Birhani Mandir Diyana Baar #6

Shivanand! Questions cling to the mind the way leaves cling to trees. Questions arise in the mind the way ripples arise on a lake. If there is mind, there are questions. As long as there is mind, there are questions. And as long as there is mind, the answer will not be found. The mind is the obstacle to the finding of the answer. The mind is skilled at raising questions, and incapable of discovering the answer. Where the mind is not, there the answer is. And understand this: the questions are many, the answer is one. Questions are infinite, but the solution is one.

You asked rightly. Your questions arise out of stupor. Only from stupor can questions arise. In an awakened consciousness there is no possibility of questions. The awakened consciousness does not see the world as a problem. For the awakened consciousness the world is a mystery, not a problem. If it is a problem, a solution must be sought. If it is a mystery, one must dance, enraptured, in its nectar.

Mystery means: that which will never open by opening, never be solved by solving. Its very nature is to remain unsolved. Mystery is not the unknown that can one day be made known; it is the unknowable—it will never become an object of knowledge. The mystery will remain mystery.

The awakened person begins to live this mystery. In that living is poetry. In that living is music. The very name of that life is prasada—grace. Then no waves arise. The lake becomes forever still. No leaves of questions grow there. Questions are not born.

So you are right: your questions and my answers will not meet anywhere. Nor is there any intention that they should. No aspiration is needed that they meet. My answers are not answers to your questions. I do not want to give you answers; I only want to rob you of your questions.

Understand this distinction.

The pundit gives you answers to your questions; the knower steals your questions and leaves you without questions. These things I am saying are not answers. They are only nets, cast to catch the fish of your questions.

As you come closer to me you will find: questions are being snatched away, falling away. No answer comes into your hand; questions keep disappearing. And a moment comes when you are questionless, with no question left. In that questionlessness alone is the solution—samadhi.

And that solution is one, while the problems were many. The diseases were many; the medicine is one. Health is one; only diseases are many. There are not many kinds of health; its taste is one. When you become healthy… pay attention to this word swasth—so lovely. It means: when you are swa-sthita, established in the Self. When you are absorbed in yourself, merged in yourself, then all questions vanish. A lamp is lit within, the darkness without disappears. Then there is only mystery—mystery beyond mystery. You climb one peak of the mystery and find another peak calling you. You open one door of the mystery and ten new doors appear before you.

Then life is a wondrous joy, because there is no boredom in it. Each moment you meet the unexpected, you meet the stranger. Each moment, astonished, awe-struck, you set out on a quest.

The purpose of my answers is not to answer. The purpose of my answers is to put your questions to death. Understand this distinction well, and you will also understand why I say to you: ask—ask as much as you want to ask. Because the more you ask, the sooner your asking will be exhausted. If you keep them suppressed inside, questions will continue to arise within; out of shyness you don’t ask, out of politeness you don’t ask—but they keep burning within, and you go on pressing them down—they will never be destroyed. Let your fish come to the surface, so that they can be surely caught in the net.

Beware of those who give you answers! Go with those who steal your questions. Because those who give you answers make you a Hindu, a Muslim, a Christian. That is the result of answers. You clutch one answer and you become a Muslim; clutch another and you become a Jain; clutch a third and you become a Sikh. This is the grip of answers. An answer means a doctrine, a scripture, a belief.

I take away beliefs, I take away scriptures, I take away answers. Whatever has coiled up in your mind, I want to free you from it. I want to empty you of all that junk and rubbish, to make you a zero. When your inner house is perfectly empty, it is clean, it is virgin. Only in that virgin mind, that virgin consciousness, does the divine arrive. If you remain a Hindu you will miss; if you remain a Muslim you will miss; if you remain a Christian you will miss. Yes—if you become religious, you will cross over.

To become religious means: to drop questions. All questions are futile. But if you accept this merely because I say so, they will not drop; they will be repressed. They will sink into the unconscious, hide in the dark corners beneath your awareness—they will not be erased.

Ask—ask to your heart’s content—so that I can go on beheading your questions one by one. How long can you go on? Today or tomorrow, sooner or later, you will awaken to find that all questions are futile—and all answers too. When questions themselves are futile, how can answers be meaningful?

Then, I do not give you answers. Those who give you answers want to become masters of your conduct. They want to bind you into some spiritual slavery. They want you to walk according to them; they want to be your owners.

I do not give you answers, because I do not wish to be the controller of your conduct. I give you freedom, I give you independence. Let your conduct well up from within you, the way flowers blossom on trees. Let your conduct blossom! Become your own master!

This is the meaning of sannyas: that you become your own master. Hence a sannyasin is called Swami—master of oneself. Your so-called old-style sannyasins are not their own masters; they are slaves—bound in very subtle bondages. I am declaring your mastery. You are not to live by obeying my word. Who am I that you should obey me!

My words are only a device to cut away your words. As with one thorn you remove another, and then throw both away—so let the thorns of my words pull out the thorns in your mind, and then throw both away. And when you are free of thorns, a fragrance will arise within you, a music will arise, a nada will arise. I want to awaken that nada which sleeps within you. I do not want to give you anything; I want to awaken you to what you already have. Let recognition dawn.

Take the resonance, not the string!
Fill yourself only with the shimmer of light,
let this eye-lamp grow dim;
of the path’s resplendent peaks
take the aura, not the form!
Take the resonance, not the string!

Let me not be dry before the brimming ocean—
even if I become but a single drop;
of the longings within my depths
take their horizon, not the world!
Take the resonance, not the string!

Let the straws turn to ash if they must,
but let the worn-out branch not snap;
to raise the palace of the mind
take the hope, not the prop!
Take the resonance, not the string!

I do not want to give you answers, I want to give you resonance; not words, but the shock of the wordless. I do not want to give you knowledge; I want to call forth the meditation within you that lies asleep—if it hears the call, it will awaken. And if it awakens, all is done. The answer to all answers arrives. The solution of solutions is samadhi.

Take the resonance, not the string.

What is the difference between resonance and string? The string is gross, the resonance is subtle. The string can be grasped; the resonance cannot be grasped. Catch hold of the string and you remain on the surface. Catch the string and you will be bound—the string becomes a chain. Resonance enters your very life-breath. And resonance sets aquiver the resonance already asleep within you. Resonance is liberation.

Do not take my strings, my words. Do not be concerned with what I say; be absorbed in what I am.

Take the aura, not the form!

If you take the form, you are bound. Take a form and you enter a prison. Take the aura! The halo that surrounds a lamp cannot be clutched in a fist, cannot be locked in a safe. But if you look at it with full eyes, your eyes will begin to shine. If you drink in that aura, you too will become luminous, you too will be filled with light.

Take the hope, not the prop.

