Bhakti Sutra #17

Today’s first sutra:
trirūpa-bhaṅga-pūrvakam...
“Break the three forms—master, servant, service—and love with constant devotion as a servant, or with constant devotion as the beloved consort—one must only love.”

All of life’s experiences are not just dual, they are triadic. Truth is non-dual. But human experience is always threefold. You see something and instantly there are three: the seer, the seen, and the act of seeing in between. You know something and there are three: the knower, the known, and knowledge. A trinity is woven into all experience.

Truth is one, but ordinarily it appears as two: knower and known—because the knowledge in between is unseen; it is Saraswati, invisible. At the holy confluence in Prayag three rivers meet—Ganga, Yamuna, and the hidden Saraswati. The place is sacred precisely because this triveni is the very pilgrimage of life. Two are visible, one is concealed. The seer and the seen are visible; the seeing is inferred. The seen can be grasped, the seer can be grasped—but you cannot clutch the act of seeing in your fist; it is the invisible Saraswati. Saraswati is called the goddess of knowledge, the very icon of knowing. Call it knowledge, call it vision—it is the hidden source.

Truth is one—the non-dual. At a casual glance it appears as two—dual. When searched rightly, it is found to be three—triadic.

Narada’s first sutra says: freedom from this threefold split is essential. You must cross the confluence and go deeper than the three streams, so you can discover the single source from which Ganga, Yamuna, and Saraswati all arise—and into which they ultimately dissolve. Discover the ocean from which the rivers appear and where they finally end.

“Breaking the three forms, one must love—only love—with constant servanthood-devotion or with constant consort-devotion.”

The way beyond the three is love. Love is the one element in this world that is contrary to the world. Love alone is the source that is within the world and yet leads beyond it; though in the world, it is not of the world; a ray of another realm upon the earth; a beam of a distant sun shining in the dark. If you catch hold of that beam, you will reach the sun.

Hence love is the nearest experience to the Divine. Why? Because in the moment of love neither the lover remains nor the beloved remains—only love remains. If the beloved remains and the lover remains and between them is love, then that love is desire, not love. For love is beyond the triad. There all three disappear and only One remains. All notes merge into a single vast music.

If you have ever known a moment of love—if you have ever known one by whom the spring of love burst forth in your life—you will have noticed something like this: you do not remain yourself; walls fall, boundaries blur, differences end. Lover and beloved appear two to others; but the lover enters the beloved and the beloved enters the lover. Distinction becomes impossible. Who is who can hardly be told. Such unity of being arises!

Love means: the other feels like yourself—only then is it love. If the other continues to feel like “the other,” it is lust. Lust belongs to the world; love belongs to God.

So Narada says: if you wish to go beyond the split of three—without going beyond which you will never have even a fragrance of the Divine—then love is the only path. One must love! One must love!

va premaiva kāryam, premaiva kāryam.
“Only love is to be done; only love is to be.”

Dive only into love and lose yourself.

The lover does not even know what has happened—and yet he loses himself, he is gone.

“My life I lay at your feet—
I don’t even know what has happened!”

If you even know that “love has happened,” a distance has already arisen; you have become the lover; the threefold split stands again. Not even that remains—no one is left to know what has happened!

As long as you remain, love cannot be. You are the barrier. The moment you fall, love arises. As long as you stand stiff and proud, love cannot happen; talk as much as you like about love, it will be hollow—like spent cartridges—firing them won’t do anything. It will be talk. It will lack life, essence. You may blow soap bubbles in the air, sing songs, write poems—but all that is only a way of distracting yourself—because you still are.

Love demands sacrifice—and not a small sacrifice. Giving something else will not do. You say, “I’ll give money; I’ll give fame; I’ll give my body”—no, nothing else will do; you have to give yourself.

Therefore love is the supreme sacrifice. All other sacrifices are cheap—pour ghee, offer grain—money can manage them. Until you offer yourself into the fire of love, you have not made a true sacrifice; you have deceived yourself. You saved the real that had to be offered, and burned what was not worth offering. What is changed by burning ghee and grain? What harm have ghee and grain ever done to you? But man has invented a thousand ways to save himself by substituting something else.

But love asks for you; it will not settle for less. You cannot appease love by giving something else. Love is had at the price of yourself—when you stake your very being.

“Reason says: don’t go towards the killer’s lane;
The passion for self-surrender cries: go—let’s see what happens!”

Both voices will rise within you. Your cleverness will say—your head will say:

“Reason says: don’t go towards the killer’s lane...”
This God is a great assassin—don’t go towards him! This Beloved is dangerous! In him you will drown and be lost. You are walking towards your killer.

True enough. God is a killer—remember that. He will kill you. He will not let you survive. Your head will roll. But only when your head is cut off will the great light be born in your life for the first time. Only when you die will you taste what being truly is, what the joy of being is. The riddle of existence will be understood—only by dying is it gained.

Jesus said: “Those who try to save themselves will lose themselves; those who are ready to lose themselves will be saved.”

The arithmetic of love is most reversed. The world’s arithmetic says: the one who saves himself is saved; the one who loses himself is lost. The world says: if you want to increase wealth, hold it back, don’t spend it. Only by hoarding will it grow. The world’s arithmetic makes you stingy, miserly. It teaches a kind of spiritual constipation: “Hold on! Even if it’s rotten, hold on—lest you lose it!”

