Birhani Mandir Diyana Baar #3

Come, let us raise our hands as well—
we who do not remember the ritual of prayer;
we who, apart from the fever of love,
remember no idol, no god.

Come, let us submit our plea: that the Painter of Existence
pour tomorrow’s sweetness into the harsh face of today;
that for those who cannot bear the weight of the passing days,
He make day and night light upon their eyelids;
that for those whose eyes cannot face the visage of dawn,
He illumine at least one candle in their nights;
that for those whose feet have no path to lean on,
He reveal some road before their gaze.

For those whose religion has become an advocacy of lies and hypocrisy,
grant the courage to defy, the daring to inquire.
For those whose heads forever await the sword of cruelty,
grant the strength to shake free the killer’s hand.

The hidden arrow of love—by which the soul burns—
let us confess today, and let the fever cool.
The word of truth that pricks the heart like a thorn—
let us voice it today, and be rid of the sting.

Come, let us raise our hands as well—
we who do not remember the ritual of prayer;
we who, apart from the fever of love,
remember no idol, no god.

Whoever has known love needs nothing else to know, for love, at its height, becomes prayer—and prayer, in the end, takes the form of the Divine. Love is the first rung; prayer the middle; God the culmination.

Those who have seen love as other than God have missed the way and wandered off. Prayer without love is worthless, for it has no current of sweetness running through it. The heart does not accompany it. Such prayer is arithmetic, calculation, logic. And by logic and calculation—has anyone ever reached the Divine? There, the ecstasy of the heart is needed. There, one must be capable of being drunk, of being lost.

Come, let us raise our hands as well—
we who do not remember the ritual of prayer.

It is good that we do not remember the ritual. Those who know the technique of praying lose prayer by the very technique. Prayer is no technique, no method. There is no scripture of prayer, no procedure. Prayer is a blessed madness—a love-drunkenness, love and divine frenzy. Prayer is an intoxication. Eyes made tipsy by the wine of God—that is prayer. A person swaying in the bliss, in the “ah!” of the Divine—that is prayer.

Come, let us raise our hands as well—
we who do not remember the ritual of prayer.

Hindus, Muslims, Christians—where did the blockage occur? Temples, mosques, gurudwaras are filled with devotees, yet nowhere is there a glimpse of God. So many are praying, yet nowhere does love rain down. So many bow in namaz, yet their egos stand stiff. Bodies bend; egos remain rigid. All is formal—and from formality the doors of Mystery do not open.

With God there is no etiquette to observe. Whoever keeps etiquette creates distance. In love such distance will not do. Love admits no distance; love is an embrace—an embrace of Existence itself. It has no rites or rubrics.

Yet we teach every child to pray—and thereby deprive them of prayer. We teach them hollow words not born from their hearts; we impose them from above. They will repeat these words lifelong and keep wondering, “Where did I go wrong? I recite the words every day, I call on God every day—why does He not hear?” Why does their prayer never reach His ears?

Seeing someone shouting loudly to God, Kabir said: “Why so loud? Is your God deaf? Why so loud?”

The truth is, the lips need not move and the prayer is complete. It doesn’t reach the lips; it is fulfilled in the depths within. It does not become words; it is perfected in wordlessness.

Words are learned. Words are crafted by man. Words are needed in the marketplace; they are unnecessary in love.

The deeper the love, the harder it is to express. And where love becomes complete, there silence settles of its own accord. Words dissolve; the sky of wordlessness appears. In that sky of silence, the bird of love takes flight.

Come, let us raise our hands as well—
we who do not remember the ritual of prayer.

So my first task here—and it has always been the task of those like me—is to snatch from you the ritual prayers you have learned, the false prayer borrowed from others. You must drop whatever has been imposed upon you from outside; you must be freed of it. Only then, when the stone is removed, will your inner stream begin to flow.

If only we would not teach children to pray, but only to love—then one day prayer would arise on its own. It must arise. Plant the seed, care for the tree, and flowers come of themselves. No one has to drag the flowers out. You don’t force buds to become blossoms. All happens of itself. If we sow the seed of love, the flower of prayer will bloom by itself.

Prayer’s flowers are not blossoming on this earth. Temples and mosques and gurudwaras and churches are many—but where are the true pray-ers? Where is the one who knows how to pray? You can count them on your fingers. What happens to the countless multitudes?

