Birhani Mandir Diyana Baar #9

This solitary life of mine—
who knows where all it will wander?
Like a blossom drifting on water,
who knows where all it will be snagged?

The very hint of the waves is its motion;
I am in another’s power—such is destiny.
From current to bank, from bank to a gust,
who knows how long it will be shaken like this?

This solitary life of mine—
who knows where all it will wander?
A mind humbled by ego yet wildly fickle,
that unseen inner hundred-petaled lotus—
love’s flower pricked by the thorn of doubt,
how long will it go on smarting?

This solitary life of mine—
who knows where all it will wander?
Eyes entangled in Indra’s net,
wings singed in regrets—
like waves dashing on the shore, the mind-bird,
how long will it go on beating its head?

This solitary life of mine—
who knows where all it will wander?

Without the Divine, life is solitary—and it will remain solitary. Try a thousand devices; without the Divine, aloneness has never been erased, nor will it be. There may be friends, family, beloveds, society, a group—but man is alone, and remains alone. Only by joining with the Divine does aloneness come to an end.

Why does aloneness end only by joining with the Divine? Because in the Divine, the drop dissolves and becomes the ocean. We cannot dissolve into each other. Talk as much as we like of love—it remains talk. Make as many relationships as you wish—at best they are workable formal arrangements. However bright they look at first, even a single gust of the monsoon cannot spare those colors. And however thrilling at the beginning, soon everything begins to breed boredom. The dearest person quickly appears ordinary. As soon as familiarity sets in, all song and poetry are lost. The drums in the distance sound charming; go near, and all beauty withers. The grass in the neighbor’s garden looks greener—only from afar! As you approach, the dream begins to break.

All our relationships, our entire love, kinship—are extensions of dream, mirages. That is why the wise have called the expansion of our mind, this world, maya. Maya means: it appears, but is not. It appears to be, yet as you come closer, as veils are lifted, it’s revealed: no one is inside. Lift the veil, and the bride disappears. While the veil is there, the bride is there. Such is the world of our mind.

And thus even in a crowd a man is alone. Storms may surge around him like waves, like tempests—still he is alone. Aloneness does not vanish. How much you try to drown it! You drown it in wine, in beauty, in lust, in the race for wealth, in the chase for power. How many intoxicants you have found! All these are intoxicants—the intoxication of money, of office… This is pure liquor—worse than liquor. For after a night’s drinking, a man is sober by morning. But one who has drunk the liquor of wealth may never sober up in his entire life. One who has sipped the liquor of position may not awaken for lifetimes.

That is why I say politics and religion never meet. Politics means: a man intoxicated with office. He will keep running! And the bigger the mirage, the harder it is to break—because the distance is such that it never ends; how will the illusion break? But man is alone. All the arrangements, all the systems—and in their midst, man stands alone.

Just look into yourself and you will see—there is a wife, there are children, there is family; outwardly, all is there. But peer a bit within—how alone you are! You came alone, you will go alone, you are living alone.

Yes, living alone is difficult. Living alone is painful. Living alone is deeply sorrowful. So we deceive ourselves—no, we are not alone. There is a son, a daughter, a wife, a husband, friends, family—we are not alone! To flee aloneness, people have become Christian, Hindu, Muslim—to be linked to a crowd. They have become communist, socialist, fascist—to belong to a crowd. And the more you join yourself to the crowd, the further you go from the Divine.

If you wish to go to the Divine, you must feel the pain of your aloneness. Do not suppress it—bring it forth! Do not hide that pain, do not cover it, do not veil it—unveil it! Remove all the veils of deception and behold your solitude in its depth! Let the thorn of aloneness pierce so that the sting remains twenty-four hours. That is why religions have opposed wine—opposed all kinds of wine. You know we have words—dhan-mad: the intoxication of wealth; pad-mad: the intoxication of position. All religions oppose all intoxications. Why? Is there some enmity with wine? Some feud with the juice of grapes?

No—the reason is different. There is nothing wrong with wine; the wrong is in your attempt to forget your aloneness. And one who succeeds in forgetting his aloneness, his life has failed, because he will never remember the Divine. Let aloneness grow deep, dense. Let your chest ache with the pain of aloneness so that the ache does not cease—and in that ache, for the first time, comes the remembrance to be joined to the Divine. You have tried joining with all else and found it futile; now make the last attempt—join with the Divine.

If you have erased aloneness by forgetting, you will never make that last attempt. That is why there is opposition to intoxicants.

Not because by drinking you lose money—otherwise it would mean religion is a defender of hoarding wealth. Not because by drinking you neglect family—else the meaning would be that religion only says: care for home and world. A politician opposes alcohol for one set of reasons; a religious one opposes it for quite another.

And the politician opposes alcohol and is himself a drunkard—intoxicated with office! What drunkard struts as arrogantly as a politician? What drunkard harms the world as politics does? Which drunkard has done the crimes that the man possessed by money does?

Religion’s opposition to wine has a more fundamental cause: do not forget your solitude; awaken it. When you are seared in its intense fire, when the whole world appears aflame to you, only then will the search begin. After much running without, one day only one refuge remains—self-refuge. Now go within. The last resort remains—try it too. And those who made that last attempt—their aloneness vanished. And the secret is profound: their aloneness ended because their ego ended. No reed, no flute. As long as there is ego, there is aloneness. Ego is aloneness. “I am separate from the world”—that is ego. “I am apart from the whole”—that is ego.

Egolessness means: I am not separate, not apart; I am a limb of this totality. These trees, this moon, these stars, these people—I am not other than them. I am not a tiny island; I am part of this continent. I am a small particle of this vast expanse. Among the waves of this infinite ocean, I too am a wave—small, yes, but not separate.

