Ari Main To Naam Ke Rang Chhaki #5

If this is intoxication, then what is the splendor of intoxication?
If the one who drinks doesn’t stagger, what kind of reveler is he?
I’m flying in a single direction, in wild abandon—
No knowing what ‘self’ is, what ‘selflessness’ is.
Shall I accept death’s poison, or the bitterness of life?
My joy is everything; what is your joy?
This lesson I learned in the school of love:
A life that merely drags along somehow—what kind of life is that?

And most people’s lives do somehow just drag along. Birth happens, life doesn’t. Life can be found. But life is not a synonym for birth. Birth is an opportunity; if you seek life, you will find it. Birth is a seed. If you look for spring, find soil, gather the courage to plant the seed in the earth, if you can prepare to die—to vanish—and dare the risk, then flowers will bloom—the flowers of life. Otherwise, between birth and death people merely get by, falsely living. The name of living remains, but no taste of life is found. One who has tasted life—death is no more for him. How can life die? Life is eternal. Life is nectar.

As long as you fear death, know well—you have not yet discovered life. So long as death seems meaningful, so long as death feels real, do not forget—you still have to seek life.

Once life is found, death is a lie. Then nothing is a bigger lie than death. Right now, nothing feels truer than death. In this so-called life, after birth the only certain thing is death. Nothing else is certain. Perhaps other things will be or not be, but death surely will. Whoever is born will die—birth is one face of the coin, death the other.

Between birth and death there is no life. Life is before birth and beyond death. Life does not happen between birth and death; birth and death happen within life. And such happenings have occurred many times. You have been born many times, died many times, but you still have not recognized life. Again and again you missed.

This lesson I learned in the school of love—
In the school of love I learned this lesson:
This lesson I learned in the school of love—
A life that merely drags along somehow—what kind of life is that?

Do not call life a burden you pull along, scraping through somehow. Life is a dance, a song, a festival; life is richly seven-hued; where is the burden? Life is weightless. Life has such wings that the whole sky can be yours. Life is not this prison you have called life. This petty, fragmented existence that keeps breaking into small incidents—whoever takes this to be Life has missed. That person I call irreligious—the one who mistakes the trivial for the vast. And he gets so filled with the trivial that he neither longs for nor finds leisure to look toward the immense. He’s so stuffed with the trash—money, position, status, ego—that there is no space left within for the Divine to be a guest. And it’s not that the Divine doesn’t knock at your door; only the mad hear that knock. Only lovers can understand the hint.

Religion is the art of being tipsy, of being utterly drunk with the Divine. Religion has nothing to do with sadness. So if your temples and mosques, your ashrams, are filled with sorrowful people, know that no ray of religion has yet entered there. Your forlorn ashrams are cremation grounds. No dance of life moves there. If you would recognize the Divine, seek among flowers—there is dance; among moon and stars—there is celebration. Look in springtime; search where clouds gather in the sky. In the voices and songs of animals and birds you may catch a glimpse; but you will not find him in the gloomy faces of your saints and holy men. They sit there, frightened by death. They know nothing of life.

Keep this distinction in mind.

Whoever becomes religious out of fear of death is not religious—he is a counterfeit of religion. Like the scarecrow we plant in a field—straw stuffed—put him in a tight pajama, a long coat, a waistcoat, a Gandhi cap—what difference does it make! Inside the pajama is only straw. And where is the head? A pot is set there; on the pot sits the cap. It serves to scare birds. Even that false man in the field is of some use. Just so, you too become of small use. And you will panic at death. You must panic—because death is coming. A false religious man is stuffed with straw—fear is the basis of his religion, cowardice.

In every language there are such words: ‘religion-fearing,’ ‘God-fearing.’ A religious person—and God-fearing! Will a religious man be afraid of God? Then who will embrace God? A religious man—afraid of God? Then who will love God? And where there is love, how can there be fear? Where there is fear, how can love be?

So I say to you: a religious man is not afraid of God. Only a truly religious man is free of fear before God. The irreligious may be afraid; they have reason to. Because the irreligious have made their God out of fear. What is worshiped in your temples and mosques is born of your fear. You kneel and pray, trembling and shaking—that trembling is fear. Fear of hell. Fear of death—death is approaching. Who knows how many sins are being committed? Who knows what will happen after death? So you try to persuade God, flatter him, bribe him. Your prayers and hymns are nothing more than your bribes. Hence in the world’s so-called religious countries, bribery thrives. Bribery inhabits their very breath!

People want to eradicate bribery from India; it will not go—until India’s religious mindset changes. For thousands of years this country has been bribing God. A coconut is offered—rotten! No one offers a sound coconut to God. There is a separate market for coconuts meant for offering—entirely rotten. Often the coconut shop stands right in front of the temple. The same coconuts are offered again and again—offered thousands of times. You offer them; the priest sells them at night; in the morning they’re back on the altar. You offer a coconut and go to ask God for something: “Get my son a job,” or “My wife is ill, here is the coconut.”

This country has kept bribing God; bribery has seeped into its life-breath. Bribery is a very religious process! An ancient tradition! So it will be very difficult to rid this land of bribery. If even God can be placated with a coconut, what chance does a man have? From the policeman to the prime minister, all can be appeased with coconuts. Small coconuts, big coconuts, all kinds of coconuts. If even God gives in, then who else can resist!

So you decorate baskets and send them! And if there is no direct way, find a back door. If the leader won’t accept a bribe directly, massage his wife’s feet, praise his sons—find a way! Ways will be found. In the heart of the taker as much as the giver, bribery is held in esteem. Bribery is a very religious process!

