Ari Main To Naam Ke Rang Chhaki #3

Even in dying, how long shall we disgrace the eyes of longing?
Where are we to cast off life—what, after all, can we do?
If the wound of the heart cannot be opened, then let the eye of the heart be opened.
Whether she looks at us or not, we shall go on looking at her.
O my life, I am sacrificed—at last love’s petition found its reward.
Yes, say it in that very manner—then what can we do?
See what uproar rises from the sanctuary of coyness:
set a mirror before yourself and bow to your own reflection once.
Ah, these compulsions, deprivations, failures—
love is love after all; what can you do, what can we do.

Love is bliss, and love is pain. Love is samadhi, and love is anguish. Out of anguish are built the steps that lead to the temple of samadhi. Upon the pains of love alone, step by step, one reaches love’s bliss. Whoever will not pay the price will not reach the temple. And the temple’s steps are not made of stone, they are made of pain. Your money, your rank, your prestige—none of them will carry you to his shrine unless you consent to burn your heart to ash.

But even the suffering endured on his path is a benediction! By contrast, even if pleasure is found away from him, it is misfortune; and if sorrow is found in seeking him, it is good fortune. Lose him—and life may be strewn with flowers, but today or tomorrow you will find only filth and stench. Seek him—and life may be strewn with thorns, but every thorn will turn into a flower—at last, it will become a flower. On his path, there are only flowers. What seems a thorn proves, in the end, to be a flower. The one who is ready to bear love’s pain alone finds the God hidden in love’s temple.

The renunciate, the ascetic, too, suffers—but his suffering is mathematical. The lover also suffers, but his suffering is poetry. The renunciate suffers, but his pain is dry and tasteless. The lover suffers, but his pain flows with the nectar of the heart. The lover’s sorrow is green and alive. The knower’s sorrow is imposed—from above, forced. The lover’s sorrow surges from the heart. That is the difference—and it is vast: a difference from which all other differences unfold.

The renunciate, the knower suffers—his pains are on the surface. If someone sleeps on a bed of thorns, the body is pricked. If someone fasts, the belly burns with hunger’s fire. If someone keeps vigil through the night, the eyes grow weary. But all that is on the outside. The lover’s pain is heartfelt. The thorn pierces the heart, hunger is felt in the heart. Sadness, melancholy, surge at the heart’s center. The lover’s sorrow is of the soul.

And surely, the one who is ready to bear the soul’s pain has paid the price—he has turned his life into a sacrifice-fire. Those who turn life into a yajna reach.

That infidel—both acquainted and unacquainted—he is like this, and like that.
From our beginning to our end—it is like this, and like that.
What surprise if the ritual of fidelity is like this, and like that:
for every problem of beauty and love—is like this, and like that.
Somewhere a speck, somewhere a desert; somewhere a drop, somewhere a river—
love and its entire chain are like this, and like that.
He asks me: what single purpose has my being?
What shall I tell him—that my intent is like this, and like that.
What shall we say to them? They know, their wisdom knows—
our heart’s condition is plain, like this, and like that.
To gain you is not easy; to lose you is difficult—
in trouble, this love-stricken one is like this, and like that.

To attain him is very difficult. And to lose him is very easy. To walk toward him is very hard; to drift from him is very easy. Move toward him, come close—there is pain; go far—there is pain.

From our beginning to our end—it is like this, and like that.
Go far from him and there is pain—but barren pain, impotent pain, only thorns upon which no flowers ever bloom. Walk toward him—there is pain too, but a creative pain. In the soil of that very pain, the flowers of bliss open.

Miss him—there is torment, there is a dark night; set out to seek him—there is a dark night too. But there is a difference. Turn your back to him and that night has no end. Turn your face to him and set forth; then the darker the night grows, the nearer the dawn comes.

Somewhere a speck, somewhere a desert; somewhere a drop, somewhere a river—
love and its entire chain are like this, and like that.
To gain you is not easy; to lose you is difficult—
in trouble, this love-stricken one is like this, and like that.

There is suffering this way and that way. But all sufferings are not the same. People suffer for the futile—and suffer for the meaningful. Do not weigh all sorrows on one scale. Someone weeps for wealth; another weeps for meditation. Do not assign equal value to both tears. On the scientist’s scale both tears are identical; ask a chemist and he’ll say their analysis is the same, their taste the same—salty. He will reveal no difference. If you bring to the chemist the tears of a devotee, a lover, and the tears of one who wept for money or rank, he cannot tell which are the lover’s and which belong to the worshiper of status.

