Dariya Kahe Sabad Nirvana #1

Dariya kahai sabda nirbana!
Nirvana cannot be said in words. There is no way to express it in language. And yet all the buddhas have tried to express it. They have attempted the impossible: to speak that which cannot be spoken, to indicate that which cannot be described.

Nor is it true that the awakened were never successful. They did not succeed with everyone—this much is true. For those who had decided not to hear, there was simply no way to reach them. Even if nirvana could have been packed into words, such people—adamantly deaf—would never have received it. They had resolved neither to hear nor to see. But those who held it in their hearts, who opened the bag of love and bore with the masters’ words, even that which cannot be conveyed reached them. News of the Unreportable arrived. In this sense Dariya says, ‘Dariya kahai sabda nirbana’—I speak words suffused with nirvana, words soaked and steeped in nirvana. Those who can truly listen, who are ready to listen and not eager to argue; those in whom the taste for dialogue—not debate—has arisen; who are not listening from mere curiosity but in whom the fire of longing has been born—they will hear. Alongside the words, the wordless will arrive. For when one like Dariya speaks, he does not speak from the head. He speaks from the innermost depths. That voice is not the clang of thoughts echoing in the skull, but the resonance of experience flowing ceaselessly in the secret chambers of the heart.

The words of one like Dariya arise out of the void that has blossomed within him.
They are ripples of his emptiness. They come drenched in the unstruck sound happening within him. And just as one passes through a garden—without touching a flower or embracing a tree—pollen floating in the air, fragrance drifting invisibly, will perfume one’s clothes. You never see a flower touch you, never see pollen falling upon you—yet the garments are perfumed. Walk past rose-bushes and the scent of roses will follow you a long way. So when words pass by the flowering within someone, they carry a little of that fragrance. But the fragrance is very delicate, non-violent, supremely subtle. Those who listen with the heart utterly open may find their nostrils filled; perhaps a wave will dance within their very life-breath; perhaps the strings of the inner veena will be touched; perhaps the unstruck will begin to awaken within them; perhaps their eyes will open—there will be a dawning; they will discover that it is not night, it is day; that darkness is not truth—truth is light. We have lived in darkness only because our eyes were closed. The noise and racket exist only in the mind. Come down a little below the mind and there is nothing but music. The sound of Om is resounding day and night.

When words wrapped in that Om resound arrive—only a listener is needed, someone to drink! One who can set thoughts aside, lay the head down for a while, and spread the bowl of pure thirst—then indeed, Dariya is right: ‘Dariya kahai sabda nirbana.’ Yet these words of nirvana are audible only to disciples, lovers, devotees. These words have nothing to do with punditry. Do not be deceived that because you know the language you will understand them. These words come from the void; only if glimpses of that void have begun to visit you will you be able to taste the nectar of these unprecedented, incomparable utterances.

And glimpses of the void are utterly natural. You simply haven’t paid attention. They come to you too—sometimes your door opens, sometimes a little window unlatches, sometimes the moon and stars peer into you, sometimes the winds come and make your heart tremble, sometimes sunrays enter your being. But you are so unconscious, so absent, that you notice nothing. God keeps happening all around you, in endless forms, while you remain shut within yourself—eyes closed, the shutters of the heart barred—living in the ocean of the divine and yet unfamiliar with it.

Give a few moments for the void to descend within, and you will understand Dariya’s words. Rise one morning and silently gaze at the blue sky, steady and alert—and you will be astonished—sometimes there comes such a moment—a moment when the sky is outside and the sky is inside; for a single instant you are bound to the sky, embraced by it. For a moment the sky takes you in its arms and you are lost… lost in some far realm, in some new dimension… The taste you receive in that instant—that is the taste of the void. For now it is but a drop; one day it can be the ocean. For now it is a little—arrived and gone; like a whiff of fragrance that comes and flies away—you cannot catch it. Yet if the remembrance begins that there are such fragrances, such rays, then you will sometimes open your door. On a night studded with stars, lie down upon the earth, dissolve into the soil; forget that you are. Let the body merge with dust; forget that you are—when the body merges with earth, the soul merges with sky. They happen together.

