Birhani Mandir Diyana Baar #5

Songs rise to the lips with music as their ally, Saqi,
if the heart’s surges learn to be shaped by sorrow.

That tongue—dawn-glow, flower, star, Saqi—
we too could gain, if only we learned how to live.

Speech becomes the art of melody, Saqi;
from every impression a fresh form is cast.

Then nothing remains unsaid, Saqi,
and for every utterance the art shifts again.

Here, too, surge the liftings of such feelings, Saqi,
that lie beyond the spells of word and meaning.

And here, too, take flight the thoughts, Saqi,
that are beyond both the spoken and the unspoken.

Here are all the tender bruises of delicate feeling, Saqi,
and the stinging insistence of coquettish desire;

the stubborn cling of new longings, Saqi,
and the habits of prayers at dusk and dawn;

day and night the heart’s sobbing calls, Saqi,
and within the cradles of the seasons, a thousand fermenting mischiefs;

and these ever-adorned maidens, Saqi,
whose intoxication and loveliness have such facets.

These notes contain many worlds, Saqi—
even those not within the bounds of any creation.

There is that supple, unfolding scale, Saqi,
whose vastness has neither beginning nor end.

Everything is present in this existence. The all is in even a tiny particle. The ocean is contained in the drop. All that’s needed is the seeing eye. In a small scale of notes the entire Om is folded.

You pluck a string on the veena; in that small sound lives also what lies beyond sound. In words there is the glimpse of the wordless; in every voice, the very soul of silence. All that’s needed is the seeing eye.

In the clay body, nectar dwells. In the moment, the eternal glimmers. All that’s needed is the seeing eye. And it’s not even that you lack eyes; you have them—and sit with them shut.

Songs rise to the lips with music as their ally, Saqi,
if the heart’s surges learn to be shaped by sorrow.

On your lips such music can be born—music that no instrument can raise. But a certain art must be learned.

Songs rise to the lips with music as their ally, Saqi,
if the heart’s surges learn to be shaped by sorrow.

If you had not taken sorrow as sorrow; if you had known it, too, as a grace that transforms life; if you had refined yourself in sorrow, polished yourself; if you had not drowned in it but awakened because of it; if you had not lost yourself in sorrow, not filled your eyes with tears because of it; if you had turned sorrow into a refinement, an alchemy—like the fire that makes gold pure—then such music would descend upon your lips as descended on the lips of the awakened.

Songs rise to the lips with music as their ally, Saqi,
if the heart’s surges learn to be shaped by sorrow.

That tongue—dawn-glow, flower, star, Saqi—
we too could gain, if only we learned how to live.

One must learn how to live. Learn the art of being alive. Life is an art—indeed, the greatest art, the art of arts.

People learn music by practicing for hours, for years; only then do their fingers know how to touch a string; only then do the rhythms and cycles awaken on the drum; only then does sweetness rise in the throat—after long, long practice. But you got the sitar of life and never learned to play it. And if only smoke rises from your life—dark smoke, with no flame, no light—whose fault is that?

That tongue—dawn-glow, flower, star, Saqi—
can blossom on your lips—lotuses of speech with the beauty of flowers and the radiance of stars.

We too could gain it if only we learned how to live.

But few are fortunate enough to learn to live. Most assume: I’m born, so all is attained—what more is there to do? I can breathe, I can eat, I run a shop, I sleep at night—everything’s done!

Nothing has happened. You squandered the opportunity; you earned nothing. And here it is overflowing! Yet you gather trash while there are mines of diamonds here! This entire empire is yours—without beginning or end—while you fight and die over scraps.

Speech becomes the art of melody, Saqi;
from every impression a fresh form is cast.

Then nothing remains unsaid, Saqi,
and for every utterance the art shifts again.

There are secrets of living in which the whole thing comes together. There are keys of living where nothing further remains to be said. The secret of all those secrets hides in a tiny act. Open your eyes! The eye is there, the sun has risen. Birds are singing. Flowers have opened. The sky is filled with crimson. Clouds drift over the blue chest of the sky. Such beauty has appeared. But you sit with eyes shut, wrapped in darkness, and you weep because you are in the dark. And the darkness is only because your eyes are closed; otherwise, there is no darkness anywhere. The whole cosmos is radiant. The mystic Yari says: a glittering light! The entire world is made of light. Every particle of it brims with radiance. Yet you wander in alleys of shadow, bruising yourself—falling here, falling there, your knees bloodied. Your state is pitiable. And no one else is responsible. The last irony is: you yourself are responsible. God has given you eyes, yet the freedom to open or close them is yours. You are the master.