Yet there is a difference. If chemistry cannot grasp it, it only proves chemistry’s limits. There is a difference. A man weeps on the path to power—but his tears have no depth, no worth; they have no fragrance, because there is no prayer in them. Those are downward-moving tears—tears bound for hell. But when someone weeps in love for the Beloved, the tears are tears—yet the entire journey is transformed. The dimension changes. Now the tears rise toward the sky. Wings sprout upon them. Now they are heavenly; now they move upward.

The devotee weeps, the attached one weeps—remember the difference. The lust-ridden dances; the one in love with the Lord also dances. Lust has its intoxication; prayer has its intoxication—remember the difference. Sorrows are not all alike. Yet one thing holds: there are many pains on the path to God—though blessed souls alone receive those pains.

I became a yogini, smeared my limbs with ash.
Jagjivan says: I have become a yogini. I weep, I call, no answer seems to come; the pain grows dense. I have rubbed ash on my body—this is a symbol. Ash is the sign of death. When someone dies, ash remains. So while yet alive, I have become a corpse. I know the body—today or tomorrow it will be ash. Since ash it must become, let it be ash now.

I became a yogini, smeared my limbs with ash.

Do not take the symbol literally. Some foolish ones do just that—they smear ash and sit thinking the work is done. Smearing ash is a deep symbol. It means: I regard this body as a corpse. Without you this body is dead. Without you this world is dead. If you come, the juice comes; if you come, life comes; if you come, the greenery spreads; if you come, flowers bloom. Without you there is only death. Without you there is no life—only the cremation ground.

And know this as well: as soon as one fills with love for God, the masculine dissolves and the feminine appears. Jagjivan is a man, yet he speaks in the tongue of a woman—“I have become a yogini, I have smeared ash on my limbs.” The language of love is feminine. Man is aggressive; even setting out to seek God, he goes as if to war—band playing, spear in hand. He goes like a warrior, as if he must wrestle with God.

The language of man is the language of victory; the language of woman is the language of surrender. And the wonder is: those who know surrender are the true victors. Those who set out to win—defeat is certain, a hundred percent. If you fight God—you will lose. If you are defeated by God—you have won. The formula of love: victory is attained through defeat.

And if any relationship is possible with God, it is love. Remember love’s arithmetic: there, if you wish to win, you must lose. The more totally you lose, the more perfectly the garland of victory will grace your head.

I became a yogini, smeared my limbs with ash.
When will you come and cool my heart?

My heart is shattered—broken into pieces, like a mirror hurled upon a rock. When will you come? When will you gather this broken heart and make me whole again?

Man has become many. Many are his desires; therefore he is many. Many are his cravings; each pulling in a different direction—some east, some west, some south, some north. Man is like a bullock cart with oxen yoked on all sides. How will life’s journey be made? One part pulls west, one east, one north, one south; all engaged in opposing struggle. Such a cart will not move! It will be dragged a little, bones will break, no destination will be reached. Thus is man.

Have you ever examined your mind? What desires! How opposite to each other! No harmony among desires, no coherence—great contradictions.

One man wants respect, the establishment of his ego—people should say he is special. One craving. On the other hand, he wants people to regard him as humble—“a holy man,” so humble as if pride has never touched him. These two desires will remain at odds. One desire says: give, share. Another says: accumulate, secure wealth. There will be obstruction. One desire says: let the new arise daily—boredom with the old sets in; each day new events, new sensibilities, new insights. Another says: let security remain, do not lose safety.

Security lives with the old; with the new there is insecurity. Who knows what the new will be? The old is known, familiar. Stay with the old—there is safety, but boredom arises. Stay with the new—there is excitement, but danger appears. Infinite desires stand opposed to one another.

Look properly into your mind—you will find the very scene of the Mahabharata: Kauravas and Pandavas face-to-face. A war within you. On this side your own, on that side your own. One person, divided into fragments. How will you become whole? By living in desires, none becomes whole. Prayer makes whole, because prayer is one. God makes whole, because God is one. The longing for the One is the longing for God. When that One arrives—Jagjivan speaks truly:

When will you come and join my heart?
I am scattered like mercury; unless your touch comes, the hope that I will gather again seems a vain hope.

With the onset of the month of Asadh the flood of separation rises;
from these eyes rivers flow down Anjani mountain.
The womb of earth becomes barren to the barren one’s embrace—
the raindrops take pity upon such shoots.
With the Beloved away, even the attire feels empty—
Hiraman weeps: the sari’s green dye and the blouse’s color have faded.
I lost the courtyard searching, lost the bangles calling,
I lost the kohl looking, I lost the bindi beckoning.

Calling and calling—it has been long. Birth after birth we have searched.

I lost the courtyard searching, lost the bangles calling,
I lost the kohl looking, I lost the bindi beckoning.

