Athato Bhakti Jigyasa #29

Shandilya divided devotion into two parts: devotion as a means, and devotion as the goal. He called devotion-as-means gauni-bhakti, and devotion-as-goal parabhakti. Today’s sutras deepen and expand that very distinction.

We often make a fatal mistake: we take the means to be the end. Then the means itself becomes a hindrance. The boat that takes you to the far shore—if you cling to it, you will never reach. To reach the other shore you must board the boat here; once across, you must let it go. If you don’t release the boat—thinking, “It brought me so far, I’m so grateful”—that very boat will become your obstacle.

Sri Aurobindo has said: what is a seeker at the beginning often turns into a blocker at the end. It is only natural: that which supported us, from which we tasted such delight, through which our thirst drew near to quenching—we get attached to it, enamored, dependent. Not only worldly attachment is bondage; any attachment is bondage. Hence this discrimination is essential.

Kirtan, bhajan, listening, satsang—these are all gauni-bhakti. If you only do satsang, drown in it, and never go beyond, you have missed the essence of satsang; you have fallen into attachment to satsang. It too has become a habit. And whether a habit seems good or bad, habit as such is bad. There are no good and bad habits; habit is bad. A man addicted to alcohol—we call it a bad habit. Another rises each morning to pray—we call that a good habit. But truly, there are no good habits. If someone prays every morning lifelong and never arrives at a moment when he is free of prayer, understand this: it is merely another kind of alcohol. Little has changed.

One day you skip prayer and you feel restless all day. You feel you missed something, lost something; a subtle lack, a hollow, a shortage. That is exactly what happens to the alcoholic, the smoker, the tea or coffee drinker. What difference is there between you and them? Both are slaves to habit. His habit harms the body; yours is more dangerous—yours harms the soul. Those you call bad habits are limited to the body; the ones you call good disfigure your very being.

A seeker must be vigilant: the point is to reach a state where all habits drop. Where habit goes, nature arises. As long as habit is there, your nature is suppressed. Habit deceives you about your nature; the counterfeit coin keeps the real coin down. You know the law of economics: bad money drives out good. If you have one real ten and one counterfeit ten in your pocket, you’ll try to spend the fake first—it’s natural. You’ll save the real: “That will pass anywhere, let the fake be rid of!” So the real coins are taken out of circulation, locked into safes; the counterfeits keep changing hands. You pass it to the betel seller; when he realizes it’s fake, he will hurry to pass it on too. The fake circulates; the real stops.

Such is the state of life. This is not only economics; it is also the law of your innermost spirituality. If habit catches hold, your nature ceases to circulate; habit continues. And habit is false, artificial, imposed from outside, learned. Someone learned to smoke from someone; you learned to pray from someone. Smoking came from without; prayer too came from without. When will you give your within a chance? When will what lies inside surge forth? When will you let it sprout?

So remember: a means is only a means. Don’t clasp it to your breast. Don’t get stuck on it—no matter how dear.

Think of it this way: you were ill, gravely ill, on your deathbed, and some medicine saved your life. Will you go on taking that medicine all your life? When the illness departs, the medicine should go too. If the disease goes, the drug must also go.

If you say, “This medicine delivered me from such a terrible disease—how could I abandon so benevolent a remedy! I’ll hold it to my heart, worship it, take it morning and evening, and make others take it too—this sovereign panacea!”—you are in trouble. You have turned medicine into disease.

You must be free of the means; only then is the end attained. Gauni-bhakti is merely a means, a ladder, to parabhakti. Use it—and then forget it. The moment you can forget, the moment for song arrives.

Clouds have gathered; it is the hour of song.

Today the barren breast of the sky
is brimming with feeling;
the wind has caught the footfall
of a lightning-maiden;
words sway in lips
to which Fate gave no speech—
clouds have gathered; it is the hour of song.

Tresses of lightning have circled
the shoulders of the sky;
the heart, unbidden, asks,
“Who is mine, and where?”
Today earth’s tears have returned
as monsoon pearls;
darkness has spread—my heart’s beloved hour has come.
Clouds have gathered; it is the hour of song.

The pied cuckoo has tasted
nectar in drops of rain;
from celestial heights
who has played the raga of joy?
Today in earth’s lonely courtyard
compassion has become one—
clouds have gathered; it is the hour of love.
Clouds have gathered; it is the hour of song.

Those who drown their lips
in the honey-wine of lips today—
how could they ever again
repeat these flavorless lines?
Where I cannot reach, my words
will carry on ahead—
darkness has spread; it is the hour of the heart’s victory.
Clouds have gathered; it is the hour of song.

The song lies within you—the song of your nature. Until you sing it, you will not be free. What is the meaning of liberation? It means: you have found your destiny. You have become what you were born to be. Only then is there liberation. Liberation is not a passive state, as many have taught you. It isn’t becoming paralyzed, lazy, striking your own life with paralysis and sitting in some mountain cave. That is self-destruction, not release. The essential meaning of liberation is: the song that lay within you, for which you came—has been sung. Liberation is creative, not inert. And until something creative manifests, joy does not arise.

Remember, each seed hides flowers in its chest. Until it becomes a plant, a tree, and blossoms, the seed remains sad, restless; where can it find rest?

People come to me and say, “My mind is very restless—please give me a way to peace.”

The mind is restless because your seed has not yet cracked. And if someone offers you a way to peace, he is your enemy. You need a way to creation, not to peace. Peace is the shadow of creation. But for centuries you’ve been told the opposite; your so-called saints have said, “Turn your back on life.” Seeds have been taught mantras so they can stay seeds peacefully. “Go sit like stone, shut your eyes, forget everything.”

