Birhani Mandir Diyana Baar #10

Satsang! There is a saying: the one who comes to your aid in trouble is a friend; the one who stays with you in sorrow is a companion.
I say to you: the one who can be of use to you in ecstasy, who can stay with you in your rejoicing—that one is a companion. You will find many who will stand by you in misery. Those who can stand by you in intoxication are rare. And the reason is clear. The arithmetic is obvious.

Pitying a miserable person gratifies the ego. When you toss a beggar a couple of coins, look within: you gave only two coins, and yet inside there is a little satisfaction—“Ah, what a generous man! No one as compassionate as I am.” So many people are passing by, nobody cares for this poor, old beggar—“I alone!” You haven’t given your life, only a couple of coins, yet a glow appears on the face, a little shine glints in the ego. Another ornament is added: “compassionate, kind.”

There is a morbid pleasure in showing sympathy, because in showing sympathy you are up above and the one you sympathize with is down on the ground, dust-laden. To keep company in sorrow is not very difficult. In truth, people keep company mostly in sorrow. To keep company in joy, in bliss—that is very difficult. Because the one you are to accompany stands above you; he hurts your ego. He is not an object of your pity; before him you will have to hold out your begging bowl. He will fill your bowl with flowers. He has. Joy is dancing in his heart, songs are bubbling up. He will shower nectar upon you. No—this is hard to bear.

Satsang! Those who have always known you to be sad—how can they suddenly see you in joyous intoxication? It is intolerable. It cannot be borne. So if your own turn into strangers, it is no surprise. Had they not turned away, that would be surprising. If friends become foes, that is straightforward arithmetic. If friends did not become foes, that would be a miracle. Those who stood by you in sorrow—how can they stand by you in ecstasy? They stood by precisely because you were unhappy. In your unhappiness they had a certain relish. Because you were down, they were up.

When I was a university teacher, a colleague wanted to marry a Parsi girl. He himself was a Brahmin. His family opposed it; society opposed it. But he was adamant. The Parsi woman was poor—not only poor, she was a widow. He said to me, “Who else will redeem this poor woman? To marry a widow is a religious deed. At least you stand by me.”

I said, “I too will not support you—but for a different reason. As far as I know you, you are not in love with this woman; you are in love with her poverty, her wretchedness, her widowhood—which is pathological. If you tell me, ‘I love this woman,’ I am with you. But you keep raising that she is poor, destitute, a widow. That is no language of love. It is your relish for her suffering. Suppose she were not poor, not destitute, not a widow—then? Would you still marry her?”

He hesitated. I said, “Your hesitation itself shows your ‘love’ is for her wretchedness. And love of wretchedness is ego-gratification. Inside, you feel a great ego—‘social worker,’ and so on—that you are going to marry a widow! That being a high Brahmin you are going to liberate a Parsi girl. You, a great redeemer, a messiah! This is not love; it is sympathy. And sympathy is not love.

“Remember, in sympathy there is no love. If there is another word for love, it is empathy. Not sympathy—empathy. In love there is empathic resonance: what the other feels, you feel. You fall into one wave-pattern. Your veena begins to sound with the other’s veena. A harmony arises. Your notes fall into the same rhythm. The sources of your life-juice mingle; a confluence is born.

“But sympathy? Sympathy is an insulting word.” I told him, “Let me warn you. Your parents have one set of reasons; I have another. Your parents fear you will marry a widow—it wounds their ego. Your ego is enjoying itself—‘See, I shall marry a widow!’ Their ego is hurt. But both speak the same language. Between your logic and your parents’ logic, there is no difference. They think: ‘Being such a high Brahmin, you will marry outside the caste? This is degeneration.’ Their nobility, their culture, the long saga of their lineage—you are staining it. And to marry a widow, which is forbidden by Hindu orthodoxy—so you wound their religion. They have prestige; they have worshippers; they are great pundits, priests, performers of grand rituals. People will point fingers, fling dust, and say, ‘Couldn’t stop their son from committing irreligion!’ Their ego is hurt. And your ego is tickled—‘Born into such a high family, yet out of mercy I extend my hand to a widow.’ Your language and theirs are one; the arithmetic, the argument are one. You are your father’s son, and your father is indeed your father—no difference between you. The same blood runs. I, however, say for another reason: do not marry. Because if you are marrying a widow—once married, she will no longer be a widow; then what will you do?”

He found my words incomprehensible. “You say the strangest things! I’ve spoken to so many; no one said this. Hundreds of professors—months we’ve discussed—everyone said, ‘Be brave. You are educated. Why fear? Take the risk!’ You say strange things.”

I said, “Then marry, and meet me a year later.”

Not even a year—three or four months later he met me. Eyes downcast, he said, “You were right. I married a widow; the moment I married her, she ceased to be a widow. I married a poor woman; marrying me, she is no longer poor. And my mind is not as delighted as I had imagined—it is crestfallen, sad.”

I said, “Now do one more thing: die, so she becomes a widow again. Then someone else can redeem her. Give someone else the opportunity. Why are you blocking the chance? And donate whatever money and possessions you have, so she becomes poor again—doubly widowed! Then some social worker, some do-gooder will arrive to rescue her.”

He said, “You say strange things!”

I said, “You said that before as well. And still I am speaking to you precisely.”

Friendship in this world is friendship of sorrow, the friendship of sympathy. Satsang! You suddenly filled with ecstasy—friends scattered. Of course they will scatter. You began to rise above them—your audacity! Your daring! You started plucking stars from the sky while they are still picking pebbles from the dust, crawling on the ground. They still creep along the earth and you begin to fly in the sky! This they cannot tolerate. They will declare your ecstasy to be madness. They must—for they too have to safeguard their egos. They will call your joy derangement, your celebration hypocrisy.

But know this: one who cannot stand with you in ecstasy—your friendship with him was sickly, not healthy. If it had been true friendship, he would have rejoiced on seeing you rejoice, embraced you to his chest.

And those of whom you say, “One’s own have become strangers…”
Who is truly “one’s own” here? It’s all bargaining, all bookkeeping. What you call so-called love is also barter and account. There too are give-and-take, exploitation—mutual exploitation. The wife exploits the husband; the husband exploits the wife. The husband says, “I want you to be happy, delighted.” But it isn’t true. If tomorrow the wife falls in love with someone else and is happy and delighted, then watch: the husband will load bullets into his gun, sharpen his knife. He will forget he had said, “If you are delighted, I will be delighted.” Now she is delighted—why add a condition that she must be delighted only with you? If there were true love, it would remain even now. But our love is not love; it is transaction. It is a contract—full of terms and conditions.

Those you thought your own—brothers, kinsmen—now will not stand with you. Their difficulty is natural; understand them too. If they stand with you, people will say to them, “What has happened to your brother?” They withdraw their support at least to save their own skin. They say, “We have renounced him; we have severed ties.” They have to preserve their social prestige. You staked your reputation; they must preserve theirs. If they stay with you, theirs will also be at stake. They don’t have such courage. Their bond with you did not extend that far. They had never imagined you would go so far.

