Birhani Mandir Diyana Baar #1

The day has come to plant new longings in the heart.
The day has come to make the heart bloom like a bud.
The day has come to laugh like flowers—and make others laugh.
The day has come to sweep across the sky like clouds, swaying in delight.
The day has come to bathe in a shower of smiles.

The birth of an awakened one on this earth is a supreme festival. Buddhahood is the lotus of human consciousness. As flowers open in spring, so too there are springs on this earth when many flowers bloom—flowers of countless hues.

Such springs have grown rare, because we have stopped calling them. Spring does not come on its own; it comes by invitation. If we make it our guest, it arrives. If we become hosts to it, it comes. Nature’s spring is inert—it comes and it goes. But the springs of the soul come only when we call them. We have stopped calling. We have stopped invoking the Divine. We do not call, and when the Divine does not come, we ask: Where is God? What proof is there?

Without calling, no proof is possible. Without His coming, nothing can prove Him. And when He comes, He comes like a flood—bringing not one proof but the infinite. He arrives self-evident. Whoever has ever called Him—no call has gone unanswered. Even a call of love-friendship has not gone to waste. Friendships have brimmed—with great fragrance! That fragrance was squandered freely, shared in their songs! Whenever the Divine descends in someone’s life, a monsoon of song begins. Every breath becomes a song. His rising and sitting become music. Wherever his feet land, a pilgrimage-place is born.

With such a wondrous being we begin our journey today. Yari was born in Delhi. His name was Yaar Mohammad. Soon “Mohammad” fell away. For the one who would call the Divine cannot remain Hindu, cannot remain Muslim, cannot remain Christian. To call the Divine, certain conditions must be met. First—let go of adjectives, abandon insistences, leave temples and mosques. Only then will you yourself become the temple; you yourself will become the mosque. So long as you cling to outer temples and mosques, you will not remember there is also a temple within. In that temple no lamp has ever been lit, no incense has ever burned, no inner sound has ever arisen. There is also a mosque within you where no call to prayer has ever rung, where no prayers have been performed—where darkness remained darkness.

Whoever gets lost in outer shrines is deprived of the real inner shrine. Whoever looks outward will never find the Divine. Those who seek wealth search outside; and those who seek meditation also search outside. The seekers of wealth can be forgiven; the seekers of meditation cannot. Wealth is outside; meditation is not. You search office, rank, reputation—you will have to search outside. But if you would find the Divine, you must search within. And within—who is Hindu? Who is Muslim? Who is Christian? Jain? Buddhist? Sikh? Parsi? Within you are immaculate, formless—without adjectives: neither Brahmin nor Shudra; neither woman nor man; neither white nor black. Within you are neither child nor youth nor old. Within you are eternal—beyond time, beyond the stream of moments. Tasting the within is tasting the Divine.

So soon no one knew where Yaar Mohammad’s “Mohammad” disappeared. Now people only infer the name might once have been Yaar Mohammad; it is conjecture, no historical proof. Such things are only external dyes. One shower and the colors run. He was a disciple of Viru Fakir. Viru was not a Muslim—born in a Hindu home. But when a flame is lit, moths of every kind come dancing! Who sees in such intoxication—who is Hindu, who is Muslim? Viru himself was the disciple of a Muslim woman fakir—Bawari Sahiba.

The world of saints is something else altogether. Outer distinctions have no value there. Bawari Sahiba was a wondrous woman. Women that rare can be counted on the fingers of one hand; among them is Bawari. Even her real name is unknown. So mad in God’s love that only this remained in memory: she was bawari—crazed, love-mad. Muslim by birth and upbringing. Her disciple Viru—Hindu by birth and upbringing. And their disciple was Yari—again, a Muslim. In Yari two streams met—a confluence. In his words you will catch glimpses of that confluence again and again.

First “Mohammad” fell away; then he was “Yaar”—friend; from yaar he became “Yari”—friendliness. Understand this well. Yaar means friend; Yari means friendship. When ego disappears, the friend dissolves and only friendship remains. When ego disappears, the flower falls away and fragrance remains. You cannot grasp fragrance, you cannot clench it in your fist. It has no form, no color. Such is maitri—friendliness.

Buddha has said: the awakened ones are kalyan-mitra—beneficent friends. Yari is such a beneficent friend.

And something subtler: from Yari, even the word yaar fell away. “Friend” still has a limit. “Friendship” is boundless. In “friend” a center remains—a hidden “I.” In “friendship” the “I” is gone—utterly gone. Love stands revealed in its purity. There is even a difference between friendship and friendliness. Friendship is a relationship between two persons. Friendliness is not a relationship; it is a state of samadhi. Friendliness flows whether another is present or not. Friendship requires the other—requires a relation of I and thou. In friendship, duality remains. In friendliness, even duality dissolves.