But beware: you will keep returning. Existence will not let you go until you sing your song; until the flowers hidden within you break into the open; until you spread fragrance; until your colors burst upon the sky; until you dance with the vastness. Liberation is the full unveiling of what is pressed down inside you. When the seed becomes a tree, and the tree flowers—the seed is free. The restlessness is gone; peace settles everywhere.

You have experienced this, though you may not have noticed: whenever you do something creative, an extraordinary joy arises. You sculpt a form, paint a picture, or do any of a thousand kinds of work you longed to do—and afterward a peace follows on its own. When the storm of doing passes, peace descends. But the storm of doing must rise. That’s why I’m not in favor of a sannyasin fleeing the world. The world is the opportunity for expression. If you run away, you are like a seed fleeing the earth. A seed may sit in a cave, but seeds do not sprout in rocks. They need soil—soft soil, a chance, a place where spring comes. Fall there, break there, surge there. Liberation is creative.

Human religions have not valued creation; therefore the earth has not become religious. The more creation is valued, the more religious the earth will become. Hence the truly creative rarely go to temples and mosques; there crowds of lazy and lethargic gather. Those who have something to do do not go there; those who want to become something in life do not go there. And when the lazy and sluggish, the lame, the blind, the dead congregate, then—wittingly or not—our temples, mosques, and churches become cremation grounds. Life does not blossom there, does not dance, does not reveal itself. Remember this.

Clouds have gathered; it is the hour of song.
Darkness has spread; the heart’s beloved hour has come.
Clouds have gathered; it is the hour of love.
Darkness has spread; it is the hour of the heart’s victory.
Clouds have gathered; it is the hour of song.

When will the hour of song come? When your nature manifests. Your nature lies buried under heaps of rubbish. That rubbish must be sifted.

In this sifting there are two dangers. One: the tool with which you sift the rubbish might itself become your goal. Two: fearing the tool might become the goal, you refuse to use it at all—then the rubbish remains.

And so people split into two camps. Some fear the means; they say, “Sitting in the boat is risky—those who sit never get out.” Others say, “But without the boat, how will we cross? The boat brought us here; how can we get off now? We won’t get off.” Some avoid the means—they remain on this shore. Some use the means but get stuck in the boat—they too never reach the far shore. Neither arrives.

Who arrives?

The one who uses the means as a means—and when the need is met, quietly steps off and walks on, without even looking back. When sick, he takes medicine; when the illness passes, he bids the medicine farewell. He doesn’t cling to it.

Or think of this: a thorn is lodged in your foot; you use another thorn to remove it. But once both thorns are in your hand—once the embedded thorn is out—do you keep the helper thorn pressed into the wound because it did you a kindness? You throw both away.

Means must be discarded. That is why they are called gaun—secondary. When the means is gone, the end can appear.

Understand these sutras carefully.

Sukritajatvat parahetubhavat cha kriyasu shreyasyah.
“All these acts are causes for reaching parabhakti, and among all meritorious deeds, they are supreme.”

“Causes for reaching parabhakti!”

Parabhakti means a state of mind where the distinction between devotee and God is gone. Where God and devotee melt into one—like an iceberg melting into water. Where our ego melts into godliness; where we are no more, no concept of “me” remains; where, as a seed breaks down in the soil, so we break and scatter—and only then what lies hidden within us can appear. Only then creativity reaches its peak. Parabhakti means the devotee is dissolved.

And remember: where the devotee dissolves, God also dissolves. God appears as “God” only as long as there is a devotee; he is the devotee’s projection. When the devotee is no more, what can remain of his projection? When the Ganga merges in the ocean, not only does Ganga vanish into the sea; the sea vanishes into Ganga. The devotee loses nothing by falling into God—he loses the small and gains the vast. Where duality ends, that state is parabhakti.

For that parabhakti, these are the means—listening, reflection, contemplation, satsang, bhajan, kirtan, dance, and so on. All are useful. But maintain constant alertness: let no means take hold of you so tightly that it won’t let go. You remain the master; do not let the means become the master.

There is a famous Chinese tale. Word spread that a certain fakir had attained ultimate knowledge. Another fakir went to meet him. He found the first one sitting on a rock at the mouth of a cave in a fearsome place; lions roared. The visiting fakir arrived—and a lion roared; his chest trembled, his limbs shook. The cave-dweller said, “So your fear hasn’t gone yet?” The visitor replied, “I’m very thirsty—long journey, climbed the mountain—could I have some water?” The cave-dweller went inside to fetch it. While he was gone, the visitor carved on the rock where the host sat: “Namo Buddhaya”—salutations to the Buddha. When the host returned and was about to sit, his foot fell on “Namo Buddhaya.” He recoiled. The visitor laughed: “Your fear hasn’t gone either. My fear is natural; yours is unnatural.” They say that at these words, the last link broke; the cave-dweller laughed, sat down right on “Namo Buddhaya,” and said, “The final bond remained—you’ve kindly broken it. Now I fear even that no more.”

Of course: by chanting “Namo Buddhaya,” he had found much peace and delight. It was his support, his mantra; his whole edifice stood on it. Naturally he feared letting his foot touch “Buddha.” If your foot touches the Gita, you hurriedly touch it with reverence, don’t you? If you bump into the idol in the temple, you fall full-length on the floor: “Forgive me!” Panic arises. The means has become the master; the master the slave, and the slave the master.

Use the idol—but do not become its slave. The idol is an idol; a book is a book; a mantra is a mantra. The power in a mantra is not in the mantra; you infuse it. It is your power reflected there. The man wasn’t calmed by “Namo Buddhaya,” because others are calmed by repeating something else.