But do not be perturbed. Companions in sorrow will leave; companions in joy will arrive. New friends will be born. This world of my sannyasins will give you new friends—healthy relationships. This is your new family. The small family is gone—let it go. Little courtyards have been left—let them be left. Now the whole sky is yours.

This sannyas—I am building a home for you. Otherwise, why the need for sannyas? Without taking sannyas you could have listened to me, meditated. I initiate into sannyas because I know: your homes will slip away, your families will crack; your wives will leave you, your husbands will abandon you; your children will renounce you. Then you will need a new home, a new society. Otherwise you will be utterly alone, shattered, scattered; you will not be able to withstand so much fire. Somewhere you will need shelter. These ochre-clad friends will be your friends. This family of ochre-clad seekers is your family.

It is good you awakened and saw: neither friends are friends nor one’s own are one’s own. All relationships are false. In this world there is only one true bond: the bond of meditation. All other bonds are false. Join with those who are meditative—and join for this reason only: that you too are walking the path of meditation, they too are walking the path; in the search for the Divine you have met upon the road and taken each other by the hand, “Since we journey in the same direction, we will walk together.” In this way have the sanghas of sannyasins always been formed upon this earth. Buddha’s great sangha was formed like this: people moving in one direction, seeking one truth, naturally formed a friendship. This friendship will endure. This is the friendship of joy, the friendship of divine intoxication.

And now do not cast this friendship into old molds. Do not burden it with expectations, for expectations create bondage. Let it remain pure friendship—without any expectation. No demands in it, not even hidden, suppressed longings. Pure friendship… By pure friendship I mean: “I am delighted, singing—will you come, will you sing with me?” Or “You are delighted and singing—shall I come and dance with you?” That’s all. Friendship that shares joy—no more demands, no expectations.

And tomorrow if a friend changes his path and sets out in another direction, there is no pain. The meeting was sweet; the parting too is sweet. When there is no expectation, separation does not hurt. When there is expectation, separation hurts. Trouble begins when we make vested interests out of relationships.

So it is good—the old house, old friends, family, loved ones—gone. Now a new family, new friends—and a new way and new style of making family and friendship. Do not, even by mistake, build family the old way; otherwise you will fall into the same net again. Do not make the old kind of friendships—do not weave relations of sympathy. To be anyone’s object of pity is unbecoming. If you can, share your joy; but do not make your sorrow a begging bowl. That is an insult to your soul. Do not make your inner God a beggar. Do not weep and whine. The Divinity seated within you is an emperor.

What has happened is precisely what had to happen.

Decide this, O stars—
who is made for whom!
Spring came, the world went mad,
the cuckoo called, the flowers bloomed,
and, far upon that blue horizon,
earth and sky embraced.
Yet the eternal blight of autumn
asked a little question,
this little question—
Decide this, O stars—
who is made for whom!
The monsoon came, clouds thundered,
rivers swelled, heat dissolved;
far on the rim of the horizon
stream and sea erased their divide.
Yet the eternal scorching sun
asked a little question,
this little question—
Decide this, O stars—
who is made for whom!
Creation arose, the Creator blushed—
“Is this what I’ve made?”
Man awoke, woman awoke,
the dense shade of love awoke.
Yet the eternal, scorching voice of life
posed this question,
this little question—
Did voice arise for the sake of man,
and silence for the sake of woman?
Decide this, O stars—
who is made for whom!

Your so-called bonds of love are not bonds of love; they are bonds of exploitation. The husband exploits the wife as a means—for the gratification of his lust. The wife exploits the husband, using him as a means. Human beings are turning one another into instruments. And whomever you make into a means, you have not respected him. Love is far away; even respect is absent. For each person is an end unto himself, never a means.

The famous German thinker Immanuel Kant has said: the fundamental rule of ethics is that every person is an end in himself, never merely a means. To make anyone a means—that alone is unethical. And this is what we all do. Within us a question keeps churning:
Decide this, O stars—
who is made for whom!
The wife believes the husband is made for the wife; whether she says it or not, that is her premise. And the husband believes the wife is made for the husband. For centuries, husbands have even proclaimed it: “I am the master; you are the slave.” Wives are clever. In letters and such they sign, “Your slave!” It is mere diplomacy. For look into any home and you will see who the slave is! The wife is so assured of her proprietorship that she doesn’t even need to declare it. “You keep believing yourself the master—what’s the harm?” She knows perfectly well who the mistress is.

That’s why in our language there is a word: gharwali—“the one who owns the house.” There is no gharwala, because we know whose the house really is—the wife’s. Husbands know very well their standing within the house. Between wife and husband there is a pact: outside the house, you remain the master; inside, I am.

Someone asked Mulla Nasruddin, “Do you ever quarrel with your wife?”
“Never!” he said. “I settled that the very first night. On the nuptial night I said, ‘Let us decide now itself—no fights, no hassles. The world quarrels—what’s the point?’ My wife said, ‘Fine.’”
“How did you decide?” the friend asked.
“My wife said, ‘You decide all the big issues; I will decide the small ones.’ And from that day there has been no quarrel,” said the Mulla. “No issue has arisen.”
The friend didn’t believe it—what man would? “Tell me in detail. What are the ‘big issues’?”
“The existence of God or not, whether ghosts exist or not, how many hells and how many heavens—those big questions I decide. And the small questions—what sari to buy, which school to send the child to, which movie to watch, which hotel to dine at, what jewelry to buy—these little matters my wife decides. How to spend the salary, which car to buy—these small matters my wife decides. Big issues—I decide.”

Wives are adept. They have taken the small things into their hands; they have taken the rule of the home. It’s a compromise. Yet each in the heart thinks, “I am the owner.”

The feeling of ownership is the feeling of hatred, not of love. And the little first thrill and shimmer of joy that has arisen in your life—many will be envious of it. Many will be jealous. Do not be disturbed by their jealousy; it too is natural. They too have wished they could live intoxicated, singing and dancing—but it did not happen. Their chains are heavy; they lack the courage to break them. Shackles bind their hands; they do not have the audacity to slip them off and run. Your courage seems to them recklessness. They will take revenge.

In this sorrowing world, where everyone is miserable, whenever someone becomes happy, people will take revenge upon him. If you want sympathy and many friends, then remain miserable. You will have many friends, much sympathy; everyone will pat your back, wipe your tears—but you will have to weep. The more you weep, the more companions you will have. You are laughing while people here are crying; how can the weeping accompany your laughter? No—it cannot be.

But why worry? Why make even this a problem? Do not entangle yourself in such questions. A small ray has entered your life; you have to move further in search of that ray. A slight glimpse of love has descended—turn it into prayer, carry it to God.

The moon is weary,
the sky is clouded over;
the forest is wild—
who knows how far it spreads?
Darkness,
dense darkness.
Ah, but look—on that leaf
a firefly has flickered!

For now only a firefly has flickered, and the night is very long; the darkness is vast, spread across the far sky. But if even a small lamp has been lit, your path of pilgrimage can now be illumined. If there is light—and if even the trust has arisen that there is light—then the sources of light can be sought.

