Ari Main To Naam Ke Rang Chhaki #9

Till dawn, O candle of the gathering! I have resolved to burn out.
We must see how long it takes before we turn to ash.

Those who set out in search of the Divine must be ready to become ash. Only if you vanish can you attain him. If even a trace of you remains, that very measure of distance still remains. Your disappearing is his appearing. Your vanishing is your meeting with him. Whoever does not see this clearly will wander on for lifetimes, searching and searching—and never find.

Till dawn, O candle of the gathering! I have resolved to burn out.
We must see how long it takes before we turn to ash.

Readiness to vanish is the only discipline there is. If the “I” departs, wholly departs, the door swings open. There is no lock upon his door except the “I.” You are the obstacle.

People imagine the obstacle is something else. They think, “I am ignorant; with a little knowledge the hindrance will be gone. I am sinful; with a little virtue the hindrance will be gone.” No—neither virtue nor knowledge removes it. So long as you are, the obstacle remains: ignorant, it remains; learned, it remains; sinful, it remains; saintly, it remains. Whether the lock is iron or gold makes no difference: a lock is a lock. The door will not open. You must vanish. You must turn to ash—like a lamp going out.

That is why Buddha called the supreme state nirvana. Nirvana means the going out of the flame. When the little lamp goes out, the sun appears. It is the flicker of your tiny lamp that hides the sun. A speck of grit in the eye and the mountain disappears. Ego is just such a speck—tiny, yet behind its screen everything is concealed.

Who can be sure you will come to behold me?
Yet till the final moment—let me wait a little more.

Until the very end—even to the very end—he does not arrive. Only after the end is he there. If you preserve even a little, that little is the remaining barrier.

Who is accomplished? The one who is a void. One who is utterly empty—who simply is not. Enter within and there is spaciousness—bare sky! No more clouds of thought, no knot of ego. Then the happening happens. Then the hour of bridal joy descends. Holi’s supreme moment arrives!

We called them in—and were left abashed at heart;
Who knew that once he came, we’d never regain our senses?

Then comes the instant of ecstasy and blessed intoxication. Then there is dance in life—indeed, life itself becomes dance. Then there is color in life—life itself becomes color. Before that, life is colorless. Before that it is life in name only. Breathing is not life—animals breathe as well. A heartbeat is not life—beasts and birds have hearts that beat. Whoever takes breath and heartbeat to be life has not even begun the journey, not taken the very first step.

Life truly is when the Eternal Life is tasted. These breaths will break—when will you breathe the breath that does not break? This heartbeat will falter. This heart is not the real heart. When will you set beating that heart which, once it beats, beats forever, without end? When will you drink the nectar? This life is death. Death stands just behind it—every moment behind it; who knows when it will arrive. This life is merely the name for sliding toward death. Every day you move closer to the cremation ground. Every day the bier is being fitted. Today or tomorrow—or the day after—death will surround you and darkness will fall. This show of light is brief. This bustle lasts four short hours. And for all this bustle, your hands grasp nothing; your hands remain empty. You bring nothing, you take nothing. You come empty, you go empty.

Awaken! Don’t get so ensnared in this clamor. There is another silence within you to be recognized. There is another heart whose key must be found. Another secret is hidden within you; its curtain must be drawn aside, its veil lifted. The day that veil is raised, you will see what you were—and what you had let yourself become. You were a lotus, yet you made yourself mud. You had the possibility of the lotus, yet you took the mud to be your very being. You were Ram—and shrank into mere lust. You were the vastness—and bound yourself into petty, crooked courtyards. You were the whole sky, the free sky—and jailed yourself in tiny, slanted enclosures.

The seeker begins to see this life is not the real life. His heart is disenchanted with it; his very life-force grows weary. And when the insubstantial is known as insubstantial, it is not long before the substantial is seen as substantial. Recognize the futile as futile, and you have come close to the meaningful. To see the false as false is the necessary milestone to seeing the true as true.

Offer sandal-paste of many hues to the Beloved’s brow.

And the one who sets out to seek, ready to pay the price—even to become ash—he, who is ready to mount the cross, receives the throne. The hour of nectar arrives.

Offer sandal-paste of many hues to the Beloved’s brow—
the chance comes to place the tilak of sandal on the Beloved’s forehead!

Weave a garland of blossoms out of the mind, and bring it to adorn him.

And when you become empty, then—where you once saw only a crowd of thoughts, where your mind had yielded nothing but cravings and ideas and phantasies and hollow agitation, where you had found only a bazaar of desires, longings, ambitions—in that very mind a flower blooms: the flower of awareness. This same mind, entangled outwardly, brings derangement; freed from the outer, it brings liberation. It is the staircase outward and the staircase inward. The same door through which you go out is the door through which you come in; the stairs you descend are the stairs you ascend. Don’t blame the stairs; it is a matter of direction.

This same mind ties you to the world; this same mind joins you to the Divine. So long as it binds you to the world, thorn upon thorn sprout in it, for the world is nothing but a thicket of thorns. And when this same mind links you with the Divine—with your inner self—flowers bloom; and only such flowers are worthy to be offered.

You pluck flowers from trees to lay upon idols in the temple! Neither the idols are truly yours, nor the flowers your own. And you call this worship? Those flowers belonged to the trees—and in being on the trees, they were already offered to the Divine. They were alive—sap flowing in them—speaking with moon and stars—spreading fragrance on the winds. They were laid at the Divine’s feet already, in their living. Your strange worship murders the living: you snap them, kill them, cut them—and carry the dead to your own carved stones!

