meeting, again and again.

So do not be surprised, do not be startled. It may be that you and I have never met. But if you have met someone like me, the memory will stir; something will slip up from the deep layers of the unconscious. For the taste of buddhahood is one. If you saw Buddha, if you saw Nanak, if you spent a few hours with Kabir or Farid—or who knows, perhaps you were a friend to Darya—if at any moment in your endless lifetimes you spent even two breaths near a meditative being, the memory will arise. The taste of meditation does not differ.

Buddha has said: As wherever you taste the ocean, it is salty, so wherever you taste the buddhas, their flavor is one—the flavor of awakening.

I am not a person. The person is gone, long gone, washed away. Now within there is a void. If ever you have come into contact with such a void—and it is impossible, in measureless births, that it has never occurred. Impossible. It cannot be. So many buddhas have been! So many established in samadhi! So many jinas, so many prophets, so many tirthankaras, so many siddhas! How could it be that you never once sat in the shade of a buddha? How could it be that you never tasted satsang? Impossible. Perhaps in spite of yourself, on some path you surely walked a few steps with a buddha. You missed then. You missed that time; this time do not miss. That is why some memory is rising and surfacing within you.

We sit carrying within us the memories of beginningless lives. We have forgotten them, but they are not erased. The body falls away, but chitta goes on. The body that once is acquired returns to dust, but within it the chitta—the treasury of experiences—takes a new leap, takes a new birth. The body does not take birth again; the mind does.

Understand this well. The body cannot be reborn, because the body is earth—once it falls, it falls. And the soul cannot be reborn, because the soul is eternal; it has neither birth nor death. Then whose birth is it?

Between the two there is a link—the mind. That mind travels. That mind takes new births. In that mind lie the impressions of your lifetimes upon lifetimes. And among those impressions are not only the human ones; when you were an animal, those too; when you were a bird, those too; when you were a tree, those too; when you were a rock, those too. Within you is the whole autobiography of existence. You are not small. Your story is as long as the story of existence itself. You have known and recognized all its colors and modes. But after each birth there is forgetfulness. Still, in a moment of deep experience, in a moment of love, some memory begins to flutter its wings.

Something like that must have happened, Sandeep!

You say: “When I hear you, it feels as if I’ve heard you before.”
Certainly you have. Whether you heard me or not, you surely heard someone like me.

You say: “When I see you, it feels as if I’ve seen you before.”
Whether you saw me or not, surely you have seen a burning lamp. And when one looks at a burning lamp, the eye does not go to the clay bowl but to the flame. Clay lamps differ; the flame is one. The flame does not differ.

You say: “Yet I have come here for the first time.”
You may have come here for the first time, but places like this have always existed upon the earth. Pilgrim-places have arisen again and again: whenever and wherever a flame is lit, a tirtha is born. Whenever a buddha happens, a temple rises there. Whenever a flower blooms, bees arrive, songs resound, and there is dance. Whenever the flute of life plays, rasa is woven; Radha dances! The gopis form circles and sing. Across the centuries this has gone on. Surely some glimpse, some memory of the past has been reawakened; that is why you feel as you do.

The easterly swayed,
Cloud-masses, cloud-masses loosened their hair-buns in the courtyard.
The ripple of raindrops kissed the walls,
My heart swayed in the lanes of the monsoon;
The sky is ringed with dark-hued fairies;
The wanderer of years is returning home;
In Mother’s temple,
Those long-agreed vows—
Dug-dug, dug-dug-dug—the felicitations sounded again.
The easterly swayed,
Cloud-masses, cloud-masses loosened their hair-buns in the courtyard.

Cowherds swing, gripping the banyan’s hanging roots,
In the strains of longing, all forget their separations;
Talk of weddings is postponed till the next festive season,
A small matter, yet it stung so many;
Under the neem, at the village platform,
Again and again, like Meera—
The talk of the doll’s wedding stirred sweetness into the air.
The easterly swayed,
Cloud-masses, cloud-masses loosened their hair-buns in the courtyard.