Friendliness means: whether it is a tree or a rock or a cloud in the sky—or no one at all—still the fragrance keeps moving; it is not bound to a “you.” When the “I” is gone, how can “you” remain? I and you are two faces of the same coin. When this side goes, that side goes. What remains is an effortless flow of love—without purpose, addressed to no fixed address. The love-letter is written, but no address is inscribed. And when you write a love-letter with no address, it reaches the Divine.

Friendliness is the culmination of friendship. The bonds of limitation fall away, chains drop, friendliness spreads its wings and flies into the sky—the pinnacle of love. Hence the lovely name. From Yaar Mohammad, only Yaar remained; then even Yaar disappeared and Yari remained. Therefore I say:

The day has come to plant new longings in the heart.
The day has come to make the heart bloom like a bud.
The day has come to laugh like flowers—and make others laugh.
The day has come to sweep across the sky like clouds, swaying in delight.
The day has come to bathe in a shower of smiles.

Let Yari’s words fall upon you like a fine, gentle rain. Let his clouds gather over you. Bathe in them. This is the true bath in the Ganges. When a saint’s word showers upon you, not only the body is purified—the life of your life is cleansed. Not only the body bathes, not only the mind, but the witness hidden behind body and mind shakes off all dust and sits up awake. Sleep breaks. And the bud inside you, lying unblossomed for who knows how long, opens. This is the meaning, this is the purpose of the company of blooming flowers: that you remember you too came here to blossom—and do not go back unblossomed; that you remember blossoming is your capacity, your very nature.

Keep Yari’s company in this way.

Sutra: “Forlorn one, light the lamp in the temple.”

We are all in separation—whether we know it or not. The sick one is sick whether he knows it or not. Illness can last for months; until you meet a physician, there may be no clear diagnosis. Before diagnosis, the illness was already present.

In Russia a great scientist, Kirlian, invented a new kind of photography by which an illness can be detected six months before it manifests—six months before the patient knows. The patient will discover it six months later, and then after a month or two of noticing symptoms he will go to a doctor. But a Kirlian photo discloses in advance what kind of illness is going to grip you. Somewhere deep down, the illness has already taken hold. It will take time for it to travel from that depth into your conscious mind, from the unconscious to the conscious. Then you will postpone for some days. You will console yourself: it’s nothing, just a cold, a headache, fatigue, overwork, a poor night’s sleep. You will keep postponing with excuses. Some illnesses can be postponed for a lifetime. Some are so subtle that postponement is not even required—you simply never notice. Few possess such fine intelligence, such exquisite sensitivity.

And this is only bodily illness; mental illnesses go deeper still. Psychologists say three out of four people are mentally ill. Three out of four—what a number! And they also say: we cannot guarantee even the fourth is healthy. Three are certainly sick; the fourth is suspect.

So the whole of humanity is ill! And this concerns the mind. Deeper still is the illness of the soul. If three of four minds are ill and the fourth is doubtful, then regarding the soul presume all four are ill—the illness of separation.

Separation means we have forgotten our roots; our connection to the Divine is broken. We have lost awareness of that in which we live. The breath of our breath, the life of our life—our bridges to that have been torn apart. We have turned our backs on what would become our bliss. And we are running away from the very door that opens into eternal life. We seek wealth, not awareness. Wealth lies outside, far away—like the horizon: run and run, you never reach it. Awareness is within; run and you miss it; stop, and it is found; be still, and it is found. But we are all running. Every rush takes us farther and farther from ourselves, from our source.

As if a tree begins to run. Then ill times arrive: its roots will be torn out. Its link to the source of life, to water and earth, will be broken. Let a tree become a vagabond, a nomad—how will it live? Soon its greenness will vanish. Soon leaves will fall. Buds will never become flowers—they will wither as buds and merge with dust. Flowers will never bloom. Spring will still come and go, but this tree will have no relation to spring. The rains will come, clouds will gather, monsoons will pour—but no green will sprout on this tree; no new crown will appear. It will roam—dry, dead, a skeleton—restless, errant. Such have we become. Such has humanity become.

Separation means: we are broken from that which is the very essence of our life. The one who is the life of our life, our Beloved—we have turned away from Him.

Turn face to face. Lift your eyes toward Him. Embrace Him. Dive into Him. Only by diving will you find you have saved yourself. And those who try to save themselves apart from Him will finally discover they have drowned terribly, broken utterly, perished completely. They did not save themselves; they lost all.

Those who live opposed to the Divine come empty-handed and leave empty-handed—emptier still. Those who live in the Divine live brimming. Their life carries a deep contentment, a unique bliss, a celebration. Songs spring from them; dances surge. Anklets tie themselves to their feet. “Meera danced with bells on her feet.” These few intoxicated ones recognize the secret of life and drink its nectar. Life’s nectar is immortality; whoever drinks it, death is no more. Whoever goes without it, life is no life at all—a sham survival, a barren existence, without energy.

