Ami Jharat Bigsat Kanwal #9

You are the treasury of beauty, I am a connoisseur of beauty—
lift your veil, grant me your vision!
Come and dwell within my mind,
make my little hut shimmer with light!

For ages my heart has carried a thirst,
I have wandered from world to world,
nowhere could I come to rest,
in life after life I remained accursed.

Glimpses of the fleeting appeared here and there,
in every realm, in every life,
yet the flame of craving kept burning,
moment to moment, life after life.

Now I have come to your door,
O Beauty, open the curtain, grant me your vision!
You are the treasury of beauty, I am a connoisseur of beauty—
lift your veil, grant me your vision!
Come and dwell within my mind,
make my little hut shimmer with light!

Let the union be like bee and blossom,
a sweet upheaval of honeyed pain,
let longing find its fulfillment in marriage,
life-breaths meeting life-breaths in tender embrace!

My heart has heard your invitation—
intoxicating, drenched with nectar, softly calling—
a summons like the flute’s song,
stirring, like the maidens of Braj!

Joyful yet hesitant, the heart is restless—
O Beauty, open the curtain, grant me your vision!
You are the treasury of beauty, I am a connoisseur of beauty—
lift your veil, grant me your vision!
Come and dwell within my mind,
make my little hut shimmer with light!

Hopes gathered through the ages,
beloved, hallowed aspirations,
dreams of timeless joy,
longing for eternal peace and liberation!

With the treasures of body, mind, and breath,
with tender memories of dawn-times,
take whatever I can give,
take all that is mine;

I have come to your door with my offering—
O Beauty, open the curtain, grant me your vision!
You are the treasury of beauty, I am a connoisseur of beauty—
lift your veil, grant me your vision!
Come and dwell within my mind,
make my little hut shimmer with light!

A devotee’s heart is a prayer, a thirst—a knock upon God’s door. In the devotee’s life there is only one longing—that what is hidden be revealed, that the veil be lifted, that the supreme Lover or the supreme Beloved be found! Nothing less will satisfy; nothing else is needed. Everything else has been tried and found empty. Desire drove him far and wide, and brought him nowhere.

Only after lifetimes of chasing mirages does someone become a devotee. Devotion is the flower that opens after uncountable journeys. Bhakti is consciousness in its highest expression. It is available only to the truly blessed. Otherwise, we keep circling in the same old grooves, trudging round and round like oxen at the press.

If there is something most unbelievable in human life, it is that man learns nothing from experience. He keeps repeating the same mistakes. Even new mistakes would do—but no, only the old ones again and again. Every day the same; birth after birth the same. Devotion dawns when we finally squeeze a little essence out of life.

And what is life’s essence? That whatever you get, nothing is truly gained. Hoard as much as you will, inwardly you remain a beggar. Wealth does not make you rich—until the Supreme Rich One is found, the Master is found. Wealth makes your inner poverty sting all the more by contrast.

Name, honor, position, prestige—these are deceptions, self-delusions. You can cover your wounds with roses; they do not heal that way. You may forget for a moment; they do not close. Others may be fooled, but how will you fool yourself? You know, and will go on knowing, that within there is a wound covered over with a flower. You can deceive the whole world—but not yourself.

When this realization deepens and ripens, that day a devotee is born. And the devotee’s journey begins in longing. By day and by night a single thirst arises within: How to find God? Where to search? There is no address, no sign. Whom to ask? Thousands are ready with answers, but their eyes do not carry the answer. Thousands have written scriptures, but their lives give off no fragrance. Thousands pray in temples, mosques, and gurudwaras, but their prayers carry no moistness of tears. Their prayers bear no hue of the heart—dry, barren, like desert sands. And prayer—can it ever be a desert? Prayer is an oasis; flowers bloom there, fragrances arise. Yes, people have dressed up the outer aarti, but inside their lamp is out. Outside they have arranged incense and flame; inside it is all empty.

This pains the devotee. He cannot soothe himself with such counterfeit devotion. These toys no longer suffice. Now only the genuine will do. Nothing false can charm or delude him. So the fire of deep separation begins to burn. Thirst rises, and all around are false springs. And the more he recognizes the false, the deeper his thirst grows. A moment comes when the devotee becomes nothing but a blazing thirst. It is of this thirst that Dariya speaks in these beloved words:

He in whose heart this longing has not arisen, brother—
how will he know another’s pain?

This longing is such that only the heart in which it has flared can recognize it. This pain is unique, not ordinary.

You know ordinary pains: one thirsts for wealth, another for status; when they do not come, there is suffering. You know the pains of the outer. But you have never uncovered the inner pain. You have never looked within to see that there too is a dwelling of pain—a pain that is both ache and sweetness. Ache—because the whole world seems futile. Sweet—because for the first time, in that very ache the melody of God begins to sound. Pain—as if a knife has been thrust into the chest! The devotee remains pierced.

