Athato Bhakti Jigyasa #23

The journey of devotion can be divided into two halves. First, the state of separation in the devotee’s heart—of distance, of weeping. And then the state of union in the devotee’s heart—of meeting, of rapture and ecstasy. In the first, the devotee searches and finds no glimpse of the Divine; he fumbles in the dark; falls, rises, falls again, and rises once more; many times the thread of trust slips from his hand; many times the darkness seems absolute, as if morning will never come. Yet moments of doubt come and go; the pilgrimage toward dawn, the search for dawn, goes on. In spite of it all, the devotee keeps seeking. This is half the journey. The other half is a celebration of bliss—when the meeting happens, when the hour of union descends.

In the first moments, the devotee is central and God is secondary; what is not yet known must remain secondary. What is not yet recognized—how can that be primary? The devotee longs to dissolve, but whom to dissolve into? He is searching. Like the Ganges seeking the ocean—longing to lose herself, to disappear.

Blessed are those in this world who can disappear—who find that refuge where dissolving is easy. Blessed are they, and they alone are the ones who have vanished. It sounds paradoxical. But the inner fabric of life is woven of contradictions. That is what it means to say existence is mysterious. Here, those who seem to be, are not; and those who have disappeared—they alone are. Here, whoever saved himself, lost; and whoever lost himself, found. Here, victory turns into defeat and defeat becomes victory.

The devotee sets out to disappear. But he doesn’t yet know the place, not even the doorway at which dissolving will happen. He searches. The devotee is seeking his own death. That is why devotion demands courage.

Ordinary people think cowards become religious. Their idea is wrong. A coward can never be religious; religion is not for the timid. It requires audacity, and the capacity to die.

Devotion is the art of self-annihilation. Only when you vanish does the Divine become possible. If even a shred of you remains, that much obstacle remains. Your very existence is the obstruction.

So the devotee cries, calls out, screams, beats his chest, stumbles and falls again and again; the whole heart is soaked in sorrow. In this sorrow, sometimes distant stars rise. In this sorrow, sometimes a fragrance reaches the nostrils. In this sorrow, sometimes the sound of the Ultimate is heard, its floating music comes drifting in. But such moments are rare; and when they do come, they do not quench the thirst—they inflame it, they awaken it. For the slightest taste only heightens the longing. Let a single drop fall into the throat of the thirsty, the thirst increases, it does not diminish. Trust grows—and so does thirst.

Whoever can pass through this first state reaches the second—union. Only he who burns in the fire of separation becomes worthy of union. This state of separation is the testing ground. If you have not wept with your whole heart, have not called out with your whole being, you will never attain. If you are stingy in the first stage, you will remain far from the second. This path is not for the miserly, not for the cowardly. It asks for courage and a lavish heart. It asks for the capacity to lay everything at the Beloved’s feet.

In this first stage, God is far—like a distant sound, like a fragrance from afar. God is one percent, the devotee ninety-nine. In the second moment when it happens, the devotee is one percent and God ninety-nine.

These two stages can be spoken of. There is a third that cannot be said—when the devotee no longer remains and only God remains. That is the supreme fruit.

Today’s aphorisms will help you in this direction.

Bhaktyā bhajanopasaṁhārāt gauṇyā parāya etad-dhetutvāt.
“Here the word bhakti indicates secondary devotion; chanting and service are the forms of this secondary devotion, and this secondary devotion is the foundation of supreme devotion.”

Shandilya gives two names to these two limbs: one he calls gauṇī-bhakti (secondary devotion), the other parā-bhakti (supreme devotion). Gauṇī-bhakti is devotion in name only. When God has not yet been found, what devotion? And yet it is an essential limb. In gauṇī-bhakti there are forms and observances, worship and prayer, adoration. In gauṇī-bhakti there is duality. The devotee and the Divine are far apart; there is a great distance in between. The bridge is not yet built. But the devotee has begun to call from this shore to the far shore. Whether his voice reaches there, he does not know. Whether it ever will, he does not know. Whether there is anyone on the other shore to hear, he does not know. Whether that other shore even exists, he does not know. Whoever has this much courage, this much trust… a thousand doubts will arise: Why waste your time? Whom are you calling? The sky seems silent; no answer comes. No sign from the other side. A thousand doubts—naturally. You need enough trust to pass through them. Enough trust to go on in spite of them.

Where will this trust come from?

That is why Shandilya says: this trust comes from the Master. From the guru you receive it. If you find someone who stands on that other shore, or has come from there; who has known that far shore; in whose vicinity you can feel the breeze of that shore; in whose eyes there is a glimmer of that beyond; whose hand, when you touch it, connects you to the other bank; in whose depths, when you gaze, the doors of the sky open—until you find such a person, you wander in the desert. The meaning of guru is: in the desert, you have found an oasis. Amid the crowd of the ignorant, you have found one who is awake. Among sleepers, you have found someone who is not asleep.

Only one who is not asleep can awaken you. Scriptures will not suffice. Scriptures are gripped by the weak. Cowards cling to scriptures. The brave seek the Master—the one in whom scripture is being born now; in whom the ray of that distant light is descending now—dancing, alive, throbbing, breathing. Only near such a person does trust arise. And with that trust as your companion you set out toward God.