The idols you make are your own reflections, your pictures, your imaginings. How could the Creator be shaped by your hands? He has shaped you. You carve the shaper—whom do you deceive? Instead of seeing that he is the Creator, you become his creator. You have made God in every color and every fashion—your whim! But you deceive, and are yourself deceived—who else could you deceive?

No—there is another hour: the hour of true encounter with the Divine, when Life is experienced, when the rain of nectar descends. Then, too, flowers are offered, but not borrowed from trees; they bloom from your own life, in your own mind. Man is also a tree in which blossoms come—flowers of awareness, of wisdom, of meditation, of remembrance. Offer only those. Grow those flowers, so you can offer them. Anything less will not do. Make this mind into a flower. The line is sweet: weave the garland with the mind itself! From the mind pluck the blossoms...and with that garland adorn him!

Offer sandal-paste of many hues...

Surely this sandalwood paste cannot be outer either. If the flowers are within, the sandal must be within as well. It is the fragrance that rises in your consciousness—that is sandal. The sweet scent of your own awareness is sandal. Your own aroma is hidden within, and you seek it outside. Don’t you see the musk-deer running in search of that fragrance which arises from its own navel? The musk rests in its own navel.

Great treasure-houses of fragrance lie within you. But you are so entangled with smells outside that your own scent is unknown. Your nostrils are filled with outward odors. You give no chance—no space—for your eyes to turn within, for your ears to hear within, for your nostrils to take in the inner scent, for your tongue to taste the inner flavor, for your skin to feel the inner touch—for the meeting to be. You have given no chance. So lost are you outwardly; you have bound all your senses outward—and then you abuse the senses. It is you who entangled them. The senses can lead you inward as well as outward. They are doors.

On one side of a door it reads “Entrance,” on the other “Exit.” The door is one and the same. If the eye could only see outward, man could never see the Divine. This eye can also turn and see within. It is a double-edged sword. So are all your senses. Look outside if you wish—there is the world. Look within—there is nirvana. And whatever you have seen in the world, you will find it all within—immeasurably more, immeasurably deeper.

You have known fragrances outside—yet they are nothing. External scents are but ways to mask stench. They are as if someone, having a festering wound, places a rose upon it. The rose will not heal the wound—only hide it. Whom are you deceiving? The wound grows. Hidden behind the rose, it grows all the more easily, for it is no longer seen.

To hide their stench, people spray perfume. It is only a device to create illusion. To hide their ugliness, they arrange outer beauty: garments, costumes, adornments, ornaments—so many devices! They only veil the ugly. No one can become beautiful from the outside. Beauty arises from the innermost.

You have seen colors outside—but they are nothing compared to the colors within you. You have seen rainbows outside—but when you behold the inner rainbows, you will know the outer ones were pale shadows. Outside, there are only echoes; the source is within. It is like going into the mountains, calling out, and hearing your voice resound from the valleys—and you are startled, as if the mountains themselves called to you.

Outside is the echo; the true resonance springs from within. There are the hues of sandalwood there, and its fragrance. There, too, flowers bloom—the supreme thousand-petaled lotus blossoms! That alone can be laid at the Divine’s feet; that alone can be strung into a garland.

Without eyes, behold the Beloved’s beauty...

When the eye turns inward, a transformation occurs, a revolution. Looking outward, the seer and the seen are separate. Looking within, the one who sees is the one who is seen. There, seer and seen are one. How could there be two? The knower and the known are one. The devotee and the Divine are one. All dualities vanish. This is true seeing: where seen and seer dissolve into one.

Without eyes, behold the Beloved’s beauty...

There, the one who sees does not remain at all. A great wonder is tasted; a deep mystery is born. One is stunned—speechless.

Without eyes behold his beauty; without hands, bow your head.

Within there is no head, no hands—yet without hands the hands join, and without a head the head bows. That is the real bowing. Outwardly you have bowed many times—but where have you bowed? Bowing and bowing, you only stiffen. Your head bends, you do not bend. Watch those standing in temples: the head is lowered, but they stand rigid; the ego remains intact, unbending—by even a hair.

Bending the head does not bow the ego. But when within the head bows—when without a head, the head bows—ego departs. And once you have seen within, once you have heard within, then his glimpse flashes everywhere.

From the place of courtesy neither the secret of beauty nor of love could be hid:
Wherever your name was heard, we bowed our heads.

Then, if anywhere anyone speaks his Name, he is remembered!

It was hard even to escort Ramakrishna down the street. Disciples had to guide him carefully. If anyone along the way cried “Hail Ram!” that was enough for him to be swept into ecstasy—lost to the world, standing at a crossroad, eyes closed, tears streaming, dancing in bliss. He would forget it was an intersection, that traffic was passing, crowds gathering, even the policeman arriving to clear the way. A mere utterance of the Name!