Alfred Tennyson wrote: no other mantra ever suited me; I repeat my own name and find deep peace—“Tennyson, Tennyson, Tennyson.” As a child he’d taken to it. Once, walking through a forest, frightened and alone, not knowing what else to do, he shouted, “Tennyson, Tennyson!”—rousing himself, “Don’t fear, Tennyson! Remember yourself! Why be afraid?”—and great peace came. He had found a thread. Whenever restlessness beset him, he would sit and repeat his name. If sleepless, he repeated his name—sleep came. Anxiety subsided. The knack was in hand. Even old, he kept repeating it.

Understand: there is nothing in “Rama,” nor in “Krishna,” nor in “Buddha.” You put the power into the name; and you get back what you put in. Thus people reach with Mohammed’s name, or Mahavira’s. The joke is: Tennyson reached with his own name. Sit some time in solitude and repeat your own name; you’ll find great peace. You’ll be amazed—no need to receive a mantra from Maharishi Mahesh Yogi! Any word will do. The value is not in the word but in your riding it. The word’s meaning is irrelevant. One word remains, circles, and drives out all other words; your whole energy converges there; from that concentration peace arises. In that focusing, a new, extraordinary centered awareness begins to bloom—a total consciousness appears. But it’s all your play.

So when you worship an idol and your foot touches it, you’re anxious all day—“I made a blunder; now what will happen?” The same idol can be smashed by someone who has no faith in it—and nothing happens to him. There is nothing in the idol; everything is in your feeling.

Devotion essentially means feeling. As much as you pour in, that much you receive. Here lies the confusion.

Somnath was attacked. Mahmud of Ghazni came. There were twelve hundred priests, a great temple—the largest and richest in the world then. The neighboring Rajputs sent word to the head priest: “We can come and fight.” The priest replied, “Why should you fight? The God who protects all—does he need your protection?” The argument had force. The Rajputs agreed: if the protector of all cannot protect himself, how will he protect us? For us to protect him—ridiculous!

So Ghazni met no resistance. He entered the temple. But the priests made one mistake. That “God” was God for them because they had established feeling in the idol; for Ghazni he was not. He lifted his mace and smashed “God” to pieces. The deity lay flat, shattered. The priests were stunned: “What has happened to God?” Hidden in the idol were precious jewels; they spilled out.

Understand well: if the priest had simply brushed against the idol with his foot he would have suffered greatly—anguish, atonement; he might have fallen ill—leprosy perhaps; all mind’s play. He might even have died, “Such a sin I committed!” The remorse could have become so deep it killed him. Ghazni remained unscathed; not even a headache. For him there was no God there.

Grasp this carefully. We invest the means with sanctity—and for the one who invests, the means works. I’m not saying those who invest make a mistake. Nor am I saying, “Don’t invest.” For now you must invest to rise higher. But remember: one day you must be free of all idols.

Islam is right when it says: be free of idols. And Islam is wrong when it says: don’t keep idols in temples. You may be startled by these two statements. Islam is right that one should be free of idols—but that is the final state of the means. Rarely someone arrives; and whoever arrives does not go to temples to worship. Why would he? But those who have not arrived think, “No need for idols in temples”—they will wander forever and never arrive. So Islam is both right and wrong. Hindus are also right and also wrong. Hindus are right: idols are needed; without supports you won’t manage. But the mistake is not letting the idol go; it becomes so valuable you cannot release it. You cling, afraid—“How can I let go of the idol?”

Establish feeling in the idol, but one day release that feeling from the idol too. Dive into bhajan, but one day let even bhajan go. For bhajan is also noise—like it or not, it is a marketplace. The final state is thought-free; what bhajan, what kirtan? There all falls silent; even waves subside.

Shandilya is very scientific. He says: note well, all of these are beneficial—listening, reflection, study; contemplation, satsang; bhajan, kirtan, dance—each has its benefit, but the supreme benefit is not in them. Use them as stairs.

These are all causes for reaching parabhakti. He also says: among all meritorious deeds, they are supreme.

You give charity, build a temple, open a rest-house; in summer you arrange free water—good. But none of it equals kirtan. Because whatever you do will, somewhere, feed your ego: “I built a rest-house! I built a temple! I fed so many!” Subtly, the I will be strengthened.

Notice: often the sinner is humble, and the virtuous are very egoistic. If someone builds a temple, who would strut if not he? He who gives alms—who else should swagger? His swagger even seems justified; you can’t object. The sinner becomes humble; the virtuous become arrogant. There the slip happens.

Hence it often happens that sinners sometimes reach God; the virtuous do not. The sinner’s humility becomes the door. He says, “I am worthless; nothing good has ever come from me—only wrong. Theft, murder, dishonesty—all darkness has spread from me. How can my ego stand? I have no reason to declare I am special. I am more fallen than the fallen, more sinful than sinners. I ought not even exist.” He is bowed.

But the virtuous? He keeps a ledger. If by some oversight he meets God—God fears the virtuous, for he will open his full account: “I did this much, that much—where is the fruit? I heard there may be delay but no injustice—yet injustice seems to prevail. I want my reward!” The sinner will fall at the feet and cry, “Forgive me.” The virtuous says, “Pay me.”

See the difference.

If the sinner meets God, he falls at his feet: “Forgive me, pardon me. I have done only wrong. I am not worthy even to raise my head before you, not worthy even to lift my eyes. All I carry is a bundle of sins. My only trust is that you are compassionate. I have no trust in myself; my trust is in you. If you will, you can ferry even a sinner like me. By myself I will drown; I have already drowned. Nothing of mine will avail.” And that is salvation. That humility connects you to the divine.

The virtuous thinks, “My own doing will bring it. My own steps—by these I will climb to liberation.” That ego leads to hell.