The wave is of the ocean; the ocean is of the wave. In the wave, it is the ocean that is waving. The wave has not been torn from the ocean for even a moment; it cannot be torn. The wave can only be in the ocean. You cannot bring the wave home. You cannot lock a wave in a box. Lock it, and it will no longer be a wave—only water remains. The wave can only be in the ocean. Only on the ocean’s breast can the wave dance. Only by being joined to the ocean can it be.

Moreover, a drop of water can be separated from water; but we are drops of the ocean of the Divine that cannot be separated. We are not separate at all. Separation is our delusion. And all our education, training, culture, civilization—teach us only one thing: they teach us ego. A child is born utterly egoless, innocent. He does not even know that he is. That is why small children say… when hungry they do not say, “I am hungry”; they say, “Ramu is hungry.” Ramu is their name. “Munna is hungry.” They don’t say, “I am hungry”—Munna is hungry! As though someone else is hungry! The sense of “I” has not yet arisen.

Psychologists say: the sense of “I” arises when the awareness of “you” begins. The “I” is not born first—the “you” is born first. Common logic would suggest the “I” comes first—but it does not; “you” comes first. Research says the “I” comes later, the “you” earlier. The “I” follows like the shadow of “you.” Why “you” first? The child sees the mother—sometimes near, sometimes far; sometimes she feeds, sometimes not; sometimes the child cries and the mother does not even hear; sometimes she comes, sometimes not. Sometimes the child is left alone and searches for the mother. The first awareness the child gets is: the mother is separate. And as soon as that arises, the second is not far behind: I am separate. The day this happens—“I am separate”—that day begins the disorder in our life.

Then we go on fortifying this “I.” We tell children: Keep the honor of our family! Remember the prestige of your house! You must stand first in school. You must defeat others. You must go ahead. …We begin to pour wines! We introduce little children to the habit of intoxication. The day we say “ambition,” that day we start to pour the liquor. The day you say “you must come first, you must push others behind, be at the head of the line”—that day you have given poison. These little children, filled with poison, now will run the race of ambition their whole lives.

They will be greatly fortunate if they meet the company of one who has stepped out of the race. That companionship is called satsang—the company of one who has dropped the intoxications of position, wealth, all wines. One who has realized: there is no “I”—so who is there to forget? One who has known “I am not”—all worries fall that very moment. Worries trail behind the “I”—they are its wedding procession.

You have seen Shiva’s wedding procession—what a motley crowd walks in it: ghosts and goblins, hashish-smokers, with all sorts of crooked weapons, twisted and askew! Shiva’s procession means—the procession of ego. Behind that ego walk all kinds of perversities, all kinds of addicts and troublemakers, all kinds of mad ones, spirits and ghosts; and the bridegroom is the ego. Once the ego has arrived, the doors open for all others—every calamity will walk in of its own accord. Then worries arise: how to protect this “I”? Fear comes that it will not survive—and the fear is true. Its very being is an impossibility—let alone its survival!

How we manage to remain in this delusion—this is the greatest miracle of the world! Joined with existence, how we still nurse the delusion that we are separate—this is the miracle of miracles! Man has done the impossible: a fish believes she is separate from the ocean; a wave believes it is separate from the sea; a leaf believes it is separate from the tree—though the tree’s sap sustains it and keeps it green.

By whom do you live? Who breathes within you? Perhaps you think, “I breathe.” Then you are mistaken. At night you sleep, yet someone breathes. Under anesthesia, when you know nothing, still breathing goes on. One thing is certain—you do not breathe. If you had to remember to breathe, staying alive would be hard. Fall asleep, forget to breathe—and that would be the end! Become absorbed in something and forget to breathe. Watching a film, become too engrossed and forget to breathe. If you had to breathe mindfully, you could not remain alive—you’d have perished long ago. No—without you, without your thought, someone breathes.

Who digests the food within you? You? Who turns bread into blood? You? Who keeps the heart beating in perfect rhythm? You?

By a palace lay a heap of stones. A small boy came, picked up a stone and hurled it at the palace window. When the stone began to rise through the air, naturally—if even humans fall into delusion, forgive the stone. The stone too had dreamed of flying in the sky. Sometimes he had seen green rows of parrots overhead, sometimes white lines of cranes. Sometimes far away, beyond the clouds, eagles soared. Dreams arose in the stone: someday I will fly, spread my wings. But how was the stone to fly? Still hope persisted. When the boy threw the stone, of course the stone’s ego awoke. It said to the stones below: “Do you hear? Today is the day my dream is fulfilled! Today I have opened my wings. I go on a journey through the sky.”

The stones below must have squirmed with envy. They had the same desire, but ill-fate—they couldn’t manage it. Jealous, they burned. For this very stone had lain among them for ages—today the fortune to fly! There seems no justice in this world, only injustice. They must have pounded on their own fate—“We are unlucky! God is not with us. That stone flies—we cannot deny it.”

And the flying stone’s chest swelled. When it struck the glass window and shattered it, the stone declared: “I have told you a thousand times—whoever comes in my way will be smashed!”

But the stone did not shatter the glass—no act was done. When a stone meets glass, the glass shatters; the stone does not “do.” It is simply nature: when stone and glass collide, the stone does not break—the glass breaks. It is not a deed; it is a law. The glass scattered over the carpet; the stone fell on the carpet. The stone said: “I am tired. I have made a long journey, I have flown in the sky, I have destroyed my enemy—let me rest a while, on this beautiful carpet.”

It was not rest—the stone had fallen on the carpet. But this is what we are always doing—events happen and we become the doers. People say, “I am breathing.” “I am living.” “My birth.” Your birth is like a boy throwing a stone at a palace—you have been thrown into life. Whose hands threw you—you do not know. Why you were thrown—you do not know. Sometimes you collided with someone and they broke—and your chest swelled with pride!