Here, too, surge the liftings of such feelings, Saqi,
that lie beyond the spells of word and meaning.

Here arise waves—lofty waves—of feeling far beyond the magic of words and meanings!

Here, too, take flight the thoughts, Saqi,
that are beyond both the spoken and the unspoken.

Experiences are here whose treasure lies beyond what can be said—and beyond what cannot be said.

Here, too, take flight the thoughts, Saqi...
You can fly like that. Such a sky—an infinite sky—belongs to your consciousness. What a rare chance to be alive!

But you collect pebbles; you gather rubbish. You strut atop heaps of refuse. You will weep, you will repent. The day death knocks, you will sob inconsolably. And then nothing can be done. Then it will be too late. You will remember—

Here, too, surge the liftings of such feelings, Saqi...
Here, too, take flight the thoughts, Saqi...

Here are all the tender bruises of delicate feeling, Saqi,
and the stinging insistence of coquettish desire;

the stubborn cling of new longings, Saqi,
and the habits of prayers at dusk and dawn.

Have you seen the morning pray? Have you seen the evening bowed in supplication? Have you watched the moon and stars offering their own aarti? You have not. You have not seen the prayer of dawn. Not the evening’s devotions. Not the descending worship from the stars. Then what are you doing here? What is your achievement here?

Have you seen worship rise from flowers? What is their fragrance if not worship laid at the feet of the divine? Have you listened to the songs in birds’ throats? What are they if not the chanting of the Vedas? Have you heard the tune of wind passing through trees? What is it if not verses of the Quran? Yet you are entangled in books written by men. When will you read God’s book? You have come with all the capacity to read it.

These notes contain many worlds, Saqi.

In a single note there hide uncounted realms.

These notes contain many worlds, Saqi—
even those not within the bounds of any creation.

Within these notes lie worlds not yet created. Worlds waiting to be born, not yet formed.

Even those not within any boundary of creation—the descent of the Infinite, beyond all cosmos, is happening here in every moment—within sunrays, the music of winds, the voices of waterfalls.

There is that supple, unfolding scale, Saqi,
whose vastness has neither beginning nor end.

Every little living note is the resonance of Om. Within it are such secrets and such depths as were never in the beginning and will never be at the end—beyond before and after. Mysteries that overstep all limits knock at your door every moment. But only if you awaken. Only if you open your eyes.

And remember: you are not blind. God has not made anyone spiritually blind. Even if the eyes of the body are missing, still you are not blind. In the spiritual sense there is no blind person—only those who keep their eyes shut. They alone are called blind.

“To the blind, God is an elephant; each touched what he could.
And each explained according to what he guessed it was.”

Sweet are today’s words. Yari says: What is God?

To the blind, an elephant!

You know the Panchatantra tale—five blind men went to see an elephant. They had never seen one, only heard. They had heard many things; when an elephant came to the village, they could not resist. In the same way, you have heard about God, and God has come to the village. But those blind men at least made the effort to go and feel him. You have not even done that. And God is always in the village. It is his village! He lives here. This is his settlement. Where else would he go? He is here, now.

Those blind men were better than you—less blind than you. Their outer eyes alone were ruined; yours within are shut as well. The elephant came to town. They had heard much; when it came, the five blind friends went. The blind are friends only of the blind. The blind avoid those with sight. They don’t want to admit that anyone can see. Because to admit the seer is to admit, “I am blind,” and that wounds the ego. Who wishes to admit, “I am blind”? Even to a blind person we don’t say “blind,” we say “Surdas-ji.” Say “blind” and he will be offended. Politeness manuals warn you: don’t call a blind man blind. We found a sweet word—Surdas.

The blind won’t sit with the sighted. And the blind who will sit with those who can see—he will not remain blind. To associate with the open-eyed is the first step toward opening your own.

So the five were friends—the blind guide the blind. The blind are the leaders, priests, pundits of the blind. Nanak said: “The blind push the blind along.” They are happy with one another, alike; the ego suffers no hurt. But they crucify Jesus, poison Socrates, cut off Mansur’s hands and feet. They cannot tolerate the seeing. They drove nails into Mahavira’s ears. Many attempts were made on Buddha’s life. The blind cannot bear the sighted. To accept that someone sees is painful—because then I am blind. If no one sees, blindness itself does not arise as a question.

Crowds of the blind—always in crowds. The blind cannot stand alone; only the seeing can. The seeing need no support, no crowd, no label—neither Hindu nor Muslim nor Christian. The seer is simply a seer. Does sight have religions? Adjectives?