You are the meeting of two—earth and sky. The visible and the invisible. The mortal and the immortal. Let the body merge into earth for a while. It will anyway—today or tomorrow. The body will fall; it will be absorbed in dust. It arose from dust, one day it returns to dust. Everything goes back to its original source.

Sometimes let it lie in the soil by your own will. Forget you have a body. Forget even that you are. In that forgetting, for the first time remembrance arises—of the one you are. In that oblivion, self-remembrance is born. In that instant you become the sky. All the stars enter within you. You will see the stars revolving inside you. That hour of emptiness is the hour of meditation. With a little effort you can create extraordinary openings in your ordinary life. And for such moments, no temple, mosque, or gurdwara is required. In truth, if you get entangled only in temples, mosques and gurdwaras, you will be deprived of God’s great temple—the starry sky, the sun pouring light, trees brimming with his sap, rivers rushing with his roar toward the sea.

And let me tell you this: if through all this you begin to experience the divine, then go to the gurdwara! Then it is a joy! Then go to the mosque, then to the temple—you will recognize who is there in the temple, who is there in the mosque, in the gurdwara, in the church. First have eyes. Polish your vision! Then even in a stone image you will see the same God. And if there is no image—still you will see him. His is presence, his is absence. His is being, his is non-being. Life is his, and death is his. All is his because all is he. But let it be realized! And you will realize it close to nature, for nature carries the imprint of his hands. Every flower bears his signature.

If you have eyes, then with a lens of attention, turn the pages of the flowers.
Commentaries on an Infinite Beauty are written in these living books.

If you have eyes, then turn the pages of petals and blossoms.
Commentaries on someone’s loveliness are inscribed in these scrolls.

In these books are glosses on an immeasurable beauty. You will not find that, as yet, in a commentary on the Gita. If you cannot find it in the commentaries written by roses, you will not find it in the Gita’s commentary. If it is not visible in the lotus, it will not be visible in the Quran. And one who has seen it in the lotus can also see it in the Quran. The reverse cannot be. First see it in the Quran and then in the lotus? No—because the Quran has gone very far from God; the lotus is still blooming in him. The same flow is its redness, the same its fragrance. The bumblebees understand more than you. Place a Quran and a lotus—see whom the bee chooses.

It is said in the life of King Solomon, famed as the wisest of men, that the Queen of Ethiopia came to test him. She brought two bouquets: one of real flowers, the other of exquisitely crafted artificial blooms—so real that one might doubt the real ones, but not the fake! Standing at a distance she said: I won’t come closer; first answer me: which are real and which are false? The courtiers were in a fix—today a knotty problem! Solomon pondered a moment and said, The light is dim; open all doors and windows so I can see clearly—I am old. The windows were opened. He watched a moment and declared: The flowers in your left hand are fake. The queen was astonished—she too had to keep track which hand held which. She had written on her palms to remember. How did he know? Solomon said: Why lie? I could see the flowers before; it wasn’t the light. I had the doors opened for the bees. Two bees flew in from the garden—wherever they sat, those are real. You can deceive human eyes—even Solomon’s eyes—but how will you deceive a bee?

Your books—no matter how precious; whether Quran, Bible, Vedas, or Guru Granth Sahib—no butterflies alight on them, no bees hum. Think: where do the bees hum, where do the butterflies wander? Follow them, become like them—then the experience of the void will happen to you, and for the first time you will have a little understanding of meditation. With that understanding, the words of the awakened become meaningful. ‘Dariya kahai sabda nirbana.’ Then the words spoken by Dariya will unveil nirvana, lift the veil. Nanak’s words will join you to the divine. Muhammad’s voice will become unprecedented. But inside you there must be emptiness; only in that emptiness can such a voice create a humming. If your vessel is cluttered with rubbish, nothing can be done. Your vessel must be empty.