Hence the guru is your provision for the journey. Without holding to this provision, you will not make it. The journey is perilous. The greatest danger is: where will you go? In what direction will you search? How will you search? You are so possessed by yourself! Your entire past is steeped in ignorance, crammed with wrong habits; you will carry those habits on your head, and they will keep turning you back toward the past.

The law of habit is repetition. You drank yesterday, the habit says—drink today. You swore yesterday, the habit says—swear today. Everything you did yesterday, and before, wants to repeat. No habit lets go easily. And remember: apart from habits you have nothing; apart from your past you have nothing—no future. Find someone who has a future. Connect with him and a door will open, because the future is the door. In his company, slowly your trust will deepen; slowly his vibrations will open the closed buds in your heart. His winds will enter you; they will touch your trees, run through them, dust you clean, shake off your dry leaves, uproot your old habits; and slowly new leaves will sprout within. You are capable—you just don’t know your own capacity.

The first, Shandilya calls gauṇī-bhakti. But do not take “secondary” to mean it has no value. Without it, parā-bhakti will never be. It is called secondary so you won’t stop there. Do not stop at trust; do not stop at the guru; go beyond the guru.

But there are two kinds of fools in the world. One says: if I must go beyond the guru, why take a guru at all? The other says: if without the guru union is impossible, I’ve taken hold—why ever let go? Both are foolish. The guru is a ladder. One day you must grasp it; one day you must release it. Only then is the ladder used rightly. If you climb to the last rung and sit hugging the ladder, what is the point? The ladder is not the destination.

Some, out of ego, cannot take hold of the guru; others, out of greed, do take hold—but cannot let go. Beware of greed and ego—both.

It is called gauṇī to remind you: it is not the end; it is the beginning of the journey. An indispensable beginning. You cannot bypass it.

“In gauṇī-bhakti there are chanting and service.”

Chanting of the One not yet met, not yet recognized. The call! Call and call—and one day existence answers. Existence is not deaf. Existence is sensitive. But your call must be heartfelt. If you call and no one hears—there is only one meaning: your heart was not beating behind your call. Do not conclude there is no one to answer. The answer will come—but you are not yet worthy of it. You have not even asked rightly yet; your question is borrowed, not yours; there is no life in it—your question is trash. Existence does not answer garbage questions.

But when you ask a question for which you are ready to stake your life—when your call is such that you are prepared to give everything for it, to pay the price, not to receive a free answer, and whatever is required— even life—you will give it—on that very day you will receive. On that day you will find that what seemed deaf yesterday is not deaf. Trees begin to speak, stars begin to speak, stones and mountains begin to speak. Suddenly you discover you have entered another world; a sensitive world is born. Nothing has happened to the world—the world is the same. Only your sensitivity has awakened; the springs of your feeling have opened; your heart has begun to experience.

My every breath speaks, my love, all your silent messages—
A wave rises again and again,
Yearning its way to the shore,
Yet the shore’s heart has been indifferent for ages.
Even if that feelingful shore were to come forward,
What would be wrong?
My every breath speaks, my love, all your silent messages.

The devotee will feel this.

My every breath speaks…

He will call, send his voice—and receive no answer.

My every breath speaks, my love, all your silent messages—
A wave rises again and again,
Yearning its way to the shore,
Yet the shore’s heart has been indifferent for ages.

Your chest is indifferent. Even when a wave comes from that side, you cannot catch it. Your eyes are blind. From that side a hand reaches out to shower blessings, and you do not see it. You mis-see, you misunderstand. Your understanding itself is the obstacle. Become unknowing—drop all your cleverness—and perhaps you will understand. But your scholarship, your knowledge, your interpretations, your commentaries, your scriptures—what you have learned and memorized—these become the barrier. Through this tangle the voice of the Lord cannot reach you.

My every breath speaks, my love, all your silent messages—

God is not silent; he speaks each moment. His ways of speaking are different. Sometimes he even speaks through silence—silence is his language. But he speaks, surely he speaks.

Knocking again and again on bolted doors
And receiving no reply—who will tell
The shame and pain of such a heart?
Yet drinking this insult, the feet still return
To that threshold and stand…
What is there in you that binds my body, mind, and life to you so?

My every breath speaks, my love, all your silent messages.

Still, the devotee keeps calling. He fails and calls again. Quick success does not come. Those in a hurry are deprived of God. If our century is deprived of the Divine, the reason is not that sin has increased, nor corruption, nor atheism. If anything has increased, it is hurry. Man wants everything instantly. The capacity to wait is exhausted. No one is ready to watch the road even for a minute.

Knocking again and again on bolted doors…
Returning with no reply—who can tell
The embarrassed agony of such a one?

It will happen many times. You will knock; no answer will come. Again and again you will return—tired, sad, defeated. Wait you must. When you return defeated, do not think God is not; do not think God is harsh; do not think God is insensible. Know only this: my call is not yet complete; my thirst is not yet total. I knocked, but not with my whole being in my knock. I knocked timidly, as if thinking, “perhaps”—I knocked like that. Trust was not whole. My doubts became the barrier.

Openly and secretly both,
I worshiped you.
By night I offered tears; by day
I tuned my voice to please you.
The echo piercing my heart
Returned like my own arrow:
Once a song was my pain, now pain
Has become the song in my heart.
My every breath speaks, my love, all your silent messages.

