Birhani Mandir Diyana Baar #7

These winds, this tender shade of stars—
Ah, this heady tang, this coolness, this ache, this velvet hush.
The luscious echo of the past keeps drifting, floating.
Branches grow heavy with beads of dew.
Moonlight has slipped down from the brow of the hills.
This dense night, this fragrant, melancholy air;
The lovely hues of that far-off pool’s tableau—
As if the blue sky lay stretched upon the floor,
As if this moonlit night were lost in prayer.
A burdened scene wrapped in a smoky-grey mist;
In the hush of flowered earth, these notes, this melody—
These rocks, these chiselled gems of nature;
The crisp voice of cool, soft winds.
The long weight of separation—a messiah, in whose hands
Even the very style of the heart’s aching changes.
Trees stand in the needle-fine dust, quietly, at the corner.
Fireflies fly like the lick of dampened flames.
As stars fill the lap of thick bushes,
Sacred fragrances of shadows keep spreading.
The green’s earthy flames turn from side to side.
This sizzling night, this music, this finery of stars—
Who will hear the innocent tongue of nature?
Who knows when a rainbow will descend into the human eye?
O my swaying, preening earth, turn over.
Let the heart of every speck throb—listen for the footfall.
From the mountain’s fold the algoza’s wave resounds:
Some shepherd, nursing an aching heart, lies awake.
How pain-drenched the notes, how devout this alap—
Like wounds along the life-vein beginning to shine.
The moon bends, its rays bright, arrow-like—
For what swayamvara does it yearn to be convened?
A rhythm steeped in the sleep of ritual-dumb forests;
Through the veins of the scene, the night-heart’s air speaks.
In half-open buds the dew’s damp shimmers;
This air loosens the knots of honeyed buds;
This cool night rolls pearls out of the stars;
Dusky moonlight, tipsy, spills over—
In these winds a blush of rose spills over.
Far away, little flames of lamps tremble;
The roadway, with sleep-heavy eyes, looks on as if to say:
Let no light-footed guest be put to shame,
Let no blame fall upon the customs of the path.
That glittering disk atop the vault is no moon—
It is the night-serpent, head raised, embroidered with mica-thread.
Over the song, a drunken silence swells;
The rippling moonbeam sways and rises.
This lifted ache, this twilight, this twinge, this redolence;
Dulled wings folded over stellar bodies.
In the sky’s deep blue they dissolve like water;
The dew-kissed cheeks of the breeze take on a hue—
Is it not the spilled, crystalline blood of dawn?
A fragranced veil of golden smoke has spread.
Perhaps the fair East’s fortune is waking;
Perhaps my beloved earth is waking.

Nature is the manifest form of the Divine.
If God is the soul, nature is the body.
If God is the lover, nature is the beloved.
If God is the singer, nature is the song.
If God is the player, nature is the instrument’s music.
And if God is the dancer, nature is the dance.

Whoever has not recognized nature has never, and will never, remember the Divine. Whoever has rejected nature, denied nature, has gone so far from God that union becomes impossible. If you do not glimpse Him in flowers, you will not find Him in stone idols. If His light does not show in the moon and stars, what light can the ritual lamps in a temple, lit by human hands, possibly give? And if, when the winds pass through the trees, you do not hear His footfall in their song, then your hymns and kirtans are all in vain.

A devotee’s first bond is with nature. From this first bond with nature, a bridge to the Divine becomes possible. Nature is His doorway, His temple.

You have desired God, but you have kept denying nature. That is why God has been longed for through centuries upon centuries and yet not found.

Your prayer turns false because there is no scent of love in it, no ring of love, no whisper of love. Your prayer turns false because it rises from your lips but not from your heart. You may become a poet, but you do not become a seer. Somehow you fit words into meter, but your very life does not sing in those meters. The essence of your love, your prayer, your life-breath does not permeate your verse. You may even play the vina, but no life enters it. You may wave the arati, and yet you remain just as you were. Your dust does not fall away, you do not bathe inwardly, you do not become new, you do not turn fresh. No new flame, no new awakening enters your life. How many times have you gone to temple and mosque to pray! How many doors have you banged your head on! Still nothing happens, and life is slipping from your hands.

And God is so close you cannot imagine it: the very winds are His, circling you; when you breathe, it is He; when your heart beats, it is He; when you rise, it is in Him; when you sit, in Him; when you wake, in Him; when you sleep, in Him. You have eaten Him, you have drunk Him, you have wrapped yourself in Him—He alone is!

But your so‑called religious teachers have taught you enmity with nature. There they set down between you and God such a mountain, dug such a chasm, that crossing it is impossible, spanning it with a bridge impossible—because that by which the bridge could be built is precisely what has been denied. Nature is the bridge.

So if a greeting does not spontaneously arise in your heart at the sight of the morning sun, your namaz is false. If rapture does not flood you upon seeing the night sky filled with stars, your prayer is not worth a penny. When waves dance upon the ocean and you do not also leap into dance, you will never grasp the meaning of religion. You may understand the scriptures, you may grasp the words, but the meaning will be missed.

Today’s words of Yari are about friendship—about prayer. And the first thing I would say to you about prayer is this: only sensitivity to nature will slowly fill you with awareness of That which is hidden, veiled, unmanifest.

You can memorize the sayings of the Upanishadic seers. They are lovely sayings, and committing them to memory will please you. But it will be the rote of parrots. You will become a pundit, not wise. Something essential will be lacking. Something will be missed. The words will be the very ones in the Upanishads, but from where will you bring the life? From where the soul? From where the eyes?

If only it were so easy that by reading the Guru Granth you would become a guru! If only it were so easy that by memorizing the Quran, God’s message would resound within you! The world would long ago have become religious; the whole earth would be filled with religion. It is not so easy. God cannot be had on loan.

When religion is alive, it is cash. And cash means: it must arise from your heart. The voice must come from the very life of your life. Do not impose prayers from above; awaken them within. This is the difference between a true master and a false one. The false master lays a prayer upon you—hands you a ritual. The true master awakens your very life, plucks at your strings. He brings to birth the notes lying dormant within you. He draws out and polishes what is already there inside you, introduces you to what you do not know yet is your own.

