Ari Main To Naam Ke Rang Chhaki #1

What is not confined to the Kaaba nor to the idol-house—
ah, and yet it appears in a desolate, ruined dwelling!

Eternity is found in love’s tavern.
O Death, dissolve yourself too into my goblet.

In sanctuaries and temples there was no place for the revelers—
thank goodness a refuge was found in the tavern.

Today the cupbearer made me utterly, boundlessly drunk,
by casting a special glance into my cup.

Come, see for yourself what the bond of love is—
blend your story into mine.

Your dispute with wine, O Sheikh, exposed your illusion:
you stand in the mosque, but your intention is in the tavern.

All those consultations of sheikhs and brahmins, Jigar—
the rakes overhear them, seated in the tavern.

The path of love is the path of ecstasy. Bhakti means a singular kind of divine madness. Not logic, not syllogism—love’s own bridge.

The Ultimate is not found by the intellect but by the heart. Those who seek with the intellect search much and find nothing. Seek not with the heart—let a call arise, a thirst ignite; where you sit, there the Divine arrives. The lover does not have to go seeking; the Divine comes seeking the lover. This is the most wondrous rule of the scripture of devotion.

Jagjivan’s sutras begin from this very rule.

But this runs counter to our habits. The knower searches and searches yet never finds; the devotee finds without searching. So it sounds a bit absurd—wild, mad. But love is the distilled essence of madness.

What is not confined to the Kaaba nor to the idol-house—

Where will the seeker go? To a temple or to a mosque. The seeker will go outward. Seeking means outward travel. He will wander all four directions, search in earth and in sky.

What is not confined to the Kaaba nor to the idol-house—

And that which is limited neither to temple nor to mosque, neither to Kaaba nor Kailash—how will you find it in Kaaba or on Kailash? The very act of “going to find” is the mistake. In going you have already taken the first wrong step. One goes to seek only that which is confined somewhere, bounded, pointing in a direction, with an address to which a finger can point: “There!”

But the Divine is everywhere. Therefore it has no address—no north, no west, no east. God is not in the east; the east is in God. He is not in the west; the west is in Him. God is not “there,” God is “here.” You go to seek God—and you get lost in the seeking, because you are already in God. Like a fish setting out to search for the ocean—while living in it! Seeking will confound you; seeking itself will not let you arrive.

What is not confined to the Kaaba nor to the idol-house—
ah, and yet it appears in a desolate, ruined dwelling!

The day union happens, amazement dawns. What was not found in the most beautiful temples, not found at time-honored shrines—you found in your own broken home!

Ah, in this small, ruined dwelling!

In this little house you found Him! That day you can hardly believe that the One you set out to find was hidden in the very seeker. And so long as you were seeking, you were wandering.

The lover drops seeking. The lover only calls. Like a small child who cries—where would he go to seek? He is helpless—cannot even walk yet. And man is just as helpless. Where do we have the legs for the journey to God? Where the strength, the power? It is the ego that whispers, “Seek and you shall find.” It is the ego that deludes and leads astray. Cry out—the devotee says: don’t seek; call! As the infant calls from his cradle—where can he go, how could he go? He has no capacity to go or even to rise. But hearing his cry, the mother comes running. And between mother and child there is still some distance—between you and the Divine there is not even that. The One you set out to find is your own very nature.

A deep call, a piercing call—like a lightning flash that splits your own heart. And then, in this very broken house, this very ruin, which you never imagined could be a temple! All your so-called saints teach you to condemn the body: “Because of the body you have gone astray.” Yet those who have known have known Him in this very body. Whatever the body—dark or fair, healthy or ill, young or old—no difference; He is hidden in it. Hidden in this crumbling house. Consciousness is but His other name. The lamp of awareness burning within you is His very presence.

Eternity is found in love’s tavern—

Only the one who enters love’s tavern understands this secret. And he gains a life that has no end. He attains the Eternal, the deathless. “Sons of immortality!” He experiences: I am born of the Nectar. I have come from Him, I am Him, I am returning to Him. I am in Him, I belong to Him. If I wander, I wander in Him. If I forget, I forget in Him. Even if I have no remembrance at all, there is no way to be distant from Him.