At the beginning it will be like this. You will feel you are talking to a stone. But if you keep talking, stones have melted before; they will melt for you too. Do not tire; keep striking. No one knows with which blow the door will open. Open it does—that much is certain. It has opened for others; it will open for you. But which blow—no one can say. How many prayers must be gathered before a heart becomes worthy—no one can say. Every person is different.

Call! Find new ways to call. Call with words, call with silence; call with tears, call with dance—call! Find new paths to call. If one fails, seek another. Do not tire! Do not lose! Victory is assured. There may be delay, but there is no darkness without end.

What shall I sing that I might please your heart?

Sing new songs. If one song fails, sing another. If one door doesn’t open, knock on another. His doors are infinite.

What shall I sing that I might please your heart?
At dawn’s window the morning ray
Sang as she climbed;
Wave upon wave stretched and woke,
And the shut lotus opened.
But by my smiles alone
My face did not grow bright—
What song of hope shall I sing to you?

If the lotus can open, why not you? If a bud becomes a flower, why not you? If birds burst into song, why not you? You need a little trust in yourself.

And a great harm has been done: those from whom you expected trust have only taught you self-contempt. Your religious leaders, your priests, your so-called saints—if they have given you one thing, it is a sense of your own unworthiness. They have declared you unfit, a sinner, and destined to remain so. They have made you so small you can no longer lift your eyes to the vast. You walk with eyes downcast, nailed to the ground.

At dawn’s window the morning ray
Sang as she climbed;
Wave upon wave stretched and woke,
And the shut lotus opened—

You too will open. The morning ray can wake you as well. But hold a little self-respect. You are not less than the flowers. What lotus is more precious than you? You are the thousand-petaled crown; within you the sahasrara, the thousand-petaled lotus. The lotus blooming in your lake—such a lotus has never bloomed in any pond, nor can it. The lotuses of ponds are ordinary. The lotus of consciousness ready to bloom within you is extraordinary.

If one path fails, do not be disheartened.

Frosty hair and blossoming flowers—
Dew wrapped in sleep.
This song of the earth, upon which
Pearls and diamonds are offered—
I meant to make it sweet,
But alas, they were moistened and lost.
With tears-soaked instruments,
How shall I adorn the melody?
What shall I sing that I might please your heart?

Ask! Seek!! Search!!!

What shall I sing that I might please your heart?
The breeze has schooled its gait
With the burden of fragrance.
Say nothing to it now—
It carries heaven on its shoulders.
From a few breaths bound in me
Sweeter memories linger,
But what has passed—shall I recall it?
What shall I sing that I might please your heart?

Abandon the past. What is gone is gone. Seek the un-gone. What has happened has happened. Seek the un-happened. The un-happened is vast. What you have been is nothing; what you can be is everything. Your future is immense. Do not be crushed under the burden of your past. Do not get lost in trifles.

People are crushed under petty guilt. Priests and pundits and sadhus have filled you with so many sins that you cannot even conceive that you could meet God. You have accepted that you are a worm of darkness, destined to live in darkness, and meeting with light is not for you. Therefore you do not meet the light. This is the greatest calamity to befall human life.

Now a religion is needed that gives people confidence: what you have done is nothing. Your being is untouched by what you have done. Your sins and virtues are dreams. What you did ill or well—of little consequence. What you can become—that has value. And within you sits the supremely valuable. None of your acts have tainted that.

Kabir said: “I have returned the cloth just as it was.” I say to you: your cloth, too, is as it was. Kabir did nothing to keep it pure; the truth is, this cloth cannot be stained. This inner cloth is such; darkness does not stick to it, no matter how many nights you pass. No matter how many hells you walk through, the heaven of your cloth remains secure.

When you look at the past, you are crushed by guilt. Look to the future. Look to possibility. The “real” has no price; look at what can be. Then a surge will arise in you. That surge becomes chanting.

“Chanting and service.”

What does service mean? Those who have commented on Shandilya’s sutras say service means serving the idol in the temple. This is a false meaning. The idol needs no service. You are wasting your time. The living God is present all around—serve this.

I say to you: when you serve your child, your wife, your husband, your father, your mother, your neighbor, your cow, your horse, your plant—you are serving God. The temple idol has deceived you—cheap service. And you know the idol is stone; you serve, but inside you know—stone is stone. How will you hide it from yourself? That is why your service is never heartfelt.

The Living is all around—where are you going? To what temple? What mosque? What idol do you seek? God has come to your home and you are going to the temple? God is present in your son, in your mother, your father, your wife. But no: wife, father, mother, son—these are snares, “maya.” And the stone idol in the temple—that is truth! How clever the mind is at deceiving itself! The living is false and the dead is true. And that dead idol is made by these very living ones; some sculptor carved it; some priest adorned it with flowers. Through these dead and false, the God they made has become true, while the makers are false.

No—I want to give you the meaning of service that Shandilya must have intended. Chant—seek—sing—ask: how shall I sing so that I may charm you, so that I may please you? Learn new dances. Learn new meditations. And serve the God who is present everywhere.

This is gauṇī-bhakti.

“And this gauṇī-bhakti is the foundation of parā-bhakti.”

Without mastering the secondary, you will never attain the supreme. It is the base, the wall. The temple rises on this very foundation. Parā-bhakti means: even chanting disappears; conversation ceases; silence prevails. Ultimately the devotee disappears and God disappears; duality dissolves; only One remains—so one that we cannot even say “one,” for the word “one” suggests “two.” What remains cannot be named. It is inexpressible, indefinable. There, neither knower nor known remains. A vast emptiness abides—and in that emptiness, the dance of the Whole.