Yet even so, this pain is a blessing. For beyond this pain, his door opens, the temple’s curtains part. This pain is both cross and throne: on one side the cross, on the other the throne. Hence it is profoundly mysterious. The devotee weeps, but his tears are not like yours.

Take them to a scientist for analysis—he will say they are the same. Both are salty—so much salt, so much water—he will analyze it all. No difference will appear to him between a devotee’s tears and those of ordinary sorrow.

Which is why the scientific mind is blind when it comes to ultimate values. But you know the difference between tears and tears. You have wept with joy, with grief, with anger, with ecstasy. You know the difference. But the difference is inner, not mechanical or external—so no outer method can catch it.

A devotee’s tears are a supreme experience seeping through every pore of the heart. There is great pain, because the longing to find God has awakened. And there is great joy, because the longing to find God has awakened. The very arising of this aspiration is such a blessing that the devotee dances. Only a few fortunate ones receive this pain. It is no curse; it is a benediction. Only those who have tasted a little will recognize it.

He in whose heart this longing has not arisen, brother—
how will he know another’s pain?

And this pain is not born in the brain. It is not an itch of the intellect. Philosophies are born of the mind’s itch. This pain arises in the heart. It has nothing to do with thought; it belongs to feeling. It cannot even be said. Thoughts can be expressed; feelings remain inexpressible. You can tell your thoughts to others, and you feel a bit lighter. But this pain—how to tell it? Who will understand? People will think you mad.

Yesterday a German woman took sannyas. She could not utter a word. When she tried, she laughed, she cried; her hands rose into gestures. She herself was startled—she might be thought crazy. I told her, had you done this in Germany in answer to a question, you would have been taken for insane. You have come to the right place. Here you will not be called mad; here you will be called blessed. Tears flow, the body sways. Hands lift to say something. The lips open to speak. But if it were thought, you could say it—how to voice a feeling?

Only those can understand feeling who have tasted a bit of that pain.

Hence the value of satsang—the company of the awakened, where you meet others as mad as you. Where a few intoxicated ones understand one another’s feeling—where not just sympathy but resonance arises. Where one person’s tears stir another’s. Where one song becomes an echo within another. Where if one rises to dance, the rest are filled with thrill. Where a single energy envelops all.

Satsang is a rare thing. It is where drinkers sit together. Those who have never drunk—how will they understand? Outer wine is easy to find; inner wine is found but rarely. Taverns where inner wine flows are built only once in a long while—around a Buddha, a Nanak, a Dariya, a Farid.

Satsang is the breeze around an awakened one. It is the vibrant field around a living flame. In that light, when four madmen sit and heart joins to heart, only then can it be known.

Dariya is right. If you even glimpse a little of this pain, nectar will begin to shower in your life. Nectar rains, and the lotus blooms! But without this pain, nothing happens. It is the pain of birth.

He in whose heart this longing has not arisen, brother—
how will he know another’s pain?

Beloved, at every moment my mind is with you,
heart upheaved, restless each instant—
can my voiceless pleading,
wordless and shaken,
ever touch the strings of your heart?

O beloved of love, say it, say it—
grant me two sweet words of assurance.
If not a cup, at least two drops of honey—
let a little sweetness melt into my heart!

This anguish that has no end,
this thirst that cannot rest even a moment,
the honey-jar before me, yet no honey given!
This is not justice! This is not justice!

A gift of honey would be right, a return would be right—
my heart and breath are thirsty, love distraught.
Beloved, at every moment my mind is with you,
heart upheaved, restless each instant—
can my voiceless pleading,
ever touch the strings of your heart?

This question rises again and again in the devotee’s heart: What I cannot say—does it reach God? What I cannot speak—can He hear it? The prayer that never reaches my lips—does it reach His ears?

Those who know say: Only those prayers reach Him that never reach your lips. What reaches your lips will not reach His ears. What takes shape as words falls to the earth. Only the wordless have wings—only they can fly into the sky. The wordless are without weight; words are heavy, bound by gravity. The earth pulls them down. They flap and fall. Only in the wordless can you reach Him. Only feelings risen into the empty sky can travel to Him.

Only a woman in labor knows the essence of that pain.

Dariya gives us homely examples. He is a simple man—a cotton-carder, like Kabir. Not learned. Yet how many pundits have these two carders carded! No big, technical words; only what the village heart can grasp.

Only a woman in labor knows the essence of that pain.

The woman who has given birth knows the pangs of childbirth. And the one who has given birth to God in her heart knows the devotee’s pain.

Only a woman in labor knows the essence of that pain.

It is hard. How will a woman who has never given birth understand? For nine months carrying the child—the weight, the nausea, the vomiting. Eating becomes difficult. Walking, rising, sitting—everything is hard. And yet, a bliss!