Therefore Shandilya says: bhajan, kirtan, dance, satsang are superior to all other merits. Why? Because the fundamental condition of bhajan is that you are not the doer. Bhajan happens; it is not done. You sway—but don’t make yourself sway. If you induce it, you miss; if you induce it, it becomes artificial, acting. You can sway beautifully, shed tears expertly—but it is acting. The essential condition of bhajan is: let it happen; let feeling swell; let it flow through you. Do not be the doer. Let it be easy, natural, spontaneous.

Merit must be “done.” If bhajan too must be “done”—as often happens—then you have missed; it is no longer bhajan. You may have noticed: when you go to a temple and no one is watching, you finish your rituals quickly. No one is watching—what’s the point? You take the steps two at a time, make a few quick marks here and there, hurry through. But if the whole village gathers…

As a child I’d go to my village temple to watch how people prayed. On festival days, when crowds gathered, I would watch the same people whom I had seen pray when no one else was there—except me, a boy they ignored. Yet on festival days their “devotion” was a sight: tears flowed, they waved platters, danced, as if lost to the world! But I had seen these same men on quiet days finish in moments. And with crowds—they took hours, falling to the floor, entering “samadhi.”

From childhood I was curious. If someone entered “samadhi,” I would stand by with a needle to test. There was a gentleman in our village—often “samadhi” overtook him. He feared me: “Don’t bring your needles. When I’m in samadhi, you prick me!” In the crowd who notices? The crowd gathered; I pricked him; he twitched and squirmed—the samadhi was display. Sufis would “go into a trance”; I’d follow with my needle.

People feared me in the village—those in trances and samadhis! You’ll be surprised—one Sufi gave me sweets the day before his “trance,” pleading, “Brother, please don’t prick me tomorrow—it hurts so much.”

They watch: “Are there onlookers?” Acting—this is not bhajan, not kirtan, not samadhi. Don’t get entangled in such nonsense. Where the doer enters, ego enters; where ego is, God is not. Let it happen simply, naturally. No ulterior motive—let it be your innate delight. Then whether alone or in a crowd—it makes no difference. Whether anyone sees or not—it makes no difference. You are not praying for onlookers. You are praying to the One who sees always. Keep your gaze only there; on no one else.

I’ve heard: the Queen of England once visited a great church in London. There was an enormous crowd. The Queen was amazed: “I thought people’s faith in religion was waning. Seeing such a crowd, I doubt that.” The priest said, “Come unannounced sometime. No one comes. They are here for you, not for God. For two days our phones have rung off the hook: ‘Is the Queen definitely coming?’ I’ve been telling them on the phone, ‘I can’t guarantee the Queen, but God will definitely be here.’ No one is interested in God. ‘God is fine,’ they say, ‘but is the Queen coming?’”

Who cares for God? But if the Queen is coming, people want front seats. On seeing the Queen, they’ll “enter samadhi”! And you will think: such deep feeling for God. Be careful—not only of others, but of yourself. Keep examining within.

The highest thing, the greatest merit, is where your ego melts. From that melted ego rises a helpless sigh—and that sigh is bhajan. Tears begin to fall—not because you cause them. Even if you try to hold them back, you can’t.

What can I do if I do not long for you?
What else is there in the world but you?

What can a devotee do? Bhajan is not done; bhajan happens.

What can I do if I do not long for you?
What else is there in the world but you?

The devotee is helpless; prayer does not come as an action—it is the sigh of helplessness. The devotee talks to God—that talking is bhajan. The devotee is utterly mad—that madness is bhajan.

You yourself tell me, what would you feel
if the same cruelty were done to you?

The devotee talks to God—

You yourself tell me, what would you feel
if the same cruelty were done to you?

“As you have left me in darkness, in this black abyss—if someone did the same to you, how would you feel?” Such talk, this conversation—only a madman can do it. A sane man says, “Whom am I talking to? No one is visible. Better run my shop—it brings profit. Why cry here? My call will vanish into empty sky.”

For the devotee, existence is not empty. Everywhere something alive is hidden—perhaps not seen by the eyes of skin, perhaps not touched by outer hands; but when feeling opens, the connection happens instantly.

I knew your compulsions,
yet without you I could not sleep all night.
A little hope might have held me, a little ease come,
if you did not fulfill the promise, at least you could have made it.

He speaks so. From outside, anyone looking at the devotee will surely think, “He has lost his mind.” From outside there is no way to know him; a devotee can only be known from within. Some things can only be known from within; from outside, you will know them wrongly. Lovers seem mad for this reason too. If you watched Majnun talking to Layla, you’d call him mad. Even if you yourself loved once—looking back in old age you think yourself mad: “I was young; those were crazy days.” That was neither madness nor just youth; it was the vitality in your feeling, expressed.

A man came to Ramanuja and said, “Let me meet God.”

Ramanuja said, “We’ll talk of God later. Tell me—have you ever loved anyone?”

“I’ve never entangled myself in such things; I want God.”

“Think again,” Ramanuja urged. “A friend? Mother? Brother? Father? Wife? Some woman? Anyone at all?”

“No, I never got into worldly tangles.”

Ramanuja said, “Then I am helpless. If you have not known love, how will you know devotion? Devotion is love extended—its pinnacle.”

A lover is a small madness. At least the one he talks to exists. The devotee is utterly mad. Only those who dare to be mad can enter devotion. It is the work of the intoxicated, the wild. With cleverness you can gain the world; with cleverness you cannot gain God. Remember: with cleverness the world is gained; with unknowing, God is gained. The more clever you are, the more you get of the world; the more innocent, simple-hearted—childlike—you become, the more God becomes yours.

Shandilya calls bhajan, kirtan, dance the greatest merit. But remember, they are all secondary—means on the journey. Upon arrival, they must go. Don’t cling. Don’t turn them into practice. Pass through—don’t get stuck.