I only want to awaken a hope within you. You have become very hopeless. As the life you have received and the life you have lived has been, only disappointment has come to your hand. You have lost trust in yourself. You do not have confidence in your own being. How could you? Success has not come. Joy has not been attained. Songs have not burst forth. Music has not awakened. You heard the word love, but you did not taste its flavor. In temples bells kept ringing, in mosques the azan kept sounding; within you no tone of prayer resounded. You have not thanked the divine. How could you? You feel you have received nothing worthy of gratitude.

Your life is a dry stream—a desert river: no water at all, only dryness. Into it I want to pour a little current, I want to awaken a little hope. I want to tell you that what you are—you have not yet recognized it. You are emperors, living as beggars! All is yours, and you walk with a begging bowl! Of whom are you asking? The master of masters—of whom is he asking? What are you asking for? You run after petty desires—while the Vast is yours! You weep for the transient—while the Eternal is yours, the Everlasting is yours! Esa dhammo sanantano! Your very nature, your dharma, is eternal. It has no beginning and no end. The kingdom of God is within you!

Take the hope, not the prop.
Take the aura, not the form.
Take the resonance, not the string.

May my music touch and awaken the music that sleeps within you. That is why I say: ask—ask to your heart’s content. Answers neither exist nor do I want to give them, nor can I give them. But I can put your questions to death. That is what I am doing. Morning and evening I am engaged in nothing but sweeping away your questions. When this trash is cleared, the gold within you appears. It can happen any moment. The moment you are ready to drop the garbage of knowledge, the flame of meditation is revealed.

Remember the distinction between philosophy and the experience of vision. Through philosophy you do not find God. Philosophy will give you beautiful words, definitions, theories, knowledge—but not awakening. Like a blind man hearing about light, or a deaf man being explained music. The experience of music is another matter. The realization of light is another matter.

God is not found through philosophy, because God is an experience, not an inference. And philosophy is only inference—arrows shot in the dark. If they hit, it’s a hit; if not, it’s a guess. But even if an arrow shot in the dark hits the mark, you don’t become an archer. If it hits by coincidence, that’s another matter. Sometimes it does. The philosophers’ arrows also sometimes hit—by chance. If someone keeps loosing arrows in the dark, tossing them in every direction, one or two will hit. And then, what of the clever ones! They go about it very calculatingly.

I have heard: an emperor was passing through a village. He was a great archer. He had his chariot stopped, because he saw arrows embedded here and there in trees, and targets painted. And every arrow was exactly in the dead center of a white chalk circle. The same on house walls, on the fences around the barns, and on the trees. He was astonished. Never had he seen such an archer, whose every arrow pierced the very center of the target—down to the last grain, absolutely exact! He said to his men, “Find out who it is. I have been shooting arrows all my life, yet once in a while one misses. I have become ninety-nine percent accurate. But in this village there is an archer who is one hundred percent accurate. I want to see him, touch his feet, bow my head. I have seen great archers, but where has this village hidden such a diamond! In what rag is this diamond concealed? Find out.”

The men ran off and asked around. People laughed. “Forget it,” they said. “Tell the emperor to move on; don’t get lost in nonsense. He’s just a madman of the village.” The emperor said, “Mad—and such a flawless archer! Then he is even more worthy of honor.” They said, “You don’t understand. First he shoots the arrow; then he goes and paints the target.”

If one shoots first and draws the circle later, the arrow will always be in the center. Guesses sometimes come out right. But guesses are guesses. Beware of them.

It is a conjecture!
To every corner of the world,
to the very edge of dissolution,
man will go on trafficking in love!

It is a conjecture!
When imagination has dissolved,
when practice has been transcended,
only then will the entire universe turn into music!

It is a conjecture!
A few new discoveries are displayed,
curiosity grows ever more—
and ignorance in the world keeps on expanding!

It is a conjecture!

Perhaps conjectures only soothe the itch of our mind; nothing more happens. Philosophy is like scratching an itch. There may be a little pleasure in scratching, but the itch won’t end—it will increase!

Hence the philosopher keeps on asking; from one question ten more arise. From questions more questions keep emerging. The end never comes.

Study—yes, you can study philosophy. If your only aim is study, then philosophy is worth studying. Beyond that, everything is superfluous. Philosophy is the scripture of scriptures. If you want the pleasure of study, to go into the subtleties of words, to examine the logic of theories, to acquire the skill of debate, to cultivate the ability to split hairs—then philosophy it is. But God is not found through it. God is not found through the speed or sharpness of the intellect. God is found through the flowering of the heart. God comes to you through the heart’s door, through the door of love. God is an experience—the supreme experience.

This is the difference between religion and philosophy. Religion gives vision in the form of experience; philosophy offers conjectures about truth—truth should be like this, truth should be like that. Groping in the dark, one manufactures definitions.

You ask: “You said God is not found by studying philosophies.”

God is not in scriptures, not in doctrines. God is present as existence. You may meet him through the trees, through the moon and stars, through the hills and mountains, through the waterfalls, through animals and birds—but not through scriptures. The Divine is hidden in his nature. This nature is his veil. Lift the veil. These twinkling stars are the spangles sewn on his veil. Just lift it—and you will meet!

But if you think that by wrangling over words you will one day attain the Divine, you are attempting the impossible; you will repent much.

The philosopher does not find God in debate;
he keeps trying to untangle the cord, but never finds the end.
Gnosis of the Creator in this world is very difficult—
when in the city of the body one cannot find even one’s own address.
O God, let the boat of the heart fare well on the ocean of being;
helmsmen are found—but the God-intoxicated is not found.
Those in whose company life’s savor was tasted—
now I cannot even find the place of their graves.
The capital of outward polish has been spent to the last coin—
no wonder inner clarity is nowhere to be found.
A well-tempered nature is not affected by events—
in the mountains, no footprints remain.
Let the Sheikh befriend the Brahmin a hundred thousand times;
without singing devotionals, not a coin will the temple give.
The philosopher does not find God in debate;
he keeps trying to untangle the cord, but never finds the end.

Philosophy is the craft of making tangles, not of untying them. The discipline of untying is yoga. Its method is not thought, but meditation. The journey of resolution is religion. Its method is not doubt, but trust. And if you would find God you must be ready for an extraordinary event: to disappear. God is not found without dying to yourself. Until the ego goes, God does not happen.

And philosophies greatly nourish the ego. Erudition is an ornament upon it. No one’s ego swells as much as that of the so-called knower. And the so-called renunciate hones so subtle a blade of ego as no other possesses. Others’ egos are blunt; the egos of renunciates and pundits are sharp-edged.

God is found by dissolving. When khudi—selfhood—melts, Khuda—God—is found.