A bad defeat it has been. We stand defeated—broken, scattered, disordered, a ruin. Come—you, and the temple will rise again. Descend—your presence will draw the broken fragments close, bring them into union.

My mind longs so—I would run and meet you.
The longing in my mind is great to come and unite with you—but without your grace, what can happen? I may wish to find you; but if the hand from the other side is not extended, my hand is very short. Longing arises, but I have limits—even longing has limits. The lamp is small; even if the flame leaps, how high can it leap? The lamp’s oil is little, the wick small.

My mind longs so—I would run and meet you.

The longing is much. My mind kindles again and again—because all futility is seen; my derangement is seen—broken, scattered in every way. I have become a ruin—this I know. If you come, the home will be made again. Longing rises, I call—but I have my limits.

No house or courtyard pleases me now.
Now nothing pleases—there is no house or courtyard left—the dweller is broken, the dweller is dead. It has all become the cremation ground. Somehow we drag along. You are dragging life, not living it. Where is the longing to live? The thrill of living? The zest? The surge? There is no dance in your feet, no song in your breath. The flute has long fallen silent. When did your being last meet its source? Wandering in foreign lands, begging, you have forgotten your own kingship.

No house or courtyard pleases me now.

Thus am I exceedingly restless.
Like a fish drying without water.

My pain only increases. No end to it—fragment upon fragment grows smaller, splintering further. Liberation seems a dream; the derangement grows.

Sit and look within for a while. You will find a mad crowd there—of thoughts, desires, cravings. You yourself will be startled: what a madman I am! Is this any way to be? This noise within, this bazaar, this clamour—can the juice of life be tasted amid such din? With such uproar, can there be any relationship with life’s beauty? Any meeting with truth? The condition is like a fish without water! As if someone has dragged a fish from the ocean and cast it upon a dry shore; the sun blazing like fire and the fish floundering, longing to return to the sea. Jagjivan says: such is my state.

Such is everyone’s state—whether you admit it or not. Admission is painful—because to admit it means you must seek the sea. You have built your house upon this burning sand. You have taken this rain of fire from the sun as your very being. You have concluded: this is the only way to live; there is no other way. I call irreligious the one who believes that the life as it is, is the only style of life. I call religious the one who says: if this is life, it is futile—there must be another way, another mode. Even if I don’t know it—I will search.

The irreligious says: there is no God. But what purpose lies in saying there is no God? Simply this: that the life as it is, is all there is; do not lift your eyes above—there is nothing above but bare sky. Do not call upon anyone—no answer ever came, none will. Do not search for more—there is no mystery in the world. Just this rubbish—this is life. In this straw somehow live out your four days. Life is an accident; it will fall back into dust. There is nothing to gain or lose; it is a painful dream—endure it, pass it—good or bad. Whoever says there is no God is saying: do not talk of a life otherwise! Because if you do, I must change. If there is a sea somewhere, how can a fish make its home in sand? If the coolness of the sea exists, how can the fish embrace the burning sun? Then no house or courtyard will please. Then a search will seize the breath, churn you. A mighty storm will come; inquiry will be born.

A drop of love fell from the cloud—
the whole body, weary, became soaked.
In getting drenched and irritated he left,
refusing to heed what I said as I measured out the cup.
The empty terrace feels like a dagger,
even hearing the cuckoo, the parrot, the peacock sing.
Lightning strikes in such a season
that within, fire smolders, and outside, water falls.

This is how life is now.

Lightning strikes in such a season—
within, fire smolders; outside, water falls.
Outside, lights and arrangements of coolness; inside, a raging blaze.

The empty terrace is like a dagger,
even hearing the cuckoo and peacock’s call.

Until the meeting with the Beloved—until then, all is empty. You can console yourself with dreams—“my wife, my husband, my son, my brother”—keeping yourself lulled by company. But this will not do. Death will uproot it all. These paper boats will sink. No one ever crossed clinging to them.

The empty terrace is like a dagger,
even hearing the cuckoo and peacock’s call.

Once the sea begins to be remembered, the cuckoo’s cooing across the endless reaches begins to sound like the Beloved’s call. It will feel like a dagger! And when the papihā cries “Pi kahān?”—“Where is my Beloved?”—within your life the same cry will arise: “Where is my Beloved?” We live having lost the Beloved. The fish lies without the sea. Like a fish without water—we are drying out.

What you call life—what is it but slow dying? A gradual suicide. If in satsang even a single drop is tasted, you begin to remember the sea.

Hence satsang is a lake; devotion is a bath.

A drop of love fell from the cloud—
the whole body, weary, became soaked.