Some psychologists say constipation is the miser’s disease. Every miser has constipation. Not all constipated people are misers, but all misers are constipated—because once you start gripping things you lose the courage to let go. You can’t even let go of excreta—what else will you be able to let go of!

The miser’s grip is on everything. Whatever falls into his hand he clutches, and then the fist never opens. He knows how to clench, he has forgotten how to release. Even the simple natural functions of elimination get stuck. His habit of holding has become so dense that knowingly or unknowingly he keeps holding. It has become unconscious.

The world’s arithmetic makes you a miser. It says: only by holding will you be saved.

I have heard: A beggar stood at a door. The lady of the house came out. The beggar’s face was gentle, noble. His clothes were torn and old, but once they must have seen better days. His face suggested he was born in an aristocratic family. She asked: How did you come to such a plight? He said: I’ll tell you that later—right now, I’m hungry. She brought him in, fed him well, gave him clothes, and asked again: Now tell me, how did this happen to you? He said: Don’t worry! If you keep giving like this to beggars, you’ll end up the same. That’s how we ended up here—by giving and giving we were ruined. Don’t worry—soon you’ll be like us.

The world’s arithmetic is to hold back. Love’s arithmetic is the exact opposite. Love is giving. And whoever learns love not only gives everything else, he gives himself. In truth, he gives himself—and with that, all is given. When the owner himself is given, what ownership remains behind?

But your intellect will keep advising you: don’t move towards God, for there you will perish. Thus people go towards religion only when one foot is already in the grave; they say, we are going to die anyway—now let’s do a little religion. In old age, worn out—when life has come and gone, the dust has settled—only a few moments remain—then God comes to mind. This is the cunning of intellect; it says: what’s the harm now—now take the Name!

Often one cannot even take the Name at death—one dies; one falls unconscious before dying. The priest whispers “Ram” into the ear of the dying. They pour Ganga water into his mouth while he is unconscious. Mantras are chanted. He is dying—he cannot hear anymore. When he could hear, when he could see, he looked at useless things. When his hands were strong, he clutched trash. Now, when the capacity to hold is gone and everything is slipping away—what he had clutched throughout life—then he says: “Alright, alright—now let me offer myself to God.” But this giving has no fragrance. It is like donating a counterfeit coin.

One day Mulla Nasruddin came to me very cheerful. I asked: Why so happy? He said: I’ve just done two men a favor. I doubted him. What favor? He said: I had a fake ten-rupee note. I gave it to a beggar and said, keep one rupee for yourself and return nine to me. He went to a nearby shop, got it changed, gave me back nine and kept one. I’m coming from doing good to two people! I asked: Which two? He said: The beggar got one rupee—and I got nine. The note was fake anyway.

People even donate counterfeit coins. You donate only when you have something you can’t use. I know of items that just keep circulating in society—you pass them on, then he passes them on—useless things—people enjoy the act of gifting.

The whole arithmetic of the world is: hold—lest it slip! The arithmetic of love is: let go—because what you hold will be snatched away. What you let go—who can snatch that? What you truly give—that alone you own. Engrave this sutra upon your heart. Memorizing it won’t help; make it heart-knowledge. What you give—that alone you own. What you hold—you become its slave. If you lack the courage to give it, how can you be its master?

Love makes you the master.

Swami Ram went to America. He used to call himself an emperor. People asked: You have nothing, yet you call yourself an emperor? He said: Exactly! I gave it all. Whatever I gave, I became its master. I even gave myself. The day I gave myself, my mastery became complete. Now no one can take this sovereignty away. I am an emperor because I have nothing.

When he wrote a book, he titled it “Six Edicts of King Ram.” He owned nothing. But a sovereign like Ram is rarely born. His joy, his celebration, his dance, his delight—he lived as if in perpetual spring—no autumn ever came.

In love, autumn never comes. Love has never known autumn. Love has only one season—spring.

You let go, and you bloom! If trees were misers, they would never flower—because flowers will be distributed. A flower opens and fragrance flies. The winds will carry it in all directions and give it away. If trees were misers, they would never blossom, fearing being robbed by the breeze; at most they would remain buds, then shrink in upon themselves lest the winds take them, lest they be donated!

But remember, a tree’s majesty, its sovereignty, is only when all its energy becomes flowers—and it spends itself.

“One must love, one must love.”

Love alone is worth doing. Narada repeats it: “One must love, one must love!” There is nothing else worth doing, for love is to give yourself totally.

“This love is no easy thing—know at least this much:
It is a river of fire—you must dive and cross.”

A river of fire—and you must drown to cross!

Only those arrive who are ready to drown. Those who cling to the banks never arrive. Let me say it this way: those who sit on the bank drown; those who drown midstream find the shore.

Dying is the art of love. Dying is prayer. If you pray and do not melt, your effort was wasted. If you pray and do not flow in all directions, even your prayer is only a calculation of your cunning—“Let’s do that too—who knows, maybe there is a God!”

In a church a pastor was preaching. An old woman sat in front. Whenever he took God’s name, she said, “Amen.” Fine—that is alright—“Amen” is another form of “Om”—it carries a sense of welcome. But whenever he mentioned the devil, she said “Amen” too. He was puzzled. After the sermon he came down and asked her: I don’t understand—people say “Amen” to God’s name—but you say it to Satan’s name as well! The old woman replied: Death is near—this is no time to make enemies. Who knows where I’ll go, who I’ll meet—into whose hands I’ll fall—Satan’s or God’s! Better to keep both pleased. I don’t have the luxury to think too much; death is near—so I pray to both.