Why this uproar—just because I have had a little to drink?
I have not committed robbery, I have not done theft.
Such are the words of a preacher without experience:
what would he know of this color—ask him if he has ever drunk.
I seek not that wine from which the heart remains estranged;
my aim is that wine which draws one into the heart itself.
O yearning, drink that wine; O reason, sleep a little—
the guest of the gaze right now is a lightning of theophany.
There—let the heart take a couple of shocks; here—endure it all:
their heart is a strange one, and my life too is strange.
Every particle shines with the light of the Divine,
every breath says: if we are, then God also is.
A blemish on the sun—these are caprices of nature;
let idol-priests call me infidel—that is God’s will.

God is found by drinking—by a nectar that pours within; not squeezed from grapes, but from souls.

Why this uproar—just because I have had a little to drink?
And whenever such a drunkard appears in the world, there is great commotion—because pundits and priests are sorely troubled.

Why this uproar—just because I have had a little to drink?
I have not committed robbery, I have not done theft.

This drinking happens within.

Such talk comes from preachers without experience.
What would they know of that color—ask if ever they have drunk.

This hue of the Divine belongs to drunkards—those who drink. And to drink, the price must be paid: to efface oneself. This wine is not cheap. This tavern does not admit you for free. You must lose yourself. Only those who melt themselves gain entry.

I seek not that wine from which the heart is alien;
I seek the wine that is pressed in the heart itself—
which becomes an aura around you, a radiance of beauty, the birth of grace.

If you disappear, you will discover that God is no “other” at all—the royal secret hidden within you.

Do not seek in scriptures. To seek there is to search the deserts. Seek in the garden of the soul. Descend within. Dive into this inner well. There you will find the springs of nectar. There—and only there—have they ever been found, whenever they have been found.

Hiten Satyarthi! However much I pour, it will only increase the thirst—it will not diminish it. My effort is precisely this: that the thirst be so enflamed that nothing outside can ever satisfy you. Only then will the delusion break. Only then will you awaken. Only then will this dream shatter. Let the thirst grow so intense that, like a tongue of fire, it catches; let it flare up in you. Only then will you awaken. Anything less and you will not awaken. If you remain lukewarm, nothing will happen. Only when you boil will you awaken.

You have noticed: as long as a sweet dream continues, sleep does not break; with a nightmare it does. If in a dream you have fallen from a mountain and keep falling and falling, a moment comes when, terrified, your eyes open. Or as if someone has placed a rock on your chest and you are being pressed and pressed—there will come a moment when the eyes open.

Only the pain of thirst breaks dreams; nothing else can. Therefore the true master is the one who stirs, awakens, enflames the pain of thirst within you, who gives it fuel—and keeps adding fuel to you so that your flame does not go out, so that you become the flame, so that you are absorbed in the flame.

Here lies the difference between the true guru and the false. The false guru offers consolation, satisfaction; he does whitewash. He says: Don’t worry, all is well; have faith, all will be well; be quiet, don’t cry, God knows everything. He is the merciful, the compassionate one. His grace will descend. There may be delay, but there will be no injustice.
These are the sayings of false gurus: there will be delay, but no injustice! The false guru gives not truth but consolation. And so great crowds gather around false gurus, because everyone is eager for consolation. Someone to apply balm and bandage, to cover the wound, to wipe away the pain, to induce forgetfulness; someone who, if only for a little while, drowns you in hymns and chants so you forget the net of worries. The wounds are oozing, aching; someone lays roses over them so they are no longer visible. Someone deceives you so that you can live in that deception. This is your demand, your desire.

Therefore with a true master only the brave gather—you could even say the reckless. Because he will remove the flowers laid upon your wounds. Far from giving consolation, he will snatch even the consolations you have. Far from giving contentment, he will inflame discontent. For until the thirst is so enkindled that only thirst remains—so that you do not even know that “I am,” that there is even a “thirsty one”—only thirst remains! When in your one-pointed tune only a single thirst remains—for the divine—just in that instant, the happening happens.

You ask, Hiten: “You make us drink so much every day, and yet instead of being satisfied the thirst keeps growing day by day.”
That is the very purpose. You have come to quench your thirst; I sit here to fan it. I do not want to extinguish your inner fire. If your fire dies, you become a corpse. Your fire is your very life. And your fire is your possibility of finding the divine. I want you to grow and grow. Let the smoke vanish; let a pure flame remain—a smokeless flame! In just that instant the union happens. Then there is fulfillment.

Fulfillment happens within; I cannot give it. I can give unfulfillment. I can increase unfulfillment. And at the very fullness of that unfulfillment, fulfillment occurs.

There are some things that are never obtained by asking, because they already exist within you. Asking means: outside. Your gaze is fixed without. Do not fix your gaze on me. Take hints from me and turn your eyes within. The lake is within you; the honey-urn is within you.

We do not receive even two drops of love when we ask.

Dreams lie about us like the desolate shadows of night,
Longings lie as though forever now estranged,
Such darkness has spread that clouds of fear have gathered—
We do not receive even two drops of someone’s tenderness when we ask.

Neither does the song become complete, nor is the heart’s friend found;
The one who would clasp life to life—that mind-conqueror—is not found;
The Swati drops are restless, yet no oyster is found;
We do not receive even two loving words when we ask.

On every side draws near the half-extinguished thirst of an extinguished mind;
Sobbing, echoing, the crushed thirst of life;
Forever in each breath spreads the sound of separation—
We do not receive even two drops of affection when we ask.

By asking, nothing has ever been gained. Unasked, pearls are given; by asking, not even bran. If you ask, you will gain nothing; it is through asking that you have gone on losing. Do not ask from me either. Ask from no one. Awakening is within. Because that which you are asking for is present within you. You are the honey-urn!

Neither does the song become complete, nor is the heart’s friend found;
The one who would clasp life to life—that mind-conqueror—is not found;
The Swati drops are restless, yet no oyster is found;
We do not receive even two loving words when we ask.

Who has ever received it? When has it been attained? Nothing comes by asking. Asking is not the way of attainment. But people go on asking, and keep on and on. You ask from the world; then, when you detach from the world, you start asking from God—but the asking continues.

I want you to drop asking, drop beggary. Let lust not take the form of prayer.

Give me just one particle!
Of the honey-sweet enchantment of fulfillment, give me one particle.
Give me just one particle!

You are a sky-piercing peak; I am the brink of a desert.
No spring has yet burst in me, no current of life flows yet.
In the direction set aglow, I receive your hint,
Bursting forth, all fountains give their sap upon your support—
Of the resonant sap of life, grant me a single blade!
Give me just one particle!

What you have not given till now—I have endured it all;
On the scorching rocks of thirst I burned, yet did I ever complain?
When, brimful with fulfillment, the mirage itself was drowning,
With fire pressed within my chest I still remained a god—
Grant me a single instant of the quenching of thirst.
Give me just one particle!

Whether you look at me or not—what then of love?
If the cloud of dusk never comes, what is the night of union?
That you are an ocean of giving—how would I even know?
If he who spoke not in the blaze offers you no salutation, what is that worth?
Grant me the tender, shaded shelter of your dark coolness.
Give me just one particle!