A mistake occurs so subtle we don’t even suspect it. We teach prayer—that is where the obstacle arises, where the rock is placed. Then these trained people repeat like parrots. And until the feelings of your own heart overflow, distance from God will remain. For God is not reached by the intellect, but by the heart. What is taught lodges in the mind; it does not reach the heart.

Come, let us raise our hands as well—
we who do not remember the ritual of prayer;
we who, apart from the fever of love,
remember no idol, no god.

If only this much happens, everything happens. If only this much, clouds will gather in the sky of your being and the nectar-rain will fall.

We who, apart from the fire of love…
Let nothing be remembered but the flame of love—no idol, no god.

People ask, “Where is God?” The question itself is wrong. What you should ask is, “Where is love?” And the flower of God will bloom on its own. People never ask about love—they take it for granted that they know love. There lies the mistake. You do not know love. In the name of love you have spun all sorts of webs, but there is no love there. Often, under the guise of love, something else is hidden. Hatred hides behind love; the politics of ownership over others hides behind love; ambition hides there; lust hides there; who knows how much poison hides behind that sweet word “love”! The lovely word became a convenient cover—hide anything under it and it passes.

Parents say they love their children—but they don’t. They love because the children are theirs, their blood, their extension, their arms lengthened. They love because it fulfills their ego. That is not love. And then they want to rest their rifles on the child’s shoulders and fire.

A father longed to earn great wealth, but didn’t. Who ever earns as much as they wish? Desires remain incomplete. Now he thinks the son will do it—presses the son to fulfill the father’s frustrated ambition. Ambition hides behind love.

A friend’s younger son died. He was so distraught he contemplated suicide. He came to me and said, “I love my two sons so much I can no longer live. One is dead—now life is pointless.” I knew the son who died was a minister—fulfilling the father’s life-long ambition. He had lived in politics all his life but never became a minister. The other son was not a minister. I asked, “If your older son had died, would your grief be this deep?” He hesitated a moment, then couldn’t lie: “Strange question—but I’m startled, too. No, if the older one had died I wouldn’t be this broken. What did I get from him? Only disgrace—he drinks and gambles. If he had died, perhaps I would have felt lighter: one burden gone.” Even a son won’t be loved if he brings disgrace—because the ego gets hurt. A son is loved if he brings name, fame, respect—because new ornaments hang on the ego. That is not love. That is politics. Ambition. The journey of ego.

Husbands say they love their wives, wives their husbands—but inside there is something else: jealousy, envy, fear, suspicion. In love there is no trace of these. In the sky of love, no clouds of doubt; no flames of jealousy; no dream of owning the other. Yet this is what fills our relationships.

And you have assumed you know love—so you go asking about God. I want to remind you: know love, and God will be known on its own. God is not the real question—love is.

We who, apart from the fever of love,
remember no idol, no god.

I wish you to come to a place where you can say, “We know only the fire of love. We know neither any image nor any temple, neither mosque nor Kaaba, neither Kashi nor Kailash. We know nothing else. We know no other pilgrimage—only the pilgrimage of love. Love is our Kaaba. Love is our temple.”

And then you will be astonished: what an inexhaustible cascade of light begins to pour upon you! You won’t even grasp how from all sides experiences of mystery are raining, how drops of nectar begin to fall—when, from where! You did not earn this nectar; you had no such merit.

But love is merit enough. There is no virtue greater than love.

Come, let us submit our plea: that the Painter of Existence
pour tomorrow’s sweetness into the harsh face of today;
that for those who cannot bear the weight of the passing days
He make day and night light upon their eyelids.

Where there is love, one does not pray only for oneself—one prays for all. Without love, prayer is only for oneself—narrow, and a narrow prayer dies. Prayer is vastness; the narrower it is, the more it chokes.

Buddha said: when you meditate, immediately after—whatever nectar you have tasted—give it to the whole world. Do not hoard it. Hoard it, and it will rot.

So after every prayer, worship, adoration, meditation, Buddha told his monks—mindfully declare: whatever I have gained, may it belong to all beings; may it not be only mine.

There is a famous story. A man used to attend Buddha. Day after day Buddha emphasized, “Whatever I’ve realized—may it be for all.” The man said, “You’re right, but may I say, ‘For all except my neighbor’? He is so wicked, he has tormented me so much—let him be the one exception.” Buddha said, “If you leave out even one, you have left out all. The very tendency to exclude proves you have not yet known meditation, nor love. Otherwise, the thought of leaving out would not arise. The gift would be unconditional.”