The servant heard the crash of glass—he ran in. The stone lay “resting,” thinking: “They have made good preparations for my welcome. As if they knew I was coming—carpets spread, fragrances wafting, chandeliers hanging, rich curtains!” The servant picked up the stone to throw it back out. The stone thought, “The master of the house has come—he lifts me in his hands in honor!” The servant flung it out through the window. The stone thought, “It has been long since I left home. I yearn for my own. Palaces and carpets are fine—but where is the joy I knew among my own, in my motherland!” The stone fell back upon the heap. The other stones opened their eyes, alert, unable to believe the unprecedented event! They had heard that in ancient times stones had flown, but those were myths. Now they saw with their own eyes—the stone not only flew, he returned.

As it fell upon the heap, the stone said: “Friends! I have roamed far and wide. I have destroyed enemies. I rested in palaces. I was honored by emperors. But I missed you. All was beautiful—but my heart longed for home. Your memory drew me back. I have returned.”

The stone was thrown back—and says, “I have come back.” This is the story of your ego. You had no hand in your birth; not in your breathing; not in your falling in love; not in your digestion, your blood’s circulation, your heart’s beating—and yet you think you are alone, isolated!

This language of ego—“I am different; I am the doer”—is the only delusion. One whose delusion breaks is a sannyasin. He says: I am not the doer; the Divine is the doer. I have never done anything. At most I can say, “I am the witness, not the doer.”

And the delightful thing is: as long as you are the doer, the “I” remains; the moment you become the witness, the “I” dissolves. In witnessing, the “I” cannot remain; in doing, it persists. Hence the essence of all scriptures is the transformation from doer to witness. Then you know—you are not alone. You are not at all—so how can you be alone? There is the Divine; I am not.

This solitary life of mine—
who knows where all it will wander?
Like a blossom drifting on water,
who knows where all it will be snagged?

So you have been drifting like that—
like a blossom on flowing water,
who knows where all it will catch?

Thus far it has gone—and therefore life is a long tale of sorrow, a lament. A sad note hums in your veena. Where there could be celebration, there is condensed melancholy. Where flowers could bloom, thorns are scattered. Where the fragrance of meditation could rise, there is only the stench of anxieties. How will the revolution happen?

Today’s sutras of Yari point toward that revolution—the final hint. O lovelorn one, light the lamp in the temple! You who have strayed, who live in the state of separation—it can end. Light the lamp in your temple! Light the lamp of witnessing, of awareness. O lovelorn one, light the lamp in the temple! A small act—small, yet the greatest. Small, because the lamp is there, the wick is there, the oil is there—only the flame must be kindled. Come near someone whose lamp is lit so that the flame leaps from the lit lamp to the unlit. Find a true master; surrender somewhere. Let the unlit lamp bow by the lit lamp—and the flame will leap. In that leap, the revolution occurs within you. Darkness departs; dawn breaks. Night dissolves; the sun rises in the east.

The soul is of the nature of light, present in every heart.

And the light we seek—to some extent it must be sought; and yet it is already burning in every heart. Sought, because we have turned our backs to it. Present, because our turning away does not extinguish it. The master only turns you towards the Divine—redirects you. You were running toward the world, turned away from God; he turns you about—a full one-eighty. He turns your face away from the world and towards the Divine. And in that very moment the entire world fills with unearthly light. In that moment, nectar begins to rain.

This slack, fragrance-drenched, cuckoo-like heart—
by which honey-king was it deceived?
By what sight or touch is it made tremulous, liquid,
like a stream of honey that moves so softly?
Monsoon breezes have begun to blow, O bee!

In a single instant the rain of nectar begins. In a single instant the monsoon breeze arises. In a single instant, spring arrives.

Monsoon breezes have begun to blow, O bee!
This slack, fragrance-drenched, cuckoo-like heart—
by which honey-king was it deceived?
By what sight or touch is it made tremulous, liquid,
like a stream of honey that moves so softly?
Monsoon breezes have begun to blow, O bee!
Youth is fragrant as flowers;
maidens sing kajri songs;
in grass-bowers, blossoms, and the leaves of trees
what new life-waves are stirring, O bee!
Monsoon breezes have begun to blow, O bee!
Look! Every bough sways and dances—
the forest’s nymph-like buds,
laden with delight, thrilled with gooseflesh,
inflorescences ripen with honey fragrance.
Monsoon breezes have begun to blow, O bee!
Gathering come the playful clouds
and lightning flashes open wide like a mad girl;
like frisky swings rocking to and fro
creepers rise in row upon row.
Monsoon breezes have begun to blow, O bee!
In half-blossomed enchanted limbs,
love’s embrace ripples and rolls.
With the beloved’s intoxicated urgings,
I would play as Cupid’s restless maid.
Monsoon breezes have begun to blow, O bee!

Spring arrives in an instant. We live in the fall—not because spring is absent, but because we have turned our backs to it. We live in autumn because we rush outward; the more we run out, the further we go from within. And within is the source of sources, the juice of juices—rasa eva saḥ. Within is that from which life flows; from which light flows; from which consciousness arises. Within is that from which love wells up; from which prayer awakens. Within is what we call the Divine.

The soul is of the nature of light, present in every heart.
The supremely dear One, the ultimate essence, never goes anywhere else.

What you seek sits within you—what we all seek sits within everyone. We are seeking that which we never lost. Our search is absurd, topsy-turvy. If we were searching for what we lost, it would be logical. We are seeking what we never lost; we are seeking what we are. In the seeker, the goal is hidden—and we run outward.

This union will not happen. If the search continues outside, we will fall from sadness to sadness. Look through human history: as the outer search has succeeded, man has grown inwardly desolate. Wealth has increased, splendor grown, amenities multiplied—but God has waned. Property has grown, pleasures and conveniences multiplied—yet within, a deep desolation, a dark night. The more comfortable outside, the more the inner poverty pricks—because against the backdrop of outer richness, inner poverty stands out starkly.