And what do you do? You say, “We take the Lord’s name every morning.” What is this? What will happen by taking the name? Why are you chanting? Do you know God? Have you recognized him? Met him? You haven’t even met yourself—how will you meet him! You don’t yet know who you are. You don’t even know the seeker—how will the search begin? The seeker himself is lost in darkness—how will there be any search? But in this darkness you tremble, afraid. From fear you pray, perform worship, and bribe the temple priest as well. Prayer, yajna, oblation, adoration—within all these your fear is hiding.

Remember: a prayer born of fear never reaches the Divine. And the one praying out of fear is not truly praying. The man who says, “My wife is sick, make her well”—what has that to do with God? He just wants his wife healed. His purpose is clear. Is he a devotee, do you think? He has gone to exploit God. He wants service from God. He is not God’s servant; he is saying, “Do me a favor! My wife is ill, cure her!” And beware—if my wife is not cured, all my devotion will fall away. Then I won’t be able to trust. I give you one more chance.

People come to me and say, “If what we ask in prayer is granted, it proves God exists. And if our prayer isn’t fulfilled, what proof is there that he exists?” You don’t know yourself, and you don’t know him either! One thing you do know: this life you have built—this house on sand—is sliding. Its foundations tremble. Death’s storm draws nearer each day—hair whitening, legs shaking, hands quivering, old age approaching—death is coming! Let’s make some arrangement! No other support is visible—wealth won’t go with us, position won’t go with us, companions won’t go with us. The scriptures say that remembrance of the Name will go with us—so let’s chant Ram-Ram! So you sit fingering your rosary. But a fear-filled heart is plotting to escape death.

The search for God does not happen this way. God is found through love. Love is the door. You need the intoxication of love—then his veils lift.

If this is intoxication, then what is the splendor of intoxication?
If this fear of God—this God-fearing attitude—is religion, then what is irreligion? And these sad, corpse-like people you call sadhus and saints—if they are religious, then who is irreligious?

If this is intoxication, then what is the splendor of intoxication?
If this is ecstasy, if this is religion’s savor, if these are the ways of those who drink that wine—then what glory remains in drinking it?

If this is intoxication, then what is the splendor of intoxication?
If the one who drinks doesn’t stagger, what kind of reveler is he?

And the one who doesn’t reel in that love, doesn’t break into dance, forgets not the world’s shame, social honor, and norms, doesn’t become beside himself—then he is neither a true drinker nor one who knows prayer.

Prayer is wine.

In my view, one who has never known prayer has never known life’s true wine. He comes thirsty and leaves thirsty. And one who doesn’t drink the wine of prayer goes to other wines. Substitutes. He thinks, perhaps in this way I can forget myself. Yes, wine can be made from grapes too—but it can only make you forget for an hour or two. There is a wine of the soul—those who drown in it drown forever and do not return. And what purpose is there in drowning for an hour or two? For when you return, your worries stand exactly where they were—worse than before. That brief stupor gives no real help.

Still, one thing is clear—psychologists agree on this: man discovered wine in his search for meditation. Those who couldn’t find meditation got entangled in wines. Behind the entanglement is the same longing: somehow to become beside oneself.

Understand that longing—
Even in the drunkard the longing is for the Divine. Sometimes there is more spiritual longing in a drunkard than in a money-monger, more than in the power-hungry. What is the drunkard seeking? He is troubled by himself. He wants to forget himself; to find a way to forget who he is for a while. He wants a method by which this ego is forgotten. The ego is heavy, like a spear it pierces, it has become a wound; to live with it is becoming impossible. To ease this difficulty, man invented wines.

Now there are newer scientific ways—LSD, marijuana—new tricks are being discovered. But these tricks are worthless. They are false. They are hollow—chemical. They create a brief hallucination, that’s all—and then you must return to the world of reality: the same anxiety, same restlessness, same turmoil, same marketplace, same noise. It is like sleep: you nod off for a bit, get some relief, then you’re back.

And the relief is expensive. The body is harmed. The mind is harmed. The soul is harmed. A wrong habit begins that becomes hard to break—harder by the day. It is drinking poison while pretending it’s nectar. But the longing itself is right. The longing is: how can I be without self?

Man’s one suffering is his selfhood—his ‘I’-sense. Observe yourself: the more the ‘I’, the more the suffering—in the same measure. The less the ‘I’, the less the suffering. And where the ‘I’ is not at all, there the flowers of bliss bloom. Spring has come! Songs begin to echo. Life fills with a new thrill and exuberance. A new fervor. Anklets on the feet. A flute at the lips.

The mark of a religious person is that he is celebrative.

If this is intoxication, then what is the splendor of intoxication?
If the one who drinks doesn’t stagger, what kind of reveler is he?
I’m flying in a single direction, in wild abandon—
No knowing what ‘self’ is, what ‘selflessness’ is.

May such a moment come where neither ‘I’ is known nor ‘Thou’—where ‘I’ is gone, ‘Thou’ is gone; where not only has selfhood vanished, even the thought does not arise that selflessness has come; where the ego has gone and even the ego of egolessness isn’t there; where nothing remains; where ecstasy is complete; where there is only dance—the dancer is lost in the dance, the singer lost in the song. In such a moment life is experienced. For the first time you are connected to Life.

Shall I accept death’s poison, or the bitterness of life?
And then a person is willing—whether he must drink the poison of death or the acrid bitterness of life.

