Athato Bhakti Jigyasa #9

“Rāgatvāditicen no ’ttamāspadatvāt, saṅgavat.
‘Devotion is nothing but passionate love. Some say that passion is the cause of suffering and therefore should be renounced. But it is not so; for like association, it depends on the worthiness of its refuge.’”

This sutra is crucial. Understand it attentively. Everything depends on this sutra for the transformation of your life. Shandilya is refuting what you’ve always heard. He is opposing what you have always believed. Only if you listen with great alertness will the point slip into your awareness, because it runs very contrary to all you’ve known.

You’ve been told again and again that because of love the world exists, suffering exists, bondage exists. Saints and monks have explained to you that the root of your misery is love, passion, attachment. All teachings tell you: attain dispassion, drop attachment. And the logic appeals to you. There is a reason it fits. Wherever attachment is, suffering seems to arise from there. The one you are attached to is the very one who can make you miserable. You desired a woman; to the extent you desired her, to that same extent she can make you suffer. You loved a man; to the degree you loved him, you will receive happiness from him to that degree—and sorrow to that same degree. The measure will be equal. If tomorrow the man leaves you, or the woman leaves you, how much pain will you go through? Exactly as much as the joy you had from their presence. Attachment appears to be the source of pleasure, and also the source of pain. The one we want—if we get them, it is happiness. The one we want—if we lose them, it is suffering. The one we do not want—if they come to us, it is suffering. The one we do not want—if they leave, it is relief.

All of human joy and sorrow is attachment-dependent. From that very place hell surges up, and heaven too. Hence there is no real difference in the logic of the sensualist and the yogi. The sensualist says, granted, suffering comes from there, but so does happiness. I am willing to suffer, but I am not willing to let go of joy. This is the sensualist’s reasoning, this is the line of his thought. He says: granted there are many thorns on the rosebush, but the flowers are there too. Should I abandon the flowers because of the thorns? I’m not that foolish. I will go—if the thorns prick, let them; I’ll try to avoid them, guard myself; but the flowers aren’t to be forsaken. The flowers are so lovely the thorns can be endured. This is the sensualist’s logic.

What does the yogi say? What does the renunciate say?

The renunciate says the thorns are so many I am ready to renounce the flowers. He also concedes that the flowers are there. If there were no flowers, there would be no point in talking of leaving that bush—there is something there worth leaving, a certain treasure. Some exquisite blooms are open that lure the mind, beckon and call. There is invitation, there is attraction. But the thorns are many. The price is steep, exorbitant. The yogi is not willing to pay so much. He says: I will give up the flowers, but I will not enter the thorns. Both accept that there are flowers and thorns there. One chooses the flowers, one refuses them. One, for the sake of flowers, takes the thorns too; the other, because of the thorns, leaves the flowers. But their line of reasoning is not different.

Shandilya says: this has nothing to do with passion as such. It has to do with the object of passion. Whom you love determines how much you will suffer. If you love the transient, you will suffer greatly—because love longs to be eternal. If you love a bubble on the water, you will inevitably suffer. The bubble exists now and is gone the next moment. A bubble rises on the water; who knows when it will burst—this instant, that instant? It is ready to burst; it will burst for sure. One thing is certain—it is not everlasting. And you invested your love there; when the bubble bursts, you will writhe, you will burn in the fire. You are not burning because of love—bear Shandilya’s sutra in mind. Shandilya says, you are not burning because of love; because of love you savored even the bubble—though a bubble has no juice in it at all. Because you loved the bubble, you extracted essence from it. The nectar came from love. Now when the bubble bursts, pain comes; the pain arises from the transience of the bubble. The joy comes from love; the pain comes from the fleeting nature of the object.

Someone longed for wealth. What reliance is there in wealth—here today, gone tomorrow! Someone longed for status. What reliance is there in position—here today, gone tomorrow! Whatever you have desired in this world does not last forever. Still, because of desire, because of attachment, a little happiness comes—even from rainbows, even from mirages. A man lost in the desert, thirsty, sees an oasis at a distance—whether it exists or not. Suppose it doesn’t; it only appears, a hallucination, a thirsty man’s dream, his projection; his thirst has become so intense he sees oases everywhere. False or not, until he reaches that oasis it is real for him. While it seems real, there is hope and happiness.

Attachment formed even to a false oasis gives a little happiness. As you come close, you realize it was false—then there is sorrow. The sorrow is not caused by attachment—as long as there was attachment, even the false oasis produced joy—the sorrow arises because the oasis was false.

Shandilya is saying that attachment as such does not produce sorrow at all.

Has the distinction become clear?

There is love, and there is love’s object. If the object is transient, sorrow arises. Shandilya says: instead of the fleeting, make the everlasting your object—make the Divine your object—and there will be no sorrow. This is devotion.

The renunciate is in delusion. He has not analyzed rightly. Shandilya says: those flowers blooming among thorns are the flowers of love. And the thorns are the thorns of transience. Because they bloom side by side, you are confused; you are in a bind.

“Whenever I kiss these beautiful eyes,
a hundred lamps start flickering in the dark.
What flowers, what unopened buds, what moon, what stars—
all the rivals bow their heads at my feet.
The statues of Ajanta begin to dance,
lips long sealed begin to sing again.
Flowers start blooming in desolate gardens,
clouds gather over the parched earth.
For a single moment this world stops its cruelties—
for a moment even stones begin to smile.”