Eternity is found in love’s tavern.
O Death, dissolve yourself too into my goblet.

Such is the power of the devotee’s love that he can drown death in it. Death dissolves. Death dies in his love. Love is the only voice of eternity, the only taste of the deathless!

In sanctuaries and temples there was no place for the revelers—

In temples and mosques there is no room for the intoxicated. The clever have seized those seats—the sly, the shrewd, the priests and pundits, the so-called knowers sit there as lords.

In sanctuaries and temples there was no place for the revelers—

Who would let drunkards in there? Who would admit lovers? Even the prayers there have become formal. No tears rise from such prayers.

Even worship has turned wooden. Feet do not dance; no dance arises in the heart. The aarti is waved, but the man remains untouched. Flowers are offered, but the flower of the soul remains unopened. Hypocrisy occurs; prayer does not. Prayer can only happen in love. And love has no rules, no decorum, no language, no fixed forms. Love is natural, spontaneous.

In sanctuaries and temples there was no place for the revelers—
thank goodness a refuge was found in the tavern.

Take it as grace that, despite the uproar of temples and mosques, sometimes a tavern still appears. At times a Buddha, a Meera, a Jagjivan, a Kabir, a Christ, a Krishna—though the earth is crowded with temples and mosques, once in a while there is a tavern. There, shelter is found. There the mad ones sit and weep—and they find. There they sing—and they find. There they become drunk—and God arrives. There is no need to go anywhere.

Today the cupbearer made me utterly, boundlessly drunk,
by casting a special glance into my cup.

Gather the courage to be mad just once. Let your eyes brim with tears, let your heart fill with call and thirst—and He will make you drunk!

Today the cupbearer made me utterly, boundlessly drunk,
by casting a special glance into my cup.

And the day His glance falls into the goblet of your heart… Call, cry, hum a tune, dance; drop rules and propriety; be spontaneous, natural—neither Hindu nor Muslim, Christian nor Jain nor Buddhist—just human. That is enough. A helpless surrender: “By my seeking nothing will happen. Now You seek me. I kept walking, life after life, yet not an inch was truly traveled. I sit now, exhausted—extend Your hand!” This is the basic ground of devotion. God seeks the devotee.

Come, see for yourself what the bond of love is—
blend your story into mine.

Come taste love’s secret, its mystery, its flavor!

Come, see for yourself what the bond of love is—
blend your story into mine.

If you can sit near such mad ones—near a Jagjivan—mix your tale with theirs, drown your song in their song, mingle your love with their love; dance with them, sing with them!

Come, see for yourself what the bond of love is—
blend your story into mine.

Whenever such a tavern comes alive, whenever some carefree fakir sings and dances, whenever honey is poured from honeyed jars—don’t think only devotees receive. The priests sitting in temples and mosques too feel a pang—they can’t come, for their vested interests are tied there. They lack the courage to leave small worldly gains. Envy burns within them. That jealousy betrays itself in their opposition to such taverns.

Otherwise why should the temple-and-mosque folk oppose me at all? What have priests to do with me? I sing my song and pass on; they can do their work. But they are restless. Jealousy is rising—they sense something is happening and they are missing it. And they don’t have the courage to drop little securities and come.

I get letters from monks: “We want to come, but how?” A thousand obstacles. Society won’t permit. Our patrons won’t allow. If people find out we came, we’ll be in trouble. Outwardly we oppose you; inwardly we read your words, we bathe in them, we feel the flavor; we know something is happening, we want to come—but we cannot muster the courage. Such messages come every day.

Your dispute with wine, O Sheikh, exposed your illusion:
you stand in the mosque, but your intention is in the tavern.

All those consultations of sheikhs and brahmins, Jigar—
the rakes overhear them, seated in the tavern.

Those consultations in existence—where the realized converse; where Buddha and Mahavira, Krishna and Christ, Zarathustra and Mohammed hold their communion—those who are drowned in love, the revelers, hear them all while sitting in the tavern; the essence of all Buddhas showers upon them.

In such a Buddha-man’s words—let us descend into Jagjivan—

Master, I forget You only when You forget me.