Have you looked into the eyes of a pregnant woman? You do not see pain—you see a hush of wonder, a blessedness. Have you seen the lustre on her face? A grace. An uncommon beauty arises; as if two souls show through her features; as if two lamps burn in place of one. However much the body suffers, the soul begins to dance in joy. The moment of motherhood draws near. The moment of fruition approaches. Soon there will be flowers; spring has come. As trees sway in spring, so the expectant woman sways in delight. Though the journey is hard—nine months…

And the pregnant woman’s journey ends in nine months; but those who must give birth to a Buddha within, to God within—there is no fixed term. Will it be nine months, nine years, nine lifetimes? Who can say? No set time. It depends on your urgency, your intensity, your totality. How wholeheartedly will you give yourself? It may happen in nine moments; not in nine months; nine births may go waste. Time is not decided from outside; it will be decided within you. How ablaze are you? How fiercely do you burn?

Only a woman in labor knows the essence of that pain.
How could a barren woman understand the turmoil?

One who has never borne a child sees only the poor thing’s suffering. Seeing a pregnant woman, she thinks: What trouble she’s in! Pain is all she can see. Naturally. But the sweetness in the pain, the inner music—she cannot hear that. Only the one who undergoes it has the right to know.

Only a faithful wife knows the vow in her husband.

The one who has loved another deeply—so deeply that the beloved alone remains in the world; who has poured all her love into one; whose love bears such intimacy, such surrender, that it cannot change; whose love is eternal—come what may, life or death—only such a one knows the pain of love.

How will a courtesan explain the secret of a faithful wife?

One who has never known intimacy or love, who has lived only in the fleeting… Ask a courtesan to reveal the heart of a chaste wife—how will she tell it? It is not her experience. Ask the faithful wife. And even she will fail. How can she speak it? It’s like a mute person tasting sugar. Words will not come. But if you live close to the faithful one, perhaps a few glimpses arise. Seeing her unwavering love, her total surrender—perhaps something shines through.

A gem is known by the jeweler;
what can a fool tell, even if he looks?

This is a lovely saying. I tell you: you too have seen God—but you did not recognize Him. How could it be otherwise? You may never have seen a diamond; that can be. But to have never seen God—that cannot be. Diamonds are rare. But God is everywhere. His signature is on every leaf; His imprint on every pebble; His image in every stone; His song in every bird. When the wind passes through the trees, that is His Gita. When clouds gather and thunder, that is His Quran. When a brook laughs and gurgles, those are His Vedas. How will you escape? When the sun rises, it is He who rises. When moonlight showers, it is He who rains down. He is in the peacock’s dance, in the cuckoo’s coo, in my speaking and your hearing. There is none else but He.

So never ask “Where is God?” Ask rather “Where is He not?” How can it be that you have not seen Him? You have seen Him every day, every hour. At every hour you collide with Him.

Someone said to Kabir: Now that you have attained supreme knowledge, stop this weaving and selling your cloth in the market. It does not befit you. You have thousands of disciples; we will take care of you. Your needs are few; we’ll arrange your bread. We are pained to see you weaving and selling cloth.

Kabir said, No, no. What would become of Ram then?

They asked, Which Ram?

He said: The Ram who hides in my customers. I weave for Him.

Sitting in the Benares bazaar, Kabir would say to each buyer: Ram! Keep this safe. I have woven it with love. This sheet I wove so fine and delicate! I have poured my life into it.

Gora the potter attained wisdom—but he kept making pots. Someone said: Now stop making pots. You have become a Buddha. You have many disciples.

Gora said: I am a potter, and God too is a potter. He has not stopped making pots; how can I? He keeps creating; I will keep creating. For whom do I make these pots? For Him! As long as I am, let me serve in whatever way I can.

No one saw Gora going to temple or performing rituals. But they did see him pounding clay. And the ecstasy with which he trampled the mud! Hundreds would gather to watch. He would pound the mud as Meera danced—just as intoxicated, just as mad. That clay must have absorbed his ecstasy; the pots he made needed no wine poured into them—they were already full. Their emptiness brimmed with intoxication.

A gem must be seen by a connoisseur.

What can a fool tell, even if he looks? He will look and remain silent. Pebbles and stones are all he will see.

We see only according to our capacity to see. Our world is limited by our vision. The greater the vision, the vaster the world. When vision grows so boundless that it has no edges, the world dissolves and the Creator appears. When your vision becomes infinite, you encounter the Infinite.

When dense clouds of passion roll across the sky of the heart,
laden with moist feeling,
then the thirsty birds of colorful imagination
open their wings like a song upon the lips.

In a peace like unfinished forgetfulness,
when the wind of thoughts
breathes timidly,
with rainbows in the pupils of the eyes
a deceiving dream rises like an unknown painting.

Nests made silent by the ache of burning pain,
speak in sudden stabs of sorrow.
Like a lovely scent filling the breath,
when someone’s memory blooms like groves of mango,
a silent honey-joy arises, green as monsoon,
and the heart’s tenderness swings into rhythm.

Gentle words of a happy mind, taking swings of sound,
become a measured line and sway.