Gaunam traividhyam itarena stutyarthatvat sahacharyam.
“Gauni-bhakti is of three kinds—aart, jignasu, and artharthi. The accompanying mention of gyani-bhakti is only to honor it with them.”

This sutra refers to Krishna’s statement. In the Gita Krishna says devotion is of four types. Shandilya makes his distinction—and it is valuable. Krishna says: aart (distressed), jignasu (seeker), artharthi (desirer), and gyani (knower). Shandilya says: three are secondary—means; the fourth is the goal. These four should not be counted together. Devotion comprises three gauni forms—aart, jignasu, artharthi; while gyani-bhakti is the attainment, the essence, the end.

Why then did Krishna count them together? Shandilya says: gauni-bhakti is only of three kinds—aart, jignasu, artharthi; but Krishna added gyani-bhakti at the end merely to confer dignity—to keep it in mind: through the three you must reach the fourth. Yet the fourth is of another order—where the three end, the fourth begins.

This is delightful—understand it. We have a word: Vedanta. It has two meanings. One: the final peak of the Vedas, their ultimate fulfillment—Ved-anta. Two: where the Vedas end, become useless—Ved-anta. Both meanings are two faces of one coin. Where the Vedas become useless, they are complete; completeness and uselessness arrive together.

These three means—when they are complete, that is precisely the moment they become useless. Their work is done. What they were meant to produce has happened. Now they must depart. Understand these three forms well.

Aart means devotion filled with tears, sobbing devotion. From the pain of life, aart-bhakti is born. Life is full of suffering—nothing but suffering. Buddha said: birth is suffering, youth is suffering, old age is suffering, death is suffering—suffering all the way. If you look closely, “happiness” is only a hope—it is never found. What is found is suffering. What is hoped-for is happiness—but the hope never fulfills.

Have you noticed? Look back honestly—did you ever find happiness? Whom can you deceive? Sit and look: forty years have passed, fifty—was there happiness? The mind immediately says, “Not yet—but it will come ahead. Keep going!”

Bernard Shaw was invited by a friend to see a play he had written. After two scenes Shaw stood up to leave. The friend protested, “Already? The play isn’t over.”

Shaw said, “Two scenes are enough. Whoever wrote these two wrote the rest—the flavor is clear.”

That is intelligence.

If fifty years have passed without happiness, the one who lived those fifty will live the rest too—and in the same way. What you did for fifty years you will repeat—what else? The same anger, love, greed, attachment; house, shop; loss, gain, fame, defame—the same treadmill, the same circle. After fifty years of circling, has it not occurred that happiness is mere illusion? Like the horizon—you think sky and earth meet, but they never do. Run for hours, you think you’ll reach—but you never do. As you approach, the horizon recedes. The distance between you and happiness remains constant—from birth to death. Happiness is never attained.

When someone sees life’s suffering clearly, what can he do but weep? From this, aart-bhakti arises—tears, lamentation, helplessness finding voice.

So one form of devotion is aart. Some will travel this way:

Come again as Spring, for Spring has passed me by,
she bathed the roses with dew—and left me dry;
she made me weep blood—yes, that was Spring;
she razed my world—and left this song in me:
“Come again as Spring, for Spring has passed me by.”

By the lullabies of nightingales I swear,
by the morning breeze’s gentle pats I swear,
by the heart-wrenching sobs of your memory I swear,
by the garden’s painted butterflies I swear—
come again as Spring, for Spring has passed me by.

These lines were written for worldly love; but the devotee’s prayer is the same: I have seen this “spring”—it is only a mirage. From afar it dazzles—drums from a distance sound sweet. I have seen all its colors—it is illusion, a rainbow. From droplets suspended in air the sun’s rays weave magic—there is nothing there. You go to grasp it, and your hands close on emptiness. So is the world—rainbow-like, bubbles on water. When they burst, who knows? Here now—gone now; there is no security.

Come again as Spring, for Spring has passed me by.

This world’s spring is gone; I have seen it. Only if You come will spring come.

She bathed the roses with dew,
but wrung from me tears of blood.

Look closely: all eyes are filled with blood-tears. Perhaps that’s why we never sit quietly to reflect on our lives; reflection frightens. The heart pounds—we sense it is all empty. There is no ground underfoot; we go on living without support, without reason.

She razed my world—and left me this one song:
Come again as Spring, for Spring has passed me by.

Aart-bhakti arises: O God, only if You come can anything happen. Life without You is nothing but sorrow. If there is joy, it will be in You. Without You—suffering; with Your presence—bliss. I have tried to live on my own—now come within me. This is the first form: aart-bhakti.

Veena, come—I would play you; sadness has drowned my mind.
It feels as if the world
has turned its face from me;
as if all affection is false,
all love is hollow;
and none is as poor,
as lowly as I—
Veena, come—I would play you; sadness has drowned my mind.

Aart-bhakti is the distillation of life’s melancholy—hence the tears, the sobbing. A true weeping purifies the eyes; a new glimmer comes. If one has truly wept seeing life’s sorrow, the first hints, the first rays of joy begin to descend.

The moment I touched you, you filled
my house with resonance;
even my breath
sprouted seven notes;
now let me touch the earth, the sky,
let me touch the seven heavens—
everything is easy while you sing with me.
Veena, come—I would play you; sadness has drowned my mind.

That is why devotees carry the ektara—a single-stringed instrument. Its tone is a sorrowful tone; and it is a sign of man’s aloneness: we are alone; without Him, we have no companion. The deeper this realization, the more the first form—aart-bhakti—can be born.

