Athato Bhakti Jigyasa #17

Previous sutra—
“There is no third substance in existence other than the object and consciousness, the known and the knower, the seen and the seer.”

The world can be divided in two—the knower and the known; the I and the thou. This is the final division. Go even deeper and all divisions dissolve, all distinctions drop. This is the limit of separation, the realm of duality. If you go deeper into the seer or deeper into the seen, the same One arises within both.

Knowledge goes only this far; devotion goes beyond. Knowledge stops at the distinction between knower and known. That is why, in truth, knowledge can never be nondual. It cannot. Knowledge is bound to be dual—there is an inbuilt necessity for duality in it.

Hence even the greatest of knowers, though they may proclaim a thousand times that the world is illusory, maya, are still obliged to accept the world. Without granting the world, knowledge itself cannot occur. The very event of knowing depends upon the knower and the known being two. How could you know God if the knower were not other than God? If there were no otherness, knowing would be finished. You know a tree because you are other than the tree. If you were the tree, how would you know it? Then the knower would not remain.

Climbing beyond countless distinctions, the knower reaches a state where two remain. Beyond two there is no journey of knowledge. There knowledge is exhausted. Even if, at that point, the knower speaks of the One, that one rests upon his duality. He will call the two by some name—Brahman and maya, Purusha and Prakriti—it makes no difference; the two remain.

Devotion takes a leap beyond, takes a flight further, where the two actually come to an end. For devotion insists not upon knowing but upon being. Understand this insistence of bhakti well.

The fundamental vision of devotion is: without becoming one, there is no way even to know. The vision of knowledge is: only if there are two can knowing occur. The vision of devotion is: only when oneness is accomplished is there true knowing. That is why devotion does not even call it “knowledge,” because the language of knowledge smuggles in the two; it calls it “love.”

There is a kind of knowing from the outside, and a kind of knowing from within. Lovers also know one another, but that knowing is different from the scientist’s. You go to a doctor with a headache; you narrate your pain. The doctor “knows” headaches—he has read and written about them, perhaps suffered them, knows the medicine, will help you get rid of it. But his knowing is from the outside. Your beloved, your mother, your husband, your friend—when you tell them you have a headache, they too “know,” though they have not read scriptures and cannot analyze what a headache is. But their knowing is of another dimension—sympathy, empathy. When your beloved’s head hurts, your head hurts. When the son is troubled, the mother is troubled. The trouble does not remain outside; it touches the within. Lovers are mingled into one another.

That is why when a beloved dies it is not the beloved alone who dies; a great part of you dies. The one you loved has died. On that day you come to know that a large part of you is gone, that a fragment of your soul has ended. You are no longer what you were when your lover was alive. Now there is emptiness, incompleteness. A wing of your house has collapsed; you are in ruins. When someone weeps and wails at a beloved’s passing, it is not only because the beloved has died; in that death his own death has happened too. He is now halved, crippled, his legs broken. He will never be whole again. Now this hollowness will remain and ache. The greater the love, the deeper the love, the greater the death that occurs. And if love is perfect, the moment the beloved dies, you too will die. You will not be able to draw even one more breath.

The custom of sati began like this. Later it degenerated—as all things do—but originally it arose so. Some lover died, and his beloved could no longer breathe. There was no meaning left in breathing. She did not have to climb upon the pyre—who was left now to climb? In the lover’s death, her own death had occurred.

When the identification is so total, a certain kind of knowing arises. To call it “knowledge” is not quite right, because with knowledge we think of separation, of distance, of a gap. This is an unprecedented kind of knowing where there is no distance, no twoness, no duality. This is what Shandilya calls priti—love.

There is a way of knowing that is of the heart, and a way of knowing that is of the intellect. In intellectual knowing there is a division between knower and known, between chaitya and chitta, between the seen and the seer. In heartful knowing, in emotional knowing, all divisions cease. Shandilya says: only then is there real knowledge. For as long as there is distance, what kind of knowing is it?

There is an incident in Ramakrishna’s life—there are such incidents in the lives of many saints, but Ramakrishna’s is fresh. Crossing the Ganges at Dakshineswar, sitting in a boat, his devotees singing kirtan—suddenly, in the midst of song, he cried out, “Why are you beating me? Why are you beating me?” The singers were stunned. Who is beating Ramakrishna? Who would beat him, and why? They said, “What are you saying, Paramahamsa? No one is beating you—what has happened?” He opened his shawl and showed his back—there were whip-marks and blood was flowing! The devotees were bewildered. “This is beyond us—how did this happen?” Ramakrishna said, “Look there! In midstream a boat is there; on that bank some men have gathered and are flogging a boatman.”