Shall I accept death’s poison, or the bitterness of life?
My joy is everything; what is your joy?
Then he says: Why worry about my joy? What is Your joy? Then his will begins to happen.

The day the Divine lives through a person from within, that day life is attained. The day the vast flows through the small, life is attained. The day the ocean peers out from the drop, life is attained. Then there is no death.

This lesson I learned in the school of love:
A life that merely passes, somehow soothed—what kind of life is that?

Be alert! Don’t squander life like this. Lift the veil a little; behind it the Master hides. Open your eyes—a treasure beyond compare is seen the instant they open. Wake up! Be a little drunk! Stagger a little! Dance a little! Sing a little! Cry a little! Be overwhelmed! To be overwhelmed in feeling—that is devotion. These are all waves of feeling.

Today Jagjivan’s sutras are very lovely. Understand—

“Ah, I am drunk on the color of the Name.”
Those who have known have said so. Those who haven’t become very gloomy in the name of religion. They become corpses while still alive. India’s ashrams are filled with these corpses. Because of them the whole country has become corpse-like. They did not teach this land how to live; they taught it how to commit spiritual suicide.

This country has everything—only its soul is lost. Once this land beheld great heights, lofty peaks; it heard Krishna’s flute. Do you think Krishna was a gloomy sort? Can gloom go with the flute? This land has seen Krishna’s dance—his rasa. Do sad men dance? Do they wear peacock plumes? Those were healthy days. Religion revealed itself in depth and fullness.

Then came sickly days. Sick minds gained dominance. They filled the country’s psyche with gloom; expansiveness vanished, people shrank. They became afraid of everything: Don’t do this, don’t do that. Religion became a list of prohibitions: what not to do. It ceased to be about doing. Religion ceased to be a science of expansion; it became contraction. People lived shriveled. And then not only the soul of the country died—the body too became poor and wretched.

For thousands of years this land has been impoverished, and behind this poverty stand the stones of your so-called false religion. One who is rich within has no reason to be poor without. Inner richness spills outward—it must. That is the proof. When a song arises within, the flute will play and its notes will spread.

This country once had the good fortune to be a golden bird. Those were the days when this land knew religion. Then the Vedas were born naturally. Then the Upanishads arose like songs, as birds hum at dawn. All happened with such simplicity. Those were not days of contraction; they were days of great expansion. Ashrams were not places for sad, dead people; the current of life flowed there. We used to send our children there to learn the art of living. Now only the old go to ashrams. Those nearing death go. Do you send your children to ashrams? When did you stop? Ask why you stopped.

People come and say, “In your ashram we see young people!” They are surprised—understandably—because they have forgotten that where there is life there will be youth. There will be children. People ask me why I give sannyas even to small children. They think only old people should take sannyas. What they really think is: when one foot is in the grave and one outside, then quickly take sannyas and fall in! For them sannyas means: when you’ve already died—then take it. While you live, do not connect with life. Till then, gather the trivial, hoard it.

Remember, once we sent our children to the gurukuls—those were ashrams. Where little children gather, would there not be laughter? No dancing there? No songs? Of course there were. Those were days of courage. Religion was on the rise.

Then contraction came—as it comes to everything. There is a rhythm to all things. A wave rises, then falls. For thousands of years the wave has been falling. It has touched its last trough. I am trying to lift the wave again. That children be religious again. That the young be religious again. Then certainly, when the young are religious, religion will have a different color and style—how can it not? For youth will bring its own hues. When the young dance in the temples there will be sparkle, celebration, love, and ecstasy.

The new form I’m giving to religion has the pundits, priests, and politicians disturbed. They have grown accustomed to a dead religion. They have forgotten that religion should breathe, that its heart should beat. Their meaning of religion is a corpse, a cremation ground, a grave.

Only yesterday I told you the government is not ready to recognize this ashram as religious. Their reason? Because it is neither Hindu, nor Muslim, nor Christian, nor Jain, nor Jewish. “Then how can it be religious?” I ask: when Buddha birthed religion, when he walked and spoke and a living Buddha was on the earth, would you have considered him religious? Because Buddhism had not yet been born. Buddha was not a Hindu—he had left that dead circle. And Buddhism was yet in the womb of the future. Thank God there was no Morarji then! Otherwise they would not have recognized Buddha as religious: “Who are you? Hindu? Jain?” There were two religions then. “You are neither. Then how are you religious?” But after Buddha died, Buddhism was formed. Now they ask me, “Are you a Buddhist?”

When Jesus lived, he was there—but where was Christianity? He was not a Jew—else the Jews would not have crucified him. He had left that deadness. Christianity was hidden in the womb of the future. Will you call Jesus religious or not? How amusing that Jesus is not religious, but Christianity is; Buddha is not religious, but Buddhism is. Krishna is not religious, but the Krishnaites are; Mohammed is not religious, but Muslims are. As if at Gangotri the Ganges is not the Ganges; after all the towns and villages dump their filth and sewage into it, in Prayag it becomes the Ganges! At Gangotri it is not the Ganges—such logic.

What happens here is not Hindu, not Muslim, not Christian, not Jain, not Buddhist, not Sikh. But the very tone that was Nanak’s life-breath, the voice of Buddha’s heart, Krishna’s deepest experience, Jesus’ longing, Mohammed’s yearning—its reflection is here. All that fragrance is gathered here. They won’t accept me as religious—until, a hundred or two hundred years from now, a sect is formed.