Come, let us submit our plea: that the life-beauty…
pour tomorrow’s sweetness into the harsh face of today—
that a little nectar seep into this bitterness of hell.

For those who cannot bear the burden of days…
let day and night grow lighter on their eyelids,
let their vision become clear, that they too may see life’s beauty.

For those whose eyes have never seen the sweet face of morning—
who have never known sunrise, who have not met the light—
in their nights, at least illumine a candle.
If not sunrise, even a small lamp is much. If not the ocean, even a single drop is much.

For those whose feet have no support of any path—
reveal a road before their eyes.

Such will be the prayer—unconditional, for the whole, for all existence, for life itself. Whenever you pray for yourself, you go astray. Therefore your prayer never reaches. It cannot soar far. The more vast it is, the sooner it reaches the Divine. If it is unconditional and for all, you pray here—and it arrives there first.

For those whose religion has become the defense of lies and hypocrisy—
grant the courage to defy,
grant the daring to inquire.

Think about yourself—and others. What have you made of your religion? It supports superstitions, lies, and pretenses. Its very foundations rest on untruth.

Parents tell children, “Trust God. Believe.” If the child asks, “But we cannot see Him,” they say, “Be quiet! Believe—and then you will see.” That turns everything upside down. Seeing gives birth to trust. This is deception: “Believe, and you will see.” And in this trick is a web: until you see, they say you haven’t believed. But you cannot believe until you see. So you will neither believe nor see—and they will go on saying, “Had you believed, you would have seen; the fault is yours.” What can God do?

And the same tongue tells the child, “Believe in the God you do not yet know. And be honest, be truthful.” Both from one tongue. If one is truthful, how can one trust what one has not known or seen? And if one trusts what one has not seen, how can one remain truthful?

Your ethics teaches you hypocrisy. Your religions split you into pieces. They make you crafty, dishonest. They do not light the lamp of understanding; they try their best to prevent it. It serves the priest and pundit for you to live in the dark—for then you remain in their grip. If you become luminous, you become free.

For those whose religion has become the defense of lies and hypocrisy—
pray they be granted the courage of rebellion,
the daring to inquire—
to rise against all that has been forced upon them: against tradition, the past, the priesthood—so a direct relationship with the Divine can be. Remove all middlemen. No brokers are needed.

God belongs to you as much as to Buddha, Krishna, or Meera—as much as to me, so to you. Learn from everyone, understand from everyone; but put no one in between. The Divine will meet you directly. You come from That. It waits for you to return home.

And, O Lord, grant that those who do not question, may they become seekers. May questions arise in their lives.

You have stopped raising questions. Your questions’ throats have been strangled. They were killed, and beliefs were imposed. Questions were true; beliefs are false. One who honors questions reaches true knowing one day. One who suppresses them and adopts borrowed beliefs goes farther from truth every day.

Whoever has known has brought rebellion. Only revolutionaries have loved truth—rebels. But priests serve the status quo. They teach belief, not rebellion.

Let this be your touchstone. Where rebellion is sown, know it is satsang. Where belief is imposed, superstition enforced—flee. Your murder is being done there—though with sweet names and learned arguments. But there is no arrangement there to awaken you, to brighten you, to make your life a flame. Your darkness serves their vested interest.

For those whose heads await the sword of cruelty—
grant the power to shake off the killer’s hand.

Grant such strength that they can fling off the hands of tyrants.

The hidden arrow of love—by which the soul burns—
let us confess today, and let the fever cool.
Only love’s arrow, once it pierces, cools all the heat of life—quells all torment, all restlessness. Only love’s rain quenches the life-thirst.

The word of truth that pricks the heart like a thorn—
let us voice it today, and be rid of the sting.

Come, let us raise our hands as well—
we who do not remember the ritual of prayer;
we who, apart from the fever of love,
remember no idol, no god.

With such prayer, understand Yaari’s sutras. These are sutras of love. You will find no argument here, no proof, no intellectual fireworks. These are sutras fallen straight from the heart. In them you will feel the warmth of love, the taste of embrace, the glimpse of life’s beauty.

“The colorless veil of nirvana—rare the wise saint who can drape it.”

Each word is dear. So few words—yet each one could become a scripture. So deep! So simple, and so profound! So straightforward, and so grave!

“The colorless veil of nirvana.”
Yaari calls nirvana a veil—a chunari. Like a new bride who drapes her veil, going to meet her Beloved—preparing for her wedding night—she puts on a colorful veil.

Kabir said, “I am a dyer—come, I will dye your veil.”

