Bhakti Sutra #9

The first sutra:
“Tasya sādhanāni gāyanti ācāryāḥ.”

Every Hindi translation says: The masters tell the means of that devotion. The original sutra says: The masters sing the means of that devotion. And the difference is not small. To “tell” is one thing—“to sing” is another! Something secret is hidden in song.

Devotion does not speak—it sings.

Devotion does not speak—it dances.

It finds its expression only in dance and song.

Vedanta speaks; devotion sings.

To sing means: devotion is related not to reason, not to thought—it belongs to the heart and to love. Devotion is less about what is said and more about the way it is said.

Devotion is not an arrangement of mathematics—it is a movement of the heart. It can appear as song. Language itself is weak; and if it must choose a form, devotion will not choose prose, it will choose poetry. Even poetry cannot say it—yet between words, rhythm can be woven. What cannot be said by words may perhaps be carried by the cadence that moves between them.

So when you hear a devotee’s words, do not give your attention to the words. In a devotee’s words there is less meaning than in their melody, their music. The words, taken by themselves, are meaning-less. Taste the color and the flavor in which the devotee has wrapped them.

Often, in translation, the original gets lost—sometimes so simply lost that it never occurs to us. We think, What difference does it make whether the masters sang or said? It’s the same thing.

It is not the same—not at all. The masters sang; the masters of devotion sang—did not say. The emphasis is on the tune, on the music. Not on the word, not on the word’s meaning, not on the logic of the word.

A devotee’s words are like birdsong. You are delighted when you listen. If someone asks you their meaning, you cannot say. But who worries about meaning, if there is joy? Joy is the meaning!

Someone asked the great English poet Shelley: I am reading one of your poems; I don’t understand it—explain the meaning to me. Shelley shrugged and said: Difficult. When I wrote it, two people knew—now only one does.

The man asked: Who were those two?... I’ll ask the other if you’ve forgotten. But you wrote it—how can you forget its meaning?

Shelley said: When I wrote it, God and I knew; now only God knows. I cannot tell you. I myself don’t remember. It’s like a dream I once saw—the echo still rings in the ear, a flavor still hums somewhere—but the meanings are gone.

Then Shelley said: And what will you do with the meaning? Hum it!

A song is for singing. The one who begins to look for meaning in a song is like someone who goes to a flower and asks, What is your meaning? Drink the nectar of the flower! See the color! Inhale the fragrance! You ask for meaning?

The Divine is beyond meaning. That is why the devotees did not “say”—they sang. In saying, meaning becomes too much; in singing, meaning becomes secondary, rasa—the essence—becomes primary.

Devotion is rasa. Devotion is not knowledge; it is not a matter of saying and hearing—it is a matter of drowning and disappearing.

So I will translate: “The masters sing the means of that devotion.” They reveal the means by singing. If you understand the singing, if you catch the flavor of their song, they have said everything—because what are the means they point to? They are bhajan, kirtan, relishing the tale, listening. All are expansions of that same rasa.

“That devotion is accomplished through renunciation of objects and of attachment.”

Understand this sutra delicately, because Yoga says the same. Then where is the difference between Yoga and Bhakti? Yoga says: “By renouncing objects and attachments.” The renunciate says this; the devotee also says this. The words are the same—yet their meanings cannot be the same, because their dimensions differ. The words may be identical; the meaning is not.

So understand a little.

There are two kinds of renunciation. One is: running away without changing your inner stance. A man is at home, a householder. He does not change his consciousness, he leaves the house—leaves wife and children—and goes to the forest. The role has not changed, the level of consciousness has not changed—only the place is changed. The situation has not changed—only the location is changed. The mental state has not changed—only the surroundings are changed. If he sits in the forest, soon a household will arise there again; for the blueprint of householding lies within the state of his consciousness—he carries it with him. It was this very consciousness that created the household where he was; it did not descend by accident from the sky. Its appearance did not come out of some void. The seeds were hidden in his consciousness—they sprouted.

A wife does not descend from the sky—she is drawn out of the hidden longing in the husband. A husband does not descend from the sky—he is drawn out of the hidden longing in the wife. You draw near to you exactly that which your deepest desire is calling. You obtain exactly what you want—whether you know it or not; whether conscious or unconscious; whether asked for in awareness or in sleep—you receive what you have asked for. Only that glides toward you which you have desired.