But not everyone must be an aart-bhakta. There are three kinds of people—so Shandilya describes three kinds of devotion. Humanity can be divided in many ways—into five types, seven types, in endless ways. Don’t be confused. Yesterday I said there are five types, hence five kinds of meditations we use here. Today I say: Shandilya says three types! Divisions can be drawn many ways.

Imagine someone stands here and looks at you. He could say: there are two kinds of people here—women and men. Or: two kinds—those in ochre robes, those not in ochre. Or he could say: three—old, young, children. Or: Germans, Japanese, Indians, Chinese. Many divisions are possible—all useful; no conflict. We can cut in many ways.

Shandilya cuts in three. First: those who can deeply experience suffering. Second—jignasu-bhakti: devotion born of the quest for truth. The first moves because of suffering; the second because he sees no truth in life—only falsity, illusion; outside something, inside something else. “What is within? What is true? What is reality?” That is his inquiry. Suffering does not bother him as much; he seeks the truth of life. “If I find truth, I find the eternal. Suffering happens because we clutch the impermanent; if the eternal is found, suffering falls away.” This is a different quest, a different journey. In whose life such a question arises deeply…

People come to me: some ask, “Who am I? I want to know.” Many do not ask that; they ask, “There is so much pain—anger, sadness—how do I be free? Anxiety, restlessness, distress—how do I be free?” They have no question, “Who am I?” If I say, “First think: who am I?” they reply, “What will that do? What is the point?” Know this: if the man burdened by anxiety were freed of it, he would know who he is. And if the man who asks “Who am I?” truly knew, his anxieties would vanish. The end is the same; the paths differ.

“Where shall I go?”—whence came this voice?
Like the boom of a sea, a shattering glass;
like a shy singer’s will broken,
like a reed’s cry in desert solitude;
like a rhythm trembling on the waves and wind—
“Where shall I go?”—whence came this voice?

Am I sorrowful—or are these strings sorrowful?
Are these tears real—or imagined?
As if someone played a lone instrument in solitude,
as if someone made silent stars weep—
“Where shall I go?”—whence came this voice?

Who calls me from nameless voids?
Who sings me a familiar raga?
As if someone calls lost moments back,
as if someone lifts a sunken boat—
And this voice—whence came this voice?

One inquiry: Who am I? What is this world? Who made it? Whence do we come? Why are we? Where do we go? For such a one, jignasu-bhakti is the way. What will he do?

The aart will weep, cry out, his devotion filled with sighs. The jignasu will seek satsang, faith, meditation; he will sit near a guru, seek the one who has attained. The aart can progress even without a guru; the jignasu cannot—whom would he ask? Only one who knows can be asked. The aart may need a guru at the end—to drop bhajan. The jignasu needs one from the start; for him, without satsang, there is no support.

The jignasu seeks the true guru; he sits in his shade, listens, ponders, gradually harmonizes his waves with the master’s, merges with him; slowly, links of consciousness form. Tears may never come to him—no worry.

It often happens that people imitate each other. Your neighbor weeps, and you think, “Am I stone?” One of two thoughts arises: either “Am I stone-hearted?” or “This man is mad; I am fine—he is weak, womanly.” If women weep you pardon it; if a man weeps you fidget—“What is this? He never matured.” Neither think yourself stone-hearted nor dismiss the other as effeminate. Do not imitate; do not project yourself onto another. We either project—“I weep, so you must weep; otherwise you are stone”—or we impose—“See, I don’t weep; so don’t you weep. Otherwise you are weak.” Or we fake tears so as not to look bad. Or we sit stony-faced because others are stony.

Man imitates—here I agree with Darwin that man must be descended from monkeys. I see no other reason—but one thing is clear: man is imitative.

A cap-seller once returned from a fair; some caps were left. At noon he napped under a banyan tree. When he woke, the basket was empty. He looked up—monkeys sat wearing the caps like leaders! He was in a fix. He recalled: monkeys imitate. He tossed his own cap—at once the monkeys threw theirs down. He gathered them, filled his basket, and went home.

Years later his son went. The father warned: “Don’t rest under that banyan; monkeys live there. If you must—and if they steal your caps—throw your own; they’ll throw theirs.” The son, confident with the formula, slept under the tree; woke to find the basket empty, monkeys capped. He threw his cap—one monkey came down, took it too, and fled.

By then the monkeys had learned. Perhaps these were their sons, warned: “If a cap-seller throws his cap, don’t imitate—take it as well!”

If only monkeys imitated, it would be fine—but man imitates much more. Beware imitation. Never adopt another’s behavior as your own—or you become fake. That is what has happened. You see what others do—and do the same. You move with the crowd. Live your life by your own understanding, your own nature.

So the jignasu’s eyes may not tear; the aart’s will.

The third form is artharthi. The scriptures define it as one who asks for things—sons, daughters, wealth, jobs, healing of a sick wife. I don’t accept that; that’s paltry. That is not even gauni-bhakti; that is a counterfeit of devotion. Where there is asking, what devotion? I take artharthi to mean one who experiences meaninglessness, the futility of life.

Understand these differences. The first feels suffering; the second is filled with questions, wonder; the third feels sheer meaninglessness. He does not feel suffering or ask questions; he feels nothing here has meaning. You act and act—there is no substance. Neither in suffering nor in pleasure is there substance. It is like a dream.

At night you dream you became a sage; in the morning you find yourself the same. Or you dream you murdered someone; in the morning the same. Will you distinguish between these dreams—one good, one bad? A dream is a dream; both are futile. Nothing actually happened; only the illusion of happening. Reality remains as it was.

When someone begins to feel that nothing is happening here, things are as they are; we are merely dreaming—some dreaming good dreams, some bad; some in color, some in black and white.

