Bhakti Sutra #5

The experience of the Vast—difficult! But harder than experience is expression. To know is arduous—to make it known is even more arduous! For the person can dissolve… the drop can lose itself in the ocean, and come to know the ocean; but how to speak to other drops that have not yet learned how to dissolve, that are still bound within their old limits—how to tell them!

A bird can fly from its cage into the open sky; but how to bring news of the open sky to those still imprisoned behind bars!

The open sky is an experience—very subtle! It brushes the life-breath; it is felt in the depths—but how can anyone bind it into words!

The moment the sky is bound in words, it is no longer the sky. The moment the Vast is bound in words, it is no longer the Vast. No sooner imprisoned in words than the experience turns false.

Hence many, knowing, have chosen silence. Many, having known, have gone dumb. They were not dumb; knowing made them dumb. Only a very few have dared—dared to send you tidings from afar. That courage deserves praise. For the attempt is impossible. The media are so different…

Imagine: beauty is seen by the eyes, and you must convey it to someone who is blind—what will you do? You must choose another medium; the eye will not serve. You saw with your eyes the beauty of the morning, or the night sky studded with stars; now you must explain it to the blind—eyes won’t help. So you pluck a tune on the sitar! You make music! You dance! You tie anklets to your feet! But the medium has changed: what was seen must now be made to be heard.

How can what was seen be made audible? What the eye knew, how shall the ear know? Harder still is the matter of the experience of Truth. For the experience happens in no-thought, and expression must be given in thought. Thought makes everything false.

Yet the brave have made the attempt—out of compassion—perhaps a faint hint might reach someone’s heart; if not the whole thing, if not the whole sky, at least a little stir of freedom might arise, a little thrill; if not a clear view, at least the thirst might awaken. If Truth cannot be told, so be it—but a gesture can be made, a pointing offered—how can that be too little!

“For thousands of years the narcissus has wept over its lack of luster;
only with great difficulty is a seeing soul born in the garden.”

For thousands of years the narcissus weeps—no one to see its radiance, no one to show it. Then somewhere a seer is born, somewhere a one-eyed man appears.

Perhaps even a one-eyed man could give the narcissus a sense of its light, “Don’t weep—you are beautiful.” But with Truth the difficulty is sharper still. Once in thousands of years a seer is born even in that realm. And then what he says is not like a song, but a stammer; not like a dance, but a limp. And as much difference as there is between the grace of dance and the gait of a cripple, as much as between a melodious singer and a stutterer—so is the difference between seeing the Truth and saying it.

Many have remained silent. They did not take up this tangle. People asked such silent ones too. They put on the guise of madness; they became crazy in the eyes of the world. They acted a little madness around themselves. Gradually people concluded they had gone mad; “Leave them alone!”

“Good that our touch of madness came in handy—
otherwise where would we go to explain the whole world?”

Many, having known the Truth, declared themselves mad. The Sufis call them masts, God-intoxicated. The world takes them for lunatics. The nuisance is over! Now no one comes asking, “What did you know?” Who asks a madman!

But a few do not take such an easy road. They try in a thousand ways to let you somehow know. They try to take your hand and lead you. They try to ignite the fire of love within you. They become fuel in your heart, so flames may leap up. They even tell a thousand lies—only to make a slight gesture toward Truth. In that sense, it is like committing a sin.

Lao Tzu has said: “The moment Truth is spoken, it is no longer Truth. Whatever is spoken becomes false.”

Which means: the enlightened have spoken lies—if they spoke, they spoke lies; because Truth does not arrive in speech; the very act of speaking turns it false.

As when you have seen a straight stick: put it in water and it appears bent. Falsehood has arisen. Pull it out—it is straight as ever. Put it in again—bent again. What happens? The medium of water differs from the medium of air. So the form and color of the stick in air do not remain in water. You well know the stick is straight; you yourself put it in; yet you yourself see it as bent.

Leave aside the listeners—when one who has known Truth tries to speak it, it appears bent even to him. The medium of language, of expression…!

In these aphorisms, Narad gives a few examples of how devotion has been described in many different ways.

“Now, according to various views, we will speak of the features of devotion.”

Devotion is one; views are many. Because each gave expression as it appeared to him. As he understood, as his way was, so he colored it. These are not the features of devotion; look closely and you’ll see: these are the features of the devotee who sang of devotion. They report the manner of seeing; they say nothing about what was seen.

There are many views—there must be many, because devotion is infinite. It has many shores. From anywhere you can build a ghat and push your boat onto the ocean. Later, when you reach the depths, the mid-sea, the far shore, naturally you will speak of the very ghat from which you launched your boat. You will say, “For anyone who wishes to set sail, that is the ghat.” You may not know of any other. One ghat is enough. You will describe your own ghat. Another launched from some other ghat into the ocean. Who can count the ghats of the ocean! Some entered like Hindus; some like Muslims, some like Christians—these are all ghats, all crossings. Then each will speak of the point from which he launched. Even on the other shore, your expression will bear the imprint of the shore you started from.