This is intellect’s arithmetic. As death approaches, you arrange for the next world—“Here everything is slipping away; the grand show is shrinking; the farewell hour is at hand; people are preparing the bier; soon the band will strike up and I’ll go—now let me attend to the other world. Maybe God does exist! What harm? If not, no loss; if yes, at least I can say I remembered Him.”

Such dishonest people have told stories too: A sinner was dying. His son’s name was Narayan. At the time of death he cried out loudly, “Narayan, Narayan—where are you, Narayan?” and died. They say the Narayan above was fooled and sent him to heaven.

Man’s dishonesty knows no bounds. Priests tell such tales: Don’t worry—even if you take the Name once while dying, you’re saved! But one whom you didn’t call in your whole life—how will you call Him at death? If His Name never rose to your lips while you were alive—will His Name grace your withered lips at death? When your heart was full, you squandered yourself at the doors of courtesans. When your life-force was strong you filled your safe. When there was time to do something, you did the futile and the false. Now, dried up from every side, hands empty, all doors closed—you sit at the temple door saying “Narayan-Narayan”! How could this be? How can this deception work?

Your whole life will be your account—not the last moment—for the last moment is the distillation of your entire life. You may repeat “Narayan” ten thousand times—if Narayan was not lodged in your life, if He did not dwell inside you, at death your lips may utter, but it will not arise from your being; at best it will move on the periphery. Draping yourself in a “Ram-Name shawl”—whom will you deceive?

Existence cannot be deceived. Therefore don’t postpone it to tomorrow—“we’ll do it later; now we are young; let us enjoy color and song!”

A man used to visit Ramakrishna. He was a great devotee of Kali and used to offer a few goats a year and arrange feasts. Suddenly he stopped. Ramakrishna asked him: What happened? You were a devoted worshiper—always offering goats and arranging festivals. Have you become less religious? He said: I am religious as ever—but my teeth have fallen out!

Even in the temple man does what he does for himself. The goddess was an excuse; the ritual a cover for meat-eating. But now the teeth are gone! Remember: if you recall God out of weakness and failure, your remembrance will not have fragrance; not the aroma of worship—only the stench of a rotting life.

There is only one thing worth doing—love. But, “It is a river of fire—you must drown to cross.”

Three—master, servant, service; or knower, knowing, known; or seer, seeing, seen—all triads must be dropped. Move beyond the triveni and the real pilgrimage begins. Take your dip at the point where all three become one...

Hindus have a beautiful image—the Trimurti—Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh. In a single image are three faces. Enter from any face, and inside there is a place where all three meet. The statue is one—only the faces are three. Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh—three faces of the one God.

The One is to be attained. We must go beyond the three. And beyond the three there is no means other than love. For love unites—and everything else divides. Hatred divides. If you hate someone, you are cut off from him. He may stand beside you, yet a million miles separates you. If you love someone, you unite—even if a million miles away, he is at your heart’s beat. Love joins.

Hatred is the expression of ego. One who has loved has become egoless.

“I listened with such care and longing to the beating of my heart,
I thought perhaps it was You calling me.”

The lover hears even in his heartbeat the sound of the Beloved’s feet. When the heart beats, he closes his eyes, savoring—“These must be her footsteps!”

“Now the throb of my heart has become the echo of footsteps—
It seems someone is walking towards me.”

Even the heartbeat becomes the Beloved’s footfall. Wherever you look—there He is. Only You, You, You! But love is needed. People set out to seek God but have no love. Forget God; find love—God will come bound by that frail thread. Tied by a single, fragile strand, the Lord will come!

Love’s thread is tender—but nothing is stronger. It is delicate; yet notice—iron chains can be broken, but not that fragile thread of love. Many great chains can be snapped—what is cast can be broken. But love does not break. Why? Because it is not cast by you. Love is greater than you—how will you break it? In truth, the one who tries to break is broken first; the breaker himself is no more.

“Breaking the three forms, one must love with constant servanthood-devotion or constant consort-devotion.”

What is servanthood-devotion? What is consort-devotion? They are one. Understand the difference in earthly love: when a woman loves a man, her love is of a very different quality than when a man loves a woman. For a man, among a thousand pursuits love is one more. He has many things to do—fame, wealth, status, shop, schemes—love is a rest stop among them. For a woman it is utterly different. For a woman, love is her only work—nothing else. If there is no love in a woman’s life, she is desolate. If there is no love in a man’s life, not much changes; he fills himself with money, position, capitals. He has many “loves” other than love. If nothing else, he starts some foolish hobby—collecting postage stamps, horse-racing.

Imagine telling a horse there’s a men’s race—no horse would come to watch. But men—by the thousands—fill the stands. This whole Koregaon Park houses those who come to watch horse-races. When races run in Poona, they arrive, and this colony is full; otherwise it’s empty. The horses must laugh, “Donkeys disguised as men!” At least a horse is a horse!

Football, hockey, volleyball, two brutes wrestling—crowds shove and push to watch. Man has a thousand distractions—no peace! Love is a respite along the road; not the main stream of life—a hobby like postage stamps; good if it happens, no big deal if it doesn’t.