“Forlorn one, light the lamp in the temple.”

This is said to you—to all who live opposed to the Divine and burn in separation. One cannot even tell what the separation is about. It feels as if something is missing; as if something that should have happened, did not. There are glimmers—but dim, a mere hint, as if seen in darkness. And because of that hint we start running faster, thinking: surely something precious is lost and must be attained. But what is lost is lost within, while we run outside. The more we run, the farther we go—from that which must be found.

Those who are very successful in this world—remember—their success is costly. As they succeed in wealth, rank, reputation—they fail within. Outside, piles of wealth; inside, heaps of poverty. Outside, higher and higher status; inside, deeper and deeper chasms. Outside, honors and respect; inside, a piercing sense of inner poverty like a thorn.

“Forlorn one, light the lamp in the temple.”

Temple here means your body—for in this very temple the Divine is enthroned. Where are you running? What are you seeking? You have searched the infinite outside and not found. Then some basic error is afoot. What is within—how will you find it outside? You are the temple.

And your so-called priests and pundits are dedicated to condemning your body. For centuries their one task has been to vilify the body, to make you its enemy, to tell you the body is the cause of your separation from God.

False, utterly false—one hundred percent false. Your body is not contrary to the Divine. The Divine has made your body His dwelling. Your body is a temple, a place of worship, a Kaaba, a Kashi. Do not suppress the body, do not torture it. Do not set about to break it. Though this is what you have been taught—this poison fed to you with your mother’s milk: the body is sin. Whoever lets this foolishness sink deep—he will never meet the Divine. For, fearful of the body, he remains outside; how will he enter within the body? Who would enter “sin”?

The body is His gift, not sin. The body is virtue, not vice. The body is sacred, not profane. Honor the body. Respect it. Only then can you enter. Make friends with the body—befriend it, cultivate Yari with it. Then, bit by bit, slide within.

Yoga prepares your body so you can slip inside; it opens the body’s doors. Meditation teaches you the art of sitting within. Whoever opens the doors through yoga and learns through meditation to sit within—he has found the Divine. The Divine has always been found thus.

“…light the lamp in the temple.”

Light the inner flame. Strictly speaking, it is not that you must light it—it is already lit. You must recognize it.

“Those flowers with color but no scent of fidelity—
do not adorn your house with such flowers.
Your heart was made for the worship of fidelity;
do not demolish this shrine of love.”

This body of yours, this heart that beats within—in its inmost sanctum the Divine is enthroned. You have wandered among false flowers while the true flower is ready to bloom within you. In your own lake the blue lotus is ready to open; and you go begging for plastic blooms, buying paper flowers in the marketplace.

“Those flowers with color but no scent of fidelity—
do not adorn your house with such flowers.
Your heart was made for the worship of fidelity;
do not demolish this shrine of love.”

Descend the stairs of the body and you will find the heart—your inner home. Then descend the stairs of the heart and you will find the source of nectar—without which life is dreary, without which life is anguish, without which life is sorrow.

“Forlorn one, light the lamp in the temple.”

O lovers in separation! Light the inner flame in your own house—or recognize the flame already lit.

“When will this heartache pause? When will this night be over?
We had heard He would come; we had heard there would be a dawn.
When will blood become life, when will tears turn pearls?
On what day will You notice, O tear-filled eyes?
When will the season of flowers be fragrant? When will the tavern be tipsy?
When will the dawn of song arrive? When will the evening of pure seeing?
There is no preacher, no ascetic, no moralist, no executioner.
How will lovers even survive in this city now?”

The world has grown desolate. The world is empty. We no longer meet people like Yari. The crowd of humans has grown, and the human being has been lost. The crowd has swollen, and the soul has faded. Those dear ones are no longer found—or only with great difficulty. Once their lamps burned in every village. Once their light illumined every settlement. This earth has grown lovely flowers.

Why is it so now? Why do lovely flowers not grow? Bushes abound, but roses are rarely seen. Some fundamental mistake has crept into our outlook. We have become more and more outward-bound. Now our outwardness has reached its limit; beyond it lies death. Beyond it, humanity ends. Now we must turn back. We must search for our lost treasures.

“When will this heartache pause? When will this night be over?
We had heard He would come; we had heard there would be a dawn.”

For centuries people spent their days and nights waiting for the Divine. Now even remembrance doesn’t come. Now the Divine is not even part of our lives. If we use the word “God,” it is only as a formality. There is no meaning in it, because meaning must be poured in by living it—words don’t carry meaning on their own.

“When will this heartache pause? When will this night be over?
When will this night shatter? When will the restless heart’s aching moments end?

We had heard He would come; we had heard there would be a dawn.
We kept on hearing—and the morning never comes. Darkness grows denser.

When will blood become life, when will tears turn pearls?”