Koshishe nama-o-paigham baja hai lekin
Fursate nama-o-paigham kahaan se laaoon?
Daure paimana-e-ishrat hai bahut khoob magar
Badale gardishe ayyām kahaan se laaoon?
Inqilabāt-e-shabo-roz ke ghamkhane mein
Zulf-o-rukh ki saharo-shām kahaan se laaoon?
Saari duniya mujhe betāb nazar aati hai—
Main tere vaaste ārām kahaan se laaoon?
Jis taraf dekhiye weirāni si weirāni hai—
Shauq-e-tazeen-e-dar-o-bām kahaan se laaoon?
Tu hi keh de ke teri nazre-mohabbat ke liye
Ashiqi ki hawas-e-khām kahaan se laaoon?
Shaayari khud meri fitrat ka taqāza hai magar
Masti-e-Hafiz-o-Khayyam kahaan se laaoon?

The efforts of letters and messages—fine; but where shall I find the leisure for letters and messages?
The rounds of the goblet of pleasure are splendid; but in exchange, where shall I bring a change of fate?
In the tavern of the revolutions of night and day,
From where shall I fetch the mornings and evenings of tress and face?
All the world seems restless to me—
For your sake, where shall I find repose?
Wherever I look there is desolation upon desolation—
Where shall I find the urge to adorn lintel and roof?
You tell me: for the glance of your love,
Where shall I bring the raw lust that passes for love?
Poetry is indeed the demand of my nature—yet
Where shall I bring the intoxication of Hafiz and Khayyam?

You too can craft songs; they will be mere rhymes.
Where will you bring the intoxication of Hafiz and Khayyam?
You may even compose the rubaiyat of Umar Khayyam, yet the bottle will be empty—the wine absent. And no matter how precious the bottle, studded with gold and diamonds, if there is no wine within, it is worth two pennies. Such are your prayers—pretty, sweet, glittering, bedecked—but nothing within.

The rapture of Hafiz and Khayyam can arrive, but it will not come from outside. There is a spring within you. It is from that very spring you are alive. That spring is your consciousness. It must be brought to the surface. Someone sleeps within you; you must call to him, challenge him. And when he rises, a servant of God is born—and servitude, loving devotion, is born.

Bin bandagi is aalam mein, khana tujhe haraam hai re.
Without devotion in this world, even eating is forbidden to you.

Yari says: if prayer does not arise, living is utterly futile.

Bin bandagi is aalam mein, khana tujhe haraam hai re.
Then even a single breath is a burden; even eating becomes forbidden. For without devotion, where is life? Devotion is life. All who have known have said this, unanimously. The wise are of one mind—and what is their agreement? Where there is devotion, there is life. Without devotion, you are carrying a corpse. You are dead. You may walk, stand, eat, sleep—do not imagine you are alive. You have been given birth, not yet life. And if birth has been given, death too will come. But between birth and death, life is not inevitable. Life must be kindled. Birth is an opportunity. Death is the loss of that opportunity.

Very few use the opportunity. The earth lies bare; roses are never planted. Plant roses and they will take root. Put in the labor and the earth will be filled with fragrance, a perfume will be released. Put in the labor and the earth will grow colorful, turn bride, drape herself in green saris. Red blossoms will shimmer. Scent will ride the winds. There will be merriment, ecstasy, celebration.

Or the soil may simply lie fallow. It may even be that you had seeds, you had earth, there was no lack of water—yet everything remained barren, wasted. You never put seed to soil. You never watered them. You never remembered that life is not given; it must be made. It is creation.

Words everyone has, but not everyone is a poet. Legs everyone has, but not everyone is a dancer. Fingers everyone has—yet the vina does not play by itself. And I tell you, everyone has a vina; and still your life holds no music, no rasa flows through it. You have taken birth to be the whole of it.

Birth is precious, but its value lies only in becoming life. Life must be fashioned. Life is an art. Life does not come by itself. Life is sadhana, labor. Without that sadhana you will pass your days and keep the illusion that you lived—but you will have been deceived. True birth happens when you experience the God hidden within you. The journey into that experience is devotion. The name of that journey is prayer.

Bin bandagi is aalam mein, khana tujhe haraam hai re.
Plainly put, Yari says there is only one thing of value: prayer. And what is prayer?

Chhanti hui nazron se jazbaat ki duniyaan—
Bekhwabiyan, afsane, mahtaab, tamannaayein—
Kuchh uljhi hui baaten, kuchh behke hue naghme,
Kuchh ashk jo aankhon se bewajah chhalak jaayen.

Through a sifted gaze, whole worlds of feeling—
Sleeplessness, tales, moonlight, longings—
Some tangled talk, some stray songs,
A few tears that, for no reason at all, spill from the eyes.

What is prayer? A few tears that, uncaused, overflow from the eyes in a hush of wonder.

A few tears that, for no reason, spill from the eyes—
Some tangled talk, some wandering melodies.

Prayer is not arithmetic; it is love—not calculation, not logic. And you have made even prayer a calculation. You have devised accounts for havan and yajna, turned them into rituals.

Some tangled talk—
When you become absorbed in speaking with Existence; when you talk with trees, converse with moon and stars; when you greet the sun at dawn—

Some tangled talk—
Such talk will be tangled indeed. The “sensible” do not speak with moon and stars. The sensible count rupees, hoard coins. The sensible chase rank—ambition, success, fame: these are their true destinations. The simple talk to the moon and stars. Simple ones fly in the sky even without wings.

Prayer is conversation, dialogue. When sunlight filters through green leaves—do you not feel like speaking with it? Have you never felt like embracing a tree? On seeing a flower bloom, have you never felt like dancing beside it? If not, you will miss. Then your life is haraam—accursed—because there is no Ram in it.

Through a sifted gaze, worlds of feeling—
There is a realm of feeling.

Through a sifted gaze, worlds of feeling—
Sleeplessness, tales, moonlight, longings—
Some tangled talk, some wandering songs,
A few tears that, for no reason, spill from the eyes.

Have your eyes ever shed tears for no reason? Uncaused—because a bird took wing into the sky, and your eyes grew moist with bliss: blessed am I, that in this fortunate moment I saw a bird fly in the sky!

Ramakrishna’s first samadhi came like this. A dark cloudbank as backdrop—he was walking by a lake, thirteen or fourteen years old. A line of egrets—white egrets against a blackness of dense monsoon cloud. The lake’s hush. Trees standing still, absorbed in prayer. Ramakrishna alone, moving along a footpath. At the sound of his approaching feet, the egrets sitting by the shore unfurled their wings—white arrows shot across the black cloud. And something happened. Ramakrishna fell right there. He was carried home “unconscious”—unconscious from our side. From his side, for the first time consciousness arrived; until then he had been unconscious. The world thought he had fainted; he was drunk with ecstasy.

This is devotion. This is the moment of prayer. The scene was so beautiful, its blow so deep, that Ramakrishna’s whole life was changed. It was his first experience of the Divine—first recognition, first love. And then that love kept deepening.