The clink of bangles was heard by the leaves of henna,
The florist’s chatter brushed color onto the buds;
Songs keep watch over the paddy fields,
In the birds’ eyes shines the bridal coronet of tenderness;
From the river, surging and surging,
The fish, glimmering, glimmering—
Bought the water’s veil from the world.
The easterly swayed,
Cloud-masses, cloud-masses loosened their hair-buns in the courtyard.

The swings wear earrings in the branches’ ears,
Dew’s slickness is on the plantain’s thighs;
Sorghum and pigeon-pea are clad in green saris,
With new flowers’ gilt-edged borders;
The village’s splendor,
In the arms of labor—
Even the washerwoman at the slab cried, “Haiya-chhoo!”
The easterly swayed,
Cloud-masses, cloud-masses loosened their hair-buns in the courtyard.

As when someone long away returns to his village and every little thing begins to be remembered—

The easterly swayed,
Cloud-masses, cloud-masses loosened their hair-buns in the courtyard.

Little things begin to come back—this village temple, this village well, the playful, juicy happenings at the ghat, that old banyan tree, the games played beneath it, the swings hung from it, the soaring arcs on those swings; the village market, the market days, the toys bought there—everything comes back. As if someone has returned to his village after years upon years!

The ripple of raindrops kissed the walls,
My heart swayed in the lanes of the monsoon;
The sky is ringed with dark-hued fairies;
The wanderer of years is returning home;
In Mother’s temple,
Those long-agreed vows—
Dug-dug, dug-dug-dug—the felicitations sounded again.
The easterly swayed,
Cloud-masses, cloud-masses loosened their hair-buns in the courtyard.

Something like that is happening to you. You have returned somewhere you had once come. This is not about place or time. It is a state of the soul. Do not suppress these memories; do not drown them in the net of logic; do not destroy them in the analysis of the intellect. Let these memories arise, let them spread their wings! Let them sift through you, because they will remind you that you missed before—this time, do not miss!

So it happened—Mahavira’s life records it. A prince took initiation from Mahavira. A prince raised in palaces and comforts, and then with Mahavira he had to stay in a dharamshala. New to sannyas, he was given a place right by the door. All night people came and went; he could not sleep. Mosquitoes stung. The ground was hard. He had to sleep without a bed. No pillow; his hand for a pillow! He had never slept like that—and such an awkward place: the dharamshala door, with people by day, and people by night! Someone arrives, someone knocks at the door, the door opens, another guest is let in.

It was past midnight. He thought, What have I done? What trouble have I gotten into! At home I was fine, with every comfort. I will go back at dawn. He thought to slip away silently—it wouldn’t be right to say anything to Mahavira. But he was a prince, cultured. He decided that would be improper. Having taken initiation, at least he should bow, ask forgiveness: No, I cannot manage—let me return.

As he approached Mahavira and bowed, Mahavira said, So—again you are turning back?

The prince was amazed. Again? But this is my first time coming to you. Did I leave once before?

Mahavira said: This is the second time you are turning back. Not from me the first time—from Parsvanath, the tirthankara before me. And the very same obstruction: the dharamshala doorway, the hand as pillow, the mosquitoes. Just remember!

Mahavira prodded him as one stirs the embers in a brazier. He brushed away the ash. A memory flared up. A scene opened. For a moment his eyes closed. He remembered—yes, Parsvanath’s image appeared—yes, I was initiated. And he remembered that midway he had turned back. His eyes filled with tears. He placed his head at Mahavira’s feet.

Mahavira said: Now what is your intention? Will you stay—or go?

The prince said: Go? How could I go now! Blessed am I that you reminded me.

Blessed are you that remembrance is arising in you. Without my reminding you, it is arising—more blessed yet. You must have run away earlier. Coming close, you must have been flung far. Almost belonging, you lost the companionship. With one foot on the boat, you climbed back onto the shore. A door opening—closed again.

Laughing, I have forgotten hope and despair,
Weeping, I have forgotten the definitions of pleasure and pain,
I have forgotten everything—only this I still recall:
I have seen my very own longing arise, and I have seen it dissolve!