And the irony is: when a sect forms, religion dies. Religion dies—and only then a sect is born. While Buddha lives, there is religion. But then governments won’t accept it. There is much stupidity—but none can compete with governmental stupidity. Governmental stupidity is like a bitter gourd climbing a neem tree—bitter upon bitter.

I give you the tone of ecstasy. I want you to sway. I want to color you in the same color Jagjivan speaks of: “Ah, I am drunk on the color of the Name!” Only then can you be drunk. Nothing else in life will fill your cup. Pile in as much money as you want—it will vanish. Pile in rank and position—they will vanish. The cup remains empty. Man is fulfilled only by the Divine. The vessel within is infinite, and the Divine is infinite—only the infinite can fill the infinite. Within us is the bowl of emptiness. Nothing but the Divine’s fullness can fill it.

Let me remind you of a Sufi tale—I love it; I’ve told it many times:—

A fakir knocked at an emperor’s door. It was morning; the emperor came out to stroll in the garden. By chance they met. The fakir held out his begging bowl. The emperor asked, “What do you want?” The fakir said, “Give whatever you like—on one condition: my bowl must be filled. Anything you give—but it must be filled. I’m tired—this bowl never fills.” The emperor laughed: “You seem crazy. If not crazy, why be a fakir! This little bowl—doesn’t fill? Fill it with gold coins,” he told his minister. “Shut this fakir’s mouth forever!” The fakir said, “Let me remind you—so long as it doesn’t fill, I won’t move.” The emperor said, “Don’t worry, madman—we’ll fill it. With gold, with diamonds if you wish.”

Soon the emperor realized his mistake. Gold coins were poured in—and disappeared. Diamonds—vanished. But the emperor was stubborn. And to concede defeat to a fakir would not do. The entire capital gathered to watch. The emperor emptied his treasury. “Today I stake it all,” he said. “I’ll lose everything if I must, but I’ll fill his bowl.” At dusk the sun was setting, the bottomless treasury was empty. The bowl did not fill.

Imagine the emperor’s plight! At death all emperors suffer the same. He fell at the fakir’s feet: “Forgive me! You have crushed my pride—good. I thought my treasury inexhaustible—it could not fill your small bowl. Now one prayer—tell me, before I go: what is this bowl? By what magic is it made?” The fakir laughed: “No magic—the bowl is made from the human heart. The human heart never fills, nor does this bowl.”

The story ends there. But it is half a story. I tell you: this bowl can be filled. If you find this fakir, bring him to me—the bowl can be filled. Not with wealth, not by emperors—by Buddhas. It is filled by the Divine. “Ah, I am drunk on the color of the Name!” Not only filled—it overflows. It floods the banks. That overflow is compassion—we saw it in Buddhas. Bliss fills so much within it begins to flow outward, reaching others. That is satsang: to sit near one whose bowl is full and overflowing—so that a few drops might fall on you too. A single drop and you are colored. If you taste a single drop, you are transformed—utterly other.

You are in my heart while death draws near—
It is half dawn, half dusk.
Love is both the lover and love’s reward—
Ah, what a beginning, what an end!
If there be one or two true drinkers—so be it;
But the whole tavern is maligned for free.
Pain and sorrow have become the very nature of this heart—
Now here there is only rest, only rest.

The bowl does fill—but it fills only for drinkers.

If there be one or two true drinkers—so be it;
But the whole tavern is maligned for free.

These thousands of sadhus and saints you see—their bowls are not filled.

If there be one or two true drinkers—so be it;
But the whole tavern is maligned for free.

These sitting in taverns, temples, mosques—their number is not of true drinkers. One or two—perhaps. The rest are empty show. Avoid show—then one day that blessed hour will come to your life—

“Ah, I am drunk on the color of the Name.”

“When you taste the pure wine of love, then nothing else appeals.”

Once a single drop of that love is tasted, nothing else can charm—how could it? A swan that has drunk the waters of Manasarovar—will it consent to drink from your village drains and puddles? One who has known the sky’s freedom—will he consent to your prisons and chains? One who has tasted a little of the Divine—the tastes of this world go flat.

I say to you: do not renounce the world—taste the Divine, and everything drops away by itself. Whatever is dropped by effort is dropped in vain—you haven’t tasted yet. Whoever says, “I have renounced,” know that he has not received anything yet. Whoever has received does not renounce—renunciation happens. If your hands are full of pebbles and you suddenly find a mine of diamonds—will you renounce the pebbles? You won’t even notice when they fell from your hands. Who keeps count? Will you tally how many stones you left? You’ll fill your fists with jewels.

So I say: the path of renunciation is negative. Because of it, religion died. I teach you the enjoyment of the Divine, not the renunciation of the world. When the Divine is enjoyed, the world is renounced by itself. When the higher is found, the lower falls away on its own: leaving the lower does not bring the higher—remember this; I repeat it again and again—leaving the lower does not fetch the higher. You may drop your pebbles—diamonds won’t appear just because of that. There is no such inevitability. But upon receiving the higher, the lower surely falls away. When the lamp is lit, darkness vanishes on its own. So it is with enjoying the Divine. I teach you enjoyment. I say: what you have called enjoyment is not enjoyment—it is delusion.

“When you taste the pure wine of love, then nothing else appeals.
Day and night the single tune keeps ringing—no one could explain it to me.”

Then whatever anyone may say, however many lures the world may bring—money piled high, positions offered, prizes bestowed—it makes no difference. A single drop of his savor fills so completely that no space remains—no question of adding anything more.