You are a magnet. And your magnetism is the state of your consciousness. If a magnet pulls iron filings and then gets annoyed with the filings and runs to the forest—what difference will it make? The magnet remains a magnet. There too it will draw iron. If no iron is near, then perhaps it will draw nothing—but does that undo its magnetism? The magnet is still a magnet. If iron is present, it will pull; if not, it won’t—but no revolution has happened in the life of the magnet.

So one “renunciation” is the coward’s escape. The devotee has no taste for that renunciation. That is not renunciation at all. To call it “renunciation” is already wrong: it is abandonment, not renunciation; flight, not freedom.

The other renunciation comes by changing the level of consciousness. You rise above what you are. As you rise, the world around you can remain exactly as it is—it makes no difference—you are no longer the same. Live in the world, yet the world is no longer in you. You are no longer a magnet. You have dropped magnetism. Now iron can lie nearby; once, when you were a magnet, you attracted it. Now it may still lie close, but you are no longer magnetic—there is no pull, no attraction. This is called saṅga-tyāga—renunciation of attachment. Things remain near, but you have gone far. You sit at home—yet you are not in the home. You sit in the shop—yet you are not in the shop.

To run from the world is one thing—that is not renunciation. To rise above the world is another—that is renunciation.

Rise higher. Change your inner stance.

Therefore devotees never insisted on fleeing.

Life is not to be broken, nor erased, nor outwardly altered—the form of consciousness is to be made new. The lamp within you needs to be made a little larger; stand a little higher and see; let your vision widen.

To move from one level of consciousness to another, from one rung to the next—that is renunciation.

“That devotion is perfected by renunciation of objects and attachments”—then you are a devotee!

Understand it this way: Wherever you stand, the world is there. If you change your place, you will be standing somewhere else in the world. Your distance from the Divine will remain the same as before. The Himalayas are no nearer to God than your shop or the marketplace. The Himalayas are not a step closer to the Divine.

But if you change your level of consciousness, you begin to move away from the world and nearer to God.

There is a Himalaya you must climb, yes—but it is the Himalaya of your inner coolness, of your inner peace, of your inner silence. There is a Kailash to journey to—yet not outside; the peak is your inmost soul. Rise within. Wherever you are outwardly is fine. Outwardly nothing essential changes.

“By renunciation of objects and attachments devotion arises; devotion matures.”

Devotion means: the distance between you and God lessens. Devotion is the name of the lessening of the distance between you and the Divine. As the distance dwindles, devotion thickens. One day the distance completely dissolves; there is only oneness—the devotee becomes God, God becomes the devotee. “Two” is no more. The two banks are lost in the One.

So keep in mind the subtlety of the devotee’s renunciation. The ordinary renunciate’s renunciation is obvious; the devotee’s is exquisitely subtle. The ordinary renunciate runs away; the devotee is transformed. So you may not even recognize a devotee—whereas anyone can recognize a renunciate. His marks are external—he has left home and hearth, left business. What you called the world, he has left; he has gone to the forest. There is no difficulty recognizing him. The devotee remains where he is. Consciousness changes. The transformation is very subtle and inner. Outwardly he is as before—no one even hears a whisper. But within a diamond is being born; an inner polish appears; the flame of consciousness steadies and burns without flicker. To see this you too must peep a little within....

And until such a thing happens, your life is life only in name—a life in name only. It has no value—not even worth two pennies. Even if your life were the life of Alexander the Great, still it is worth nothing. For value belongs to the inner. What you do outwardly has nothing to do with value—what you become within....

Our gaze got lost in the vastness of the void,
No trace found of the sanctuary of the radiant Beloved;
The long road came to an end, and yet
We found no end to our own journeying.

As if in the vastness of emptiness the eyes go astray....

Our gaze got lost in the vastness of the void—
Emptiness surrounds you. The void is immense. In it your eyes are lost.

No trace found of the sanctuary of the radiant Beloved—
No clue to the lover’s home, the beloved’s abode—where is it? You are lost in a desert of emptiness.

The long road came to an end...!
The hard road of life ended too...

And yet—we found no end to our journey.
Even today it is not clear why we traveled at all. The journey ended; it was arduous; but even now it is not clear what the point was, what the destination was, where we were going. Not even a glimpse of the beloved’s home was found.