I have not yet been able to see my blurred heart’s desires,
I have not yet been able to hear the unuttered songs of my heart,
Ah—to see and hear That which truly Is here;
Love, in a single instant, effaces its own devotees!

Let us see who has how much thirst, who has how much fire?
Amid this crowd of the lifeless, which living one stands unique?
Today, poison brims in the eyes of the world in pain—
Who here will drink it, taking it for nectar?

Let us see who holds an undying quest, who an unbroken hope?
In whom is that new longing that, dying and dying, is born anew?
Today the world lies mute and still in the stupor of death;
Whose language is there to proclaim the message of life?

Let us see in whose heart there is movement, in whose breath an upsurge?
Within whose splendor abides an imperishable trust?
Today the world’s free current of life is distorted and confined;
In this infinite expanse, whose full blossoming is in wave?

By what impulse does the river’s water flow unbroken?
From what desire, gone mad, do the waves rise, heaving and surging?
In that babble and tinkle, what music of longing is overflowing?
To merge, love seeks the breast of the Infinite!

From what thirst, restless, does the chataka cry piu-piu?
What Beloved is the cuckoo calling, ceaselessly, with kuhu-kuhu?
In those seven notes of the chorus, whose meeting is the yearning?
Existence seeks a glimpse of the dream of completeness!

Eyes closed, keep advancing—such is the law of the love-mad;
Do not bow your head, keep fighting—such is the law of the brave;
There is motion in the breath, motion in the heart—here progress alone is the rule;
Become motion, and in motion dissolve—such is the law of the motioned ones!

I am a challenge—a call! I shake you. I question you.

Eyes closed, keep advancing—such is the law of the love-mad;
Do not bow your head, keep fighting—such is the law of the brave;
There is motion in the breath, motion in the heart—here progress alone is the rule;
Become motion, and in motion dissolve—such is the law of the motioned ones!

You missed before—do not miss this time. Yes, fear comes. Satsang brings fear.

Ah—to see and hear That which truly Is here;
Love, in a single instant, effaces its own devotees!

Love annihilates. Love burns. But the one with courage burns laughing; he is effaced laughing. And the one who is effaced laughing attains That which can never again be erased.

Let us see who holds an undying quest, who an unbroken hope?
In whom is that new longing that, dying and dying, is born anew?
Let us see in whose heart there is movement, in whose breath an upsurge?
Within whose splendor abides an imperishable trust?

I am an opportunity to annihilate you—as I have been annihilated, so I may annihilate you. The urge to run will be strong. You will try hard to save yourself. That mind is natural; that effort is natural. But man’s dignity lies in rising above nature. Man’s divinity is in the transcendence of nature.

Sandeep! Do not worry.

You ask: “What is happening to me?”
You may be thinking: Am I going mad? Is my brain going wrong? I have never been here before—yet it feels I have. I never saw before—yet it feels I have seen. I never heard—yet it feels I have heard. Is my brain wavering? Am I losing my composure, my control?

Such a thought is natural. But those who get stuck there will never transcend. They will never lift their eyes above themselves. They will never touch that which lies beyond the intellect. And what is worth touching lies beyond the intellect.

Darya has said: Neither chitta reaches there, nor mind reaches there, nor intellect reaches there; nor do words travel there. All is left behind; only pure consciousness reaches.

When I say I want to annihilate you completely, it merely means that only pure consciousness remains within you; everything else is seen as separate; all identifications break; only witnessing—mere witnessing—deepens within you. Then the doors of the mysteries will open. Treasures that never run out! The nectar we have been seeking for lifetimes and have not found! And the wonder is, what we seek far away is very near—nearer than the near.

Haridas! It will never stop. It cannot stop. It has always been so—an old, abiding law. It has ever been the way of the world.

How could you understand exactly what I say as I say it? There is no way. I call from a mountain peak; you are sliding through your dark valleys. By the time my voice reaches you, it is no longer my voice. At most you hear echoes, reverberations—reflections of a reflection. And even those echoes you hear in your own way. I speak in the language of a golden, sunlit summit; you understand in the language of the valley’s darkness. First you translate—only then do you understand.