At first wine was life; now life itself is wine:
Someone keeps pouring; I keep on drinking.

At first wine itself was your life. There are many kinds of wines—that’s why we call position pad-mad, the intoxication of rank. Politics is a wine—terrible wine. Wealth too is a wine—dhan-mad. Whoever it seizes, it doesn’t let go. He runs all his life: more, more—no end. There are many wines.

At first wine was life; now life itself is wine.
Once a drop of his descends within, a transformation happens. First wine was life—now life itself becomes wine.

Someone keeps pouring; I keep on drinking.
And those unknown hands keep filling. That’s why Sufi fakirs call existence the Saki. They call existence the tavern, and its nectar the wine. Omar Khayyam does not mean what you gather from his book. Omar Khayyam is a Sufi Buddha—not a trivial poet. It is insulting that liquor shops are named “Omar Khayyam” or “Rubaiyat.” Wine is a symbol. Omar is a realized fakir. His symbols are misunderstood.

“Day and night the tune keeps humming…”
Waking, sleeping, standing, sitting—only one refrain remains: his remembrance, his remembrance. The lamp of his remembrance gleams within.

“…No one could explain it to me.
The cup of the Name I quaff—now I desire nothing else.”

Now nothing else is wanted. Whoever has drunk him—who has tasted the supreme—desires nothing else.

“Whatever he wants, however he wants—
Only those prayers rise from my heart to my lips.”

Now to say “I pray” is not right. He makes the prayer happen; it rises from me to my lips.

“So abandon all other duties—come to my refuge!
Abandon all dharmas, and take refuge in me alone!”

Thus Krishna tells Arjuna: abandon all—come into my shelter. Which ‘me’ is he speaking of? The One, whom the Upanishads praise: the One the wise call by many names. Krishna is not saying: “Come to me, Krishna.” He is saying: “Come to the One in me.” That One is one and the same—in me, in you. Come to that One’s refuge. And abandon all dharmas. A very ‘irreligious’ instruction, seemingly: abandon all religions. Bow—bow, meaning drop the ego—and all will be done. All wanting will vanish.

“Whatever he wants, however he wants—
Only those prayers rise from my heart to my lips.”

One last goblet to drink, O Saki—
Now whether the hand of longing trembles or the feet stagger—
Drink I must!

Whatever happens, drink I must. Whether people laugh, call me mad—Mira was called mad, Chaitanya was called mad. If you come to me, people will call you mad.

One last goblet to drink, O Saki—
Now whether the hand of longing trembles or the feet stagger—
When the Name’s cord took hold, whose reputation remained!

Whoever’s thread is tied to him—where remains concern for public opinion? For propriety? He has always been taken for a madman. ‘When the Name’s cord took hold—whose reputation remained!’

Remember: this world has always condemned the truly religious man. It has crucified him, stoned him, humiliated him. And it has worshiped the false religious man. Upside down—if you don’t understand. Otherwise, perfectly logical. The world wants to be rid of true religion. It has no fear of the counterfeit. Pundits and priests are fine; those who conduct rites are fine; the ‘holy men’ who support this world’s vested interests are fine. But the moment a religious person appears—someone through whom the Divine speaks—obstruction begins. He won’t support vested interests. He won’t conform to society’s beliefs. He will speak truth—and truth shakes your lies. He will live truth—and truth breaks your hypocrisies. Then trouble begins.

You crucified Jesus; by crucifying him you announced that he spoke a word that shook your edifice. You poisoned Socrates; you announced that he brought news from afar and deep—else you would not have bothered with poison. You killed Mansoor; you announced that through his lips God had spoken—you could not tolerate it.

You have never tolerated the Divine. Why? Because your lives are such that if you listen, understand, and tolerate the Divine, you will have to change your lives. And you do not want to change. You go to saints for solace, not for transformation. You want balm for your wounds, not revolution. You want them to place a rose upon your wound so it is no longer visible.

A friend of mine—a great politician—lost his son. He came to me in distress, weeping. I said, “It’s useless to weep. Your son is gone; you too will go.” He was angry: “You speak like this? I went to Acharya Tulsi; he told me, ‘Don’t worry, your son has become a god in heaven.’ And he closed his eyes, went to heaven, and brought the news.” His son had been a minister. I said, “A minister—in heaven! He must have reached the wrong place.” I knew a fakir; I said, “Go to him—he travels easily to heaven and hell.”

That fakir lived near me. I had briefed him. When my friend went, the fakir closed his eyes, went ‘far away,’ and said, “You have a garden in such-and-such village?” “Yes.” “There is a peepal tree?” “Yes.” “Your son sits there as a ghost.” He was stunned: “How did he know? He knows nothing of my village, my tree!” I had told the fakir all this.

He rushed back to me: “Why did you send me to that man! Acharya Tulsi is right.” Yet anxiety remained: “But how did he know about my garden, the peepal tree, the well?” I said, “He too travels fast with his eyes closed.” Still he said, “Tulsi-ji’s words suit me.”

What suits us is what we want. My words didn’t suit him: “You too will die—so don’t waste time in useless lamentation. Let this awareness pierce you like an arrow. Prepare yourself now. Forget Parliament.” He had been a member for forty years—from the British times on. He was called the father of Parliament. He kept preparing for the next election. He did not accept my words; he was hurt. He came for consolation; I gave him truth. He never came again.