So, in these features of devotion offered by devotees, remember: each speaks from where he arrived. This discussion is less about the destination, more about the journey; not the last step, but the first. And rightly so, because you who have not yet begun need the first step, not the last. The far shore cannot be discussed; and even if it could, it would be of no use to you. As yet you stand far even from this shore; you will first have to gather courage even to come to the water’s edge.

And certainly, there is no need to launch from every ghat; one ghat suffices. Even if you wanted to launch from all, how would you? Whenever you launch, it will be from one ghat.

One ghat has steps paved with stone. Another is studded with gems. On one, sky-touching trees stand. On another, a desert spreads its sands. On one ghat, man has built steps and order. On another, no order at all—wild and anarchic. What difference does it make! The boat leaves from every ghat.

“Whether the clamorous bells of the Brahmin’s temple or the garden of the mosque—
hidden in every sound I call only to You.”

Those who know say: whether it is the priest’s bells in the temple or the muezzin’s dawn call from the mosque, it makes no difference.

“Hidden in every sound I call only to You.”

In every sound, every mode, every order, the seeker is the same consciousness; the same life—thirsty, ardent for love!

“Now, according to various views, we will speak of the features of devotion.”

“According to Vyasa, son of Parashara, to have passionate love in worship and such acts of the Lord is devotion.”

Worship means: to invite the Formless into form; there is a stone or clay image—invite God into it; say to the Divine, “Come and be enthroned here—for You are formless: where shall I wave the lamp? My hands are small, become small! You are Vast: where shall I burn incense and light? I am small, limited—enter within my limits! You are boundless—where shall I dance? Before whom shall I sing? Sit in this image!”

Worship is the installing of the Divine within limits, an invitation—thus it begins with calling Him.

In English there is the word “God.” Its root meaning, philologists say, is: that which is invoked. That which is called—the One who is called out to—that is God.

Another, who has never known the secret of worship, will see you sitting before a stone image and think you foolish! “What are you doing?” He does not know that the stone is no longer stone—it has become Consciousness in clay! Because the devotee has invoked Him! The devotee has declared his helplessness. He has said, “I am powerless. I cannot become as Vast as You. Have mercy—You can become small like me! I have hindrances. I do not have the strength to be as vast as You. Be kind! You become small like me so that some dialogue may be possible, a little conversation, a few words. I may offer flowers, wave the lamp, dance—nothing of Yours will be harmed. All forms are Yours; let this be one more of Yours! I will gain much; You will lose nothing.”

See the image through the devotee’s eye—else you will not see; you will see only stone, only clay. The devotee has superimposed God there. And when He is called with a full heart, then even clay is His. Clay is not empty of Him. Stone is not outside Him. He is already hidden there. When someone calls from the heart, His epiphany happens.

Therefore what the devotee sees in the image—do not hurry; you cannot see it yet. To see, you need the devotee’s eyes.

“For a seeing one in the garden is born with great difficulty;
for thousands of years the narcissus weeps for lack of its own light.”

Stones weep for thousands of years—then somewhere someone is born who can see God in stone.

You need an eye.

Worship begins with the invitation: “Come, be enthroned, be installed!”

The image is a window from which we peek into the Vast.

You stand at home and peer through a window into the sky. You speak of the moon and stars, of the far-spread indigo vault—and one who sees only the window frame says, “What are you talking about? Have you gone mad? It is only a wooden frame; nothing else. What moon and stars?”

So, when you see nothing in the image, do not be hasty; you are seeing only the frame.

When the devotee calls from the heart, the image opens; its shutters do not remain closed. Through that image, something begins to be seen. To see it you need the devotee’s eyes.

They say when Majnun had gone utterly mad for Laila, the king summoned him. Compassion arose even in him—door to door, lane to lane, alley to alley, that madman wanders crying “Laila! Laila!” The hearts of the townsfolk melted. The king called him and said, “Don’t weep.” He brought twelve beauties from his palace and said, “Even if you search the whole land, you won’t find such beautiful women. Choose anyone.”

Majnun opened his eyes. The tears paused. He looked at each woman closely; then the tears flowed again: “Laila is not here.” The king said, “Madman! I have seen your Laila—she is an ordinary woman. You are going insane for no reason.”

Majnun laughed: “You may be right. But to see Laila, you need Majnun’s eyes. You have not seen her; you cannot see her, because there is only one way to see Laila—that is Majnun’s eye. You don’t have it.”

“There is only one way to see God: the devotee’s eye.”

So if someone worships in a temple, do not laugh.

Iconoclasm is easy, for it requires no sensitivity. Smashing images is easy; for that, no depth of heart is needed.

To see the formless in form is supremely difficult! It is the highest art in this world—to glimpse the Formless through form, to hear the Void through words, to grasp the Invisible through the visible—there is no art higher.

Hence love is the crown of all arts! Beyond it, nothing remains.

Worship means: inviting the Formless into form.

If you have ever worshiped, you know—before you call, the image is merely a piece of stone; after you call, it is not.