I say to you: do not go to temples to learn prayer; counterfeit prayers have been running there for centuries. Go to a lake. Watch the flight of egrets. Watch white clouds sailing in the sky. Listen to the stillness of the trees. And something will happen. One day your eyes will grow wet. It is not a matter of words but of eyes—not of thought but of feeling. And the day feeling awakens, you no longer ask for proofs of God—that very feeling becomes the proof.

Bin bandagi is aalam mein, khana tujhe haraam hai re.
Why? Because in a life without devotion, the sitar lies unplayed; the flute has borne no song.

A human being is a possibility of prayer—the seed of prayer. If the seed does not become a tree, it is futile; if it becomes a tree, it is fulfilled. What is the meaning of meaning? When your life bears fruit and flower—then fulfillment. Otherwise one remains barren. Prayer is a human being’s supreme refinement; beyond it there is nothing higher.

Prayer must happen. Only with the happening of prayer do you become twice-born; your second birth comes; you become a brahmin. All are born as shudras; none is born a brahmin. Most live and die as shudras, and take it to be their fate. Remember: no one is a brahmin by birth. Until the knowledge of Brahman dawns, how could one be a brahmin? Buddha said: the knower of Brahman alone is a brahmin.

And how will you know Brahman? You have not even lifted your eyes towards Him. Prayer has not yet been born—how will you know God?

So let me remind you of two things. Around you on all sides spreads nature—the manifest form of God. And within you a spring of love is bubbling, eager to break through. When the awareness of nature and the spring of love well up together—where nature and the fountain of love meet—prayer is born.

Take everything away, but do not take away my right to be consumed for someone.
Do not take away my love from me.

And our love has been taken. We do not know love. What we call love is only a semblance. For the sign and touchstone of love is this: the readiness to be effaced. Whoever is not ready to be erased has not known love. Your love is exploitation—in it you are busy erasing the other.

Do not take away my love from me.
Take everything away, but do not take away my right to be consumed for someone.
Do not strip me of the ground of my dreams.

In the cruel, hard flame of tapas,
The longing of body and mind burns;
Yet the thirst of my life is the hope,
Far away, of someone’s face.
Do not snatch the chord of kinship
Binding this life-spanning tenderness.

The world’s exploitation has drunk
The blood of my faiths—
Yet even in struggle I have
Taken pride in that image.
Do not take from me the beseeching
Of ideals made flesh, made pure.

To the lion-gate of arrested radiance,
Whom memory would go and open—
In the fog-dim, empty mind,
Whose footfall would make it tremble—
Do not take away the world of longing
In those tireless, outstretched arms.

Those breaths whose murmur still
Rings close against my ears;
Those eyes whose moist blueness
My heart still worships—
Do not take away the wave-lit, flame-filled
Call of that glance.

Sometimes the life-breath grows weary,
Offering itself again and again to life;
The oars grow tired, rowing
The ill-starred boat through hard days—
Do not take away the upsurge of rays
That pours strength into a thirsty motion.

I strut about, made tangible
By the mercy whose debt I carry;
Whose unfulfilled sorrow
Rolls like thunder in the sky as my voice—
Do not take away the bowed, wet visage
Of that giver of trembling.

Do not take away my love from me.
Take everything away, but do not take away my right to be consumed for someone.

Let love be within. It will strike you as upside-down, but only the one who is ready to be effaced has the right to receive life. And the one who dissolves attains the Ultimate Life. The seed dissolves and becomes a tree; the river dissolves and becomes the sea.

Love is the art of dissolving. Love is the art of wiping yourself away. Love is the scripture, the method, the science of egolessness.

Let there be sensitivity to nature, an awareness of nature, eyes that grow moist; and within, a readiness to love, a readiness to vanish, a readiness to lose—and devotion will be born, prayer will be born.

Bin bandagi is aalam mein, khana tujhe haraam hai re.
Banda karai soyi bandagi, khidmat mein aathon jaam hai re.

And Yari says something wondrous—tie it tight in your heart:
Banda karai soyi bandagi...
No one becomes a true servant by doing devotion; rather, whatever a true servant does—that is devotion. The question is not “How should one pray?” The moment you ask “how,” you get trapped in ritual.

Banda karai soyi bandagi...
Kabir has said: Whether I rise or sit—that is circumambulation; whatever I eat or drink—that is service.
Someone asked Kabir: When do you pray? When do you serve God? When do you go to circumambulate the temple?
Kabir said: When I rise and when I sit—that is my circumambulation. When I eat and drink—that is my service. When I rise and sit, his circumambulation is on. When I eat and drink, it is he who eats and drinks. That is his service. And to whom shall I offer the sacred food? Before whom shall I set the plate?

Live life in a mood of delight. Live life in surrender. Live with the awareness that we are tiny rays of the sun that is the Divine, small words of his song, short lines, little lamps in his vast festival of lights; that we are drops of his ocean. The one in whom this sense arises becomes a banda—a servant, a devotee. Khuda means the Ocean, banda the drop. And then whatever the banda does is bandagi—worship. Therefore it isn’t necessary to sit with a rosary. It isn’t necessary to chant the Gayatri. It isn’t necessary to repeat the Namokar mantra. It isn’t necessary to recite the Japji. Whatever the banda does is worship. The real question is the birth of the banda.

“Whatever the servant does is worship; in service, all eight watches of the day.”
And then it is not a matter of saying a prayer for a few minutes and the matter is finished—go to the temple, bang your head, offer a couple of coins or two flowers, and run to the market. The banda is in devotion twenty‑four hours a day. When the breath comes in, there is remembrance of him; when the breath goes out, there is remembrance of him. That remembrance never gets lost.

Making one small segment of life prayerful achieves nothing. Only unbroken prayer bears fruit. When the stream flows continuously, when unceasing remembrance of Ram moves within you. Not “Ram” the word—remember this. What have words to do with it? A sense abides within. A soft, sweet ache remains in the heart. As you walk, it feels, “I am walking on his earth—holy ground!” As you look at the sky it feels, “I am seeing his vastness—holy sky!” When you meet people there remains, in the background, the sense that you are meeting him.

Rabia, the woman Sufi mystic, was sitting at her door. A fakir named Hasan was with her in satsang. A robust young beggar came by. Rabia at once stopped the discourse, went inside, brought food, and fed the beggar. Hasan was a thoughtful man. After the beggar left he said, “Rabia, is it right to give alms to such a strapping fellow?”