Even translating from one language to another on the same plane, much is lost. In prose, much is lost; in poetry, far more. And that is between languages of the same level—the languages of the valleys. One corner has one tongue, another corner a different tongue—yet both are qualitatively languages of darkness. But when someone calls from a radiant peak, the difference is vast—qualitative. To bring the sky to earth, the invisible into the visible, the soundless into sound, to clothe the void in the garments of language—everything gets disarranged. Then you will understand—of course you will!—but through your own mind. And for now you have no other instrument of understanding. You have not yet known meditation. If you sit in meditation and listen to me, you will understand exactly what I am saying.

But people ask me: first let us understand you, then we will meditate. Let us first have confidence that what you say is right, then we will bother with meditation. First let us understand what meditation is; then we will meditate.

They speak reasonably, logically, cleverly. A man goes to the market and even for a cheap clay pot he taps and tests it—lest he waste a few coins. One who tests a four-coin pot will not, without thought, jump into a revolution like meditation. He will first try to understand. And there lies the snag: he will try to understand with the mind, and mind is the enemy of meditation. Mind and meditation are opposites. Mind is darkness; meditation is light. Mind is death; meditation is nectar. Mind is fleeting; meditation is eternal. There is no bridge between mind and meditation.

Haridas! I understand your trouble, your pain. You have begun to enter meditation; a few things are beginning to dawn on you. Then you feel restless: Why do people misunderstand? Why do they get it all wrong? But do not be angry. They are helpless. What else can they do? Keep compassion for them. Go on explaining.

That is why I explain day after day. Whatever you understand—even if you get it wrong—I will go on explaining. I will not be miserly from my side. If not today, if not tomorrow, then the day after—how long can it not happen? Perhaps despite you a ray will steal in, a crack will open, a small door will be found—through which I can reach you and touch your very life-breath. Once the heart-strings are plucked, the beginning is made. The first lesson happens. It can take years just to bring someone to the first lesson. The last lesson is not even worth speaking of.

If the master brings you to the first lesson, that is enough; you will reach the last yourself. Once the first step is taken, the last is not far. The first step completes half the journey—because the first will call forth the second, and the second will bring the third... Then the sequence has begun, the chain is born. You have started walking; the right direction is found.

Ordinarily, the crowds in the bazaar will keep misunderstanding. They will not even come here. They will not hear me directly. Someone will tell them—who in turn heard it from someone else.

Just now the Indian Parliament debated me for an hour. Not a single person who took part in that debate has come here. Yet everyone spoke as if informed—as if they know what I say and what I am doing here! People live by rumors. Even those you call intelligent and wise live and “understand” by rumor.

Mulla Nasruddin had borrowed some money from a friend. Whenever the friend asked for it back, Mulla would say, “Next month.” But next month never came. At last the friend said, “You always say ‘next month’—and then you don’t pay!”

Mulla laughed, “Don’t you see? If I were going to pay, why would I put it off till next month? And I always put it off till next month. See my consistency? I am true to my word. I will give it next month. A word once given is given—I will never break this pledge.”

The friend finally gave up. Years passed. After hundreds of reminders, when Mulla still didn’t return the money, the friend said, “Now I’ve lost faith in humanity.”

Mulla promptly replied, “Brother, losing faith in humanity is no big deal—just don’t lose faith in friendship.”

Each has his own way. His own understanding. Words carry different meanings in different minds.

A poet got married. On their first night, he asked his wife tenderly, “Would you like to hear one of my poems?”
The wife immediately said, “Oh, leave that—say something nice!”

In a certain lodge, two spoons went missing every day. So they began watching the diners closely. Mulla Nasruddin came daily, so today they watched him too. When he finished eating, he quickly slipped two spoons into his pocket. He was caught at once and taken to the owner.
The owner said, “Sir, you look like such a simple, innocent man. How does this theft befit you?”
Mulla took a paper from his pocket and handed it over. It was a doctor’s prescription: “After meals, take two teaspoons.”

What will you do now? People will understand only what they can.

You ask: “You say one thing, people understand something else.”
Natural. There is nothing surprising in it. It has always been so.