Jagjivan says to the Divine: Let me tell You—only when You forget me do I forget You. What a delicious complaint! He says: When You remember me, then I cannot forget You. All is in Your hands. If You remember me, You remain in my remembrance; if You drop me, I drop You. I am so helpless that even remembrance is not in my power—leave aside seeking! I don’t even have the strength to cry for You. When, suddenly, You arise in my heart, I know You must have remembered me first. Otherwise, how could You have come to my mind? And when I forget, I know You have let me slip.

See this love-laden reproach?

Only a devotee dares this. A prayerful complaint; a fearless petition; the ultimate peak of surrender—he has dropped everything, even prayer, even remembrance!

Master, I forget You only when You forget me—
I am lost in the blinding net of the world, nothing appeals to me.

I forget everything. No remembrance, no thought of truth arises. I wander as if I had no acquaintance with You. But the fault is Yours. Such is the devotee’s courage—never the ascetic’s or the knower’s. The lover says, “You are the Great, the Compassionate and the Merciful; even if I forget, do not leave me! Even if I let go, You keep holding my hand. If I lose myself in darkness, still pursue me. If I turn my back on You, who stopped You from coming round to face me?”

This is understood only when recognition dawns. When grace descends, you see the smallness of effort. Like trying to empty the ocean with a spoon—that is our effort. And if one day the ocean were empty, would you imagine your spoon did it?

You will understand Jagjivan only when recognition happens. You will see: your doing was a trifle; the gift is immeasurable. There is no causal bridge between our sadhana and the siddhi. Therefore bhakti says: God is not attained by effort but by grace. By His compassion alone. When He takes you to His feet—when suddenly He bends you into His shelter—you do not bow by your own power.

Understand a psychological truth: whatever you do, it will strengthen the ego. Fast—and the ego fattens. Practice yoga—and the ego fattens. Whatever you do is done by you; the doer is nourished. Even if you sit saying, “I do nothing,” the doer is strengthened: “See, I do nothing. I am a non-doer.” But the “I” persists.

And religion everywhere has said: whoever goes beyond “I” goes into God. How then to go beyond “I,” when whatever we do feeds it? The devotee says: Leave it to Him. Let Him do. Say, “Here I am—You act.” Wait. Not effort but waiting. The very name of waiting is prayer. Its essence is: Whatever I do turns undone; when I do, it goes wrong. Even my charity is driven by greed. My compassion fattens my vanity. Whatever I do goes awry, for the “I” poisons the act. So what am I to do? Do, how? All measures are futile. Now You do!

And then the unprecedented happens: unknown hands come and bow you down. An unknown ray descends and breaks the darkness of births. An unknown flood flows in and carries away the rubbish—leaving behind the stainless, pure consciousness.

When recognition comes from You, my remembrance and Your face become one.

When I recognize You, my remembrance and Your visage are two names of one thing. My memory of You and Your form—no distinction. My remembrance is Your face, Your face is my remembrance.

By the grace of my gaze seeking You,
not one world but hundreds have passed.
Amid the throng of splendors—what to say of the soul’s flight!
like a spirit passing among the stars.

Just one glimpse—and the soul takes to the sky.

Amid the throng of splendors—what a soaring of longing!
Then such courage arises; one spreads wings and flies near the moon and stars. The one who could not cross a small cloud now crosses the infinite sky.

By the grace of my gaze seeking You,
not one world but hundreds have passed.
Meeting Your eyes just once—one world? Hundreds pass in a moment. An instant turns eternal. Amid that lavish radiance—under Your mysterious benediction—such a surge of courage rises in this nothingness that the drop begins to taste becoming the ocean. Wings unfold—

as though a soul were passing among the stars.

Then nothing remains to worry about.

No worry about destination, nor thoughts of the road—
I go wherever the heart is taking me.

Why worry where the goal lies? Your eyes and His have met—goal found. No anxiety about right or wrong path. Catch this subtle point!

No worry about destination, nor thoughts of the road—
Once His gaze met yours…

Today the cupbearer made me utterly, boundlessly drunk,
by casting a special glance into my cup.

Once His gaze met yours, all directions are filled with Him and all paths are His. Then the world itself is nirvana. The body is the soul. Wherever you are is right. Just as you are—you are right. Misfortune then vanishes; only good fortune remains.

I go wherever the heart is taking me—
You have found the clue: the trail of the heart!