If you would learn emptiness, go to nature—go to the mountains, sit by the trees. How wonderful were those who worshipped trees, how dear those who bowed to sun, moon, and stars and called them gods; how wise those who worshipped fire, who lit lamps and steadied their attention on the flame. Fire is his; moon and stars are his; trees are his; rivers, lakes and oceans are his. Those were better people, sensible people; they sought relationship with nature. And one whose link with nature is restored is not far from God—he is hidden behind nature’s veil. Nature is his shawl. Learn nature a little, and you cannot remain long away from God. And one far from God—what is he? A dark night, a nightmare.

All night the wind roared, the clouds rained down,
When even the silence sobbed, the stars were parched.
Forests wept, roads spread out in tears all night,
In lightning’s twitch, my breath could never rest.
Mountains swayed, trees trembled in fear all night,
Countless streams surged and measured human paths,
Hills clashed—inky black—all night long,
Drinking the heart’s fear from every breast,
A dreadful creation, a world anxious all night,
Birds in their nests lay sleepless, panic-struck,
Chicks burrowed deep beneath their mothers’ wings,
Wild beasts stood bristling at the cave-mouths,
Buffeted by storm on storm, the darkness cried all night,
From sky to earth descended the chariot of night.

What is your life? A very long night whose dawn never comes! A night where the dawn seems lost—no moon, no stars—not even the glow of fireflies! No lamp, no candle—only you, staggering, falling and rising, smashing your head against the walls—and this you call life? Life belongs to those whose eyes have opened. Where eyes open, morning breaks. Life belongs to those who have recognized themselves. Recognize yourself—and you recognize all. Life belongs to those who begin to see the dance of God everywhere. Only they live. The rest only die.

We have been erased from the first day, O Eternal One.
What matters if we lie on the earth or beneath it?

What difference does it make whether you are above the ground or below? You are erased.

We have been erased from the first day, O Eternal One.
When death arrives, you too will have to say: O death, you have come in vain! We were already dead. The only difference is that we were aboveground, you will put us under. What else?

We have been erased from the first day, O Eternal One.
What matters if we lie on the earth or beneath it?

Where does this lifelong search lead? Nowhere but the grave. Is that a life that ends in a grave? Life is that which ends in immortality. If it ends in death, know you never lived—you were deceived by a counterfeit.

However far I stretched my feet in this world, Shad,
In the end I found nothing beyond two yards of earth.

You try so hard—you do make efforts, create much disturbance, much noise—but what is the final achievement? A six-foot patch of ground—a two-yard plot! And this you call life? No—this is not life.

Listen to Dariya’s words and begin a little search for life—‘Dariya kahai sabda nirbana.’
These are lovely sutras—there is great sweetness in them, a heady wine. But only if you drink will the intoxication spread. Don’t listen to them as you listen to everything else; listen with deep feeling. Let your eyes be wet—and not only the eyes, let your heart be moist. Through that wetness, through the doorway of tears, Dariya’s words can set your heart’s veena vibrating. Until that happens, keep one thing in mind: you are astray. Do not fall into the delusion—even by mistake—that there is nothing to seek. Do not fall into the illusion that you know—what more is there to know?

My life feels airy, ungrounded,
A body shattered, though resting,
My breath impatient, aching,
Eager to travel far away.
I know not why—home and street,
Everything feels strange today.
Whose support has slipped away?
I’m but a shadow today.
A mind lost in its losing,
A world asleep and hollow—
Sometimes I feel the string of life
Has snapped—now snapped—indeed it’s true.

Who knows when it will snap? Before that chord breaks, let the music be born—the music that never breaks. Strings are made and unmade, but music is eternal. Before the veena of this life is broken, awaken it—let it resound. Let it resound, and you will grow wings. You will fly—toward your destination, toward your home. Otherwise you are a stranger here; this is not your home. It is no one’s home. We must seek home. This is an inn.

In this roadside inn, O soul, the heart will never be at rest.
God knows for how many days we came to stay here.