If a woman cannot love, something in her remains unblossomed. You will be surprised—a woman loves once as if forever; one man becomes her man for all time. A man does not dive so readily into one. His gaze keeps roaming over women; even if he tries, his eyes wander. A man’s eyes are vagabond. If he had his way—and gradually he has arranged it—marriage would end. In the West, where men have created wealth and comfort, marriage is crumbling.

When a woman falls in love, she begins to think of marriage; when a man falls in love, he thinks how to avoid marriage.

One day Mulla Nasruddin said to me: Finally—today—I am going. Going where? I asked. To the dentist? Some illness? A court case? He said: No—marriage. I’ve postponed it long enough!

Man postpones. Woman is eager, for a woman’s love is single-pointed and solitary. Man’s love is scattered. He is nomadic; he feels restless making a home. Women made homes. Civilization was created by women. Otherwise the man would wander with his tent; why build solid houses? A tent is enough—here today, there tomorrow, somewhere else the day after.

Novelty is a man’s delight. Like the bumblebee—this flower, that flower, another flower! He cannot commit to one. Women force him—out of helplessness he gets trapped in his own words.

I’ve heard: A man asked his beloved: Will you marry me? She said: Yes, of course. Silence fell. He sat mute. The woman said: Say something! He said: What is left to say? It’s all been said—nothing is left to say in life. I postponed it as long as I could—today I slipped up!

Thus Narada says: “consort-devotion”—if a devotee is to love God, he must learn love from a woman. Then he must be committed to One.

Your love is divided—some in this direction, some in that. A little politics, a little money, a little religion, a little reputation—grab everything, gather it all! Life is short, hands are small, time is tight. You run in a thousand directions and go mad.

Love is a journey day and night in one direction. Hence consort-devotion. Once a woman falls in love, no other man exists in the world. This is the block between men and women. The man feels there are many women—and always believes that new relationships may bring more pleasure. A woman’s sense is that the deeper the relationship, the greater the bliss.

A man goes for quantity; a woman for quality. Hence emperors collect harems of thousands—and still are not satisfied. A man’s mind cannot be satisfied—because satisfaction comes only when love deepens in quality; when with one there is such total absorption, such identity, that differences fall. Love is fulfilled only when the fragrance of prayer rises out of love.

That needs time.

A man’s love is like annual flowers—sow now, two or three weeks and they appear. In winter the gardens will be full of seasonal blooms. A woman’s love is not seasonal; it needs time. The higher the tree aims to rise into the sky, the deeper its roots must go into the earth. The higher the tree, the deeper the roots. Annuals have barely any root; shake them a little and they come out. That’s why they appear in two, four, six weeks—and vanish in two, four, six weeks.

A man’s love is short-lived. It swells with tide—and ebb follows close behind. In the moments of love a man forgets himself, and says, “I will love you forever; for me there is no other.” He too is possessed by what he says—but moments later he thinks, “What did I say? How can I fulfill it?” A woman does not say such things—she experiences them.

If you watch two lovers, you will find the woman silent and the man speaking. The woman is quiet—what is there to say? What is, is—and its radiance will speak for itself. Why cheapen it with words? It’s not that women cannot speak—women are more skilled at speaking than men. But in love, a woman is silent. The matter is too big to be said. Otherwise, in daily life, women outtalk men. Girls speak a year earlier than boys. In school, girls top more often; they speak and write better. But when a woman and man fall in love, the woman is silent; the man speaks—because what is not there, he creates its glow with words. The woman speaks through silence. Once she loves, she loves forever. That’s why in this land thousands of women became sati for their beloveds—but no man ever became “sata.” The moment a wife dies, he begins thinking of another wife—in truth, even before she dies, he has begun.

Mulla Nasruddin’s wife was dying. In her last moment she said: I know you’ll marry again after I die—you won’t live alone. Do marry—but keep one thing in mind. Nasruddin said: Never—I never will—don’t worry. Impossible! She said: I know you—don’t reassure me falsely. Just promise me one thing: let my jewelry and clothes be worn by the woman you marry. Nasruddin said: Now this is tricky—Fatima won’t fit into your clothes, and your saris won’t suit her!

They have already decided whom to marry!

Man is unsteady, restless. Hence Narada says: “consort-devotion.” Love God the way a woman loves.

Servanthood-devotion.

The word “slave” has become despised. But there is a secret in it. There are no slaves in the world now. If a communist reads Narada he will say: This man is bourgeois, a capitalist—he speaks of slaves—saying there should be slave-like devotion! We abolished slavery!

This slavery is of another kind—rare. It too is love—when someone gives all his ownership to another—not snatched, but given! When someone becomes the slave at another’s feet. So much so that if a moment comes when only one life can be saved, the slave saves his master, not himself. If the house catches fire, the slave will burn, the master will be saved.

Servanthood-devotion means only this: the one you have recognized as Master—let him be your very soul. God is Master—Lord. Either love as a consort or as a servant. For the servant too drops his identity and joins with his master; and the consort forgets herself and becomes one with her husband.

Notice: You bring a woman home as wife—her name joins with yours, her family line, her clan—everything joins with yours. The reverse does not happen. You do not lose yourself in her; she loses herself in you. You change her name—and she is delighted—because the past has no value now. What was before love was not. Real life begins now. A new birth, a new life. She wants a new name—a new feeling for herself. Even her name changes.