Ramakrishna worshiped. Many days passed. He would weep daily, worship for hours. One day he became angry. A sword hung before the image of Kali; he snatched it and said, “Enough! I have been calling for so many days! If you do not appear, then let me disappear. Either You be seen, or I end.” One more instant and the blow would have fallen on his neck—then all changed. The image came alive! It was no longer Kali; it was motherhood incarnate! Lips that were closed stone smiled! Eyes of stone that saw nothing looked into Ramakrishna. The sword rang and fell to the floor.

Ramakrishna remained in a swoon for six days. Devotees panicked. Friends were worried. They had long feared the man was a bit mad—now what has happened! After six days, when he came to, the first words he spoke were: “You kept me in consciousness so long—why do you send me back into unconsciousness? You kept me awake for six days—why send me back into sleep? Call me again! Don’t go! Stay!”

The experience was so vast, so profound that he could not contain himself. He staggered! When the ocean pours into the drop, so it will be. When the whole sky descends into your courtyard, how long can your walls stand? They will fall!

For those six days, Ramakrishna beheld the radiance of the Conscious One. They were days of unbroken vision of the Divine. That was his first samadhi.

Worship means: first invite the Divine, then offer yourself at His feet like Ramakrishna—say, “You alone are—now I am not!”

As far as you call God, as deep as you call, so far, so deep He comes. When you become ready to dissolve yourself, He touches your innermost core. He will not enter you without your permission. He respects you. He never trespasses anyone’s boundary. God is never an uninvited guest. You call, you plead, you woo—and with difficulty He comes.

Devotion has vanished from the world because it is a great art—the art of staking everything, a gamble. It needs great courage. The eye needs great courage.

“According to Vyasa, passionate love in worship is devotion.”

Many worship—but there must be passion. If it is by habit, it is not devotion. If, because generation after generation your family went to the temple, you go; if your family went to the mosque, you go; if they worshiped form, you worship form; if they worshiped the formless, you worship the formless—formal, traditional, walking in others’ footprints—no, it won’t do.

No one reaches God on borrowed capital. Your thirst is needed, not tradition. Your eye is needed, not the blind rut of habit.

So the condition is: passion in worship! Love is needed! The same love that, when you fall in love with someone, all formality falls away. All etiquette is forgotten. For the first time you speak from another depth. Before, you spoke too—but it was lip-talk. Now the heart speaks! For the first time you live in another air, another ambiance. What happens?

In ordinary love what happens? In the other you begin to see something you never saw in anyone—your eye opens!

Have you noticed? Lovers seem mad to others! If someone else falls in love and becomes crazy, you laugh, you say, “Mad, foolish. Come to your senses! What are you doing?”

The whole world laughs at the lover because the world is blind, and the lover has got an eye—he sees something no one else sees.

“We were never enamored of God either—
but when we saw her, God came to mind.”

The lover, for the first time, glimpses the Divine in an ordinary person. The one you fall in love with is where you first catch a glimmer of God; your theism begins.

Love is the first fragrance, the first wave of theism. Love is the first step toward God! For at least in one, God has shown Himself! If in one, then in all He can be seen; even if not seen in all, you can understand this much: if He shone in one, He must be in all.

But soon your lover’s eye grows dim: the one in whom you saw God becomes a dream. Soon you forget; dust settles.

When love happens, quickly transform it into worship; otherwise time will cover it.

That’s why I say youth is the time of worship. But people say, “We will worship in old age. We will love in youth, worship in old age.” If such a gap lies between love and worship, love will die and worship will not arrive. People are saying, “We will love in youth; when love begins to die, is dead, then we’ll worship.”

The truth is: only love ripened becomes worship. Worship does not come from love’s death; it comes from love’s flowering. What you saw in one—now hold onto that thread and try to see it in others too. While the eye is fresh, the wave new, the surge full of zest, the enthusiasm young—hurry! What you saw in your beloved, your lover, your child, your son, your friend—hurry, because at that time you have the eye—then look closely at the whole world; you will suddenly find: He is hidden in everyone, for there is none other than He.

“Passion in worship…”

You will see many performing worship, but with no passion, no love. Worship is there—rituals are there. If the lamp must be waved seven times, you wave it seven times—by the count lest it become eight; even there you are miserly.

When Ramakrishna worshiped, sometimes it would go on the whole day; he would forget food and drink. His wife Sarada would stand at the door: “Paramhansadev, time is passing; the sun is setting; you have been hungry all day.” But there was no Paramhansadev there to listen. He is dancing! Who can notice hunger? Who can remember it? He who feeds God—what would the world’s food mean to him! He would collapse; then they would carry him away—he would not come himself. Many times he was told: Don’t do this! Worship is fine for an hour or two. But Ramakrishna would say: If the clock remains in mind, worship doesn’t happen.

Have you watched yourself worshiping—glancing at your watch in between? Leave your watch where you leave your shoes. Even if shoes come into the temple, the temple won’t be defiled; the watch must not come. There is nothing defiling in shoes—the watch must not come. Why? Because God is eternity. Carrying time with you, you cannot touch Him. He is the Infinite; you sit counting moments. Your mind keeps checking: When to go to the shop? To the office? To the market? Better not go at all. Time spent in the temple while thinking of the market is wasted—use it in the market; at least some gain will come. Here there was none.