Do not settle here. Those who settle here harvest only sorrow. If you must attach your heart, then attach it to the supreme source of life. Only that, when found, is truly found. If nirvana is found, know that something has been gained. Until nirvana happens, know: you have been gathering trash. And do not forget this even for a moment. Our ego has a vested interest in forgetting that we are collecting garbage; it hurts to accept, “I am picking up trash.” Even when it gathers pebbles, the ego pretends they are jewels. It lives in dharmashalas and calls them its home. These words are precious—but only for those in whom the understanding has dawned that their life is passing in vain, that they are leaving without singing their song.

Inside is filth layered thick, while you wash only the body outside.
The revolution has to happen within, and we organize everything outside. The lamp must be lit within, and we celebrate Diwali outside. Let the rows of lamps burn outwardly—but you will remain in darkness until the inner lamp is lit. We arrange so much outside—so many baths; when will you meditate? A bath washes the body’s dust; when will you cleanse the soul’s dust? Meditation is the soul’s bath. A bath refreshes the body; when will you refresh the soul? Your soul is becoming lifeless, impoverished, neglected. You give a hundred percent of your energy to the body—and death will snatch it away today or tomorrow. This house is a house of cards; this boat is paper—it is going to sink. No one ever saved it. Will you waste your life decorating this boat with flowers and embroidery, or will you also seek the inner truth—the one that is yours in birth and in death; before birth and after death? To say it is “yours” is not right—you are that truth. Tat tvam asi—you are that. It is not other than you.

Inside is mire caked thick,
While you wash only the body outside.
What mud does Dariya speak of? The same all buddhas speak of. What mud is filled within? Thoughts, desires, memories, imaginations—this is the mud. You are entangled in this, stuck to your neck. Desires stand with heads raised within. And thoughts—an endless procession. Not a moment’s rest, not a pause; the road is never empty—thoughts keep moving. And what thoughts? Thoughts of a past that is no more. Someone said something yesterday—thoughts of that. Why carry what no longer exists? Why carry ghosts? Let what is gone be gone. Why carry the trash? Why carry corpses?

You know the tale of Shiva? When Parvati died, Shiva slung her corpse across his shoulders and wandered the land, seeking a physician, a miracle—someone to revive her. But a corpse is a corpse. Nature grants no exceptions. The body began to decay; stench rose; limb after limb fell away. Wherever a limb fell, a Hindu pilgrimage place arose—so say the Puranas.

But Shiva carrying a corpse—
This is your story. Not a myth; your psychology. Everyone is carrying corpses. And corpses rot. Wherever the limbs fall, there are your pilgrim shrines of memory. Even in old age people return again and again to the shrines of youth—a woman once loved, a man once desired; a success, a flag unfurled—yet now there is nothing but stench. Nothing but memory. Apart from your memories, the past has no existence. A little intelligence and one immediately severs ties with the past. Why carry this junk?

And a strange thing: the day one drops the past, the future collapses as well. Why? Because the future is nothing but a wish to relive the past—this time more skillfully—refined. What do you want tomorrow? The very thing you once experienced and found sweet—now you want more. Yesterday had thorns too—this time you want only flowers. Perhaps there were pains—you want to erase them—tomorrow should be pure pleasure, pleasure free of pain.

Your future is simply a beautified version of the past. When the past falls, the projection called future falls too. And when both drop, you are rooted in this very moment. That settling is rest, relaxation. In that settling, in that rest, the first meeting with Rama happens. When within all is still—no wave of thought, no ripple of desire; neither past nor future; no looking back, no running ahead—here and now—the mud is gone. He who settles in the present has a purified heart.

Inside is filth layered thick,
And you keep washing only the body outside.
We keep arranging the outside. We sprinkle perfume on wounds so there is no smell. We drape garlands over the sores so none can see. We try to hide inner ugliness with externally imposed beauty. We try to fill inner emptiness with outer wealth. This is your world—your life. What are you doing? Trying somehow to cover inner poverty with ornaments; to conceal the inner beggar with jewels. Can this be done? No. Outer wealth remains outside; it never reaches within. There is no meeting between outside and inside. The dimensions are distinct. The illness is inward while the treatment is outward. These medicines are only deceits.