Will you go on begging? Birth after birth you have kept begging. Drop begging now! Now the thirst is not to be quenched from outside. Quenching it from outside was the mistake. Now the thirst must be tended within. Now be filled with thirst; do not ask. Fall silent in the direction of asking. Let the lake of thirst become dense. Let the energy of thirst gather—so that only thirst remains, from toe to crown. The moment your every particle is thirsty, the moment your whole life-breath is thirst—in that very moment the event happens, the revolution happens. It happens in a single instant. One world is lost—the world of desires, of mirages! And another world dawns—the world of great fulfillment, the realm of sat-chit-ananda! Call it moksha, call it nirvana—call it what you will!

Hiten! I make you drink precisely so that your thirst may awaken. This is not an attempt to quench thirst; it is an effort to inflame it. Therefore those who have come for consolation have come to the wrong place. Only those who have come in search of truth will reach me. Those who have come in search of consolation will, sooner or later, part ways. No connection can be forged between them and me. Consolation is worth two pennies. If anything is to be had, let it be truth.

And with the coming of truth, a contentment arises. That is another matter altogether. There is a contentment of the poor-in-spirit. The principle of the pitiable man’s contentment is: “The contented are always happy.” This is the effort of the unhappy man—he keeps strapping on contentment to weave a hope of happiness.

There is a contentment of the poor-in-spirit, and there is a contentment of the fulfilled, the over-fulfilled. Its definition is: “The happy are always content.” There, happiness comes first; contentment is its shadow. In the poor-in-spirit, contentment comes first; happiness is a shadow. That contentment is imposed, superimposed; it is a device to forget sorrow.

You can forget sorrow, but the sorrows you forget keep returning. Transformation of life is not so easy.

I do not tell you to forget sorrow. I say: become aware of it. This is the very purpose of sorrow. This thorn pricking in life—be awake to it. Do not erase this pricking. Do not take sedatives to forget it. And the devotional singing and chanting that have been taught to you till now are only sedatives, tranquilizers. They give relief for a little while; then the same world of sorrow begins again as it was. Such relief you have had many times—what do you gain? Only time is being wasted.

No, I do not want to satisfy you, nor do I want to console you. My purpose is to give you a turning, not contentment. To give truth, not consolation. And truth cannot be given; only let your thirst be complete, and truth reveals itself within.

Swami Chinmaya Yogi! Surely, those who have come to me have not come without cause, not accidentally. Behind it lies a long search, a long quest.

A relationship with me can arise only for those who have been seeking for lifetimes. No relationship is possible for the so‑called religious, for whom religion is but a formality; a kind of sociality; a kind of display; something inherited by birth. By chance they were born in a certain house—by coincidence they are Hindu, or Jain, or Buddhist. By the same coincidence they go to the temple, because they were taken there since childhood. A program has been installed in the mind to go to the temple. A tape of conditioning has been inserted within. So they can chant “Ram, Ram.” When trouble comes they even remember God and pray. But neither does the prayer touch the heart, nor does the remembrance of God touch the heart. They bow in the temple and yet do not bow at all. The ego remains hard and stiff. Sometimes they even get a Satyanarayan story recited—reputation in the village increases, people begin to think they are religious.

And the more people think you are religious, the more license you get for dishonesty, the more scope you have for hypocrisy. The more they take you as “a good man,” the less they doubt you. And where there is no doubt, their pockets can be picked more easily, they can be robbed more easily.

So religion becomes part of your shop. You have made it a wing of your business. Such people cannot be related to me. I can relate only to those whose religion is not a matter of accident; whose religion is a long journey, a long quest; who have been groping, falling and rising, seeking for lives upon lives.

You are right, Chinmaya Yogi: “Not knowing by what power of merit, by what thread of love from births upon births...”

Surely, bound by some thread of love you have come. Those who are taking a dip in this Ganges of sannyas, my connection with them is not new. That is why they can gather so much courage. There is a recognition from life to life; that is why they can have such trust. Otherwise to trust a man like me is exceedingly difficult. I am making it difficult in every way for you to trust me. I am not fulfilling your expectations so that it remains hard to trust me. All my effort is that faith in me becomes almost impossible. Even then, whoever can trust will not have come casually. Even then, whoever can see me, will not be deceived, and will still be able to say, “I know you; do what you will, you cannot shake my recognition; I know you—take up any disguise you like, I will still recognize you”—it is only with those few that I want to be related.

This is a great experiment; it is not for crowds. I have devised many ways to avoid crowds. There are so many rumors about me that the crowd‑type person cannot even peep through the gate here. Only one whose search is endless, indomitable, who is ready to lose everything—reputation, honor, social face—only he can come.

You have arrived—perhaps having heard some call, some challenge! Till now you have been seeking. Perhaps your steps were not right, so the goal was not found. But if even mistaken steps are taken with the right longing for the right goal, then if not today, tomorrow the goal must be found.

Remember this: even wrong steps are right if taken in the hope of the right goal. And even right steps are wrong if taken in the hope of a wrong goal. One who wanders in search of the true path does not really wander. And one who keeps to proper roads yet aims wrongly never arrives. The question is of intent.

I got more entangled and more disentangled I became,
Who knows from where to where I have come!
I walked without knowing the way,
Only heard someone tell its story.
Neither the goal has yet appeared to me,
Nor any sign of the road’s direction.
I kept wandering, kept faltering,
Who knows from where to where I have come!

Wherever I stopped, there was no shore;
Wherever I bowed, there was no support;
No voice of affection, no flame of love,
Wherever I called, wherever I gazed.
I kept rejoicing, kept testing,
Who knows from where to where I have come!

To say a thought—my lips trembled,
To grasp a thought—my hands trembled;
I began to run—my steps began to stagger,
The trembling voice of the heart shivered.
I kept hesitating, kept stopping short,
Who knows from where to where I have come!

A shut‑in life never pleased me,
I am not a pearl set in gold;
I remained shattered among grains and grains,
The more I scattered, the more I shone—a true gem.
I kept scattering, I kept refining,
Who knows from where to where I have come!

I got more entangled and more disentangled I became,
Who knows from where to where I have come!

Those who, wandering along countless roads, entangled in countless thorns, suddenly arrive at my side one day, cannot quite believe that the temple has been found. They are left speechless; for a while nothing occurs. For a while only wonder remains, as if the breath is arrested.

Yet there is the recognition: the home is found, that which was sought, and now something can happen. You have come prepared. For as many knocks as you have received, so prepared have you become. You came prepared—therefore you could accept my invitation. This invitation is not for cowards. It is not for the so‑called clever and cunning. This invitation is for the courageous. This invitation is for the madly in love.