You know the story: Akbar drew a line and asked his courtiers—make it shorter without touching it. They thought and tired. Birbal stood, drew a longer line beneath it. Without touching, the first line became shorter.

When one has outer wealth, inner poverty appears more clearly. With outer conveniences, one sees inner hell more clearly. As science enriched us, we have grown impoverished. On one side wealth, on the other calamity—both moving in parallel.

The further you go from yourself, the more light you lose; you go away from the source of light. It is simply a matter of turning. Turn in a single instant—and the light is before you. Let the light fall upon your eyes—and you are filled with light.

The seers of the Upanishads prayed: Lead us from darkness to light—tamso ma jyotir gamaya. Lead us from death to immortality—mrityor ma amritam gamaya. This is humanity’s prayer: Lead us from the unreal to the real—asato ma sadgamaya. In these three brief lines all prayers are distilled. And even these can be bound into one: asato ma sadgamaya—lead us from the unreal to the real. Dark is the unreal; light is the real. Death is the unreal; immortality is the real.

What must be done? Where to go? Whom to ask? Where is the path? Where is the door? What is God’s address?

He sits within you—and you seek his address! You will find those eager to give you the address: in the mosque, in the temple, in the Kaaba, on Kailash, on Girnar. And you go. Perform the hajj, become a hajji; perform pilgrimages and return with the ego of virtue. Bathe in the Ganges and think all sins are washed. If only it were so cheap. But your Ganges is outside, your Kaaba outside, your Kashi outside. The real Ganges is within; the real Kaaba within; the real Kashi within. Dive there—then you are washed indeed!

There is a catch—when you bathe in the outer Ganges you think your sins will wash away—but not your virtues. How strange! It is as if a man’s body has both fragrance and stench; the stench washes off but not the fragrance. If there is true bathing in the Ganges, I tell you—your sins will wash away and your virtues too. They must. How will the Ganges discriminate between virtue and sin? And this is what happens in the inner Ganges—the sense of doership itself dissolves. Then who is there to do virtue or sin?

Take this as a touchstone: the Ganges in which both your virtue and sin are washed—know it is the true Ganges. The place where your very identity washes away, so you cannot re-grab the ego—know that is the real Ganges. The real pilgrimage is that from which you never return. If you come back, it was false. Become a hajji and return—the hajj was futile. But from the real pilgrimage, none returns. One who goes within does not come back—he is gone. From within, the Divine manifests; the self does not. The wave dissolves—now only the ocean resounds.

And what a joke, that what is inside we seek outside!

One evening Rabi’a began to search for something at her door. The neighborhood gathered. “Rabi’a, what are you seeking?” “I was sewing, my needle fell.” People began to search. Sun was setting. A wise one asked, “The road is long, dusk is near. Tell us exactly—where did it fall? Then we can search there.” Rabi’a said, “Don’t ask where it fell—the needle fell inside my house.” “Mad woman! We always suspected you were mad. If it fell inside, why search outside? How will it be found outside?” Rabi’a said, “It fell inside, but I am a poor woman; I have no lamp; inside it is dark. Outside there is the last light of the setting sun. Tell me yourselves—how can it be found where it is dark? I search where there is light.”

They said, “True—one finds only in light. But if it is not lost there, a thousand suns will not help.” Rabi’a laughed, “It is not the needle at all; I wanted to remind you—if there is no light within, borrow a lantern from the neighbor and search within. What you are seeking outside was not lost outside, but inside. And if it seems dark within—come to me, I will give you light. I have found it. I was only testing you. You call me mad? I call you mad. You seek outside what is within. And you seek outside for the very reason I told you—inside appears dark. But inside only appears dark—it is not—because your eyes are accustomed to the glare of the outside.”

Return home at noon from the bazaar—your eyes are tuned to light; when you enter, it seems dark. You know it’s not dark. Sit awhile; rest; drink water; lie with eyes closed; light appears within the house.

For lifetimes we have lived in the outer dazzle. So when for the first time you close your eyes, it appears utterly dark. Many sannyasins say to me, “You keep saying look within—but when we look, we see nothing but darkness.” They are right. At first you will see darkness. Rest a little within. That very rest is called meditation. Sit within, sit within, sit within… Wait a little, be patient. That patience is meditation; that waiting is prayer. Soon you will find—the eyes have changed their mode. Slowly they begin to see within. Light appears—such light as you have never known. Outside you know the burning light that scorches; within you know the cool fire—a fire, yet cool.

You have heard the story of Moses. When for the first time he encountered God, he was frightened. On Mount Sinai he saw—a green bush, and from it flames were rising! Flames he had never seen—luminous as a sun; yet the bush remained green; not a leaf withered, not a flower faded. Fire and a green bush! This is the symbol of inner light—it is cool, it is silent. It does not scorch; it only illuminates. Sit a little within, and light begins to be seen—the very source of life.

The soul is of the nature of light...
Your very nature is luminous. You are a being of light.
...present in every heart.
And not in one alone—in every vessel.

The Supreme Essence, the Beloved of the heart, never goes anywhere else.
That Supreme Beloved for whom you thirst—like a fish flung onto the bank longs for the ocean—he has never left you. He has always been there. Thou art That—tat tvam asi. You are not different by even a hair. You have assumed difference; on that assumption the whole world stands. Know non-difference—and the gates of heaven open. Know non-difference—and liberation showers on you.

And the day you know you are light, you will love even darkness. The day you know the Divine is seated within, you will love the outside too—because what is within, outside is its other face. And what is light, darkness is its way of appearing.

Understand this well: one who keeps searching outside makes no connection within; one who knows the within connects with the without too. Hence I do not call the renunciate a perfected one. The indulger is astray—so is the renunciate. The true adept is he for whom inside and outside are no longer two—what he saw within, the same he sees dancing without. What he knew within as light, the same he sees in the sun and bows to it; the same in the moon and calls it god; the same in the tree and worships the tree; the same in the stone.