Once a disciple’s daughter was to be wed. He begged Ramakrishna to come. Ramakrishna agreed. Other disciples advised, “Better not take him. If anything happens, the bride and groom...” But the devotee insisted, and Ramakrishna went. And what had to happen, happened. Seeing the groom adorned on horseback, he remembered the True Bridegroom. They had cautioned everyone: “Do not say ‘Hail Ram’; do not utter the Name.” But who could guess that the sight of the groom on a horse would be enough? His heart did what Kabir had sung: “I am the Bride of Ram.” He began to dance. When Ramakrishna dances, all else pales. The marriage rites were forgotten. All gathered around him. The devotee was perplexed, for no one had uttered the Name. Later, when after three hours he returned to his senses, they asked, “No one said anything—how did it happen?” He replied, “Who needed to say it? Did you not see Ram mounted there? What a Rider! I remembered. I remembered the true Bridegroom. My knot too was tied like that. My vows were taken like that. Then how could I hold back?”

Bow within—and then you will bow without as well. Then I tell you: even before a stone image, bowing, you will be bowing to him—though not until the inner recognition has dawned. Then you will bow before the tree and bow to him, for it is his greenness there. Then you will bow before anyone. Bowing becomes your way of being. You live bowed. A leaning of the heart becomes your natural posture, a simple state of devotion.

Do not wound his desire to be seen:
O crowd of sorrows, let the frail one gather himself a little.

The pious fret for houris of paradise, for the Cup of Kausar and Tasnim;
We, instead, take paradise to be a glimpse of your face.

The devotee says: enough for me that I behold you, that you appear.

The pious fret for houris of paradise, for the Cup of Kausar and Tasnim...

But so-called ascetics and renouncers have great ambitions: heaven with palaces of gold, lovely nymphs pressing their feet, gandharvas playing the lute, fountains of wine, wish-fulfilling trees beneath which any desire is fulfilled. These are not the marks of a devotee—or of the truly religious. These are the same old longings, the same worldly market—only painted on a new screen. You have projected your desires in another direction; you have brought your bazaar back again.

The puranas’ tales of heaven, if understood carefully, are descriptions of your mind—not of heaven. They narrate your cravings—not heaven. Heaven is not a place; it is the name of vanishing in his vision, dissolving in his presence. Heaven is his touch. No place where wish-fulfilling trees grow beneath which you sit and demand. The very idea of such a tree betrays the unfulfilled desires within you. Failed here, you will fulfill them there—and to fulfill them there, you are repressing them here and fighting them here. See the madness? See the arithmetic?

If desires are wrong, they are wrong here and wrong there. If wine is wrong, it is wrong here and wrong there. But see the joke: here a small earthen cup of wine is sin, and there streams flow—drink to your heart’s content, dive in! Here saints warn you, “Beware of woman!” and there, in reward, beautiful women await—result of your caution! What arithmetic is this? A cunning bargain: you leave ordinary women here to gain extraordinary ones there—whose age never increases, forever sixteen. Urvashi is still sixteen! Sages have come and gone for thousands of years, she remains sixteen. No one grows old there.

This is your desire. You do not want to grow old here either—but you are helpless. Age creeps in—what will you do? You hide it, fight it, manage it—but at least you savor the fantasy of heaven. Yet even there you imagine only enjoyment—not renunciation.

So who is the true renouncer?

Only he who says, “Having seen the Divine, all is attained.”

We take paradise to be a glimpse of your face.

To ask for more than this is to return to worldly asking—to put something even above God.

Just imagine: if someone told you that you will meet the Divine, which three things would you ask for? At once your mind will start making a list. Sit for a moment and consider it: if the meeting comes, be ready—what will you ask? At least choose three. Stories abound where people met God unexpectedly and had no list ready—and got into trouble. For what they asked brought misfortune. They asked without thought. There are many such tales.

A man saw his chosen deity. As in the stories, the deity asked, “Ask for three boons.” The man was tormented by his wife—as all men are. He said, “Let my wife die.” Instantly she fell and died. And as happens when a wife dies, he panicked—for how will one live without a wife? Neither with, nor without. As soon as she was gone, he saw: who will cook, make the bed, care for the children? We are ruined! In a hurry he begged, “Bring my wife back to life.” The second boon was spent—and he was back where he started. The deity said, “Now be quick—ask the third.” He said, “Wait! Only one remains. Let me think.”

And I have heard he is still thinking. With only one boon left and countless desires, how will he choose? The poor fellow must have gone mad. Ask for this and that is left out; ask for that and this is lost. So many things to ask for.

So make your list. At least get three in order, for old-time gods have the habit: they say, “Ask for three”—not two, not four. Make your list of three. You will be astonished at your own list. On a piece of paper—don’t be afraid. Don’t make a pious list to show others. Make it only for yourself. If you make it to show, it will be false. Write exactly what arises. Then you will see: even if the Divine stood before you, you would ask for petty things—wealth, position, prestige, a journey into enjoyment. What else would you ask for? The ascetic who boasts of renunciation is doing exactly this.

No—the devotee has no such ambition. He says, “Your glimpse—enough!”

Without eyes behold his beauty; without hands, bow your head.
With both hands joined in prayer, sing the auspicious Name.

With both hands joined, I will beseech you; I will sing the auspiciousness of your Name. What else remains to do? For one who has seen the Divine, nothing remains but celebration. Heaven is celebration—not indulgence, not demand—only gratitude, only thanksgiving.

That is why I tell my sannyasins: after each meditation, let there be a few moments of celebration. After every meditation. For in the end, after the supreme meditation, only celebration happens. Prepare for it. Practice it—slowly, slowly. After samadhi, nothing remains but dance and song—and even those no longer “yours.”