There are only two castes in the world: the blind and the seeing. No third. All other divisions are false. The symptom of the blind: always in a crowd. Even to see the elephant they went holding one another’s sticks—“the blind push the blind”—off they went! The villagers laughed: How will you see an elephant? You need eyes. The elephant’s being there is not enough.

People ask me: Where is God? No one asks: I am blind—how can I get eyes? They ask: Where is God? As if, if God exists, you will surely see him! You do not ask the basic question. And those who do, need not go anywhere to see God. Wherever they are, opening the eyes is enough—God is encountered. He surrounds you on all sides, as the ocean surrounds a fish. You are a fish in the ocean of God.

Kabir said: I laugh when I hear the fish is thirsty in the ocean! I laugh at your sorrow, not pity. You live in an ocean of bliss and are miserable; in a sea of light and live in darkness. God pours down everywhere and you remain empty because your pitcher is upside down.

The blind went to see the elephant. They did not ask the fundamental question—do we even have eyes? What will you do with an elephant without eyes? The tale is not for children only—remember this. Children read it; the old should understand it. It should be given at convocation, not in the third grade, for it contains the essence of all religion.

They went in high spirits. But they forgot one thing: We are blind. How will we see? They reached and felt the elephant.

To grope and to see are very different. Some things cannot be groped at all—only seen. Can you grope for light? Perhaps your hand meets a stone by groping, but not light—light is too subtle.

The elephant was gross; it could be felt. But God is light—you won’t even touch him. You will grasp anything but God. He cannot be clutched; he is not an object. And yet, even with the elephant, mistakes arose. One caught the trunk, one the tail, one the ear, one a leg.

The blind cannot see the whole. Groping yields a part. Understand this—it is a scientific formula: by groping you get a fragment; by seeing, the whole. If you grope for God you will get a fragment. The scientist says: only matter exists, nothing else. He has grasped a fragment. Matter is a part of God, but God is not merely matter. If my foot is in your hand, it is my foot, but I am more than a foot. In God there is matter—but he is much more. You cannot equate God with matter.

But the scientist is blind; he lacks the inward eye of meditation. He gropes and calls the groping “experiment.” Experiment moves outward; yoga opens the eye within. Experiment is an outer voyage; yoga, an inner. Experiment will bond you to matter, and sever you from yourself; yoga will join you to yourself. And he who knows himself knows all. When the eye opens, the whole appears.

If even one of those blind men’s eyes had opened, the entire elephant would have appeared at once. The one holding the ear was saying: the elephant is like a winnowing fan. The ear felt like a fan. The one holding the leg said: like a temple pillar. But if his eye had opened while his hand still held the leg, the whole elephant would have been seen instantly—that is the art of the eye.

The hand has limits; the eye does not. The ear has limits; the eye does not. The eye can absorb even the infinite. Therefore we call the knower “the one who sees,” and knowing, “seeing.” The method is “insight.” Everywhere languages name the knower from the eye. In English, seer. Not hearer. The ear has limits; the eye contains all the senses. Hence: Believe what the eye has seen, not what the ear has heard. Kabir spoke of “seen-seeing”—what is seen is essential, not book-learned.

Those five blind began to argue. Each spoke truth—and yet each was false. This story condenses all philosophy and scripture. Each was right—and wrong. The one who likened the elephant to a pillar wasn’t lying. His experience was partial. The ego turns the partial into the whole. A fragment in the hand—and imagination supplies the rest. Imagination misleads.

They quarreled. The ego is always quarrelsome. Their fight was not about truth—but about whose truth.

We must forgive them; after all, they were blind. Each had his own “view,” as far as it went. Their sole mistake was to claim completeness.

Someone asked Mahavira: Does God exist? His answer was startling—the answer of a seer. He would have startled you. He said: Yes, he is; and he is not; and he both is and is not; and he is and is not and is inexpressible. Sevenfold answers. You would have panicked. You thought: either he is or he isn’t—end of story. But Mahavira had seen all facets. He had touched ear, trunk, leg, tail—and seen the whole. To those five blind, he would have said: You are right, and you are not right. Each right—and yet about the elephant, your statements cannot be made; the matter is unsayable. You mistook a part for the whole.

Just as their quarrel deepened, so your so-called philosophers have quarreled for ages. No decision is reached—how could it be? Will the blind ever, through debate, arrive at what an elephant is? Not in eternity. Unless one wicked blind gets a sword and threatens to cut off the others’ heads unless they agree. Then perhaps they submit. This is what your religious leaders have been doing—where logic fails, the sword decides. Hindus kill Muslims, Muslims kill Hindus. Is this the mark of intelligence? If this is wisdom, whom will you call foolish?