When will that moment come when tears become pearls? Truly, tears turn to pearls—when one weeps on the path to God. On the path of man even pearls prove worse than tears. Here, even if you gain wealth, poverty is all you hold. Here, even pearls turn out to be worthless tomorrow. But there is another path.

“When will blood become life, when will tears turn pearls?
On what day will You notice, O tear-filled eyes?”

When will Your vision happen? The moment You are seen, ordinary eyes turn into eyes of the extraordinary; this ordinary body begins to glow. Earthly no more, it becomes sky. Then gravity cannot pull you down; then the sky’s grace lifts you.

“When will the season of flowers be fragrant…”

When will spring come? When will flowers open? When will fragrance rise?

“When will the season of flowers be fragrant? When will the tavern be tipsy?”

When shall we dance in divine madness? Whoever has not danced madly has come and gone in vain. Until the earth becomes a tavern, until your life becomes a wave of ecstasy, until your every breath carries the perfume of the Divine’s wine—know you have lived in vain, that your journey has not yet taken the right turn.

“When will the season of flowers be fragrant? When will the tavern be tipsy?
When will the dawn of song arrive? When will the evening of pure vision?

There is no preacher, no ascetic, no moralist, no executioner.
How will lovers even survive in this city now?”

Now, even for lovers it is hard here. Even devotees find it hard to live. The very possibility of saints is fading. What kind of world have we built? What shape have we given man? And the result? A dense despair all around. Hearts have stopped beating. Eyes carry no intoxication. No song in the breath. No dance in the feet. Exhausted, jostled by crowds, we move toward our graves. No star is visible—no star in the far sky.

The sky fills with stars when the inner light is first seen. There the true journey begins. Whoever sees the inner light sees the Light of Lights everywhere.

“Forlorn one, light the lamp in the temple.”

So Yari says: Do one thing. Your separation touches me; your sorrow touches me. I give you the key:

“Forlorn one, light the lamp in the temple.
Without wick, without oil—by a certain art—without a lamp, light.”

I give you such a method. A marvel can occur within—for it occurred within me. What has happened to one can happen in all. Without wick, without oil! In there, a flame burns; no oil needs to be poured; no wick needs to be set. It is not even right to say there is a lamp; but there is great radiance. Lamps that need oil will go out—today or tomorrow. Wicks will burn up and go out. Earthen lamps break. Seek a flame…that flame is your inborn right—it is what you are: without oil, without wick, without lamp—and yet full of light.

But you have stopped turning your eyes within. Your eyes are so stuck outside that they have forgotten there is an inner world. You run. Things outside glitter; you are bedazzled.

“Without wick, without oil—by a certain art—without a lamp, light.”

This unique event happens to the seeker. The day it happens is the first experience of the ultimate mystery—the eternal radiance within, which was before birth and will remain after death. A light without cause—uncaused! Because it is uncaused, it cannot be extinguished. Because it is uncaused, even death cannot erase it. Had it been a clay lamp, death would have blown it out. You are not the body. Had it needed oil, it would run out one day—however much there is.

This sun has been radiating for billions of years; scientists say even it is depleting. Do not panic—it won’t run out soon. Some say it has at least thousands of years yet. But the sun will exhaust its fuel. How vast a lamp it is—sixty thousand times the size of earth! Yet its light drains day by day. However vast the treasure, it runs out sooner or later.

Only one treasure does not run out—the Divine’s. Only one light does not go out—the Divine’s. Wake up! You are heir to that light. You are its master. You have been given the most precious gift. And poor you—you neither look at it, nor honor it, nor thank the Divine for it.

“O Queen of the city of life,
how could I ever repay my thanks?
The wealth of the heart beyond all counting—
what complaint can there be of poverty?”

We are misers—that’s another matter. What we have is a ceaseless spring. Pour it out, pour it out—you cannot empty it. Share it—share whatever is inner; it will keep increasing. But we are great misers—afraid to give love, afraid to give light. We fear it may run out. Our fear comes from the arithmetic of the outside, where things exhaust. However much wealth you have, it can be spent. If you keep giving, the vaults will soon be empty.

But you do not know the arithmetic of within—the reverse of the outside. Outside economics says: save and it remains; give and it ends. That is the language of limitation. The inner economics is the true economics; the outer is a science of disaster. The inner law says: give and it remains; hoard and it rots.

Give knowledge. Give love. Give whatever is inner. You will be astonished: the more you give, the more it grows. Whoever gave most, gained most.

“O Queen of the city of life,
how could I ever repay my thanks?
The wealth of the heart beyond all counting—
what complaint can there be of poverty?

Those who became beggars at the sight of Your beauty—
what concern have they with earning a livelihood?
They will sell their pain, they will sing their songs—
what happier trade could there be?”

Whoever has once seen Your treasure, Your light…

“Those who became beggars at the sight of Your beauty—
what concern have they with earning a livelihood?
They will sell their pain, they will sing their songs—
what happier trade could there be?”

Now they will distribute only You. They will share the pain of separation, and sing the songs of union.