But only for a moment, only for an instant. When you fall in love with someone—yes, it is a dream, but such is the power of love that for a moment it makes even the dream real, for a moment it authenticates the false. Shandilya says: look at the power of love, the energy of passion—when it rains upon the false, even the false seems true. This can only be for a moment, because the false is false after all. If not today, tomorrow it will be exposed; if not today, tomorrow the dream will shatter; if not today, tomorrow the rainbow will fade. Your eyes will again be left in darkness. The lamp will go out.

The renunciate runs away. He says: never again will I love—love brought me great sorrow. Shandilya says: sorrow did not come from love; it came because you loved the transient—because you loved wealth, therefore; because you loved the body, therefore; because you loved the mind, therefore. Love the Divine—love That which always is, that which never becomes “not.” And then there is only bliss upon bliss.

“Rāgatvāditicen no ’ttamāspadatvāt, saṅgavat.”

Attach yourself to the Supreme, to the transcendental. It depends on whom you attach to. If you befriend snakes and scorpions, if not today then tomorrow you will be bitten. This is not the fault of friendship; you befriended snakes and scorpions. So don’t decide, “From now on I swear I will never befriend anyone.” You got pain because you befriended a snake; don’t break off from friendship itself. Otherwise the bridges of your life will be gone, the colors will be gone, the rhythm will be gone, the music will be gone. For all music, all rhythm, all melody, all color belongs to love. These are the flowers of passion. Whatever fragrance there is here is of love; whatever stench there is, is of lovelessness.

So here is the sensualist, who loves the wrong things. He is wrong because his love is wrongly placed. And here is the yogi, who has stopped loving altogether. He is wrong because he has dropped love itself. If you see rightly, the sensualist is better than the yogi. Because the sensualist at least is loving. If he understands someday, he can love the right. He is going in the wrong direction, but at least he is going. If he understands, these very feet can take him the right way. These very wings, which are carrying him toward darkness, can one day ride on a journey into light. But the yogi has cut off his wings. Now neither a journey into darkness is possible, nor into light; now no journey is possible at all.

And when the yogi cuts off his wings, he is filled with a peculiar sadness. Many people take that sadness to be saintliness. One order of sadhus even calls itself “Udasin”—the order of sadness. People think sadness is saintliness. But saintliness should be joy. Saintliness should be dancing. In saintliness many songs should be born. In saintliness the moon and stars should rise. If saintliness does not dance, it is not saintliness. Saintliness should have ecstasy, intoxication. A saint’s life should be a wine-house—there should be great intoxication, great sweetness. There should be bliss everywhere.

But in those you call saints, there is no trace of delight—there is sadness, inertia; a sort of deadness; a graveyard silence. The so-called saint has become wooden, stuck, stagnant—a mud-pool. This current will go nowhere; it will never reach the ocean; it will rot. The devotee says: dance! The devotee says: be filled with enthusiasm! The devotee says: turn the current of love from the world toward the Divine. The current is yours, the wings are yours. Only choose the right direction; don’t get angry at your wings.

And when your saint gets angry at his wings and cuts them off, then seeing others’ wings he is filled with jealousy. Your saints advise you to cut off your wings too. They are angry—angry at themselves, angry at you. Their life is a life of resentment. There is anger, there is rage, there are repressed desires. And repressed they will be. Because love is such a thing you cannot get rid of it. Even if you cut off a bird’s wings, the bird cannot be rid of the longing to fly. That is the bird’s very soul; there is no escape from it. The longing to fly is the bird’s very life-breath.

The longing for love is your very soul. Go off to the forests as you will, as far as you will, sit in caves as you will—within you love will stir, within you the spring of love will try to burst forth. Sit in a cave—then you will fall in love with the cave. Sit under a tree—then you will fall in love with that tree. A bird will come to rest on your shoulder, seeing you quietly seated under the tree—then you will fall in love with that bird. If it does not come one day, you will wait—just as a lover waits for his beloved, or a beloved for her lover. You will be anxious: What happened to that bird? There was a squall, a storm—did it fall? Did it die? If the tree begins to wither, you’ll be restless; you’ll bring water from the distant river and pour it for the tree. The restlessness will be like that of a mother when her child is ill. Where will you flee from love? You are love.

This is the devotees’ proclamation: love is your soul, passion is your very being; there is no way to be free of it. You can cut your wings, but within you the longing to fly will flutter—more desperately. And when you see others flying, great envy will arise. Out of that envy your saints preach to you: renounce, give up, escape.

People come and ask me, “Why don’t you tell your sannyasins to leave the world?”

God Himself isn’t leaving the world—why should my sannyasin leave it? God is not bored with the world. Are you so filled with the ambition to be superior even to God? Do you also want to defeat God? Your so-called mahatma considers himself wiser than God. God still laughs in the flowers, still flies in the birds, still flows in the streams, still rises in the mountains, still dwells in the moon and stars; still new children are born; God is not tired yet.