I have seen people worship, read namaz.

I used to change trains often at Chittorgarh in Rajasthan. At evening prayer time, the train would stand for nearly an hour. The Muslims on the train would spread their cloth and begin namaz on the platform—but every minute or two they would turn back to check whether the train had left. I saw this often.

Once a Muslim friend was traveling with me. He too went to pray. On the platform he spread his mat near the water tap and began. I stood behind him. When he turned his neck back, I gently turned it forward again. He was very upset. He couldn’t say anything then. He finished quickly: “What is this? Why did you turn my neck?”

“If you want to keep your neck this way, keep it this way; if that way, keep it that way. What kind of namaz is this? What kind of worship, that in between you worry the train may leave? While you make sure the train doesn’t leave, God is slipping away!” I told him, “Either catch the train, or catch God. No need—don’t pray at all; at least don’t pray falsely. Be that honest: if the heart isn’t there, we won’t do it.”

For long stretches Ramakrishna would not go into the temple. He would say, “If it is not within, how can I go? How can I deceive—how can I deceive God? With what face can I go in?” From the steps outside he would ask forgiveness and leave: “Forgive me—there is no feeling today. If I do it, it will be a cheat, a lie.”

But you have made everything a lie. You tell those you do not love, “I love you.” You smile where no smile rises within. Where a curse springs up, you show a blessing. Surrounded by such lies, if you go to God you will use the same lies there. Then worship becomes the hollow thing it is everywhere.

How many worship—countless!—and nowhere does the fragrance of worship enter experience! How many pray! If truly so many prayers rose, like vapor rising becomes clouds in the sky, clouds of prayer would form; all prayer would pour. The sky would be dense with cloud. Not water alone, prayer would rain. Rivers and streams would run full of prayer!

If those who pray truly prayed…

Alright—Vyasa’s definition is also right:

“Passionate love in worship of God is devotion.”

Then, “According to Garga Acharya, passionate love in the stories of God is devotion.”

In worship you do something. Surely Vyasa must have been of active temperament. One has to do: wave the lamp, offer flowers, ring the bell—something to do.

Consider this.

Vyasa was certainly active. Garga Acharya must have been passive. Where Vyasa says “passion in worship,” Garga says, “passion in hearing the tales of God—let someone narrate, and we listen, with relish, immersed, dissolved—let someone narrate, we listen!”

“Passionate love in the stories of God…”

Have you noticed: you too have passion for stories—just not for God’s. Your neighbor’s wife eloped with someone—you listen to this tale with what relish! You dig and dig out details. A thousand tasks pending, you stop everything.

In a small village, if one woman elopes, the whole village’s work stops for the day; everyone spends the day in discussion.

Someone’s home is robbed… anything happens…!

You read newspapers—that is the relish of tales. But for the stories of God, there is no relish. And even if sometimes you take relish in “God’s story,” your relish is not for God’s story. Even there the same reasons are at work that feed your relish for other tales: someone’s wife eloped; in Rama’s tale, Ravana abducted Sita—you take relish in that. But note well: your relish is in Ravana abducting Sita, not in Rama’s story.

Garga Acharya says: “Passionate love for the stories of God.” Listen as a thirsty one drinks water. Listen as if you are utterly empty—become only ears, your whole being gathered at the ear. Listen with your heart! Then the remembrance of the Divine will fill you in countless ways. You need do nothing; if you can just sit quietly and listen…

Here you are listening to me—this is the story of God. You can listen as you listen to ordinary talk. Or you can listen as if your whole life is at stake, as if it were a matter of life and death.

I heard: Mulla Nasruddin told his wife, “I want to rest today. Don’t bring anyone to meet me. If anyone comes, tell them I am not at home.” He had barely settled in the chair when his wife came: “Listen, a man is at the door.”

Mulla said, “I just told you—I haven’t even properly sat down!”

She said, “But he says it’s a matter of life and death.”

Then Mulla too got up—when life and death is at stake, what rest! He went out and found an insurance agent. A matter of life and death…!

Only when it becomes life and death will you rise, will you awaken.

Is God for you a matter of life and death, or not? If not, then do not listen at all—for that time is wasted. Whatever you hear will have no essence. The essence is hidden in your listening, not in the speaking. The essence is not in what is said; it is in how you hear.

If you have not come utterly prepared to listen, if this is not a matter of life and death for you, if you can still push God to the margin and remain busy in your world—better remain in your world. Someday you will be bored. Someday you will return. Someday that hour will come when your dark night becomes visible to you, and the call of the dawn rises in your heart. Someday you will feel the stench of the junk surrounding you; then you will seek the fragrance of flowers.

But do not hurry; if your attachment to the stench remains, then finish with it. Exhaust it completely. Let yourself become empty of that experience. Otherwise you will not be able to listen.

I went to speak at a Punjabi gathering. After that gathering I felt like going to no other. It was Krishna’s birthday. A neighborhood of Punjabi Hindus. I was astonished. The speakers were speaking, and even the women—mostly women—sat with their backs to the speakers, gossiping among themselves. Clusters here and there. A big crowd. They asked me too to speak. I said, “You are mad! There is no one here to listen. People are busy in their chatter and the speakers keep speaking.