You marry a woman—the man does not go to live in her house; the woman comes to live in yours. If for some compulsion a man goes to live with his wife’s family, he goes with shame. All know the plight of the “ghar-jamai,” the resident son-in-law. Sometimes someone suffers this fate—and becomes spiritless.

Reflect on it. If a man goes to live in his wife’s house after marriage, why must he be ashamed? But he feels he has become helpless, dependent on others. Have you seen the reverse? A woman comes to a stranger’s house, gives herself totally, yet never feels humiliated—she feels blessed. Not only that—having given herself wholly, she becomes the mistress of the house, the “lady of the house.” The house was yours—she becomes the house-holder! No one calls you “house-lord.” She does not feel she has come to another’s home—she loses herself so wholly that otherness does not remain.

Thus Narada says: consort-devotion or servanthood-devotion—become so one with God that no distance remains.

“There is such a stage in love’s offering
Where even gratitude sounds like complaint.”

There is a station on love’s path where you become so one that even saying “thank you” feels like a grievance.

Notice: In the West, relations are formal—hence, if a son does something for his mother, she says, “Thank you.” In India, no mother would say “thank you” to her son—that would be too alien. In the West, if a father does something for his son, the son says “thank you”—if he doesn’t, it’s impolite. In the East, if the son says “thank you,” the father will be shocked—“What happened? Are you a stranger?”

Where relationships are formal, thanks is right. Where they are intimate, even thanks becomes complaint.

“There is such a stage in love’s offering
Where even gratitude sounds like complaint.”

I tell you often that prayer is gratitude. But there comes a stage...

This is only the beginning—that prayer is gratitude. I say it to keep you from turning prayer into demand. Don’t go to God to ask—go to thank. But when your gratitude deepens, one day you will see that even thanking feels like complaint—because to go before God and say “You gave so much” implies you think otherwise; it is formal. And you hint: if You hadn’t given...?

When Keshav Chandra began to be touched by Ramakrishna’s presence, he started devoting himself to God. Ramakrishna asked: What do you do in your devotion? He said: I give thanks: You gave me life, eyes, ears, hands, breath, mind—so much—without my earning it, without my asking! Ramakrishna grew sad. Keshav asked: Why sad? He said: You give thanks? If God had not given eyes and you were blind, would you still give thanks? If you were deaf? You thank because He has given. If He had not, what then?

Even in thanks there is complaint. Being before God is enough. First drop asking. Use the thorn of gratitude to pull out the thorn of asking. Then throw both thorns away. Why even thank? All is His anyway. Who are you to thank? You too are His.

If I injure my left hand and with my right I apply balm, will my left hand thank my right? They are one—whom to thank, who to accept?

As love grows dense, lover and God become one—no space is left even for gratitude.

bhaktā ekāntino mukhyāḥ.
Second sutra: “Single-pointed, exclusive devotion is supreme.”

The Jains have a word: “anekānta”—many-sidedness. Opposed to it is “ekānta”—one-pointedness. The Jains say: the world is not one thing, but many—an aggregate of infinite entities. They are not advaitins, nor even simple dualists—they are pluralists. Their philosophy is called the philosophy of anekānta. The devotee says: there is only One. Jain scripture is extremely logical—reading it is like reading mathematics—clean, tidy; arguments are precise. But there is no song, no music—dry, desert-like—no garden, no greenery.

Exactly opposite to anekānta is the devotee’s vision. Hence the Jain is not a bhakta. He does not accept God—because to accept God is to accept One. They say: there are infinite substances—but no One string that ties them all together. Beads exist, but there is no thread to make a garland.

Bhakti says: can a garland be made of beads alone? The inner thread is not seen—beads are seen—but will a pile of beads make a garland? You can make a heap—not a necklace to wear. The world appears woven, interlinked—not separate things. Do you see anything isolated? Everything is connected. Trees to earth, earth to sun, sun to moon and stars—everything braided—a garland. So surely there is One string, one stringer, a thread piercing all—the name of that thread is God.

“Single-pointed devotion is supreme.”

How can a devotee be of two? He can only be of One. Islam says: there is no God but Allah—no God except the One. Islam is an extension of devotion. One—only One.

When you worship One, you too become integrated. When your gaze is on the many, you shatter into fragments. Your vision becomes your life. What you hold as outlook becomes your style of living.

“A devotee must be single-pointed and exclusive.”

For love knows no two.

Mira, dancing, is said to have reached Vrindavan. There was a great temple of Krishna—and its priest was a scholar renowned across the land—a great pundit, a “mahatma”—but he would not look upon a woman’s face. He was Krishna’s devotee, yet no women were allowed in his temple. Mira, dancing, entered the temple. The great priest panicked—his holiness trembled—how did a woman enter! Guards stood at the gate, but Mira came like a wave—in such a rhythm that they were stunned and forgot to stop her. They had always stopped women—but this was something else—a flame of fire! In a flash she was inside; her cymbals rang; she was dancing.

The priest was furious. He said: I’ve heard of you—but women are not allowed here; only men may enter.

Mira said: You have shocked me! I always thought there was only one man—Krishna. You too are a man? I have never seen a man other than Krishna.