Tagore has said: whenever a child is born, a prayer of gratitude rises in me toward God—so, You are not tired yet! You have fashioned yet another human being! Your hope is inexhaustible. Infinite is Your hope. However wrong man becomes, however wrong he behaves, still You keep shaping men. You say: if we miss today, we’ll win tomorrow; if we miss tomorrow, the day after—yet we shall win. If not today, tomorrow man will become what he ought to be. This trust of Yours!

Man’s faith in God may be lost, but God’s faith in man is not lost. God’s trust in you is extraordinary—this is why you live, why your breath goes on. His passion is for you—and you talk of dispassion? He desires you; His longing pours over you every morning and evening, whether you notice or not. It showers in the sunlight, it blows in the gusts of wind, it perfumes the flowers, it comes in human love; His grace comes to you every day, whether you give thanks or not; His passion is for you. God is in love with you. God is in love with His creation. Otherwise, who would keep these trees green? Who would keep the moon and stars alight? Who would fly in the birds’ wings, and sing in their throats?

God’s passion is for you—and you talk of dispassion? Be filled with the same passion toward Him. When your passion and His meet—that is liberation, that is moksha. God has loved you deeply, and you have not loved Him—that is your delusion. Let your longing turn upward! Right now it runs downward; it goes toward the low, the petty.

So be alert: whenever you see a sad mahatma, avoid him. He carries the germs of a disease. Keep far from him; be careful. Those germs are dangerous. Once they enter you and you become infected, the cure is difficult. And those germs will appeal to you. They appeal because you too have suffered; your hands too have been burnt; you have endured great pain in this life. The very one you loved is the one you suffered from. Who else could you suffer from? We suffer from the one we love; because it is from them we hope, from them that hope fails; from them we expect, from them our expectations are uprooted; because of them we have anticipations, from them the melancholy comes.

You have seen—no stranger ever causes you sorrow. Why would they? Sorrow comes from one’s own, because with our own we carry expectations. You wanted something and it did not happen. A passerby does you a small favor and you are filled with gratitude, because you had no expectations. Your wife has served you all her life—you never thanked her. It would even feel foolish—who thanks their own? We thank only outsiders. Thank you means: we did not expect it and yet you did it. From those we expect, we get angry, we don’t thank. If they did not do as much as we expected, we get annoyed. Does any son thank his mother? Does any mother thank her son? The thought itself doesn’t arise. Yes, complaints go on; resentments happen; anger happens.

So every person is burnt, and covered in blisters. And you know the saying: scalded by milk, one blows even on buttermilk. So your own experience says the same. Your analysis is not very deep either; you have not understood life in its depths, nor tested it; your eyes are not very transparent. Thus when your mahatma tells you this is all the fruit of attachment, it suits you too; the arithmetic adds up: I am suffering because I got entangled in attachment. And you’re ready to take in the germs of the disease.

Shandilya is giving you sutras of great revolution. He says: no one suffers because of attachment itself. Tell your mahatmas you did not suffer because of attachment; you suffered because you attached yourself to the wrong. Now you are making a second mistake—you have dropped attachment altogether.

A man walks with his own feet to a brothel. Certainly—without feet how would he go? He went there with his feet. In the brothel he suffered greatly, endured much humiliation, defiled his life. In rage he cut off his feet—because these very feet took him to the brothel. But those very feet could have taken him to the temple too; with those feet a pilgrimage could be made. Will you call the one who cut off his feet a mahatma? Because he says: my feet took me to the brothel, to the gambling den, to the tavern; I was very angry with these feet—I cut them off. You would call him mad, not a saint. This man was foolish before, and now he commits supreme folly—for the one who can go to the brothel can also go to the shrine. If he can travel to hell, what obstacle prevents him from travelling to heaven? Only change the direction; do not go left, go right—this is all. The feet are the same; the staircase is the same; don’t go down, go up. The same staircase you descend is the one you ascend. You don’t demolish the staircase because it goes down! The stair that goes down also goes up. Only the direction must be changed.

Shandilya says: change direction. Drop your bond with the transient—not attachment itself—and join your attachment to the eternal. Attach your passion to the Supreme.

Just think: in the transient, where there is no real joy, even there, because of attachment, moments of happiness arise—for an instant!

“For a single moment this world stops its cruelties,
for a moment even stones begin to smile.”

If in the transient you can glimpse such joy for a moment, just think—if this same love is directed to the eternal, your wealth will be infinite; it will know no shore. And beware of those who have cut off their feet, their wings. Beware of the renunciates—passion alone is the path.

“Javānī apnī kis tarah guzarī hai tūne,
ki ab har uṭhtī javānī se badgumān hai tū.
Ye fard-e-jurm kisī aur kī zabān par nahīn—
khud apne ahd-e-guzishtaṅ kī tarjuman hai tū.
Woh chehre jin meṅ farozān hai ‘ismat-e-Maryam,
tū un pe apne gunāhoṅ kā aks ḍālti hai.
Tera zamīr hai tīrā, maho-nujūm nahīn—
maho-nujūm pe tū tìrgi uchhālti hai.
Miṭā diyā tere chehre kī jhurrīyoṅ ne jise,
tū us nikhar kī ab tāb lā nahīn saktī.
Hansi ko jurm samajhne kā yeh sabab to nahīn—
ki hansi tere oṇṭhoṅ pe ā nahīn saktī.
Biṭhā diye to haiṅ pehre qadam-qadam pe magar,
jhijhak ke chalne meṅ lagzish zarūr hotī hai.
Gunāh hote haiṅ dākhil wahīṅ se fitrat meṅ,
javānī apnā jahāṅ aitbār khotī hai.
Ye titliyāṅ jinheṅ muṭṭhī meṅ bhīnch rakkhā hai—
jo uḍne pāeṅ to uljheṅ kabhī na khāroṅ se.
Terī tarah ye bhī kahīṅ na bujh ke rah jāeṅ—
tapiś nichoṛ na in nāchte sharāroṅ se.”