That is why we made Buddha’s images of stone. Why? Buddha went within and knew supreme consciousness—yet we carved stone. There is a secret—we joined the two: supreme consciousness and stone are not separate. By making Buddha’s image of stone, we declared: that same One dwells in stone too.

I have loved thorns,
for thorns are sentries of flowers.
Dear to me as life is the dark night,
for beside her stands a wondrous dawn;
perhaps to hide the dawn,
night has donned darkness.
Since she held the dawn’s hand,
night has never slept.

How should that tree not be dear to me,
which is the very life of the vine—
on whose chest she climbs
and adorns her enchanting form?
For the vine’s sake, in night or day,
in cold, heat, storm, hail—the tree has borne all.

Clouds seem good to me
for they die away drop by drop for the lightning;
taking her in their arms to the edge of the sky,
they rush wherever she stirs to go.
Wherever lightning writhes and trembles,
there a thousand tears the clouds have shed.

Dear to me is the sweet mistake of life
that turns the world against me—
which pulls me like a tide, and if the ebb drags me back,
the shore itself runs to save me.
When the world, weary, strikes a hundred blows,
we laugh—and say, “Still we are alive!”

I have loved thorns,
for thorns are sentries of flowers.

One who has seen the inner flower finds that outer thorns are its guards.

Dear to me as life is the dark night,
for beside her stands a wondrous dawn;
perhaps, to hide the dawn,
night has painted her body black.

One who has seen within and found the light—outer darkness becomes the ornament of that light. One who knows the inner world—this outer world becomes its play.

Since she held the dawn’s hand,
night has not slept to this day.
I have loved thorns,
for thorns are sentries of flowers.

Perfect is he who knows the inner—and in his within, the outer is included. The indulger knows only the outer. The renunciate is an enemy of the outer and does not yet know the inner. The perfect one has known the inner—and knowing it, the outer becomes its limb.

When the Divine becomes visible within, then everywhere the Divine becomes visible. When the Divine dwells in your eyes, whatever you see bears the flavor of the Divine.

Rabi’a amended her Koran. In it there is a line: hate Satan. She crossed it out. The fakir Hasan was present. He said, “Rabi’a, what are you doing? Altering the Koran? This is heresy!” Could you alter the Gita? Your hand would tremble.

Rabi’a said, “I had to. Whenever I came to this verse, I stumbled. It used to be right; now it isn’t. Since I have known Him, whoever stands before me—I see only Him. Even if Satan stands before me, I see God. What can I do? I must make this my Koran. This line catches me, entangles me. Now there is no way left to see Satan. Since I have known Him—there is only He.”

One who has known light—darkness too becomes luminous. One who has known love—even in enmity his love pours. Even toward the enemy there is love. That is why Jesus said: Love your neighbor as yourself—and love your enemy as yourself. It will be so; you will not have to do it. One who has loved himself—his enemies have vanished.

In Jain scriptures, those who have known are called arihant—one whose enemies are finished. It does not mean Mahavira had no enemies. They were enemies from their side—but for Mahavira, enemies were gone. They harassed him, stoned him, hammered spikes in his ears, drove him out of villages. They were at their work. The Jain scripture rightly says Mahavira became arihant—ari: enemy, hanta: killer. Truly he slew them—not by cutting. With the experience of love within, enemies disappear without.

The soul is of the nature of light, present in every heart.
The Supreme Essence, the heart’s Beloved, never goes anywhere else.

Your God has not gone anywhere. Therefore do not go anywhere to seek. Sit. Be still—do not run. Stay. One who stayed—found. One who rested—found. One who ran—kept wandering. Do not search for God. Lose yourself—and you will find Him. Then a most delightful experience fills life.

The Supreme Essence, the heart’s Beloved…
The very life sways, dances.

I grow indifferent to the shore—
I am becoming the restlessness of the waves.
I have become the mirror of someone’s beauty—
in my own eyes I am becoming beautiful.
Love’s madness is kindness to my imagination—
as if I am coming and going in someone’s gathering.
What festival is this through which I passed unknowing—
on my own footprints I am laying carpets.
As if my ruin is still incomplete—
I go on trampling underfoot the favors bestowed on me.
I have bowed in prostration far from Your threshold—
with such shame I am sinking into the earth.
Let love’s frenzy not tear the veils—
wrapped in the arms of ecstasy I am melting.
O Love, may it be well—where are you leading me?
I am hiding from my own eyes.
She poured such wine with her tavern-keeper glance—
I am drowning in hues and colors.

Take a single sip from her cup, and the world remains—and yet is no longer the same. Everything is lit. On every leaf a lamp is lit. Each pebble glitters like a gem.

She poured such wine with her tavern-keeper glance—
I am drowning in hues and colors.

How to describe the form and outline—like a million suns’ radiance.
Unreachable and unseen is His form; only God’s servant finds Him.

I am drowning in such colors—infinite colors—that if I wished to describe it, to trace its outline, I could not. It is like a dumb man tasting sugarcane—the sweetness is known, but cannot be said. The voice is choked; the throat fills with such joy—words do not flow.

The supreme state of knowing cannot be said. Yes, the path to it can be said. One can point a finger. But no word can reveal it. Thirst can be aroused, but not the taste. A true master does not give you the taste—he gives you thirst. He ignites such an immense thirst that you must taste. You must go within. He births in you such a longing that you will never be at ease. He makes you so restless…

You go to saints for peace, for solace. If you find peace there—know you have gone to the wrong place. A true saint gives you true restlessness. There is delight in that restlessness. A deep joy is there. And with that inner restlessness, like its shadow, an outer calm will come. You cannot be restless in both directions at once. If you are restless outside, you have no inner longing. If you are restless within—who cares for the outside?

A small illness is forgotten when a great one comes. You have a headache; then a car accident—bones broken. Will you remember the headache? The greater illness makes the small forgotten.