A blow struck the priest’s chest. It was true. As a devotee of Krishna, who else is “man”? All are women—who will you stop? Mira said: No one has the right to stop anyone. The only Man is God; all others are His companions, His girlfriends. You too are a companion. Drop this illusion of being a man.

Mira spoke rightly. For a devotee, God alone remains.

Single-pointed devotion is supreme. But your mind is a crowd.

I have been a guest in many homes in my traveling days. Often I arrived where they had a prayer room—crowded with gods and goddesses. Fifty, sixty, seventy little idols—Shankar, Hanuman, Rama—and all the calendar pictures too. A bazaar—hardly a shrine. The devotee has no time—so he rings a bell over all heads in bulk and bows to all wholesale!

I would ask: What is this? Why such a marketplace?

The feeling is: let no one be offended!

Just the other day a friend brought a friend who wants sannyas—but he is devoted to Hanuman. He fears coming here lest Hanuman be offended. What quarrel do I have with Hanuman? Why would he be offended?

Your “god” is your fear. Where fear is, there is no worship, no love. Fear will not take you to God. One you fear becomes your enemy. Out of fear you fold your hands, bow down, placate—“see, don’t trouble me—I worship daily—remember!” But that is not devotion.

I also wonder: if your devotion is going well, why come to me? It is not going well—that’s why you come here. If you are truly in love with Hanuman, you will arrive by that path—why this need? Your coming here shows that out of fear you perform rituals, but nothing happens—so you grope elsewhere too, while trying not to leave the old boat, putting a foot on another. So the shrine is crowded with all deities.

A devotee is single-pointed. One is enough—call Him what you like—Allah, Ram, Rahim—your choice. He has no name—names are for calling—choose one. Your child is born without a name—you give one for convenience. Give God any name you like. Any form you like. These are pegs. But do you have what is to be hung on the peg? Do you have prayer, love, worship? He who has love can hang it anywhere—if no peg, he will hang it without a peg—on the doorway, on the sky.

Remember: you must sink into One with exclusive feeling. You will arrive from there.

Muslims come to me, Hindus come, Christians come. I tell them: remain what you are. No obstacle arises from that. Worship in a mosque if you must, in a temple if you must—no problem—every house is His. But do it somewhere. Don’t just keep changing ghats. If you are thirsty, drink water. Changing ghats won’t help—you were thirsty there, you’ll be thirsty here. Because you don’t know how to drink.

The essential thing is to bend down and cup your hands. The river flows past, but if you stand rigid on the bank, refusing to bend, refusing to fill your palms—the river will not leap into your throat.

“Single-pointed devotion is supreme.”

Let One remain in your mind, in your life, in your body—and on the strength of that One, your inner fragments will join and become whole. If you worship a hundred and fifty gods, you are only revealing that you are a crowd. In truth, a shrine should be empty—no idol at all. In that emptiness, call the One. From that zero let the sigh of your heart arise, your cry, your tears. Stone statues do nothing. What works is your inner state. Only this is needed—that a deep thirst to meet Him be born.

“Love asks for patience—and longing is impatient:
What color shall I paint my heart till it turns to blood?
We agree You won’t neglect us—but
We’ll turn to dust before You even hear of us.”

A devotee says: Love demands patience—true. But my longing is restless. Love says wait—it will happen. But my thirst says: Enough—delay no more. Do not postpone our union.

Love asks for patience—
But longing is impatient.
What shall I do with this heart
Until it becomes blood?
I know when You come, You will annihilate me—
But until then, what shall I do?

We accept You won’t neglect us—but
We’ll be dust before You even get the news.

And so the devotee weeps, pleads, calls like a madman, sings, consoles himself, holds patience—and fuels his longing. The devotee’s condition is a great paradox.

“Such exclusive devotees, their throats choked, their hairs standing on end, and eyes filled with tears, converse with one another—and they sanctify their lineages and the earth.”

Such single-pointed devotees—shaken by His remembrance, drunk with His thirst, calling Him from every corner of their being—such devotees have choked throats—words won’t come, tears well.

Bhakti is not a scripture you sit and read; it is existential; it transforms life.

“With choked throats”—they wish to speak but cannot; “with hair on end”—the body thrills; “with eyes full of tears”—and they “converse with one another”—each consoles, each shares his experience.

“I accept I am unworthy to behold You—
But look at my longing—look at my waiting!”

They say to God: We accept—we are not worthy for Your glance to fall on us.

“I accept I am unworthy to behold You—
But look at my longing...
Look at my waiting!”

Do not look at my qualification; look at my thirst, my longing, my restlessness.

The devotee cannot claim—yogis can. “I have done so many asanas, so many pranayamas; fasted and performed austerities for centuries—yet You have not come?” See how quickly, after a little effort, you feel entitlement—“I’ve meditated three days—nothing has happened!” What foolishness!

People come and say: Seven days have passed—still nothing has happened. Do you think this is a joke? Your eyes haven’t even moistened with tears; your throat hasn’t choked; you haven’t even called.

“Devotees, with choked throats, hair on end, eyes full of tears, conversing with one another—sanctify the earth.”

The very remembrance of God fills one with gooseflesh. Have you ever waited for your beloved at the door? A cop walks by—you rush thinking, “The beloved!” The postman knocks—you run, “The beloved!” Dry leaves rustle—you open the door, “The beloved!”