When recognition comes from You, my remembrance and Your face become one.

Whoever thinks, “I will perform devotion”—poor fellow, what can be said? Devotion happens when God makes it happen. When He comes and bends you low.

The ancient scriptures say: when the disciple is ready, the master appears. When the devotee is ready, God surrounds him.

The Sufis add a rare secret: if the urge to seek God arises in you, if you are filled with the thirst to find Him, know this—He has chosen you. Otherwise this thirst would not arise. Your readiness simply means He has readied you. That is what Jagjivan is saying—

Whoever thinks, “I will do devotion”—poor soul!

Devotion—has anyone ever “done” it? Prayer happens; it is not done. Not an act, not an effort, not a technique. Like love—it happens.

If He wishes, He draws and keeps you at His feet—
if He wishes, He lets you drift far away.

It is His will. If He wants, He pulls you into His shelter—you cannot escape however you run. Where would you go? He is everywhere. If He wants, He lets you be carried off far away.

When the heart writhed in the chest remembering Him,
walls and doorways were ready to cry out.
He made me glad by union, unglad by separation—
He ruined me in whatever way He wished.
Look at us, O indifferent pain of parting:
even in this wretched state we remembered You.
What more capital of consolation, my friend?
He glanced once toward my heart and made me glad.
How long to explain the motley of causes?
In short, You are the one who ruined me.
Death is a fresh snare, Jigar—
do not think the grief of love has set me free.

The devotee says: Populate me or devastate me—You do both. All responsibility is Yours. He places his entire accountability at God’s feet. That is surrender.

How long to explain the motley of causes?
In short, You are the one who ruined me.

What more capital of consolation, my friend?
He glanced once toward my heart and made me glad.

When He wished and looked once at my heart—festivity showered, flowers of bliss bloomed, spring arrived. When He turned His gaze away—ruin descended, autumn fell, the dark night came.

He made me glad by union, unglad by separation—
He ruined me in whatever way He wished.

Ruin—at Your hands; prosperity—at Your hands. One thing is certain: I am not; You are. And the day one says with such simplicity, “I am not; You are,” that day life is transformed—a new dawn, a sunrise!

I am ignorant, unknowing, Lord—I say this only to say it.

Even what I say is my ignorance—for You know all; what need to tell You? I am ignorant, unknowing; otherwise, what is there to say?

You show mercy to Jagjivan, therefore I do not forget.

Even that I speak of You is Your grace. You have not forgotten me; therefore remembrance flows. I bathe in this Ganga and speak of You because You are making me speak. Otherwise, ignorant as I am—what would I say?

Around Jagjivan hundreds gathered—mad ones, lovers, devotees. He says: whatever I am saying to them is what You are saying through me. I am not speaking—You are. If there is error, it is Yours; if right, it is Yours. Such total surrender is devotion.

You may be surprised: handing everything to God is easy—and even there the ego lurks. Scriptures say: “Whatever is right is Yours; whatever is wrong is mine.” But see the delusion: the ego survives, showing off its generosity—“See, I take all the blame!” Still the “I” preens. Usually it is worse: one claims all the right and dumps the wrong on God—success is “mine,” failure is “fate.”

True devotion says something else: Ruin—You did. Prosperity—You did. Right—You did; wrong—You did. The doer is You. Even my mistakes I place at Your feet. I surrender all.

Have you heard the story? A devotee woman, a Krishna-lover. She offered everything to Krishna—the good and the bad. Once returning from pilgrimage, her house was full of trash. She cleaned, collected the garbage, carried it to Krishna’s image and offered it: “I offer this too. What is, is Yours. Bad is Yours, good is Yours.” They say that trash fell upon Krishna in Vaikuntha—of course it did! Flowers you offer may not reach, but her garbage did, because it was offered with such love. When his golden throne was showered with debris, he laughed. Asked, “What’s happening?” he said, “That old woman who offers everything—even her curses. If I have accepted the roses, how can I refuse the refuse? I take all only when someone gives all. From those who give with conditions, nothing can be taken.”