“When the goblet overflowed, the gathering formed.
Who needs to plead for a sympathetic ear?
When a tear fell, the garden bloomed.
Who cares for the coarseness of spring?”

When the goblet overflowed, the gathering formed. Wherever there is one who has seen the inner light, his cup begins to spill over. There is so much wine within that it must flow.

Buddha did not speak to explain you—that is secondary. He had to speak. Jesus spoke—not to awaken you—that is a result. When the lamp is lit, its light spreads. When the flower blooms, color and fragrance spread—not to perfume your nostrils; yes, whoever passes will be filled by the scent—but that is secondary.

“When the goblet overflowed, the gathering formed.”

Wherever the inner light is seen—“without wick, without oil—without a lamp, light”—the cup flows over. The tavern opens there.

“When the goblet overflowed, the gathering formed.
Who needs to plead for a sympathetic ear?
When a tear fell, the garden bloomed.”

A single tear of such a one falls—and spring arrives. The whole garden blossoms. Remember Meera’s tears—what flower can match them?

“When a tear fell, the garden bloomed.
Who cares for spring’s lack of refinement?

Good fortune this, and good news—keep it stitched in your heart:

“Blessed are we that the longing of the eye and heart
is neither in temple nor in monastery.”

Not in temple, not in mosque. You are fortunate. Had He been in some temple, it would be difficult. Priests would never let you in.

I heard of a Black man who knocked at a church one night. It was a white people’s church. The pastor opened the door—and feared. Though daily he preached, “We are all children of one God,” “Love thy neighbor,” “God is love.” But a Black man at the door at night—he was afraid. The Black man said: Let me in. Your words have given me courage. You say God is love. You say love your neighbor. I am your neighbor. And you say we are all His children; I am His child. Let me in. My heart is aflame—I wish to pray.

The pastor could not say “no” outright—how to contradict his own sermons? Nor could he say “yes,” for those words were only for saying. Some words are only for saying; life is quite different. The reality was: a Black man entering—he did not have the courage. He devised a trick.

Priests have always been cunning. Cunning—therefore priests. For centuries they have exploited through cunning.

He said: Certainly come—but first be purified. Fast. Pray. Abandon sin. Leave lust, anger, greed. He gave such a long list that he was sure the man would never complete it; the problem of entry would never arise. As a Brahmin would bar a Shudra, so in America Blacks have been barred—how could he enter the church? The priest was pleased—such a long list that even great saints would fail. When he completes it—then we’ll see.

The simple man agreed: Right, when I am pure I will pray. It didn’t occur to him that the condition didn’t apply to whites. Which whites had the pastor told to become pure first? He went, and began purifying himself.

Three weeks later, the pastor was startled. At dawn, as he opened the church, he saw that Black man approaching—with an aura of purity the pastor had never seen—except in pictures of saints. A unique inner light radiated around him. Now how to refuse? Big trouble.

But the Black man came, stood outside the door, smiled—and turned back. The pastor was even more surprised. He ran, caught him: What happened? Why did you smile? Why are you leaving?

The man said: Last night God appeared. For three weeks I have been fasting, praying—living only in His remembrance, as you said. God appeared and said: Fool—forget about entering that church. I asked: Why? He said: If you won’t believe it, I’ll tell you plainly. For centuries I too have tried to get into that church—they don’t let Me in. And you expect they will let you in?

Temples are empty. Mosques, churches, gurudwaras, synagogues—empty for centuries of God. That is a good thing.

“Blessed are we that the longing of eye and heart
is neither in temple nor in monastery.”

The longing of our eyes to behold Him, of our hearts to be drowned in Him…

“Blessed are we that the longing of eye and heart
is neither in temple nor in monastery.
Where shall we go to try our fortune?
Every beloved is enthroned in his own sanctuary.”

Within your own arms!

“Without wick, without oil—by a certain art—without a lamp, light.
The Life-Beloved has come to my home; carefully adorn the couch.”

Let a little remembrance arise—and the Life-Beloved arrives.

“The Life-Beloved has come to my home; carefully adorn the couch.”

Now adorn the couch. Prepare. Make this body worthy of Him. Make this mind worthy. He has knocked at the door. The moment you remember that He is within, in my arms, closer than I am to myself—then prepare. Decorate—adorn the bridal bed.

“The Life-Beloved has come to my home; carefully adorn the couch.
On the couch of Sushumna rests the Supreme; the Beloved is without attribute, formless.”

How will you adorn the couch? Samadhi is His couch. When all problems drop within and the dawn of solution arises, the bed is strewn with flowers. Samadhi is His couch. And the path to samadhi—balance.