Rabia laughed, “However he comes now, I accept him in that form! Which beggar are you talking about? Sometimes he comes as meek and weak, sometimes as carefree, lithe, strong. But it is always he who comes! I didn’t give alms to a beggar. This wasn’t alms; it was service. I offered it to him. It was his, and I returned it to him.”

When one begins to realize that we are fish in his ocean, then in every hour, every color, every form his image starts shining through. If it is a beggar, it is he; if it is an emperor, it is he. It is only he! There is none other than he.

“Whatever the servant does is worship; in service, all eight watches of the day.”
A banda cannot make a mistake. And if you can still err, you are not yet a banda. You have been taught the path of character—do this, don’t do that; this is auspicious, that is inauspicious. You have been taught morality, not religion. Religion does not know what is auspicious or inauspicious. Religion says: your being is inauspicious; your non‑being is auspicious. Disappear, and then the Divine appears. Then whatever the Divine does is auspicious. If you are, then even when you do good, it will turn inauspicious. You will give in charity and your ego will be strengthened. You will build temples and do it from the ambition to have your name engraved: my name will remain forever; I’ll leave some mark upon the earth: I, too, was here! Many came and went, but none built a temple like this!

Even when you worship, if you are, the mistake has already happened. You will keep an eye to see whether people are impressed.

Go to a temple and see: on a day when no one is around, the priest quickly ends the worship. That day no ecstasy comes. When onlookers gather, worship goes long; he sings and dances. His eyes are on the audience.

In an English church the Queen of England was to come. The pastor received innumerable calls, more than ever before. Everyone asked, “Is it sure the Queen is coming tomorrow? Is it confirmed?” The pastor told each caller: “Nothing is certain about the Queen; nothing about tomorrow is certain. Life is today; tomorrow may not be. Today there is a queen; tomorrow she may not be. Today I am; tomorrow I may not be. Today you are; tomorrow you may not be. So I can’t vouch for the Queen. This only I can say: God will be in church tomorrow.”

But who is curious about God? People kept saying, “We know God will be there; we’re asking whether the Queen will come.” They want to show the Queen they too attend church. A huge crowd gathered—never before. The Queen was impressed and asked the pastor, “Do so many people usually come?”

The pastor replied, “None of these ever come to church. They’re sightseers. They’ve come for you. The church was here yesterday and the day before, but no one could be seen. Today they sit piously with their Bibles!”

Look at yourself: if four people are watching, your prayer gains color; if no one watches, who cares! If only God is watching, who cares!

Real prayer is not performed to be seen; it is no matter of prestige. It is the heart’s outpouring. Perhaps true prayer cannot be done in crowds; it is a solitary petition, a solitary song.

The Sufis say: In the solitude of night, when even your wife does not know, get up silently and speak a few words to him. Those words will be heard. If even a trace remains anywhere of the juice that someone might hear how austere you are—how many fasts you keep, how much you pray—then it is show.

People keep accounts of how many rounds of the rosary to do. Accounting even in prayer! Will you ever relate to someone without calculation? Ever relate from feeling? Or will you keep doing arithmetic? Someone turns the rosary a hundred times but not a hundred and one—stinginess even there. Book‑keeping with God!

No, this is no way. A banda does not bargain. A banda does no arithmetic.

“In these cups, even poison turns to nectar!”
And in the banda’s cup, even poison becomes nectar. And one who is not a banda—into his cup, even nectar becomes poison.

“In these cups, even poison turns to nectar!”

The essence of the earth’s intoxication
fills the brimming cups of eyes;
pouring the ocean out of a small pitcher,
they make the world go giddy.
Even a stone‑heart melts,
soaked in their color.
In these cups, even poison turns to nectar!

The essence of the world’s total sweetness
brims in the lips’ cups;
they bring to the lips for a moment
and streams of honey flow.
Bitterness of ages dissolves
when such a sweet instant arrives.
In these cups, even poison turns to nectar.

In these cups alone resides
all the sap of life.
Through them all pains of body‑mind
turn to bliss.
For the sake of such cups, man
even embraces sorrow with a smile!
In these cups, even poison turns to nectar!

The banda ceases to worry—whether pleasure comes or pain. He holds an alchemy by which even pain becomes joy; embers, arriving at him, turn to blossoms; thorns instantly change their form; night becomes dawn.

Once the art of being a banda is learned, then—

“Whatever the servant does is worship; in service, all eight watches of the day.”
From morning to evening and evening to morning, the unbroken flow of remembrance fills him. He need not sit separately to remember. Sitting separately to remember is for those who haven’t learned remembrance. They pray five times a day because they don’t know prayer; those who know are in prayer twenty‑four hours. Their rising and sitting is namaz. Their walking and moving is namaz. Their breathing is enough—meditation.

“Friend, having forgotten the Master, what useless work have you taken up?”
You have forgotten the Master, the Lord—
“Friend, having forgotten the Master, what useless work have you taken up?”
—and gotten involved in countless useless pursuits!

What is useless and what is useful? The touchstone is death. What accompanies you beyond death is meaningful; what death will snatch is futile. Your money, rank, fame, name—death will seize all. You won’t carry a single coin, not a straw. This is the test—hold your work up to death. Whatever you are engaged in, look closely: will it go beyond death? If so, good—continue; then that work is worship. If it won’t go, don’t squander your life in it. Don’t pour all your energy there. Do what is necessary. I am not saying don’t earn your bread, don’t put a roof over your head. Do what is needed.

Needs are few. Desires are endless. Needs can be fulfilled; desires never end. Needs don’t hinder prayer; desire does. Some fools have taken desire to be need. Some, thinking desire is need, even abandon real needs. Both are wrong. One becomes a hedonist; one becomes a renunciate. The hedonist mistakes desire for need—he says, “Unless I have ten million, how can there be happiness?” When he has ten million, still no happiness. When he had a hundred thousand, he wanted a million; after a million, the math stretches a hundredfold—“When I have a billion, I’ll be happy.” And even with a billion, no joy.

Andrew Carnegie, the great American magnate, when he was dying, just before his last moments, someone asked, “You must be leaving fulfilled? You earned billions with your own hands and showed the world.”

He died with assets equal to ten billion rupees. He began empty‑handed and built a ten‑billion empire. But he said sadly, “No, I am not happy, for my intention was to earn a hundred billion. I am a defeated man—defeated by ninety billion! What are you talking about ten billion!”