Yes, some people do dream in color—very few. Most dream in black and white—old-style films. Those who dream in color tend to see color outside too. From them poets are born, painters, sculptors, musicians—color-dreamers. The black-and-white dreamers become shopkeepers, clerks, station masters, professors—people of arithmetic. Ask such a dreamer to keep accounts—he’s perfect. The color-dreamer? Don’t give him your accounts; his dreams will make a mess of them.

A Sufi story: three fakirs were traveling. In one town they were gifted a small bowl of exquisite halwa from the emperor’s palace—enough for only one. Each wanted it. They argued. One said, “We should give it to the best among us: I have memorized the entire Quran.” The second said, “What is memory? Character is what matters—and you have none. I am virtuous.” The third said, “What is character? All worldly nonsense—it’s all a dream. Neither knowledge nor character avails—only prayer. Do you even pray?” The debate raged till night. One suggested: “Let’s sleep. In the morning, whoever has the highest dream will eat.” All agreed—better to postpone than let another eat.

In the morning, the first said, “I saw the Prophet Mohammed. He declared me his true heir. What higher dream is there?” The second said, “Nothing! I saw God himself—beyond any messenger—giving me direct commission.” They asked the third. He said, “I don’t know—some voice within said, ‘Fool, what are you waiting for? Get up and eat the halwa!’ So I did. There’s none left.”

Dreams—some dramatic, colorful—impress us deeply; but they are dreams. The one who sees the world as dream experiences meaninglessness. This is different from feeling suffering; the sufferer at least feels something—at least something has weight. The one who feels meaninglessness feels nothing, neither joy nor sorrow. He says, “All is a line drawn on water; this is some divine joke.”

Such a one I call artharthi. He seeks meaning. Empty, void, he seeks significance; he says to God, “Give me meaning. Make life such that I feel it is not merely a dream—that it has reality. Don’t draw lines on water; draw on stone—let something stay. Grant me a taste of the eternal.”

If you dye me in your color, then it is Holi.

Long I have watched
the world’s gaiety;
yet my fine, thin cloth
has stayed undyed.
Many touched the strings
of my body;
none soaked the strings of my soul—
If you dye me in your color, then it is Holi.

Dye me in your color,
then I’ll forget the past;
I’ll sing to all
of love, beauty, life, youth.
Only what comes from within
can enter within—
mine is but the language of my mind.
If you dye me in your color, then it is Holi.

The artharthi says: O Lord, dye me in your color. I don’t ask for truth or bliss—dye me in your hue. Pour a little godliness into me; let me be colored by you.

If you dye me in your color, then it is Holi.

These are the three approaches of gauni-bhakti. From any of these points you reach parabhakti—what Krishna called gyani-bhakti.

Bahyantarastham ubhayam aveshthi sarvavat.
“The offering in sacrifice is sometimes taken as inner, sometimes outer—like everything.”

Shandilya says: what is inner and what is outer is hard to say—it depends on the devotee. If bhajan is done with your whole being, it becomes inner; if it is only a procedure, it remains outer. So is it inner or outer? It depends on the devotee. An idol—inner or outer? On the devotee. If he plunges with his whole heart, the idol enters him and he enters the idol. For even in stone God is hidden; in rock, the divine is concealed. You need the eyes that see, the heart that descends.

So from the surface you cannot decide what is inner or outer. The same thing can be inner for one, outer for another. Do not condemn others. Keep this respect always. If someone bows before an idol, never say, “What are you doing? It’s just stone!” For you it may be stone—for him, it may be life. If he has established life in that stone, then for him it is everything.

With inner states, crude rules don’t work. There are no yardsticks.

We often err like this. Someone sings bhajan—we say, “What will this do?” The singer may not be able to answer—often he cannot. If he were a man of answers, he would not sing; he would inquire. Keep the distinction: if he were able to answer, he would be a jignasu, not an aart. For him, thought is not as important as feeling. He stands silent. Do not think you’ve won because he could not answer. Not everything has answers. This is the mystery of life—that some things have no answer.

So inner or outer depends on each person. What is outer for the aart may be inner for the jignasu; what is outer for the jignasu may be inner for the aart. The jignasu says, “Seek satsang! What will bhajan-kirtan do? Why this din?” The aart says, “You sit like a stone at the guru’s feet—what will that do? Sing, dance, cry, shout, scream for the Lord!” Both are right in their own way.

Humanity has not yet grown enough goodwill to honor each other’s uniqueness. That is our lack. Thus Muslims break Hindu temples; Hindus burn mosques. Foolishness. Respect the other. We are not others’ controllers. Let each be his own master. Let him go by what brings him joy and essence. Don’t obstruct. The wish that all be like you is absurd, inhuman. Yet Christians want the whole world Christian; Hindus, the whole world Hindu; Muslims, the whole world Muslim.

This desire is wrong. Let diversity be. It is good that many flowers bloom here—lotuses and roses, champa, juhi, jasmine. If only roses bloomed, they would soon bore. Variety is God’s mode of manifestation. Many fragrances, many colors, many styles, many kinds of people. So what is inner or outer depends on how a person takes a thing.

“Aveshti—the specific offering—sometimes is taken as inner, sometimes as outer.”

It depends on you.

For example, someone asks me, “Why ochre robes? Are they necessary for sannyas? Can there not be sannyas without them?” The question has force—what has clothing to do with renunciation? He takes sannyas as inner and robes as outer. But the same man does not raise this question elsewhere. Notice: a policeman in uniform is treated one way; in plain clothes, another. A magistrate in robes commands behavior; without them, who cares? You may say robes are outer—but they sit deep in you.