Dariya says:
Inside is filth layered thick, while you wash only the body outside.
The Invisible One dwells in your inner palace, yet you do not find his path.
You keep running—let this be gained, let that be gained—yet the source of all gaining is the One enthroned within your palace, in your own home, in your heart. You roam from temple to temple, banging your head, while the one you seek through lifetimes has not left you even for a moment—sitting in the house of your heart, waiting for you. Your lord awaits within.

The Invisible One dwells in your inner palace—yet you do not find his path.
You run on countless roads and forget a single road—the inward road. Before you go searching outside, at least peek within, lest you seek outside while he is present inside. Those who looked within, found. Those who ran outside, lived and died empty-handed.

Without the right device, no one finds the secret—seek the company of a sage.
But the path to the inner palace can only be shown by one who abides there. You have been forgetting for so long—layer upon layer of delusion has accumulated—if you start digging by yourself you may dig for lifetimes and still find nothing. Only one who has reached within can give you the way.

Without the right device, no one finds the secret…
You need a key.
Have you noticed? However big the lock, the key is small. However complex the lock, the key is simple. Without it you may hammer the lock endlessly—it won’t open. With the key, even a child can open it. No wrestlers are required; no great force. The device that opens the lock—such is the method of yoga: a simple thing. If it comes into your hand, a child can open it.

Dariya was only twenty when he attained absolute buddhahood. While here, even at eighty, old men—far from enlightenment—still seek the same rubbish that the young seek; forgive the young, but the old too? Astonishing! If a youth is ambitious, pardon him—youth has its blindness. But the old remain ambitious—one foot in the grave—still hoping for another promotion, a bigger chair. This tale of chairs seems never to end. Children may be forgiven, the young too—but the old, no. Yet if one has the courage to be near a true master, the ultimate can be attained by children and youth as well.

Dariya became a buddha at twenty. With the key, it is as simple as two plus two is four.

Without the right device you cannot find the secret…
Remember this: without the right device, the exact method, true science—you will not find the mystery.
…seek the company of a sage.
But people are strange: even when a longing for God arises, they run from the company of the sage. They think, I’ll manage alone. To learn language, they go to a teacher; to learn mathematics, to a teacher; for geography and history too. To learn anything, they go to school—only for God they think: Why go to anyone? I’ll do it myself! In this century this disease has spread—hence God has almost become estranged from us. An arrogance has arisen: we will do it ourselves; why learn from anyone? It is not that never has anyone attained by oneself—once in millions, someone may stumble into truth. But that is the exception, not the rule. Do not cling to your ego. Why do you avoid the company of the sage? The first condition there is surrender, to bow. The ego does not want to bow. People run away.

Beauty and love are one—only in appearance are there two names.
If this is true, what then—are we their equal?
When I asked the intellect for the way, madness cried:
She herself is lost and wanders—how can she be a guide?

The intellect itself is wandering and entangled. If you listen to it and follow it, you will regret it.

Khalil Gibran tells a story: A man went village to village proclaiming, Whoever wants to find God, follow me. No one ever did, so there was no trouble. But in one village a youth stood up: I will follow you. The man hesitated—then said, Fine, come. He took him wandering through forests, mountains, deserts—hoping he would tire and leave. But the youth was stubborn. A year passed, then two, then three. The man himself grew weary of trying to tire him. After six years he fell at the youth’s feet: Forgive me—now please go. The youth said: Where shall I go? You said you would take me to God, so I am following you. The man said: God? How will I take you to God! Because of you, I have lost my own way. Before you came, I knew the path. Since you came, I have lost even that. Now show mercy to me. I will never again say to anyone: follow me and I’ll deliver you.