What I have told you, I have told knowingly. I say to all: Wake up! Morning is near; stretch out your hands and catch it!

But remember: if you catch the morning, the companions of the night will slip away. Your companionship with them was of the night. They cannot be companions of the dawn. Those who have found the morning will be your companions in the morning. You will have to change your company. When you wandered through dark alleys, your friends were those who wandered there too. You have come onto luminous, bright pathways—you must change your friendships. If you insist that the companions of dark alleys remain your companions here—how is that possible? There are only two ways: either they abandon their dark alleys and come to the paths of light—and in those dark alleys they have many vested interests; they have invested their whole lives there. How can they leave so easily? You too did not leave easily.

There are sadhakas who have known me for at least ten years, and only now—four or six months ago—took sannyas. It took you this long, though I kept calling and calling. And your old friends don’t come here at all; they are even afraid to come. Your sannyas has created a hindrance. Your sannyas now stands before them as a big question mark. Your friends will fear: “Maintain distance, lest this ochre color stain us!” Their wives will warn them: “Keep away from this gentleman! Stop this association! Being with him is dangerous—this color may catch on!”

And as sickness spreads, so does health. Health too is infectious—intensely so. Everything catches on. If misery can seize people, so can joy.

But don’t be afraid. Life is small—a handful of days. Sing your song—whatever the outcome, whatever the price.

Lost is the atmosphere of life in a rapture,
silence bows in devout prostration,
innocence of beauty lies in a coy dream.
O you, storm of color and fragrance!
O you, unveiled in the spring!
Life is in your hands.
Flowers do not live for hundreds of years—
two moments more, and youth’s spring is gone.
Come, let us say and hear a little,
come, let us sing the songs of love.
Let evening fall upon my loneliness,
let the longing to behold remain unfinished.
In the heart beats the call of life,
the eyes scatter pearls.
On the sky the stars are sad,
the moonlight waits in longing.
Come, let us love a little,
let us embroider life with hues.
Come, let us say and hear a little,
come, let us sing the songs of love.

Life is but a moment—here now, gone the next. Why worry about house and family? Why worry about friends and dear ones? Worry about only one thing: that you will go having sung your song, that you will go having danced your dance, that you will have scattered your fragrance; that at the moment of death you will not feel guilty that you did not live life in your own way. That alone is attainment: at death, the joy that you lived as you were meant to live, did what you were meant to do; you did not bow, you did not compromise. You remained in your own joy, in your own intoxication. Difficulties came—of course they did—but all difficulties are challenges, and every challenge polishes the soul.

Dinesh! So it is. For drinkers, the tavern is the Kaaba. So it is that for disciples, a single circumambulation of the Master completes the Hajj.

But becoming a real drinker is not easy. Drinking is risky. To drink outer wine is not so risky; to drink the inner wine is very risky. The outer wine makes you unconscious for an hour or two, then consciousness returns. But once the inner wine makes you unconscious, consciousness never returns in the old sense. If even a single gulp goes down your throat, you are a different person forever; you are reborn. The world remains the same, but you are no longer the same. Naturally, obstacles arise everywhere.

You saw it—just now you saw the obstacle called “satsang”! This is what comes of being a drinker! You are right to say—
“For the rinds the tavern is equal to the Kaaba…”
If one is a drinker, wherever he sits and drinks, there is the Kaaba. Wherever a drinker’s feet fall, a place of pilgrimage is created. Otherwise how would pilgrimages be made?

How did the Kaaba come to be? It is the remembrance of some drinker—of some Mohammed.
How did Girnar and Shikharji arise? They are the memories of certain drinkers—some Mahaviras, some Parshvanaths.
How did Bodh Gaya or Jerusalem come into being? Centuries have passed, yet the remembrance of those who drank the inner wine there does not fade. Even today, a fragrance lingers. Even today, one who goes there begins to be immersed in an atmosphere of ecstasy. The memory, the imprint, the aura of the drinkers still encircles those places. The grace they poured out has turned even that soil to gold. That is how sacred places are born.

But very few know how to drink. Some, by mistake, drink only the outer wine and imagine they have arrived, are perfected. They miss. And some, fearful of the danger and dizziness of drinking, won’t touch even the outer wine—and in rejecting it, they forget the very art of drinking, the knack of it, and so are deprived of the inner wine. Both miss. Do not drink the outer wine; but do drink the inner wine—only then does someone arrive.

The single-pointedness of the heart had unveiled You;
then, for free, the step of clever seeing intruded.
Absorption had lifted Your veil, removed Your veil—
but just then cleverness intruded, prudence came in between.
And the one who attains erudition, the so‑called knowledge, misses. The outer drinkers miss because they think this is the only wine in the world. That wine is not real—only a counterfeit. What is pressed from grapes is mere illusion; what is distilled in souls is the real thing. In the true taverns the wine of the soul is pressed and poured.

Some cannot wait, because the inner wine comes only through long practice; it comes through samadhi. It is a long, arduous journey. That inner wine has to be pressed from one’s very life-breath.

From where shall I bring, O cupbearer, the patience of Lord Job?
First the cask must come, then the decanter, only then the cup!
From where shall I bring such patience?
There was a prophet famed for patience: the patience of Hazrat Ayyub. Where can I find such capacity to wait?
First the cask must come, then the decanter, only then the cup!
It is taking so long. The impatient will drink the outer wine—because it is easily obtained. But only great patience opens the gate of the inner tavern. There you keep knocking, keep striking your head. One day the door surely opens—but it opens when your whole being calls.

So some cannot wait and get entangled in outer trivialities. Some do see the outer futility and become very clever—and then that very cleverness becomes a barrier to the inner journey.

O moralist, do not complain against love at the lover’s lips!
You poor innocent, you don’t even know how to talk!
Having reached the tavern, you should have drunk—
you ascetic, you don’t even know the manner of good company!
Here too come the scholar types, the scriptural types—who have lived only in words. They come and still leave without drinking.

O moralist, do not abuse love before the lover!
Be silent there. What do you know of love? Only the lover knows.
However learned you may be, however burdened with scripture,
you have not yet learned even the way to speak.
Having come to the tavern, you should have drunk—
you ascetic, you don’t even know how to keep company!
The pundits fall into debate. They cannot do satsang—company with Truth; they cannot enter into communion; they can only argue. Satsang is the distilled essence of communion. Satsang, sohbat, is the art of sitting silently near a true Master, the art of sitting in silence, in thoughtlessness. And if someone simply sits thoughtlessly and silent with a true Master, the wine begins to flow. It is flowing. But your walls of thought, your nets of logic, your doctrines and scriptures raise great obstacles; they do not let the wine reach you.

The cupbearers are bewildered; the drinkers have not learned the art of drinking.
Those who pour have always been astonished. Buddha poured, Krishna poured. And the drinkers do not drink. Look at Arjuna. Krishna was pouring and Arjuna did not drink. That is why the Gita went on so long. Otherwise, a single look into Krishna’s eyes and the wine would have poured—matter finished. Conversation without words would have happened. But no—questions were raised, doubts were posed. He sat with someone like Krishna and still chattered on.