Mulla Nasruddin drags his feet, curses while walking, stamping as he goes. Someone asked, “What’s the matter?” “These shoes—two sizes too small.” Wear two sizes too small—and you will curse and drag your feet; you’ll have blisters. “Then why wear them?” “This is the only relief in my life—I cannot give them up. After the day’s torment, when I throw them off and lie on the bed—it feels like heaven. All my pleasure is in these shoes. There’s nothing else in life. When I take them off—the relief, you cannot imagine. For that relief I bear the pain all day—but I cannot give it up.”

Think: an outer restlessness, an outer discontent—more money, more position—and you run. More money does not bring happiness. But when you have tormented yourself and one day the money increases, you feel the same relief as Mulla upon removing his shoes. Exhale in relief. But it will not last. Tomorrow morning—shoes on; now it must be two lakhs. One day it happens again—relief for a moment. Tomorrow—again the shoes. You cannot give up the shoe now, because your relief depends on it.

Thus, however much money people have—even more than needed—they cannot stop running, because only in that running do those rare moments of relief come. Those whose outer life is entangled with restlessness go to saints for a little soothing—some balm, some bandage.

If you wear shoes two sizes too small, you will always need balm and bandage. And the common work of “holy men” is to apply balm—pat you on the back—“All is well; don’t be afraid. This sorrow will pass; nothing is permanent. The world is changing; joy and sorrow come and go. It is the fruit of past karma; don’t fear. Endure and future bondage will not form. Chant Ram in the morning. Turn the rosary. Perform Satyanarayan katha now and then. If not in this life, then in the next—you will get much joy. Heaven is certain.” Such reliefs, such consolations! They pat you and send you home.

When you go to a true saint, the opposite happens. He will not talk about these restlessnesses; he will create new ones. He will say: Attain the Divine. Earning a lakh is no great matter—it comes. If someone persists, it comes. Legal or illegal, it comes. It is no big deal—fools get it. A true saint will kindle a new fire in you—attain the Divine! What is here? Even if you get it, it is nothing.

He will kindle a fire that cannot be put out. He will heat you and send you back. He will sow the seeds of a new restlessness—the restlessness to attain the Supreme, liberation, nirvana. One difference will occur: if this restlessness takes hold—if you are dyed in his color, if his fire catches in your being—you will forget outer restlessnesses, because they become small, valueless. They fade into insignificance.

Thus, one whom the search for God seizes—his worldly sorrows drop away. Not that they literally drop—they shrink. So small that they count as nil. What value? A thorn in your foot, and a dagger at your chest—will you think of the thorn? The great illness makes the small forgotten.

Bernard Shaw phoned his doctor at midnight, “I have a heart attack—come quickly.” The old doctor climbed to the second floor, panting, collapsing on a chair. Shaw rose from bed, fanned him, gave water. The doctor’s condition was so bad that Shaw forgot he had called him for himself. When the doctor recovered and got up to go, he said, “Fees?” Shaw said, “This is fine! I treated you—and you ask for fees?” The doctor replied, “All this was a play—to cure your illness.” Indeed, when the doctor acted as if in dire straits, Shaw forgot his own malady. The greater illness made the smaller vanish.

A saint will give you a discontent—divine thirst. But he cannot describe the taste he has known.

How to describe the form and outline—like a million suns’ radiance.
As for His form—unreachable, beyond the senses; only God’s servant attains.

As if countless suns rise—so much light! How could I describe it?

I long to know what is lovelier than lovely.
Let me see where the gaze finally rests.
O Lord, may this mingling end in good—
there was a bond with Him, but never like this.
A lifetime is needed to bear love’s intoxication—
today even the sweetness of the wound of the heart is nowhere.
The one for whom I am dying—He is something else entirely.
In the world there are many like You—but where are You?

With whom shall I compare Him?

In the world there may be a thousand like You—but where are You?
Everywhere You are—in a thousand forms. But when you know His fullness, all other faces pale, all beauty becomes ugly, all lights seem dark. When you see the Supreme Life, what you thought was life will look like death; what you thought nectar—will become poison. The day you experience the Supreme, all your categories overturn; your logic fails.

The one for whom I am dying—He is something else entirely.
In the world there are many like You—but where are You?

In the first cup of the night I am far from myself—
let me see where dawn finds me today.
Prayer to renounce love is never accepted—
if the heart does not want it, what power has the tongue?

When the Divine comes, He comes like a flood—sweeping you away like a straw. If you yourself are nowhere to be found, who will speak? If your very voice is gone, who will say?

The seers have spoken—but what they have spoken is not the exposition of God. It is man’s condition; the means to cross. The door and path to reach—the method, the yoga. But about what is found—silence. At most they say: it cannot be said. It is indefinable.

Buddha went even further: he did not even say “it is indefinable,” because saying that is also to say something about it. He would not even categorize it as definable/indefinable. It does not fit any category. It does not appear in words; nor, he says, does it appear in silence. It cannot be captured by sound or no-sound. It can only be known, only lived.

Therefore the master takes your hand—so that you may also live. He says: taste it—do not understand, taste.

Unreachable, beyond the senses is His form; only God’s servant attains.
Unmeasurable. Our hands are small; our measures are small. It is beyond the senses. If we saw with eyes, we would speak of form; if with ears, of music. But it is neither eye nor ear nor any sense-object. It is the subject of all senses and their transcendence. Fakirs have said: we heard Him with the eye, we saw Him with the ear—only to indicate an inconceivable happening. Kabir wrote riddling paradoxes to point toward the unsayable: “I saw a wonder—the river caught fire!” Rivers did not catch fire then. Today in America they do—filled with oil and petrol. But when Kabir wrote it, he spoke rightly: an impossibility, a mystery—no sense can grasp it. It flashes through all the senses, and yet beyond the flash remains yet more. Know and know—and knowing never ends. The more you know, the more you discover how ignorant you are.