“On the couch of Sushumna rests the Supreme…”

In yoga there are three nadis—ida, pingala, sushumna. Ida on one side, pingala on the other—extremes. In the middle is sushumna. Leave all extremes and come to the middle—the Majjhima Nikaya of Buddha, Pythagoras’ golden mean. Do not lean left or right. Neither indulgence nor renunciation—come to the center. Neither overeating nor fasting—come to the center. Neither attachment to the world nor aversion—center. Do not drown in the world nor run away from it—center. Be in the world as if not, like the lotus on water. The couch is prepared—balance within is the ornament.

Remember: the indulger misses, and the renunciate also misses. The indulger clutches wealth, status, fame like a madman. The renunciate drops them like a madman. To clutch is wrong; to insist on dropping is also wrong. There is nothing here worth clinging to, nothing worth rejecting. See the essence and be balanced. Mahavira called it samyakta—rightness. Come to the center—equipoise.

“The Life-Beloved has come to my home; carefully adorn the couch.
On the couch of Sushumna rests the Supreme…
the Beloved without attribute, without form.”

He has no qualities, no shape. If you would meet Him, become without qualities, without shape. The body has form. Go within the body and you meet the mind—also form, though not as solid as body. Body’s form is like rock; mind’s form is like flowing water—changing, moving. Still, form. Go deeper than body and mind—you find the empty sky—formless. Neither rock-like stability nor mind’s restlessness. Formlessness—like cloudless sky. Only in that state can you meet the Divine. There separation becomes union.

“Sing, O sing, the songs of blissful union; when Yari meets the Beloved.”

Union with the Beloved happens. Then only one thing remains—to sing songs of joy. Hence the saints sang—sang their hearts out. They were no trained singers, no poets, no musicians. Yet, as they could, they sang and danced. Do not seek art in it—art is secondary. Seek soul and feeling.

“Celebrate the memory of holy madness, for it is a day of festival.
Raise the crosses and gallows high, for it is a day of festival.
This is the gathering of joy—change the garments of the heart.
Sew up the tears of the heart, for it is a day of festival.
The cupbearer is capricious—do not watch the color of the wine:
whenever he fills the glass, drink—it is a day of festival.
Observe no etiquette of guide and thief today—
shake hands with everyone, for it is a day of festival.
The censors crowd in expectation to condemn—
walk with measured gaze, for it is a day of festival.
Beloved friends, dear though you are and heartsore—
do not remember your sorrows today—it is a day of festival.
That tumult of heart-ache that has no rhythm—
sing it to the tune of a ghazal, for it is a day of festival.”

Sing! Let the ghazals rise! Drink! Dance!

“The cupbearer is capricious—do not watch the color of the wine:
whenever he fills the glass, drink—it is a day of festival.”

Whatever he pours into your cup—drink. Today, forget rituals. Break all rules and dance! Thus danced Meera and Chaitanya, thus sang Kabir and Nanak.

“Celebrate the memory of holy madness, for it is a day of festival.”

From this mad intoxication, wondrous words are born.

“Sing, O sing, the songs of blissful union; when Yari meets the Beloved.”

Everything changes on meeting Him. Nothing changes—and yet all is transformed. These will be the same trees, yet not the same—you will see His greenness in their green. The same flowers, yet not the same—you will find His blossoming in them. The same moon and stars—yet not the same—you will see His light streaming through. The same Ganga and Yamuna—yet not the same—they will descend from the sky, become celestial. The same people—yet not the same—because the hidden within them will be visible to you. Until now you have seen only bodies, surfaces. You can see within others only as deep as you have seen within yourself.

“When you had not come, everything was just what it seemed:
the sky the edge of sight, the road only a road, the wine glass simply a glass.
Now glass and road and the color of the sky—
all are dyed the color of my heart—till my heart’s blood flows.
Now amber hues of the relief of Your sight,
the slate hues of my weary hours,
the yellow of dead leaves, the straw and thorn,
the scarlet of burning flowers, the hue of poison, the color of blood, the starless night—
sky, road, wine glass—
each a damp hem, each a tender nerve,
each a mirror shifting its every tone.
Now that You have come, let some color, some season,
some thing stand still once more—
let everything be again as it is:
the sky the edge of sight, the road only a road, the wine glass simply a glass.”

Zen masters say: the seeker passes through three stages. First: mountains are mountains, rivers are rivers. Second: mountains are no longer mountains, rivers are no longer rivers. Third: mountains are mountains again, rivers are rivers again.

Lovely saying. First, mountains are mountains—as you have seen them, with dusty eyes; with a sad, sluggish heart. You looked and did not look. Where was the leisure to see? Inside was a mob of thoughts—so much crowding! Lost in yourself—how to open your eyes to mountains and rivers?

Then the mind grows quiet. Thoughts thin. The state of meditation comes. For the first time the inner clamor ceases; suddenly the world’s splendor changes.

Hence: first, mountains were mountains; rivers were rivers. Then a moment came when mountains were no longer mountains, rivers no longer rivers—everything changed. That is the state of meditation—everything new, as never before. Then samadhi—everything settles; all is as before. But you are not the same. And when you are not the same, the world is not the same.