Even then I doubt whether in the end he truly understood. At the end Arjuna says, “All my doubts are dispelled.” But who knows—perhaps, simply exhausted, he said, “Master, you never tire; now please stop chewing on my skull—my doubts are dispelled.” Who knows! It is very possible he got bored—“This man will never let me go; he will make me fight anyway. So fine, sir, let what must happen happen. Better to enter the battle than to keep talking to you.”

Such must have been his state. He said, “All my doubts have fallen.” All at once they fell? They did not fall for so long and then suddenly fell? There was not even any sign that they were about to fall. Krishna had said nothing new—he had been saying the same thing again and again, from every side, the same thing.

The Gita repeats one point only: drop hankering for the fruits! Drop the hankering for results! Surrender! What else is there? The entire Gita fits into one small word: surrender. “Abandon all religions and come to my refuge alone.” Come into my refuge. Drop everything. How many times did he say it; it did not sink in. Then suddenly—he agrees.

Most likely, Arjuna was tired. He did not awaken; he was fatigued. He said, “There’s no point in further wrangling.” And a crowd must have gathered. It was the hour of war. People stood all around. A crowd would have gathered. He must have felt embarrassed within: “How long will I keep asking questions! What will they say—what a blockhead!” And it was getting late—such a long Gita, think of it! Eighteen divisions of armies stood ready. Bands were played, conches blown. Warriors eager to kill and be killed; in that intoxication they would have nocked their arrows, drawn their swords. And it kept dragging on. The drums were thundering, the wrestlers ready. And Arjuna kept asking idle questions. A buzz would have run through the crowd: “Enough! We never knew him to be such a fool!” Seeing things deteriorate, he must have thought, “Better to fight than to keep talking.” Most likely, in sheer exhaustion he said, “All my delusions have fallen.”

Why do I say so? Because history does not say that Arjuna ever became an enlightened one. Had all his doubts dissolved, Arjuna would be counted among the avatars, the awakened. He is not. In fact, on their final journey toward heaven, as the Pandavas set out, the brothers fell away one by one—Arjuna too. When Yudhishthira reached the gate of liberation, only his dog remained with him; no one else. All the rest perished on the way; none reached liberation. If Arjuna’s doubts had truly fallen, then why the epic tale that all fell away on the path, and only Yudhishthira—and his dog—arrived at the gate?

Perhaps only the dog was utterly, doubtlessly faithful—whose devotion had no doubt in it. And because of that, Yudhishthira refused to enter liberation unless his dog entered first. “First my dog enters, then I will,” he said. One whose devotion kept pace with me when all my brothers fell away, my wife failed, companions failed, none reached so far—only my dog came with me! His faith must have been without doubt. One could even say that that dog attained Buddhahood. Arjuna did not.

Even with a person like Krishna beside you, how rarely does satsang happen!

The cupbearers are smiling, bewildered; the drinkers have not learned the art of drinking.
The pourers kept coming—prophets, tirthankaras, messiahs—pourers kept coming. And you sit and won’t drink.

The elder of the tavern himself came with the goblet in his hand.
O wine‑bibbers, shame—that even then you did not drink!
God Himself has oft come holding the decanter.

The elder of the tavern himself came with the goblet in his hand.
O wine‑bibbers, shame—that even then you did not drink!
What kind of drinkers are you? Even when God stands before you, you hesitate to drink. You raise a thousand arguments against drinking. You weave great nets of doubt. You spin large theories so you need not drink.

To be a drinker, Dinesh, is not easy. True it is—
“For the rinds the tavern is equal to the Kaaba…”
—but there must be rinds. If you are a drinker, the tavern is indeed the Kaaba. What then is the Kaaba? But there must be drinkers. And—
“Every round through the murshid’s lane equals a Hajj…”
True! But where are the disciples? Search a lot and you will find students.

A student is one eager to collect information. A disciple is one aflame to become a flame of knowing. One who wants to know about God is a student; one who wants to know God is a disciple. To know about God is easy; to know God is hard. To know God, one has to lose oneself, to be spent. And the one who loses himself—people call him mad. The clever stop at being students. Only the crazy go to know God. For to know God truly is to become God. The drop will know the ocean only when it falls into the ocean and becomes the ocean.

When the clever speak the tale of You,
Your mad lovers listen—and laugh.
The learned speak of God; the God‑intoxicated, the knowers, laugh. The swans laugh when they hear the pundits.

When the clever speak the tale of You—
for they don’t know Your story at all, and yet they go on speaking. How many tell the tale of Rama; who knows Rama? And without knowing Rama, however skillfully you speak, however well‑knit your arguments, if you tell Rama’s story without knowing Rama, the mad lovers will laugh.

And there is a secret to their laughter. They laugh because you speak of One you do not know—of whom you have no news, not even a reflected image in your dreams!

Leave others aside: just recently Morarji Desai gave discourses on the Ramayana in Ahmedabad—while in Aligarh, Muslims were being burned and killed, at the very same time! And Morarji Desai went on with the Ramayana in Ahmedabad. Well done indeed! And what has Morarji Desai to do with the Ramayana?

But a politician arranges for everything! If the Hindus are pleased by it—then Ramayana; if it brings votes—Ramayana. If Muslim votes are needed—“Allah-Ishwar tere naam, sabko sanmati de Bhagwan.” And sanmati—“right sense”—means: give me your vote. If you give it to another, that is not “right sense.”

Such things make those who have tasted a little of the Divine break into laughter. Morarji Desai discoursing on the Ramayana—will no paramahansa laugh seeing this? A great joke! The blind giving sermons on light. The deaf critiquing classical music. Those who have never known love writing love poems and epics. Their words will be worthless, not worth a penny. But their words pass—because the rest are blind too. Among the blind, the blind prevail.

In truth, among the blind the one‑eyed hardly prevails. What the seeing say—the blind cannot agree. When a blind man speaks, the blind agree, because their experience is the same. There is a fit. A deep rapport arises among the blind.

Politics is the blind leading the blind; religion is the seeing leading the blind. But every religious person runs into obstacles, because the blind get offended. Their notions are shattered, their beliefs shaken. And their ego is hurt by the knowledge that they are blind.

And the crowd is blind: if truth is to be decided democratically, then whatever the blind say is true. The seeing are few and far between. To become seeing you must be a drinker, a disciple; only then do the eyes open.

The ocean is ours, the goblet is ours;
Paradise is ours, repentance is ours.
We will roam with our beggar’s bowl at the Giver’s door—
one day He will fill our bowl!
Some stake a claim to the wine, some to the cask;
as for us—our claim is on the cupbearer.
The true drinker says: we lay no claim to the wine, nor the decanter, nor the cup. We do not fuss over such little things. We have laid claim to the cupbearer, to the Master. Having Him, we have all.

Some stake a claim to the wine, some to the cask;
as for us—our claim is on the cupbearer.
The devotee lays claim to God. He is the claimant to God. And because all is His, the one who has held God’s hand is sovereign of the whole universe. Then the winds move at his gesture, the flowers bloom at his sign.