Until the level of your consciousness changes, this is everyone’s tale: you are lost in a void—as a forgetful river might vanish into the desert, never finding a path to the sea; in the blazing sun, burning fire, evaporating drop by drop, writhing, turning into vapor—

No trace found of the sanctuary of the radiant Beloved—
No path found to meet the sea, to become one with it—that is the ordinary life.

What you call the life of the enjoyer is ill-named; there is no enjoying there at all. The devotee enjoys; what can the worldly enjoy? The one you call an enjoyer only takes a beating in the name of enjoyment. He thinks of enjoyment—granted; he never enjoys. Enjoyment belongs only to the one who has found the Divine’s hand. Enjoyment belongs only to God. The one who has not tasted that flavor mistakes scattering, perishing, and dying every day for life.

No—such a life will show you neither meaning nor destination. Why did you set out, where were you going, what were you—everything will remain blurred, dark. And the road of life is hard—yet nothing comes to hand.

The one you call an enjoyer should, in truth, be called a renunciate. If one day language were revised, the one you call an enjoyer should be called a renunciate, and the one you call a renunciate should be called an enjoyer. For only the renunciate knows what enjoyment is. And the enjoyer merely writhes, merely thinks, builds dreams—great rainbow-colored dreams—but when you try to grasp them, not even ash remains; your hands are left empty as ever.

Clasping to my chest the corpse of hope,
For ages I have made life joyless.

Clinging to a corpse—hope—against the heart; and that too a corpse: the belief that something will come, something will come!

Clasping to my chest the corpse of hope
For ages I have made life joyless.

For how many ages this corpse of hope has needlessly made life sullen.

You build hope; hope collapses—you suffer. Then you build it again; you make houses of cards—one gust of wind, and all falls. You float a paper boat; one little wave, and the boat sinks. You carry a corpse—its weight, its stench, its burden—and because of it, life is daily irritated and sad.

Why are you disappointed again and again?
Because of hope.

Blessed are those who have dropped hope; then no one can disappoint them! Where hope is dropped, disappointment ends.

The worldly lives in hope. Hope is dead. Nothing ever grew from it, nothing ever will. Hope is barren; it has no offspring.

Do you think the devotee says: live in despair? No. The devotee says: hope and despair are two sides of one coin—live in God!

God is now and here. Hope is tomorrow and elsewhere, somewhere. Properly understood, “worldliness” is the name of hope. The world is always “there,” “elsewhere”; God is now and here—this moment! This moment He surrounds you. This moment, from all sides, He surrounds you. In the gusts of wind, in the rays of the sun, in the shade of trees—He has encircled you.

The people sitting around you are also forms of the Divine—they surround you. He is the one calling to you. He is the one breathing as your breath within.

God is immediate; God is never on credit.

Swami Ram used to say: God is cash. He is now and here. The world is on credit; it is tomorrow and elsewhere. How will you enjoy tomorrow and elsewhere? Tell me, how can one enjoy the future? Where is the way to enjoy the future? The future is not yet—how will you enjoy it? Only the present can be enjoyed.

To renounce the world means: to renounce the future. To renounce the world means: to drop the pleasures we keep postponing to the name of “tomorrow.” To renounce the world means: awaken in this moment—this living moment. From there enjoyment begins.

The devotee enjoys God. The worldly only thinks of enjoyment. Do not be trapped by thinking. In truth, only the one who does not enjoy keeps thinking. Only the one who does not enjoy indulges in ideas, in plans, in weaving tomorrows. The one who is tasting now—why would he talk of tomorrow?

Have you noticed? The more unhappy you are, the more you think about the future. The happier you are, the smaller the future becomes; the present grows. If, even for an instant, joy happens, the future vanishes—only the present remains.

The world is the spread of sorrow; the Divine is the experience of joy.

The one who lives in sorrow gropes for joy anywhere—among objects, in desires, in wealth, in status, in the body. He gropes here and there. He is unhappy! Let a spring of joy be found anywhere! The longer it takes, the more restless he becomes. The more restless and anxious he is, the more awareness he loses; and in more sleep he gropes. He never asks himself: Am I searching where I lost it? First ask: Where did I lose my joy?

One looks in money—without asking. Was joy lost in money? If not lost there, how will you find it there? Another looks in status—without asking. Was it lost in status? If not, how will you find it there?

Before you set out on the great journey of the world, search within. Before you start hunting in the neighbor’s house for a lost thing, search your own home. Wisdom says: First search at home. If not found here, then search in neighbors’ homes; then go search the moon and stars. Lest you keep searching the moon and stars while what you lost lies at home.