Beloved, it was you who sang
whatever songs I wrote.
It was you who gave crimson to the sky that day,
you mirrored yourself in the dawn,
you lent your raga to birdsong,
your light to the sun’s rays,
your fragrance to the southern breeze,
and to the trembling lotus you gave
your sweet pollen of delight.

The devotee is no more—the Lord himself dances in the devotee. A unique rasa! A festival of joy, a great celebration! Flowers upon flowers bloom; reed upon reed plays; ever-new curtains of mystery rise; lamps flare everywhere. Diwali has come—and Holi too—both at once.

Jagjivan beseeches and asks only this: let me never forget.

Only one prayer remains: that I never forget, never again fall into oblivion. Mark this—and ask for nothing else. “I know this vision did not come because I was worthy. I am unworthy. I am as I am—no great attainment, no great renunciation. What is my renunciation? As I am, so my renunciation—worth two pennies. I have no knowledge, no meditation, and yet you came! Unannounced you came as a guest; you knocked upon my door—keep knocking! Keep reminding me. I am foolish—I may forget, even after seeing. I may taste and yet slip.”

So the devotee prays: “I have seen—you must now not let me forget. I know my unworthiness. I may be lost again in the dark. This full moon that has arisen in me may turn to new moon. If it depends on me, it surely will. Now I need your support even more. Having given me vision, see that I do not forget. Keep me in remembrance.”

With both hands joined in prayer...

I join both hands in supplication.

There are many salutations in the world, but joining both hands is unique to this land—and deep symbols stand behind it. Even science is coming close. Neuroscience now says the human brain has two hemispheres. The right hemisphere is linked with the left hand; the left hemisphere with the right hand—crosswise. Because we have elevated the right hand and do everything with it, our left brain is activated. The left brain specializes in mathematics, logic, calculation, outward journey—and perhaps that is why the right hand became important, to keep the left brain active. When the right hand works, the left brain works; when the left hand works, the right brain works. The right hemisphere’s qualities are poetry, feeling, intuition, love. The world values none of these. So the left hand was discarded. In discarding it, we discarded poetry, love, intuition, feeling—a clever trick, a grand fraud.

In the future, both hands will be trained equally—and must be. Even now, ten percent of people are born left-handed. Ten percent is no small number. Yet you might find one in a hundred who writes left-handed—the other nine have been beaten, punished, forced in school to write with the right.

There are reasons: society values logic over poetry, mathematics over love, bookkeeping over feeling. It lives by calculation, not by heart. This is a way of murdering feeling. For thousands of years the trick has gone on; half our brain lies unused.

Bringing both hands together symbolizes joining both halves, saluting as a whole. Both hemispheres bow together: “Our logic bows to you and so does our love; our mathematics and our poetry; our feminine and our masculine—both are offered.” We surrender as one.

There is a difference. In the West, people shake hands—with one hand. That is the act of half the brain, not the whole person. Joining both hands includes totality. We strive to erase duality. Not two—one. Hence before the Divine we join both hands—wherever we truly offer ourselves, both hands are joined.

When you join both hands, the energies of your hands and brain form a circle; electricity begins to move in a circuit. It is not only symbolic; this actually happens.

Hence posture is prescribed in meditation: padmasana. One leg crosses the other; one hand rests upon the other—the body becomes a single circuit. Inner conflict dissolves. Bioelectricity flows in a calm circle. Padmasana and siddhasana are deeply scientific; the mind quiets easily. Joining the body, we join the hemispheres; joining them, the battle between thought and feeling ends—the war between science and religion ends.

Join both hands in greeting—it is scientific. Do not replace it with handshakes: cheap, of no value, without science.

With both hands joined in prayer, sing the auspicious Name.

Nothing remains now. Duality is erased; I am one—and being one, what remains but to sing auspiciousness—only auspiciousness!

Jagjivan begs and asks only this: let me never forget.

For once one has known, forgetting becomes very painful—very painful! Better not to have known. Before the taste, there was no sorrow; once tasted, then the trouble begins. Whoever has drunk wine knows its intoxication—who has never drunk has neither its taste nor its longing.

Love has brought apocalypse upon my head—what need to speak of the Day of Doom?
No one to hear—what need to tell the saga of love?
Since she averted her gaze—ah, do not ask of ruin!
A hollow breast, desolate eyes—what need to tell the heart’s condition?

If after meeting his gaze, his gaze slips away—

Since she withdrew her glance—ah, do not ask of ruin!
Then do not ask of the color of devastation! The chest empties, the eyes are deserted—what can one say? Everything shatters, a desert remains. Yesterday we lived in false gardens, in deceptive dreams. His glance broke the dreams; now dreams can no longer fill you—and if he, too, is forgotten—dreams are lost and truth forgotten. A hard state.

Hence the devotee’s sole prayer: Jagjivan begs and asks only this: let me never forget.

Keep me warned. I will forget on my own. Don’t trust me. I am helpless. My weaknesses I know well. If left to me, I will forget. I will fall into some pit, some entanglement. I am habituated to tangles; my feet wander toward them. You have brought a moment of clarity; in the same way, awaken remembrance. Let this lamp not go out. Fan this flame. Keep this light burning.

This is the devotee’s prayer—and what prayer could be greater? If you must pray, pray this. Any other list will go astray.