Do you think had he had a hundred billion, he would have died content? Those who had hundreds of billions did not die content. Whoever mistakes desire for need falls into delusion. The backlash of their delusion is some others turn reactive and say, “Leave everything.” They don’t even earn their bread or clothes. But bread is still needed, clothes are still needed; someone else will earn for them. Then your sannyasin becomes a burden—a rock on society’s chest. The days of such renunciation are over; that sannyas has no future.

Hence I am birthing a new sannyas—of one who is neither against the worldly nor with the worldly; neither renunciate nor indulger—one who stands in the middle. One who has understood: chasing desires is useless; fulfilling needs is right. To fulfill needs requires little energy. Let the energy that remains become meditation, prayer, worship, a sense of ahh! Then at the time of death, when you depart, death will have nothing to rob—because you never clutched needs; they were of the day—eat and nothing remains.

You will leave death little to seize. Death will look at you and be saddened. And you will carry a great treasure with you. And the treasure that passes beyond the pyres becomes your wings to liberation, to ultimate freedom.

“Friend, having forgotten the Master, what useless work have you taken up?”
Look closely—how much uselessness you’re absorbed in! One wants to be prime minister, another president. And once you are, what then? What have those who became achieved? On those seats you only look ridiculous—children believing they’ve become big because they sit on big chairs. Chairs make no one great. Greatness is another matter entirely. Yes, where the great sit becomes a throne. Where Buddha sits, there is a throne. Wherever Kabir’s feet fall, a temple rises. If there is inner wealth, wherever you sit a kingdom is created—but that kingdom is subtle, seen only by those with eyes to see, felt only by those with a sense for feeling.

“Do some worship while alive; at last the grave is the abode.”
Finally there will be rest in the grave.
“At last the grave is the abode.”
Finally the grave is what you’ll receive; there your life’s hustle will reach its consummation.

“Do some worship while alive...”
This brief life that has been given, this energy gifted by the Divine—turn it into prayer. However much of it becomes prayer—that much is the meaning, dignity, beauty, and glory of your life.

“Only the Real abides; all else is perishing.
The Self‑subsisting alone endures; all else is perishing.
We say the earth and sky are everything,
but only His Name remains; all else is perishing.”
Only his Name endures; whoever is bound to his Name endures. His remembrance is eternal; all else is momentary—bubbles on water—now formed, now burst; dewdrops sparkling like pearls in the morning light, yet soon to fly away as vapor. Soon no trace will remain. Such is your frantic life—water’s bubble, dewdrop—now fallen, now gone!

Make some acquaintance with the Eternal. Tie a knot with the timeless. Build a relation with the Beloved. Kabir says: I am the bride of Ram! Do something—such that you circle the fire with the One who always is.

How to relate to him? What shall we do? Cry! Dance! Sway!

“Lift the veil from your face, that I may behold you;
let my eyes receive some light, that I may glimpse the spring.
Veils lie everywhere—what a strange concealment!
Peek from somewhere, that I may polish my heart.
Waves stir there—are you hidden in the moon?
If we meet only at night, let my eyes fill with wine.
Why is this cloud glimmering—if you are on the blue firmament,
flash like lightning, that I may devote myself.
There is allure in bud and bloom—fragrance and color;
rise as a scent within scent, that I may adorn myself with flowers.
Strings in the heart are sounding, yet a note is lost among them;
there is no trace of it—how shall I tune the strings?
What shall I say of my own heart—still it is not in my hands;
his way is strange—how shall I find rest?
Wherever I sought you, there the curtains were drawn;
where is that place, that I may go call upon you?
Wherever my gaze turned, new allure was found there;
if I lack allure, from whom shall I borrow it?
If you would draw my heart, then lift the curtain a little;
make the eyes the pathway, that I may bring you into my heart.”

Call out! Not with borrowed, ready‑made words—speak your own. Even if your prayer stammers like a child, it will reach. Let the words not be scholarly, grammatical, classical—it will do. They must be your words. Your prayer must be yours. You won’t wear a stranger’s shoes or clothes; you won’t eat someone’s leftovers. Yet on the path to the Divine you hoard leftovers around you—that’s an insult. With the Divine let there be a straight, personal bond—of feeling.

“Lift the veil from your face, that I may behold you;
let my eyes receive some light, that I may glimpse the spring.
Veils lie everywhere—what a strange concealment!
Peek from somewhere, that I may polish my heart.”

Veil upon veil!

“Why is this cloud glimmering—if you are on the blue firmament,
flash like lightning, that I may devote myself.
There is allure in bud and bloom—fragrance and color;
rise as a scent within scent, that I may adorn myself with flowers.”

All right, leave it—rise from the flower as fragrance! Let me adorn myself with this blossom itself.

“If you would draw my heart, then lift the curtain a little;
make the eyes the pathway, that I may bring you into my heart.”

Then let the eyes be the path! The eyes are the path. Open the eyes a little! Wake up a little! Recognize this nature! Fall in love with this nature! Let nature pluck the strings of your heart! Do not flee nature, for nature is God—his manifest form, his expression. Through this the bond will be made, the circling of the fire will happen.

“Do some worship while alive; at last the grave is the abode.”
“Taking the dust of the Guru’s feet, I applied collyrium between my two eyes.”
Through the eye the path is made. Through the eye he descends.

“Taking the dust of the Guru’s feet, I applied collyrium between my two eyes.”
Who bows at the Master’s feet! The Master’s feet are a device—so that the art of bowing is learned. Bow before trees, and it will happen; bow before the moon and stars, and it will happen. One needs a pretext to bow. Guru means: one who is no more. Bow before one who is not, and you will learn the art of not‑being.

Guru means: one who has been effaced. The Divine came and took him; the drop merged into the ocean—and the ocean entered the drop. Guru means: one who no longer thinks of himself in the language of a person, who no longer regards himself as separate. That’s why the Upanishads could declare: Aham brahmasmi—I am Brahman! It is not an ego’s proclamation, but its very opposite—the proclamation of no‑ego.

That is why Jesus could say: I am the door! I am the way! I am the truth! It sounds like ego from the surface, but there is no “I” in it. Jesus says: I am no more—there is the door, the way, the truth!

But one must speak in your language, so your words must be used. Krishna says to Arjuna: Abandon all dharmas and take refuge in me alone! The egotist reads this and thinks, “How arrogant! Krishna himself says, ‘Come to my refuge!’” Krishna can say it only because Krishna is no more. Krishna, on his own side, has ended. Now Krishna is a doorway for him.

Guru means: one in whom the cry “Aham brahmasmi” has arisen; in whom the echo of “Ana’l‑Haqq” resounds; who is no more. The dust of his feet means: surrender at his feet.