When the thirsty, unwed chatak chokes on his mute longing,
he sees the green earth like a bride with a filled parting.
In the worship of love, eating the coals of practice,
he calls to the wandering Swati to dissolve in its rhythm.

In breaths of longing, with the sadness of the longed-for union,
dreams mix seven colors in the heart’s abode.

When dense clouds of passion roll across the sky of the heart,
laden with moist feeling,
then the thirsty birds of colorful imagination
open their wings like a song upon the lips.

As your feeling deepens and densifies, existence becomes mysterious. Veils lift, truth grows naked, and nature begins to reveal the God hidden within her.

The one who is wounded groans.

The bystander knows no pain.

So far in life you have remained spectators. Dive in! How long will you stand on the shore? Will you live on the shore, die on the shore? This surging ocean is inviting you. The rising waves challenge you: leave your boat. Yes, you have no map. But maps are only for the timid; the brave push their little skiffs into the unknown.

The joy of seeking is so great that even if you are lost in it, no harm is done. The joy of seeking is such that one can surrender oneself. Understand this too: he who is not ready to lose himself will never find. Only the one who says, If the boat sinks midstream, the midstream will be my shore—only he can launch into the ocean of God; only he can hope to reach.

The one who is wounded groans. The bystander knows no pain.

People are merely spectators. They watch Buddhas launch their boats upon the sea, watch them triumph over the waves—and still they stand on the shore. They salute from afar, but take not a step. They even drive their feet into the sand, chain themselves to stakes—lest in some unguarded moment the words of a madman sway them! They do not trust themselves. Some word might stir the heart, some sleeping feeling might wake—and who knows, I might step into the water! And then I would repent. And who knows whether I could return?

So they have hammered pegs into the ground, chained their feet. Look carefully at yourself—how many chains have you wound around you? With these chains as excuse, people refuse the challenge.

People come to me and say: I want to take sannyas, but not now. First I must marry my son. After that I will take it. If I take sannyas now, it might interfere with his wedding.

And if death comes tomorrow, do you think the wedding will stop? Do you think your death will interfere? And if death comes, what will you do?

No one thinks: I too will die. People think only others die. Death happens always to someone else, never to me. I am always spared. If you have not pondered that death can come tomorrow, then you will not accept today’s invitation. You will postpone. You will say: Let me settle a few things first.

For thirty years Buddha passed by a certain village many times on his way to Shravasti. A merchant lived there. In those thirty years, Buddha passed at least sixty times. Yet the man never went to meet him. He wanted to from youth; he never did, until he grew old. When he heard that Buddha was leaving the body, he came running.

People asked: Buddha passed so many times—why didn’t you go?

He said: Some excuse always arose. Today I see they were excuses. I was just leaving my shop when a customer came.

There were no shop laws then about opening and closing times. If customers kept coming, the shop remained open. A customer at closing time—so I thought: Next time Buddha comes, I’ll settle accounts; who knows if this customer will return? Better not lose one in hand.

Sometimes Buddha came when guests were at home. Serve them, or go to see Buddha? Sometimes the wife was sick. Sometimes a child was born. Sometimes a daughter’s wedding. Sometimes a neighbor died—should I go with the funeral or go to hear Buddha? And so on. Excuses kept coming.

These are your excuses, remember. That man voiced all of them. Thirty years… and people go on missing—sometimes for such petty reasons there is no measure.

Lakshmi went to Delhi and met a minister. He said: I came to the ashram gate. I peeped in, and saw four or six people who know me. So I returned from the gate. I came from Delhi for the ashram alone. But seeing a few who recognized me—I thought rumors would fly, the papers would print it.

To be linked with my name is not without danger. Many ministers send word: We understand and we want to support your work in any way we can—but we cannot do anything openly. We cannot say it publicly.

Many members of parliament have come here. Yet when a debate over me arose in parliament, not one spoke. I scanned the whole list: none who came here spoke. They had said: We will fight for you. Fight? They did not even speak. Because if it became known they had come here, or had any link or affection for me—there would be danger. Those who did speak have never come here, never read a book of mine, never heard me.

Curious! They debated for an hour—none of the speakers knew me. Those who know me—very well—kept silent.

Someone can turn back from the door—just by seeing a few acquaintances! How clever the mind is at finding excuses, and how for paltry excuses we forfeit infinite possibilities! If a man came all the way from Delhi to here, he must have some thirst. Yet he suppressed it and returned.

Our age is an age of spectators. The world has never been so voyeuristic. Modern technology has made man a pure onlooker. Visit a tribe: when they want to dance, they dance—not watch. When they want to sing, they sing, play their own flute. You, if you want to see a dance, do not dance; you go to a film, or call a dancer home, or turn on the television. When you want music, you put on a record or the radio. Someone else dances, someone else sings—you watch. Football—millions watch. Cricket—millions are mad. Professionals play; it’s their business.