When the boat reached shore, the devotees went and looked at the man being beaten. They lifted his shirt—on his back were marks exactly like Ramakrishna’s—exactly. The mystery grew deeper. They asked Ramakrishna, “How did this happen?” He said, “In that moment, identification happened. They were beating him—you were absorbed in the singing, but my eyes were on that shore. As they beat him, for an instant I became one with him.”

This state is called empathy. It is a step beyond sympathy. Most people don’t even have sympathy, so how will empathy arise? Sympathy means: pity. You suffer; I feel pity. Empathy means: your pain becomes my pain. You weep there; I weep here.

Scientists have been experimenting much in this realm, and in the last twenty years great research has been done—especially in Russia—on empathy, particularly between a mother and her offspring. Experiments are ongoing with animals. A rabbit was taken far out into water, a mile deep, and killed. Its mother was playing up on the bank. When the young one was killed, instruments attached to the mother showed a shock like a bolt of electricity—like a deep wound within. The experiment was repeated in many ways. Whenever the young one was killed, the mother received a shock—even at a thousand miles—because the bond between mother and child is very deep. The child lived for nine months in the mother’s womb. He lived in such a way that he was, as it were, being the mother. Never again will there be such a deep relation—who can live in someone else’s belly for nine months? The heart-strings of mother and child are joined at great depth; the life-breaths are linked.

Similar phenomena occur between twins. One twin falls ill in India, and his brother in China falls ill. Empathy! They grew in the same egg, throbbed together; their heartbeats know the same rhythm. The disease that seizes one seizes the other—even thousands of miles away. These are signs of empathy, a unique mode of knowing where hearts are joined.

This joining is devotion. The day your heart is joined to the Vast, the day your beloved is none other than the Divine itself, the day you become one and in rhythm with the whole of existence, when your separate note no longer remains, when you become unison, a single tone in this vast music—no longer flowing contrary to it but one with the current, going where it goes, with all contrariness dissolved within—that is the birth of devotion.

Today’s sutra begins—
“Before separation, the two are already one.”

Just as before birth the mother and child are one. The separation comes later. Therefore separation is secondary; it is superficial. In just this way we are one with existence. Where were you before you were born? Before you entered your mother’s womb, in whose womb were you? You were in the womb of the Vast. Your separation from the Vast is only your belief. How could you be separate from the Vast? How could you live without it? Break from the Vast and even your breath will not move. The Vast lives in us. We are still in the womb. Only a delusion has arisen. The fish is still in the ocean, but has forgotten the ocean. So too have we forgotten. Otherwise, God surrounds you on all sides. He flows in your blood and sits in your bones, flesh and marrow; he moves in your breath, he beats in your heart. You are that—the concentrated form of that. A shape of his. A wave, a ripple of his. Not different by even a shred.

Shandilya’s sutra is very lovely: “Before separation, the two are already one.”

Reflect a bit: where were you before you were? And when you are no-more-ly you, where will you be? Imagine: the ocean is silent, no winds blow, no waves rise. Then a gust comes, a great wind; a great wave rises in the sea. Where was the wave before it arose? It was the sea; now it has arisen. Soon it will fall back into the sea—where will it be then? In the sea. Before it rose, it was in the sea. While it rose, it is still in the sea; only a new color, a new form, a new shape has appeared—name and form. This world is only name and form. Soon the name and form fall away; the wave becomes the ocean again. It will rise many times thus, and fall many times thus. So have you been born many times and died many times. You are born again; you will die again. He who recognizes that before birth I was in That, and after death I will be in That, and surely if my past was in That and my future will be in That, then in the middle too I can only be in That—where else could I be? The one who awakens to the feeling “I am in God, not for a single instant was I other”—he is the devotee.

“Before separation, the two are already one.”

And such is the ultimate analysis. The distinction between seer and seen is also just a wave. Truly, the seer and the seen are one. Understand it like this: at night you dream. Is there any real difference between the one who sees and that which is seen? In a dream you are everything. The story that unfolds, the film that runs, you are all of it—the director, the scriptwriter, the singer, the hero; the screen and the audience—you are all. From this deep experience, the knowers have called the world a dream. Dream means: all is one, yet difference appears. At dawn, when you awaken—where is your dream? It dissolves back into you. A wave had arisen, now it is lost again in you. The seen arises from the seer and dissolves back into the seer.

Before separation, the two are one. After union, they are one again. In the middle are they really other? In the middle they only appear other—an appearance. The name of that appearance is maya. Since beginningless time the two are one. The One alone appears as the two. The One has divided itself—for play, for lila. The scriptures say: He was alone. He grew bored alone. He divided himself, and began to play hide-and-seek with himself. This is exactly what you do nightly in your dreams. What you do in dreams, in a vast sense, is what is happening throughout the world. Consider this world the dream of God. Take it so, and a revolution will occur in your life. Then you will not for even a moment be able to consider yourself separate. And when one does not consider oneself separate, ego goes, conflict goes, resolve and struggle go; then there is rest.