See the effect of merely muttering “Ya Saqi” in a stagger—
the angels run and take hold of my arm!
Whenever he says, “O Master! O Cupbearer!”—whenever he remembers the Divine—

See the effect of merely muttering “Ya Saqi” in a stagger—
sometimes he totters, sometimes his steps wobble—and they will wobble. For he who drinks, wobbles.

See the effect of merely muttering “Ya Saqi” in a stagger—
the angels run and take hold of my arm!
Then the entire existence supports him. Angels run to hold his arms. The drinker does not fall. I speak of the inner wine. Do not mistake me to be speaking of the outer. The drinkers may stagger, but they do not fall. Their staggering too is a kind of dance, a festival of joy.

Dinesh, it is just as you say—
“For the rinds the tavern is equal to the Kaaba;
every round through the murshid’s lane equals a Hajj.”

Taru! Before we search for the Divine, the Divine is searching for us. Before we call to him, he has already called us—has been calling from eternity!
The truth is—so say the knowers—that whenever someone sets out to seek God, it only means that God has already found that person. Whenever one goes in search of him, it means that somewhere deep within he has already placed his hand upon that person’s heart.
Our search is small. How can our little search attain the Infinite? And our search is blind, born of ignorance. How can a search born of ignorance culminate in knowledge? The search of a blind man can end by falling into a pit, into a ravine; how could it end at the destination?
Surely, those who reach, reach only with his support. When he carries us, we arrive. When he steadies us, we are steady. This is the fundamental conviction, the cornerstone, of the path of devotion: that by our doing, nothing will happen. When he does, it happens. This does not mean we should become lazy and slack, sit idle and do nothing. No—whatever we can do, we must do. But also remember: our effort is just that—ours, and small. At most, our effort can help us recognize the hand he has extended, the hand that is touching our heart.
A little child cries for his mother. There is no strict cause-and-effect necessity by which the mother must come because the child cries. Yet when the child cries, it becomes easy for the mother to come. If the child were to think, “There’s no causal compulsion that my crying brings her, so why cry? I’ll just lie quiet,” then perhaps the mother would never have the chance to run to him. The child should cry, and he should also know that his crying does not make her coming inevitable. When water is heated to a hundred degrees it becomes steam—if it always did so, that would be cause and effect. But if sometimes it happens and sometimes it doesn’t, then it’s clear there is no such necessity.
You weep, and God comes—but there is no compulsion. If there is no heart in your crying, no uncontrived love, no total surrender—then your weeping is only on the surface. That sound does not reach into the distant sky. That weeping is so shallow it doesn’t even reach your own inner core. But if you weep with your whole being, one thing begins to be understood: I started to weep, yet his hand had already arrived.

Perhaps someone is stealing your love—
becoming joy itself, he spreads over the soul of the sorrowing,
as the spirit of ecstasy, he enters grief,
smiling in the tears, singing within the sighs—
perhaps someone is stealing your love.

A realm without direction or dimension—and here am I;
a shiver, a vague and misted atmosphere—and here am I;
as though, without having forgotten, something is being remembered—
perhaps someone is stealing your love.

At night, hiding from my eyes in the guise of sleep,
entering my heart by the thoroughfare of the eyes,
lulling me to slumber, he comes into my dreams—
perhaps someone is stealing your love.

As a friend passes by, crazed like a lover,
and someone, helplessly, calls after him—
so near to me, and yet passing by this way—
perhaps someone is stealing your love.

Going to the firmament, he has plucked the instrument of the full moon,
bewitching, singing to the rhythm of its rays,
he plays a song that is voiceless and soundless—
perhaps someone is stealing your love.

Taru! Someone has come to steal the heart! That is why we have given God one particular name: Hari. Hari means the one who steals the heart, who carries it away. Hari means thief. In no other language has such an endearing word been given to God. Lofty words have been given—Rama, Rahim, Rahman, Allah, Jehovah—all grand names. One means the Great Compassionate. Another, the Great Giver. Another, the Great Creator. But the word we have given has no equal! There is no word in the world like Hari. Hari means the thief—the one who simply steals you away. You may keep guarding and guarding your life, yet one day he will steal it away.

Perhaps someone is stealing your love.

And when Hari comes to steal, do not obstruct him. This is all a devotee has to do: do not put up barriers. Leave the doors and windows open. When the thief comes, treat him as a guest; welcome him, deck the threshold. When the thief comes, lay your heart yourself at his feet. Such is the art of the devotee.

He has plucked the instrument of the full moon, going up to the sky—
whose song is this that resounds among the moon and stars? Who plays this flute in the heavens? Who has set the sitar vibrating?

He has plucked the instrument of the full moon, going up to the sky—
within the full moon, whose veena is it that is singing?

He has plucked the instrument of the full moon, going up to the sky,
bewitching, singing to the rhythm of the rays—
each single ray is the voice of his flute.

Voiceless and soundless—
a sound without sound, the unstruck. No clamor, only emptiness. Music of the void!

He plays a song that is voiceless and soundless—
perhaps someone is stealing your love.

Becoming joy itself, he spreads over the soul of the sorrowing;
as the spirit of ecstasy, he enters grief;
smiling in the tears, singing within the sighs—
perhaps someone is stealing your love.

Taru! Let yourself be stolen. Do not place obstacles, do not resist. He is no thief—he is the Friend. It is no theft, because in this “theft” only your bonds and your chains will be taken. In this “theft” your prison will be broken. In this “theft,” captivity ends—freedom is attained.

Guna! Whoever lets go is the one who is astonished. For what cannot be achieved by doing happens through dropping. What does not happen by our own effort—when, tired and helpless, we fall at His feet—happens that very instant.

There are things that happen by doing—but they are all small. Our doing itself is small. How big are these hands? Yes, you can hold some sand in them, you can lift pebbles and stones—but not the moon and stars. How much power does the hand have? You cannot ladle the ocean with these palms. And God is an ocean—immense, vast. That is why we called Him Brahman. Brahman means: that which goes on expanding.

You will be surprised to know: modern physics has only recently discovered this—that the universe is expanding day by day. This cosmos is expanding; it is not static—it is spreading, and at a great speed! It keeps on expanding. These moons and stars are going farther from you every day—at tremendous velocity. Existence is expanding at the speed of light.

The speed of light is immense—one hundred and eighty-six thousand miles in one second. The star you see at night is moving away from you at one hundred and eighty-six thousand miles a second. Because of that extreme speed you sense a shimmer. Stars appear to twinkle because they are fleeing so fast... they never stand still. If they were still, there would be no twinkling. The whole of existence is spreading.

Physicists have discovered this just now. But in this land, for nearly ten thousand years we have named the Divine—Brahman. If you translate Brahman precisely into English, it would be “expansion”—that which keeps expanding. From Brahman come words like vistar (expansion), vistīrṇa (vast), vrihat (immense). That which is ever becoming greater—that is Brahman.

We call this world Brahmanda—the manifest form of That. How will we fit this vastness into the little fists of a human being? It is found by opening the fist, not by clenching it. And opening the fist means surrender.