Your priests keep saying: Follow us, we will deliver you. Their safety lies in the fact that you never follow; your safety too lies with such priests—both false, in convenient collusion. But stand near someone like Dariya, Kabir, Nanak, Farid—and fear will arise; your knees will tremble; you will fall. You will feel: Now death is coming. To walk with this man, I must die. I must wipe myself out. Dariya uses the right word: ‘Seek the company of a sage’—yet you hide from it—goavai: you conceal yourself, you run, you fear. Your reasoning is either cunning or cowardice. Without cunning and without cowardice, the company of the sage will find you—even if you sit at home, the master will come in search of you.

We gained nothing from our devotions but pride in our piety.
All rituals are worthless—except his love.
You have done many devotions—without a master—so they are false. You waved lamps, performed worship, did fire offerings. But who gave you the device? The one who made you do the ritual—has he found God? Does his breath carry God’s pollen? Look into his eyes—do you see the coolness of stars? Hold his hand—does a magnetic pull arise? Sit silently near him—does a flute sound? No—he is a hired priest; you paid him a fee; he performed the rite. He is like you—perhaps worse.

We gained nothing from our devotions but vanity.
All busywork is futile—except for his love.
Only love is true prayer. And who will teach you love? Only one who has known love can give you its taste. Love cannot be taught; it is caught. It is contagious. This is the meaning of satsang: someone has attained the Beloved—sit with him, stand with him, move with him. Today or tomorrow, the “fever” will catch you. And this fever is supreme health, supreme good fortune!

Bird, in which direction will you fly?
Think a moment! From where you came—you don’t know. Why you came—you don’t know. Bird, after death in which direction will you fly? Before that, link yourself with those who know.

Bird, in which direction will you fly?
Ask yourself: Where are you going? Death comes quickly. The body will lie here; where will the swan within go?

Without the Name, you are wingless—
you will wander and wander, and fall.
He who has not remembered the Divine Name, who has not kept God in his heart—his wings are missing. He cannot fly. He will fall here and there, writhe, and fall again—in bodies like these, in wombs like these.

Without the Name, you are wingless—wandering, you will fall again and again.

A slanderer of the guru, an enemy of saints—wastes his birth in blame.
Even when people come near a true master, they do not relate, they do not dialogue, they argue. Take them to a rose-bush—they will count thorns and will not see the flowers. And if, counting thorns, their hands bleed—what wonder? With bleeding hands and angry eyes—how will they see roses? Even roses seem like thorns. Others look at the flowers and become so enchanted that the thorns disappear. For them, the thorns—being protectors of the rose, not enemies—grow dear.

There are two approaches: a constructive way of seeing, and a negative. Even near a true master you can do either. Look negatively and you will find a thousand faults—this should not be so, that should not be so. But what will you gain? Who asked you? Unasked advice is foolishness. Who asked whether roses should have thorns? You came—take the juice, the fragrance, sing a few songs with the rose, become rose-like, become a rose. Instead you chose to count thorns.

In the presence of a master, only with a positive disposition does relationship form. With even a little negativity, not only does relationship fail to happen, even the future possibility is spoiled.

A slanderer of the guru, an enemy of saints—wastes his birth in blame.
What will you gain from criticizing gurus and saints? Only that your life will be wasted.

Chasing others’ women and affairs—what virtue will you gain?
People run after the trivial—and they are most positive about the trivial. Another’s wife seems beautiful—her flaws are invisible. Another’s palace seems charming—you do not ask whether its owner sleeps at night. The woman who bewitches you—what is the state of her husband? You do not care.

Toward the trivial you are constructive—remember, it is the same coin: one who is constructive with the trivial will be negative toward the essential. And one who is negative toward the trivial, becomes constructive toward the essential. Use your sword of discrimination rightly: cut away the false, protect the true. Some cut the true and protect the false. Be careful. Where you find the trivial, cut it off. Use reason there—raise your sword. And where you smell even a hint of the essential, put the sword aside and dive in.

Chasing others’ women, hunting others’ wealth—what virtue will you gain?
What will you gain from running after women, men, money, status? What profit? Who ever profited?

Drunk on desire, maddened by lust,
You abandon nectar and drink poison.
The more you are filled with lust, the more intoxicated by it—the more unfit you become to drink the nectar.