Hell is here; heaven is here; liberation is here. All are states of your consciousness.

“When you had not come, everything was just what it seemed…
Now that You have come, let everything be again as it is—
the sky the edge of sight, the road only a road, the wine glass simply a glass.”

The Beloved may come in a glimpse—not necessarily to stay. Many glimpses will come and go. That state is called meditation—glimpses come, glimpses go. When the Beloved abides, that is samadhi—no coming, no going.

“The tongue grows weary of repeating ‘Ram.’”

How long have you been chanting Ram-Ram—are you not tired? Yari says: I am utterly tired of chanting Ram.

“The tongue grows weary of repeating ‘Ram.’”

I chanted a lot—and grew weary. Repeating Ram brings only fatigue. You mistake that weariness for rest.

Weariness and rest are different. Weariness is negative; rest is positive. Weariness is collapsing; rest is lying down in delight. Many mistake fatigue for rest—because they have never known true rest. So people feel mantra-japa brings rest. It brings tiredness. Tiredness induces sleep.

Thus mantra is a good remedy for insomnia. No wonder teachers of mere mantra—like Maharishi Mahesh Yogi—found followers in America, where insomnia is rampant. Better to fall asleep chanting Ram than on pills. I agree—but remember, it is not meditation.

It is like a mother singing a lullaby to a child who won’t sleep. Lullabies have few words—like mantras: “Sleep, prince, sleep…” In one rhythm, one tune. The child gets bored, fatigued—can’t run away; the only escape is sleep.

Hence people often sleep in religious gatherings—the same stories over and over. Doctors even send insomniacs to religious meetings—guaranteed sleep.

Yari says: “The tongue grows weary of repeating ‘Ram.’”

“I kept repeating ‘water’—but did my thirst abate?
Thirst abates only if you taste it.”

Repeating “water, water” does not quench thirst. Muttering H2O—perhaps you’ll fall asleep; thirst will not be satisfied. And if thirst remains, even sleep will break.

“The tongue grows weary of repeating ‘Ram.’
I kept repeating ‘water’—but did my thirst abate? Thirst abates only if you taste.”

“As a wife knows her husband’s name but does not utter it—know, but do not proclaim.”

In this country wives traditionally did not utter their husband’s names—out of respect. Had husbands observed the same, the rule would have been noble. But half-truths turn dishonorable. Men wrote the scriptures and declared the husband is God—yet did not declare the wife is God. They called woman the gateway to hell—and the husband divine! Such foolishness fills scriptures: beat a drum, a rustic, a Shudra, an animal, a woman. And yet even the greatest saints were born from women! This arrogance runs through the texts. Woman—hell’s gate; man—the Lord; woman—a slave.

Still, there was value in the custom, spoiled by misuse. The wife knows the name but does not speak it—out of reverence. Yari uses this well: I too know His Name—but I will not utter it; out of reverence I hold it within.

“As a wife knows her husband’s name but does not utter it—know, but do not proclaim.”

He is not to be said; He is to be held within—like a seed buried in the earth of the heart. Let Ram, Allah—His remembrance—sink into your innermost. What will chatter achieve?

“With viewpoints you cannot grasp Him; His Name is the Stainless One’s.”

You think by learning philosophies you will seize Him—mistaken.

“With viewpoints you cannot grasp Him…”

All viewpoints are prejudices. Eyes should be free—without viewpoint. Viewpoint means bias: Hindu viewpoint, Muslim viewpoint, Jain viewpoint. You pre-decide how you will see the Divine. With that bias you will frame Him in your window—but He does not fit frames. He is formless; your viewpoint has form. He is wordless; your viewpoint is woven of words. He is unknowable; your viewpoint belongs to knowledge—secondhand, stale.

“With viewpoints you cannot grasp Him…”

Whoso insists “God is like this”—four hands, three heads, an elephant’s trunk—will miss. It is said Tulsidas would not bow in a Krishna temple. He said he would bow only when Krishna took bow and arrow—he had formed a viewpoint of Ram with weapons. Flute in hand—Krishna standing for music, song, celebration—far more refined than weapons of war! Yet Tulsidas refused to bow, so Nabhadas records.

If such a scholar can be so bound, what of ordinary folk? A Jain won’t bow in a Hindu temple. I once took a Jain friend to a Hindu shrine. He did not bow. Why? He said: I bow only before the Vitaraga—the passionless. Here Rama stands with Sita—attachment. I bow only to the naked, possessionless Arhant. He missed the point—bowing itself opens the door. When you say “I will bow only here,” your insistence becomes more important than bowing—you miss. Wherever there is insistence, there is failure. Truth holds no insistence.

Hence I say: “Satyagraha” is a wrong coinage—Truth has no “agraha,” no insistence. Insistence belongs to untruth. Truth is without bias and without viewpoint.