Which veil?

“The colorless veil of nirvana.”
Nirvana, for lovers, is the veil we wear to meet the Supreme Beloved.

Understand nirvana. It means: the lamp goes out. The little lamp of ego you have lit within—when it is extinguished, that is nirvana. The moment your ego-lamp goes out, the eternal Lamp is revealed—flame without wick, without oil—ever burning! The life of your life, the breath of your breath.

But you live by the dim, smoky light of ego. Nirvana means: let the ego go. The “I” drops. And whoever’s “I” falls has prepared to meet the Beloved—has draped the veil.

And this veil is without qualities, spotless, formless. Blank as the sky. No stains on it. Stains belong to thoughts and cravings. In this veil there is neither thought nor desire. A state of mind where all thoughts have vanished, all cravings lost—only a hush remains; a zero-music begins to play within; the one-string of emptiness hums. Search, and no thought is found; no desire anywhere—even in the last corner no stream of craving or thinking remains. Such a silent moment is called nirgun—qualityless. Your coverings fall—the inner ego drops, the outer wrappings fall. In one sense, you die.

Someone asked the Zen master Rinzai, “How to live without error, without sin?” Rinzai said, “Live as if you are dead. Live as if you are not.”

Mahavira wished to renounce. He sought his mother’s permission. She said, “Do not raise this before me again. When I die, do as you wish. I cannot bear to see you go to the forest.” Mahavira fell silent. When his mother died, he asked his father. He said, “Not before me. I am an old man. After I die, do as you will.” When the father died, he asked his elder brother—who said, “Don’t even bring it up. Mother is gone, father is gone—only you remain with me. Have you no pity?” Mahavira said, “Then I will not go.” He stayed at home—but lived as if he were not. He became a negation—interfering with none, commanding none, causing no one trouble. He moved without even the sound of his feet. Slowly they forgot he existed. Then the brother felt, “It is useless to restrain him. He has turned the home into a forest.” The whole household gathered and begged him to go: “You are already gone; only a shadow remains. Go.” He went—but even if he had not, nirvana had happened. He had brought the Himalaya within.

Live so that you become a farewell to yourself. Greet yourself and let yourself go. Live in such a way that you are no one’s obstacle, no one’s hindrance. Then nirvana happens. Then you become qualityless. The veil is ready. Whoever drapes it must meet the Beloved.

Yaari borrows the words of the knowers but dyes them in a lover’s color. Nirvana is a philosopher’s word, nirgun a sage’s term. In a lover’s hand, whatever comes is steeped in love. The words change hue. In Buddha’s hand, nirvana is austere; in Mahavira’s hand, nirgun is dry. Yaari strikes music: “The colorless veil of nirvana!” That one small word—veil—changes everything; turns prose into poetry; sets strings humming on a silent sitar; breathes through a bamboo reed—sweet music arises! A simple everyday word—veil. But set upon nirvana and nirgun—and even they are adorned like a bride.

“The colorless veil of nirvana—rare the wise saint who can drape it.”
Few can wear this veil. Not all saints can wear it—only the wise-of-heart. Otherwise even saintliness turns dry—mere formality, mere arithmetic. No poetry flows there, no music; no green leaves, no red flowers, no moon or stars. Such saintliness is forced renunciation. Your saints shrink; they do not expand. And whatever does not expand—however sattvic—still lacks something. Brahman is vastness. Only the expansive reaches the Expansive. Become like That, and you will find That.

“Who notices weeping eyes there?
Carry, in the glass of your sight, the fresh blood of the heart.
If now you go to petition before His Presence,
do not take hands and beggar’s bowl—take the bowl of your head.”

Tearful eyes do not draw His gaze. Do not go there whining. Let not your prayer be beggary. But prayer has become just that. You go only to ask. You have asked so much that “prayer” has come to mean “asking,” and the one who asks, a “prayer.” You dragged a star from heaven into the mud; you smeared the flower with dirt.

If you must carry something in your eyes, let it be the red intoxication of joy—eyes reddened by the wine of life, by bliss.

And if you must take a bowl, don’t make a bowl of your hands—take the bowl of your head. Offer your head. Then you will arrive like an emperor.

Do not offer flowers in prayer—offer yourself. But very few can. People want to remain as they are, and also get God. They want God to be added to what they are. That cannot be. God will not be added to you. You must dissolve—then God is. Because few fulfill this condition, few are fulfilled.