Where reason fails, people lift clubs. Where it fails to find a way, they cut throats. The darkest stains on humanity are these: We have not seen truth, nor known it, yet we claim it—and dangerously, for our hands hold weapons. Then whoever has the bigger stick “owns the buffalo.”

God has been turned into the blind man’s elephant. What greater insult could there be?

“To the blind, God is an elephant; each touched what he could.
And each explained according to what he guessed it was.”

Whatever fell into a hand—if not the body, even the loincloth of the fleeing ghost! Each seized what he could and began to worship it, insisting: This alone is truth; all else is false. The way is mine; the door is mine. All the while each is secretly pleased.

If it is a door, then all temples and mosques and gurudwaras are its doors. Everyone holds a fragment, but the fragment can become a gateway to the whole. From a single sunray one can find the sun; from the taste of a single drop, the ocean. Today or tomorrow, sooner or later—but people do not go in search of the ocean; they waste their time arguing that “my drop is the ocean, yours isn’t.”

God cannot be guessed at. This isn’t the work of riddle-solvers. Your priests and pundits are the greatest riddle-solvers of all; they have not seen, yet they set out to guess.

Once, in the village of a great guesser—a “riddle-sage”—a theft occurred. The police inspector came, found no clue: no fingerprints, no footprints, nothing. The villagers said: There’s only one way—consult our Riddle-Solver.

The inspector asked: What is a riddle-solver?

“One who solves everything. Whether he knows or not—he solves.” Once, huge tracks appeared; the Riddle-Solver said: “A deer leapt, with a millstone tied to its feet.” He “solved” it. The inspector, having no other lead, met him. The solver demanded secrecy and took him into a cave, whispered: “Take it as certain—a thief stole the goods.” The inspector may have knocked his head: Who couldn’t say that?

This is how all “guessing” is—“a thief stole the goods!” People guess about God. What will a blind man guess about light?

Ramakrishna told of an intelligent blind man invited to eat kheer—sweet rice—he’d never had it. He asked: What is this? A learned pundit said: Kheer. “What does that tell me? Describe it.” “It is white—pure white.” “And what is white?” The pundit, unwilling to give up, said, “Like a heron.” The blind man protested: I am blind! Now you heap riddle upon riddle. Finally, the pundit curved his arm like a heron’s neck and let the blind man feel it. “Ah, now I understand—kheer is like a bent arm.”

That is where guessing ends. Guessing is groping in the dark. What will the deaf guess about music? What will one who has not loved guess about love? And about God? He must be known, not guessed. All dialectics are futile. One must see.

Hence Buddha said: I am no philosopher, I am a physician. I will not tell you about light; I will give you the medicine for your eyes.

Nanak too said: I am a physician. The true Master is a physician. He shows you how to open the eye; or if a film has formed over it, he gives the medicine to cut the film. Yoga, meditation, worship, prayer—all medicines for the film over the eye. He shakes you awake and says: Open your eyes.

You have eyes, but heavy-lidded. You have layered your eyes with knowledge. The Master steals that knowledge so the eyes can become light—so the lids can open without weight.

He takes away all that is burden, so that in weightlessness your eyes open by themselves. Then nothing exists but God.

“Why this fear of separation? You know nothing of yourself.
That which you seek is already in your heart—like the pearl in the wave.”

This illusion of estrangement—truly, separation is only a delusion. We have never been apart from God. We cannot be; if we were, we could not live. We are joined even now. The fish, whether it knows the ocean or not, lives in the ocean and can only live in it.

“Why this fear of separation? You know nothing of yourself.
That which you seek is already in your heart—like the pearl in the wave.”

Whom are you looking for? You do not know yourself, yet you seek God. Your eye is shut, and you set out to see the light.

That pearl you seek lies within you. It is the awakening of your inner seeing; the opening of your inner consciousness; your becoming filled with awareness of your own being.

“Lose yourself in the charms of dawn, be lost in the hues of daybreak.
Slip past the calculus of mind—this splendor is not a beggar to the glance.

Depart without the tumult of doomsday; leave drunk with your own heart.
That cry of naked pain which bears no mark on the brow is no true lament.

The wave that rose from the goblet drowned hearts in rapture;
when it rose in the eye it became light—yet the eye remained unaware.

The pages of the age have turned so strangely that those cushioned in decorum
lie equal to dust—without even a brick beneath the head.

By the life of the sun who nourishes motes, each corner is illumined—
only we are that dark star whose night knows no dawn.”

Needlessly—without cause—you have made your state such that your nights know no morning; night upon night, across lives!