Shandilya calls that rest devotion. I call that same rest sannyas—abandoning yourself on all sides to the current.

“Because it is the act of Power, this world is not false.”

And here is a most astonishing statement. You hear your so-called knowers say daily that the world is false, a lie. Shandilya makes a precious distinction. He says: the world is maya, yes—but not false. Understand the words “false” and “maya.”

“False” means: that which is not at all. “Maya” means: that which is not in fact, yet appears as if it were. There is a difference between the two. They are not synonyms. False means: untrue, non-existent. Maya means: it has no enduring reality, yet it appears.

Take a dream. Will you call the dream maya or false? If you call it false, then the dream did not occur. But you cannot say it never was. You remember in the morning there was a dream. You saw it—with your own eyes. If it were not, how could it appear? If it were not, it could not be seen.

There are nights when no dream arises; in the morning you do not say, “I saw a dream, though it did not appear, though it was not, yet I saw it.” When there is no dream, the night is blank. There is a difference between dreamless sleep and sleep filled with dreams. In dreamless sleep, there are no ripples. In dreamful sleep, there are ripples. In the morning you find that those ripples were not true. But can you call them absolutely untrue? They were not true, for nothing remains in your hand in the morning—your hands are empty. At night there were palaces, great kingdoms; in the morning your hands hold nothing. True it was not—but can you equally forcefully say it was false? Not false either. For if it were false, how did you see it? So it was something between truth and falsehood.

Understand three words—truth: that which is, and always is. False: that which is not and can never be. And maya: that which is in-between; partly is, partly is-not; sometimes is, sometimes is-not; today is, tomorrow will not be; yesterday was, today is not; appears for a moment, then melts away—a ripple, a wave. You cannot call it false; call it maya. As the magician’s show: not real in truth, yet not entirely unreal either. The English word “magic” comes from the Sanskrit “maya.”

Shandilya says: The world is maya, true—but it is not false. Why is it not false? It cannot be. If a wave has arisen in the true ocean, the wave may be momentary, but it is still a part of the true ocean. How could a false wave arise in the ocean of truth? And if a false wave can arise in the ocean of truth, then the ocean itself becomes false. How can falsehood arise in the Truth? He raises a most precious question.

“This world is the play of his Power—therefore it cannot be untrue.” This is his energy’s play—play, yes—but not false. Not truth either, for it is momentary. Truth implies the eternal, and false implies that which never is. This is a middle state—it appears now, and now it disappears.

In youth you dreamt youth’s dreams. Then old age came, and those dreams turned to dust. An old man laughs, incredulous that he could have been so naive, so foolish—running mad behind beauty, so absorbed in women and men. He cannot believe it happened. But it did. Now the dream has broken, yet when it was, it was powerful. It danced you hard, brought great storms, drove you to stake your very life. Then that alone seemed worthwhile. Then it seemed: lose all, but let this dream be fulfilled.

One who ran after wealth and more wealth and awoke one day to find all wealth a soap bubble—will he not weep? Will there be no remorse: how foolish I was! Has this not happened to you? Somewhere it has. Someone said a couple of bitter words, and you were aflame, ready to kill or be killed. Later you regretted—what was that? It was nothing! No reason to be so enraged. Without cause I went mad, I fought, I hurt. Now you sob and wonder: how did this happen? Against my intention it happened. But when that storm seized you, you had no awareness. Had awareness come in that very moment, it would have become false then and there. Awareness came after. If you wake up in a dream, the dream ends at once. Even in blazing youth the dreams have broken—Buddha’s broke, Mahavira’s broke. In palaces dreams shattered. Bhartrihari’s broke—he had everything, and suddenly it was all a dream. While the dream was in full heat, while it seemed near fulfillment, it broke—and instantly all was vain.

When Buddha left home and rode out into the forest, sending the charioteer back, the charioteer said, “What are you doing? Where are you going? You abandon the palace? This golden palace? The world craves this. Remember your beloved wife! Remember your newborn son! He has just been born. Where will you go leaving them?”

The old charioteer was reminding Buddha of the dearness and preciousness of what he was leaving. Buddha laughed: “When I look back, I see neither palace nor wife nor son—only flames upon flames—everything there is burning. That is why I flee.”

The charioteer could not comprehend: “What flames? Which flames are you talking about? What dream are you speaking of? Wake up! What flames? There is a beautiful palace, a wife, a father, a kingdom; all comforts—where are you going? I see no flames.”

He too is right. Though old, his dream has not broken. Buddha too is right. Though young, and at the age for dreaming, his dream broke. The greater the intelligence, the sooner the dream breaks. The measure of genius in the East is different from the West.