“The colorless, nirguna veil—who can drape it? Rare even among saints.”
Some remain busy with dry calculations: cancelling bad karma with good, keeping accounts. Their outlook is shopkeeper’s, not celebratory. So very few can wear this lovely veil. Leave aside the common folk—even among saints, rare ones drape it.

“These days, what are the customs in the City of Beauty?
What’s the price for strolling in the spring?
Is the Beloved’s lane still a killing-field—a tavern?
Tell me, even now, do lovers still have to be ruined?
Is the old custom still in force?”

Those who ask such questions never walk. The custom is the same as ever and will never change. Only those who can be destroyed arrive there. Only those who dare to go mad arrive there. Only the intoxicated have traction there. The calculating remain stuck in the petty. Calculation works in the bazaar, not in the lane of love. That lane is a slaughterhouse—only those ready to be slain enter. And it is a tavern—only those who can drown and forget themselves belong.

So few can drape the veil of nirvana, of the qualityless.

Drape it! Without this veil, whether you come or not—makes no difference. There is nothing else to gain on this earth. Here there is nothing else to build. Let this nirguna-nirvana veil be woven. Warp and weft—only of this.

A Sufi story about Jesus—not in the Bible, but the Sufis keep many lovely tales. Jesus went to meditate in the mountains—desolate miles without a soul. Under a tree he saw an old man, blissful. Jesus asked, “How long have you been here?” He looked two hundred years old. The old man said, “About a hundred.” Jesus looked around: no hut, no shelter. “The sun, the rain—no roof?” The old man laughed: “Master, prophets like you before you prophesied I would live only seven hundred years. For just seven hundred years, who would bother to build a hut? Two hundred have already passed; the rest will pass too. For merely seven hundred years, why the trouble?”

The story is charming. We live seventy years and worry so much that we forget we are not here forever. Death waits; today or tomorrow it will knock—and all you built will be taken. Only the veil of nirvana cannot be snatched by death. Weave only that. Whoever weaves that veil—I call a sannyasin.

For me, sannyas is a veil. Not a dry thing—an ecstasy of rasa. Therefore I do not call this place a temple; I call it a tavern.

“Search the six systems of philosophy—and end bewildered.”
Keep searching in philosophies; turn all six systems upside down. Read all the scriptures. Yaari says: your bewilderment will grow, not lessen. The more you think, the farther you go. Thinking does not unite; it separates. Thoughts divide; feeling unites.

Who split this world into fragments—Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jain, Buddhist? Thoughts did. Even within each—Catholics and Protestants; within Hindus, countless sects. Thought builds walls. Love builds bridges.

“Search the six darshans—and be left confounded.”
Truly, anyone who reads all six Indian systems will go mad. On nothing do they agree. The Hindu says there is soul and God. The Jain says only soul, no God. The Buddhist says neither soul nor God. What will you do? Each splits hairs; people get entangled.

Life is short—it slips from your hands. Do not waste it in books. Yaari says: do not get stuck in thinking.

“Let me think for a moment!
In this wilderness—not even a wilderness—
on which branch did flowers first appear?
What first lost its color to pain and fever?
Before now—at what hour, in which season,
did famine strike the blood?
Who tightened a cord around the rose’s vein?
Time pressed down…
Let me think, just a little!”

This busy city, not even a valley of desolation—when and where did it catch fire? Which shutter first arched red with an arrow of light? Let me think!

You ask us for the name and sign of that country whose history and geography we no longer remember—and if we do remember, like an old beloved, the heart trembles to face it. Yet like someone who, to please such a beloved, slips out one night to spend with her—we too, at this age, go to the heart just to keep the formality. Why ask of the heart? Let me think…

People even think about love! Thinking is surface—your periphery. Love is your inmost. Like waves on the ocean’s skin, however they try, they cannot reach the depths; wind makes waves on the surface; in the depths no wind reaches.

So too the mind’s waves rise on the surface; the world’s gusts stir you there. In your inner sanctum, no storm, no wave arrives. There you are; there your love; there your prayer; there your God. Not a matter of thinking—of being immersed in feeling.

“Search the six darshans—and be left confounded.”
People have thought about God for millennia. Not one proof has stood. Ten thousand years of thought—no proof. What proofs were crafted are childish. Enough to satisfy children or the uneducated—but not the one who truly inquires. As education and rational skill rose, atheism thickened. Your proofs are false.