“Let me go. They are not prepared to listen. They haven’t come to listen. They have nothing to do with Krishna.”

Go to temples: listen to what the women are discussing, what the men talk about—nothing to do with the temple. The same politics, the same disturbances from outside, imported inside; the same family and worldly quarrels, brought inside.

You can hear the story of God only when you listen utterly empty.

Garga is right: “Passionate love for the stories of God.” And the day passion arises for this story, your passion for worldly stories is lost.

Do not listen to useless talk, for it is not only listening—what you listen to is collecting within you.

Think a little: if your neighbor throws garbage into your courtyard, you are ready to fight. But if he throws a thousand pieces of garbage into your mind, you don’t fight; you wait daily for him: “When will he come, so we can chat!” You have at least this much sense about household garbage; about inward garbage you have none.

Stop yourself from listening to the useless; otherwise you will lose the capacity to hear the meaningful. Drop everything unnecessary, unneeded, so your sensitivity returns to you; then when God’s name falls in your ear, it won’t fall into a throng of thoughts; it will fall alone. If that blow falls alone, the springs of your heart can open again.

“According to Shandilya, passionate love for that which does not oppose delight in the Self is devotion.”

Vyasa must have descended from the active ghat; Garga from the passive. Both simple men, not great thinkers—straightforward, innocent, guileless! Shandilya sounds like a philosopher. His definition is philosophical: “Passion for what does not oppose Self-delight is devotion.” A thinker’s definition.

Ordinarily, man has relish in himself. You call it selfishness. Selfishness is relish in oneself—but without understanding. You want happiness—but you don’t get it! The desire is right; something is wrong in how you pursue it.

That is the difference between selfishness and Self-delight. Selfishness seeks one’s happiness—but in a wrong way, and the result is sorrow. Self-delight also seeks one’s happiness—but rightly, and the result is joy. You too live for your happiness—but what you now take to be “self” is ego, not Self. Your “self” is false. The day your “self” becomes real—the Soul—on that day you will find: selfishness itself is altruism. On that day, in seeking your joy, you have opened doors of joy for the whole world. On that day, you became happy, and also showed others the possibility of happiness. On that day, when your lamp was lit, countless extinguished lamps can be lit. And from your flame, who knows how many more can catch fire.

Self-delight means: true selfishness. In it, other-joy is included. What you call selfishness opposes the good of others. What the realized call Self-delight, supreme selfishness, does not oppose others’ good; it contains it.

“Passion for what does not oppose Self-delight is devotion.”

Understand this.

You love yourself—rightly so, it’s natural. But because of this love you begin to love things opposed to your nature, and they bring you sorrow. You want joy—but you receive sorrow. The aspiration is not mistaken; bringing the aspiration into action, you are not using right understanding.

Buddha is selfish, Kabir is, Krishna is—but supremely selfish. They too are seeking their joy—but in such a way that joy arrives. You seek in a way that it never arrives.

You fall in love with things that go against your nature. For example, you love money—then you are moving against your nature. Money is inert; you are conscious. Love the conscious, not the inert—otherwise inertia will increase. And how will consciousness be happy if it gets trapped in inertia? Use wealth—do not love it. Love the conscious.

You worship status. Status is outside. You long for office. But post and position are outside; you are inside. There will be no synchronicity: you remain within; the post remains without. There is no way around it; within, you will remain poor. Gather as much wealth as you like around you, sit on the highest throne—your inner being cannot be seated upon it; neither wealth nor post can enter there. Within you will remain as you were.

Seat a beggar on a royal throne—what difference does it make! Outside, wealth may be; perhaps he forgets, lost in the outer, that he is still poor within—that is even more suicidal. That is not selfishness; that is stupidity.

Find the real wealth—the real wealth is within.

Seek the real post—the true rank belongs to consciousness.

Climb the stairs of consciousness.

Let the flight of consciousness rise.

Let the energy of consciousness ascend—to the Divine it must be carried.

Until man becomes God, there is no contentment.

Man is the yearning to be God. Before that, there is no final station, no resting place. One must reach the ultimate destination. But you make rest-stops along the way and mistake them for the destination. Someone takes the accumulation of wealth as the goal of life.

Shandilya’s definition is philosophical and precious:

“Passion for what does not oppose Self-delight.”

Thus far you have loved what opposes Self-delight. If you love what does not oppose it, you need not even use the word “God” along the way; you will slowly begin to take on the form of God.

Whenever a choice stands before you, remember: do not choose the inert; choose the conscious. When choosing between two things, see which carries more consciousness. If choosing between love and money—choose love. Then between love and devotion—choose devotion. Between the world and God—choose God.

If you grasp this, Shandilya’s definition need not name God at all; the word is unnecessary—He is hidden in it. If you live by this, you will find Him. Now you can see the difference: it is the difference of three types. Shandilya must have been a Buddha-like man: “No need to say ‘God’.”

Buddha said: “Find awareness.” Shandilya says: “Find consciousness—because that alone is non-oppositional. It will fit you.”

“According to the divine seer…” Then Narad gives his own view.