Note this: you worship those saints who sing lullabies and put your mind to sleep. The one who wakes you—you will hang him. Whoever has awakened you—you have mistreated. You do not want to wake. You relish your dreams—though they are all false. One who knows will wake you: “However beautiful, a dream is a dream. Rise!”

“When the Name’s cord took hold, whose reputation remained!”
Whoever’s thread is joined to the Divine—his troubles begin in the world. No propriety remains. People honor falsehood; they worship pretense and hypocrisy. Naked truth enrages them. What does it matter to the devotee!

Ah, the passion for martyrdom! Toward the alley of the Executioner
I go humming, dancing, swaying.

Ah, the passion to be sacrificed! The devotee yearns to dissolve into the Divine. He has tasted a little—now he wants to vanish entirely…

Ah, the passion for martyrdom! Toward the alley of the Executioner
I go humming, dancing, swaying.
“Those who are drunk with this color—lose all sense of the world.”
They lose all sense—even their own. Only one remembrance remains—his. Then it makes no difference who insults or honors.

When Mansoor was killed—his hands and feet severed—he looked at the sky and laughed. Someone in the crowd asked, “Why do you laugh?” He said, “I see the Beloved. This slight hindrance—the body—you are taking it away. This little veil—you are removing it. That’s why I laugh. You think you are my enemies, harming me? You fools! You are taking away the last veil. Great compassion—thank you!”

Tie your sturdy rope high in the sky—then sit in his refuge.
When one tastes a little, he comes to abide in his inner emptiness. He dissolves, becomes zero. Emptiness is the devotee’s practice. The essence of all practices: shunya—nothingness. To vanish, to be not. “I am not, I am not, I am not”—when this becomes existential, not just words—when your heart resonates with it—then the Divine descends. In that very instant he descends fully. Become empty, and attain the Full. The one condition to attain the Full is to become empty.

Now I sit fearless…
Once you are empty and the Full abides—sit fearless. Then there is no death, no fear; nothing can be taken or stolen. Your treasure is eternal. You are an emperor. You are immortal.

Now I sit fearless—grant me only this boon:
Jagjivan begs this: let there be no return.

Then sit fearless. One prayer remains: never again let me fall into this tangle, this illusion, this dream.

Let whatever become of me—just keep casting those glances of lightning.
Let me go on drawing the hookah; you go on smiling.
Accent by accent, breath by breath, radiance by radiance—come.
I thirst for the beauty of the One—intensify my thirst.
Let me drink as much today as I can—do not refuse me.
By the sanctity of your intoxicated gaze—make me intoxicated.
By delight or by wrath—I will meet you face to face one day.
Wherever you are sensed—there raise a clamor!

Call him—wherever you find a hint. If you glimpse him in a rose, call him there. No need to go to temple or shrine. If you see him in the moon and stars—call him there. If his beauty flashes in someone’s eyes—bow there. Bow wherever you sense the current of life. Bow by a tree—there God is green. Bow on a riverbank—there God is flowing. Bow before the rising sun—there God appears as a new dawn.

By delight or by wrath—I will meet you face to face one day.
No need to worry—happily or annoyed, he will appear—raise a clamor wherever you sense him.

Let me drink as much today as I can—do not refuse me.
By the sanctity of your intoxicated gaze—make me intoxicated.
Accent by accent, breath by breath, radiance by radiance—come.
I thirst for the beauty of the One—intensify my thirst.

A devotee asks only this: deepen my thirst. He asks to be made so utterly thirsty that he remains nothing but thirst, nothing but call, nothing but prayer. It need not be spoken in words. Sometimes the devotee speaks; sometimes he is silent. As it happens.

Do not let the sorrows of longing reach the lips—
This too is a plea: make no plea.

Saying nothing is also a way of saying—perhaps the deepest. So sometimes the devotee pleads; sometimes he falls utterly silent. He sits in the hush.

The hunter thought me one thing, the rose another, the nightingale another—
How full of meanings my silence was in the garden!

He goes silent—let others think what they will.

The hunter thought me one thing, the rose another, the nightingale another—
How full of meanings my silence was in the garden!

There is more meaning in silence than in any word. So sometimes the devotee sings, sometimes he is still. Sometimes he dances, sometimes he just sits. But he lives from spontaneity. Remember the word ‘spontaneity.’ Not from contrivance, not from discipline—but from the spontaneous. Not because “one ought to,” but because it arises naturally. “Sadhos, natural samadhi is best.”

“I have recognized you—now I place my head at your feet.”
I have recognized you. Now I lay this head at your feet. I will no longer carry its burden.

“Just a glimpse you granted…”
Just a hint of your beauty—and transformation, revolution.

“From then on, neither body nor mind appeals.”
Take this body too; take this mind. Let there be only you within—let me be nowhere.

“What can I say—words cannot convey. I have lost all sense of myself.”

Socrates said: the truly wise man knows that he knows nothing. The devotee knows nothing. What he knew is also washed away—his love’s flood swept away all the rubbish. He becomes utterly innocent.

“What can I say—words cannot convey. I have lost all sense of myself.
I became a yogini, smeared my limbs with ash; I hid you in the whirlpool-cave.”

Now I am mad, possessed; your tune plays on the one-string of my heart. Your slightest glimpse said everything that needed to be said. Take me now fully. Don’t leave even a fragment of me empty of you. And I know where you hide—I have recognized you. “I have recognized you! In the cave of the heart you had hidden yourself—while I searched everywhere.” I looked in Kaba and Kashi and Kailash and Girnar—and you sat within me! My search failed because you were hidden in the seeker. You are my very nature. “I have recognized you! In the cave of the heart you had hidden yourself!”