The poet says—
How did you spend your own youth
that now you mistrust every rising youth?
These charges don’t fall from someone else’s tongue—
you yourself are the commentary on your wasted past.
Those faces in which the chastity of Mary shines—
you cast the shadow of your sins upon them.
Your conscience is dark—no moon, no stars—
and you fling your darkness upon the moon and stars.
What your wrinkles have erased from your face,
you can no longer bear the radiance of that glow.
Is this any reason to declare laughter a crime—
that laughter no longer comes to your lips?
You’ve posted guards at every step, and yet
the hesitant gait is bound to stumble.
Sin slips into nature from that very place
where youth loses its trust in life.
These butterflies you’ve crushed in your fist—
if they could fly, they’d never be caught in thorns.
Don’t let them, like you, go out and die—
don’t squeeze the warmth out of these dancing sparks.

You must have squandered your youth in wrong ways—only then do you get angry at the young, only then do you oppose every lover. You must have placed your passion on the wrong—this is why you fume at every passionate one.

“These charges don’t fall from someone else’s tongue—
you yourself are the commentary on your wasted past.”

Whenever you condemn something, remember—what you condemn is your own past, not the thing itself. When someone says “Wealth is sin,” understand he wasted his life chasing wealth. He says nothing else. When someone says “Don’t run after women, it’s all futile,” he is simply saying he wasted his life running after women. He speaks only about himself. He says nothing about you, nothing about women—he is confessing his own story.

“Those faces in which the chastity of Mary shines—
you cast the shadow of your sins upon them.”

There have been women like Mary—the mother of Jesus—where will you find a face more pure? But you say women are the gates of hell. You are repeating your own experience. You must have sought the kind of women who are the gates of hell. This tells of your seeking. It says nothing about women. For there are also women like Mary—who are gates to heaven, through whom even gods long to be born.

“Your conscience is dark—no moon, no stars—
and you fling your darkness upon the moon and stars.”

“Is this any reason to declare laughter a crime—
that laughter no longer comes to your lips?”

Because you cannot laugh, is laughter a sin? Because you cannot laugh, is laughter a crime? Because you never found the art, the key to laughter—because you spent your life weeping—you go around telling everyone that life is nothing but tears, that there are only thorns, that there are no flowers. Because your garden did not bloom, do you think no other garden has flowers? Don’t impose yourself on all. Don’t convert your defeat into everyone’s defeat. Yet this is what your mahatmas have been doing.

“You’ve posted guards at every step, and yet
the hesitant gait is bound to stumble.
Sin slips into nature from that very place
where youth loses its trust in life.”

Where a young person—where life—loses its trust in itself, sin begins. And your mahatmas have unsteadied your trust. They’ve given you doctrines that whatever you do is wrong. Eat-drink, it’s a sin. Stand-sit, it’s a sin. Sleep-wake, it’s a sin. Love, relate, befriend—sin. All is sin. They have filled you with sins. How will such a man call out to God? With what face? For what reason? God has given nothing but sins, a life full of sins—what thanks will you offer? And where there is no gratitude, prayer does not arise.

“These butterflies you’ve crushed in your fist—
if they could fly, they’d never be caught in thorns.”

And what have your mahatmas done? They have seized the butterflies—in fear that if they fly they might get entangled in thorns.

“Don’t let them, like you, go out and die—
don’t squeeze the warmth out of these dancing sparks.”

Don’t wring the fire out of these dancing sparks. Don’t drain their life. Let them fly.

Devotion gives you the ultimate freedom of life. Devotion says: the sky is yours—fly! The Master has given wings—fly! Only remember: these wings can take you upwards; these feet can lead you to the temple. These eyes—do not let them be exhausted by seeing only bodily beauty. There is nothing wrong with bodily beauty—there is no sin in it; in fact, all beauty is His. When you find a woman or a man beautiful, it is His glimmer, His news. Distant perhaps, a far-off echo—but still His echo. A reflection of Him. But do not let these eyes end in the seen alone; there is an unseen beauty—set these eyes seeking That. And these ears—do not let them be satisfied hearing only words; there is a far greater joy in hearing the silence. And these hands—do not let them touch only what is tangible; there is something intangible that can still be held. And this heart—don’t let it drown in trivial worries; let it connect with the essence. Don’t become an enemy of passion. Other than passion there is no bridge.

Therefore Shandilya says: “Rāgatvāditicen no ’ttamāspadatvāt, saṅgavat.
‘Devotion is nothing but passionate love. Some say that passion is the cause of suffering and therefore should be renounced. But it is not so; for like association, it depends on the worthiness of its refuge.’”