“According to Narad, to offer all one’s actions to God, and to become supremely restless at even the slightest forgetting of God—that is devotion.”

In Sanskrit—and wherever people have translated into Hindi—they have blundered. Everyone has translated “according to the divine seer,” because it seemed improper to say Narad himself, since he is writing the scripture. But in Sanskrit it says “Naradastu”—“According to Narad…” Narad uses his own name. Something significant is hidden here: Narad holds even his own person as far from himself as he holds Shandilya’s, Garga’s, Vyasa’s. He does not say “according to me”—for then a subtle attachment to “my opinion” would arise. “This is Narad’s view”—that is how Narad himself speaks.

Swami Ram used to speak of himself this way: “Ram is hungry; Ram is thirsty.” He would not say “I am thirsty, I am hungry.” When he went to America people were startled. The first evening, after a walk in a park, the saffron robe was a novelty, a crowd gathered. Not now—at least fifteen thousand of my sannyasins wear saffron around the world! Soon there will be millions. But then it was new; a crowd gathered; people began throwing pebbles and stones—“some lunatic has come.” Ram kept laughing. Someone in the crowd felt pity—“He may be mad, but he is to be pitied.” He shielded him and led him away. On the way he asked, “Why were you laughing?” Ram said, “Ram was being beaten so much—how could I not laugh?” The man asked, “What do you mean?” He didn’t know the swami’s habit. “Ram was being mocked so much—people were hurling stones, abuses—and I not laugh? I stood aside and watched.”

If you can create this distance from your own name, a great freedom is felt; then you are separate from your personality; then you enter the witness.

Rightly, Narad says: “Naradastu.”

And Narad’s view: “To offer all actions to God, and to become supremely restless if even a little forgetting of God occurs—that is devotion.”

Shandilya is a philosopher; Narad a devotee. Shandilya a thinker; Narad a lover.

“To offer all actions to God!”

This is the lover’s signature—he wants to hold nothing back; he wants to offer everything. The more he offers, the more he feels it is too little; “Let me offer more! And more!” In the end, he offers himself.

Offer everything, and let supreme restlessness seize you at the slightest forgetting—let restlessness alone remain.

Imagine you are lost in a desert, water exhausted, no oasis anywhere, no sign of greenery, only the ocean of dry sand. Thirst has often come—today for the first time you will know what supreme thirst is. Many times you have thirsted—but water was at hand; a little thirst, and you drank. Today each hair will cry; each pore will ache. You will feel thirst in every hair, not only in the throat. Your whole being will become thirst. …Then supreme restlessness! Not calling God the way you call now: “Come—fine; don’t come—also fine.” No—call Him as a man seeks water in the desert, writhes for it. Pull a fish from water and throw it upon the sand—how it flutters! Such supreme thirst!

“To offer all actions to God, and to become supremely restless at the slightest forgetting…”

As yet, what we have called thirst is not thirst. What we have taken for wealth is not wealth. Our entire understanding is wrong.

“We have taken error for our knowledge and skill,
taken exile for our homeland;
when we reach the destination, we will brush it all off—
this dust of the road we have taken for the body.”

Right now our understanding is inverted. We take foolishness for wisdom, ego for soul, the body for our being.

“We have taken error for our knowledge and skill,
taken exile for our homeland.”

A night’s lodging, an inn to halt at—we have taken it for home.

“When we reach the destination, we will brush it all off;
this dust of the road we have taken for the body.”

It is dust of the road—nothing more. This is not you. You are the witness—the one behind the body who sees the body, behind the mind who sees even the mind—you are that supreme witness.

Leave everything to God. Let nothing be “mine.” The body is His—leave it to Him. The mind is His—leave it to Him. Actions are His—leave them to Him. Do not remain the doer—be the witness.

Thus for Narad, to offer all actions to God and to become supremely restless at the slightest forgetting… Let there be the same plight as a fish removed from the sea; let forgetting bring a spasm!

“Just so it is.”

Narad says: “All these definitions—just so it is.” All are right. None is wrong. All are incomplete; none is complete. For the nature of language is such that it remains incomplete.

Truth has so many facets you cannot exhaust them, and one person can speak only of one facet.

A great poet was dying. His friends asked before his death, “What shall we write upon your grave?” He said, “Write only one word—Unfinished.”

They asked, “Why? Do you feel you die unfinished? Your songs are complete. Your fame complete, your honor complete. You lived a successful life. You received due respect. Do even you die unfinished?”

The poet said, “It makes no difference how much one has done or sung; whatever one does, life’s nature is unfinished. The defeated go defeated; the victorious go defeated too. The poor die poor, and the rich die poor. Those who have not, remain incomplete; those who have, remain incomplete. For the nature of life is incompletion.”

So I tell you: the nature of language is incompletion. Whatever you say will not be fully said. Leave aside great matters—even about a small rose, complete speech cannot be made. If you try to speak everything about a single rose, you will have to speak everything in the universe, for its roots are linked to the earth, its petals to the sun, its breath to the winds, the sap within to the clouds and seas.