Begin the search from the near. Begin from the nearest. The nearest is you. Whoever has laid a hand upon himself—his hand has fallen upon God. Whoever has listened closely to his own heartbeat has heard the heartbeat of the Divine. Whoever has gone within has arrived at the temple.

“Devotion is perfected by renouncing objects and attachments.”

What does this mean? Only this: Do not seek in objects, do not seek in desire. First seek within yourself. And whoever has sought within has never gone to seek elsewhere—he has found! There has never been an exception. This is the eternal law: whoever seeks within, finds. Yes—if your taste is for seeking itself, then by all means do not seek within. If you relish being a seeker, then by all means avoid looking within—because there the search ends. There, it is found. If you want to find, going outward is futile. The traveler who seeks—the goal is hidden within that very consciousness.

“...is perfected by renouncing objects and attachments.”

Because when the outward journey is stopped, you begin to return to yourself. If a person does not search outside, where will he go? He will come home.

Columbus set out to discover America. He had provisions for three months—used them up. Only three days’ supplies remained; still there was no sign of America, no hint of shore; how far land might be—no estimate. His companions were frightened. Each morning they would release pigeons to test—if pigeons found land they would not return. But the pigeons circled a little and came back to the ship—no land found. They cannot perch on water. Their return told them no place to land.

The day only three days of food remained, they loosed the pigeons—heavy-hearted, fearing their return, because now it was the end. If land was not found within three days, they were finished. They could not return: three months’ voyage had brought them here; three months would be needed to go back. Turning back was meaningless; forward—only emptiness.

But that day the pigeons did not return. They danced with joy! The pigeons had found land!

Your desires fly from within you to the outside. Renunciation of object and attachment means only this: remove the ground out there, so they find no place to rest—let your bird of consciousness return to you. Give no perch outside. If you give a perch—this is exactly what you have been doing—this is the wandering, this is the world.

There is no quarrel with objects. What quarrel with wealth? What quarrel with position? No condemnation. Only this: if the bird of consciousness sits there, it will not return to itself. The more you get entangled outwardly, the harder it becomes to come back to yourself.

So devotion has been well defined: “By renunciation of objects and attachments devotion is perfected.” Leave no place for the birds to sit—the birds of consciousness return to themselves.

If desire is not there, what will you think about?

People come to me saying, they are tormented by thoughts; they want to stop thinking. I say: you are not tormented by thoughts—you are tormented by desires.

What are the thoughts about? One says, money; another, sexual desire. Thoughts are not the real issue. Thought is a shadow of desire. As long as there is flavor in desire, as long as you clutch the corpse of hope to your chest, as long as you believe sensual desire will bring joy—thoughts of desire will come. The day you see that there is no joy there, the thoughts will stop.

You don’t have to remove thoughts. Try to remove thoughts and you will fail. If the root remains, you can keep cutting leaves and branches—new ones will sprout.

Cut the root of desire and the leaves of thought cease on their own.

“By unbroken bhajan, devotion is perfected.”

Renunciation of objects, renunciation of attachment—and then unbroken bhajan....

“Akhanda bhajan” does not mean what you have assumed—that people set up loudspeakers and blare for twenty-four hours, disturbing the whole neighborhood: “akhand bhajan”! This is unbroken nuisance, not unbroken bhajan. What harm have the neighbors done? If you want to sing, sing—why harass others? You make even sleep difficult.

And this being a religious country—if someone protests such “akhand bhajan-kirtan,” he is called irreligious. “They are kindly amplifying so that the mantra may enter your ears and perhaps you too may be liberated.”

What is akhanda bhajan?

It means: the remembrance of the Divine remains unbroken within you—no gaps. Not “Ram-Ram, Ram-Ram” by the tongue. Because even if you chant “Ram-Ram,” however fast, between two Rams there will be a gap. It will not be unbroken. That is not the way. However rapidly you chant, the space between two names remains—there, for that long, there is no remembrance. Thus chanting the name cannot be akhanda bhajan.

If bhajan is to be unbroken, it cannot be by thought; it will be by no-thought. Thought is fragmentary. Between two thoughts there is a space; there is no continuous stream. Only remembrance can be continuous. Remembrance has nothing to do with words.