Do not imitate this. Do not hear and then start offering only garbage, without the love. The greatest obstacle on the spiritual path is not irreligion but imitation. People go to temples because others go. That is wasted. Imitation means superficiality; the heart does not flower. You become a carbon copy; only originals reach God. Never imitate. Imitation paints the outside; inside you remain the same. Conduct is managed, character is assembled, rituals are done—imitation. Inside? As before. Imitation cannot reach the life-breath. In the realm of religion, the single most important thing: do not imitate. The atheist at least is honest. Dishonest atheists are called “believers.” A true theist is rare—one among millions. The rest are false believers. Most merely imitate.

O Beauty of the Beloved, what a revolution is this:
your pain is more triumphant than You!
There is no answer to the lover’s faithlessness—
save his very surge of love.
I am love’s nonchalance; You are beauty without bounds—
neither admits an answer.
The tavern and this world belong to the one
whose thirsty lips hold the brimming cup.
O moralist, do not fling it—do not fling it!
Cruel one—this is wine!
Let no one exceed his bounds in love:
each speck, where it is, is the sun.
My longing gaze is not small,
but your youth—yours alone—is youth.
Ask not of the capital of separation, Jigar:
this single life is torment enough.

If in your hand there is a goblet brimming—with love, with prayer, with His remembrance—and you drink, you are a theist.

The tavern and this world belong to the one
whose thirsty lips hold the brimming cup.

But can anyone be intoxicated by talking of wine? Wine is needed. People get drunk on the talk of wine! Whom do you deceive? You are dizzy with talk. It’s not that cheap. Drop imitation.

No skill of yoga arrives,
and at the end you fall into confusion.

In the end you will repent. Death will topple your card-castles, sink your paper boats—and you will be shocked and writhing. Too late. The bird has eaten the field.

Life was lived on borrowings—stale. You memorized the Ramayana like parrots; but there is no goblet of Ram in your hand. You recited the Gita like a machine, a gramophone record. Do you think such records go to heaven? Then how will you go? A bhajan must ignite—alive, a flame that burns your ego to ash. Burn in the song—only then is a new birth.

No skill of yoga arrives,
and at the end you fall into confusion.

Because at the end you see: life was wasted counting accounts—nothing in hand.

Buddha told of a man who sat daily counting the village cattle going to the river and returning. “Brother,” he said, “what good to count others’ cows? Not one is yours!” He added: “How long will you count Vedas and Qurans? How long repeat the words of scripture? Not one is yours. Let at least a single experience be your own. Only on that foundation can life’s temple rise.”

Puffed up by the praise of people,
you cannot even grasp this inside.

But you bask in flattery. “Ah, such knowledge! You know the Upanishads by heart!” You swell. Yet you don’t understand that none of it is yours. The Veda must be born in you. It does not go from outside in; it emerges from within and spreads out.

The difference is like a cement tank you fill with water from outside versus a well. The well is fed from within, connected to the ocean, to distant streams. You draw and fresh water keeps coming. The tank looks like a well, but draw from it and you find it is a tank—no inflow. The longer the water sits, the staler and dirtier it becomes. Flow keeps water fresh; storage makes it die.

The pundit’s knowledge is poured in from outside—he is a tank. The knower is a well. He is linked to the Source. But false praise tastes sweet. See whose praise pleases you. The blind praise the blind. Wake up.

In the end, an ungovernable surge erupted—
my heart writhed so and love finally arrived.
When the eyes lifted—oh, that heavenly ascent of longing!
What did I see? The long-awaited one had come.
Ah, the bewitchment of imagined beauty’s colors and scents—
I thought the springtime one had arrived.
Yes, punish me, O God of Love, O grace of grief:
on this insolent tongue, the Beloved’s name has come.
I am so happy with someone’s promise of tomorrow
that it feels like trust has finally come.
Ah, this infidel heart and its heretical frenzies—
whether You love me or not, love has come to me.
Today Jigar gave his life at the feet of the Friend—
a lifetime’s restlessness has finally found rest.

Until you truly bow at His feet—

Today Jigar gave his life at the feet of the Friend—
then the lifelong unrest dissolves, and clouds of peace gather and pour. Darkness ends; morning breaks.

In the end, an ungovernable surge erupted—

Feelings must boil; prayers must dance.

In the end, an ungovernable surge erupted—

An immense longing is needed, a fierce thirst.