Unreachable, beyond the senses is His form; only God’s servant attains.
Yet it can be attained. If not “known,” it can be realized. How? Become God’s servant—drop ownership. Drop the thought of being master. Drop the desire to win—learn the art of losing. He who loses to Him—wins. The scripture of love is this: lose—and you win. Try to win—and you will be badly beaten. Whoever goes to conquer God falls flat. Whoever goes to surrender, to offer himself—returns victorious.

This arithmetic is reversed. In this world, to win you must fight. There, to win you must drop sword and shield—become unarmed, insecure. The fundamental meaning of sannyas: become insecure, surrender. Say: You conquer me. I am ready to lose.

And there is joy even in losing to Him. In this world there is no joy even in winning; with the Divine there is joy even in losing. He defeats only the blessed—and those He defeats, win. To be defeated by Him is to be enthroned. The victories of this world hang you upon a cross.

Go to Delhi—you will see them hanging on the cross. Not quietly either—their legs are pulled; someone tugs at the neck; someone tries to steal the churidar pyjama. All efforts are on—each clutches his own garment lest someone pull it off. That is why they wear churidar—hard to pull off. If one wore a Bengali dhoti—gone! The churidar’s great advantage—it’s hard to remove; to put on you need help, to take off you need two men; if the wearer resists, you cannot remove it. In this world, even victory becomes tragic. In that world, even defeat is a great fortune.

…only God’s servant attains.
Rare are those willing to lose; therefore those who meet God are rare. Everyone could—but you must know how to lose.

His light is wondrous. Lose a little.

Like a million suns’ radiance.
Melt a little. When you lose, you melt. Depart. Lose—and you depart. Where you are not—there God descends.

Love’s grief torments me; the world’s grief crushes me—
yet my days pass; time slips away.
Those clouds have come, those colors rain, that ecstasy wakes, the goblet rings—
who has come to the garden? The whole season changes.
Cast the shadow of your tresses on the hot moments of my youth—
let this noon be merciful; all the air is burning.
This faint, intoxicating fragrance—this light, delightful scent—
some moth burns near your curls.
Do not look, O moon-faced one, toward me with such an intoxicated gaze—
I feel as if a round of wine is passing.
“Adam,” is it dawn in the tavern or the sanctuary of life’s mysteries?
Here too a sun rises; there too a sun rises.
Those clouds have come, those colors rain, that ecstasy wakes, the goblet rings—
who has come to the garden? The whole season changes.

Lose a little, melt a little—and the season changes. Clouds of bliss gather; nectar drizzles; seeds buried for lifetimes sprout, break ground. Leaves of eternal life, flowers are born within you. You too know who you are. But remember the arithmetic: as long as you are, you cannot know who you are. When you are not—only then will you know. Keep this paradox in mind.

…only God’s servant attains.
See with your eyes before you: the blazing cluster of the Lord of the world.
He pervades without and within—lay your head at His feet.

Then it becomes visible—without and within, only He.

See before your eyes—the blazing cluster of the Lord.
A dense mass of light.

He pervades without and within—lay your head at His feet.
Offer your head. Drop it at His feet. Do not go on saving the ego. Do not keep this head raised—bow it somewhere. Wherever this head bows becomes a temple.

We are missing. God is everywhere—and we are missing!

You could not study!
You looked left and right,
you looked up and down,
you stared with eyes wide open,
you looked with eyes closed—
yet nowhere did you ever
keep your eyes steady.
You could not study!

Waves rose and fell endlessly
on the ocean of your heart;
moment by moment were made and unmade
shapes of dreams.
These restless desires
could not rest even for a moment.
You could not study!

Scattered lay the letters,
scattered lay the links,
scattered lay the pearls,
scattered lay the strings.
Of these links, these strings,
you could select nothing.
You could not study!

It is present—but you could not study, reflect, contemplate. You missed. You could not be attentive. Not even for a moment could you look in stillness, in silence, without thought. Otherwise only He is. None other.

For eight watches I would go on beholding—forever in the Beloved’s presence.

Those who have had even a glimpse of meditation’s emptiness—who have opened the window of the heart, of love, of prayer—for them:

For eight watches I would go on beholding…
Then awake in Him, sleep in Him. Rise in Him, lie in Him. Eat in Him, drink in Him. It is He you eat; He you drink.

For eight watches I would go on beholding…
Wherever you look—only He. In trees He is green, in blossoms He is red. In the sun’s streaming light He is gold. At night He pours from the moon like silver. He glimmers in lakes; He shines in the stars. He twinkles in people’s eyes. Only He, only He—none else.

For eight watches I would go on beholding—forever in the Beloved’s presence.
O Master! The Master is everywhere. He has surrounded you. When the wind blows, it is His breath. When breathing moves, it is He. You swing in Him; you rock in Him.

Says Yari: One meets at home—why go far?

Where are you going?

Says Yari: One meets at home…
He is present within. First recognition must arise within; then it arises without. Not the other way around. People think—first recognize outside, then within. It does not happen so. First within—then without.

Therefore your worship in temples and mosques is futile. You are busy recognizing outside. The flowers you place before statues—wasted; the aarti you wave—wasted. You have not seen Him in yourself—how will you see Him in stone? You know well the statue is man-made, bought in the market. You did not see Him in your son, your wife, your husband, yourself—so near. He throbs in your heart—there you do not see—and you go to the temple! Will you see Him in the statue? No. If you are a little rational, logical, you may miss forever.

In Dayananda’s life it is recorded: it was the great worship of Shivratri. His father, a great devotee, made his son sit too. A night vigil. Dayananda was stubborn—and remained so all his life. It was a vigil; he sat the whole night. The father even fell asleep—the real worshiper slept; the boy sat and watched what would happen. What happened changed his life: a mouse came and began to eat the sweets offered to Shiva. Not only that, it climbed onto Shiva—sitting on him, looking around merrily. All Dayananda’s reverence vanished—“What kind of Shiva is this? He cannot even chase away a mouse! Our offerings are eaten by a mouse. Shiva cannot even scold him—‘Get away!’ The mouse sits on top of Shiva! How will he protect us?”