In the West, genius is measured by IQ—intelligence quotient, exam scores, problem-solving. East asks another question: how awake are you? Not how many problems can you solve, but what is your measure of awareness? Awareness quotient—how much wakefulness? Do you see things as they are, or does the projection of dream still continue?

We call Buddha a genius. Einstein we cannot. Though a few days before dying, a little awakening began in him; he was turning over. Einstein was intelligent; he was not a sage. Wisdom is that which uproots all dreams and reveals the truth of the world—waves depart, and the ocean is seen; name and form are lost, and reality appears—as it is. That inner-most of all beings, that great Being hidden within all existence—if that becomes visible, if God becomes an experience—we call it wisdom, prajna, Buddhahood.

This world spread all around is a ripple of his energy. Therefore it is not false; it is certainly maya. If you call it false, you will have to run from it. Call it maya, and live awake—that is enough. Therefore the devotee does not run away. The knower becomes a runaway. The knower is afraid.

Strange! The knower says “false”—and then is afraid. If it is not, what is there to fear? He should be the one without fear—remaining in the market, in house and family. Where to run, when “it is not”? He says “false,” but perhaps he says it only to console himself. Calling the world false is also a strategy of fighting it, a technique of resistance: “It is false; what is there?”

A Jain muni once recited a poem to me. As poetry it was good, but not fitting for a monk’s mouth, though his devotees nodded. He sang: “You remain in your palaces; for me your palaces are false. You enjoy the world; for me the world is false. Sit upon your thrones; I am blissful in my dust.”

Exactly what is commonly said for centuries. The devotees nodded.

I said, “If palaces are truly false, why mention them at all? Why talk of them? If they are not, of what are you speaking? Who then lives in palaces? And note: kings have never written such poems. No king says: ‘You enjoy your dust; I am fine in my palace. All else is false; I am fine on my throne.’ No king has said so. But monks have always said it. It seems some hidden envy lurks in the monk’s heart, some craving. He too sees clearly that golden palaces are worth living in, that there is delight there—but now he denies, consoles himself, whitewashes, saying, ‘What is there?’ This poem is not to convince anyone else; it is to convince himself that there is nothing there—just dust, just bubbles. If it is only bubbles, why work so hard? Why write this poem at all? Is a poem written to address bubbles? Let it be finished.”

They say the world is maya. And if a woman happens to brush against the man who calls the world “false,” he is shaken! What is this fear? If she is not, why such panic?

I was invited to a gathering. A Jain monk was invited too. He came and stopped at the door. The spread rug had to be removed. I asked, “What’s the matter?”

He said he could not walk on the rug because women had been sitting on it.

Women sat on the rug, so the rug itself has become woman! Now how can he walk upon it? Even the mat is dangerous. And I know there could be danger—push the desire down enough and you can take juice even from a rug.

Your repression-laden scriptures say: where a woman has been sitting, for a certain time a monk should not sit, for her vibrations linger there. The woman is false; the false has gone, but the false vibrations remain! Do not sit there. Who are these people? These are pathological states of mind, needing therapy. They seem deranged.

Devotion is healthier.

Shandilya says: do not call it false, because it is; but you may call it maya. Maya means: as long as you are intoxicated it seems true; when your intoxication breaks, it is seen as false. The real question is to break the intoxication. What is the point of breaking one falsehood with another?

I have heard: a man walked with a basket on his head. It had holes. A passerby asked, “What do you carry? There are big holes!” He said, “A mongoose.” “And the holes?” “So it can breathe.” “Why the mongoose?” “I have a habit of drinking. When I drink too much, I see snakes. The mongoose is for those snakes—people say it kills them.” The other said, “Brother, right now you are sober. Those snakes are not real.” “And is this mongoose real?” he replied. “The basket is empty! But to fool myself—when the fake snakes attack, I will release the fake mongoose.”

If the world is false, then these yogas, these austerities, these rites—these are false mongooses. If there is no disease, why carry the medicine? But he knows: the disease is false, and so is the medicine.

Shandilya speaks more truly. He says: do not say the disease is false; there is disease. It is maya. As long as it sits on your head, it is. As long as there is no awareness, it is. As long as there is no meditation, no awakening, it is. And when awakening comes, you will find the wave was not untrue. It was only that you saw only the wave and forgot the ocean. Behind the name is the Nameless; behind the form, the Formless; behind the seen, the Unseen. Our error was to remain at the surface; we did not go deep.

Whatever appears is that very energy of God; therefore it cannot be false. In this world nothing is false. There is maya. And maya does not mean a lie; it means “dream.” As long as there is sleep, it seems true. From this perspective there is no need to flee the world; there is need to awaken, not to run. Do not be a fugitive. Be an awaken-er. Wake up.