My heart writhed so and love finally arrived—

Writhe! Many do not even know how to yearn. Many assent without yearning; they fall among the false, entangled in delusions and their own dreams.

You neither know how to live nor how to receive—
you fight over words.

You do not know how to take Him in; your doors and windows are shut in fear—no sunray, no breeze, no rain allowed. You have built a tomb around yourself. Open. Let His light and rain and wind flow through you.

You neither know how to live nor how to receive—

If you do not take Him in deeply, how will you live Him? Let Him enter; your life will be filled with Him. But you are entangled in words—so entangled you will fight for them. Speak against the Quran—someone arrives with a club. Against the Vedas—Arya Samaj comes to fight. As if they knew what the Vedas say. Until you know what is within you, you cannot know Veda or Quran.

The scripture of scriptures is within. First read that. Without it, whatever you read is rubbish, a burden, a chain. You can forge beautiful chains and call them ornaments; you will still be imprisoned.

People are ready to fight over words. Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna, Christ have no quarrel; it’s people who fight—Christians cut Muslims; Muslims cut Christians; Hindus burned Buddhists; temples burned, mosques razed, scriptures erased, images smashed—these are the word-fighters. Words are not worth this. What matters is living and receiving.

You neither know how to live nor how to receive;
you fight over words.
And if you say to such people, “Live a little, receive a little,” they are ready to fight: “Do you take us for ignoramuses?” At the slightest thing they bristle.

No discernment—one thing they say, another they do.
No understanding arrives, not even a single hymn bears fruit.

They say one thing and do the opposite. Saying and doing are split. Have the courage to be one. Only the one can know the One.

No discernment—one thing they say, another they do.
No understanding arrives, not even a single hymn bears fruit.

How many prayers have you offered? Did any flower? How many times did you bow—did light descend? You go on doing, nothing happens—yet you do not see that somewhere the doing is astray.

No understanding arrives—

How many times have you banged your head—what have you gained? How long will you waste time?

…But let someone accept what I say.

Jagjivan says: Listen, ponder, and accept—because we speak from living. Not from the Vedas; the Veda has arisen within us.

I heard of a Jewish fakir who spoke from experience. His congregation complained: “We don’t understand; speak so we can grasp it.” He said, “Next time.” Next time, he raised two fingers of his left hand before speaking, then gave a brilliant sermon—everyone was thrilled, thunderous applause! Then he raised two fingers of his right hand. People asked, “What was that?” He said, “Quotation marks. It was all borrowed—that’s why you liked it. You are addicted to trash. When I speak my own realization you cannot take it; when I speak what’s written in the books, you applaud.”

You too nod as soon as someone recites Gita—out of habit, or because everyone is nodding. Mark Twain went to France to be honored. He didn’t know French, so he watched his grandson—clapped when the boy clapped, laughed when he laughed. Later the boy said, “Grandpa, you embarrassed me! When they praised you, I clapped—you also clapped!” People are mostly doing what others do, because they do not know life’s language. And life’s language is God’s language. Its school is within.

But let someone accept what I say—
truth, perfection, consciousness are right here.
If one will not accept what Jagjivan says—
let him go to the blazing pit!

They sing many verses by force—

Let your own song arise. Let your own voice rise. Let your own flowers bloom. Don’t buy them on loan from the market. Plastic flowers can fool the neighbors; not God.

Mulla Nasruddin hung a pot of plastic flowers outside his window and daily pretended to water them with an empty can so people wouldn’t suspect. That is your life—fake flowers, fake water. And you want joy? Joy is not possible through imitation. You must be real. Bliss is the prize of authenticity.

They sing many verses by force—

There is the poet from whose depths song wells up; and there is the rhymester who merely arranges syllables and meter. He knows technique but has no poetry in his soul. The same everywhere.

One can learn to paint; but if no colored dreams arise within, what will he paint? Vincent van Gogh painted trees so tall they touched the stars. Asked, “Trees never reach the stars!” he said, “I am not a photographer; I am a painter. I know the soul of trees. I have sat with them, listened to their heartbeat—the longing to touch the stars is in them. What they cannot do, I have done for them.” That is the painter—diving deep and soaring high to bring back pearls.