It is transcendent. To indicate its otherworldliness, it is called “parā”—beyond, beyond. It oversteps all our experiences. None of our past experiences can inform us about it. All we have known becomes useless in its face. Our language collapses, crippled. Our intellect halts, dumbfounded. Even the heart does not beat. There is an unprecedented silence. To reach that parā-bhakti, gauṇī-bhakti is only the foundation.

Do not stop at gauṇī-bhakti. You must pass through, but pass beyond.

Now there are two types. Most are entangled in gauṇī-bhakti. They go on with chanting and singing and forget all about parā-bhakti. They have laid the foundation, but have become so enamored of it that they have forgotten the temple must rise. They worship the foundation itself! Those who worship idols in temples are stuck at the foundation. That is one kind—those who remain entangled in gauṇī-bhakti. For them, the secondary did not become the base of the supreme; it became its obstacle. The second kind—those who are a bit intellectual—say, why bother with the secondary? We will go straight to the supreme. They indulge in lofty Vedantic talk, talk of nonduality. But their words are futile. They talk of raising the temple, of golden spires, but the foundation is not laid.

Beware of both. The matter is accomplished only by accomplishing both. And the irony is—each is half right. But a half-truth is a lie. A half-truth is often more dangerous than a lie. A lie is exposed someday; a half-truth is never caught, because its half-truth protects it. It keeps you tempted and confused, whispering, “Who knows—the whole may be hidden behind!” Both are half-truths.

One is the ordinary man who visits the temple, offers a flower at home, lights incense, and imagines the work is done. The other is the pundit who goes on discussing Vedanta and imagines the work is done.

Let both enter your life. Make the secondary your base. And the secondary has its own joy—do not miss it. It has much work to do; without it the supreme is impossible.

To the onlooker, the gauṇī-bhakti type will look crazy. A man sits alone talking with God—what will you call him but mad? No one is there. Madmen also talk like that—to no one visible. This man too is talking, and no one can be seen.

You cannot see. Do not draw such conclusions. They are deadly. They do not harm the devotee; they harm you. Because of such conclusions you will never knock on that door—and that is where the path begins.

The moment the breeze spoke, every bud in the garden smiled.
God knows what the morning wind whispered to her.

Until you too smile like the bud, open like the bud, you will not know what the morning breeze whispers that makes the bud suddenly smile, that spreads laughter on her lips! You cannot see the wind; you cannot understand its message. To understand, you must become a bud. There is no other way. Only the bud knows that language, only the bud can unlock that secret the wind hums in her ear. You stand outside, like a stone. Of course you will be startled, amazed—what is going on here? Why did this bud start laughing? She must be mad!

If you see a devotee smiling, laughing, giggling—or weeping—you will be very disturbed.

The moment the breeze spoke, every bud in the garden smiled.
God knows what the morning wind whispered to her.

You will think: this person has gone mad. In gauṇī-bhakti one looks mad. And if you ask him, “What is happening to you?”—like the bud he will fall silent. For what is happening is such—how can he say it? Whenever he tries, he finds that the moment he speaks, it is wrong. What he wanted to say is left behind; something else is said. So he falls silent.

No one answered when I asked my question;
In your lane, everyone seems tongueless to me.

Whoever enters His lane becomes tongueless. You will ask, and people will smile: “Taste it yourself; come and sit with us!”

Once Jesus’s disciples asked, “How should we pray?” Jesus said, “Watch.” He fell to his knees, lifted his eyes to the sky, and was absorbed in prayer. Tears began to flow. But the disciples stood there, not understanding. “We asked how to pray. We didn’t ask you to pray. Tell us how we should do it.” When Jesus rose from prayer—fresh as if just bathed, those beautiful eyes washed by tears, that tender mood, that otherworldly aura—they asked again, “This does not help. We didn’t say, ‘You pray’; we asked, ‘How shall we pray?’” Jesus said, “I can only show you by praying. Pray like this.” He said nothing more.

Learn prayer from one who prays. Sit near the one who prays and slowly slip into prayer. Let prayer be contagious. Otherwise—

In your lane, everyone seems tongueless to me.

On the path of devotion, those who go become tongueless.

Nor does the devotee wish to fall into the babble of the intellect. He experiences daily that whenever he gets entangled in the mind’s game, his prayer breaks, is shattered. Whenever he’s caught in the net of thought, he moves away from God. Then he calls and calls, but prayer does not rise; he summons and summons, but it does not come. Much effort is then needed to open prayer again. For prayer and mind are opposite centers. Prayer arises from the heart; mind runs in the head. The head knows nothing of prayer; the heart knows nothing of logic.

So if you ask a devotee, “What are you doing? What is your chanting?” he will remain quiet, smile, talk of this and that—but of chanting, he will say nothing. At most, he will sing. That’s what Jesus did.

May the spell of this wine-eyed seeing never break;
If reason descends upon this ecstasy, what will become of it?

He does not want his intoxication to break. If reason overlays ecstasy—what then? They are opposites. The rational cannot be intoxicated, and the intoxicated must leave intelligence behind. Yet I say to you: he who drops worldly cleverness is the wisest of all.