“The purity of his devotion will be known by the signs found among men.”

And how will you know if someone has awakened? How recognize the rise of devotion? How know if someone’s consciousness has become pure? How know if someone is joined to the Lord? He gives a few signs—how to recognize a devotee, and within yourself how to recognize the arising of devotion. How to know your journey toward God has truly begun? What are the touchstones?

The purification of devotion is known just as the signs of worldly love are known. Love is love—worldly or otherworldly, its signs are the same. Only the depth differs. Someone weeps for his wife—there is surely weeping, but the tears cannot have Pacific depths. They are puddle-tears by the roadside in the rain. Someone weeps for God—the depth of the Pacific is in those tears, infinite depth. Tears are as deep as love is deep. How much depth can there be in ordinary people? Ordinary lives have no depth. Bring a great ship and try to sail it in a puddle—it cannot. For a ship, an ocean is needed. The larger the ocean, the larger the ship that can sail. In a puddle only a paper boat can float, a toy boat—not a real one.

Worldly love is the love of puddles. But the signs are the same. The water in a puddle and the water in the sea are the same. Analyze a drop from the puddle and you will find the same H2O, the same hydrogen and oxygen, as in the oceans. In that sense there is no difference. That is why there is a marvelous science in devotion that connects the worldly to the otherworldly. Knowledge separates the world from the beyond; it makes them enemies. It says, this world is opposed to God. Devotion says, this world belongs to God—how could it be opposed? It is shallow, yes; but learn to swim in the shallow so you may go to the deep. No one goes straight to the depths; one must learn first in shallow waters. This world is God in the shallows—learn here to swim.

Have you learned to swim? The teacher first takes you to the shallow, near the bank, up to your neck. Once you’ve learned, then you can go into any depth; it makes no difference—shallow or deep is the same to a swimmer. But to a non-swimmer, it is not the same—the deep is peril. In the shallow, you can still manage.

The world is God in the shallows. God is packed into little pools, into small bodies. Learn to swim here. Learn the art of love here. Then the long journey is possible. The signs are the same.

Shandilya says: the knowledge of devotion’s purification is, like worldly love, known by outer signs. As in the world, when the beloved is mentioned, the lover’s body thrills, tears roll, the voice chokes, or a glow lights the face—

You have seen: speak of someone’s beloved, and a luster comes to the eyes that were dull a moment ago, dusty. The face that was dim, extinguished, suddenly glows. The life that was listless and defeated—mention the beloved, and vigor is born. As if someone gave a life-restoring elixir. Mere remembrance is enough. One who was dragging his feet is ready to dance. Speak of the beloved, and tears stream. Tears are songs; tears are music; tears are the heart’s voice.

Shandilya says: as worldly love has its signs, so devotion too has its signs. On hearing the stories of God—by listening, by singing his name, by sitting among a few intoxicated devotees praising the Lord—there arises a choking of the heart, tears begin to flow, a thrill passes through the body. One ceases to remain part of this world, enters another realm. This rare moment is called satsang. Where you sit and are choked with feeling; where your eyes fill with tears; where new thrill and new longing arise in your heart; where you remember the Lord; where you recall: “Ah, what have I been doing with my life? Will I spend it picking trash when the mine of jewels lies close by? Will I swim only in puddles when the ocean is near? The Vast is so close.”

From the windows of the horizon, the rays peep in;
the sky has spread like a tent; the paths are smiling.
The soft blanket of mist begins to fold;
the young branches lift their veils.
At the birds’ call the fields awaken;
the water-wheel hums in a mysterious rhythm.
From dew-wet lovely footpaths
the green trees’ shadows begin to embrace.
On a distant hill a scarf flickers,
and in imagination a million lamps begin to glimmer.

If you await your beloved, if you expect your lover, a flicker—just a glint of a scarf far away—and a thousand lamps are lit in the heart. A faint footfall—and the heart’s music begins. A mere nudge of wind knocking at the door, and you run: perhaps the one you waited for has come. See what happens within you at that instant? Multiply it endlessly, and you will glimpse the devotee’s state.

“The purity of his devotion will be known by the human signs.”

And remember: these signs are not given by Shandilya to test others. In almost all the commentaries and translations I’ve seen, people assume Shandilya is giving these to recognize others—how to identify devotees. Not so. What concern have you with others? These signs are for recognizing within yourself. They are simple aids for your inner journey.

The other can deceive. You see film actors—not in love, yet portraying love. Sometimes actors can display more love than lovers can. They know how to summon tears even when there are none—big drops appear. They laugh when there is no laughter, cry when there is no sorrow; show love where there is none; rage where there is no anger. Acting means: make what is not, appear as though it is.