You are right, Guna—
“Lord, Your Name—
whoever meditates upon it, gains all;
Your Name brings joy!
Since I left everything to Your will,
whatever has been happening has left Guna wonder-struck, awe-dazed.”

Whoever leaves it to His will will be wonder-struck. One house is given up, and all houses become one’s own. One courtyard is let go, and all skies become one’s own. One drop is released, and all oceans become one’s own. And the greatest wonder that happens is this: the past is lost, the future is lost, and one becomes steady in the present.

Why are we so anxious about the future? Because we have put it upon our heads: this to do, that to do; to do it this way; will it happen or not? A thousand worries and anxieties besiege the mind—will I succeed or not? Will my ambitions be fulfilled or not? The likelihood seems slight, because no one’s ever were. You cannot be the exception. So fear arises; the legs tremble, the very life-trembles. Within, one remains frightened. One makes all kinds of plans, weaves all sorts of webs, hunts for ideas—and yet is defeated, yet breaks down!

Worry means: will the future turn out according to me or not? And worry also means: if only the past had not been as it was! People worry about the past too: “What I did yesterday—if only I had not done that.”

This is the limit of foolishness! What is done is done; it cannot be undone now. There is no way. Yet people sit beating their heads—“If only I hadn’t said that! If only I hadn’t done that!” People repent greatly. And you even call these repenters religious. Religious—and repentance! Then religion would be just another name for stupidity. The religious do not repent. Repentance means: what I did—I should not have; it should not have been so, it should have been otherwise. But what has happened has happened; nothing else can now be.

A religious person drops the past the way a snake sheds its skin—without even looking back. Repentance is not religious; it is a disturbance of the mind. Repentance is the mind’s disturbance turned backward; worry is the mind’s disturbance turned toward the future. And what happens to one who has left everything to God? He says: as God made it happen, so it happened. And as God will make it happen tomorrow, so it will be. Why should I interfere? One who has left all to God—his worry is gone, his repentance is gone. Where there is no worry and no repentance, there is no past and no future; time disappears there. And the disappearance of time is the attainment of the Eternal. When time becomes zero, it is entry into the Timeless. The door to that entry is the present moment. Where there is no past and no future, the present moment opens its door.

You are never in the present. Only the devotee can be in the present. For the devotee has no worry. If He kills, we will die. If He keeps us alive, we will live. To die by His hand is joy, and to live by His hand is joy. The hand is His! Who cares for living and dying? If He cuts this neck, He will cut it. If He is the one who cuts—then it is sheer delight. And if yesterday He made something go “wrong,” that was His play; there must have been some purpose. And if He made it go “right,” that too was His play; there must have been some purpose.

The devotee takes neither the ego of doing right nor the guilt of doing wrong. The state of devotion is wondrous. No ego of doing right—“I did this, I did that; I gave so much in charity, earned such merit, kept so many fasts and vows.” The devotee does none of this. The devotee says: I am not the doer. There is only One Doer. Whatever He made happen, happened. If He made me fast, I fasted; if He made me keep vows, I kept them. Who am I? For the devotee there is neither virtue nor sin.

There is a unique story. Every morning many people would come to Kabir’s hut for bhajan and kirtan. When they were about to leave, Kabir would say, “Brother, where are you going? At least stay for a meal!” That crowd would eat every day. Kabir was a poor weaver, somehow making and selling cloth. How to feed so many, every day? His wife was troubled; his son was troubled. At last the son said one day, “Enough now. Put a stop to this. From where will we bring the food? Now even in the village no one is willing to lend to us.” In anger the son said, “Shall we start stealing then?”

Kabir was overjoyed. He said, “Ah, foolish boy, why didn’t you say so earlier? You’ve been suffering all this time—why didn’t you say it before?”

Kamal—Kabir’s son—was amazed. He was stunned: What is he saying! “Did you even understand me?” he said. “I’m saying—shall we become thieves?”

Kabir said, “Then that’s what you should have thought of first! Son, why were you borrowing all this while, when this trick too exists!”

Kamal was indeed Kabir’s son. “All right then,” he said, “fine. You think I’m joking? You’re joking? Tonight itself!” He was stubborn. At night, when he was about to go, he said to Kabir, “You come too... I’m going to steal... you come as well. For alone how much can I carry? We’ll break into the grocer’s shop, drag out a sack of wheat. Then feed people as long as you want. Later, when another chance arises, we’ll see.”

He thought Kabir would now change his tune and say, “I was only joking.” But Kabir stood up: “Let’s go!”—as if going to temple for worship. “Come!”

Now even Kamal’s legs began to wobble. Yet he said to himself, the argument must be pursued to the end; we must find out exactly how far this can go. He began to break in, and Kabir stood watching—even then he did not stop him. Kamal had thought, “When I start breaking in, he’ll say, ‘Hey, fool! Don’t you even understand a joke?’” The hole was made. The son thought, “Perhaps now he’ll speak—now.” But Kabir remained silent. The son crouched by the breach. Kabir said, “What are you doing now? Why don’t you go inside?”

The son slapped his own forehead—“This is too much! He seems bent on making me steal. What kind of talk is this!”

It is a most unusual incident in Kabir’s life. The son went inside—after all, he was Kabir’s son; he said, “I too won’t be the one to lose; I’ll carry this to the end—but a decision must be reached.” He somehow dragged and tugged a sack out. He thought, “Perhaps now he’ll say, ‘Enough, that’s it—come home, leave the sack there.’” Kabir did say something, and the son thought, “Now perhaps he’s saying it.” But Kabir said, “Go and wake the householders—tell them there’s been a theft, someone is taking away your sack. At least that much duty is ours—to wake the people in the house. After that, it’s His will; whatever happens, happens.”

The son said, “What a theft this is! Why didn’t you say earlier we’d have to wake the householders?”

“At least that much we must do. The people are asleep—they don’t even know what’s happening, what God is making us do! We can at least wake them. After that—His will.”

Such is the devotee’s state: His will. The devotee abides in the pure present; for him there is neither sin nor virtue. This is a very high thing—beyond all dualities. In this state the present moment is everything—there is no repentance and no pride in merit.

Autumn moonlight
pours down—
cup your palms and drink.
The stars doze,
the lake shivers.
O Beloved, gazing at the water-lily,
unblinking—
in this instant
you too, live.

See—moon and stars are alive right now. Flowers are blooming right now. Rivers are flowing right now. The ocean is swelling with waves right now. The winds are passing through the trees right now. The trees are green right now. The trees have no memory of yesterday, no worry for the morrow. Nor do the moon and stars know of yesterday, nor of the coming day. You too can live like this. And living like this is what we call religion, meditation.

Autumn moonlight
pours down—
cup your palms and drink.
The stars doze,
the lake shivers.
O Beloved, gazing at the water-lily,
unblinking—
in this instant
you too, live.