What is chanting? Many things—an upsurge of the heart; a rain of tears; a dance of the feet. But you will only know by doing. Only the dancer knows what dance is; watching from outside, you remain outside. You cannot know what the dancer knows. At most, you notice gestures and expressions.

People sometimes come here as spectators. Whoever comes as a spectator is very dull. They ask me, “What is this? People dance, sing, make noise—what will come of it?” They are not wrong—from the outside it seems so. From a distance it looks like madness. Where is the intelligence in this?

There is another kind of intelligence here of which you have no experience. There is intoxication, sweetness. It has its own wine. Only the drinker knows its taste.

When you watch a drunkard drink, it seems to you from outside, Why this madness? What can be in it? Why so intoxicated?

Drink—and you will know. Meaning opens only in taste.

What is chanting?

Tears will not stay in the eyes;
They flash and glass shatters.

What is chanting?

You called—and my heart skipped a beat.
There is no great difference between the two sounds.

What is chanting?

Will tears quench the fire of the heart?
They, too, are fiery sparks.

What is chanting?

Let him see me from afar—that is enough.
But may he accept our salaam.

If the Divine glances once—even from afar, from infinite distance—his glance alone becomes a bridge, and distance is gone. To be linked to his glance is to be bridged.

Let him see us from afar—that is enough.
But may he accept our salaam.

Just this much confidence arises: we called, and the call has reached; our salute is accepted.

Dance! Sing! Hum! Flow! Melt! There is nectar in tears. Only one who is submerged in longing attains union. The price of union is separation.

Rāgārthe prakīrtisāhacaryāt ca itareṣām.
“Bowing, name-chanting, and the like are means to arouse love.”

Why the need of bowing and name-chanting? Because they generate love. They quicken love. As you water a tree and new shoots appear, flowers bloom—so the plant of love also needs water. Without water it dries up. It needs nourishment. Name-chanting, bowing, etc., are its nourishment. When again and again you bow toward the Divine; when bowing becomes your art of living, your nature—then certain things will sprout within you that sprout only in those who know how to bow.

Stiffness gone—those stones blocking your path are removed. Your stiffness is precisely the stones on your path. As a seed trapped under a rock—so your seed is trapped in your stiffness. Your ego is a rock damming the hidden spring within.

Bow! Namaskar means: bow. Wherever you find a chance to bow, bow. Do not miss an opportunity.

In this unique land, unlike anywhere else, we use God’s name in our greeting. Why waste an opportunity? You meet a stranger on the road and say, “Ram-Ram!” What are you saying? You may not even be aware. You have turned it into a mere formality. But those who discovered it were amazing people. You are saying, “Though you are a stranger outwardly, within you are Rama. Seeing you, I remembered Rama again. Why should I miss this chance? Seeing you, I bowed again to Rama. Why should I miss it?”

By this measure, other greetings in the world seem childish. “Good morning” carries no deep meaning—only a good wish. But when we say, “Victory to Rama!” we declare: Glory be to God. Seeing you, I remembered God’s glory. In you I saw God again; in this guise He came. Namaskar means: wherever there’s a chance, bow. Miss no chance to bow.

As it is, people miss no chance to be stiff. On the road you wait for the other to greet first. How can you be the first? You pretend not to see, so that he must greet first—you’re the head clerk and he’s just a clerk; you’re the headmaster, he’s only a teacher; how can you bow? You are the teacher, he the student—how can you join your hands?

You stiffen. And thus you miss. Let stiffness go. The whole meaning of namaskar is: melt stiff pride. Where you can, as much as you can, in front of any feet that present themselves—bow.

“Bowing and name-chanting are for the sake of love”—so that love surges, so the plant of love grows. When the plant of love grows, one day the fragrance of prayer will arise. Spread love! How? By bowing. An egoist cannot love. Even ordinary human love is unavailable to the egoist, because love demands bowing.

Even in love you try to make the other bow. This is the global conflict of husband and wife; both try to bow the other. The whole politics, overt and covert, aims at the same: how to make the other bow. Clever devices are invented. The wife has her way—feminine ways. She too seeks techniques to make him bow. Being feminine, her ways are indirect. The husband, if he wants to subdue his wife, sometimes hits her. The wife, if she wants to subdue her husband, beats herself. The purpose is the same. And of course the wife wins more often—her means are subtler. The husband’s are primitive, less cultured. The wife’s are more refined, gentle. If she must win, she weeps. If the husband faces opposition, he becomes angry. The wife becomes sad. Sadness is the hidden form of anger.

You may be surprised to learn: the sad man is suppressing anger; hence the sadness. It is swallowed anger. But sadness evokes more pity. If someone rages, you can fight; if someone only weeps, how will you fight? So ninety-nine men out of a hundred lose. Only a rare one wins—and then he is of a brutal nature, animal-like. Otherwise, all are defeated.

You know the famous story: One day Akbar said to his courtiers, “Birbal tells me that everyone in my court is a slave of his woman. I cannot accept this. My brave soldiers, generals, ministers—slaves to women? I cannot accept it. Today we shall test. Whoever is a slave of his wife, stand on one side. Do not lie—your wives will be called, and you’ll be exposed.” Only one man stood in the line of those who were masters of their wives; the rest stood in the slaves’ line. The emperor was surprised. “At least there is one!” He asked, “Why are you in this line? Are you certain?” The man said, “Certainty has nothing to do with it. When I was leaving home, my wife said, ‘Don’t stand in a crowd.’ I’m just obeying.”