Like a mother cooking while her child plays nearby—she keeps the remembrance that he hasn’t wandered out, hasn’t gone onto the road. She looks up now and then, does her work, and within there is a continuous thread of memory.

Kabir says: As women returning from the well carry water pots on their heads—talking, laughing, joking—they do not touch the pots; yet the remembrance of balancing them remains. Conversation flows, laughter, banter—yet within a steady memory remains: to keep the pot steady.

A sannyasin came to King Janaka’s court and said: I have heard you have attained supreme knowledge. But I doubt—amid wealth and comfort, among beautiful women and dancers, in this net of politics—how do you keep unbroken remembrance?

Janaka said: By evening you will have your answer.

That evening there was a grand festival; the country’s greatest dancer was to perform. The emperor called the sannyasin. Four soldiers with naked swords were placed around him. He was alarmed.

“What is this? What is happening?”

Janaka said: Don’t be afraid. This is your answer.

He put in the sannyasin’s hands a bowl filled to the brim with oil—so full that if it trembled a drop would spill. “While the dancer performs, you must circumambulate the hall seven times. There will be a huge crowd. If even a single drop falls, these four swords will cut you to pieces.”

The sannyasin said: Forgive me! I withdraw my question. I came for satsang, to inquire—not to lose my life. You know best; your enlightenment be yours. Leave me out.

Janaka said: Now it cannot be undone. Having asked, the answer is necessary.

He was the emperor; there was no escape. The beautiful dancer danced. A thousand times the sannyasin felt like glancing aside—but if one drop fell, the four swords would slash him. He circled seven times. Not a drop fell. His eyes remained fixed on the oil.

Janaka asked: Did you get your answer?

He said: I did—and in such a way my whole life has changed. For the first time something remained so steadily, unbroken—a single remembrance that no drop should spill.

The emperor said: You had four swords around you; think how many swords surround me—you don’t know. Your life was in a little danger; mine is in great danger. But even that aside—what difference whether there are swords or not? Death surrounds us all. The one who remembers death understands continuity.

Akhanda bhajan means: an unbroken current; not even for a moment should there be a lapse in the remembrance of the Divine; you do not turn away; your eyes stay fixed on That; your heart runs only toward That; the stream of your consciousness flows only toward That—like the Ganges, flowing without interruption toward the sea—no gap, no obstruction, no barrier.

Avyavritta-bhajanat.
When there is no obstruction at all—bhajan! Which means: your ordinary acts must become arrangements for remembrance—

Rise, in That!
Sit, in That!
Sleep, in That!
Wake, in That!

Until it is so, there will be interruptions.

So take care: let the remembrance of the Divine not become one more activity among your activities—otherwise there will be breaks.

When you get engrossed in other acts, you will forget God. Let the Divine not be a compartment of your life; let it pervade your whole life; let it cover all of it. Whether you go to the temple or to the shop, meet a friend or a foe—let there be no difference in the remembrance; let it surround you; let it become an atmosphere around you; let it enter every breath.

Ascetic, let me drink wine seated in the mosque—
Or show me a place where God is not.

Then even if you drink wine, drink in Him—sitting in the mosque. Then let all your acts be wrapped in That. Let no act remain outside It. That act which remains outside becomes the interruption.

The Divine is not one memory among others—the Divine is the Great Memory. He is not one more thing among things—the Divine is like the sky that holds them all. Place a bottle of wine, and the sky surrounds it. Place an idol of God, and the sky surrounds it. Let God surround your everything. Leave the good and the bad to Him; the bad is His, the good is His—step out from the middle. As long as you remain in the middle, there will be interruption. You are the interruption. Your presence prevents the unbroken.

Akhanda bhajan means: you dissolve—only God remains. It is not a matter of making noise. It is a very subtle process. It is not about bands and drums. It is not as cheap as staging a twenty-four-hour kirtan. For that matter, not even twenty-four moments are needed—if you can remain in unbroken kirtan for twenty-four moments, you are free.

Mahavira said: If a person remains in uninterrupted meditation for forty-eight seconds, he is liberated! Forty-eight seconds of gapless attention—and he is free! Unbroken attention means: in this now, not a single thought arises, not a single desire stirs; you are bare. Let the Divine surround you as the sky surrounds you. No choosing remains. All your acts become surrender.

Nanak lay sleeping with his feet toward the sacred stone of Mecca; the priests were angry. “Move your feet. Place them elsewhere. Have you no sense, being a holy man?”