The sky has called me to the far shore—leave the path; I must go!
When some dreadful restlessness makes the life‑breath tremble,
When the lonely night of new moon takes the sacrifice of lamps,
When my companions are burning in the flames of a wayward silence,
When the singer, the hero, the accursed—sleep has been robbed from all,
What do you know of the joy of walking—you who shrink from a moment’s heat?
The sky has called me to the far shore—leave the path; I must go!

With the memory of a lost tempest the dusk descended on the shore;
What dream is greater than the thirst of a parched soul?
The wildness of life surges, today like a deluge;
Again I go, in haste, to the ocean with a solitary rapture.
Where is the time—even to remember how many gardens returned to dust?
The sky has called me to the far shore—leave the path; I must go!

A lifelong draught of nectar did not quench that rare desert‑thirst;
In a town smitten by attachment, my soul remained thirsty.
Who remembers in the whirlpools—the bonds of the shores seem false;
Open the windows! Open them! I am filled with flames.
The solitary night kept waking—the shadow of pleasure and pain has slipped away.
The sky has called me to the far shore—leave the path; I must go!

Until now you have been walking along certain paths. Hearing my call, hearing my invitation, now you must leave all paths. Now you must be free of paths. You will be startled when I say: leave the path—and the goal is attained at once! Truth is a pathless path. The goal is not reached by roads; roads make you lose the way. One who drops all paths and sits, who drops walking itself and sits—he arrives.

I teach you to sit. I teach you one art only: how to drop running. Let neither body run nor mind run—just in that instant is meditation. When the body is still and the mind is still—no ripple in the body, no ripple in consciousness—only in that unmoving state does the harmony fall into place, the goal is attained. Then you see the goal was already present; it was my running that made me miss it.

Lao Tzu has said: Seek, and you shall keep losing. Stop seeking, and you shall find.

You heard the call; you came. Now make it your concern to understand. For now the most important moment of your life begins. You have taken sannyas—this is not something superficial. Those who don’t know, who have never drunk, who have never tasted, think it is only on the surface—dying the clothes, wearing a mala, changing the name. This is not on the surface; it is from within. Outwardly it is only a declaration to the world. A declaration—because even a declaration helps; it gives rise to struggle; it puts you into difficulties. With the declaration, a thousand disturbances from outside will begin. Those very disturbances I call tapasya, the real austerity. And one who can sit silently in the midst of all those disturbances—only he can arrive.

I do not tell you to renounce the world. I say, in the very marketplace you shall meet the divine. I do not tell you to be a fugitive; for I hold that the world is the very challenge through which the divine is attained. One who, in conflict with the world, can remain calm—his calm is true. And one who, being in the world, is a sannyasin—his sannyas is true.

The sannyasin who runs away is like this: A newspaper, celebrating its centenary, advertised across the country that the most virtuous person should write to them; whoever is judged the most virtuous will be honored. Thousands upon thousands of letters came. One letter was chosen. The writer said: I neither drink nor smoke; I don’t chew betel; I eat no meat, not even eggs; dry bread and a little vegetables, whatever there is; even if there are pebbles I don’t object; however much there is, it is enough. I do not steal. I do not cheat. I do not plunder. I do not abuse anyone. I do not go to the cinema, to hotels, to gambling dens. The list went on growing—and at the end he wrote: just a few more days; once I get out of here—then you shall see. He was writing from jail.

If virtue arises in a prison, what’s the wonder in that? What is the value of a prison’s morality? And those whom you have called sadhus and saints are imprisoned in a subtle jail—self‑made, built out of your expectations and their egos.

A Jain muni cannot gamble—where would he gamble? The lay followers keep watch twenty‑four hours: Where is the holy man? They sit around camped like guards. Jain monks wish to come meet me; they send word that they want to, but they cannot, because of the laymen. If they come to know, our prestige will be reduced to dust. Some have come—stealthily. A Jain muni has to come to meet me in secret! Such fear of the lay followers! And the fear is natural: if expectations are broken, honor instantly turns into disgrace.

A Jain nun used to come to meet me. Jain nuns’ mouths smell, because they are not to brush their teeth. Jain monks’ mouths and bodies smell, because they do not bathe. But there was no odor from her mouth as she sat close and talked. I said: all else later—first tell me why your breath does not smell. She said: what can I hide from you! She quickly took out toothpaste from her bag and showed me—hidden under scriptures.

Toothpaste has to be used secretly! If the layfolk discover, the monk is corrupt! Gambling and wine are far away—Jain monks even hide Coca‑Cola. I know, therefore I say it. What kind of character is this? What is its value? Not worth two pennies! If they cannot bathe, they soak a cloth and rub the whole body in secret. Even that is forbidden. But bathing would show—wet hair, someone would ask what happened. So a handkerchief is dampened and the body rubbed—a sponge bath! But that too is against the scriptures, so it must be done in secret!

To safeguard such a character is only to fulfill people’s expectations. The blind expect, and those you think are the seeing comply. If the seeing fulfill the blind, then the seeing are blinder than the blind. One who is awake cannot fulfill your expectations; he will break them in every way. Yet the seekers of truth—perhaps because there is someone who does not fulfill your expectations—are drawn. Only the seekers are drawn. The others, who relish getting their expectations met, who want to be the owners of others’ character—outwardly they look like disciples, but they are gurus over the guru, because the guru moves watching the disciple, lest he be displeased, lest he leave, lest he declare that the guru is corrupt, that he brushed his teeth, we saw it with our own eyes, that he bathed, that he ate twice.

The guru who follows the disciple’s whims is a worthless guru. The saint who walks behind society is no saint. Around a real saint only a few can gather—those ready to stake everything, the gamblers.

You have come—surely by the power of some merit. Now that you have taken sannyas, declare your freedom, for sannyas means freedom. Do not make your individuality an imitation. Refine your individuality as you are. You were not born to fulfill someone else’s expectations. You were born to fulfill your own soul. Whether honor or dishonor comes, welcome or insult—don’t bother.

There is only one way to attain truth: hold honor and dishonor as equal. Move in your own tune. Rise in your tune, sit in your tune. Do not care what the world says or does not say. Keep only one remembrance within: whatever I do, let me do it with awareness; whatever my awareness bears witness to, that I do; and what my awareness does not witness, that I do not. Even if the scriptures say, Do it, but my awareness says, No—then the scripture is wrong. Even if the scriptures say, Do not do it, but my awareness says, Do it—then the scripture is wrong. Where scripture accords with my awareness it is right; where it goes against my awareness, it is worth two pennies—no value.

Awareness is the scripture of the sannyasin. That is his touchstone. It is within you. To be a sannyasin is to decide to live with awareness.

And you say well:
May the vine of grapes remain, from which the wine is made.
May this clay remain, from which the wine‑cup is formed.
May these drinkers remain; may this tavern remain.