The dew is watering
our songs.
In the dense mist
familiar faces
blink in and out.
On the poles the lamps
stand upright—
as if Time itself
has halted,
moments
pausing, passing.
A yearning rises,
the heart swells—
the unsaid,
languid,
a sweet longing
awakened.
Stand close,
take my hand,
O guest who delights the heart—
Beloved, stay near,
and, filling your cupped hands,
drink—
for down it pours,
autumn moonlight,
my
inner throb.
You too—moment to moment—live!
O Beloved, gazing at the water-lily,
unblinking—
in this instant
you too, live.

Surrender brings you into the moment. Worry goes, memory goes, imagination goes. Suddenly you find yourself—here and now. And here and now is God! Here and now is existence! In that very instant, the leap happens. The ego is nowhere to be found.

The ego lives in the past and the future; in the present it dies. The present is the death of ego. And where the ego is not, what-is—Is. Then the heart is amazed—wonder-dazed, speechless! The eyes can’t believe what they see; the ears can’t believe what they hear—for the ears hear sounds that are not sounds, and the eyes behold a form that cannot be contained in form. And the heart recognizes that Guest—that Beloved Visitor—who was always and always present. Who knows how we kept our backs turned to Him! Who knows how we remained blind—or kept our eyes closed! Who knows how deep a sleep we slept!

This is important. It isn’t new; it’s very old—ancient. This question has been asked forever.

In the West, a modern philosopher, Ludwig Wittgenstein, raised it again in this century with great depth—saying that whatever can be experienced can certainly be said, and whatever cannot be said must not have been experienced at all. But Wittgenstein is not right. There are experiences that certainly happen, yet they cannot be said. Perhaps Wittgenstein never loved anyone. Philosophers and logicians don’t usually get into such entanglements. If he had ever loved someone, he would have known.

Even in ordinary life, fall in love with a woman or a man and you’ll find it hard to tell even them. What is love—who has ever truly said? Prayer is farther still. God is farther and farther still. But even love—who is able to say it? The beauty of the woman whose beauty has enchanted you—where can you bind it in words? A woman’s—who is as transitory as you are; who is here now and will not be tomorrow; whose youth, so wild and deep today, will take its leave tomorrow; a bubble of water; a ray of the sun gleaming on a water bubble; the ray on the bubble making a tiny rainbow—yet even a woman’s beauty cannot be bound in words! Nor a man’s beauty.

Leave aside man and woman—for they are still the final step of evolution. The beauty of a flower—where can it be bound in words? Who has ever said it? The great poet Tennyson said: If I could fully say a single flower, then in saying that flower I would have made a statement about the whole of existence. If I could say a flower completely—with all its fragrance, its color, its sap, its beauty... But where are we able to say it?

Then let the flower go too; it is mysterious. Someone places a sugar drop in your mouth. How do you say its sweetness? The experience happens. And don’t think that by saying “sweet, sweet” you have said it. To say means that one who has never known sweetness should be able to understand—only then has it been said. If Buddha tells Kabir and Kabir understands, that is no saying. If Kabir tells Dadu and Dadu understands, that is no saying. If the seeing speak of light to the seeing, that is no saying. The joy of saying is when one with eyes speaks and the blind understands.

What does definition mean?
Definition means: the one who has known speaks, and the one who has not known understands—then it is a definition. You think you understand when someone says “sweet.” But how did you understand? From the word? Did the word “sweet” give you any sweetness? No; you too have eaten sugar drops. You too have tasted their flavor. So you know what the word “sweet” points to. The meaning is not in the word; it is in your experience. That is why the word “sweet” seems meaningful. But say it to someone who has never known sweetness.

Imagine a small child is born, and right then we destroy, with an electric shock, the taste-bud fibers on his tongue that register sweetness. This is easy; there’s no real difficulty. The whole tongue does not experience every taste. One part of the tongue senses bitterness; another senses sweetness; another sourness. The entire tongue does not sense all tastes.

So notice this: when you take a bitter medicine or swallow a bitter pill, whether you’re aware of it or not, people invariably place the pill in the middle of the tongue. Next time, pay attention. You’ve been doing it unconsciously: you put it in the middle because the middle does not sense bitterness. Then you gulp water quickly, because if the pill touches the very back of the tongue, bitterness is sensed—there the bitter fibers are.

These fibers are very subtle, delicate. They die easily—even a fever kills them; no electric shock needed! After eight or ten days of fever, taste disappears because those fibers are fragile.

We could conduct this experiment with a child: the child is born and we remove all the fibers that sense sweetness—plastic surgery, excise them, peel the tongue. Then tell him, “The sugar drop is sweet.” He will say, “Say something more; this doesn’t help. What do you mean by sweet? What does ‘sweet’ mean?”

You too would be baffled: what is there to explain about “sweet”? “Sweet is sweet!” He will say, “That solves nothing—that’s mere repetition. ‘Sweet is sweet’—what did that clarify? Please explain.”

How will you explain?

No; there are experiences, and yet they cannot be defined. And those experiences that can be defined only mean this much: they are common experiences—everyone shares them. But the experience of the divine is supremely uncommon. It happens, once in a great while, to a rare individual. Understand the plight of that rare one. He has known—now how to tell you? Like a mute tasting sweetness! Such a person becomes utterly mute. And it’s not that he does not speak.

Buddha spoke for forty-two years, yet not a single word about God. He did not say it. He kept avoiding the topic of God. You ask about God, he answers something else. You ask about God, he says—meditate. Now is that an answer? You ask about the earth and he speaks of the sky—is that an answer?

But what can Buddha do? That is all he can say. You ask, “What is the sugar drop like?” Buddha says, “Eat it.” Meditation means: eat the sugar drop. Taste it. Only by tasting will the flavor be known. Even in the ordinary experiences of life… someone’s beauty cannot be revealed. If you have loved, you will have had a small taste—of the unsayable.

How colorful the atmosphere, how lovely the world,
How intoxicated the zeal for adorning gardens today;
This assembly of the cosmos arranged with such finesse—
You too have descended today from the walls of Ajanta.

When someone falls in love, they feel:

How colorful the atmosphere, how lovely the world,
How intoxicated the zeal for adorning gardens today.

This very garden—you passed through it every day; and today, when your eyes are filled with love, you feel: What a festival is happening in the trees today! This very ambiance was always here, but today a current of sweetness begins to flow within it. This very world—and today it suddenly becomes so beautiful—as if it never was.

How colorful the atmosphere, how lovely the world,
How intoxicated the zeal for adorning gardens today;
This assembly of the cosmos arranged with such finesse—
You too have descended today from the walls of Ajanta.

And whenever you love a woman, she will not seem ordinary to you. The whole world may think her ordinary, but to you it will seem as though an apsara painted on the walls of Ajanta has stepped down. The world will call you mad. The world will say, “She’s ordinary—we know her well.” But for you, something extraordinary appears in the ordinary today. Your eye of love has opened. Today the ordinary is no longer ordinary—it has become extraordinary. Yes, you may marry her and live together awhile, and then the ordinary will become ordinary again—because you do not have the capacity to keep the eye of love open forever; it usually closes by the end of the wedding night.

But when your eye of love has opened even a little, and someone asks you then: describe it, analyze it, explain it—you will become utterly mute. Words will fail you.