They sing many verses by force—

Do not make a rhymed jumble of your life. Can you borrow God? Borrow awakening? Live on loan? Don’t fall into that delusion. God is a song that your life must sing. Not tinsel, but music arising when you are silent—filling your whole being, brimming you to the throat with joy. God is not in Veda and Quran; He is in your every breath, in each heartbeat.

They quote techniques by cutting and contriving,
hawk them as their own.

Lifting from scriptures and calling it your own—whom do you fool?

Wherever they go, they fall into slander and dispute—
they are called great speakers.

Perhaps you enjoy being hailed as eloquent, as a writer, as a craftsman of words. But words are hollow. They have no roots in your being. You may win applause and swell your ego—but the more the ego swells, the farther you are from God.

Blind themselves, they teach others the way.

Open your eyes. You rush to show others the path. If pundits would stop directing people, many would find their way. Those who know nothing of meditation write books on meditation, give initiations in meditation. Those who have never known prayer, teach prayer.

I have been astonished—meeting the greatest monks and sannyasins of this land—how few know anything of meditation. Acharya Tulsi, head of seven hundred monks, invited me. In private he asked, “How to meditate?” I said, “What are you teaching your monks? If even you don’t know, what is this deception? And whoever placed you as Acharya—did he know? If he did, he would never have crowned you.” He is still offended. I said, “I can teach meditation, but why the secrecy? It would have been more saintly to admit before twenty thousand of your followers, ‘I do not know meditation.’ That would have been true humility.”
All right—since I was asked, I spoke to them about meditation. I explained meditation, and the only use they made of it is that now they are making others meditate. They haven’t done it themselves. Because I had deliberately told them a few wrong things, they are now explaining those same wrong things to others. Had they actually practiced, the wrong things would have fallen away. I had put that condition in knowingly. One who has truly meditated simply cannot say those things. I had kept that as a little device so I would know whether they had done it or not. But now they run camps—meditation camps! They are making others meditate!
“Blind themselves, aware of nothing—yet they set out to explain meanings to others.
Whoever chants the name of Ram, they go and mislead him.”

They rush to explain meanings to others.
And the situation gets so bad that sometimes simple, innocent people—who might have connected with Ram—fail to connect because of these explainers. The straightforward folk, who have no system, no technique, no doctrine, no scholarship, might have called to the Divine simply, guilelessly, and been joined—yet because of these people they don’t. For these are ready to hand them methods and rituals: “Do it like this!”

There is a famous story of Tolstoy. A certain fakir’s fame spread widely. The chief priest of Russia inquired and found there were not one but three; they were known as one because none of them had a name. They lived across a lake, and thousands went to see them and returned blissful. The chief priest said, “How can this be without us? In Christianity there is a rule—sainthood is certified by the Church. Until the Church certifies, no one may call himself a saint.” He was angry and set off by boat.

He saw the three simple men sitting under a tree, in the morning sun, swaying happily. They rose and touched his feet; and the priest felt confirmed: “If they touch my feet, the matter is settled—what saints!” But they were saints, simple and guileless—that is why they bowed. He asked, “How has all this fame of your sainthood arisen?” They said, “We don’t know; people started coming. We tell them, ‘Brother, don’t come here, why make a crowd?’ We came to the forest to avoid the crowd, but people won’t leave us alone!” Still, there was a radiance on their faces—even the blind priest could see it, a light so clear that even the blind can see.

He asked, “What do you do? What is your practice?” They said, “What is there to hide from you? You tell him,” one said to the other, and the third was urged in turn. They grew embarrassed, eyes lowered. The priest asked, “Why such shame—are you doing something bad?” “No, nothing bad,” they said, “but how to say it? We do not know prayers; we are unlettered rustics, so we made up a prayer of our own.”

Christianity speaks of the Divine in three: God the Father, God the Son—Jesus—and in between the Holy Spirit. So they had created their own prayer: “O Lord, you are three, and we are three—see, you three and we three—have mercy on us three!” The priest was shocked: “Stop that babble! Here is our approved prayer,” and he recited a long, official prayer.

The three said, “Please say it once again, or we will forget.” As he was leaving, they held him: “One more time, just once more!” When he stepped into the boat, they begged, “One last time, otherwise if we forget, we’ll be in great trouble!” He repeated it and left, pleased that he had set three strays on the path.