One of my sannyasins here is a professional athlete. America invited him to settle there; he lived in America. Then somehow my fragrance reached him; he came here. Now he does not want to leave; there is a problem—how to stay? He is a tennis player, an extraordinary one. The tennis world here said: Don’t worry! If you want to stay we’ll arrange it with the government. We’ll arrange your living, your salary. We’ll be honored if you remain.

Everything has become professional. Two wrestlers fight, crowds watch. In America people sit five or six hours before the TV—just watching. Little by little, everything is to be watched. Even love—you don’t love; you watch two people love on the screen. Why bother with its troubles? You watch, come home, and sleep.

This century is the century of spectators. And when you have become spectators about everything, then about God—much more. He is the ultimate. Hardly anyone sets out to seek Him. Now everything is done by someone else—you watch.

But about God you cannot remain a spectator. There you must participate. There you must dance, sing, weep, be overwhelmed. There you must join.

People come. I ask: Did you meditate?

They say, No, we are just watching for now.

What will you watch? Has anyone ever seen meditation? Is it an object to be seen?

They say: We watch others meditate.

Watching others meditate—what will you see? If someone dances, you will see the dance, not the meditation. Meditation is an inner state; it happens in the innermost of the dancer. You cannot see it. You will see the dancer and go away. And you will think: dance and meditation—how can they go together? What has dance to do with meditation?

You have seen many who dance. Dance can be without meditation; meditation can be without dance; and both can be together. Buddha only meditated—no dance. Meera danced and meditated—both together. Meera is a little richer than Buddha; in her meditation there is an extra wave, an added ripple. Buddha’s meditation is still, like a marble statue. Hence it is no accident that the first statues made were of Buddha, and of marble. How will you sculpt Meera in marble? You can—but it will be false. To make Meera’s statue, you would need fountains of water—then perhaps some sense of dance would come. You can see Buddha seated beneath a tree in siddhasana—but will you see meditation? You will see the posture—where his hands rest, where his feet, the straight spine, whether the eyes are half-open or fully closed. But meditation—how will you see it? Sitting is outer; posture is outer. Many fools sit thus and are not Buddhas. You too can learn it with practice. But it will not make you a Buddha. Meditation is an inner event; it can only be experienced.

The one who is wounded groans. The onlooker knows no pain.

Vivek told me her father has never had a headache. Not once. However much you explain—what is a headache—he will not grasp it. Headache? How will you explain to one who has never had it? One who has never had a headache doesn’t even know he has a head! Only pain makes the head known. It is impossible to explain.

You have eyes; how will you understand the condition of the blind?

People with eyes think a blind person must be living in darkness. You are mistaken. Darkness too is an experience of the eyes. A blind person cannot even see darkness. Neither light nor dark. Then what does he see? He sees nothing. There are no eyes.

You think a deaf person hears silence. Wrong again. Ears are needed to hear silence as much as music. Silence too is an auditory experience. What does a deaf person hear? Nothing. He knows neither sound, nor silence, nor music, nor emptiness. The world of that experience is simply not there. There is no way for him. Other than experience there is no way to understand.

People say: We want to understand God, and once we understand, we will experience. They have already set the wrong condition. Experience first, and you will understand. They demand: Let us understand first, then we will practice meditation. Wrong condition.

It is as if you say: First let me understand swimming thoroughly, then I will learn. How will I explain swimming? Shall I put cushions on the floor and have you flail your arms and legs?

Mulla Nasruddin once went to learn to swim. The instructor who took him to the riverbank began removing his clothes. Meanwhile, Mulla slipped on moss on the steps and fell. He got up and ran home.

The instructor shouted: Where are you going, sir? Don’t you want to learn?

Mulla said: Not until I have learned will I go near the river! By God’s grace my foot slipped and I didn’t fall into the water. I saved my life. Now never! Only after I have learned will I go to the water.

But how will you learn without water? It sounds logical: to go into water before learning is risky. Some are like this: First let me understand meditation; then I will do it.

How will you understand?

They say: We will watch others meditate.

Yes, you will see something: someone in lotus posture practicing vipassana, someone spinning into Sufi abandon, someone dancing like Omar Khayyam, someone sitting like Buddha. But these are outer scenes. What is happening within? Is anything happening at all? Till it happens to you, there is no way.

The Name of Ram is my life’s support.

Only the one who drinks the nectar of Ram will know.

Only he will drink who dares to step into the unknown, the unfamiliar, who is not a spectator but a gambler, who can stake himself, who risks: If I must drown, I’ll drown; but to learn to swim I must enter the water.

Only that person, says Dariya, will know—
the one whose heart is pierced by love’s spear.

The true story of life has always remained unwritten.
The written tale of life
is not truth—only an interpolation.

Life’s manifold face,
life’s triple face,
life’s eternal rhythm,
its ancient conflict, eternal marriage;

small fruit upon the banyan,
stones under every step,
life’s lettered motion,
life’s final fate;

life’s smallest grain,
life’s hundred seas,
life’s countless qualities,
life’s one unknown quality—

life’s epic
has always remained unwritten.
Life’s fragments
are fragmentary, mere insertions.