A theist says: as a pot needs a potter, so the world needs a Maker. The atheist asks: who made the Maker? If God can be unmade, why not the pot? Either the theist gets angry, draws a sword—which is no argument—or he answers in a way that cuts his own proof: “No one made God.” Then the atheist says: if such a magnificent God can be unmade, why can’t a small pot be unmade? Childish!

I heard of a man who paid twenty-five rupees for a device that would make music anywhere—no battery, no electricity—only to receive a child’s rattle. Truly, the arguments the theists have devised are children’s rattles.

I tell you: God is. But the arguments for Him are futile. God is proved only for those who know by love. Whoever believes by logic lives a kind of untruth—had they reasoned well, they would be atheists. The final end of logic is atheism; the final end of love is theism. Through love, never atheism; through logic, never God.

There is another way—through love. Another eye through which the Divine is seen.

“When silence spreads over the wild,
a voice never heard in a lifetime begins to sound.”
When the mind falls still, immersed in silence, stirred by the fragrance of love, in meditation—a music never heard is felt, and a Form is seen not by these eyes, but by the eye of the heart.

“When silence spreads over the wild,
a voice never heard in a lifetime begins to sound.
A delicate fragrance stirs the air;
cool breezes come from the lips of the shore.
From the desolate silent paths,
I hear the footsteps of wayfarers of the Way.
A face of beauty comes near and sings to me—
singing, it slips far away.
Lightning smiles again and again in the clouds,
the desert’s eye blinks.
When clouds lose hope at the sight,
lightning leans and whispers something slow in the ear.
Gusts that shake the bushes
echo the heartbeats of the dewdrop-heart.
Shadows of the dense garden talk with me—
such talk that endangers my very life.
In the humming hush of the fields,
all by itself my heart fills to the brim.
The breeze, touching the green, brushes the plants—
with every breath a thorn pricks the heart.
When tender strands of grass bend,
a bruise strikes the glass of the heart.
As if someone far away plays a flute,
so stealthily the wild wind comes.
Desires bubble from buds of dust;
the soul emerges from the field’s flowers.
Hinting to the poet’s nature to flow,
the canal falls asleep in the branches’ dense shade.
How can I call these scenes lifeless?
‘Josh,’ it just doesn’t make sense.”

There is a moment of love’s experience, of beauty’s experience, when you cannot take this existence to be without life or consciousness.

“How can I take these scenes as lifeless?
Josh, it does not make sense.”

Not through argument—but through the sense of beauty; not through logic—but through the delight of music; not through dialectic—but through sensitivity is the Divine proved. The name for all this sensitivity is love.

The more sensitive you become, the more open you are to this world—to sun, wind, moon and stars; the more you drink of them, the more you draw near to rivers, flowers, mountains with love and joy—the more a proof rises within you not based on logic but on heartfelt knowing.

“A bridal veil of light—come, bride, hold your attention.”
Come as the beloved, as a bride. Come fallen in love. Come like a new bride dancing in—only then you will know. Know God as the Beloved, and you will know.

Your chatter about God as Creator reduces Him to an engineer. However beautiful the edifice, do you fall in love with the engineer? Or as mathematician—with great equations—does that create love? No.

God is not creator, mathematician, mechanic, scientist—think so, and you will miss. Think of Him as the Beloved. Kabir says, “I am Rama’s bride.” Think like a bride.

“A bridal veil of light—come, bride, hold your attention.”
Hold Him in attention the way a new bride holds her beloved.

When these songs were written, brides were married as children; they never saw their husband before the wedding. She knew nothing of her beloved’s face. Yet her heart was alight with longing—she rode the palanquin for days, by foot or cart, the whole way beating with an unknown beloved—face unseen, features unknown—yet a lamp burning within, a remembrance flowing.

“Come, bride, hold your attention.”
As the bride comes holding the unknown beloved in attention, so must you hold the Beloved and come—then your veil will begin to glow with light on its own.

“A bridal veil of light—come, bride, hold your attention.”
Until you are related to the Divine, you are not truly a suhagin—a blessed bride. Only then is there good fortune—only then the wedding night, the unsurpassed moment of union. That is nirvana, that is liberation.