And you ask, Haridas: “How will this stop?”
It won’t stop. For a few, it will. For those who come to me, who draw near, who begin to live in my presence, the misunderstanding will vanish. But the vast crowd will go on thinking and saying something else. It happened with Buddha, with Mahavira, with Mohammed, with Jesus. It has always been so. It will be so today; it will be so tomorrow. The crowd can grasp only petty, marketable talk. It has never lifted its eyes to the sky—no time, no longing. Speak to it of the moon and stars, and it will say you are lying.

You know the story. A sea-frog once came into a well. The well-frog asked, “Friend, where do you come from?”
“From the sea,” said the sea-frog.
The well-frog had never even heard the word “sea.” He asked, “Sea? Which well is that?”
The sea-frog laughed, “It isn’t the name of a well.”
“Then what is the sea?”
The sea-frog was in a bind—how to explain the sea! The well-frog had never left his well. The sea was far beyond him; he hadn’t even seen a pond. He was born in the well, lived in the well; the well was his whole world. The well-frog jumped one-third across the well, “Is it this big—your sea?”
“Friend,” said the sea-frog, “you put me in difficulty. The sea is very big.”
Then the well-frog jumped two-thirds across. “This big?”
“How can I explain? The sea is very big.”
He leapt from one rim to the other. “This big?” And when the sea-frog said, “That is nothing—countless times bigger,” the well-frog cried, “I have never seen a bigger liar! Out you go! Go deceive someone else. What do you take me for—a fool? There is no place in this well for liars like you!”

A very meaningful story—the story of man. When Socrates was sentenced, the judges of Athens decided: either accept death, or stop saying what you say. Choose one of the two. If you stop speaking as you do, you may live. If you continue, there is no way but death.
What was Socrates saying? He was speaking of the sea—to the people of the well. And the well-dwellers are angered by talk of the sea. Socrates seemed dangerous. The court declared his crime to be this: “You corrupt people.” Socrates corrupts people! Such pure expression of truth has seldom happened as in Socrates. “You corrupt people”—that was the court’s verdict. And that court was made of Athens’ most intelligent men, its most gifted. Unanimously they judged: “You corrupt people—especially the young; the old won’t fall for your talk, they are too experienced for you to deceive.”
“Old”—those who have been in the well so long they can no longer admit that anything beyond the well is possible. “Young”—those newly in the well who can still think, “Perhaps there is something bigger. Who knows?” The young have curiosity, search, courage; a desire to learn. The old stop learning. As one grows old, learning withers. And he who remains willing to learn till his last breath is not old at all. Only the body ages; the soul does not. Within, he retains the freshness of a child. One who is willing to learn to the end remains ever young—fresh, flowing, radiant.

But people grow old too soon. You think they grow old at seventy; you are mistaken. Psychologists say most people stop at twelve; they no longer learn. Twelve—the world’s average mental age! Seven-year-olds learn fifty percent of what they will ever learn; the remaining fifty percent comes later. Life still lies ahead. But by twelve—at most fourteen—learning grinds to a halt. Then you begin circling within the round of your own well. You are no longer a river rushing to the sea; you become a freight train running on tracks—a freight train, not even a passenger train, because inside you is only rubbish! There is no life within. And you run on rails—no freedom left. One day you die, still running—reaching nowhere.

Most people will not understand me. If they do, they will understand wrongly. I expect nothing else. So it does not bother me; it does not sadden me; it does not worry me. It has to be so. If people understood exactly what I say, it would be a miracle—one that has never happened and cannot yet happen.

Dawn has broken—bathe your eyes and see!
You sit and sit—get up and walk a little, see!

The earth is swallowing the distances of the stars—
how lovely this fire is—come, burn and see!

Peaks stand stiff—only to shatter;
better to bend with this breeze—relax and see!

Under the sun the mountains melt and flow—
melting, too, is a way to live—melt and see!

Fragrance is colored by flowers, and sunlight by scent;
shadows wing past, like a flying veil—look and see!

Yesterday the garden could not open a single flower;
today even the straws stand laughing—look and see!