The true story of life has always remained unwritten.
The written tale of life
is not truth—only an interpolation.

Scriptures will not help you understand. They are insertions—stories, symbols, pointers. But pointers are not enough until the taste arises within. And to awaken taste is costly.

The heart must be pierced by love’s spear.

You must die, you must be effaced.
Let your ego go—let it be crucified—so your soul may sit on the throne.

I do not want to die
before I die—
though I know
I do not have much strength to fight,
my longing to live
is no less than the rising sun.

I do not want to die
before I die—
though I see
darkness trembling so near,
I do not want to fall
like a leaf from the tree of thought.

I do not want to die
before I die!

Only the one who dies before death knows God. All die, but the one who dies while alive—his good fortune knows no bounds. He who becomes a nothing while alive, empty within—into that emptiness God steps. And this emptiness is what Dariya calls the spear.

The heart must be pierced by love’s spear.

He who gives himself up for love.

I am a carder too, O Ram, but yours.

Dariya says: I know I am nothing—a poor carder, lowly and mean—but it makes no difference, because I know something else:

…that I am yours.
I am yours! A carder, a nothing, low and mean—no matter. I do not mind. Because I am yours. And being yours, I am emperor. In being yours all kingdoms are mine.

Low-born, vile, slow of wit…

I have fallen far; I am a sinner. Hard to find a worse man than me. Indeed, accept that I have no intellect.

Kabir said: I have not even touched paper and ink. Ink and paper I have not handled. Writing I have not done; only seeing I have said.

So I do not know scriptures; I am not learned. Consider me indeed witless. But what difference does it make? Still I am yours, and you are mine.

…you are my crown.
You are on my head—that is enough. I need no intellect, no noble birth, no wealth, no status—if I have you, I have everything.

The heart must be pierced by love’s spear.

Whoever lets love’s spear sink into his heart, from nothing becomes everything—from emptiness to fullness.

Distraught with pain, my anxious mind calls you.
Today, who knows why, a tide of memories rises again.
Sleeping sorrow wakes within with a fresh message;
hearing a soft chime in the heart, a heady soma dissolves.
Twin blossoms hidden in veils open, fragrant.
Under silver moonlight, blind darkness washes away.
From the wounds of forgotten allure a cry wells up—
today, who knows why, a tide of memories rises again.

Shadowy figures have once more lifted their veils.
The turmoil of sweet hours gone murmurs in my ear.
The well-known unknown of your heart smiles in play.
Mute wind brings sandal-scent to your threshold.
In the intoxicating tones of invitation a new humming starts—
today, who knows why, a tide of memories rises again.

A bee once more kissed wilted flowers into spring.
The shattered dream of the past swayed like a storm.
Who opened the doors locked by my mind’s trickery?
Into my drowsy eyes a dream is poured again.
In golden waves a sense of belonging takes form—
today, who knows why, a tide of memories rises again.

Die—and remembrance is born! Die—and awareness rises! Die—and the door opens! Die—and you enter the shrine! Die—and the place becomes a pilgrimage! But carry your ego to Kaba or to Kashi—go where you will— and you will return as you went.

I have heard: some neighbors of Eknath were going on pilgrimage. Eknath said: Here is my gourd—take it with you on pilgrimage. I cannot go so far, but at least bathe my gourd in the sacred rivers. Let it be purified; I will hold it to my chest.

The pilgrims took the gourd. They dipped it everywhere—ten times if once was not enough. Easy to dunk a gourd. They returned from every ghat and shrine. But the gourd was bitter. Eknath cut it and offered them a taste. They spat it out—bitter. They said: Why have us taste this?

Eknath said: Blind men! Understand something. The gourd was bitter. It went to so many holy places; bathed in Ganga, Yamuna, Narmada—yet it did not turn sweet. Look within yourselves! What was bitter in you still is.

The real revolution is within, not without. The true pilgrimage is within, not outside.

The body’s a frame…
He is a carder, so his language is that of a carder. He says: The body is my frame…

The body my bow,
and the Word is the tuft of cotton.

That Word I heard from the Satguru in the inner sky—that resonance, that string plucked on the heart’s veena—

…the Word is my cotton tuft.
Sushumna is my string.

What yogis call the sushumna nadi—that is my string.

In the sky’s great dome the carder sits…

I am a poor carder, yet the wonder is I am seated in the sky of emptiness. I had not much—only the body’s frame, the Word for my wad, the sushumna-strung string. Yet upon me, lowly as I am, immeasurable grace has poured. For I am, after all, yours. If you do not care for me, who will? You cared even for this carder.

In the sky’s great dome the carder sits…

The sky’s great dome means the samadhi of emptiness—where all thoughts fall silent, all desires wane, where mind is no more—only open sky remains, the formless remains.