Nanak said: Then place my feet where God is not.

The story says the priests turned his feet to every direction; wherever they placed them, the stone of the Kaaba moved to that side. Whether the story be fact or not—it carries a great truth.

Ascetic, let me drink wine seated in the mosque—
Or show me a place where God is not.

The essence is: the priest could show no place where God is not.

Let your life be so filled with Him that no place remains where He is not. Therefore do not keep accounts of good and bad. Do not show Him only your good—open even your bad to Him. In your anger, remember Him. In your love, remember Him. Then you will be amazed: your anger is no longer anger—His fragrance enters your anger; and your love is no longer “yours”—in your love His prayer begins to rain.

Add the Divine to anything and it is transformed. Add your all, and all of you will be transformed.

“By unbroken bhajan devotion is perfected.”

Better than crawling all your life
Is a single instant that fills your soul with vastness—

A single instant that fills your song with mischief and grace,
A single instant that pours delight into your rhythm.

One moment of remembrance of God is enough—one that fills your soul with vastness—calls the boundless into your courtyard, calls the ocean into your drop. Let boundaries break—one such moment is enough to live.

Better than crawling all your life...
Then what to say of unbroken kirtan—if even one instant of vastness is so wondrous—what to say of continuous bhajan! In unceasing bhajan even the lips do not move. Within, the Divine’s name is not even uttered. What happens is this: in all that happens, His remembrance pervades. Eat, bathe—and even in bathing the current of water is His. When water falls, let the Divine fall over you!

In my village a beautiful river flows, the place for everyone’s bath. In winter people go as always. Since childhood I have been amused that in summer no one seems to do bhajan-kirtan. In winter, when they bathe, they shout God’s name loudly: “Bholeshankar! Bholeshankar!” I asked: In summer does everyone forget? I found that in winter they call the name to put a screen between themselves and the river’s cold. They keep themselves busy shouting “Bholeshankar!”—and in that interval they dunk—the cold is “forgotten.”

So people use God’s name to escape the river. And then I saw: this is what happens in life as well. God surrounds you from all sides—and you do not wish to be surrounded. Even your God’s name is your defense. If you would truly remember the Divine, let the river flow—it is His. He has flowed there; He is flowing. Take the plunge. Let it be known—not thought—that God has surrounded you. Rise—and the Divine sun surrounds you. Dive—and the Divine water surrounds you. If you are hungry, the Divine hunger surrounds you; if you eat, the Divine satisfaction surrounds you.

And this is not a matter of words—do not “think” so, or thinking itself becomes the obstacle. Know it. Do not repeat it. Let it be your awareness. Let it be your continuous remembrance.

“Even in the marketplace, devotion is perfected by listening to and singing the qualities of God.”

Listening to the qualities of the Divine—and singing them; hearing and chanting His glory.

By listening—if you truly listen, if you open the gates of the heart, if you listen not only with ears but with your very life—then as you go on listening to His qualities, a continuity of remembrance begins to form within. Because what we keep hearing becomes our awareness. What we hear slowly imbibes itself into us. What we hear continuously, gradually surrounds us; we drown in it.

So listen—and sing. Hearing alone will not do, for hearing is passive; singing is active. In passivity, hear; in activity, express. When you speak—speak of His qualities.

How much useless talk you indulge in! How many empty conversations! Better to speak of His beauty. Better to talk a little of His vast being. In that talk you will remember; the one you speak to will remember. We have not “lost” God, only forgotten Him. Hence the use of hearing and singing. If He were truly lost—what would they do? It is like treasure buried in your house—you have forgotten where; a diamond in your pocket—you have forgotten. Let someone speak of diamonds, and you will remember.

Have you noticed? You leave home to post a letter. You meet a friend and forget all day. Then he says: “A letter came from my wife”—at once you remember you have to mail your letter. Hearing, the forgotten returns to mind. What lay within rises to consciousness.

“By listening to and singing the qualities of the Divine...”

And what you hear—it is not enough to hear; you will forget again. Your sleep is bottomless. Sing as well. Hum. At night, when you go to sleep, drift off humming His song—so that the humming surrounds your dreams through the night; so that it keeps you warm; so that it stands guard; so that even in deep sleep the continuity of remembrance remains.

If you notice: what you think last at night, that is what you remember first in the morning. If not, try it. The thought that is last at bedtime is first on waking—because all night it stands at the threshold of your consciousness. If you fall asleep remembering God, you will find—you awaken already in His remembrance.