So be careful—these signs are not for others. The other may be acting. And often it is so—you will see people swaying to a Ram-katha; ninety-nine out of a hundred are actors. They know they “should” sway, so they sway—so others will think they are religious. They cry because they “should.” The “should” causes it. The happening is not happening; all is superficial, formal. You too smile without wanting to, laugh without laughter—inside one thing, outside another.

No, Shandilya will not give you sutras to identify others. The truly religious person does not get entangled in identifying others. What need? What have you to do with who is a devotee? Your only concern should be: has that supreme event begun within me or not? Has devotion arisen in me or not? Does your heart melt or not? Does a current run through your heart or not? Do your heartbeats quicken? Does your body thrill? Pay attention to that.

These signs mean the first sprouting of love has begun. The clouds of Ashadha have gathered; soon there will be a downpour. And when you see these signs in yourself, do not be afraid. Others may think you have gone mad. That’s to be expected.

With Ramakrishna this happened daily. It was hard to take him anywhere. If someone said “Jai Ramji” on the street, he would be overwhelmed on the spot. The one who said it did so out of social courtesy—no relation to Rama at all. But for Ramakrishna, the very name of Rama was like wine—intoxication came. He would stand in the crossroads, eyes raised to the sky, body frozen—or fall to the ground, tears streaming, body in gooseflesh; a crowd would gather. It was hard to take him anywhere. Of course people thought he was insane. Physicians considered it hysteria, epilepsy.

Even if physicians were right—even if Ramakrishna remained mad and suffered epileptic fits—I still say: even then, better his madness than the physicians’ health. For Ramakrishna lived in supreme bliss.

When you see these signs within, do not suppress them. Your mind will say: hold back! What will people say? They’ll think you’re mad—control yourself! Shandilya enumerates these signs so that when they happen, you do not control: let them happen, let them manifest. Go far into them; drown in them. Upon them the journey will move; they are the vehicle.

And wherever possible, as much as possible, in whatever way possible, give time to God’s stories—where God is discussed, sit there. Drop a hundred tasks and sit. Where Ram-bhajan, kirtan happens, where someone dances in ecstasy—drop your tasks and dance with him. If you cannot dance, at least sit near him so that a little rain of his dancing energy falls on you, a few drops touch you, some possibility is kindled in you—perhaps a seed will slip into your heart. Who knows—when, in what auspicious moment, when your heart-door opens, the remembrance of God may catch—and once it catches, the journey begins. When a seed falls in your heart, the matter moves out of your hands—you must search, you must seek.

These are the outer signs; inner signs will also arise:

“Honor, deep reverence, love, longing, disinterest in other things, praise of the Beloved’s greatness, living for him, ‘his-ness,’ ‘his-mood,’ and non-opposition—such inner signs of love will appear.”

“Honor.”

In one who is filled even a little with the search for God, there will arise immense honor toward the world, toward existence. Honor for small things—for flowers, for the moon and stars, for the sun, for rivers and mountains. For all this is the lila of the Vast. In all these, the One has come in many forms. You will not see a tree as merely a tree; in it you will see his glory—he appearing as green, as red in the flower. You will not see stars as mere stars—as a scientist does—but his light, his form, his beauty shining through them. Honor will arise—reverence.

The great Western thinker Schweitzer called “reverence for life” the fundamental virtue of the religious. Shandilya speaks of the same. Such a person cannot break anything. If he can, he will join; he will not break. He will not break even a leaf from a tree, not pluck a flower. Such is his reverence. Whatever you break, you break God; whatever you destroy, you destroy God. Destructiveness will vanish from his life. Creativity will blossom; along with reverence for creation, creative energy will arise.

Second: “Deep reverence.”

Shandilya is not satisfied with honor alone. Honor is ordinary. Deep reverence will also arise. However much he honors, it will feel too little. He will pour himself out and still feel he has not thanked enough. So much has been given by God; how can I be free of this debt? Deep gratitude will be born.

The devotee bows everywhere. As fruit-laden trees bend, so does the devotee, full of fruit. He bows everywhere. He touches the feet of trees. He worships rivers. He reveres mountains. He salutes the sun. The whole world becomes gods and goddesses. Those who do not know this truth are amazed: why do people worship the sun? Is the sun a god? They worship the moon—what is there in the moon? Now man has even walked upon it!

They do not know: the devotee sees God everywhere. Everything becomes divine, for in everything the reflection of God begins to appear. Everything becomes a mirror in which his face shines.

“Love.”

Deep love arises. In such a one, waves of love surround him—rising, sitting, walking, sleeping, you will find a sea of love billowing around him. Come near him and you will be filled with his love. Come near, and your heart-lyre will begin to sing.

“Disinterest in other things.”