From the inner burning, bring forth an immortal flame from within yourself—
The lamps of temple and mosque, O heart—today they burn, tomorrow they go out.

These lamps in temples and mosques—today they burn, tomorrow they go out. There is another lamp within—neither lit nor extinguished—ever-present, eternal. If you must light a flame—light it in your own heart.

From the inner burning, bring forth an immortal flame from within yourself—
The lamps of temple and mosque, O heart—today they burn, tomorrow they go out.

In those lamps oil and wick are needed; this one shines without oil, without wick—uncaused. And whatever is uncaused is eternal. Where there is cause, one day it will exhaust. Man-made lamps burn in temples and mosques—do not get lost in them. In the cave of your heart burns the lamp lit by the Divine.

“The splendor of the living universe defies description.”
And when you sit in that light, seated in your heart—“The beauty of the living universe cannot be described.” There is no language for it, nor can there be. It is ineffable.

“His image settled in my eyes.”
He is seen, recognized—but cannot be spoken. Like honey to a mute.

The devotee asks nothing more: “Let his image settle in my eyes.”

“Even there we would sigh, even there we would lament—
Those who are bound only to you, what need have they for your heaven?”

They have no use for heaven. They desire no other pleasure. Their only yearning: that which is—be seen; that which is—be recognized.

“I kept looking with a pure gaze…”
And at a mere glimpse—astonished, the devotee falls silent. “I kept looking with a pure gaze.” In that seeing, all filth falls away; the gaze becomes pure, innocent, transparent.

“O friend, I cannot say it, though I shout from the rooftops.”

Those who have known face a great dilemma: they know, but cannot make others know. They have tasted—but how to tell? Yet there arises an inevitability to speak.

Buddha said: meditation inevitably flowers into wisdom, and wisdom inevitably flowers into compassion. One who has meditated has known; one who has known longs to make others know—so many wander in dark lanes; he cries, “Do not wander. He sits in your heart. Where are you going—to Kaba? Kashi? And he is within you. I too wandered; do not wander. I have found him within—turn your gaze inward.”

So he calls out, shouts—though he knows what he says is not what he has seen. Words are small, the experience vast.

Jesus said to his disciples: “Go—climb onto rooftops and shout. Perhaps someone will hear.” Still he added, “Perhaps someone will hear.” “Those who have eyes will see; those who have ears will hear.” But few have eyes, few have ears. Eyes are visible—but where are they? Eyes that cannot see within—are they eyes? Ears that cannot hear the inner sound—are they ears? People are blind with eyes, deaf with ears.

Yet a resonance rises in the devotee: I must call, awaken all, tell all… He tells—out of that pain these songs are born: “Ah, I am drunk on the color of the Name!”

“I kept looking with a pure gaze…
O friend, I cannot say it, though I shout from the rooftops.”

“How far can I tell the matchless beauty? I would lay down everything.”
I’m ready to lay everything at stake—if only I could speak. But that beauty is unmatched—how to describe it? Where find words, where gather colors, how to craft his image? How to tell those who do not know—so they might know? So they may not wander needlessly for lives upon lives.

When Buddha awakened, he was silent for seven days. A lovely story. The gods of the heavens grew worried: “If Buddha remains silent, who knows how many will be deprived of liberation.” They came and bowed.

Understand—this is a parable, not history; a poetic symbol with wondrous meaning. They said, “Speak. Why are you silent? Seven days have passed.” Buddha said, “What will speech do? Who will understand? First obstacle: who will understand? Second: how shall I say it? There are no words.” If one like Buddha lacks words—what of poor Jagjivan? Kabir was a weaver—his vocabulary was limited to his craft: hence “finely, finely I have woven the cloth.” But Buddha was a prince, heir to the country’s highest culture at its peak—yet he said, “How can I say? ‘Matchless beauty—how can I describe?’ Better not to bother. And even if I try—who will understand? Those who can will understand without me; those who cannot—will not, even if I speak.”

The gods consulted: the logic is right—yet we must find a way. Logic always finds a way. They returned: “You are right—it cannot be said, not fully. But at least a glimpse can be indicated. Perhaps to a blind man we cannot describe light, but we can stand him in the sun—the warmth he can feel. Not light—but its heat he can sense. Some hints are possible. Not the ocean—but a drop—better something than nothing. For the thirsty, even a drop is the ocean. From the drop the search for the ocean will begin. Please speak.”

“And you say those who can understand will do so without you—that is true. And those who cannot will not with you—that too is true. But between them are some—if you speak, they will understand; if you don’t, who knows when they will. Think of those on the edge; a little push and they will leap.”

Buddha could not refute that. He agreed. For forty-two years he spoke—morning, noon, evening—explaining. The gods were right; Buddha was not wrong either. He spoke to thousands; one or two understood. Buddha had said, “Who will understand?” The gods had said, “Even if one or two understand, that is enough.” Then from lamp to lamp the flame is passed. The stream of Buddha remains alive—lamps continue to be lit.

“How far can I tell the matchless beauty? I would lay down everything.”
Jagjivan says, “I would give all if only I could speak a little.” Those who have known become speechless; those who have not, become very vocal. Pundits and priests, mullahs and maulvis—noisy.

Keep this in mind. Pundits prattle on—scripture upon scripture, commentary upon commentary—without hesitation, no snag. They argue, declaring themselves right and others wrong—knowing nothing. And those who know are caught in a dilemma.