In truth, it is a matter of how you drink—poison becomes nectar, nectar becomes poison. The same world is given to you, to Buddha, to Dariya. In this same world Dariya found God—you collect trash. In this same world Buddha attained nirvana—what are you attaining? The world is the same. Some drink nectar here, some poison. It is a matter of art, of style.

You do not understand the nature of time—death stalks you moment to moment.
The arrow comes closer with every breath. She is lying in wait. No one knows when her naked sword will sever your neck. Tomorrow may never come. Still you are entangled in trifles. Even death cannot wake you. How deep must be your sleep!

Without the lotus feet, that man will drown—
battered and bruised, he will not find the bottom.
He who has not learned to open his eyes in a master’s light, to bow at a master’s feet, to place his hand in the master’s hand—he will drown. You will be tossed about, suffer, and never find the bottom of this lake of life. But the bottom has been found—by some. Sit with them. Keep their company. Do not be afraid. Fear is natural, for to sit near them is a kind of death—the death of the ego. Only when the ego dies does the soul’s light appear. When the ego breaks, the self is born.

Dying for you, we found an undying life—
speech was granted us only after annihilation.
Whoever learns to die on the path of truth, on the way to God—
Dying for you, we found an undying life.
He attains immortal life.
Speech—everlasting being—comes only after annihilation.
This is the secret: after fana—annihilation—comes baqa—abiding. One who makes himself zero receives the Whole.

Dying for you, we found an undying life.
Speech was granted us only after annihilation.
And the dying is not partial, not half-hearted, but total. Nothing remains—that is satsang.

By morning even that, O night wind, you did not spare—
The ashes of the moth, the last keepsake of the feast.
The moth burns away in the night, and by morning even its ashes are blown by the wind—nothing remains.
By morning even that, O night wind, you did not spare—
The ashes of the moth, keepsake of the revel.
Not even the ashes are left as a memory. In that incomparable moment, when you are not, the divine descends.

Says Dariya: Without singing the True Name, you will weep and waste your life.
Remember. Make arrangements to die—the arrangement called bhajan. Bhajan means: that in which you drown and disappear. That in which you do not remain.

Says Dariya: Without singing the True Name, you will weep and waste your life.
Bird, in which direction will you fly?
Think a little. Pause and reconsider.

O thoughtful ones, come, walk the arduous path to the Unknowable.
O you who pride yourselves on thinking—if you truly think, then come, walk the path to the Unknowable! Seek the Infinite! Attain the Unseen and Unknowable! Let us journey on this great pilgrimage!

The siege of sorrows tried a thousand ways to teach us—
We could not even learn to sigh for a lifetime.
From the grave, death shakes the shoulders and says:
“Now at least wake up, traveler—you have come home.”
The lesson in the school of love was the same for all—
Some learned gratitude; others only complaint.
Wine or no wine, I am in love with you, cupbearer—
There is great delight just in your talk.
At the first morning sip—ah, joy, O ecstatic one!
The imam came, the messenger came, God arrived.
This world is one—it is only a matter of intelligence. Grow a little intelligence. And by intelligence I don’t mean intellectualism. By intelligence I mean insight, awareness. Intellectualism is to read scriptures, gather information—intellect. Intelligence is to test life, to understand it not through argument or scripture, but through direct experience—then something else is born: intelligence, not merely intellect.

There is a great difference between intelligence and intellect. In intellectualism, the heart has no place. In intelligence, the heart is the foundation. There, the mind serves the heart. In intellectualism, the heart is hanged and the servant—mind—sits on the throne. As master the mind is dangerous; as servant, very useful. In intelligence, mind is the servant; in intellectualism, the master.

The siege of sorrows tried a thousand ways to teach us—
Yet we did not learn even how to sigh. Life tries to teach; you do not learn. If you sigh rightly, prayer arises. If you see life’s sorrows rightly, thirst for God is born.

The siege of sorrows tried a thousand ways to teach us—
We could not even learn to sigh for a lifetime.
From the grave, death shakes the shoulders and says:
“Now at least wake up, traveler—you have come home.”
Even death comes and some still do not awaken!