Let me play Holi in this very town.

Buddha’s famous word: this very earth is the lotus paradise. And this very body is the Buddha.

Jagjivan says: Let me play Holi in this very town.

In this very city of the body the moment of Holi has come. It had not even been imagined, because the so-called saints insist the body is the enemy; destroy it. Not so for the devotee: the body is his temple. Care for it; keep it adorned—as you keep a temple.

In truth, the temples we built in this land are fashioned like a man seated in lotus posture: the foundation, his legs; the four walls, his torso; the dome, his head; and the gold finial atop—symbol of the golden blossom within.

This body is a temple—the paradise of paradises. Do not fight it. It is God’s gift. Fighting it is ingratitude. Listen: Jagjivan says, “Let me play Holi in this very town.” In this body, in this world, the moment of Holi has come. God is nowhere else but here—seen by a cleansed eye, seen within—here, now!

Then color bursts and gulal flies, O fair-faced one; the melody of spring floats again.
Love’s new longing glows again in the eyes of the god of desire.

Spring has gathered again.

Heavy with scent, languid with intoxication,
again the southern breeze sways.
With unconquerable sighs in the heart,
with thirsting notes in the song,
on mango boughs bursting into bloom
the black cuckoo calls again.

Drunk with their own pollen,
buds open their breasts;
as tingling of yearning,
their fragrance overflows.
They sway and smile and smile,
pouring their nectar,
and upon their wealth surges again
the swarm of bees.

Again there is pulsing in the mind,
again trembling in the body,
again a thrill in every limb,
again in the eyes, color and raga,
again absorption pervading,
again arms in embrace.

Today again the sack seems filled
with longings once harbored.

Once more the mind is aflame, once more life aflame,
again color flashes, O fair-faced one, again spring’s fragrance sings.

In this very body, as you are, the Divine can pour down. Your veena is ready—strings need only be tuned. Everything is present; only the consonance is off. Like a veena lying there with strings slack—everything is there, strings simply need tightening, and the song is born. So the Divine lives within you as possibility, ready to become actuality—strings need tuning. The arts of tuning are called religion.

Strings can be tuned in many ways—hence many religions. Religion is one; the techniques of tuning are many.

Whatever you have brought, if only you let it flower fully, then here, in this body... Let me play Holi in this very town!

“Bring me to meet my Beloved, O body; with you by my side, let me run.”

Jagjivan speaks to the body: through you the meeting was possible; now with you I must run. In union with the Divine, the body is not left out—remember that. Matter is as much his as consciousness. Dust as much as nectar. You are a weave of clay and nectar. When your nectar dances, your clay dances too. When the heavens dance, the earth dances. They are not separate—not distant, not different. Clay is nectar asleep; nectar is clay awake. This very body is the Buddha. This world is the paradise of paradises.

“I dance and dance, drawing aside the curtains; free and drunk with the Beloved, I laugh.”

Jagjivan says: Now I throw open all veils, and the dance grows deeper. The dancer is being lost in the dance. All curtains must be lifted now, all veils removed. What is there to hide? From whom?

Ordinarily, man lives hiding. How many masks you wear so you remain concealed, so your true face is not seen. What tricks! What roles! This is a world of shape-shifters. You are one thing, you show another. Deceiving others long enough, you are deceived yourself.

Beware: the long-term consequence of deceiving is that you yourself begin to believe it true. You smile falsely, and the smile becomes habit. Like politicians who smile twenty-four hours a day. I have heard they even sleep with their lips parted in a grin. Practice.

What you do by day, you do by night.

Mulla Nasruddin rose at midnight and tore his blanket. His wife tried to stop him, but he ripped it anyway: “So, you’ve come to the shop to make a scene now?” He sells cloth by day. In his dream a customer appeared—he tore the cloth! He scolded his wife: “You’ve begun coming to the shop—no peace anywhere!”

Your day becomes your night. What your conscious mind does, your unconscious mind imitates. Slowly your deceits seem true to you. One who smiles falsely begins to believe, “I am a cheerful man.” People say, “You are so cheerful.” Hearing it, he begins to believe it: “Perhaps they are right!”

A journalist died and reached heaven. He knocked. The gatekeeper said, “All places for journalists are full; try the other place.” He meant the other door—the gate of hell. The journalist said, “Not so easy. Give me 24 hours. If I persuade another journalist to leave, then you’ll have room?” The gatekeeper agreed.

He went in and spread a rumor: “A new newspaper is launching in hell—a big one. They need an editor-in-chief, an associate editor, reporters.” False news. When he returned after 24 hours, he asked, “Has anyone gone?” The gatekeeper said, “Not one—everyone! Now you can’t go either—we must have at least one left.” He said, “Then let me go—perhaps there is some truth in it. Twelve have left!”

He himself had spread the rumor.

You yourself float the rumor—and when it spins round the neighborhood and comes back, you too begin to suspect, “There must be something—the saying goes: where there’s smoke, there’s fire.” Gossips repeat it and you join: “Where there’s smoke there must be fire; something must have happened.”

People speak lies until they themselves become lies. The greatest deception is that your deceptions circle back upon you. Then veil upon veil must be added, for you are one thing and want to show another. No one wants to appear naked.

Before the Divine, veils must fall. Masks must be removed. You must stand bare. All cheating must cease. There you must be authentic.