Let even one drop enter you and you will know there is water, and that thirst is not destiny. If you are thirsty, the responsibility is yours. You have not sought the lake. Here upon this very earth, among you, there have always been those who are fulfilled. They are not drying up; they grow green daily. They have found the ultimate life, a life that has no end. They have recognized the Eternal. Their hands have fallen into God’s hand. They have immersed their hearts into his heart. Their drop has slipped into his ocean.

To whom shall I tell my heart’s tale?
When I try to understand it, it remains beyond my understanding.

Jagjivan says: Before whom shall I weep? Who will understand? People will laugh. They have made their lives in the house and courtyard; the whole sky they have taken to be their yard, and their house to be all of existence. They burn, they rot, they decay, they dry up—yet this is their definition of life.

To whom shall I tell my heart’s tale?

Even if I go to speak my pain—whom shall I tell? Hence the devotee discovered prayer. One fundamental reason for prayer’s discovery is this: there seems no meaning in saying it to anyone else. So there is no way but to tell God. The devotee tells him, weeps before him, sheds tears, makes his petition. Whether an answer comes or not is not the point. One thing at least is sure: whether God hears or not, at least he will not laugh; he will not call me mad. Even if no answer comes, it is all right.

But if you tell it in this world, people will laugh. People have always laughed at the religious. Their laughter is self-defense. They laugh because fear arises: who knows—perhaps this man is right! If he is right, the ground slips from beneath their feet. He must be wrong for their ground to remain firm. If Buddha is right, then you are wrong. If Krishna is right, your house falls. You cannot both be right.

Thus, when a Buddha is alive, people avoid him; when he is dead, they worship him. Both are ways of avoiding. Alive, they avoid—because hearing is dangerous. Who knows—some drop might slip into the throat—despite you? You might understand something—and then trouble will come. So they avoid, they oppose. When Buddha dies, a better trick is found: they worship. They make an image. But they never understand—either they abuse or they worship. Remember: there is little difference. Alive, they abuse; dead, they worship. The dead are not abused—when even the worst man dies, villagers begin to praise him.

Someone telephoned Mulla Nasruddin: “Brother, are you all right?” Nasruddin asked, “Why do you ask?” The man said, “Where are you calling from?” Nasruddin said, “What’s the matter?” The man said, “Nothing—I just heard people in the village praising you, so I suspected—perhaps you have died? Here, people praise only when someone dies.”

I have heard of a village where a man died—he was a great nuisance, a so-called “leader”—the village was relieved. But he had followers; as “dada,” he had adherents—so the whole village had to go to the cremation ground. There the trouble arose: they were asked to say something in praise of the leader. People looked at one another. What could they say? He had done nothing worthy of praise. Finally they asked the village pandit: “You are learned—say something to get us through.” The pandit stood and said, “Our leader has departed, leaving five brothers behind; compared with those five, he was like a god.” The people approved—it was true; those five were even worse.

When someone dies, one must praise. And since we insult Buddhas in their lifetimes, guilt arises within us. In some deepest chamber, a voice says: we are doing wrong. Yet it must be done—for our life’s safety lies in it—otherwise our shop, our marketplace, our relationships—what will become of them? If we listen to Buddha, the whole arrangement we call life will fall into disarray. So we oppose. But in some depth we cannot totally deny the truth. After a Buddha dies, remorse and guilt surround us—so we begin worship: “Well, what happened in life happened; now offer flowers,” to lighten the mind.

So Jesus was crucified; for two thousand years he is worshiped. Socrates was made to drink poison; for twenty-five hundred years songs in his praise are sung. Stones were thrown at Buddha; iron spikes were driven into Mahavira’s ears—life was made difficult—and then temples rise, and plates of worship are waved.

Here, it is hard to speak truth to anyone—because people’s lives are built on falsehood. A light touch of truth, and their card-palaces fall. Who is willing to hear? And even if someone is willing, who will show sympathy?

To whom shall I tell my own?

Jagjivan says: I find no companion to whom I can tell my heart’s pain.

When I try to understand it, it remains beyond my understanding.
I restrain myself, and yet the sorrow surges up and I weep.

No one to tell—people will laugh, call me mad. I must keep it secret in my own heart. Try to understand with my own mind—and still it does not yield; intellect is too small to contain truth. Arguments fail. Scriptures, words, doctrines—they feel hollow. None leads toward experience. Rituals feel superficial—do not touch the depths, do not stir the inner energy, no thrill arises, no fervor.

What then is the devotee to do?

Again and again the tears come. He holds himself—because who will understand his tears? They will only establish him a lunatic. Who will honor his feeling? Where are such refined souls that could honor it? Where men break one another over every petty coin, where they struggle over paltry offices—who will understand someone weeping for God? People will say: “He’s gone off the rails! Get hold of yourself. What are you doing? You will get lost—come back to the world. What webs of fantasy are you lost in?” He can neither say, nor weep openly. Outsiders aside—even one’s own become strangers. If a wife feels the stir of God, she cannot tell her husband; if a husband does, he cannot tell his wife. Even the nearest will not understand such things.