Except for God, all else loses charm—naturally. Not detachment by effort—simply no interest. He will not try; he just will not be interested. People sit and talk of money—he may sit there, but he will have no interest. Someone talks of murder—he may sit there, but he will have no interest. But if someone sings the praises of the Lord, instantly he will become alert, a flame will arise in his life.

Longing will be born. And the more God is recognized, the more the feeling of separation will intensify. The nearer he comes, the more the distance is felt. Longing means: the nearer you come, the more the distance appears. When you did not know, there was no distance; you were not seeking, so how could there be distance? Now as you come near, as glimpses come, you feel how far it is. As in ordinary lovers there is longing, so in the devotee it appears in vastness.

The moon is dim, the sky is hushed;
the world lies asleep in the lap of night.
In the far valley the milky clouds
bend down to kiss the mountains.
With unfulfilled longings in our hearts
we wait for you.
Come beneath these shadows of spring,
love may or may not remain young tomorrow.
Life may or may not be kind to your refusals.
As on all nights, tonight too the stars
may be lost in the dust of dawn—
come, so these wakeful eyes in your sorrow
may sleep at least for a single night.
The moon is dim, the sky is hushed;
the world lies asleep in the lap of night.

As a lover fills up with the beloved’s memory twenty-four hours a day—the moon in the sky turns into her face, a rose in the garden brings her to mind, the cuckoo’s call is as if she herself has called—everything becomes a pretext. That is love in puddles. But when you fall in love with the Vast Ocean, then surely everything will awaken longing; everything will bring the Beloved’s remembrance. Arrow after arrow will pierce your heart.

Tonight again smoke rises from the moon’s brow;
again in this fragrant night I must burn.
Again these heavy tangled breaths in my chest
will burst, will break and scatter.
Again tonight will pass awake in your dream—
tonight again smoke rises from the moon’s brow.

Moment by moment the devotee becomes a glowing ember. Within him there is only one yearning, one craving, one hunger: how to meet the Lord? The more this hunger grows, the nearer God comes. The day the thirst is complete, that day prayer is complete. Thirst itself is prayer. And the fullness of thirst becomes the meeting with God. Nothing else is needed—no other technique. Let every fiber of you call him; let every particle be filled with his thirst; let a moment come when nothing remains within you except this thirst—such urgency, such intensity—and in that very intensity it happens. Something breaks—your ego. And as your ego breaks, you are astonished to find—God was always present; it was the fog of ego over your eyes. God was never lost—nor is he found; you had fallen asleep in the sleep of ego. The sleep breaks, the dream of the world departs. The same trees remain, the same people—everything is the same, yet everything is new because you are new. Then even in stone you feel the One asleep; in your wife there is the One, in your husband the One; in your son, your father—the One. For the devotee, the whole existence becomes a temple.

“Praise of his greatness.”

The devotee delights in singing God’s glory. Whenever he praises him, he forgets himself. Praising his greatness is a way to be freed from ego.

Notice—people praise their own greatness. Listen to their talk; the gist is always this: “There is no one like me.” “I hunted such a lion no one could hunt!” “The fish I caught weighed so much!” Someone wins an election, someone wins a card game. All play the same game—to prove themselves special. They labor to make others small and themselves big. Man’s usual condition is self-praise.

The devotee praises God; and by praising him again and again, he becomes godlike. He who praises himself will be thrown far from God; he who praises God will one day become God. The longing to be special is fulfilled the day one becomes utterly ordinary.

“Praise of his greatness; living for the Beloved.”

The devotee no longer lives for himself. He lives to sing his glory a little longer, to sing a few more songs, to pray a little more. His life has a single aim.

This is my offering, my gift:
this vagabond gaze I bring.
To blend in your color
a drop of my heart’s blood I bring.
I don’t recall when I first came,
but I swear I have come before.
As for your thorns after your flowers,
on them I find the marks of my lips.
After the flower, let new flowers bloom;
may your hem never be empty.
Light upon light on your path,
moonlight upon moonlight in your courtyard.
This is my offering, my gift:
this vagabond gaze I bring.

The devotee says: I have nothing else—only this wandering eye.

To blend in your hue
I bring a drop of my heart’s blood.

Man has invented grand deceptions. You go pluck flowers and offer them in a temple; you think you have offered something. Until you offer a drop of the heart’s blood, nothing has been offered. Offer your own flower. You go and break a coconut—what use? Until this skull breaks—people found tricks: the coconut resembles a skull—two eyes, beard and mustache; its inside we call “kernel,” a “head.” People began offering coconuts in place of their heads! In place of a drop of heart’s blood, they offer vermilion—only a symbol of blood. In place of the flower of life, they offer the tree’s flowers—they were already offered, growing upon the tree. By plucking them you have subtracted, not added.

One must offer oneself. Live for the Beloved; die for the Beloved.