“I dance and dance, drawing aside the curtains...”

Jagjivan says: What veils now—and before whom? Standing before my Master, I let all veils drop. Naked before the Beloved—what to hide? What is hidden from him?

“Let Beloved and lover be kept as one...”

Only when all veils fall can lover and Beloved be one. The distance is made of veils. The lies you spin are your distance. Ego is your biggest lie, with a long train of smaller lies: “mine” and “thine”—all false, for you brought nothing, you will carry nothing. What mine, what thine? “I am great; you are small.” The same One in you and in him—who is great, who small? Lie upon lie—and behind them you are trapped.

People languish in prisons of their own making. No one else forged chains for anyone. They are your chains, your prisons—and then you fall into them. Perhaps you forged them to trap others—but beware: the pits you dig for others—you will fall into them, today or tomorrow. Others, too, will fall—into the pits they dug; no one comes to fall into yours. Everyone minds his own pits. Life will show you: the pit you fall into is your own.

One night I halted at a small station—Makrauniya. Only two trains stop: one in the morning, one at dusk. A man, waiting with a bag of money, told the stationmaster, “It’s a dark night. The train comes at two. I have much wealth—please let me wait inside your room.” The stationmaster’s mind wavered. He said, “Lie down on that bench without worry.” Then he told the porter, “This is a chance not to be missed. Bring an axe and cut off his head.” The porter waited for his moment. The man could not sleep—who sleeps with so much money? He rose and paced, bag in hand. It grew late. The stationmaster—who always slept on that bench—lay down there. The porter seized his chance and cut off his head. The truth emerged in court: it was the stationmaster’s own plot. The porter had simply obeyed.

Such crystal-clear events are rare, but life is full of such events—whether clear or not. If you observe, you will see you fall into the pit you have dug. Perhaps you dug it today and fell thirty years later—then you don’t recall, you think someone else dug it. But sages’ ages-long experience is that everyone falls into his own pits. This is the essence of the law of karma: you reap what you sow—only what you sow.

“What a strange assembly this assembly of life is!
Whenever a curtain rose, I saw only myself.”

This gathering called life is strange: when the curtains lift, you are startled to find only yourself behind every one—behind the false, behind the sinful and the virtuous; and when the last curtain rises—behind God, you find yourself. None other exists. Only the One is here. Only the One moves.

“Let Beloved and lover be kept as one—beholding that beauty, let me be drenched in bliss.”

When the bride meets the bridegroom—when the soul meets the Divine—when all curtains between fall... then streams of nectar flow, joy surges, flowers bloom, celebration is born, songs of auspiciousness arise.

Who knows where thought is and where the gaze—
After hearing of you—what news is there of me?

“Let Beloved and lover be kept as one!” When he is seen, you are gone; when you are gone, he is seen. These happen together—two facets of one event: your going, his coming; his coming, your going.

“Let Beloved and lover be kept as one—beholding that beauty, let me be drenched in bliss.”

A sweet line: “Beholding that beauty, let me be drenched in bliss.” Bliss overflows.

How long will we keep trying to make love’s difficulties easy?
Now let love be sacrificed upon love itself.
Love demands: make love’s secret naked—
Lose yourself; let him be revealed.

Vanish—let him be!

Lose yourself; let him be revealed.
Step aside; make space empty. Vacate the throne—the Divine longs to come! So long as you sit upon the throne, how can he come? If you vanish, he arrives—and nectar flows. Only then is there joy in life.

If you suffer, you are the cause. The root of your suffering is simply this: you are. You are the suffering. Buddha said, “The world is suffering.” I say, “You are suffering.” Your being is the expansion called “world.” When you are gone, your imagined world is gone. What remains is the Divine, not the world.

“Let me float nowhere—let me cling to the feet; let my mind be tied firm.”

Jagjivan says: Now I will not be whisked away—no matter what. Old memories may arise, old illusions cast their nets, old attractions pull—old habits and past conditioning are strong. “Let me not drift anywhere; let me stay close to his feet”—I will not wander. Whatever happens, I will pour all my strength into one thing: to bind my mind firmly to his feet.

And yet the devotee keeps praying: Jagjivan begs and asks only this: let me never forget. “Do not forget me and do not let me stray. I will spend all my strength to keep hold of your feet, but after all, I am I—what is my strength? Without your support I am powerless. You are my strength—the strength of the weak is Ram.”

“Let me gaze unblinking—let me renounce everything else.”

I will let everything go—I will gaze unblinking toward you. What else is there to see? Once he is seen, what else remains to be seen?

“Let me gaze unblinking...”

I will not sleep—I will not even blink. Night and day, sitting and standing, I will remember you.

“...and let me renounce everything else.”

Let go of all else—let go of all.

He who, with a single glimpse, stole all my ease—
My eyes keep seeking that thief of the heart.

If ever his company is lost—the One who stole everything with a single glimpse, took what we had thought was “ours”—the eyes keep seeking that thief again and again. That is why we named him Hari. Hari means “robber”—the one who snatches away. Of all his names, none is as sweet as Hari—the thief, the taker. He steals—but only what is unreal; and he gives only what is real. A thief—and a giver.

You rejoice that you possess; I rejoice that I do not:
Those tasks easy to obtain, those glories cheaply gained—
I am glad they are not my lot.