By the life of the sun who nourishes motes...
He is present in every particle. His light hides in every speck; each speck is his sun.

By that sun’s glow every corner is brightened—
only we are that dark star whose night knows no dawn.

We alone are so dark that our night never breaks. But who is responsible? If someone else, you could do nothing. If someone else, religion and yoga would be pointless. Their meaning is that you are responsible. Dawn already is. Morning already is. Only your closed eyes make it seem night.

“The wave that rose from the goblet drowned hearts in rapture;
when it rose in the eye it became light—yet the eye remained unaware.”

What hides in your eye cannot be seen by your eye. You must learn its art. You must fashion a mirror. If you want to see your eye, you need a mirror. Though the eye sees all else, it cannot see itself—what irony! You see everything except yourself. You must create the mirror of meditation. In it your own eye will appear; the first reflection of the inward sky will be glimpsed. From that moment, you are no longer blind. You never were—but now you recognize: I was not blind; I am not blind; I cannot be blind. I was merely sitting with eyes closed.

“To the blind, God is an elephant; each touched what he could.
And each explained according to what he guessed it was.”

Thus did people express what they guessed. So many images of God—and God is one! So many scriptures, so many descriptions—and God is one! One calls him Allah, another Rama, another by other names—God is one. Each spoke as he had guessed.

The seers have not “said” anything about God. You will be surprised! About God, the seeing have remained silent. What have they said? They have given the method to open the eye. They have not described the light—words fail there. It is ineffable. But they can give the method. Patanjali wrote a wondrous scripture, the Yoga Sutra—but there is no description of God. Every sutra arranges for opening the eye. You will know when you know. No one else can know for you.

Truths cannot be handed over. They are not transferable. They must be known by you. Personal realization. But those who have known can tell how they knew. Not what they knew—but how. The paths, not the destination.

Dharma means: path. The awakened show the way. Walking is your choice. Walk, and one day you will arrive; when you arrive, you will know.

I stand at the window. I see the sun. Morning has come. You lie in bed with eyes shut, not far from the window. You ask: Please, from there, say something about the sun—why bother me to get up? You’ve seen it; so I have seen it. Tell me from there; I’ll understand it lying here.

But what can be said? Words will not be sunlit; they will carry no birdsong. They will not hold the colors and fragrances of the dawn-bloomed flowers; not the freshness of dew sliding off leaves; not the blue expanse of the sky; not the shadows of white clouds drifting. What can I say? Call it sunrise—what help is that?

No—nothing can be said. But you can be warned: Get up; it is morning. Wake up and come to the window. You look—and then you know.

“In the house of the heart no flame could be kindled—
even this lamp could not be lit.

Lightning was the heart’s agitation—
but the garden of desires would not ignite.

They did not share the hidden burning—
heart to heart, the lamp would not light.

In the blaze of love, talk of reason—
the heart burned, the brain would not burn.

Hope—where in a hopeless heart?
Doused once, this lamp would not light again.

The burning remains, the sorrow remains—
even burned, the stain of the heart will not burn.

Even their cold kindness was a mercy—
the chest, though scarred, could not burn.

Arsh, what gift had you for the gathering?
You could not glow even like a little lamp.”

Until you yourself flare like a lamp, until you become a lamp, you cannot join with light. Only light meets light. Have you ever seen darkness meet light? They cannot coexist. Where light is, darkness is not. Light meets light.

If you awaken, you connect with the ever-awake God. He never sleeps. Krishna said: The yogi remains awake when those given to pleasures sleep. It does not mean the yogi stands all night. It means: the body sleeps, the inner never sleeps. Inside there is no sleep. The inner eye once open remains open. With that inner eye, relationship with the divine becomes possible.

When the inner eye opens, understand: you are no longer blind. No longer is your God the blind man’s elephant. What you know is no longer borrowed—not anyone’s riddle. It is your experience. Liberating.

I know those who have written big books on God. When I ask: Have you known? they tremble, look away, mumble: No, but we have studied the scriptures. To study is easy; to compile a scripture from scriptures is not difficult. But being educated is not being wise. Learning is not seeing. Then others read their books—books by those who themselves haven’t known. The blind guiding the blind; both fall into the well. And people then live according to these books.