“I do not grasp the meanings of the songs of feeling—yet I sing with you.
Wearing anklets of light, like a star I glitter—I sing with you.
I may not understand the meanings—I know the ache of the links;
I rise with the notes, and recognize the fire they lift.
With a thirst for wholeness flowing to meet the sea,
I accept the same longing in your raga.
Crossing the bound of emptiness, I have gone to find fullness;
I was unfamiliar—the rhythm of the wind came to call me.
In my blossoming heart the cuckoo’s burning woke;
casting off my veil and restlessness, I rose to join the song.
I am a lovely, love-soaked shade—I go along with you.
I sing with you.
Like a flute hidden between enchanted lips, I bathe;
I run with you through the lane of life;
I melt like a wave into your melody.
This soaked absorption of breath—endless nectar—
as if a stone image’s god had awakened at the plinth.
What murmurs of freedom the fickle wind carries—
what ocean of honey my throat drinks today!
This flame of joy burns up the mind’s hesitations;
the weight of the song’s rhythm has turned my bangles into joy.
Slack in descent, in ascent I touch the sky—
I sing with you.
Like a spring vine I stir to the breeze;
form takes color from my rays—creation’s new abundance.
It is this music that fills the sky’s clouds;
bathed in that note, the autumn night becomes pure;
the springtime constellation’s raga takes away the heat of the road.
It binds nature with the procession of goose-bumps;
from the perfumed breath a little bud’s small body is made.
I have not understood the meaning of this nameless song—
yet it colors every face raised to the wind’s offering.
I am woven in, dissolving in its enchanted chorus—
I sing with you.”

Meaning will not come—nor need it. The meaning of this world is so vast that the more you understand, the more you see how much remains. Here the foolish think themselves wise; the wise cannot.

The Upanishad says, “Who says, ‘I have known,’ know that he has not known.” Socrates said, “When I knew, I knew only that I know nothing.”

Meaning cannot be grasped—like trying to pour the ocean into a teaspoon. Our mind is smaller than the teaspoon before this Vast. Perhaps the ocean could one day fit a teaspoon; but the Infinite cannot fit our mind.

Meaning cannot be known—but the song can be sung. That is the devotee’s secret. Who cares for meaning when such bliss pours? In this festival, those who sit to parse meaning are ill. Dance! Experience is enough. And as experience deepens, the Mystery deepens. The day it is clear that my knowing is nothing and the Mystery is all—that day the drop of the devotee is dissolved in the ocean of God.

“Beyond limit and the beyond of beyond—Yaari…
this is the supreme knowing of the saints.”
Supreme—because there is no sense of knowing in it. Where there is the pride of knowledge, there is pedantry. Where there is no claim—there is supreme knowing. Its sign is this: the knower knows he knows nothing.

“Find a true Master who has draped the veil—
the colorless veil of nirvana.”
Find a Master who has worn the veil, who knows its ways. From his grace, his power, his compassion, the veil will fall upon your head too. This is discipleship: the Master has draped it; he will teach you to drape it.

“Fly, fly, O bird—climb the sky!”
Find the Master, and one cry arises: Fly, bird! The open sky is yours—spread your wings.

If a bird hatches in an incubator, never seeing a parent fly, it won’t fly—though it has wings. It has seen no one fly; how would it remember? So with us. You must find the company of a bird in the sky—such is the meaning of a true Master: someone you can see flying. Seeing him, a current runs through your wings; you remember: I too can fly. The sky and its stars are mine—as much as any Buddha’s. But that remembrance comes only near a Buddha.

Fly, bird—climb the sky!

Perhaps even after remembrance, you will need days to steady your wings—for many lives you haven’t used them. They are lifeless. For a while, small leaps from tree to tree will suffice. Then slowly courage grows, blood returns to the feathers, and you accept the sky’s challenge.

The day you accept it, the human is born within you. Before that, it is human in name. Only a disciple is truly human.

Fly, bird—climb the sky!

“From the beginning of time I have longed for You—
longed for You, sought You.
We roamed much through temples and mosques—
what a tumult, what a hullabaloo!
When I lifted the veil of ego, I saw
that shining candle right before me.
Whether your cry is heard or not, O nightingale,
you are entirely song—your tone is bliss.
We set out for worship, O Zeenat—
no worry for the ritual, no thought of ablutions.”

Whether you recall it or not, you seek only That—through wealth, position, prestige. The direction may be wrong, but the longing is for the Supreme Beloved.

We wandered through temples and mosques—so many methods and formalities!

But when the veil of ego was lifted, the candle was right before me—burning within, always before me. I had turned my back—drowned in ego, I forgot.

Then there is no worry whether prayer is heard or not—the Beloved dwells within. Even then prayer arises—but as gratitude, not as asking.