The tavern always remains; people change. Drinkers change, pourers change; but somewhere on the earth the tavern remains. That is why man can live. That is why a little fragrance remains in human life. After so many wars, so much violence, so much politics, so much fraud—still there is a slight shine in human eyes, a certain dignity. Because of whom? Because somewhere on earth taverns keep running where the divine descends, where nectar showers from the sky—sometimes a Buddha, sometimes a Mohammed, sometimes a Jesus, sometimes a Zarathustra. In some corner a few mad ones gather and call upon God. God rains! He has been raining! Because of those few, there is salt in life; otherwise you would have become tasteless long ago. Because of those few, the earth is still green; otherwise you would have sunk back into animality. Because of those few, man is honored and still retains the capacity to spread his wings toward God.

I will not remain, you will not remain; the tavern will remain. Drinkers will change, pourers will change—the tavern keeps running. Now it appears here, now there; now in this form, now that—but the tavern does not die.

Rabindranath said: Whenever I see a child being born, my body‑soul bows in gratitude to God. A voice resounds in my heart: O Lord, you have still not lost faith in man! Another child is born! So you still trust that man will come to his senses! You have still not abandoned hope!

Looking at man, God should have abandoned hope long ago. After Hitler, what was left to see? After Stalin, what was there to see? Nadir Shah, Timur, Genghis Khan—long ago God should have given up hope about man.

Rabindranath is right: every newborn carries the news that God remains hopeful. And this too happens in a larger sense—God keeps sending his wine to be shared in this world. Hope has not left. Man will awaken—this is the trust. When, may not be certain, but awaken he will. If some have awakened, all can.

When one person became a Buddha, that was a declaration that all can become Buddhas. If you listen now, good; if not, then tomorrow or the day after. If not from this Buddha, then from another Buddha. If you cannot drink in this tavern, then in another tavern you will. Taverns keep arising, descending. Places change, people change; the music of this world is the same, one and the same.

God is seeking you; it is only you who are not seeking him. The fire has not lit from one side alone; it burns from both—and then there is joy. You seek God; God seeks you. When the fire burns equally from both sides, union happens. And wherever union happens, there a tavern is born. Wherever the divine meets a seeker, where a devotee is lost in God and God is lost in the devotee—that is where a tavern opens.

“Madhushala”—tavern—is a lovely word! Whenever a temple is alive, it is a tavern. When a tavern dies it becomes a temple. The names of dead taverns are: temples, mosques, gurdwaras, synagogues... These are dead taverns. Once upon a time streams of nectar flowed here. When Mahavira was, it was a tavern; when he left, the Jain temple remained—a corpse.

When Jesus was, it was a tavern—dance, celebration, drinkers and pourers; the cups overflowed. When Jesus departed, the church remained—a dead tavern. There are no drinkers now, no pourers—only a memory to be carried.

When Nanak was, it was a tavern. When Nanak left, the tavern left. Now there is no guru, only a gurdwara. And without a guru, what gurdwara? Whose door? Only a door remains—inside, nothing.

In Turkestan there is Mulla Nasruddin’s grave. When he died, he made a strange will: Build my grave thus. The tomb still stands outside Bukhara. Those who pass by look and are startled. He had ordered: Put a door on my grave—only a door! Hang a big lock on it, bury the key with me, and write on the door: Entry without permission is forbidden. And there is no barrier to entry at all—only a door, no wall, no enclosure. The grave is open on all sides; enter from wherever you like—yet on the lone door hangs a lock and the sign forbids entry. Whoever passes is startled, stops a moment—what is this? Strictly no entry—yet nothing blocks the way!

Mulla played a fine joke—his last joke.

So has the gurdwara remained—only a door; no inside. The treasure is lost, the fragrance gone. Press flowers in books—roses dry and remain. People do it; often you’ll find dry roses in Bibles—no fragrance, no color, no life; nothing remains. No stream of sap—just a dried rose pressed in a Bible.

I was a guest in a Christian friend’s home. I opened his Bible and found a dried rose. I said, “How apt!” He asked, “Why do you say apt?” I said, “Because as this rose is, so are the words of the Bible—dried roses. On Jesus’ lips those words were alive! Only on Jesus’ lips could they be alive; they are such words that can be alive only on the lips of one like Jesus, on no one else’s. On his lips they were like a rose upon a living bush—roots drinking the earth’s sap, leaves drinking sunlight, breezes passing and the bush breathing—and the rose blossoming. On Jesus’ lips, the words were like that—sun’s light within them, the earth’s sap within them, the breath of the winds within them. God throbbing inside them. You have done well to keep a dried rose in the Bible; it is the symbol of your entire Bible.” When I returned later, he had thrown the rose away. I asked, “Where is it?” He said, “Since you said that, I felt restless; whenever I opened the Bible and saw that rose, I remembered your words. I threw it away.” I said, “What will that change? The words of the Bible are still dried roses.”

All scriptures are dried roses. When the Gita is on Krishna’s mouth—then it is sound, unheard music, words raining from the divine. When Muhammad sings the Qur’an—what melody, what manner of expression, what presence! And when a priest repeats—where is that?

When taverns die, temples, mosques, churches, gurdwaras remain—graves. Those who go there are also dead. A living person seeks a living temple—some Jesus, some Mohammed, some Mahavira, some Krishna.

Step carefully in the assembly of drinkers, O ascetic;
Here turbans go flying—this is called a tavern.

Here scriptures are set on fire and reduced to ash. Great beliefs are shattered.

Here turbans go flying—this is called a tavern.

But whoever still has a little life in him does not miss such an hour.

You hesitate to drink in the springtime?
You too, Nisaar—what notions hold you back!

When spring is here, forget the vows you swore—forget fasts and rituals. When spring stands at the door, be mad with ecstasy; who knows when spring will return—and whether you will be here to greet it!

The call to prayer is sounding—pour quickly, cupbearer;
Let me worship today, intoxicated.

Prayer without drinking? Whoever prays without drinking—his prayer has no wings. It will not fly; it will flutter and die on the spot.

The call to prayer is sounding—pour quickly, cupbearer—
From the mosque the adhan begins; the drinker says, “Pour quickly!”

The call to prayer is sounding—pour quickly, cupbearer;
Let me worship today, intoxicated.

Let me be wholly absorbed in prayer.

Spring has come—drink, O Sufis, drink the wine;
Enough of the prayers—fold up the prayer rug.

How long will you keep spreading the prayer mat and doing your namaz? Namaz is performed by laying out the musalla just so, bowing just so—an arrangement, a method, a prescribed rite. But—

Spring has come—drink, O Sufis, drink the wine;
This is no time for procedures and formalities!

Spring has come—drink, O Sufis, drink the wine;
Enough of the prayers—fold up the prayer rug.

When you meet a Jesus or a Mohammed, a Bahauddin, a Jalaluddin Rumi, a Mansoor, a Kabir, or a friend like Yari—know then:

Enough of the prayers—fold up the prayer rug.
Throw away these garments and rites; take your friend’s hand. Become the Beloved’s friend, so that the Supreme Beloved may be found.