Apply the collyrium of surrender to the eye, then the eye opens; the blind has eyes. If the kohl of surrender stains your eyes, what was unseen becomes visible; what you used to see becomes worthless; what was unseen becomes all in all.

You now see the creation; and not even fully. When the kohl of surrender is applied, the Creator is seen. The world becomes his veil, his veil of modesty. And if you love your beloved, you will also love her veil.

“Taking the dust of the Guru’s feet, I applied collyrium between my two eyes.
In the midst of darkness there was light; I saw the formless Beloved.”
The very moment the kohl of surrender touches the eye—not even a moment’s delay—“In the midst of darkness there was light.” The darkness of mind dissolves and light alone remains. The mind is darkness—crowds of thoughts, desires, cravings—a dense night. And the moment someone surrenders—the meaning of surrender is: you place your mind at someone’s feet. And the Guru is emptiness. Place the mind before his emptiness and it is absorbed. What years of meditation cannot do, a moment’s bow at the Guru’s feet can.

Even with years of meditation, the same is to be done—dissolve the mind. But then you have to do it yourself—break this mountain inch by inch. The Guru is an empty process: as you lay your head at his feet, your head is lost. Then you live headless—trunk without a head; no ego. Where there is no ego, how can there be darkness? Ego is darkness. Egolessness is light.

“In the midst of darkness there was light...”
Then spring enters your life. Then the month of honey arrives!

“Today, O mind, it is truly spring!
Today, in the desolate thirst, fragrance overflows.
Today, the chest of the wind is filled
with golden pollen.
Today, from the vine of the grape,
a delirium has flown into the sky.
Today, a full moon of bliss blows
through the blooming mahua groves.
Today, O mind, it is truly spring!

Today the south wind moves through the deep forest
heavy with perfume—
like a fairy bearing bowls of saffron
in golden urns.
Don’t even ask about wild basil—drenched, unbound with scent!
What is this thirsting heart, this song so eager,
awareness slack, loosened?
Today, O mind, it is truly spring!

In golden goose‑bumps the earth’s painting shivers,
like a living hieroglyph;
far and wide, mango‑groves darken in dust,
the poet encircled by their haze.
Behold! with fierce, hissing fragrance
the nagkesar is overwhelmed;
the bell of bees rings,
the forest-maiden is suddenly restless.
Today, O mind, it is truly spring!

Who has stolen the blue ocean
to streak your flowing hair?
The moist blue sky, within my breath,
awakens blue dreams.
Drenched by some form, in the trembling, shaded lovers’ wood,
bereft of companions, my heart is tremulous, unconscious—
today I am drunk with honey, mind unbound!
These absent‑minded days of Phalgun—how are they thus?
At evening’s first touch my heart brims with longing.
A hurricane of desire in the cuckoo’s call!
A grape‑sweet thirst in the lanes of loosening limbs.
Today, O mind, it is truly spring!”

The mind dissolved, and spring came; the cuckoo sang; flowers bloomed; light dawned. If the mind is, there is darkness, drought, desert. When the mind is gone, a lush garden, a juice‑filled life!

“Today I am honey‑mad, mind unbound!”
Where the mind is gone, the unmani state arrives.

“Today, O mind, it is truly spring!”
Then honey rains down. The gates of nectar open. Death is no more—life is sat‑chit‑anand. Only then is it truly life; what you now call life is no life—no recognition yet.

“In the midst of darkness there was light; I saw the formless Beloved.”
As soon as the inner light happens, the blessed Beloved is seen—for he is as much within you as without. You too are one of his forms, his moods, his expressions—one stream of his nectar; one link of his song; the tinkle of his feet. When light happens within, you are astonished—you cannot find yourself; you find the Divine. You cannot find any trace of “me”; search as you will in the light, you find no self.

You are in darkness; you are not in light. Your being and darkness are synonyms; your non‑being and light are synonyms. Perhaps that is why people cling to darkness, because if darkness goes, you go. Why do people prefer darkness? It has its profit: as long as it persists, you persist. The wise cry, “Awake!” You do not awaken; you roll over and sleep again. The wise say, “See yourself!” You listen, but you do not see. “We’ll see, someday,” you say. “You must be right. Your words are so right we will bow to you; we will worship you; we will raise your statues in temples.” But what the wise say, you never do. It must go against your vested interest. Your vested interest? The deep interest is: I must remain. People asked Buddha, “You say in nirvana no self remains—then what is the point? Then samsara is better—at least we are. Pain is better—at least we are. Your supreme bliss doesn’t entice us, for if we will not be, what is the use of bliss?”

By logic, it sounds right: if I won’t be, what’s the point? But you have not understood: only when you are not is the supreme bliss. It is not yours; it blooms out of your emptiness. When the seed disappears, the tree is. If the seed says, “If I must die for the tree, what is the point?”—but the tree is the seed revealed by dying! In the Divine, you will appear by disappearing—in the old sense you will be gone, but in a new sense you will be revealed—small becomes vast; one death, and a new birth.

“In the midst of darkness there was light; I saw the formless Beloved.”
Ego gone, the formless Beloved is seen. He is seen in the absence of ego—not that there is a veil on him; there is a veil on your eyes: the veil of ego. Remove it.

“What sacred tremor has awakened in life,
what blessed waves of honey!
How lovely this spring‑wood—what mirth, what laughter overflowing!
In my little mind has stirred
the splendor of eternal youth.
In this night of curse‑darkened life
has risen a golden ray.
In these numb sinews of inertia
what sudden throbbing;
in arteries asleep like great death
what flood has coursed!
In the exhausted Great Void
my self‑death—unbearable pain.
In these curse‑scorched sinful breaths
my pure ones have awakened.
Dry, empty petals of beauty—
what birth of nectar within?
In the dumb, worn‑out life
what unstruck humming arises?
That fierce frenzy, that pain
is now become so cool;
in this restless, churned heart
what fair ones have awoken?
What unseen peace flows,
drop by drop, each moment;
what hallowed wine of wind
spreads across the earth!
In a single drop surges
the dense play of the ocean;
in a heart bereft of song, scent, and taste
my Enchanter has awoken.”

When the Beloved wakes within, at first you cannot believe it. How could you? You knew only restlessness—and suddenly the lamp of peace! You knew only pain—and suddenly fragrance of joy! You knew only darkness—and today there is light! You had known nothing—and today, the Blessed One is known!

“In a single drop surges
the dense play of the ocean.”
In a tiny drop, the ocean’s descent!