We set out for worship—but who worries about rugs, grammar, the exact time? Worship still happens—but wherever the devotee sits becomes a temple. Wherever his feet fall, a pilgrimage is born. Ritual drops away; prayer becomes spontaneous—like light from a lamp, fragrance from a flower.

Fly, bird—climb the sky!

“Where there is neither moon nor sun nor day nor night—
the immortal, unreachable city.”
This is not the outer sky—it is the inner sky, the sky of awareness. There, no sun, no moon, no day, no night—changeless, eternal; no time, no alteration.

“Look within—there, depth rising ever upward,
no joy, no sorrow, no dread of Death.”
In the outer world, rivers flow downward; in the inner, everything rises—like a flame. Even if you turn the lamp upside-down, the flame leaps upward. So too, within you dwells that flame. Just turn your eyes inward—Yaari says, turn your gaze around. Enough looking outside—look within.

You will be amazed—up and up, bottomless in height; no end to above. Neither joy nor sorrow—only supreme peace, and no fear of death. Without this, you will not be content. Death will knock. See within once—and death disappears.

Yaari says, “There the noose of the slayer is not; the fruit found is a glittering light.”
There is no time’s noose—no one to kill you. Weapons cannot pierce you; fire cannot burn you. Body is born and dies—you are unborn, deathless—amritasya putra—you are children of immortality. Forgetting this, you identified with the mortal body, and are anxious.

And whoever sees within—he gains the fruit. Otherwise life is fruitless. Earn what you will outside—you will go empty-handed. Outer earning is losing—for those moments could have been invested within. What is gained within—death cannot snatch.

Outside is not wealth—outside is peril. Wealth is within.

Even our words show it: sampatti, samadhi, sambodhi—all from sam—equilibrium, balance, the middle. Outside, there is no real “sam”—that center is within. Neither left nor right, neither worldly nor renunciate—right in the middle. Neither enjoyer nor renouncer. Not eager to grasp wealth, nor to throw it away. Nothing outside is either to grasp or to renounce. If something is worth renouncing outside, it implies there is something worth grasping outside. Both are false. What is, is within.

Yaari says, “There the noose of the slayer is not; the fruit is the glittering light.”
There, death and darkness are gone—only light upon light. Another name for this light is God.

At first, glimpses—like lightning. But that much brings trust—not belief, but experience. A little window opens, you see the sky, then it closes—the old mind, habits return. But once the glimmer appears, revolution has begun. You know—outside there is nothing. You will live outside, but your tune will be within.

Come, bride, hold your attention.

Like the water-bearer who balances a pot on her head—her hands free, talking, singing with friends, joking on the path—yet her attention remains on the pot lest it fall. Once the inner glimpse comes, you will still trade in the bazaar—there is nowhere to run. If all were to flee, the world would grow dull. Do as before—but a remembrance begins within. You will stabilize the glimpse—lengthen it.

“Stay a moment more—
let my eyes behold You.
Let Your voice echo a little longer in my ear,
let the stream of joyous sap run through every pore.
The lamp of the heart long extinguished—
perhaps it will flare up like a ray, aflame.
Stay a moment more—
let my eyes behold You.
The starry cover of Your beauty—
how cooling!
The honey-flute of Your throat—
restless as a cascade!
The shade of Your glances—
my soul grows bright.
My breath flutters, struggling—
like a young bird’s wings.
The wind that spends the flower’s fragrance
has brought You here;
like the milky Ganges of the sky
the moon has descended.
What dream’s magic has filled
the ruins of the mind’s palace?
Stay a moment more—
let my eyes behold You.
Before You I feel
I become truth itself—
no god could reach my fullness.
I long for that immortality
by which all is lit.
Stay a moment more—
let my eyes behold You.”

Slowly the call will rise, the thirst, the prayer. What comes for a moment will begin to linger. Your relationship with the Beloved will deepen. Today or tomorrow—or the day after. Patience and perseverance—this is all the seeker needs. The happening is certain. One day the Beloved abides within you forever. The doors open and do not close. In that moment the veil of nirvana falls upon you—you drape the veil.

“The colorless veil of nirvana—rare the wise saint who can drape it.”
Remember—seek this veil. Do not leave this world without it. Without it, your coming was in vain, your going in vain. This veil must be found. It is your birthright; for this quest we came. Awaken this resolve—this quest must be completed. Fill your life with it. And this quest is fulfilled by a single sutra—love.

Come, let us raise our hands as well—
we who do not remember the ritual of prayer;
we who, apart from the fever of love,
remember no idol, no god.

That’s all for today.