The soft always wins over the hard. Water wears down rock. But this urge to win, this struggle, goes on. Between husband and wife, a perpetual quarrel—this is it. In love, this quarrel? How will love blossom then? It does not. They fight and die—love never flowers. Father and son struggle; brother and brother struggle—where can love bear fruit?

Love fruits where someone willingly dissolves his ego. Not out of defeat, but willingly—from himself. “I love you—why should I fight? I love you—so I drop my ego. I have no conflict with you.” Even human love flowers only through bowing—before the Supreme Beloved, you will have to bow utterly. This art of bowing is namaskar, name-chanting, remembrance, praising him; listening to those who have known him; sitting with those who have glimpsed him and speaking of that glimpse. Wherever four lovers gather, remember him.

But what do you do? You gossip. You engage in slander of neighbors. Who stole, who ran off with whose wife, who took a bribe, who won, who lost—you waste your life in this nonsense. And remember, these are costly, for your lips shape your vital energy into the form of what you speak. Lips and life-breath are linked.

In old days people began the day by remembering the Lord—before setting out. At noon they found a few moments in the marketplace to remember again. At night, tired, but still they remembered before sleep. They ringed their lives with remembrance. Now we wake and, before even washing the face, demand the newspaper: Has it arrived? As if the whole night we awaited it. And you know too well what will be in it—the same garbage, day after day.

I once lived in a town for a few months. Next door lived a madman. I befriend madmen! He loved to read newspapers. But he never cared what the date was. Ten-year-old papers—he read them with relish. I asked, “Look, I can understand other madness, but a ten-year-old paper?” He said, “Whether ten years old or today’s, the news is the same.” I liked his point. He was right. If you didn’t know the date, pick up a ten-year-old paper—you won’t feel anything new is happening. The labels change; nothing essential changes.

Nothing changes in the outer world in any meaningful way. The same tired world hobbles along; the same rut. The same lawsuits, courts, thefts, corruption, politicians, masks, promises, deceits. Yet your first urge on waking is: the paper? That reveals your soul. Your soul has become newsprint. Your soul is no longer the Gita, the Quran, the Vedas; your soul is the newspaper.

Remember the Lord. Only through remembrance will your heart slowly tilt toward him, be stirred by him. Hearing of him each day, speaking of him each day—how long can you resist? One day you will have to begin the search.

Every day I swear I’ll never go to her house again—
Every day some errand takes me to that lane.

If love exists, one finds a way. Often one says, “No more—enough.”

Every day I swear I’ll never go to her house again—
Every day some errand takes me to that lane.

Keep finding errands. Your last encampment is in that lane. Your final dwelling is in that alley. Keep finding excuses to remember. Why bow only to a temple? If a gurudwara appears, bow there too. A chance for remembrance—why miss it? If a mosque comes, bow there too. If a church appears, bow there too. Why miss a chance?

I was once traveling with a Jain lady. She had a rule: until she bowed to Lord Mahavira in a Jain temple, she would not eat. I was in trouble. In some villages there was no temple; she would not eat. Because of her I had to leave quickly for another village where there was one. After two days without food, I pleaded in vain. On the third day we entered a village. I saw a temple and said to my driver, “Looks like a Jain temple.” He said, “Yes.” I said, “Good. The lady with me won’t eat otherwise.” I told her, “Bathe and go for darshan first.” She went and returned: “It’s a Shvetambara temple. I am Digambara.” Humans have invented such false, petty distinctions. The same Mahavira’s idol here, the same there—yet a Digambara Mahavira and a Shvetambara Mahavira!

He is in the mosque too—formless there. He is in the temple—enshrined in form. He is in the gurudwara and in the church, and outside as well—everywhere. One who understands this will not fuss over forms—he bows wherever he meets him. Through constant bowing the inner stone cracks; stiffness melts.

May the storm of separation rise as violently as possible; may remembrance become as dense as possible—that is auspicious.

O helmsman, I have seen the miracle of the sea:
Sometimes storms fling you onto the shore.

This too happens.

O helmsman, I have seen the miracle of the sea—
Have you seen this wonder?
Sometimes storms fling you onto the shore.

Storms do not always drown; sometimes they throw you to safety. The boat, because of the storm, strikes the bank.

The storm of longing brings you to the shore of union. But raise the storm—do not be miserly! Pour everything into the tempest. Let the whirlwind rise!

Antarāle tu śeṣāḥ syur upāsyādau ca kāṇḍatvāt.
“In the Gita too, this section of worship—the gauṇī-bhakti—is described.”

Shandilya says: the scriptures testify. Krishna says the same in the Gita.

Krishna’s words:

Satataṁ kīrtayanto māṁ yatantaś ca dṛḍha-vratāḥ
Namasyantaś ca māṁ bhaktyā nitya-yuktā upāsate
Jñāna-yajñena cāpy anye yajanto mām upāsate
Ekatvena pṛthaktvena bahudhā viśvato-mukham.

“Some devotees worship me by constant praise; some by firm-vowed austerity; some bow to me with devotion; some meditate upon me with single-pointedness; some by the sacrifice of knowledge; some, free of ego, serve me as their Lord; and some, knowing me as the Self of all, worship me in manifold forms.”