What kind of refuge? What kind of object?

Join it to the Supreme and it becomes devotion. Join it to the petty and it becomes pettiness. That is why I told you the forms of the love-principle: one, affection—toward those younger than you: the child, the son. Two, love—toward equals: husband, wife, friend. Three, reverence—toward those greater than you: father, mother, master. And the fourth, the supreme state, devotion. These are all forms of the same love. Let your love reach to devotion. Remember: there is nothing to leave, nowhere to escape. In this very soil of the world is found the gold of the Divine. Sift it—separate the soil as soil, and gather the gold as gold.

“Tad eva karmī jñānī yogibhya ādhikya-śabdāt.
‘Because the scriptures extol the devotee in superlative terms even above the man of action, the knower, and the yogi, therefore he is supreme.’”

Shandilya says: the essence of all the scriptures is that none is praised as the devotee is. The Vedas call the devotee supreme; so do the Upanishads. Krishna in the Gita calls the devotee supreme. If anyone is described in superlative terms, it is the devotee. Action is praised, knowledge is praised, yoga is praised, all methods are discussed; but the devotee is praised above all—extravagantly. Why? Because the devotee creates no duality in this world; he is beyond the pair of opposites. The devotee does not choose. He does not divide the world and God. He says: this world too is of that God. He does not see God as opposed to the world; he sees Him hidden within it, woven through it. In every particle, in every moment He pervades.

Then the devotee surrenders himself in every way. His surrender is total. Only the devotee can surrender totally. Only love can surrender totally; nothing else can. The yogi has a self-interest—he wants liberation. The devotee is not even that self-interested. Devotees have never asked for moksha. The knower wants knowledge—he wants realization of Truth. The devotee is not concerned even with that. He says: let me not remain in my heart—this is enough. Where I am not, You will be. Let me become a void; let me become a worthy vessel; let me lie as dust at Your feet—this suffices. I have no separate desire. The yogi asks for liberation, the knower asks for knowledge—each asks something; the devotee says: only this—erase me; annihilate me so utterly that I no longer have any sense of “me”; let me be beside myself.

Therefore Krishna says: in the devotee’s heart I dwell in a way I dwell nowhere else—not even in heaven. In the devotee’s heart I sit with such love that there is no other place like it.

“Praśna-nirūpaṇābhyām ādhikya-siddheḥ.
‘This superiority of devotion is also established through question and answer.’”

This sutra is very unusual—because it is very symbolic. And because of the symbolism, the meanings given so far have been quite mistaken. The sutra is not straightforward; it is oblique. What does Shandilya mean by saying that the superiority of devotion is established through question and answer?

Those who have commented on Shandilya have assumed that by “question and answer” he alludes to the Bhagavad Gita, to the dialogue between Krishna and Arjuna, in which the supreme height of devotion is established.

Such a meaning can be taken. But it does not go very far. If Shandilya meant exactly that, he could have said “Krishna–Arjuna dialogue”; he could have named the Gita. Why speak so indirectly? Therefore I wish to take another meaning.

Between a disciple and a Master much happens even without words. Between a student and a teacher there is only exchange of words. That is the difference. Between disciple and Master there is also an exchange of the wordless. Words are exchanged too, but that is secondary, number two. Primarily there is an exchange of silence.

Twenty-five hundred years ago, one morning in a forest, this happened. A man came with a flower in his hand. He sat down. His circle of disciples was around him. He held up the flower before each disciple. Wherever the flower went, someone said something, offered some commentary about the flower. The flower kept passing. At last it came before one disciple, and he said nothing—he only smiled, laughed. They say, in that very moment Zen was born—the lineage of meditation was born.

It is not very important that the man was Gautam Buddha. It could have been someone else—Krishna, Christ, Kapila, Kanada, Kabir—anyone; only one condition: whoever he is, he must be awakened.

And why was the meditation lineage born upon the laughter of that one? Because when Buddha held up the flower to the others, they spoke in language—they said something, displayed their knowledge, commented on the flower—but they missed the flower. The flower is a fact, beyond words. There is no way to say it. You can be astonished before a flower, wonderstruck, enraptured; you can be stilled by its beauty; tears of joy can flow, or laughter can burst forth—but words are too petty, too small.

The disciple before whom the flower came and remained was Mahakashyapa. He only smiled, then laughed out loud. And Buddha gave the flower to Mahakashyapa and said: what I could say, I have said to the others; what I cannot say, I give to you.

The supreme event happens in silence. It is not that between disciple and Master there is no exchange of words—there is—but that is not the real exchange. There is another exchange that happens quietly, without speaking. Shandilya, to the disciple or disciples to whom he is giving these sutras, has a bond of silence. Those disciples have asked him many questions in silence and have received many answers in silence. Here too there are people who ask in silence and receive in silence. Only the one who asks in silence receives.