A young monk from Sri Lanka was brought to me. He had lost sleep for three years—no medicine helped. Imagine his wrecked state—so defeated, exhausted, dead-like. I asked: You are a Buddhist monk; are you doing vipassana? He said: Yes. Who taught you? He said: Someone who has written many books on vipassana. I asked: But has he ever practiced it? He had not asked. I said: He never has. Because as he taught you, it is dangerous—you will lose sleep. He didn’t tell you: never do vipassana at night. Do it between sunrise and sunset. Vipassana awakens; some will lose sleep forever if they practice at night. He said do as much as possible; more is more benefit. He was greedy; the teacher was only scholarly. No medicine was needed. I said: Stop vipassana for three months. When sleep returns fully, resume—but only between sunrise and sunset, not more than three or four hours. Even good food in excess is harmful. Buddha taught the middle path. Only a meditator knows the harms of excess.

Your lamp can be lit—by a living Master. By Master I mean one who has known. Not an accumulator of knowledge, but a source. Not one with quotations, but a witness who can say with authority: What I say is my own seeing. Keep his company; let his color soak you. Soon, your God will not remain the blind man’s elephant. Your experience will begin—and experience frees.

“Day and night groping, with the inner eyes put out—
how can the blind be shown in a mirror?”

People grope, day and night. The effort you put into groping—far less would open your eyes. But habit has become nature.

A blind man came to Jesus, tapping with a stick. Jesus touched his eyes—and they opened. He thanked Jesus and began to go, still tapping the stick. Jesus said: Leave the stick. The stick was the blind man’s eye. He had walked with it all his life. Even now, out of habit, he tapped. He said: Without the stick, how will I live? Old habit; he had not yet learned his eyes.

Just so with the disciple. When the Master’s hand touches and the eye opens, the disciple still clings to his books, his scripture, his rituals—his stick. He says: I will continue Ganesh worship; I’ll still go to the temple; I’ll still read the Bible each morning; I’ll still recite the Gayatri. Excusable—he has always done so. He does not yet know he now has eyes.

Day and night, the groping goes on—through the skull. The brain thinks: God is or is not? Some guess yes, some guess no. Beware of both. Both are riddle-solvers. The one who says yes guesses; the one who says no guesses. Neither knows. Therefore, do not get entangled in theism or atheism. Both are sticks for the blind. Be a knower, not a believer or disbeliever. Do not “believe”—find trust. Belief is for the blind; trust belongs to the seeing. Those who have known, trust. Those who merely believe carry behind them queues of doubts. Look within: If you “believe” in God because father and mother and neighborhood do, look behind—questions stand in line. You can suppress them, but where? The more you press, the deeper they sink. On the surface: belief; inside: doubt. It should be the reverse. Inner trust can only arise through experience.

Open the eye of the heart. Be a lover. The lover becomes religious sooner or later. Religion is the transformation of love. Whoever learns love will one day drown in prayer—for prayer is the fragrance of the flower of love.

Day and night groping, with the inner eyes put out.
The eyes of the heart are blind while the skull goes on clattering! All your theism and atheism are in the head, in thought. Religion is born in the heart, in depth, not in the shallow mind.

“The turns of time go to waste,
and the pains grow more arrogant.

Whose breath hides the armies of spring?
Buds burst and the gardens bloom.

Why do the knots of longing not loosen?
The more they open, the more mysterious they become.

Each day a new round, a new hope, a new diversion—
my misfortunes find buyers everywhere.

At every demand, a new regulation rides on us—
souls get imprisoned in words.

Perhaps now love is the name of everlasting despair—
the eyes become guilty of crying.

Perhaps the hope of the clouds clearing is false—
mornings are turning the color of starless night.”

Beware of one thing:

At every demand, a new regulation rides on us—
souls get imprisoned in words.

Your souls are not chained by iron bars, but by words. Your shackles are not metal, but verbal—the cages of scriptures, concepts, beliefs. The cages are beautiful—gold, studded with gems. Words are sweet; theories charming; they soothe. But no one reaches truth by consolation. Whoever reaches truth receives the supreme consolation.

At every demand, a new regulation rides on us—
souls get imprisoned in words.

Perhaps now love is the name of everlasting despair—
the eyes become guilty of crying.

And whoever is trapped in words finds love a despair, a deception, an illusion.

Perhaps the hope of the clouds clearing is false—
mornings are turning the color of night.

The one bound in words finds even morning dark; the one free of words finds even night a dawn. The weight of words keeps your eyes from opening.

Remove the web of words. Learn the wordless. The wordless bridges you to the heart; words bridge you to the head. The more words you collect, the more you stick in the head; the more wordless you become, the deeper you sink into the heart. In the heart, the inner eye opens; the flower of love blooms; its fragrance is prayer; its final flight—God.

Day and night groping, with the inner eyes put out.
How can a mirror show anything to the blind? Placing a scripture before the blind is placing a mirror before him. The Quran, the Bible, the Gita—mirrors all. But what will the blind see? The blind hold these books and cram them by heart.