Daily such incidents come to me. A husband comes: “What have you done to my wife? Without cause she laughs, she cries. The neighborhood has begun to talk—something’s wrong. If there were a reason—fine—but she laughs sitting alone!” You too would suspect if your wife suddenly bursts out laughing while sitting in a chair. The husband says: “If I try to hush her, she laughs even more. If I say, ‘Quiet, the neighbors will hear,’ she laughs still more. Sometimes she begins to cry—no reason. And worse, sometimes she does both—laughs and cries together. Only madmen do that. What should I do? Shall I take her to a doctor?”

What will a doctor do? He will deliver electric shocks. Shock is like what you sometimes do with a faulty watch—give it a jerk. Sometimes it runs again. But is that any way to repair a watch? You are not a watchmaker. It may sometimes work—perhaps some oil was stuck, some mote of dust jammed. But this is accident, not art; not science.

Sometimes, because the brain is a subtler watch, the shock seems to “work.” People think this is a method. It is not; it only declares helplessness: “We understand nothing—let’s try a jolt; perhaps it will run.” Those who own watches know the temptation to knock it so as to avoid the watchmaker. Sometimes it runs; but ninety-nine times out of a hundred it will not—and it may worsen.

What can the physician do? There is no cure for devotion.

Nanaka fell “ill” in devotion. The physician took his pulse; Nanak laughed: “Don’t waste your effort. This patient will not recover through your medicine. This ‘illness’ cannot be treated. Only when the Supreme Physician comes will it be healed. Only when the medicine of samadhi is poured in will this malady go. Samadhi alone is its remedy.”

To whom can you speak? No one will understand. Even your crying must be done alone. The devotee must walk carefully; the world is utterly contrary to him.

Remember: the world is not so contrary to the knower; his language and the world’s language have a harmony. He speaks the language of mathematics and logic—that is the market’s language. Two and two are four there, and in the knower’s mouth two and two are four. The difficulty is the devotee’s. There, the old arithmetic does not work. In love, one and one make not two—but one. In mathematics, one and one make two.

The knower has less trouble; the renunciate too—his language is the world’s language. You know: to earn money, many renunciations are needed. The businessman is not a little ascetic. If there are customers, he skips meals; if business is brisk, he wakes late into the night; if he must stay up all night doing accounts, he will.

You know the shopkeeper practices a kind of austerity. The seeker of office too makes great efforts; all kinds of renunciations—prison too, for without prison how to have the certificate? Ask for a vote—people ask: how many times were you jailed? Two or three times is required—or how else a leader?

The renunciate’s language and the world’s are not so different. The greatest difficulty is the devotee’s, because his language has no alignment with the world’s; they are different tongues, untranslatable into each other. The world’s language is of calculus and logic; the devotee’s is of feeling and love.

I restrain myself, and yet the sorrow surges up and I weep.
How shall a sinner like me have your darshan?

Understand the devotee’s mood. He does not blame God—does not say, “You are angry,” or “Your grace is lacking,” or “You are not merciful.” He says: “How shall a sinner like me have your vision! I am ignorant, foolish—how could I see? I know well my weeping does not make me worthy of darshan. I love you—this alone is not enough. A thousand diseases remain in me; a thousand purities are yet to come; a thousand impurities remain. I am not yet pure; how is my home fit for your coming?”

Body and mind both rejoiced—you came.

As soon as one ripens in this way—this ripening—holding oneself and weeping, hiding from the world, praying; keeping the heart’s feeling true; expressing it not, but pouring tears in solitude; knowing: God’s compassion is infinite, my sins cause the obstruction; he stands before me—only a veil lies over my eyes; he has already come—I cannot see; the fault must be mine—this feeling ripens the devotee, builds his worthiness. Then the happening happens.

Body and mind both rejoiced—you came.

You came! I can scarcely believe it. After endless waiting—suddenly. The knower finds it believable—he did all the practices. His difficulty is only: “Why has God not come yet? I have done all that should be done.” He has a complaint. When God comes before a knower, he is not surprised—he considers himself entitled. The devotee is astonished—dumbfounded. He knows he is a sinner, powerless—and yet you came. You came within my sight!

Lost in your epiphanies, and oblivious of myself,
my longing is to remain—a watchful eye of longing.
Veil within veil, radiance within radiance—what can I say?
Lovers are trapped—bound within the gaze.
Where does that coquettish glance go unveiled?
Remain by my side as the ecstasy of my heart’s pain.
Delicacy is the meaning of beauty’s sight, true—but
the heartbeat says: she has just passed by here.