So when Shandilya says: “Praśna-nirūpaṇābhyām ādhikya-siddheḥ.”
Is not this truth established also through question and answer!
What is he pointing toward? He is telling his disciples: How many times have you asked, and how many times have I told you? Inwardly, in the innermost intimacy, you have become the question; I have become the answer. Has not the supremacy of devotion been proven each time?
What does it mean? It means that whenever you have asked in silence and stillness, filled with love, you have received the answer. Whenever you have looked toward me in silence and stillness, full of love, then even if you were a thousand miles away, you have found me within yourself. Does that not settle the matter? Is it not settled by the experience of love?
This is not a pointer toward Krishna’s Gita. If it were toward the Gita, it would have been said directly—why bring in this talk of question and answer? Because then it becomes a big entanglement. The Upanishads too are in question-and-answer form. Then why only the Gita? Why not the Upanishads? In fact, question and answer have been there for thousands of years, in countless scriptures. No—Shandilya is pointing to his inner connectedness. He is saying, Listen! You too ask, and how many times has it not happened that, because of your love, the distance of time and space between you and me has dissolved! How many times you silently, lovingly asked—and received the answer! Does that not establish the preponderance of devotion? The matter is already settled by that.

Na eva shraddha tu sadharanyat.
“Bhakti is not like shraddha, for shraddha appears commonly, in an ordinary way.”

Shraddha (faith/trust) is the means; bhakti (devotion) is the end. The means cannot be the end. The boat with which you cross to the other shore is not the other shore, nor can it be. Means are means; the end is the end. Shraddha brings you to bhakti, but it is not bhakti. Many people mistake shraddha for bhakti—then confusion arises. So what is bhakti?

In shraddha some desire to gain still lingers; bhakti is desireless. The devotee has already found; the faithful is still trying to find. Bhakti is the name of that inner state when you realize that the Divine is already attained—there is no question of attaining. The very talk of attaining is mistaken.

Consider this: a diamond lies in your pocket and you have forgotten. Shraddha means someone says to you, “Have you forgotten? You have a diamond!” And you trust that person and begin to search—perhaps he is right. You know him; he is authentic; he has never lied to you, never deceived you. His other suggestions have worked for you; whatever he said proved true—by a thousand experiences he has shown himself trustworthy. And today he says: “The diamond is with you! Why don’t you look? Why do you stand with hands outstretched, begging? The diamond is within!” Then shraddha arises. You think: this man has never lied, he has always benefited me; what he says has always come true—if I followed, and even if I did not follow, in the end his word proved right. Most likely this too is true—that is shraddha.

Then you search, and one day the diamond is in your fist. When the diamond rests in your palm—that is bhakti. Now you are filled with wonder. A great gratitude surges within. You dance, you are ecstatic; the ecstasy won’t contain itself, it overflows—there is an abundance. And now you also laugh at yourself: How foolish I was! The diamond I sought was with me. The diamond was with me, and I was needy for every grain. How mad I was!

Such is the realization of the Divine. You have never lost the Divine. Whatever you can lose is not the Divine. The Divine is your very nature—how can you lose it? You are the Divine. The Divine throbs in your heart. That diamond lies within you. Whenever you choose, you can have it—because in truth you already have it. Bhakti is the name of the state in which you find God within. Bhakti is the fragrance that arises from God’s presence. Shraddha is the search, the seeking.

Shandilya says: “Bhakti is not like shraddha, for shraddha appears commonly, in an ordinary way.”

There are other differences too between shraddha and bhakti. Even an atheist has shraddha. After all, a communist has shraddha in Marx, Engels, Lenin just as a Hindu has in Krishna and a Christian in Christ. A communist has shraddha in Das Kapital just as a Muslim has in the Quran and a Buddhist in the Dhammapada. Yet the communist is not a bhakta, and cannot be. Shraddha is commonly seen everywhere. Children have shraddha toward their parents—but that is not bhakti. The teacher from whom you learn something inspires shraddha, respect, reverence—but that is not bhakti.

Shraddha can be irreligious, even immoral. Suppose someone taught you to pick pockets; he became your guru. You will have shraddha toward him, a certain regard. Thieves have gurus; the dishonest have gurus. Dishonesty too is an art; it doesn’t arrive by accident—it must be learned. There too are grandmasters! So there too is shraddha. Shraddha is ordinary: wherever we receive something of value, shraddha arises.

Our relationship with the Divine cannot be merely of shraddha. If it is only shraddha, the relationship has not yet happened. With the Divine the relationship can only be of bhakti. That is why one who accepts Krishna will call him Bhagavan—God. Why? One who accepts Mahavira will call him Bhagavan—why? He is saying no more than this: We do not take Mahavira to be a mere teacher; our relationship is not just shraddha—it is bhakti. He is asserting only this: For me Mahavira is not only a guru—he is God. The feeling in my heart toward him is not mere shraddha—shraddha is ordinary. The flower that has blossomed between us is bhakti. I have nothing to get from him now; his very presence is enough—his being is supreme blessedness.

Therefore, the one who is God to one person may not be God to another. The Jains’ God is not the Hindus’ God. There is a reason: godhood is a private event. The Christians’ God is not the Muslims’ God. Those who bow to Buddha call him God. Those who bow to Krishna may not agree; the Jains won’t agree—Buddha and God? But their disagreement says only this: between them and Buddha the relationship of bhakti has not flowered—nothing more. There is nothing to debate. If the Jains try to prove that Mahavira is everyone’s God, trouble begins. If the Jains simply say, “He is our God,” the matter ends—there is no further room for dispute. The proclamation of Mahavira, Krishna, or Buddha as God by their lovers arises for only this reason: they want to declare that their bond is not of ordinary shraddha but of bhakti. Bhakti is the supreme bond, the purest state of love; beyond it there is no higher purity.