Ghalib was invited by Bahadur Shah Zafar. Ghalib was poor; his clothes were worn. Friends said, “Don’t go like that; we’ll arrange fine clothes.” The poet’s pride: “I am as I am; why borrow clothes?” He went as he was—patched, worn. The guard refused him entry, shoved him out—even when he showed the invitation. “You must have stolen it. Get lost!” Ghalib returned, donned borrowed finery, came again. The same guard bowed; he entered; the emperor seated him close, for Zafar valued him. But at dinner the emperor was startled: he saw Ghalib lifting sweets to feed his turban, his clothes, his shoes. “What are you doing—feeding clothes and shoes?” Ghalib said, “I did not come—the clothes came. I came earlier, but was thrown out.”

You may say, “Clothes don’t matter,” but you live by clothes. Change your clothes and everything changes.

Adolf Hitler killed thousands. In his camps he did one thing: stripped all naked, shaved their heads and faces, gave them identical clothes. The great psychologist Viktor Frankl describes in his memoirs how their identities vanished—doctor, engineer, magistrate, professor, writer, poet, painter—all disappeared. He wrote: “I stood before the mirror and could not recognize myself. Our personalities were wiped clean.” That’s why the military puts everyone in uniform: individuality disappears.

These ochre robes too are a way to wipe your separate personality. If you take them with understanding, they become inner; without, they remain mere uniform. They are your signal: I am ready to dissolve; I withdraw my claim to specialness; having claimed it, I found suffering. Now I wish to vanish like a drop in the vast.

Everything depends on your vision.

Bhuyasam ananushthitih iti chet aprayanam upasamharaat mahatsu api.
“Do not think devotees do less action. The only difference is: they act under another law.”

Do not think a devotee does little. He simply drops the sense of doer. From the devotee, action flows—indeed more so; his activity blooms; his creativity reaches its peak. But there is a difference: now God is the doer; the devotee is not. The devotee is only the bamboo flute; God breathes and the song flows. He has surrendered into that law.

Many think devotion means: now do nothing—no shop, no market, no care for children or wife. People take devotion as a cover for laziness. Sloth, lethargy, inaction—this is not devotion. Devotion is not inaction; it is non-doership. Action continues—life is action—but now we are not the doers. We are instruments; whatever God makes happen.

Smritikirtyoh kathadeh cha artau prayashchittabhavat.
“Remembrance and kirtan, listening to the tale—within aart-bhakti these are forms of atonement.”

Nothing else is needed—call out helplessly, without support. In that call, the mind is purified; atonement happens. People ask, “What will weeping do? For atonement we must do meritorious acts—rituals, sacrifices.” Devotees say: weeping itself will do all. If you weep from the heart, with your whole being, that alone will cleanse you. These tears wash not only the outer eyes but the inner seeing. Or, if you are a jignasu, bowing at the guru’s feet is atonement. Or if you are an artharthi seeking meaning, sit silently and call the Divine: “Dye me in your color. When I pluck my strings only noise arises; you pluck and music rises, rhythm appears. I only create disorder; you awaken my music.” That is atonement.

The question has long been debated: we have done many wrongs in many lives—what will happen to their fruits? People ask me: we have sinned for lifetimes—what of those? It is thought that for every sin you must do equal merit to cancel it; only then will there be liberation.

Then liberation will never be. Abandon hope. You have sinned so much that if for each sin you must perform a balancing merit, infinite births will be needed—and, to do so many merits, you will again have to do many sins! How else will you fund your merits? To build a temple you must first black-market; to feed Brahmins you must first pick some pockets; to give charity you must first steal; only a thief can be generous. Those who think themselves great donors don’t know what they’re saying—they are confessing they were great thieves. Usually you steal a million, donate a hundred thousand; and by donating you become fit to steal again—the pride supports the next theft: “No harm, I will donate again.” Your giving and stealing are a pair.

If infinite births are needed to undo infinite deeds, then along the way you will keep committing new wrongs, which must also be undone, and so on forever. Those who follow the arithmetic of karma must give up hope of liberation.

The devotee says: what you did was dream-like. To erase dreams you need not do anything—just wake up. At night you dream you murdered and stole; in the morning will you revive the dead to compensate? On waking you know: it all happened in a dream—nothing was done. Nothing happened. A sleep was there; sleep is gone. When the devotee weeps, sleep breaks. When he sings, sleep breaks. When he dances, sleep breaks.

Be aart, or jignasu, or artharthi—in every case, sleep breaks. You don’t need to destroy karmas; with the breaking of sleep, the vision of life changes—and with that, everything. Live asleep and your acts are sin; live awake and your acts are merit. What is done in awakening is virtue; what is done in sleep is sin.

Shandilya gives three ways to wake. Be aart—let your weeping grow so intense that you wake. Remember the dream in which a lion chases you and you scream—and in that cry, you wake. Or you see a man stabbing your chest and in that “Ah!” you wake. Aart means just this: the suffering of life is such that a great sigh breaks your sleep.

Or you think and ponder, find no answer, and sit with a true guru. Sitting with a guru is befriending an alarm; he keeps waking you, warning you, lifting you.

Or—as an artharthi—you are filled not with suffering or inquiry but with meaninglessness, negation, emptiness; and in that void your call rises: “O Lord, dye me in your color; then all will be well.”

If you dye me in your color, then it is Holi.

But these three are secondary—boats to parabhakti. As parabhakti approaches, step out of the boat. Leave it. Be free of the means.

The day you no longer need the means, do not, even for a moment, cling to it—otherwise it will bind you and hurl you back into the world. The means is a device to be free of the world; then you must be free of the means. The day you are free of both—world and means; free of religions—no longer Hindu, Muslim, Christian, for these too are means—that day you are truly religious. The day the Veda ends, that day is Vedanta; the day the Veda is fulfilled, that day is Vedanta.

Parabhakti is your and God’s final union—absolute union.

Enough for today.