“With viewpoints you cannot grasp Him; His Name is the Stainless One’s.”

He is stainless, formless, all-pervading. Do not approach with doctrine. Whoever seeks with doctrine will never find—his doctrine will be the obstacle. Go empty, with clear eyes. Only in clean, innocent hearts does He enter.

“By the grace of the Guru, in the company of seekers, when your vision turns around…”

Two treasures: the Guru’s grace, the company of seekers. Sit with one who has arrived—his blessing, his prasad, his presence. Who is Guru? One who has blossomed. A blossom in the garden—what bud can remain a bud for long? Soon the bud remembers: I too can bloom. In the Guru’s presence, your inner veena begins to vibrate. His drumbeat sets your feet tapping. Energy stirs; you find yourself in the current that leads to the ocean.

“By the grace of the Guru, in the company of seekers…”

Thus Buddha gave three refuges: I go to the Buddha for refuge—one who has awakened. I go to the Sangha for refuge—the company of those on the path. I go to the Dharma for refuge—the law, which becomes apparent after the first two.

Alone, the journey is arduous. In dangerous terrains, people travel together. At night, one keeps watch while others sleep. So awakened ones build sanghas. That is the meaning of my sannyas—that you have my company and also the company of seekers. Where a great wave rises—formed by many drops merging—if you climb onto it, the journey is easy. Like a boat setting sail when the wind is right—no need for oars; the wind fills the sails.

“Turn the wine-gazing eyes this way.
Make the hand of nature powerless.
The ache of my heart is fierce today, O cupbearer—
make the bitterness of wine fiercer.
My wild thirst is still unslaked—
rip my garment down to the liver.
You who play with my destiny—
make me unaware of destiny.
My treasure of supplication is being looted—
would that He cast an eye this way.
Faiz—if only the fulfillment of longing were known,
life could pass like this.”

Turn the wine-drunken eyes this way. Let the Guru’s glance fall upon you. In his eye, the wine of the Divine overflows. Let his glance fall deeper and deeper; then the grip of nature loosens. When the great wine descends, the little wines withdraw.

“The ache of my heart is fierce today, O cupbearer—
make the bitterness of wine fiercer.”

Such is the disciple’s prayer: pour more fiercely Your ecstasy—deeper into my innermost.

“My wild thirst is still unslaked—
rip my garment down to the liver.
You who play with my destiny—
make me unaware of destiny.
My treasure of supplication is being looted—
would that He cast an eye this way.”

Only one prayer: may His glance turn this way!

“Faiz—if only the fulfillment of longing were known…
life could pass like this.”

Let there be trust: if not today, tomorrow; if not tomorrow, someday His glance will fall. It does fall—surely—whoever waits in trust is not turned away empty.

“By the grace of the Guru, in the company of seekers, when your vision turns around.”

Your eyes must be turned within. Who will turn them? The habit of looking out has become second nature. Only one who has already turned can show you the knack.

Says Yari: “Listen, O saints—like piercing the thunderbolt, the nose has been pierced.” The path is difficult—as if tunneling through diamond. You will need company—someone with a torch to lead through the dark, and companions so that fear does not seize you. Even thunderbolt-hard obstacles break.

“Moist eyes, a restless soul—these are not enough.
Secret complaints of love—these are not enough.
Today, let us walk the bazaar in chains.
With moist eyes and a restless soul—these are not enough.”

Do not only lament that God’s love does not come.

“Today, let us walk the bazaar in chains.”

There are shackles on your feet—no matter! Rise and walk. All who have walked began with chains. Those chains themselves became ornaments one day. All who walked walked in darkness. Those very nights became the foundation for dawns.

“Hands tied—still walk; drunk and dancing—walk.
With dust on your head, with blood on your hem—walk.
The whole city of the Beloved is waiting—walk.
The city’s ruler, the common crowd,
the arrows of accusation, the stones of abuse,
the cheerless mornings, the days of failure—
who is their consoler but you?
Who in that city is pure any more?
Who still stands beneath the killer’s hand?”

Do not be afraid or think: I am a sinner—how will I reach?

“Who is their consoler but you?
Who in that city is pure any more?”

No one is born pure in this world. Purity must be earned here.

“Who still stands beneath the killer’s hand?”

Who is now worthy to lay his head at the Beloved’s feet—to let His dagger cut it? Do not fear—you will become worthy.

“Pack up the belongings of the heart, O wounded hearts—let us go.
Let us be the ones to be slain, my friends—let us go.”

Do not worry. Gather your heart’s provisions.

“Pack up the belongings of the heart, O wounded hearts—let us go.
Let us be the ones to be slain, my friends—let us go.”

If there are no pure ones to lay themselves down on God’s path—then we shall go. Whoever dissolves in Him, finds Him. The art of finding is to die into Him. When the drop dissolves in the ocean, it becomes the ocean.

Enough for today.