Content on the shore you may be—but perhaps you do not know:
Even shores can upraise waves; even silence can be storm.

There are storms that are silent. The devotee enters such a silent storm.

Those who live for truth—would they fear to die?
When the hour of martyrdom comes, hearts begin to dance.

When the moment of death comes for the devotee, his heart leaps. Death, for the devotee, is a moment of supreme joy; for his vanishing is his Beloved’s being. Death is the great friend.

On the path of devotion, death is the supreme experience—the doorway. There is no death there: this life goes, and the Great Life arrives. This little world disappears, the Vast is given. The drop is lost, the ocean is attained.

“Let me gaze unblinking—let me renounce everything else.”
When the hour of martyrdom comes, hearts begin to dance.
Those who live for truth—would they fear to die?

“May my bridal fortune awaken forever...”

Now one sees what true bridal fortune is, what suhaag is—the bridal night. Till now, the marriages you celebrated were made and unmade; the unions were only preparations for separation. Everything was passing. No union was eternal. Hence every union wounded.

“May my bridal fortune awaken forever...”
“...let me live in satsang and remembrance.”

Now only satsang remains as life; surati—remembrance—is breath. Memory of him alone is nourishment. Satsang and remembrance—that alone.

God knows which station love is:
it has no beginning—and no end.

No beginning now—and no end. Eternal. Love is such a journey.

“May my bridal fortune awaken forever; let me live in satsang and remembrance.”

Jagjivan, O friend, is happy for ages and ages:
let my remembrance rest on his feet.

Hopes of ages are fulfilled. The journey of lifetimes is complete. Longings of lifetimes bear fruit. Remembrance rests upon his feet!

Ah, friend, I am afraid of my mother’s home—sister, how shall I play Holi?

And yet, there is fear—even in dancing there is fear. We have no habit of dance. Our feet have been in chains. Anklets were never tied; only shackles were familiar. If you free a prisoner and tell him, “Dance,” he cannot. The burden of long-worn chains remains on the mind. If a man has worn iron shackles for thirty years, will the weight vanish in a day? The burden has fallen upon the psyche.

Physicians know this.

In the Second World War it often happened: a bomb shattered a man’s leg—excruciating pain. He slipped between consciousness and unconsciousness. In the hospital it was clear the leg could not be saved. If they tried, the whole body would be lost. They amputated in the night under anesthesia. Each time he stirred, he cried, “My foot hurts!” In the morning, awake, he again said, “My foot hurts.” The doctors laughed: “There is no foot. How can it hurt?” They lifted the blanket: “Your leg has been cut off. How can your foot hurt?” He said, “But it hurts. Though I see it’s gone, I still feel the pain.”

The pain lingers in the mind. The leg is gone; the pain remains. It will take time to leave the mind.

Often the disease goes, but its shadow lingers in the mind. Freedom from disease is one thing; freedom from the mind of disease is another. The “mind of illness” is something else.

Doctors know those who have no malady, yet go from doctor to doctor until someone tells them they do. Even sugar pills will please them. They will keep going until someone says, “You are ill.” Many exist like this. They are pitiable—though their bodies are fine.

One such man spent his life harassing doctors; every doctor said, “You are fine.” When he died, he asked his wife to inscribe on his tombstone: “Now do you believe I’m dead?” “Put this slate upon my grave for the doctors. Those rascals never believed—but now they must. Or do they still not believe? Do they still think I’m faking death?”

The mind does not let go easily. Jagjivan is right—speaking from experience. The moment of Holi has come; fill the syringes with color; tie on the anklets; sing and scatter gulal—the day has arrived! Yet—Ah, friend, I fear my mother’s home—sister, how shall I play Holi? For lifetimes we have never played Holi, never flung color, never offered fragrance; for lifetimes we have never celebrated. We do not know the language of celebration, its style. One who has never danced—how can he dance? Only by dancing will he learn.

I have many shortcomings—and not a single virtue...
How shall I grasp the cord firm?

Even in the hour of celebration, he has marked my forehead with bridal red; yet—I am full of faults, not one merit.

How to seize this rope of love tight? I know only my unworthiness, not any worth.

Whom shall I blame, sister?
All faults are my own.

Now it is clear: for lifetimes the fault was mine—the pits I dug, the seeds I sowed—that is what I reaped. Today the auspicious day has come, yet my feet have forgotten to dance; song will not rise.

I wish to walk the true way,
but I have marinated myself in poison.

I want to walk the right path and dance, but lifetimes of poison have seeped into my veins. Today even nectar rains, and I taste it—but I cannot gather courage to say thanks. Ah, friend, I fear my mother’s home!

You will be surprised to know: even joy causes fear—more than anything else. You are used to sorrow—familiar. You can manage suffering. When joy first arrives, people rush to me in panic: “I am so afraid. Such joy—am I going mad?” They were never afraid in sorrow—sorrow is their old school. They are steeped in poison—sipping poison is easy. When the first call of joy is heard, they mistrust it. How can they trust what has never been? They had prayed for it, yes—but did they ever believe they would receive it?

We pray without believing it will happen—always a “perhaps.” Therefore when it comes, Jagjivan’s psychology is exact—existential, not conceptual.