Scriptures are not wrong. When I say: leave the scriptures, do not think I am against them. I am for them, hence I say: leave them. Do not clutch the mirror; open your eyes. With eyes open, mirrors abound. If there is no special mirror, you can glimpse yourself in a lake—or in another’s eyes. The world is full of mirrors. With eyes, there are mirrors everywhere; without eyes, a house full of mirrors is useless.

The scripture is precious—if you have eyes. The seeing one sees in it what is there. The blind grasps only words and doctrines. The seeing one in the Gita sees what Krishna saw; in the Quran, what Muhammad saw. The blind takes the words—and makes them his own meanings.

“To the blind, God is an elephant...”
He will make even the meanings his own.

A monk asked Buddha: You speak one thing, yet listeners understand differently. Why? Buddha said: Remember last night? A courtesan came, and a thief. After my talk I said, as always: Now go, it’s late—engage in the real work. The monk went to meditate. The thief heard: It’s late—go to your real work. He thought: How did Buddha know I’m a thief? He thanked Buddha and went to steal. The courtesan, too, heard and thanked him: You remember me also! She went to her “real work.” My word was one; the meanings were many.

Meanings are not in words; listeners pour meaning into them. You will read yourself into the Gita. How will Krishna’s meaning become clear to you? Even Arjuna did not get it easily, and he was Krishna’s friend. He took long; much toil. You—five thousand years away—how will you read what Krishna said unless you become Krishna? You hold a mirror but are blind. If you have eyes, any mirror shows your own form. Then, whether Gita or Quran or Bible or Dhammapada—you will find your own face.

Do you think different shapes of mirrors change the face? The frames differ—but the face is yours. Whoever has awakened sees himself in every mirror. I tell you: I found myself in the Quran and the Bible and Krishna and Zarathustra and Mahavira and Buddha, in Kabir and Nanak—and now in Yari. Yari’s mirror is before me, yet I meet only myself and speak only myself.

In a blind man’s hand, a mirror is worthless; in the seeing one’s hand, priceless.

“Even a false solace—let the heart be soothed a little;
even if dim, let at least one small candle be lit.

A shore trembles at the strike of that wave
that grows a few days in the arms of the storm.

Understand the cup-bearer’s helplessness, O parched lips:
the preacher intends that wine find its way among drinkers.

O vision of the Beloved, show a glimpse again—
leave some longing over, even as desires are fulfilled.

For this reason I have told the tale of moths—
perhaps a message of action reaches your ears.

In the tavern of existence, the true drunkard is he
who steadies when he reels, and reels when he steadies.

We understood ‘annihilation’ in ghazal’s meaning so:
the poet’s life itself pours into the verses.”

A poet is not a poet until his life is poetry.

We understood ‘annihilation’ so:
the poet’s life itself pours into the verses.

Only when life itself is a poem is one a poet. Only when life itself is an eye is one a philosopher. Only when life itself is experience do the meanings of scripture begin to open in your hands. Then the scriptures bear witness to you and you to them. Then there is joy—such joy as you can hardly believe.

In the tavern of existence, the true drunkard is he
who steadies when he reels, and reels when he steadies.

A strange paradox: one side, ecstasy; the other, wakefulness. Reading the scriptures, the heart sways, dances in delight; alongside, a self-remembering—spontaneous awareness. This contradiction is one. Such intoxication that the world is forgotten; such remembrance of God that only his remembrance remains. But your eye must open for this to happen. Then temples are no longer temples—they are taverns. Scriptures are no longer scriptures—they become wine—the real wine brewed by Krishnas and Buddhas, not from grapes but from souls. The first condition: your eye opens. Even a small candle will do.

Even a false solace—let the heart be soothed a little;
even if dim, let at least one small candle be lit.

Let it be yours, even if dim. A small flame suffices. A little opening of the eye, half-open—and the seeing begins. But the eye must open.

“You do not know the Root, from which this sprawl arose.
Forgetting that, O fool, you have tangled yourself in branches.”

Yari says: You do not know the Root—your own nature. “Root” is not the spread of trees and stars, but your spread of desires, fantasies, thirsts—the web of dreams you’ve spun. The wise said, “Leave the world”—meaning, leave the dreams, the cravings. But people dropped the marketplace and ran to the Himalayas, thinking the Himalayas are outside the world. Madness. The Himalayas are as much the world as any ground, as much as home, wife, children, friends; an ashram is still of the world. Where will you go? The wise did not tell you to flee the world, but to drop the spread of craving—“Tomorrow I will do this, the day after I will gain that.” Leave the future’s dream; live in the present. The present is the cave of the Himalayas. Do not go beyond this moment. Do not go beyond what is.