What you await, you glimpse everywhere.

I was sitting with Mulla Nasruddin at his home. A camel passed by. I was surprised—his eyes filled with emotion, as if he remembered something delicious—saliva gathered. I asked: What’s the matter? Seeing a camel, what did you remember? He said: Seeing a camel, I remembered kheer, puri, halwa. I said: I’ve never heard of camels having anything to do with food. He said: What does it matter? A train also reminds me of halwa and puri. I said: You’re mad. He said: Not mad—these are fasting days! Whatever I see—only food comes to mind. Camel, train, airplane—the object is irrelevant.

Have you fasted? Then everything looks like food.

The world is a fast from God. If you are truly hungry, you will see only Him everywhere.

“With every breath from my heart
News of You keeps rising.”

The throat will choke; something wants to come up and cannot. What words can one bring for God? How to speak His remembrance? How to narrate the Beloved? The throat stops. A wave rises in the heart, reaches the throat but cannot manifest. The devotee trembles.

“Even the sun still shivers—
Perhaps he has come before You.”

As the devotee nears God, his feet falter—he becomes like a drunk.

God is a unique wine. Whoever drinks it needs no other wine. It is a wine that increases awareness, not decreases—but makes life wave with ecstasy. Like a bride adorning herself, going to meet her lover—so lives the devotee—always in bridal night. Every moment—perhaps the lute will sound; a call will come; acceptance will descend. Every moment is expectation.

“Devotees converse with one another.”

Understand the difference.

Philosophers, pundits argue with one another—no dialogue—only debate. They want to prove something; to prove themselves, they must disprove the other. Devotees do not debate. Two devotees sit together and speak through tears, through every pore—a communion, not a controversy.

Communion means: each supports the other. The road is long and dark. Let this dark night pass in His remembrance and talk of Him. Dawn will come—though far. As dawn nears, the darkness grows deeper. Devotees give comfort and support to each other. They share what has befallen them, what is happening within. Debate has no place. Debate is between heads; communion is between hearts.

If you are searching for God, seek the company where communion is possible; where satsang can happen; where His remembrance grows dense; where others’ tears awaken your own; where their inner lute plucks the strings of yours. This is what temples were for—that those searching separately might meet, support each other, feel not alone; see others are on the path; that what is happening to me is happening to them—thus fear does not seize you. Otherwise you may think: am I going mad? Tears fill my eyes at every turn; my throat chokes at every little thing!

Ramakrishna’s disciples had to protect him when they took him out—lest someone say “Jai Ramji!” That alone was enough. If someone greeted him with God’s name, he would stop, close his eyes; he might collapse in the road; tears would flow. When they invited him somewhere, they warned people: do not bring up God.

Once he was invited to a wedding. A devotee’s home. The whole affair was spoiled—someone mentioned God and Ramakrishna began dancing, then fell unconscious; the bride and groom were forgotten; he lay unconscious for six days; the wedding was ruined.

People asked: What happens to you? He said: When someone reminds me of Him, a storm arises; I am no longer in control.

This is the use of satsang—where those moving in one direction sit together, speak a little—lighten each other’s hearts—say to one another what cannot be said elsewhere. In debate you will be hindered; you won’t be able to speak—the other will start arguing.

Avoid the quarrelsome in the beginning. Like a tiny sapling in a garden—we fence it with thorns. Later, when it is big, no need. But if left unfenced now, animals will eat it, children will break it, some mishap will occur. When the sprout of devotion is new within you, you need satsang; later you yourself become a great tree; you stand by your own strength.

“...and while conversing they sanctify their families and the earth.”

Even the remembrance of God brings purity. If God Himself is met—what to say! But even His mention purifies. For a while your eyes lift to the sky. For a while you forget matter. For a while a window opens towards a direction you never turned to—the unknown enters you a little—you are renewed.

“Such devotees make the pilgrimage-places truly sacred, make actions truly virtuous, and the scriptures truly scriptures.”

A unique sutra.

No one attains devotion because of sacred places—but wherever devotees dwell becomes a tirtha. No action is a “good action” until God’s hand enters your life. If you do it, it will be a bad action. If God does it through you, it is good.

Devotees make acts into good acts—and scriptures into true scriptures.

By reading scriptures no one attains devotion—but on attaining devotion, you become a living proof of all scriptures; a witness. Then you can say: Look at me. If you cannot trust the book—leave it; I am the living scripture—look into my eyes; come near; taste my vibration.

Thus, in the devotee all scriptures find fulfillment. It is a delight that Narada first said: the devotee needs no scripture—he renounces even the Vedas. But then a moment comes—when the devotee is fulfilled, the Vedas are proven true by his presence. He gives living testimony again and again that God is. He reanimates the ancient hymns.

“Love has made us a shrine for the world—
From the dust of sorrow another Kaaba has been raised.”

Love has made us a pilgrimage—so that people may make pilgrimage to us.

From the dust of longing another Kaaba is built.

Wherever there are devotees—that is Kaaba; that is Kashi; that is Girnar—for there God has descended to earth again. The devotee has vacated the throne; God sits there again. Whether he says so or not—it becomes evident.

“How can one hide Your love?
Even silence becomes lips of confession.”

Hiding is impossible. Even his silence proclaims Him.

“How can one hide Your love?
Even silence becomes lips of confession.”