If you attempt to say everything about a single rose, you will run into great trouble: slowly you will find you must speak the whole cosmos.

No, saying it all is impossible. Truth is vast; saying is small.

In life, everything except God can be gained—and you will remain incomplete, melancholy, unhappy, afflicted. And even if nothing else is gained, but God is found—then everything is gained. For God cannot be in parts; if He comes, He comes whole; if not, not at all.

Many come to me and say, “We have everything—but a great sadness remains. What shall we do? When we had no possessions, we had at least one hope—that when we have everything, all will be well. That hope too has been snatched.”

“Near the taverns we dwelt,
we were familiar with rose-cheeked beauties;
who knows what it was—even so,
life remained sad all our days.”

The wine-houses were near, not far. Faces like flowers, those lovely ones—familiarity with them too…

“Near the taverns we dwelt…” We drank wine, we fostered oblivion. We drowned in love too—

“Who knows what it was—even so,
life remained sad all our days.”

It will remain so! Sadness dissolves only for one who attains devotion, who attains God, who knows “I am not other”—who arrives at oneness!

Otherwise, whatever you do… People do so much—untiring labor—yet all goes to waste. With even a fraction of that effort, God could be found, for which you gather pebbles and stones. Looking at you, one wants to weep and laugh. Laugh—what madness! With such labor a temple could be built; you squandered it on a traveler’s rest-house. With such labor God could have descended; with a begging bowl, you gathered gravel. With such labor immortality could be attained; you collected only the dirty waters of ditches.

When death comes, you will realize—but by then it is too late.

I tell you: awaken now!

Death does awaken—but then no time remains—not even time to remember God! Death comes, and you see: “Alas! It has all been wasted!”

All that you collected will remain; you will go alone. Alone you came; alone you go. Lines drawn upon water—that was your life.

“O folly! At the hour of death it became evident:
all we saw was a dream; all we heard, a fable.”

At the moment of dying…

“O folly! At the hour of death it became evident—”
This stupidity is proven at the hour of death; this foolishness is noticed then—

“All we saw was a dream,
all we heard, a fable.”

The hands remain empty.

Often it is thus: you take nothing away—and what you brought, perhaps you lose that too.

Children are born with fists clenched; the dying hand is open and empty. Children bring something—some freshness, some innocence like lotus petals, some guileless heart—that too becomes soiled. The child comes like a mirror, clear and new; life’s dust settles, and it too is lost.

In life we do not earn—we lose. A strange bargain!

He who awakens before death—he becomes religious. What death will show you—see it now through your intelligence, your awareness; let death not be required to show it—then a revolution happens in your life.

“Just so it is—like the devotion of the cowherd maidens of Braj.”

“Even in that state, there is no exception of forgetting the majesty of God among the gopis.”

Understand this.

“Without it, love given without knowing God as God is merely the love of paramours.”

“In that love, the paramour does not find joy in the beloved’s joy.”

“…Like the devotion of the gopis of Braj.”

In love for Krishna, the tale says, were sixteen thousand gopis. The number merely symbolizes the countless. But their love must be understood, because the devotee arrives at the same state. Krishna’s bodily presence is not essential. It is the devotee’s feeling that makes Krishna present. The question is not whether Krishna exists in body; it is the thousand prayers of the gopis that bind Krishna into form—what does it matter?

Radha danced with Krishna; Mira was not troubled—without Krishna she danced the same—and she danced with Krishna. And if you look closely, Mira’s depth seems greater even than Radha’s, for Radha had Krishna present as support; Mira had no one. Mira’s God was the embodiment of her own feeling. Mira molded her God from her own surrender.

If Krishna is present and you become Radha, the credit is not yours—it is Krishna’s. If Krishna is not present and you become Mira—that is your glory, Krishna must come.

The devotee pulls God into form; he brings God onto the earth of qualities.

What was the devotion of the gopis?

If even for an instant they forgot, they wept. If for a moment Krishna was not seen, they ached. But this also happens in ordinary love: if the lover is absent, the beloved aches; if the beloved is absent, the lover aches.

What is the difference between the gopis’ devotion and ordinary love? This: the gopis loved Krishna, but with full awareness that Krishna is God. That love was not for a person; it was love for Godhood. Otherwise it would be ordinary love.

You can love Krishna as a body, a person like you. Then even if Krishna is present, you miss.

Rukmini is Krishna’s wife, yet her name is seldom taken with Krishna—almost never. Sita’s name is taken with Rama; Parvati’s with Shiva. Krishna’s name is not taken with Rukmini, nor Rukmini’s with Krishna. Radha is not his wife—remember. To say “Radha-Krishna” is entirely illegal, beyond the norm; she is not his wife. Why then is Rukmini forgotten? Why is she set apart?

Rukmini was wife—and could not see God in Krishna; she saw only the man. That was the miss. There Radha came near where Rukmini missed.

In Saurashtra there is a place, Tulsi Shyam. We held a meditation camp there. At the foothill where the camp was, there is a temple of Krishna. On the hilltop, a small temple. I asked, “Whose is that one?” They said: “Rukmini’s.”

So far away! Krishna’s temple here—one or two miles apart!