You know the tale of the milk-seller with a pot on his head. On the way he spun a kingdom of fantasies: Today I’ll sell the milk; we’ll fast a day, save money; buy a hen; sell eggs; buy a cow; then a buffalo; soon I’ll marry; children; children’s children. In fantasy he grew old. A grandchild pulled his beard—he shouted, “What are you doing!” and his hand left the pot. It fell; with it fell the whole world—no cow, no buffalo, no wife, no children, no grandchildren. He touched his face—there was not even a beard. He hadn’t grown old.

This is the world the wise speak of—the web of imagination.

“You do not know the Root, from which this sprawl arose.”

You do not know your inexhaustible bliss; hence, like a beggar, you weave fantasies. Today is sorrow, so you dream a golden tomorrow. This life is hell, so you hope for heaven after death; you bathe in Ganga, perform hajj, donate—hoping. What you have not found here you will not find anywhere; what is elsewhere is here, too. It is all one continuum. Wake from the net of dreams. Do not spin them.

Forgetting the Root, O fool, you tangle in branches.
Seek the root—within. The essence-string of all life is within you. Search a little, and you will be astonished: needlessly you stretched a begging bowl—you are an emperor; emperor of emperors; the King of kings—amritasya putrah, child of immortality.

“On love’s road there comes a stage
when the destination salutes the traveler.

The heart we blame today for constant ruin—
this same wretch serves us in bad times.

At the sight of me, the cup-bearer’s glance stirs;
at the mention of me, the goblet trembles into ecstasy.

The world asks the cause of the world’s unrest—
why does your name come to my lips?

I see the soul drawing up into the eyes—
is it a message from someone who forgets me?”

Look once within, and you will be amazed: the destination you were racing toward comes to salute you.

On love’s road there comes that stage:
the destination salutes the traveler. The devotee need not go to God; God comes to the devotee. He always comes—if the devotee becomes silent within, still, absorbed, surrendered. Then the Saqi’s glance stirs at the sight of you.

At my mention, a brimming goblet is placed before me immediately—no delay. Nectar rains. It is raining—only we, fools, keep our cups upside down. The nectar pours past; we remain empty.

There is only one thing to be done by the wise: enter this truth—Who am I? Where is my source? Whence comes this consciousness? Who is the witness within me—who sees sorrow and joy, success and failure, health and sickness, honor and insult? Find this seer—and you find the root.

But we search leaf by leaf, branch by branch—and find nothing. The roots are hidden below, in the inner dark. Your roots are within; your branches are without. As long as you look outward, you will be ensnared in branches.

“One does not behold one’s own form within oneself.
Says Yari: How will the blind ever find the elephant?”

One does not behold one’s own form within oneself.

The simplest thing—we have made needlessly hard. First see yourself; then set out to see anything else. You are closest to yourself; if you cannot see here, what else will you see? Knowing must happen first at the innermost. There the flame must appear.

One does not behold one’s own form within oneself.

What an upside-down man! He does not look within at his own form—and runs everywhere, knocking at countless doors, begging from door to door, suffering insults—while the source of dignity lies within.

Says Yari: How will the blind ever find the elephant?

How blind you are—the elephant is within. It is already attained. What you are seeking is already there. You have never, for a single instant, lost it. What you seek—you are. Tat tvam asi. The seeker and the sought are not two.

“No one can tell me where my destination lies;
Where I am, no angels cast their shadow.

Love is never done, it happens—
this flame flares on its own; you cannot kindle it.

Even in poverty, I am ashamed to beg—
being a supplicant, I cannot hold out my hand.

You are the garden; spring lives through you—
before you, flowers cannot wither.

Every thread of longing I press to my heart—
wealth that comes home must not be refused.

For love, a few hearts are set apart—
this is a song not sung on every instrument.

Love, in truth, O Makhmoor, is the secret of reality—
understood, yes—but it cannot be explained.”

When you understand your inner truth, do not think you can explain it. No one has ever explained it.

Love, truly, O Makhmoor, is the secret of reality—
understood—and yet it cannot be explained.

What then does the Master do? He does not explain; he awakens. He arouses thirst. He reminds you: Go within. He calls you: Go within. No one can drag you there. He coaxes you with love: Go within. He tells sweet tales: Go within. He sings great songs: Go within. For once a person has gone within and glimpsed his own light, a second birth happens. He becomes twice-born. Tat tvam asi.

Enough for today.