That era is gone now, O cupbearer, when drinkers sipped in secret;
The whole world will become a tavern; everyone will be a wine‑lover.

This is the Buddha’s hope: that if not today, then tomorrow there will be no need to drink in hiding; the whole earth, all people, will be wine‑drinkers. In that hope Buddhas have spoken, speak, and will speak. This whole earth must become a tavern. And when someone, enraptured, dissolves into the divine, then one knows.

Your thought, your remembrance, your memory gave such delight
That wherever a footprint appeared, there I bowed my head.

The delight is such that one who has tasted the divine will bow even in a temple, even in a mosque, even in a gurdwara. Leave those aside—even to a footprint on the road, he will bow, for now he sees nothing but the divine everywhere.

So on the one hand I say, do not get entangled in temples and mosques; on the other hand I also say that the day you drink, that day all temples and mosques are yours. On one hand I say, do not get entangled in the Qur’an and the Bible; on the other I also say, the day you know—drunk and lost in love—then the Qur’an is yours, the Bible is yours, the Gita is yours. For then your lips become Krishna’s lips; whatever flute you play will be Krishna’s flute. Then your lips become capable of singing the Qur’an.

Your idol‑house too is yours, and the Kaaba is yours;
In both houses the radiance is yours.

Then it becomes one thing.

Your idol‑house too is yours, and the Kaaba is yours;
In both houses the radiance is yours.

Then only light matters; who cares whether it is a temple or a mosque! Once the light is seen, who cares whether it burns in a lantern, in a clay lamp, or in a golden one? Then it does not matter who made the lamp. Once you have seen the flame, you see only his light everywhere—the green in trees is his light; the red in the rose is his light; the stars and moon are his light; he is hidden in your eyes.

I speak so much of the Beloved
That people think I am in prayer all eight watches of the day.

Then there is prayer twenty‑four hours; who will lay out the mat? Within, the whisper goes on, the humming continues.

I speak so much of the Beloved
That people think I am in prayer all eight watches of the day.

Conversation flows; lips tremble; the flute keeps playing. All day and night an undercurrent begins to flow—of prayer, worship, adoration.

While the eye relished sights, I was a worshipper of forms;
When it learned to remain closed, I tasted the joy of Reality.

Then you don’t need to open the eyes to see. Open them—his creation; close them—O Master! the Creator. The pleasure of closing the eyes is far greater than that of opening them. To look at the painting is one thing; to see the painter—altogether different. To hear the music—and then to see the musician! The sound of anklets—and then to see the dancer!

The Sufi mystic Rabi’a sat inside her hut. Morning had come. Hasan, her guest, came out and called, “Rabi’a! What do you do sitting within? Come out! See how lovely the sun is. The clouds are sweet. The morning breeze is so fresh. The birds’ songs are so melodious. Come out—why sit inside?”

He had not imagined the answer. Rabi’a laughed and said, “Foolish Hasan! You come in—what are you doing outside? The sun is lovely, yes—but I am seeing the One who made the sun! I am seeing the hands that fashioned it; the eyes from which the sky was born. I am beholding the Master. You see His kingdom; you see His expanse; you see His radiance—I see His supreme light. Hasan, foolish Hasan! You come in!”

They say the sound of Rabi’a’s voice became a revolution in Hasan’s life. As if he were shaken in a single instant. He went within, sat with eyes closed. The first taste of samadhi descended that very day. The wound was struck; the thirst was born. Truly: however lovely the sun, however lovely the flowers and the birds—after all, this is His play, His overflow, His creation. What must the Creator be like? He accepted the challenge.

You say truly: May these drinkers remain; may this tavern remain.

It has remained, it will remain. Yes, drinkers will change, pourers will change, but the process continues. This is why religion is eternal.

First thing: as long as there is a hankering for results, prayer will never be fulfilled. Or say it this way: as long as there is a hunger for results, no result will come. Prayer must be pure, free of outcome, empty of the desire for fruit. At the very least, make prayer empty of fruit-expectation.

Krishna even says: do your business without desire for the fruit; fight your war without desire for the fruit. You can at least do this much—that prayer be free of the hunger for fruit. At least let prayer remain sacred! Do not load it with the stones of expectation. If you place the stones of craving upon it, the bird of prayer cannot fly. You have tied a rock to the bird’s neck.

Now you ask: “If prayers bring no results, what should we do?”

Prayers simply will not bring results so long as the mind longs for results. Prayers do bring results—but only when there is no desire for results. You must understand this paradox. It is religion’s most intimate event, the secret of secrets. The one who asked remained empty; the one who did not ask was filled.

I understand your difficulty, because we have been taught to pray in order to beg. People remember God in misery; who remembers in happiness? And the sages have said: the one who remembers in happiness—he receives. But to remember in happiness means that now there is no craving. Happiness is already there; what is there to ask?

When someone prays in happiness, prayer is only thanksgiving. When someone prays in sorrow, there is a beggar’s note in it. You are going to meet the Emperor as a beggar—you will be turned back from the doors. The guards will not let you enter within. If you are going to meet the Emperor, walk like an emperor. Walk with the Emperor’s gait!

What is the Emperor’s gait? No lust, no craving; there is the joy of life and gratitude for that joy. What has been given is so much—what more to ask? So much has been given without asking! A deep sense of gratefulness—that alone is prayer.

But I do understand your hitch. It is the hitch of many—of the majority. When prayer is not fulfilled you begin to doubt God. What a joke! You do not suspect prayer—“Is there some mistake in my praying?”—you suspect God.

People come to me and say, “Our prayers are never fulfilled; births have gone by! Then is there even a God?” Doubt falls upon God. Notice the joke! You do not doubt yourself—“Is there some mistake in my praying? If the boat is not moving rightly, could there be something wrong with my oars?” Instead, you begin to doubt whether there is another shore at all.

But keep this in mind: if a river has one bank, whether or not you can see the other, it will surely have another. No river has only one bank. The other bank’s name is nirvana; this bank’s name is the world. Between the banks of the world and nirvana this inner stream, this Ganga, flows. But if you do not row rightly, the other bank will never arrive.

There was a fakir, Bayazid. One of his disciples asked, “I try every means, but they come to nothing. I have begun to doubt whether God even is.” Do you know what Bayazid did? He took his disciple along and said, “Come with me to the lake. The night is lovely, a full moon; we will row a little and your question will be answered as well.”

Bayazid sat in the boat and picked up the oar. To row a boat you must work both oars; he began rowing with only one. The boat started going in circles. If you row with a single oar, the boat will go round and round. It cannot reach that shore. The disciple began to laugh. He said, “What are you doing? Are you making a joke? This way we shall never reach the other bank.”

Bayazid said, “Do you doubt that the other bank exists?”