At first, it doesn’t appear clearly; yet the fragrance arrives. If the feet are not seen, the footfall is heard.

Delicacy is the meaning of beauty’s sight, true—but
the heartbeat says: she has just passed by here.

And the heart begins to beat with a new rhythm, a new cadence. That is the sign. What more does the devotee want!

Lost in your epiphanies, and oblivious of myself,
my longing is to remain—a watchful eye of longing.

Just to be lost in you, to dissolve.

Body and mind both rejoiced—you came.
These eyes received your darshan.

You came! It’s hard to trust it. Suddenly, after endless waiting. The knower is certain; he expects it. The devotee is amazed—because he knows: I was unworthy, my strength—nothing. Yet you came; you came within my gaze!

After thousands of sacrifices, for my captive self to be set free,
from the very spot of my desire—to be freed.
For the veil upon the unseen face to fall by itself—
blessed is beauty becoming helpless at its own hands.
Becoming all-eye, drowned in waves of light—
your meeting is my very self falling away.
What is love? What is the effect of love?
Your compelling me—and my becoming compelled.
Seeing my heart’s sudden tremor, I burned with longing—
then, in that very state, I found myself overjoyed.
Jigar, that scene of single-pointed beauty still remains:
the eyes narrowing—and a multitude of light flooding in.

What is this experience of the devotee?

What is love? What is the effect of love?
Your compelling me—and my becoming compelled.

The devotee has no claim. He always knows: whenever you meet me, I was unworthy. If I found you, it was by your prasad, your grace—not my merit. You compelled me to bow. Left to myself, perhaps I would never have bowed. Such stiffness! Such ego!

What is love? What is the effect of love?
Your compelling me—and my becoming compelled.

It was not in my power to bow; you compelled me—came and immersed me in yourself.

Body and mind both rejoiced—you came.

And note: Jagjivan says—mind rejoiced, yes, but body as well. For the devotee there is no division between body and mind. Within, bliss arises; without, bliss rains. There is no inner-outer split. Consciousness dances, and matter is stirred. For the devotee there is no difference between consciousness and matter.

Jagjivan clings to your feet:
keep me with you now—let this bond not break.

Just this further grace: I will cling to your feet, but I do not trust myself—let even this clinging be by your grace, else the bond may break. I know my own faults well. The knower is proud of his worthiness; the devotee knows his unworthiness. Hence his humility is limitless.

Jagjivan clings to your feet.
I wish to cling and never let go—but remember:
keep me with you now; let this bond not break.
It is beyond me. You keep watch: may this companionship never be lost. By your grace it formed; by your grace let it remain.

Who knows where these sparks have flown—who can say?
I only remember this much: the fire began in my own home.
Where was this turbulence, this intoxication, this blaze of colors?
The world was like a dream—before your enchanting glance.
When the veil of night lifted from the face,
all rays gathered at the center.
All the glories that were scattered
before the dawn of human beauty.
Those memories of love’s beginning
still companion the heart and soul—
that little hesitation, that slight blink,
before each kindness of your glance.
Were we the object of our quest? Were we our own destination?
There the heart came to a halt—where we had set out from.

Where was such delicacy in the soul, where such vastness in the cosmos?
Life itself seemed asleep—before the first look of someone.

With one glance of his, what was hidden appears; the buried buds bloom; the moon and stars, unseen, become visible.

Where was this delicacy in our life, this grace? This festivity?

Where was such delicacy in the soul, where such vastness in the cosmos?

Never before did this vastness appear. Where was this mystery within mystery? How blind we were!

Life itself seemed asleep—before the first look of someone.

Until your eye met ours, all existence seemed asleep—as if we were unconscious.

Where was this turbulence, this intoxication, this blaze of colors?

Where was this seven-hued existence, this festival of bliss, this nectar raining at each moment?

Where was this turbulence, this intoxication, this blaze of colors?
The world was like a dream—before your enchanting glance.

Until your eye met ours, there were only dreams; with your glance, truth manifested.

When the veil of night lifted from the face,
all rays gathered at the center.
All the glories that were scattered
before the dawn of human beauty.

What was hidden was revealed. Sounds never heard became audible. All songs arose; all dances awakened. In your light and presence, now it is understood—even now, trust feels shy.

Were we the object of our quest? Were we our own destination?
There the heart came to a halt—where we had set out from.

What a wonder! We thought we were seeking a destination—and today, arriving in your glance, meeting you, we find the source and the goal are not two, but one. We have returned to the very place our journey began. The circle is complete—nirvana, moksha—call it what you will.