In the sky’s great dome the carder sits…

I myself am astonished: where have you seated me, a carder? This throne—for me? This samadhi—for me? For Buddha it was fitting; he was a prince. For Mahavira, a great emperor. For Ram and Krishna—yes. But me—a carder?

Low-born, vile, slow of wit.
And yet where have you seated me! Now I understand: I am as much yours as are Ram, Krishna, Buddha, Mahavira. Your compassion makes no distinctions. Your grace showers alike. Whoever opens his vessel is filled. I too, a carder, am filled.

In the sky’s great dome the carder sits—my Satguru taught me the art.

What art? The art of disappearing.

The heart must be pierced by love’s spear.

Only one thing must happen at the feet of a true Master; then know you have been with him. Being with a Satguru is not physical proximity. It means: be near by being nothing; be near by disappearing. Wipe yourself out. Do not protect yourself. Lay your whole being at the feet.

The leaves of sin and the burrs of bad intelligence
fall off—effortlessly, effortlessly.

Then miracles upon miracles—I have seen them, says Dariya. Once the Master taught me that art of vanishing—

The leaves of sin and the burrs of folly
drop away—effortlessly, effortlessly.

The leaves of sin fell as if autumn had come. All that I tried a thousand times to renounce yet could not—even if I cut them, they sprouted again—fell on their own, like leaves in fall. Without my effort they fell. Without my cutting they were cut.

The leaves of sin and the burrs of bad intelligence…
Carder’s language—remember. The burrs of stupidity within me—where did they go? However I searched, there was no trace.

…fall off—effortlessly, effortlessly.

I had imagined much toil would be needed. But the Master taught me such an art—he cut the root, not the leaves.

Those who cut leaves teach morality. No one ever becomes religious through morality, though whoever becomes religious is always moral.

Religion cuts the root; morality plucks leaves. Morality says: Don’t be angry, don’t be greedy. But people are unwilling to surrender anger or greed at once. So moralists like Acharya Tulsi say: then take small vows—anuvrata. If you cannot drop completely, drop a little. A little less anger, a little less attachment, a little less… gradually, gradually. If all the leaves cannot be cut at once, cut one branch today, another tomorrow.

But you know, cut a branch and three sprout in its place. As you practice small vows, great sins bloom. You patch on one side, the flood pours in from another. Until the root is cut, nothing happens.

The leaves of sin and the burrs of folly
fall away—effortlessly, effortlessly.

With the root cut—and what is the root? Ego. The feeling “I am” is the root. To sit in satsang means to sit as if you are not. This is the only art. This is the secret. Keys are small; locks may be enormous, complicated, but keys are tiny. This little key opens the doors of life’s infinite mysteries.

No more knots or tangles remain
when one comes dyed in one color.

The carder tries to explain in his idiom:

No knots remain, nor snarls in the threads. All smooths out.

One comes dyed in one color.

This multi-colored mind—shall I do this or that? this and that?—racing in a thousand directions, suddenly becomes one-colored.

I give my sannyasins the color ochre. People ask: Are other colors bad?

No; they are not bad. It is only a sign: gradually, become of one color. Any could have been chosen: green—the color of trees, the Sufis’ color, the hue of peace and coolness—lovely too. Ochre was chosen—the color of the sun, of fire, in which whatever enters is burned to ash. It is the color that reduces the ego to ashes. White could have been chosen—symbol of purity, innocence, virginity. All colors are beautiful. Even black could have been chosen—the color of depth, infinity, the eternal. Light comes and goes; darkness always is. For light you need fuel—wick and oil. Darkness needs nothing; it is. Light comes and goes; darkness remains. Black could have been chosen.

But a single color is chosen to keep reminding you: the mind is multi-hued, rainbow-like—dye it in one color.

Ochre is the color of the funeral pyre, of fire. And satsang is a funeral pyre; there one must learn to die; there the art of dying is learned.

The heart must be pierced by love’s spear.

There you learn to burn to ash in the flame of love.

One-colored, my whole robe filled with Hari;
Hari says: What shall I fetch you?

Dariya says: The day I became one-colored, that very day my being was filled with the Divine. As long as I was divided, there was no sign of Him. When I became undivided, whole, one—the Whole entered me at once.

One-colored, my whole robe filled with Hari—
my whole body, mind, and breath filled with God.

—and Hari says: What shall I fetch you?

Then God began to say: Speak—what do you want? What shall I give you?

This is the wonder: when there is nothing left to want, God says: Ask! Beggars get nothing from God; emperors get everything. If you would befriend Him, abandon your beggarhood. Hence this land named the renunciate Swami—Master, sovereign. No one reaches His door by asking; asking is desire. Where asking remains, there is the world. Where asking ends, something unparalleled happens: God says, Ask—what shall I give?

Kabir said: I used to search for God and could not find Him; since I found Him, all has changed. Now He follows me, saying: “Kabir, Kabir! Where are you going?” “What do you want, Kabir?” I do not turn back, for I want nothing. Yet if I do not ask, it seems discourteous. So I run—and He runs after me: “Kabir, Kabir! Stop! Take something!”