But all who walk by any of these paths reach the one goal. How you called does not matter—only that you called, and from the heart. What language you used—Arabic, Sanskrit, Hindi, Japanese—does not matter; what method—Quran or Upanishad—does not matter. Whether you called as a follower of Buddha or Mahavira—none of it matters. Only one question decides everything: Did you do it with your heart? If your call is from the heart, all languages reach him. Without the heart, even the purest Sanskrit or Arabic reaches nowhere. Broken language, too, reaches him.

There is a famous story Tolstoy tells. The chief priest of Russia heard repeated reports that on the shore of a nearby lake lived three simple hermits—uneducated, uncouth—who did not even know how to pray, yet people went to see them and miracles occurred. He was annoyed. One day he took a boat to that shore. He found the three under a tree, swaying in bliss without any visible cause. “Stop this swaying!” he said. “Do you know who I am?” “We don’t,” they replied. “Tell us who you are.” “I am the chief priest.” They fell at his feet. He was reassured: “Fools. What miracles could they have? What devotion? People have gone mad. They are touching my feet!” He asked, “What is your practice? Why do people come to you?” “We know no practice.” “What prayer do you say?” “We are ashamed to tell you.” “Even so—tell me.” They looked at each other—none wanted to speak. Finally one said, “Since you insist… Truly, we didn’t know any prayer, so we made one up. Forgive us.” The priest grew angry—how dare they invent a prayer! “Tell me your prayer.” They said, “We heard God has three forms—the Trinity. We are three too. So we made a prayer: ‘You are three, we are three—have mercy on us.’ That’s all.” The priest laughed: “Fools! Is that a prayer? I will teach you the true prayer.” He recited the Church’s authorized prayer. They said, “It’s very long—we’ll forget. Can’t it be shorter?” “Not a word can be changed,” he said. “Then say it again,” they pleaded. “Once more… and once more, so we can remember.” He recited; they repeated. “We’ll try,” they said. The priest was pleased and returned by boat. In mid-lake he saw a whirlwind racing over the water. There was no storm—what was this? Looking closely, he saw the three running on the water. “Wait!” they cried. “We’ve forgotten—say it once more!” Then the priest became a little wise. “Those who can run over water—their prayer is right. Yours has reached. Continue your prayer. Forget mine. I’ve prayed all my life and still need a boat. I don’t have enough faith to walk on water. Go back. Forgive me—I placed myself between you and your God. I sinned.”

Language has no value, nor scriptures. Value lies in the heart, in wholeheartedness. Hence Krishna says: come by any path, any pretext, any direction—you will reach me.

God is the supreme summit. Many paths go up the mountain; walk any, but walk—and you’ll arrive. The path has no value of its own, not as people imagine. They create such commotion about which path is right. Paths are not right or wrong—the walker is. Paths are dead. A true walker arrives even by wrong paths; a non-walker builds a house on the right path and stays put. Right and wrong paths—what will they be?

I want to shift your vision. The walker is right or wrong. When is he right? When his heart stands behind what he does. When is he wrong? When he does it outwardly without the heart. Whatever is done wholeheartedly reaches God’s feet.

Difficulties come—naturally. Do not be afraid. Take them as challenges.

If lightning has set its heart on the garden,
So be it—today we’ll build our nest.

If the thunderbolts are bent on striking, so be it. But we will build our nest. Let storms come—we have set out and we will go.

Take all adverse conditions as challenges. By accepting them you grow in strength. Passing through them, you are refined. Gold is made pure by fire. There is no other way.

Tābhyaḥ pāvitryam upakramāt.
“Through gauṇī-bhakti, purity is attained.”

What is the fruit of gauṇī-bhakti? Name-remembrance, chanting-singing, service, bowing, dance—what is their result? Through these the heart becomes pure. Purity arises, clarity, simplicity, guilelessness, innocence. And only the innocent can find the Lord. Only in pure hearts does parā-bhakti bloom. All these arrangements of gauṇī-bhakti are ways to remove the sludge from your heart.

In moments of prayer, clouds will part, the sky will open, the sun will shine—then clouds will gather again. This will happen many times. But one thing will become certain: no matter how clouds gather and darkness returns, morning comes. No matter how clouds thicken, the sun is not destroyed. No matter how often you forget God, remembrance returns. You will forget often, wander often. No one arrives in a single step. You will miss the path again and again. But if your heart is set to seek, if you have decided—

If lightning has set its heart on the garden,
So be it—today we’ll build our nest—

—then the nest will be built.

In the desert of loneliness, O beloved of the world, tremble
The shadows of your voice, the mirages of your lips.
In the desert of solitude, beneath the dust of distance,
Bloom the jasmines and roses of your nearness.
Somewhere, from closeness, rises the warmth of your breath—
Smoldering softly in its own fragrance.
Far—beyond the horizon—drop by drop
Falls the dewdrop of your tender gaze.
So lovingly, O beloved of the world, your memory
Has laid its hand on the cheek of my heart
That it seems—though it’s still the dawn of separation—
The day of absence has set, and the night of union has come.

This happens to ordinary lovers—and to the extraordinary lover of God as well. The experiences of love are one. Human love is a drop; divine love, the ocean. Essentially there is no difference—only of magnitude. God’s love is a billion-fold. If you have known love—if you have ached in the memory of a woman, or wept in the memory of a man—you will know what prayer is, what worship is.