Now the pundit and the preacher quarrel,
But neither the temple is anyone’s nor the mosque belongs to anyone.

Pundits and mullahs quarrel. The temple is no one’s, nor the mosque—but the fights go on. Those who inflame the fights know nothing. Whoever knows becomes hesitant.

Remember Mahavira. In any assertion he would add “syat”—perhaps. Because it cannot be fully said. A little can be said. Ask Mahavira: “Is there a God?” He says, “Syat—perhaps. He is, and he is not.” Those who say “He is”—they too are right; they state half the truth. Those who say “He is not”—they too are right; they state the other half. The Divine’s presence is like emptiness. One who says “He is not”—is also right.

Have you heard such a wondrous thing from Mahavira?

The atheist speaks half, the theist speaks half. In one sense, God is—there is nothing but him. In another sense, he is not—for you cannot grasp him anywhere, cannot point and say, “Here is God.” He has no address, no location. He is like a nothingness. Hence “perhaps.”

“Not even sun and moon can compare to that radiance…
However much the wise ponder and speak, they cannot say it.”

Even the sun is pale beside that light. The moon’s coolness and beauty—where are they beside his? And those who have thought deeply—cannot say.

“Jagjivan says: grasp the feet of the true Master—let everything else go.”
One thing I can point to, says Jagjivan: if you meet a true master, seize his feet—and surrender everything there. Then you will meet. A Satguru is one who has vanished. He is a window through which the distant sky is seen. Surrender at that window. Jagjivan says: I can say no more; only this—if a Satguru is found, do not miss.

The heart is at someone’s feet—whether the head bows or not;
Worship is our nature—whether there is a God or not.
What a frenzy this is, what a state—
We keep speaking—whether anyone hears or not.

The wise often feel: “We keep speaking—whether anyone hears or not.” But sometimes someone hears. Even if one in a hundred thousand hears—the work is done. Call thousands; if one comes, the call is fulfilled.

Jagjivan’s essence is this:
“Jagjivan says: grasp the feet of the true Master—let everything else go.”

Going to scriptures will not help—scriptures are dead. You will read into them only what you want. They will be swallowed by your intellect, not churn your heart. Scriptures will make you learned; your ignorance will not disappear. A blind man will learn to talk of light—but his eyes will not open. This miracle happens only in satsang—in the company of a living truth.

How will you recognize a Satguru? What is the touchstone? No outer test works. You need courage—to set the intellect aside and bring the heart forward. Then the heart gives testimony: the destination has arrived. The heart speaks at once: we have arrived.

O God—what vastness you have given to giving up the search and seeking—
Little by little the entire Beauty came into view.
At first, at each step, a thousand destinations;
At last, a station beyond all stations.
By the company of true drinkers the preacher gained nothing—
But the idiom of intoxication came, if a bit unsteady.

If you sit near a drinker, even if you learn nothing—you will pick up a little of the tipsy way of speech.

By the company of true drinkers the preacher gained nothing—
Yet a little of the intoxicated accent came.
O God—what vastness in giving up the anxious seeking—
Little by little the entire Beauty came into view.

Not by intellect will this happen. This total Beauty, this manifestation of the Divine, this meeting with the Beloved—cannot happen through intellect. Leave the nets of logic aside—where you leave your shoes. Only the one who risks this much can know who is a Satguru and who is not.

The heart never lies. As we test gold on a touchstone, so truth is tested on the heart—not on the intellect. With intellect you will be entangled.

Consider:
If you were born in a Jain home, you were given ideas of what a true master should be—you will recognize only a Jain monk as Satguru. If you meet Krishna, you’ll avoid him—“What sort of man is this!” If you meet Jesus, you will pass him by unknowing. If Buddha comes, you will not recognize him. Your intellect carries a notion—‘a monk must be naked’—Buddha is not. ‘A monk must renounce everything’—Krishna wears a peacock plume. You will miss. The touchstone of intellect will let you grasp only traditional gurus—and traditional gurus are not true masters. A Satguru belongs to no tradition.

Remember: a Satguru is always outside tradition—often opposed to it. Because a Satguru is living revolution, live fire. No tradition can contain him. Tradition is made of ash—when embers die, ash remains, and the worship begins—from that, tradition forms. A Satguru is fire. Only one ready to drink fire can sit near a Satguru.

Intellect is not the touchstone. Put aside the intellect of Jain, Buddhist, Muslim, Hindu. You have a heart—God-given. The intellect is society-given, accidental. If you had been switched at birth to a Muslim home, you would have thought yourself Muslim; a Muslim fakir would be your only wise man; the Quran the only book; only in a mosque would you see God. These are imprints, conditioning. The heart is God-given—you bring it even before birth. Only that pure state of feeling can recognize. That is the touchstone.

O God—what vastness in giving up the anxious seeking—
Little by little the entire Beauty came into view.
At first, at each step, a thousand destinations;
At last, a station beyond all stations.
By the company of true drinkers the preacher gained nothing—
Yet a little of the intoxicated accent came.

When your heart begins to sway, to dance, to be stirred—that is recognition. From that thread of recognition, slowly—Beauty entire will be known.

“Jagjivan says: grasp the feet of the true Master—let everything else go.”

And if a Satguru is found, keep nothing back—pour it all at his feet.

Whoever lays everything this way at the Master’s feet—that one is the disciple. This I call sannyas.

Enough for today.