He replied, “How could one doubt the other bank? The bank exists. If this bank is, the other also is! Does any river or lake have only one bank? The other bank is there; there is no question of doubt about it. You are trying to row with one oar; that is why the boat keeps circling. The boat becomes a vicious circle!”

Bayazid picked up the second oar as well. Now the boat began to move—like an arrow. Bayazid said, “This is what I wish to tell you: the effort you are making toward God is half-and-half. You are trying to row with one oar. Half your mind is entangled with this shore; half your mind wants to go to that shore. You are half-and-half. You are lukewarm. That is where the trouble lies. And that is what we have been taught—a lukewarm life.”

Now you even went to pray, and you mixed desire into it—so it became half-and-half. Drop this halfness. If you must desire, desire totally—then even total desire is benedictory, auspicious. If you must pray, pray totally—total prayer is auspicious too.

Sharpen the savor of desire.
Intensify the bitterness of the cup.
Under the wall the heat is too low—
raise the rooftop flame higher.
Make fiercer, morning and evening,
that heat which makes the blood weep.
For the completion, the ripening of passion,
sharpen the raw craving.
Let failure end with us—
intensify even the failing effort.
The road itself conspires with twists and turns—
hasten the conspiracy of your steps.
We do not like slow-going—
quicken the dance of days.
Lest time’s whirl drown us somewhere,
spin the goblet faster.
“Akhtar,” in your playful verse,
deepen the hue of Khayyam.

Bring speed. Bring totality.

Sharpen the savor of desire—
if desire you must do.
Intensify the bitterness of the cup—
if you have gone to drink wine, then pour more. Do not fear the cup’s bitter taste now.
For the ripeness of ecstasy—the madness must be complete; it too has a maturity of its own.
This will not do with half-baked greed. If you indulge, indulge wholly; and if you pray, pray wholly.

We do not like slow-going.
What is this shuffling along? One leg here, one leg there! One wing here, one wing there!
We do not like slow-going.
Quicken the dance of time.
Let not time’s whirl drown you—hurry! Bring swiftness!

And a unique event happens when something reaches its completeness, its full velocity. At a hundred degrees water turns to steam. Bring anything to its hundred degrees and your ego will begin to evaporate. And where the ego dissolves, there is prayer.

There was the tavern, there was moonlight—I was not.
A solid statue of ecstasy stood—I was not.
When love was breathing its last—you were not.
When death was beating her head—I was not.
The One who touched you upon Mount Tur—
that was my madness; I was not.
When the Beautiful sat close by,
it was the savor of nearness—I was not.
At the bend of the tavern, pausing,
it was a thirst of ages—I was not.

When the thirst is truly slaked, then you are no more.

At the bend of the tavern, pausing,
it was a thirst of ages—I was not.
Gather the thirst of births upon births. Let that turn and go to the tavern—do not you go!

There was the tavern, the moon, the moonlight—but you were not. In that very instant the moment of turning arrives.

When you are, from you arise cravings, demands, expectations. And where there is expectation, there prayer is never fulfilled.

You ask: “If prayers bring no results, what should one do?”

Your hitch is clear. Not yours alone—almost the whole world’s hitch is the same. Let go of the hunger for result. Only pray. Prayer is its own goal. Otherwise you will weep. Otherwise you will repent forever. And slowly, weeping and weeping, doubt about God will arise. After all, human endurance and patience have their limits!

If our fidelities cannot avail, what should we do?
If we cannot forget the faithless one, what should we do?
I confess—there is power in prayers;
if prayers do not reach the Throne, what should we do?
If it were the matter of a single day, we could forget;
but if every day calamities descend, what should we do?
Borne on darkness is my world of love;
if we do not steal torches from the stars, what should we do?
All night we count the stars in their memory;
if even by day the stars appear, what should we do?
For the memory of our days of joy we wept much;
if now we smile and forget, what should we do?
Now the heart would try to forget them—
but if they return again and again, what should we do?
In the credibility of promises lies some balm for the heart;
if we are deceived again, what should we do?
Let the renouncing of fidelity be called love’s crime, “Akhtar”—
if even fidelity begins to be punished, what should we do?

Obstruction will come—if you ask, obstruction will come. Then the question will arise—

If our fidelities cannot avail, what should we do?
If we cannot forget the faithless one, what should we do?
I confess—there is power in prayers;
if prayers do not reach the Throne, what should we do?

If your prayers do not reach the sky, then look at their necks! You have tied very large stones to them. You have snatched away their capacity to soar to the sky. Stones cannot fly.

Demands are heavy, because all demands are worldly. Whatever you ask will be worldly, small, petty. What will you ask? Money? Position? Health? Long life? A beautiful woman? A man? Sons? Money—what will you ask? All these are small, earthly things. They are boulders. The throat of prayer will be choked. Then your prayers will never reach the sky.

Let the asking go—and then see the wonder! Drop the demand—and then see the wonder! No sooner is prayer offered than it arrives. As prayer rises, it showers such nectar! In that very moment the doors of mystery open. You are effaced; only God is.

You ask: “What should one do?”

Pray again and again; pray more and more. Now pray without the outcome.

We made covenants with longing that never reached their end;
we kept company with night and day, yet did not reach month and year.
Our glances never joined to encircle Beauty—
the means for your vision never reached your mole and dimple.
The very spring of abiding was what all mistook for a mirage,
the truly trustworthy dreams were those that did not reach the mind’s conceiving.
Your grace is the cause of calm, not the catalog of grief,
for in the heart there are those complaints that have not reached even regret.
Some friends passed beyond life; some never passed beyond mere awareness—
these companions of one or two oceans never reached my condition.
Come, Faiz, let us set the heart aflame, present once more our plea to the Beloved—
let the words that reach the lips not harden into a question.

What should one do, you ask?
Come, Faiz, let us set the heart aflame, present once more our plea to the Beloved—
call upon the Beloved again; set the heart alight again. Make your very life-breath an offering. Pray to the Beloved once more. But now—no outcome. Now prayer is its own goal.

Come, Faiz, let us set the heart aflame, present once more our plea to the Beloved—
let the words that reach the lips not harden into a question.

Prayer is not in words. The other name of your inner emptiness is prayer. In prayer you bow down. What remains to be said? What is there to say? Words are small; how will prayer fit into words? There is neither demand, nor words—there is a feeling of surrender. There is a state of offering. There is a bowing. In that bowing everything is attained.

You will keep missing as long as you keep asking. Now drop the asking. Now, just for once, drop the asking and see. Taste this prayer I am pointing you to!

Come, Faiz, let us set the heart aflame, present once more our plea to the Beloved—
let the words that reach the lips not harden into a question.

Call once again. Pray again. Learn a new mode of prayer; adopt a new style.

Prayer for the sake of prayer—then there is no hindrance left in prayer. Then prayer itself becomes God!

Enough for today.