Affection is of the moment; love too is of the moment—and shraddha as well. Bhakti is of the eternal. Shraddha is formed and can dissolve. Today it is; tomorrow it may be lost. One whom you behold with shraddha today you may behold without shraddha tomorrow. Shraddha can change. But if bhakti comes, it comes—and it knows no change. If so-called bhakti changes, know that it was not bhakti; it was shraddha which you mistook for bhakti—you imposed a falsehood upon yourself. Bhakti does not change; it cannot. Once it arrives, it does not leave. If it leaves, at best it was shraddha.

Kaam takhayyul aa nahin sakti
Deed doori mita nahin sakti
Kaif kya bhaagti baharon mein
Dil ki rahat kahaan nazaron mein
Laakh jhoole nazar sitaron mein
Teeragi ghar ki jaa nahin sakti

Imagination will not do.
Mere seeing cannot wipe out the distance.
What ecstasy is there in fleeing springs?
Where can the heart find ease in mere sights?
Let your gaze swing a hundred thousand times among the stars—
the darkness of the house will not depart.

Imagination accomplishes nothing.

Deed doori mita nahin sakti
And mere beholding does not end distance—until oneness happens. In shraddha there is distance; in bhakti distance has ended. Devotee and the Divine have become one.

Kaam takhayyul aa nahin sakti
Deed doori mita nahin sakti
Kaif kya bhaagti baharon mein
And where everything is changing moment to moment, how can there be abiding joy?

Kaif kya bhaagti baharon mein
Dil ki rahat kahaan nazaron mein
Laakh jhoole nazar sitaron mein
Teeragi ghar ki jaa nahin sakti
Stare at the stars as much as you wish; the darkness of your house will not go. The home’s darkness will end only when the lamp in the home is lit.

Shraddha is toward the other—toward the “beyond.” Bhakti is when the lamp of God is lit within you; when you become God’s temple—no longer just the priest, but the very sanctuary; not merely the worshiper, but the shrine.

Zikr-e ajdaad se hoon go khursand
Haalo-maaji ka rabta ta-chand
Maut se saaz karke jeena kya
Khum se jo gir gayi, woh peena kya
Vahm se chaake-aql, seena kya
Udhre jaate hain khud-ba-khud paiband
Nagmagī gham pe chhaegi kyun kar
Muflisi gungunaegi kyun kar
Maikada hai nishat ki basti
Phir bhi mitta nahin gham-e-hasti
Mustaqil pyar, arzi masti
Ruh taskin paegi kyun kar

I may be pleased recalling my forebears—
how long can past and present hold together?
What is life if struck as a bargain with death?
What wine is it that has spilled from the cup?
What wisdom is it that tears the breast, born of mere delusion?
The stitches come undone by themselves.
How will melody spread over sorrow?
How will poverty hum a tune?
The tavern is a neighborhood of delight—
yet the grief of existence does not end.
Enduring love, fleeting intoxication—
how will the soul find true solace?

Here, in this world, relief cannot be found; no true consolation.

Mustaqil pyar, arzi masti
Here everything is momentary: now it is, now it is not—lines drawn upon water.

Mustaqil pyar, arzi masti
Ruh taskin paegi kyun kar

Yakh jamegi sharar par kitni
Aagahi hogi bekhabar kitni
Zulf lehra ke itr barsa jae
Nasha sa ek hawas par chha jae
Narm jaanu pe neend aa jae
Neend ki umr hi magar kitni

How long can ice cling to a spark?
How much awareness can come to the unaware?
Let tresses sway and perfume rain down,
a kind of intoxication may drape the senses,
sleep may descend upon a soft bosom—
but how long does sleep last?

Yakh jamegi sharar par kitni
Try to freeze snow upon a flame—how long will it last? How much can you make it stick?

Yakh jamegi sharar par kitni
Aagahi hogi bekhabar kitni
Zulf lehra ke itr barsa jae
Nasha sa ek hawas par chha jae
Narm jaanu pe neend aa jae
Neend ki umr hi magar kitni
Again and again you will sleep in the transient, and again and again the sleep will break; again and again you will wake. Here upheaval will remain. So affection will not do, love will not do, shraddha will not do—they all belong to the world. Bhakti is needed. Your gaze must be lifted beyond the world. Let there be something in your life that is not worldly. At least one ray that carries you beyond the world. By that ray you will reach the Divine.