A man lay dying—pure Marwari, perhaps. His wife sat by him. In the final moment he asked, Chunnu’s mother, where is Chunnu? The wife thought he remembers his son. She said, Don’t worry, Chunnu is right here by your bed. And where is Munnu? He too is here. And Chhunnu? He too is here. The old man tried to sit up. The wife said: Rest! He said, If everyone’s here, then who is running the shop? He collapsed and died. Not out of love did he ask where they were—but because of the shop! Even at death—the shop!

Death hardly awakens us.
From the grave, death shakes the shoulders and says:
“Now at least wake up, traveler—you have come home.”
But neither life awakens you nor death; your sleep is deep. Perhaps satsang can awaken you!

There are only three devices for awakening. First is life—most potent—but you have lived so many times you are habituated. Life keeps clanging; you do not hear. Like a man working on a railway platform who sleeps soundly in the noise of trains. A friend of mine travels for a living; he cannot sleep unless he is on a train. He needs the clatter to sleep. He stays at stations. Habit. Similarly you have lived many times, so life fails to wake you. Second is death—you have died many times; you are used to it. Only one device remains—the true master. You have never truly gone to him—for had you gone, the “you” would not be. You have been born many times, died many times—only the master you have avoided. Now only one device remains: seek refuge in a true master.

O thoughtful ones, come, walk the arduous path to the Unknowable.
Take refuge in a true master—and all will come.
At the first morning sip—ah, joy, O ecstatic one!
The imam came, the messenger came, God arrived.
All comes.

I tell you, understand if you can—and mind the next time.
How many times you’ve missed—Dariya says: this time, do not miss. This time, do not fail.

…mind the next time.
Now be careful.
I tell you, understand if you can…
Listen, understand—I say to you again and again: be alert this time. Don’t miss! Accept the challenge, awaken! What Dariya says to you, I too say: be careful this time.

There is no grass, no kusa, no stones there…
We are to walk toward a realm where kusa, grass for rituals, is not; where there are no stones for images—indeed, no stones.
…no trees, no sacred groves.
No banyans or pipals to worship, no tulsi shrines.

No Vedas or books, no pundits there—
Yet there is script written without ink.
There is indeed a script—but not written in ink. There is a sound—but not of words, of silence. There is music—but not from strings struck—unstruck music. Om resounds there.

No rivers, no ocean, no Ganga there—
But the flood of knowing’s light.
No sea, no stream, no Ganga—but a sea of light, a river of light, the Ganga of light.

No Ganapati, no serpent-king, no Brahma—
No creation fashioned there.
There is no creator, no creation—only stillness, emptiness, silence. There is light alone. The divine is form-of-light. That which was before creation and will be after. No dream remains.

Beyond heaven, netherworld, and earth—
There, you become the sovereign.
Only there, in moksha, are you truly king. Until then, you are a beggar. In hell—a beggar; on earth—a beggar. And even in heaven—beggars abound. Read the Puranas: even gods lust for earthly women, and goddesses descend as well—beggary persists, refined but the same. Where there is pleasure, there is pain nearby. Hence, beyond both we sought a third state—moksha: neither pain nor pleasure—only supreme peace, emptiness, hush. That hush we have called Brahman, Truth—sat-chit-ananda: being-consciousness-bliss.

Beyond heaven, netherworld, and earth—there you are the lord.
Says Dariya: There the seeing is true—
O saints, consider this.
There, what appears is truth. If you must think upon something, think on this, O saints.

This is my longing: to go to the threshold of your splendor,
To have a thousand eyes—and each behold the Friend.
Let there be only eyes—and spread everywhere that light which is the Beloved. This is the quest. God is freedom—moksha, liberation; God is supreme freedom.

If you must think, think thus; if you must feel, feel thus; if you must hold anything in meditation, let it be this—then perhaps this life will not be wasted as others have been.

Be mindful this time, understand if you can.
O thoughtful ones, come, walk the arduous path to the Unknowable.

Enough for today.