Every day here sannyasins arrive frightened—by happiness: “What is happening to me? This laughter bursting without cause—this joy overflowing—this never happened. Am I sane? Am I losing my mind?” A master is needed to reassure you as the hour of joy approaches: “Do not fear—you are not going mad. The blessed day has come. The moment of Holi is here. Play! Fill the syringe! Fling color and gulal!”

I wish to walk the true way—but I have marinated in poison.

When wisdom dawns, I will climb the sky-fort;
with folded hands I will meet my Beloved.

The gateway is before me. The bridal mark is placed; the Beloved has accepted me—the lover is ready to be taken within. Yet the devotee trembles; the petitioner is afraid. The stairs rise before her—yet still she says: “When right understanding comes, I will climb the sky-fort.” When the mind is settled; old poison, habits, conditionings pull her back. “When right wisdom is firm, I will ascend—into the sky, the infinite, the vast Brahman—with folded hands, I will meet my Beloved.”

Ah, friend—I fear my mother’s home! The journey is so new. These stairs that climb toward the sky—where will they lead? One used to boundaries trembles to enter the boundless. As the river nears the ocean, she must tremble.

Kahlil Gibran writes: When the river meets the ocean, she looks back. She must. The mountains of her birth, the source, the cliffs and falls, the plains and shrines, the temples and villages—an entire pilgrimage calls to her. She looks back, for ahead lies the sea—meaning: to be lost. She shivers, hesitates—Ah, friend, I fear my mother’s home—sister, how shall I play Holi? She thinks: if I merge, I am gone—no return; my separate being is finished. She shrinks, longs to turn back. But the taste before her is so deep that, despite all fear, she climbs the sky-fort. This pull of love is such that, forgetting the past, she leaps into the unknown future.

“My eyes are moistened by tasting the nectar of vision; I will not loosen the knot of love.”

The eyes are filling—
Tasting the nectar of darshan, everything is moistened; everything is soaked in rasa.

“My eyes are moistened by tasting the nectar of vision; I will not loosen the knot of love.”

Whatever happens—though there is much fear—I will not let go the knot of love.

Just so, when the new bride leaves her mother’s home for her husband’s, does she not turn and turn again? Does she not weep bitterly? That is why Jagjivan uses “mother’s home”: Ah, friend, I fear my mother’s home! Where one was born and grew—playmates, parents—all must be left. Yet, weeping, she sits in the palanquin. She must. The fear of the past cannot bar the love of the future. She must go. If you cannot dance yet, no matter—dance you must. The palanquin is at the door—you must get in.

“My eyes are moistened by tasting the nectar of vision; I will not loosen the knot of love.”

I cannot loosen this knot, however much I fear.

“Let me lay my head forever at his feet;
let me become his handmaiden.”

Even if my head must be given, I will give it—fear or no fear. Let me be his servant, his maid.

“Jagjivan sleeps upon the true bridal bed—
and everything else is petty talk.”

The bridal bed is prepared. All else is empty words. I must go—the bed is ready, the Beloved eager, his call has come; his rasa filling my eyes; my heart tasting him; the stairs before me; the palanquin at the door.

Ah, friend, I fear my mother’s home—sister, how shall I play Holi?

But play you must. At first the steps will falter; the beat will be off; the meter won’t fit. Soon it will.

“Jagjivan sleeps upon the true bridal bed—
and everything else is petty talk.”

Without him, life is futile.

Thus am I passing my life without you—
as though committing a sin.
This, too, is a gaze I cast,
adorning dust-motes with sun and moon.
My love has added four moons
to the glory of love itself—
Even Beauty I make my witness.
Those who cannot see the next step ahead,
I am lighting lamps along the road.

As I climb into the palanquin, mustering courage for the unknown—so you must, too.

Those who cannot see the next step ahead,
I am lighting lamps along the road.

The day any devotee gathers courage to meet the Divine, that day within him the Satguru is born. Through him, others begin to find support. So long as there is fear, he is a disciple. The day he drops fear and leaps fearless—he becomes a master.

From one master, many masters can be born. From one lamp, countless lamps can be lit. Then each lamp can light many more. The whole earth can become Deepavali. The whole earth can be filled with gulal and color. The greatest thing of all is to drop all fears and set out into the Unknown.

Those who cannot see the next step ahead,
I am lighting lamps along the road.

These were Jagjivan’s lovely words. You have heard them—now ponder them. You have heard them—now live them. And through them, the hidden lamps within you will appear; the closed buds will open.

This is not difficult. It can happen. What happens in one human life is the birthright of all.

Ah, I am drunk with the color of Ram!
Ah, I am drunk with the color of the Name!

You too—drink! But only if you drink will you be drunk; only if you live will you be fulfilled. Drink so that it overflows you—so that your cup spills into others’ cups. Burn—and light others. Fill—and fill others. Blessed is that one. Then you, too, will say:

“May my bridal fortune awaken forever; let me live in satsang and remembrance.
Jagjivan, O friend, is happy for ages and ages: let my remembrance rest upon his feet.”

Offer sandal-paste of many hues to the Beloved’s brow.
Weave a garland of blossoms out of the mind, and bring it to adorn him.
Without eyes behold his beauty; without hands, bow your head.
With both hands joined in prayer, sing the auspicious Name.
Jagjivan beseeches and asks only this: let me never forget.

Drink—drink just so! May such be your bridal fortune. May such be your blessed fate.

Ah, I am drunk with the color of the Name!

Enough for today.