“In a single drop surges
the dense play of the ocean;
in a heart bereft of song, scent, and taste
my Enchanter has awoken.”
At first, belief does not come. The devotee is wonder‑struck, dumbfounded—because he finds: I am God. How to believe? The impossible has occurred! Yet one must accept it—you cannot deny what has happened. For some days the devotee remains stunned. For some days he cannot speak.

Buddha did not speak for seven days. Fruition happened; he sat silently. The stories say the gods in heaven grew anxious—will Buddha speak or remain silent? So rarely does a Buddha appear; if he stays silent, who will guide the wanderers in the dark? Who will give hints, who will show the way?

Buddha is silent because what has happened leaves such a hush—nothing to say or do. He didn’t even get up from under the tree—sat like a stone statue. It hardly seems possible.

God is the most impossible event in this world—yet it happens! Blessed are those in whom the sleeping Enchanter awakes. You too can be blessed, but you must prepare. If you are to invite the Supreme Guest, will you not decorate your house? Will you not make arrangements? Hang festoons? Write “Welcome” on the door?

There is only one preparation: bid farewell to ego, open the door of egolessness. Then, in a single instant, it happens.

“What sacred tremor has awakened in life,
what blessed waves of honey!
How lovely this spring‑wood—what mirth, what laughter overflowing!
In my little mind has stirred
the splendor of eternal youth...
What sacred tremor has awakened in life...”
Trust does not come easily.

“In these numb sinews of inertia
what sudden throbbing;
in arteries asleep like great death
what flood has coursed!
In the exhausted Great Void
my self‑death, unbearable pain.
In these curse‑scorched sinful breaths
my pure ones have awakened...”
We have known only sins and their stings. How has this happened?

“Dry, empty petals of beauty—
what birth of nectar within?
In the dumb, worn‑out life
what unstruck humming arises?
That fierce frenzy, that pain
is now become so cool;
in this restless, churned heart
what fair ones have awoken...”
Belief doesn’t come, yet it must—though a thousand doubts arise, faith is needed, because what has happened cannot be denied.

“What unseen peace flows,
drop by drop, each moment;
what hallowed wine of wind
spreads across the earth!
In a single drop surges
the dense play of the ocean;
in a heart bereft of song, scent, and taste
my Enchanter has awoken.”
“Taking the dust of the Guru’s feet, I applied collyrium between my two eyes.
In the midst of darkness there was light; I saw the formless Beloved.”
“A million suns rose at once...”
As if thousands of suns have risen together—rows upon rows, a garland of suns!

“A million suns rose at once; I found the Lord of the three worlds—true wealth.”
Whoever finds that Lord finds wealth indeed. He is the owner of the three worlds. When we become one with him, we too become owner. What do we lose? What did we have to lose? And how much we gain! When a drop falls into the ocean, what does it lose? What did it have? Yet even so, the drop hesitates before merging—afraid.

Kahlil Gibran wrote: when a river meets the ocean, it hesitates for a moment, trembles, looks back—at the mountain ranges, the beautiful paths, the forests, valleys, the people, the shrines, the flowers offered in worship, the lamps floated in the dark nights—all the memories, the lovely days gone by. Ahead lies the unfathomable sea. One step more and the river will be lost—its ego will be lost, its boundary broken, its individuality gone. Gibran is right: the river fears, quakes, wants to return. But there is no way back. For one who has gone into prayer, a moment comes when there is no returning—even if you want to, you cannot. The vast One’s magnetism draws you, such attraction that despite yourself you must enter the sea.

“A million suns rose at once; I found the Lord of the three worlds—true wealth.”
Finding the Beloved, everything is yours. Before that, nothing was yours. Whatever you called “mine” was false. You yourself weren’t yours—how could anything be yours? “My wife, my husband, my brother, my friend”—all false, for you are not yet your own. You don’t even know who you are—leave aside being your own. Those who knew, no longer found the “I”; those who didn’t know keep saying, “I am.” In the light of knowing, the shadow called “I” is not found. “I” exists only as long as knowledge is absent. “I” is an illusion; “mine” is the offspring of illusion. If “I” is false, “mine” must be false: my house, my religion, my temple, my mosque, my book, my scripture, my doctrine—all illusions of “I.” You have nothing. But to see this is painful; hence we shut our eyes and proceed: “This wife is mine—forever mine.” We reassure each other: the husband says, “I am yours forever, for lifetimes.” The wife says, “Other than you, no man attracts me; you alone are the essence, the life of my life!” These are words of mutual consoling. We prop each other, saying, “Don’t be afraid, I am yours,” thus preserving the sense that you, too, are.

The more wealth you have, the more reassured you feel—so much is mine, why be afraid? The higher your office, the more your swagger—“If my post is so high, I must be something.”

We shore up the illusion of “I.” The name of maintaining this illusion is the world. One who wakes to this sees it’s all illusion; nothing here can be one’s own. Then, a shower of true wealth descends.

“By the Satguru’s grace, dying, Yari lived forever.”
But only by dying can you live. Remember this sutra—“Dying, Yari lived forever! By the Satguru’s grace.” What grace did the Master do? He taught Yari how to die; he pushed him, startled him so that he could never find himself again; he erased him so completely that no trace remained; he cut off the head beyond remedy.

Kabir says:
“Kabir stands in the marketplace with a club in hand:
whoever would burn down his own house—come with me.”
He says, “I stand in the market with a cudgel. Whoever is eager to have his head smashed, eager to burn down his house—come!” Not the outer house—the inner house in which you live: the house of ego.

“By the Satguru’s grace, dying, Yari lived forever.”
One who learns to die learns to live. One who dies utterly attains nectar. Remember Gorakh’s saying—
“Die, O yogi, die; this death is sweet.
Die the death by which Gorakh saw.”
Die as Gorakh died, and by that death he saw; so may you die in the same way.

“Die, O yogi, die; this death is sweet.”
No sweetness surpasses this death. What death is this? Not your ordinary dying—you have died many times and been born again and again. This is the death after which there is no rebirth—the Great Death.

It is possible only by the Master’s grace. By yourself, how will you kill yourself? It is as difficult as lifting yourself by your own bootstraps. Try to drop ego and a new ego appears: “I am egoless.” The old gross ego becomes a subtle ego, more dangerous because it’s transparent—like clear glass; you don’t see it. The worldly have gross egos—you can recognize them. Among your renunciates and saints, ninety‑nine of a hundred carry subtle egos—because they have not died. They practice egolessness; but egolessness has no practice. Whoever practices egolessness only fashions a new form of ego. Egolessness cannot be practiced.