And then Krishna said to Arjuna:

Na koi bhai, na beta, na bhatija, na guru
Ek hi shakal ubharti hai har aaine mein
Atma marti nahin, jism badal leti hai
Dhadkan is seene ki ja chhupti hai us seene mein
Jism lete hain janam, jism fana hote hain
Aur jo ek roz fana hoga, woh paida hoga
Ek kadi toot-ti hai, doosri ban jaati hai
Khatm ye silsila-e-zindagi phir kya hoga
Rishte sau, jazbe bhi sau, chehre bhi sau hote hain
Farz sau chehron mein shakal apni hi pehchanta hai
Wahi mehboob, wahi dost, wahi ek aziz
Dil jise ishq, aur idraak amal maanta hai
Zindagi sirf amal, sirf amal, sirf amal
Aur ye bedard amal sulah bhi hai, jang bhi hai
Amn ki mohni tasveer mein hain jitne rang
Unhi rangon mein chhipa khoon ka ek rang bhi hai
Khauf ke roop kai hote hain, andaaz kai
Pyar samjha hai jise, khauf hai—woh pyar nahin
Ungliyan aur gada, aur jakad, aur jakad
Aaj mehboob ka bazu hai ye, talwar nahin
Jang rehmat hai ki laanat—par sawal ab na utha
Jang jab aa hi gai sar pe to rehmat hogi
Door se dekh na bhadke hue sholon ka jalaal
Isi dozak ke kisi kone mein jannat hogi
Zakhm kha, zakhm laga—zakhm hain kis ginti mein
Farz zakhmon ko bhi chun leta hai phoolon ki tarah
Na koi ranj, na rahat, na sile ki parva
Paak har gard se rakh dil ko rasoolon ki tarah

“No brother, no son, no nephew, no guru—
one single face rises in every mirror.
The soul does not die; it only changes bodies.
The heartbeat of this chest goes and hides in that chest.
Bodies are born; bodies perish.
What perishes one day will be born again.
One link breaks, another is formed—
how then can the chain of life be ended?
Hundreds of relations, hundreds of emotions, hundreds of faces—
duty recognizes its own face in them all.
The same beloved, the same friend, the one dear one
whom the heart calls love and the insight of action.
Life is only action, only action, only action—
and this relentless action is peace as well as war.
In the bewitching picture of peace are many colors—
and hidden among them is also the color of blood.
Fear has many forms, many styles—
what you call love is fear; it is not love.
Fingers tighten, grip, and grip—
today it is the arm of the beloved, not a sword.
Is war a mercy or a curse? Do not raise the question now.
When war has come upon your head, it will be a mercy.
Do not gaze from afar at the splendor of blazing flames—
in some corner of this hell there will be a paradise.
Be wounded, give wounds—what is the count of wounds?
Duty chooses wounds too as if they were flowers.
No grief, no relief, no concern for reward—
keep your heart clean of every dust, like the hearts of the messengers.”

All the relationships here—of brother, son, mother, father, guru—are worldly.

Na koi bhai, na beta, na bhatija, na guru
Ek hi shakal ubharti hai har aaine mein
Atma marti nahin, jism badal leti hai
Dhadkan is seene ki ja chhupti hai us seene mein
The day you see the One hidden in all forms—that day is bhakti. As long as you are caught in forms, it is affection, love, shraddha. The day you see the One behind the forms—so long as you are tangled in the waves, it is affection, love, shraddha. When you behold the ocean—that is bhakti.

It is not that God is somewhere else. He is hidden right here—in these trees, in these people, in these birds, in these mountains—hidden here. But we get entangled with form. We see the tree, not the current of life flowing within the tree. We see the bird flying, not the soul soaring within the bird. We see the man, the woman—man and woman are surface matters—we do not see the consciousness hidden within. When that consciousness begins to be seen—that is bhakti.

Na koi bhai, na beta, na bhatija, na guru
Ek hi shakal ubharti hai har aaine mein
Atma marti nahin, jism badal leti hai
Dhadkan is seene ki ja chhupti hai us seene mein
See like this, test like this, and slowly you will find: the incomparable love Shandilya speaks of begins to rise within you—the love of the formless, the arūpa; love of the attributeless, the nirguna; love of the shapeless, the nirakara.

Tasyam tattve chanavasthanat.
“If you take shraddha and bhakti as one in essence, a fault will arise.”

Do not mistake shraddha for bhakti; do not stop at shraddha—this is Shandilya’s hint.

You are such that you stop at every step, so true masters must speak again and again. You are so eager to settle down. Buddha said: If you meet me on the path of meditation, cut me in two. If you meet me on the way, kill me. Kill me. Why? Because if Buddha is not slain, you will become stuck at shraddha. When even Buddha is bid farewell, godhood can dawn.

You will have to go beyond the guru as well. The guru leads you to the very end—but ultimately, in the end, the guru withdraws his hand. In that moment you must have the courage to let go as well. For the guru is the last form—the final link between form and the formless. But you must enter the formless, the attributeless, the shapeless.

Therefore Shandilya says: if you take shraddha and bhakti to be one, a fault will arise.

Do not conflate shraddha and bhakti. If you are caught in affection and love, reaching shraddha is already a great revolution. But then you must go beyond that revolution too. Buddha said: as one uses a boat to cross a river, then upon reaching the far shore, leaves the boat and moves on. In the same way, use shraddha as your boat; cross the river. But when the other shore is reached, do not carry the boat upon your head.

Hence the wondrous Zen stories. Rinzai set the Buddhist scriptures on fire. Disciples asked, “What are you doing?” Rinzai said, “There has been enough shraddha; it must be broken. Do not get stuck in these scriptures—therefore I burn them.” Another Zen master, Ikkyu, burned wooden statues of Buddha and warmed himself at the fire.

One day shraddha must be left behind. Only the one who rises beyond shraddha attains bhakti.

Enough for today.