This time, ferry me across, my Beloved—I petition and call.
Jagjivan says: Enough—no more. Your feet are found; let them not be lost. My prayer: now ferry me across. Do not cast me again into this great entanglement. Do not let me wander again down bypaths.

This time, ferry me across, my Beloved—I petition and call.
What else can I do? I cannot claim—I have no right—but I can plead. I will cry, I will supplicate.

There is no strength in “doing”—how many times I tried and failed.
You will set everything aright now.

I tried and tried and failed—and many are those who have tried and failed—and nothing came of it.

There is no strength in “doing”—how many times I tried and failed.
You will set everything aright now.

But you set it right; what was spoiled you mended. The more I sought, the farther I got. The more I did, the more it was undone. Even my charity gathered greed within. I tried to be humble, and pride snuck in through the back door. I practiced renunciation for the sake of enjoyment later—in heaven. Whatever I did, nothing happened—only the opposite.

There is no strength in “doing”—how many times I tried and failed.

I was defeated.

Remember: when one is utterly defeated in seeking, only then does meeting happen. The Lord’s Name belongs to the defeated! The winners do not receive it. As long as the faintest hope remains that “I will succeed,” the ego persists. Hope is ego’s food.

Hence Buddha says: blessed are those who are utterly disheartened and hopeless. A strange statement—for ordinarily we pity the hopeless. Buddha says: blessed is he whose hope has withered from the root; for when hope dies, ego dies—ego is the flower of hope. Where ego is not, God appears.

There is no strength in “doing”—how many times I tried and failed.
You will set everything aright now.

Now we have seen the secret. Jagjivan says: now I recognize—when you mend, things mend. You have taken my hand—now do not let it go.

In your hands is everything—
and there is no one else.

Everything is in your hands—unconditionally.

There is no other. I trust neither myself nor another—my whole trust is you. This mood is called faith. Faith is the fragrance of the devotee’s heart.

Whatever you will—comes to be.
Your light pervades water and land.

Now I see: in water, on land—your light everywhere. How blind I was—why didn’t I see till now? It’s not that I hadn’t heard the words—scriptures say the same: he pervades all. I had memorized the words but only parroted them. You showed me, and I saw. Without your showing, I mouthed the words but saw nothing—like the blind speaking of light, the deaf discussing music.

Whatever you will—comes to be.
Your light pervades water and land.

Now I see you everywhere; every spark is your spark; every particle filled with you. You showed me, and then I saw.

Had we crossed love’s limit, we would have seen these scenes.
If only, as beauty itself, we had beheld the Beauty of the Beloved—
bud and blossom, moon and star:
we would see only you, whatever we looked at.
Over our compulsion of nature we have no control—
else we would hide even you from yourself and behold you.
Again the same longing, O cupbearer, in the same manner:
again we would drown all save the ocean in the ocean.
Do you know what thirst for the vision of beauty is?
If you showed your face, we would give our very life to see.
To die upon one word—with what pride and splendor!
Had you been there, you would have seen the heart’s valors.

One knows only by dissolving. One attains by losing. By vanishing, the meeting is.

To die upon one word—with what pride and splendor!
Had you been there, you would have seen the heart’s valors.
Do you know what thirst for the vision of beauty is?
If you showed your face, we would give our very life to see.

We were ready—even to give life—but that was our bargaining. Our conditions. But the instant we lost ourselves, you revealed your face. We were ready to lose everything—but even that readiness still harbors ego: “I am ready to lose—show yourself!” The condition is inverted: you give all, and the revelation happens.

Therefore, the devotee is the greatest gambler—he stakes everything with no guarantee of return. Others tell you—priests, pundits—that devotion is easy. Do not believe them. Devotion is the greatest risk. Knowledge is easier; renunciation too. Love is the ultimate risk—because in knowledge and renunciation the ego remains master; in love the ego must be dismissed.

Had we crossed love’s limit, we would have seen these scenes.
If only, as beauty itself, we had beheld the Beauty of the Beloved.

You will see him only when you are wholly immersed—become that. There is one way to know the ocean: become the ocean. But before becoming ocean, the drop must die. The drop cannot say: “Let me become ocean first; then I will dissolve.” The drop must dissolve first. And before dissolving, who will give a guarantee? Who can guarantee the seed will become a tree when it breaks and dies? Courage is needed—great courage, daring. But the seed dares and becomes a tree; the drop dares and becomes the ocean; the devotee dares and becomes God.

To some you give the royal mantra—
by it the inner devotion deepens.

All is in your hands. If you will, you grant the kingly secret. If your compassion pours, a rain falls and all dirt is cleansed.

To some you give the royal mantra—
by it the inner devotion deepens.

And in someone, by your compassion, the mantra is born within—and the inner worship begins—not learned from outside, but as if God himself plucks the heartstrings.