All the religions of the world stress remembrance of God at night and in the morning—at sleeping and waking—because then the stance of consciousness changes: from waking to sleep the gear shifts; from sleep to waking, again it shifts. In these twilight moments, these moments of transition and revolution, if remembrance permeates you, you will find—the stamp of God has entered every drop of your blood. Your whole being begins to hum Him.

“But devotion chiefly happens by the grace of the great ones—or by the merest touch of God’s grace.”

Narada says: all this is right, these means are right—but this alone will not do. In truth, it happens by the grace of the great ones, or by a mere trace of God’s grace. Your methods are necessary—do not take them as sufficient. Here lies the difference between devotion and other paths. Others say: if done rightly, God will be attained. Devotion says: this is only preparation; it will not itself do; ultimately it is by grace—of the great ones, and of God.

“But the company of the great is rare, unknowable, and unfailing.”

To find the true master is difficult—

“Rare, unknowable, and unfailing.”

Rare—first, because those who have realized truth are few. Then, of those few, eyes that can recognize them are fewer still. Suppose you recognize one—the rarity is overcome—then he is unknowable. After recognition, the master takes you into a world unknown to you—unknowable to the mind. Your understanding wavers, your feet shake, you grow afraid. It is an unfamiliar realm; he steers the boat where you have never been; there are no maps—only risk.

So first, to meet is hard. If you meet, recognizing is hard. If you recognize, going with him is hard—unknowable! But if you go with him—then it is unfailing; then it is a sure arrow; even a trace of his grace is enough.

Suddenly your voice came from somewhere—
Like a spring bursting from a mountain’s heart,
Or, in yearning for the earth, all at once
A saucy star breaking free from the sky.

Like honey it melted into the bitterness of loneliness,
Like color it spread through the dark chambers of the heart,
So long your intoxicating echoes rang,
As flowers begin to shine in wastelands.

Suddenly your voice came from somewhere...!
Finding the true master happens suddenly. Seek and seek—and suddenly.... For there are no fixed maps, no addresses. So—suddenly. Where he will be—cannot be told.

The master is not an inert thing—he is the flow of consciousness; not stationary—dynamic, moving.

A Sufi fakir sat beneath a tree. A young man came and asked: I am searching for a true master; give me a criterion to recognize him. The fakir gave criteria—“If you find someone sitting beneath such-and-such a tree, know....” The youth went searching—thirty years, they say. He did not find such a tree, nor a master sitting beneath it. Many he met, but the test did not fit. He returned. He was astonished—the same old man sat beneath the same tree. “Why did you not tell me at first that this was the tree?” The fakir said: “I did tell you—you had no eyes. You never saw the tree. I was describing this very tree; you listened and ran. This is the tree—and I am that man. Your problem is one thing—think of mine: I had to sit here thirty years, knowing you would come one day.”

Suddenly your voice came from somewhere—
Like a spring bursting from a mountain’s heart,
Or, in yearning for the earth, all at once
A saucy star breaking free from the sky.

Yearning for the earth...
The disciple is like the earth; the master like the sky.

Or, in yearning for the earth, all at once
A saucy star breaks free from the sky.

Like honey it melted into the bitterness of loneliness—
That loneliness, filled with ache... melted like honey.

Like color it spread through the dark chambers of the heart—
In the heart’s dark night, a new color rose—a new dawn.

So long your intoxicating echoes rang—
As if flowers began to sparkle in deserts.

So astonishing is the meeting with the master—as if flowers bloom in the desert; as if a spring bursts from a rock; as if a star, in love with the earth, descends.

Rare is the company. But those who truly seek, find. Seekers are needed. However rare—seekers have always found. Do not tire; do not lose heart. If there is thirst, the spring will be found. In fact, God fashions the spring before He gives you thirst; prepares the food before He gives you hunger. Thirst is made later; the springs are made first. Man came much later; lakes and streams came long before. Man came later; fruits on the trees came earlier.

Know this: whatever you truly long for within—some treasure must exist, or the longing could not be. The company of the great is rare—granted—but do not despair. “Rare” is said so that you do not rush; so you keep patience. It does not mean you will not find. You will. Seek with patience.