But this is a matter of experience. Come close! Taste me! Drink me!

Dawn has broken—bathe your eyes and see!
You sit and sit—get up and walk a little, see!

People are not willing to walk, not willing to see, not willing to open their eyes. How then to explain? I will go on explaining. Out of a hundred I will explain to, ten will listen; ninety will not. Of those ten, perhaps one will understand. Even that is reward enough, fulfillment enough. If a few flowers bloom, if a few attain buddhahood, we will change the very color of the earth. Let a few lamps be lit, and much darkness will shatter. And once one lamp is lit, it can light many extinguished lamps.

The work is to create a chain of buddhas. Sannyas is the first step in that direction. Sannyas means: come close to me. Sannyas means: declare from your side that you long for nearness.

The earth is swallowing the distances of the stars—
how lovely this fire is—come, burn and see!
Peaks stand stiff—only to shatter;
better to bend with this breeze—relax and see!

Come—soften, drink, dissolve!

Under the sun the mountains melt and flow—
melting, too, is a way to live—melt and see!

Only those few will understand who melt with me; who dance through this fire with me. The rest will go on misunderstanding. Let them. Don’t worry about them. Ignore them. Keep compassion for them. Do not be angry. It is not their fault. Such is the state of their minds. Such is their receptivity, their capacity—so far.

I cannot give you truth. I can only kindle within you the longing to realize it. I cannot give you truth, but I can create in you such a fire for truth that you become a moth, ready to burn and be consumed in its flame.

Who says
my boat has no boatman?
Today I myself am the boatman of this boat!
I do not accept
the ocean’s beguiling,
cajoling, rainbow-hued waves’ invitation.
Today I have accepted the ocean’s
challenge—these countless, fierce, untamed waves!
Today the oar rests in my steady hands.
Let the waves fling the boat up to the sky,
or drag it with them down to the abyss—
they will not be able to swallow it!
Their defeat is certain—
the serpent-like, monstrous waves
will be leashed by the cord of the heart’s faith!
Bearing it upon their own heads,
the waves themselves will carry
this boat to my destination!
For I am the helmsman of my own boat,
and the oar rests in my steady hands!

This is my message: Be the helmsman! Take up the oar! Row a little; your hands will become skilled. Existence has made your hands capable of mastery; to be trained is their capacity. Do not walk on crutches—walk on your own feet! Be your own helmsman!

And do not be afraid. The ocean’s wild waves that are calling you—those very waves will carry you to the shore of the divine. Challenges are opportunities. Do not miss them. Turn every challenge into an opportunity.
The stones lying on the path will become steps—only be a little careful, a little awake! You do not know who sits within you! The very one you are seeking is seated within you. The seeker and the sought are not two. Your potential is infinite. Amritasya putrah! You are children of the immortal!

Beloved! Of which of your graceful dreams am I the form!
What bows low in your eyes, that adornment am I.
In that single glance
my creation smiled,
in that very smile
laughter went and returned,
it was your movement that,
in sorrow, always merged as joy;
the line of fate, the horizon-line
glittered with radiance.
Even broken, I sound eternally—I am your string.
Beloved! Of which of your graceful dreams am I the form!

What was that moment given
that bound love into the breath?
What was that power given
that bound even fire within love?
What courage was bestowed
that bound even the fragments of earth,
that fastened smiling renunciation
upon the crown of earth’s divisions?
Though dried, I still blossom on the heart—I am the garland.
Beloved! Of which of your graceful dreams am I the form!

The moon has grown pale now,
the night is ebbing away.
What is that sign
by which the breath keeps moving on?
The less the time that remains,
the more it stirs restlessly.
It is not a light that will go out—
it burns all the more.
I am the indelible right
to turn death into life.
Beloved! Of which of your graceful dreams am I the form!

You are the dream of the Divine. In you that One has taken shape, become embodied. His music is hidden in your veena—strike the strings!

The message of the buddhas—all the buddhas—is my message too: Appa Deepo Bhava! Be a light unto yourself! Be your own helmsman!

That is all for today.