Mid-lake, he saw the three running toward him on the water. He was terrified to see them dashing over the lake like a whirlwind. “Wait! We forgot—once more, please!” they cried. Then he came to his senses and realized what he had done. He bowed to them and said, “Your prayer has been heard. Keep your prayer, and forget mine. I have been reciting this prayer all my life; I still cannot walk on water. Your prayer has been heard. Return to your old prayer.”

Sometimes it happens: the simple ones arrive. But the pundits won’t let them.

“Whoever chants the name of Ram, they go and mislead him.”

“Go your way, preacher! What profit-and-loss, and what kind of living?
Love has taught me the fruit of love.”

Tell the moralists: Go now. Don’t bring to me this bookkeeping of sin and virtue, profit and loss, heaven and hell!

“Go your way, preacher! What profit-and-loss, and what kind of living?
Love has taught me the fruit of love.”

In love I have found all; love itself is love’s attainment. I have nothing else to gain—no Vaikuntha, no heaven; I have no fear of hell, no greed for heaven.
Love has taught me love’s own reward.
Love itself is prayer enough.

“Beads, gestures, costumes galore—they make the world worship them.”

These pundits and priests who “worship God” are not really interested in worshipping the Divine; they desire to be worshipped—by the world.

“It was not the fault of the eyes, nor of the heart—
What stood before me was my pride.
They were not far from me, nor was I far from them;
If they were not seen, the fault was with the seeing.”

And the one who wants to be worshipped—what worship will he do? Yes, the one who truly worships begins to be worshipped—that is another matter. The two may look similar, but they are utterly different. One who, worshipping the Divine, dissolves into the Divine—thousands begin to glimpse the Divine in him: in his presence, his being, his aura, his silence, his words. People bow toward him not for his sake, but through him toward the Divine. He is no longer there; he has vanished. He is a window through which people see distant moons and stars.

But those bent on being worshipped—meeting the Divine is far away; their ego will certainly swell. And with that swelling, they will mislead countless others.

Atheists have not led the world astray; the so‑called theistic pundits and priests have misled the world. In an atheist I always see an honesty. When someone tells me, “I am an atheist,” I am happy: the way will be easier; at least you are honest. Honesty is a good beginning. When someone says, “I am a theist,” I grow uneasy. And when someone says, “I’ve read so many scriptures, I have such knowledge and experience, I have done such-and-such practices, fasts, austerities,” I feel great pity—for he has only fortified his ego. Between him and the Divine, a Great Wall has been raised.

“They do not know whence they came; in quarrels they waste their lives.”

Such pundits and priests do not even know where they came from, who they are; they have not answered “Who am I?” and they lose their lives in disputes.

“Worldly life becomes a den of slanderers and arguers,
Whose dwelling will be in hell.”

If you want to taste the relish of slander, read Dayanand of the Arya Samaj in his Satyarth Prakash—then you’ll see how people savor slander. Slandering everyone, as if by condemning all, one could praise the Divine.

“Such slanderers and arguers will dwell in hell.”

And if such people go to hell, do not be surprised—they live in hell even here. Hell is their life; suffering is their attainment. Do not argue.

“If truth is present, O preacher, hearts are drawn from the chests;
Reality makes itself believed; it is not assented to.”

If there is truth, debate is unnecessary. The sheer presence of truth becomes the proof.
Reality compels recognition; it does not beg to be granted.

May these loving words become the beginning of a unique journey in your life. One sutra will echo again and again in Jagjivan’s sayings: Man cannot seek the Divine; the Divine seeks man. You only call! Become thirst—flaming thirst—and wherever you are, his hand will reach you. His hands are many; that is why we have pictured him with infinite hands. Where will you search? In the very search, you go astray—for the search assumes it is in your power to attain. If it is in your power, the ego is created. No—nothing is in your power; all is in his. Say only: Thy will be done! As you lead, let us follow; as you place us, let us remain; if you raise us, we rise; if you seat us, we sit; if you give life, we live; if you take life, we die; but in your every will, let us be wholly content.

This consenting is called bhakti.
And the devotee receives—beyond anything related to effort! Effort is a palmful; the gift is oceanful.

Enough for today.