If a person is keenly rational, this will happen. And the result was harmful. If Dayananda had first been taught meditation, not outer worship, the nuisance called Arya Samaj would never have arisen. The real father of Arya Samaj is that mouse. “All worship is humbug. All useless”—this feeling arose. All his life he taught people thus. In one sense, true: worship is useless until the inner is experienced. But after the inner is known, worship has meaning.

Imagine—if Dayananda had been led into meditation first, not into worship. In my view every child should be taught meditation, not worship. Because in worship there are two possibilities: foolish children will continue outer worship all their life—dung-beetle devotees. And bright children with keen intelligence—worship will become, for them, hollow ritual. Their logic will arise and some pretext will be found to dismiss worship. They will become atheists, idol-breakers, critics of ritual.

Neither is good. One who remains stuck in outer worship—misses. One who dismisses worship as humbug—misses too. If children are led within first… children can go more easily than old people. Old people have accumulated junk—knowledge-trash takes time to clear. Children are clean, simple-hearted. Give them a hint and they slip into meditation. The world could be different, humanity new—with one small beginning: let little children have a taste of meditation.

Had Dayananda tasted meditation, that night would have gone otherwise. The mouse would still come; the mouse cares not that Dayananda meditated. He would eat the sweets. And if Dayananda had meditated, the mouse would eat with more zest—because a non-meditative boy sitting there makes the mouse a bit cautious. If Dayananda had been meditative, perhaps the mouse would have frolicked more—maybe even toppled Shankarji! But Dayananda would have seen something else—Shiva in the idol, Shiva in the mouse. Then the thought would not arise—“This mouse climbs on Shiva’s image!” Only the Divine everywhere—whether you put Shiva above or the mouse above—what difference? Ganesha rides a mouse—he is Shiva’s son. The mouse must have thought, “Let me take a ride too. Their son rides me; let me give the father a taste!”

The Divine alone is—the mouse, the Shiva, the Ganesha, all. Dayananda would have rejoiced: “See the Divine’s play! The same in the mouse; the same in Shankar!” Perhaps he would have felt joy that our offering was accepted—the Divine, in the form of a mouse, consumed it. He would have been delighted—if there had been meditation.

But there was no meditation—only logic. Arya Samaj could not become religion—only a rational, scholastic process. A social movement, a rational movement—yes; but not religion. Religion has nothing to do with logic.

Read Dayananda’s Satyarth Prakash—logic upon logic. Petty logic—logic is petty. Even the tallest logic is low. Religion is the flight of love; the music rising within the heart. It has nothing to do with logic.

For eight watches I would go on beholding—forever in the Beloved’s presence.
Says Yari: One meets at home—why go far?

First meet at home—then you will find everywhere.

The soul, a bride adorned, beautifies herself.
If you wish to meet the Lover, become feminine in heart. Logic is masculine; love is feminine. Mathematics is masculine; prayer is feminine. If you want God, not through logic—for logic goes to defeat others. Become love.

The soul, a bride adorned…
Become a woman. Yari has said something wondrous. Religion is attained by those who see themselves as the Beloved’s beloveds. He is Krishna; all the rest are Radhas. Then He is found—because He is found through love. Love is feminine, rising in the heart. Logic is a net of the mind.

The soul, a bride adorned, beautifies herself.
Make yourself beautiful—prepare for the Beloved. As a woman meeting her lover adorns herself—how she looks in the mirror, henna on hands, jewels, flowers in her braid, kohl in her eyes. “The Beloved is coming!” She prepares herself madly—to be pleasing to him. So the devotee prepares himself—to be pleasing. To be worthy. Let a single glance of grace fall—one glance is enough.

The soul, a bride adorned, beautifies herself.
She rises to meet the Beloved, lighting lamps on all sides.

To meet the Beloved she sets out—lamps on all four sides. Either she lights lamps, celebrating Diwali—“the Beloved is coming”; or as she stands, lamps light by themselves—Diwali happens. The tinkle of anklets on the beloved’s feet, the soft music of ornaments, the longing burning within, each hair bristling with joy—lamps will light, extinguished lamps will flare. Light will appear on every side.

One who sets out in search of the Beloved—erases himself. In that erasing, light happens. When this light is lit in you, the Divine rushes toward you—you need not go seek. Light the inner lamp of love.

O lovelorn one, light the lamp in the temple!
He came long ago and went; he still fills the eyes.
These walk, those roam—these come, those go.
The same ravishing stature, the same face, the same form.
Lips that tremble, gazes that quiver—
He stands, and smiles.
The same delicacy, the same grace, the same sweet smile, the same melody—
I am a design of longing; He keeps making designs of wonder.
Colorful gait, ordered rhythm, colored speech, colored message—
at every step, in every movement, new blossoms open.
Colorful youth, colorful beauty—head to toe, all is color—
they are all color—and they color all.
Manifestation of all splendors, scenes of all colors—
gathering themselves, they converge at a single center.
Is the colorful spring and youth alone? What of the stars and moon?
All existence bows where He lowers His gaze.
Wine flows from the eyes; ecstasy spills from the glance—
it overflows, it springs—He drinks, He pours.

Just be ready.
She rises to meet the Beloved, lighting lamps on all sides.
Be ready; light the inner lamp—God will come. He will arise from within; awaken; spread like a flood. He will flow through you toward others.

O lovelorn one, light the lamp in the temple!
You are the temple. Light the lamp within—of meditation, of love. In one whose lamp of meditation and love is lit, nirvana descends of its own accord; liberation rains by itself.

Enough for today.