One-colored, my whole robe filled with Hari—
and Hari says: What shall I fetch you?

I am not greedy for wages—
just bestow such a bliss in devotion
that I find the Self.

I want nothing. If you will not accept that and insist I ask—then grant this only: let my devotion deepen more and more; let my ecstasy grow—so much that I find the Self.

In this world all is dreamlike—except You. All scenes are false—except the Seer.

The lamp’s flame trembled,
a ripple ran through the curtains.
In the mirror, bodies made of unknowing quivered,
magic anklets chimed on unseen feet,
woolen flowers on carpets pressed and bloomed,
the beat began—fast at first, then stilled.

Who struck those bars of a song heard in former lives,
its first, colorful line?

Light bodies spun, woven from winter fog,
bracelets of fresh buds jingled on hands,
on shoulders the braid’s flower-serpents swayed,
champak’s waving arms teased the moving light
of the wavering lamp.

In the deep swoon of those tipsy moments—
who knows when night fell, who knows when it passed?
In mind’s darkness, slowly emerged
new islands of color, a new land for the voice,
new jeweled shores upon which we forgot
that lonely hour of aimless journeys.

This dance—where will it pull me?
Will all the old shorelines be left behind?
Or will the lamp go out, the festival cease?
Will all the chains of song break into a sob?

Who knows what will be? Is it true or a spell?
Is this too a loss—another link in illusion?

A ripple ran through the curtains,
the lamp’s flame trembled.

This world is like that:

A ripple ran through the curtains,
the lamp’s flame trembled.

Shadows flickered on the walls. That’s all—no more.

What here is worth asking for? Only one truth—your own innermost. Only the witness is real. If God says, Ask!—what can the poor devotee ask for? Only this:

…bestow such a bliss in devotion
that I find the Self.

By grace, God speaks: You are my servant.

When you fall silent, God speaks. As long as you keep speaking, He is silent—or perhaps He speaks, but your noise keeps you from hearing.

By grace, God spoke: You are my servant.

Says Dariya: In my inmost Self I met Ram—through devotion and trust.

As soon as He said this little thing—that you are mine, my limb, a ray of me, a fragrance of me—everything was done.

Says Dariya: In my inmost Self I met Ram—through devotion and trust.

In that moment, faith was born. In that moment, God was known.

God is not known through proofs. There is no proof of God—except the experience of samadhi.

Light has touched me,
and I melt like wax.
Nothing affected me once—
I was a stone.
I floated in the ocean like a berg—
an iceberg of stone!
One day rays fell upon my head—
suddenly, I am aflame.

This burning is bitter,
sweet, and salty too.
In this fire there is nectar,
and also dryness.
Someone has taken my hand—
and I too am walking.

Light has touched me,
and I melt like wax.

Give God the chance to touch you. Keep your inner windows open enough that His sunlight can enter, His breeze can come, His touch can reach you. Then all else—what you have desired and imagined for lifetimes—begins to happen. One who knows Him, even for a moment, has no way back. He goes on singing, drunk with His song.

If I cannot have the moon,
what is the use of all this light?
If you yourself turn away from me,
what support has life?

I have put the rudder of my life-boat in your hands—
ferry me across, or drown me—your right is total.
Mid-ocean, you say to me you will not go with me—
that we cannot meet—and so you cannot remain.

Let it be that longing is a sweet dream,
let it be that union is impossible for us,
but how can I leave you?
You are the whirlpool and the shore alike.

In the lamps of my eyes your flame alone burns.
As the wick of my hopes your memory burns.
I cannot forget even for two moments the sting of your remembrance,
the prison of embrace is all my heart desires.

It is no fault of mine,
no fault of yours,
when my innermost
is enchanted by your prison.

You are the body of my poetry’s imagination,
the quivering shadow in my tender feelings.
You are immortal inspiration for my song,
the means of my sadhana,
you are the word, the line,
the melodious worshipful tone.
You are nectarous love eternal,
the sweet song of union.
Without you my ocean of feeling
would be only brine.

If I cannot have the moon,
what is the use of all this light?
If you yourself turn away from me,
what support has life?

Right now God is turned away from you because you are turned away from God. You stand with your back to Him. However much light there is, your life will remain dark. Without that moon, no light is of any use. Without that supreme wealth, all wealth is futile. Without that supreme position, all positions are vain.

God is the supreme enjoyment. Without Him, all enjoyments are deceits of enjoyment.

Be brave! Take the risk! A day can come when you too will say—

In the sky’s great dome the carder sits—my Satguru taught me the art.

That hour can come. It is your birthright. The possibility lies hidden within you. Yes, at present it is a seed; but seeds can become flowers at any time. And until nectar rains and your seeds blossom as lotuses within, do not sit—keep walking, keep walking. Remember—nectar rains, and the lotus blooms! This is the destination.

Enough for today.