People ask me, “How can we become egoless?” You never will—because trying to be egoless is a new ego. What then to do? See the ego. Recognize it; go in and find where it is. Search it. By the Satguru’s grace it becomes possible—he takes you in despite yourself; when you try to run, he won’t let you; he grips your hand; if you try to pull away, he won’t release you; he won’t let you go until he has shown you, until you see you are not. The day you see you are not, he lets go your hand—there is no more need; you’ve seen: “I am not.” You did not cultivate egolessness; you looked for the ego and did not find it. What remains is called egolessness. This is the Great Death. Gorakh is right: it is sweet—because in it you taste the nectar. And only by this death is Truth seen—

“Die the death by which Gorakh saw.”
God is seen when you are not.

“Dying, Yari lived forever.”
“Keep seeking until the essence is in hand.”
Seek on until the essential is attained.

“Keep seeking until the essence is in hand...”
Do not stop. Many chances to stop will come; the mind will want to turn back. It will raise many doubts and questions; it will say, “What folly is this! Everything was going well—success was near. A few more steps and fame was yours—and you entered this tangle of inner search!” The mind will argue. Before dying, the mind will try every means to save itself—self‑preservation is everyone’s right; the mind preserves itself very cleverly, logically. “There is no God, no soul, no liberation, no heaven—these are poets’ fancies. Don’t get into trouble. After death there is nothing. Who has ever returned to tell?” When you sit to meditate, the mind raises more uproar than when you don’t—waves upon waves; you will be surprised: “I came to be quiet and became more disturbed! I was better at home, busy at work.” At home in your shop the mind doesn’t panic—you are its servant; why would it fear? Sit alone and you are ending the mind’s lordship; it resists and brings temptations and fears of the unknown: “Where are you going? You’ll be lost! You’ll go mad!” The unknown feels dangerous because it is unfamiliar; the familiar gives a sense of safety.

In such moments the Satguru is needed—to block the door, not let you run. His love is stronger than your logic; his presence more powerful than your thoughts. Alone, you will run—who would stop you, hold you, explain, whisper, “A little further—it is near now!”

Buddha once got lost in a forest. Ananda was exhausted; evening neared, no sign of a village. Ananda asked a passerby, “Brother, how far is the village?” “Two kos,” he said. Hope rose. They walked two kos; asked again; again, “Two kos.” Again two kos, and the sun was setting. Ananda said, “These people are incredible liars! We’ve walked six kos!” Buddha said, “They aren’t lying; they are compassionate. If they had said ten kos, you would have sat down in despair. ‘Two kos’ keeps you walking. I know, because I must do the same with you. You ask how long to samadhi—I say, ‘Now, any moment—just two kos!’”

Another tale: a husband and wife lost in the hills, returning through a forest, weary and dejected. An old farmer sits before his hut; his old woman feeds the cow. “How far to the rest house?” they ask. The old man says, “Four kos.” The old woman says, “No—look at their faces, how tired and sad! Two kos is enough; four would be too heavy.”

The Satguru keeps you encouraged: “Almost there.” It isn’t a lie; if you become total, it can be now. This inner call that you hear, this faint yearning for Truth—often it will fade, get lost. Then you’d return to the world. You need someone who, when your inner voice is inaudible, becomes your inner voice; whose voice feels like an extension of your own soul; who speaks the language your inner being speaks; in whom you glimpse your own future—such a Guru.

“Keep seeking until the essence is in hand.
When the search dies, then make your home...”
A lovely saying. When the time comes to receive the essence—when essence is found—the search dies.

“When the search dies, then make your home...”
Then rest; you have reached your own abode. Now there is nowhere to go and nothing to gain. Stretch out and rest.

“When the search dies, then make your home.
Then hold fast what you have found, and sit.”
After that, hold what has been found; there is nowhere to go, nothing to become.

“The Self sees the Self in the Self...”
The event has happened—Ana’l‑Haqq! Aham brahmasmi!

“The Self sees the Self in the Self; the mind no longer wanders elsewhere.”
Now the mind goes nowhere. Even if you wanted it to, you could not take it out. The same mind that would never come in—always running outside—and when you wanted to bring it in, it would slip away like quicksilver—now, in the great bliss, why would it go? It dives and will not surface.

“The Self sees the Self in the Self; the mind no longer wanders elsewhere.
Yari, the essence is attained—what taste is there now in going on?”
Now there is no question—essence means the Beloved.

“Be silent! Beauty’s lonely, fragrant wind is flowing.
Be silent! Sharbati sweetness of context‑free creation.
From unknown, sleepless shores, wet with dew—
Be silent! the vagrant ray of dawn.
Be silent! O songs dipped in blue mist!
The quivering notes of faith have all been snatched away.
Unborn, expression has burned within its seed—
Be silent! O sealed syllables of inspiration!
Be silent! O unborn faith of sap and flavor!
Every script of love remains unread.
Be silent! O seers of mantra, keep all scriptures silent!
The unhewn substance of the heart has been swept away forever.
Be silent! O dream‑winged winds of sand!
Be silent, the widowhood‑drenched sobs of helplessness!
Be silent! O forest‑winged, form‑fragrant wind!
Today there is nothing anywhere—be silent!
Be silent, O echoing, conch‑raining clouds!
Humming caves and caverns—be silent!”

When the moment of rest comes, silence settles. No urge to go, to do, to say. There is no mind. Without mentation there is no mind; without movement there is no mind. No goal remains; all aims are fulfilled. No future remains; time dissolves. When craving ceases, the future ceases. At the moment time disappears, the Eternal descends within.

The Eternal is the essence—call it Truth, God, Liberation, Nirvana—just differences of words. Say nothing—silence will do. And if you speak, you still cannot say it; after speaking, only silence remains. Words are inadequate; it is the unsayable, the inexpressible.

These are lovely sutras—how prayer becomes the Divine; how the bridge of prayer one day reaches God.

“Without worship in this world, what you eat is forbidden.
Whatever the servant does is worship; in service, all eight watches of the day.
Friend, having forgotten the Master, what useless work have you taken up?
Do some worship while alive; at last the grave is the abode.
Taking the dust of the Guru’s feet, I applied collyrium between my two eyes.
In the midst of darkness there was light; I saw the formless Beloved.
A million suns rose at once; I found the Lord of the three worlds—true wealth.
By the Satguru’s grace, dying, Yari lived forever.
Keep seeking until the essence is in hand.
When the search dies, then make your home; then hold fast what you have found, and sit.
The Self sees the Self in the Self; the mind no longer wanders elsewhere.
Yari, the essence is attained—what taste is there now in going on?”

That’s all for today.