“His-ness.”

The devotee’s feeling is: He alone is; I am not.

“His-mood.”

He alone is in all; in all is he—this becomes his seeing. In these waves he colors himself, with these moods he fills himself.

“Non-opposition.”

And there is an absence of any conduct opposed to God. He cannot do anything contrary to the Vast. How could he? If “his-ness” has arisen—“You alone are, I am not”—and “his-mood” has arisen—“In all, you are”—how could he oppose?

The color of the thorn,
and the freshness of the thorn,
are in the blood
that the foot lets out.
The inner restlessness and joy
are in the drop
that falls from the eye.
But
neither this is seen
nor that is understood!

The devotee has only feeling to offer—his-ness and his-mood. The devotee melts himself and invites God. Weeping, he dissolves his ego, bids himself farewell. The day he is empty of himself, the possibility of being filled by God begins. Die as yourself, and be God. As long as you are, God cannot be. These are the inner signs.

“Not so with hatred and the like.”

The devotee does not live with hatred toward the world, as the so-called ascetic does. The ascetic has great hatred for the world. Your sensualist and your renunciate are not so different. The rich man grasps wealth; the renunciate runs from wealth—but both are obsessed with wealth. The sensualist says: more money. The renunciate says: I fear money, let it go. Both are terrorized by money—one by greed, the other by fear. The sensualist says: beautiful women, more beautiful women. The renunciate is frightened—even of an ugly woman. He runs to caves to get far from women. The sensualist seeks Paris; the renunciate flees to the Himalayas. Both are terrorized by woman. They differ little; their language is one. They stand back-to-back, but their logic is the same.

The devotee’s logic is different. He says: with hatred for the world you cannot love God. The lover knows not hatred. He loves even the world—so deeply that the veils of the world lift in that love, and within the world the hidden God begins to shine.

“Not so with hatred and the like.”

This supreme state of the devotee can only come through love—continual, deepening love. To seek to bring it through hatred is wrong at the root. The world and God are not in opposition, whatever your “great men” may have said. They are wrong. The world and God are not enemies. The world is God’s; how could there be opposition? Everywhere his signature, his seal. If you see opposition, the delusion is in you. You yourself have created the opposition. Seek, probe—you will find him hidden here. Break any stone and you will find him pulsing. In every leaf you will find him green. In every stream you will hear him gurgling. In every lamp, his light; in every heart, his beat; in every breath, his breath.

Not hatred—fill with love. This is the purity of devotion; this is its simplicity, ease, naturalness. Devotion does not ask you to become unnatural. It says: you have already been given love—you were born with it. Make this very love your ladder.

The renunciate gets busy with the reverse—what he was not born with. No child is born with renunciation. Renunciation is a learned language. But every child is born with love. Love is not learned; it is nature’s tongue. Renunciation is man’s invention; love is God’s creation. Trust God.

See the newborn—he is drenched in love. He hasn’t had the chance to learn yet. Look into a small child’s eyes—what simple love! No one has taught him. Truth is, as soon as people teach him, love begins to diminish. Tricks increase, hatred grows, dishonesty grows; he learns politics, diplomacy, cheating; pretense and hypocrisy. By youth, the life of love is throttled; by old age, all is desert; a spring of love cannot be found—where did it go? But every child brings a great pure capacity for love.

Devotion says: refine this pure capacity—purify it, expand it, make it vast. With it you will reach God. If God has sent you into this world, he surely placed something within you—provisions for the way, a lamp you can light when needed to find your way home, a map so you won’t get lost. Some thread he left inside you—when you awaken to yourself, you will find it; take hold of that thread and make the journey.

Love is that thread—the thread of all threads, the golden thread. The devotee trusts it, polishes it—turns affection into love, love into faith, faith into devotion. Climbing one step at a time, one day you find your love has found its sky, fully blossomed.

In the full blossoming of love, in the complete flowering of the lotus of love, that is attained which was never truly lost—only you were lost in a dream, and what is did not appear; what is not began to appear.

The world is maya—the lila of that very God, his energy. And the world is your school. Learn. The world is the process of refining love. That is why love catches hold of you so strongly. Is there any power greater than love? People give their lives for love. Sometimes even for false, taught love—like dying for “motherland”—a taught, political trick. The earth belongs to all. Yet people die. Some die for clan or family—petty things—but love is so precious that even its counterfeit sometimes seems worth dying for. What then of true love! The day true love is born, you will quietly place your life-energy at God’s feet and say, “All is surrendered.” In that surrender, the revolution happens.

Understand Shandilya with your whole heart. He proposes a supremely natural path of yoga. What is natural is true. Beware of the unnatural. If you get entangled in the unnatural, you create complexities. Walk with the natural, and you arrive without hindrance.

Enough for today.