So tenderly, O beloved of the world, your memory
Has laid its hand on the cheek of my heart—
When his memory surrounds you, when it touches you—

It seems—though it’s still the dawn of separation—
The day of absence has set
And the night of union has come.

This will happen many times. And whenever it happens, a new dimension will open in your life, a new height will come. Many times it will seem the goal has arrived—and it will slip again.

Even this slipping refines you. Take it as good fortune. It is the test, the touchstone. Each time you embrace a challenge and pass through a fire, you become more pure; some more rubbish burns away.

Tāsu pradhāna-yogāt phalaḥ adhikyam eke.
“Some teachers, because of the primacy of gauṇī-bhakti, consider its fruit even greater.”

Such is the value of gauṇī-bhakti that some teachers consider it more valuable than parā-bhakti. There is truth in their view, for without the secondary the supreme will not be. Without a foundation, no temple rises. Which is more important—the foundation or the temple?

Do not be trapped in this futile dispute; it is like arguing whether the chicken or the egg came first. One can say egg first—without an egg, how a chicken? Another can say chicken first—without a chicken, who lays the egg? Philosophers have fought over this for thousands of years. What is not seen is the simple truth: the chicken and the egg are not two. The chicken is in the egg; the egg is in the chicken. To make them two is the mistake. They are two stages of one journey. The chicken becomes the egg; the egg becomes the chicken. One event, two forms, two steps.

You were a child—you became young. You are young—you will become old. You are life—you will become death. These are one. To divide them creates trouble. Once you split them, no solution is possible.

Shandilya says: some teachers say gauṇī-bhakti is primary; calling it secondary is wrong, for without it parā-bhakti will never be. They are right. Others say parā is supreme and gauṇī is secondary. They are right too. For the secondary is practiced for the sake of the supreme; it is the means. We walk the road to reach the destination. The destination has value. No one walks for the sake of walking; one walks to arrive. So the true value is the destination. Yet one can say: without walking, how will you arrive? And if you cannot arrive without the road, then the road is more valuable than the destination. Both statements are true; the dispute is pointless.

Seat gauṇī-bhakti in your heart with welcome—make it your honored guest. It has many colors and forms! As God comes closer to the devotee—when the devotee calls, “Come closer; come close”—when he starts to come, fear also arises. Sometimes the devotee says, “No more, not so near! If you come closer than this, panic sets in.”

From where will I gather the courage for parting?
Why are you coming so close to me?

He fears: if you come so close and then go, the pain will be unbearable; there will be greater separation. Stay a little far. When he does not come near, you call him. When he comes, you say:

From where will I gather the courage for parting?
Why are you coming so close to me?

Complaints arise—thousands. And yet thinking and thinking, you see there is no substance in them:

With what tongue shall I complain that he does not come,
When is it not grace enough that he lives in my heart?

In this way he consoles himself, keeps himself steady—waits, is patient, calls. If God does not come, he knows: I am not yet worthy. And when God comes, he does not take it to mean: now I am worthy. Keep this in mind. As long as God has not come, he knows: I lack. But when God comes, he knows: it is grace.

Gauṇī-bhakti is effort. Even so, the devotee’s feeling is always: You came because of your compassion, not because of my effort. It is your prasad, your grace.

Make effort—but keep your trust on grace. Between these two words lies the whole secret. If you trust too much in effort, you will miss. If you make no effort, you will miss. Make total effort—and keep your trust on grace. It seems a contradiction, but the devotee must understand it.

Let me say it again. Do all you can—hold nothing back, stake yourself completely. And still, when union happens, never let the thought arise that it came through your merit. If that thought arises, in that very instant you are as far from God as anyone can be—for that is ego. Ego has returned by a new route and seized you by the throat. You are lost again; stiffness returns.

So the devotee remembers grace. When God is met, he says: I have no worthiness. That you came to the unworthy like me—surely it is your compassion! This does not mean—as some lazy ones think—that since it is grace, what is the use of doing anything? Why pray, why worship, why bow? When he wills, it will be—what can our doing do? When it is in my fate, it will be. They do not make any effort—and the graceless are not made worthy of grace.

Make your utmost effort. Only when your effort reaches fulfillment does the ray of grace descend. And the moment grace descends, gauṇī-bhakti takes its leave. Then parā-bhakti begins. There, devotee and God are one. There is the dance of one energy. No difference, no duality. As long as difference remains, duality remains—so do conflict and sorrow. Sorrow ends with the end of duality. Keep your eyes on that goal: one day to dissolve into God—to allow God to dissolve into you. One day to erase all boundaries.

Practice gauṇī-bhakti and wait for parā-bhakti. It happens. When it happens, only then will you know what an incomparable opportunity life is! A rosebush that never blossoms cannot know what fragrance will spread when flowers bloom; cannot imagine how beautiful she will become; what dignity will awaken; what glory will arise; how like a bride she will be adorned; how she will dance in the winds, scatter fragrance, sing her song. She cannot know until the flowers open; until then she is a barren bush.

So are you—until God descends within. No flowers have bloomed in you; you do not know your own fragrance. You do not know the great music you carry within. You do not know what unparalleled sound your heart’s veena can release.

But let God descend; let his fingers touch your heart—and the music will rise. That music is Om.

Enough for today.