“It is unknowable.” And when the master leads you on the path of the unknowable—where your intellect cannot understand, for the path is of love, beyond reason—do not be afraid. Keep courage. Dare to go mad. Dare to be a lover. Trust.

This is what shraddha is for. Where the doorway to the unknowable opens—what will you do, if there is no trust? If you say: first we will understand, then we will enter—there will be a block. Understanding comes only when you enter. If you set the condition: first understanding, then entry....

People come to me and say: We want to take sannyas, but first let us understand what sannyas is. I tell them: Without tasting, how will you understand? Without becoming, how will you know? Become—then understand afterward.

They say: What kind of talk is this? First understand, think, consider—then we will become. They will never become. This path is of the unknowable, the uncharted, the ineffable.

Yet the sutra says something priceless: “Rare, unknowable—and unfailing.” Once your hand joins his hand, it will not miss; it is a sure arrow. The arrow will pierce—through and through.

“Even that company is had only by God’s grace.”

Narada says: Even satsang happens by His grace. Because the devotee’s vision rests on grace—prasada. If a true master comes to you, it is by His grace—not by your search. Through the master, He Himself comes to you; in the master, He meets you. You were not yet ready to meet Him face-to-face; so He meets from behind a veil. The hand is His—inside a glove. The hand is His. The voice within the master is His. But if the voice came straight from the empty sky, you wouldn’t understand—you would run.

Imagine: there’s an empty chair here, and a voice speaks—you’d flee, and never look back. Even now, the voice comes from the Void.

Through the master He calls; He beckons; His hands reach toward you—but they look like your kind of hands: you trust, you place your hand in his. Once you give it, you discover those hands were not like yours, though they appeared so—you were tricked.

The true master is God Himself.

Therefore the sutra says: “That too is by His grace.”

All that is, is by His own pace and act.
An idol is what I summon; the One who comes on His own is God.

Even your summons is not what brings Him—He comes of His own. When you are even a little ready, He comes. Properly speaking, He always was coming—you did not recognize. When you gathered yourself, you recognized. He was calling before—you did not hear; your ears were busy listening to something else.

“Because there is no difference between God and His devotee.”

Therefore in the master too, it is He who comes.

“Because there is no difference between God and His devotee.”

In the heart of every drop is the music of the shoreless sea—
We are His—what need to ask about us!

Every drop has its own instrument, and from that instrument there is a ceaseless sound: “I am the ocean.” Every drop’s inner music says, I am the sea.

In the heart of every drop is the music of the shoreless sea—
We are His—what more is there to say!

If you look within, you will hear the same note—the note of your own divinity—just as every drop hums the ocean. The one who has recognized this inner sound is the master. The one who has not yet recognized must seek—but the difference is not essential.

By God’s grace the company of the true is found, for there is no difference between God and His devotee.

“Practice that alone.”

Tadeva sādhyatām, tadeva sādhyatām.
Practice that alone!
Practice satsang alone!

Seek the true master! Trust some hands—and place your hand in them. Only thus will you be able to place yourself in God’s hand. Only thus will God be able to take your hand into His.

So what is the practice of devotion? The practice of satsang. What is the essence? To be with one who has attained. For it is within you too—but your instrument sleeps. Find a veena whose strings are awake, so that in its resonance your strings begin to tremble.

Musicians say: if a skilled player plucks one veena, and another veena lies silent in the room, the strings of the silent one begin to vibrate. The waves of the awakened veena awaken the sleeping veena; the blows of sound alert it: I too am a veena. Something awakens within. Its strings quiver. A thrill runs through. A distant message arrives—self-recognition dawns.

Satsang is the devotee’s practice.

If you find a Mira—be with her. If you find a Chaitanya—be with him. You have forgotten yourself; they remember—by being with them you will slowly remember too. Nothing more to do.

The true master is a mirror—in him your own face will slowly appear; forgotten memories will return.

Let the light of your remembrance remain with us—
Who knows in which lane the evening of life will fall.

So the devotee says only this to his master:
Let the light of your remembrance remain with us.
Who knows in which lane the evening of life will fall.

Who knows when darkness may surround! Let your light be with us—that is enough. Even the remembrance of your light is enough—then we too become light. However dense the darkness—on the night of no moon—however it encircles, yet we remain light.

With the enlightened, you remembered your own light.

So the devotee’s practice is simply to find satsang.

Devotion is contagious.

Tadeva sādhyatām, tadeva sādhyatām.

That’s enough for today.