Even when silent, a statement is made; walking becomes a statement; the flicker of an eye makes a statement. Whether he speaks or not, proof for scripture appears.

“A thousand times I tried—
But the gaze of love cannot be hidden.”

Impossible. If a lamp burns in your house, how will you hide it? Even travelers far away on a dark night will see the glow through cracks in the door. When the lamp is lit, travelers come from afar.

The ultimate state of the devotee appears almost like madness. Almost—both like and unlike.

“Sometimes weeping, sometimes laughing, sometimes amazed—
What a way love has to turn the healthy into the mad!”

The devotee becomes a little unworldly. He laughs suddenly, weeps suddenly, falls silent, stands astonished looking at the sky. He is among you yet far—dwelling in another realm. He has seen something that has turned him mad.

“Such devotees make sacred places truly sacred, actions truly virtuous, scriptures truly scriptures—for they are absorbed.”

tanmayāḥ.
For they are immersed in God; absorbed; they have given Him the opportunity. They have become His vehicle. They have wiped themselves away; made space for Him; stepped aside between themselves and Him; held out the empty vessel—and He has poured Himself in.

tanmayāḥ.
The formula of devotion is: “Become absorbed.”

Whatever you do—be absorbed—and devotion is born. Cooking, sweeping, chopping wood—anything—be absorbed. While chopping, only the chopping remains—not you. While sweeping, only the sweeping remains—not you. And let a single feeling remain throughout—“for Him.” For Him I chop wood; for Him I sweep the courtyard; for Him I cook.

As your action begins to drown you—your absorption deepens—your forefathers rejoice, the gods dance, this earth becomes blessed.

modante pitaro...
Your ancestors—seeing your blooming—rejoice. When a flower opens on a tree, even the deepest roots hidden in earth are fulfilled. A son fulfills the father, for it is one continuum.

modante pitaro...
Those who have gone before—rejoice: Fortunate are we—you were born among us; you have made our existence meaningful!

...nṛtyanti devatāḥ...
The gods dance: It has happened again! Another devotee! Another God-man! One more vanished, and installed God upon his throne! Another temple rose, another tirtha, another Kaaba built. Who if not the gods will dance!

They say of Mahavira: when he attained enlightenment, music from the three worlds poured down; unseasonal flowers bloomed; gods showered blossoms from the sky. These are symbols—saying that whenever someone reaches that supreme state, the whole existence touches a new height through him.

You too are plans of the Supreme! Through you too He has extended a hand! Within you He is ever at work—to bring about a higher and higher state—so that you become a peak of consciousness. In your success is God’s success; in your failure His defeat—for you are His creation, His act.

...nṛtyanti devatāḥ...
“And this earth becomes blessed.”

“In them (the devotees) there is no distinction of caste, learning, beauty, family, wealth or ritual.”

A devotee is only a devotee—not Hindu, not Muslim; not shudra, not brahmin. To be a devotee is enough—all adjectives become futile.

“A lover has no name,
And love has no caste.
When were You absent from my remembrance?
When was Your hand not in my hand?”

What caste has love?

“A lover has no name,
And love has no caste.”

There is no varna or color here.

As long as small walls surround you, you cannot open the door to God. If you are Muslim, as Muslim you cannot attain Him. If Hindu, as Hindu you cannot attain Him. The circles are too small.

“Remove the lanes of temple and mosque—
Those who pass here do not go beyond!”

Remove the walls of temple and mosque.

“Remove the lanes of temple and mosque—
Those who pass here do not go beyond!”

They get stuck there. Some are stuck in temples, some in mosques. The very means have become obstacles. You must go beyond the temple—far beyond the mosque. These are not destinations—only rest-stops on the way. Take a little rest—but don’t get lost in them.

“There is no distinction of caste, learning, beauty, family, wealth or ritual—for they are His.”

yatastadīyāḥ.
A devotee belongs to God—how then can he be Hindu or Muslim or brahmin or shudra?

yatastadīyāḥ.
“For they are His—God’s.”

Once you are God’s, these are little toys—petty quarrels of temple and mosque; little distances of color, bone, skin.

King Janaka called a great assembly. He invited all pundits—except one: Ashtavakra, a unique knower—whose body was crooked in eight places—hence his name. Such a figure would not grace the royal court; it would provoke laughter. But Janaka had invited Ashtavakra’s father. Some work came up at home; Ashtavakra came in his father’s stead. As he entered, the “knowers of Brahman” began to laugh at his gait and ugliness. Janaka too felt uneasy. Then Ashtavakra looked around and laughed so loudly that all were stunned. Janaka asked: I understand why they laugh—but why do you? Ashtavakra said: I laugh because you invited brahmins—but these are all cobblers—they are experts in leather! They don’t see me—they see my skin. I tell you, none among them is as straight as I am. My body is crooked—true. But you have invited cobblers to discuss Brahman? Throw them out!

Rightly said. He who distinguishes by skin is a cobbler.

Devotees belong to God—what higher identity is there? All adjectives fall away.

I say to you: belong to God. Drop temple and mosque—erase the distances. These distances won’t let you meet even men—meeting God is far away. At least build the capacity to meet people; then perhaps one day you can meet God.

To attain God you must have a vision of non-difference—of unity.

yatastadīyāḥ.
“They are God’s.”

Enough for today.