The priests could not answer why. They said, “We don’t know.”

Rukmini drifted far. She kept seeing only the man in Krishna, not the godly man; the husband, not the Divine. She burned in jealousy, as wives often do. The temple is built in such a way that from there she can keep an eye on Krishna—well designed indeed, by a very shrewd builder. The wife sits far and watches. Radha and the gopis, and around Krishna a great web of lovers and beloveds—Rukmini burned! She suffered. She could not see Krishna’s godhood. Love remained ordinary—love remained love; it did not become devotion.

When does love become devotion?

The moment you see God in the beloved, love becomes devotion. Krishna’s physical presence is not necessary. If presence made the difference, Rukmini too would have attained devotion.

So I say to you, the opposite is also true. In your lover, your husband, your wife, your child, your friend—are you committing the very mistake Rukmini did? Think. Is it the same mistake?

I tell you: it is the same mistake. For there is none other than He. He is hidden in all. Dig a little, go a little deep. Dive into the other. Allow the feeling of non-duality to awaken. And you will suddenly find: Rukmini’s mistake is the mistake of the whole world. Krishna stands with everyone—God stands with everyone. Within He is the same; without, the same. But your eyes are trained to see the outer; at least begin to see Him there. Let the man disappear and the Divine be seen; let the mere man fade and the God-Man appear…!

So Narad says: “Like the devotion of the gopis—yet even in that state, there is no exception among them of forgetting the majesty of God.”

Though they were intoxicated, mad in love, not for a single instant did they forget that Krishna is God; even in such ecstasy, awareness remained. There is no exception: they never forgot that Krishna is God. They may have quarrelled, sulked, pouted—but they remembered He is God.

That alone lifts love to the heights of devotion.

“Without that—without knowing God as God—the love one gives is like the love of paramours.”

“In that love, the paramour does not find joy in the beloved’s joy.”

Go a little further! Dive a little deeper!

“When we moved a little beyond the mosque,
we saw there were other thresholds too for the brow.
Beyond the stars there are yet other worlds—
there are still more trials of love.”

As long as love has not become devotion, know well: there are still more trials of love to pass. Do not stop at love.

Love is the bud; devotion is the flower. Do not stop at love.

“There are still more trials of love;
beyond the stars, yet other worlds.”

Until your love becomes devotion, until you see God in the beloved—do not stop; do not stop at mosques and temples.

“We moved a little beyond the sanctuary,
and saw there were other thresholds for the brow.”

We must go beyond temple and mosque! Beyond form! Beyond boundaries! Beyond sect and creed!

It is relevant to see that we are entangled in temples and mosques, in forms and limits and qualities—and so the One hidden within them slips past our hands. We see only the shell; the accidental outer—but not the essence, the nature, the Self within.

“Without knowing God as God, such love is like the love of paramours.”

“In the paramour’s love, there is no joy in the beloved’s joy.”

What is the difference?

When you love—ordinary love—you worry about your happiness; you use the beloved. Devotion worries about the beloved’s joy; it offers itself. In love, you use the beloved as means for your own happiness. In devotion, you become the means for the beloved’s joy.

Devotion is surrender. The devotee lives for God.

Kabir has said: like the hollow bamboo flute—she does not sing on her own; through her flow only His songs. The flute is only hollow—she gives a passage, a space, no obstruction.

Kabir said: if anywhere in the song there is a hitch, take it to be the fault of my bamboo; somewhere there is a flaw. You sing perfectly; the hindrance, the blockage, comes because of me. If there is blame—it is mine; if there is any error—it is mine. Whatever is right—is Yours! If I am miserable—it is because of me; if I am happy—it is because of You. If I am bound—it is by me; if I am free—it is by You. Hell I make; heaven is all Your grace!

Love seeks one’s own happiness—and thus leads to sorrow. He who seeks his own happiness clings to “I.” And “I” is the essence of all suffering—the thorn that pricks. He who makes the beloved’s joy everything, who offers all for the beloved’s joy—no sorrow remains in his life.

As long as you seek your own happiness, you will find sorrow. The day you seek God’s happiness—“Whatever pleases Him, that is my joy…”

When Jesus was nailed to the cross, for a moment he trembled and said, “O God, what are You showing me?” Then he steadied and said, “Thy will be done!” In that instant the revolution happened. In that instant, Jesus’s ordinary human form fell away—the Divine appeared. Even the cross, accepted, became a throne.

Have you seen a throne more exalted than Jesus’s cross? A throne more precious?

…Death became the gate to great Life. Here ego went; there God entered. Seeking one’s own happiness means: ego is still seeking. When you begin to seek His happiness, the devotee lives like the bamboo flute—becomes the flute; all notes are “His.” Then there is no sorrow. No hell. Then even darkness is luminous. Even death becomes the beginning of new life. Even thorns appear as flowers; thorns become flowers. Then sorrow is not experienced. Then you are amazed seeing why people are miserable!

All is available. The festival is prepared—and people are unhappy. God is ready to sing. His lips tremble to pour music—your flute is not ready. You are not empty; you are full!

The moment you are emptied of ego—His entry happens.

Enough for today.