How colorful the atmosphere, how lovely the world,
How intoxicated the zeal for adorning gardens today;
This assembly of the cosmos arranged with such finesse—
You too have descended today from the walls of Ajanta.

This hour of radiance, this empty-handedness of longing—
I can neither steal my eyes away nor meet your gaze.
Love, gift, fidelity, offering, affection, present—
This wealth alone can I scatter at your feet.

For so long in imagination this delicate form trembled,
For so long in dreams your youth was restless;
You are becoming the title of my tale,
As my story pours, molded, into reality.

Through many stages has the play of creation emerged;
Ceaseless striving has given you these lines and features.
Life walked on thorns, on embers—
Then you gained such beauty, such a light gait.

In your stature abides the dignity of humankind;
Daughter of the city, you are culture’s masterpiece.
Now my eyelids will not blink, my gaze will not turn—
You are for me beauty’s final standard.

This silver-sculpted body of yours, this rosy sari—
The hand of labor has draped you like the glow of dawn.
That colorful loveliness of nature you were denied,
Nurture has taught you that very delicacy.

Awareness has made blossoms open in your speech;
Knowledge has pressed grapes into a sugary accent.
Who knew this style of enchantment?
You are in the breath that is near—and far from that same breath.

Your being, your ecstasy, your splendor, your beauty—
A hundred lamps burn against the surging darkness.
That pomegranate-blossom smile on moist lips—
A rebellion against the mirror of wounds.

Courage has awakened, the ardor of certainty has flared;
Salutations to the nameless hints of your coquettish glance.
Prostration to that beautiful heaven where you dwell—
Salutations to the paths upon which I meet you.

Come, come close, that I may loosen this tress;
Let clouds bring a message to quench this thirst.
From whose forehead thousands of mornings arise—
May such an evening come into my world as well.

A small love, an ordinary man–woman love—and all words start to seem petty. Then how to speak of prayer? And God—the Supreme Beloved—there is no word for him, nor any means or medium of expression.

Because he is the Supreme Beloved—that is why.
You ask: “If he can be experienced, why then can he not be defined?”
Because only a few, very rare ones, experience him. Between two who have experienced, definition is possible; in fact, even words are not needed—it can happen without speech.

Farid and Kabir once met. They sat together for two days; no one said a word, nothing moved. Neither Kabir spoke nor Farid. Their disciples sat there, eager, expecting that something would happen—some exchange between these two realized ones, some dialogue. Perhaps a few drops of nectar might drizzle down on us too. But nothing was said. Not a single word passed between them. They embraced when they met, and when they took leave, they embraced again and parted.

No sooner had they gone their ways than Kabir’s disciples asked, “What was this? You speak so much to us—what happened to your tongue? Why were you silent?”
Kabir said, “Fools! I speak to you so that you may be filled with thirst for the Divine. But if I had spoken to Farid, it would have been foolish. Because where I am, there is Farid. There is nothing to say. What I have tasted, he has tasted. He knows the flavor; I know the flavor. We embraced—enough was said. Eye met eye—everything was done.”

Farid’s disciples also asked him, as soon as they left the village, “What happened to you—why were you silent? You talk so much to us!”
Farid said, “You mad ones, why should I invite embarrassment by talking? That man knows—what is there to say to him? We are both diving in the same ocean. If I were to say, ‘What delight there is in diving into the ocean!’ it would be a useless statement, because he too is diving into that very ocean. His experience and mine are one. I am dissolved; he is dissolved. The moment we held hands, it was understood. What remained to be said?”

Keep this paradox in mind. In this world there are three kinds of conversations:
- Between two ignorant people: head‑butting everywhere, each dumping his own rubbish into the other’s skull. Endless dispute—“I’m right, you’re wrong!” A lot of me‑me and you‑you. The whole world is full of this kind of talk.
- Between the wise and the ignorant: here lies the real difficulty. In the first kind there is no difficulty, because neither knows; both have zero experience. So they can chat merrily—about God, about liberation; no obstacle at all. Betel‑leaf sellers and cart‑drivers too engage in talk about Brahman; no obstruction. The obstacle is in the second kind—when the knower speaks to the unknowing. The knower says one thing, the ignorant hears another. Naturally so. Therefore the ignorant must learn how to listen—the art of listening. And the knower must polish his expression.
- Not all who know are true masters. They know, but cannot beget it in others; they cannot communicate it. Who then is a knower who is a satguru? One who has known, and who has also discovered the art by which even in the darkness of the ignorant a little news may reach—a faint hint, a slight stirring of sound. A satguru means: a knower who has himself known and is also adept in the art of awakening others. Among millions there may be a single knower; among thousands of knowers, perhaps one true master.

This second kind of conversation is very difficult—extremely difficult. Many knowers avoid the hassle. Having known, they sit quietly with closed eyes. They do not speak; they take a vow of silence. Why get into trouble? The very people you set out to awaken are ready to cut off your head. Why invite such complications?

Understand: if Jesus had remained silent, there would have been no crucifixion. If Socrates had sat quietly, lost in his own ecstasy, no one would have given him hemlock. And if Mansoor had not proclaimed Ana’l‑Haqq—“I am the Truth; in the servant and in God there is no difference; the servant is God”—if he had not announced it before the ignorant… He proclaimed it so that people might understand, to remind them. But the people took their revenge—chopped off his limbs, broke his neck.

Many knowers remain silent. And the irony is that the ignorant are very pleased with those silent knowers. They don’t crucify them, they don’t poison them. Why would they? They have said nothing; only when something is said do obstacles arise. And besides, the ignorant are happy that these silent ones don’t disturb their lives. But some knowers, out of great compassion, have spoken. The earth is fortunate because of their speaking. Whatever dignity and glory this earth has is because of those few awakened ones who spoke—who accepted every trouble to speak, who spoke even to those who would become their enemies because of it. Yet they spoke!

Buddha said there are two kinds of knowers—arhats and bodhisattvas. Arhats are those who, having known, do not speak; they become silent. Bodhisattvas are those who, having known, engage themselves in the effort to awaken others.

And the third conversation is between two knowers—it need not be conducted at all; they sit silently, and it is done. So, one conversation is between two ignorant—much talk, much head‑banging, no fruit. One is between two knowers—words do not arise; before anything can be said, all is already said and understood. Between these lies the conversation between the knower and the ignorant. That is the most difficult. And it is there that the question of definition arises.

There are experiences that cannot be put into words. Yet your thirst for them can be kindled. A fire, a flame can be lit within you—to set out in search of those infinite suns. The art of fluttering your wings can be given to you. You can be shaken awake, so that you embark upon the journey to the Infinite, so that you take up the search for God.

Whatever is said about God is not said about God; it is said only to evoke your thirst.

And when your thirst is awakened, in that very thirst your ego begins to burn. In those very flames you burn away, you are effaced. And where you are no more, there God is. The disappearance of “I” is the presence of God. Disappear, so that you may be.

O longing bride, light the lamp in the temple! Light a flame, a lamp of thirst within you. You are the temple. Awaken the light in your temple. That very light will lead you toward the Great Light. One day that light itself becomes the Great Light.

Enough for today.