If I try to speak it, it cannot be said—
you know, and you make it known.

You did this to me—I want to tell people, but I cannot. I say: he gave the mantra—no one believes me. I say: he came and tickled my heart—no one believes. I say: he plucked the strings of my heart-lute—he is the one who sings—no one believes.

If I try to speak it, it cannot be said—you know, and you make it known.
You alone know; and you alone, when you reveal, someone knows. All else wander in vain. The greatest pundits are ignorant until you reveal. Those who try to know by themselves will pile heaps of information and be buried under mountains of scripture; but even if they dig a mountain, a mouse will not be found. Their hands will close on ash.

You know; you make it known. Keep this dear sentence in your heart. It is a mantra.

You know; you make it known.
Not by my knowing—but by your making known. You awaken. You are consciousness; you can awaken. You know; you can make known. You are complete; you can fill my emptiness. Alone, I run and remain void; with God, I am filled.

A nameless wine sits in this heart’s cup.
It’s in no bottle, O cupbearer, nor in any tavern.
True, your tavern holds every kind of wine—
but that little which this eye’s cup holds—
there is a secret in the heart’s hidden chamber
whose savor is found in tasting, not in explaining.
What charm has the half-done ecstasy of pain?
The full savor of pain is in becoming pain entire.
He flipped his veil and breathed a fresh soul into me—
now there is no silence in the Kaaba, nor in the idol-house.

If he lifts his veil once—“Unveil, Beloved!”—if he opens his veil himself—

He flipped his veil and breathed a fresh soul into me—
now there is no silence in the Kaaba, nor in the idol-house.

Then everywhere the jingle of songs; the Kaaba sings, the mosque hums, temples are revived; even earth rings with nectar’s tune.

A nameless wine sits in this heart’s cup.
It’s in no bottle, O cupbearer, nor in any tavern.

There is a wine within your heart—it will not be found in any tavern. But your hands cannot reach that wine—your hands reach only outward. Only God’s hands can reach it—he placed it in your heart; if he pours, you will drink!

There is a secret in the heart’s hidden chamber
whose savor is found in tasting, not in explaining.

It cannot be understood nor explained—but it can be known, if he makes it known. The essence of devotion: what happens happens by God’s doing; by man’s doing—nothing.

How many devotees in the world you have ferried—
and I, unknown, poor, ignorant.

You have ferried so many. I am a small one—not some great devotee. I have little faith even in my devotion; great devotees have been in the world.

How many devotees in the world you have ferried—
and I, unknown, poor, ignorant.

But still—you came. You gave me darshan. You poured wine into my heart. You lifted your veil. From this comes faith: if it could happen to me, it can happen to all. I am a nobody. Great devotees—fine; but I? I am the least—if I am worthy of your grace, then each person is worthy.

I will not lift my head from your feet—
I will ceaselessly behold your pure form.

Jagjivan now has faith—keep me close, O Master.

I am becoming the center of your gaze.
By love’s hands I am being plundered.
I am a drop, yet in the ocean’s embrace—
from the beginning to the end I am flowing.
That Beauty of which these are all manifestations—
into that Beauty I am being dissolved.
I know not whence or whither—
in my own rhythm I am flying.
No awareness of self, no feeling of ecstasy—
where I have begun to move, I go on moving.
No form, no meaning, neither manifest nor hidden—
in what Beauty am I being lost?

At his feet, the mind halts: no form, no meaning, neither manifest nor hidden—no sense left.

No form, no meaning, neither manifest nor hidden—
no purpose, no intent, no cause.

In what Beauty am I being lost?

And in what Beauty am I drowning?

I am becoming the center of the gaze—
by love’s hands I am being plundered.

Blessed are those who are plundered by love’s hands!

I am a drop, yet in the ocean’s embrace—
from the beginning to the end I am flowing.

The eternal is mine. From alpha to omega—all is mine. Infinity is mine.

I am a drop, yet in the ocean’s embrace—
I may be a drop, but in the ocean’s lap I am now without limit—boundless.

I am a drop, yet in the ocean’s embrace—
from the beginning to the end I am flowing.
That Beauty of which these are all manifestations—
into that Beauty I am being dissolved.

Into that Beauty which pervades existence, I am melting, merging.

I know not whence or whither—
in my own rhythm I am flying.
No awareness of self, no feeling of ecstasy—
where I have begun to move, I go on moving.
No form, no meaning, neither manifest nor hidden—
in what Beauty am I being lost?

The devotee’s culmination is to be lost. To be absorbed, utterly immersed—like the drop in the ocean; no difference remains, no boundary. In that non-separation, the devotee becomes God. Anal Haq! Aham Brahmasmi!

Enough for today.