Dariya Kahe Sabad Nirvana #3

The ocean is inaccessible, unfathomable—how to cross without a boat?
Without the ferryman, the Master, you will drown midstream.

“Dariya says: the Word is Nirvana!”
The fragrance of Nirvana can only be in the words of one who has wholly dissolved, who is not; one who has wiped the ego clean, in whom emptiness has taken its throne. From that emptiness the music of Nirvana arises. So long as a “speaker” remains, the scent of Nirvana will not arise. When the speaker has fallen silent, then true speech bursts forth. As long as the flute is filled with anything, no note can appear. Only when the flute is hollow, utterly hollow, can it carry the notes.

Dariya is a hollow bamboo reed. Words of Nirvana drip through him—they are not his; they belong to the Divine. For who besides the Divine can speak the word of Nirvana? Who else could? And wherever you hear the tingle of Nirvana’s word, bow there. Then drop your expectations. People walk around with expectations, and so they miss the true Masters. No true Master will conform to your expectations. Your expectations are born of your ignorance; they are part of your ignorance. Yet each person seeks a master who fits his expectations. Masters are always present—the earth has never been so unfortunate that Masters were absent—but our expectations!

Suppose you take Mansur al-Hallaj as your Master and set out to find him; then you won’t accept anyone as Master until his hands and feet are cut off, his tongue torn out, his head severed—until then, no one will qualify. If you’ve decided Jesus is the model of a Master, then until someone is crucified you won’t accept him. But of what use to you is one already crucified? You fashioned your expectations from the gone ones. Someone searches for a Mahavira—he will not find a Master. Mahavira happens only once. Someone searches for Buddha—he will not find a Master. Buddha happens only once. Nothing repeats in this world. This world bestows a unique expression upon everyone.

Masters are always present; nor are seekers absent. But the search goes wrong at its very foundation.

Whether he is dragged to the gallows or not—
whoever speaks the Word of Truth, take him as Mansur.

Whether he is hung upon the gallows or not—whoever speaks the word of Nirvana, whoever speaks Truth, who has even a hint of it; in whose presence the wine of Truth begins to intoxicate your body and breath—take him as Mansur.

Whether he is dragged to the gallows or not—
whoever speaks the Word of Truth, take him as Mansur.

Wherever this proclamation resounds—Aham Brahmasmi—then, awake a little there; drop expectations; be still; be silent; let thought fall away; connect, bind a living tie; create satsang, for satsang alone is the bridge. “Dariya says: the Word is Nirvana.” But will you hear? The question is of your hearing. True Masters speak, have always spoken, yet most often their words fall on thunder-deaf ears and are lost.

Jesus said: it is like a sower who casts seed; some fall on the path—they will never sprout. Day and night people walk the path—when will seeds get a chance? Some fall on the borders of the field; they sprout but soon die, because people pass there sometimes—not as much as on the road, but still pass. Some fall upon stones; there no one passes, yet have you ever seen seeds sprout from stone? Yes, some fall into the right soil, the moist ground—they swell, they become great trees; their branches spread into the heavens; their crowns touch moon and stars; they blossom, and blossoms rain down from them.

The true Master throws seed-words—where will you take them? If you take them into your head, that is a busy roadway; there such a crowd of thoughts runs, such traffic, no seed can sprout. Unless you receive the seeds in the moist soil of your heart, you’ll be deprived of the harvest. And life is so forlorn. It is forlorn because the seeds that would have greened your life, blossomed into flowers, spread fragrance—you never accepted them. And when you do worship, you worship the dead. When you offer flowers, you lay them before stone. When you go on pilgrimages, you go outward. There is but one pilgrimage—its name is the inner journey. And a true Master is meaningful only while alive.

You wouldn’t sit in the boat of a dead boatman! No matter how great a boatman he was when alive, now the oar in his hand means nothing. He cannot row the boat.

As far as the eye can reach, you grasp only smoke;
nowhere is water—only the desert sings.
Nowhere is the false echo of anklets;
for fear of death, life here never weeps out loud.
From here—yes, from here—life truly begins!

If it dawns on you that you were born to be the monsoon, and what have you become? This burning midsummer noon! Within you the cuckoo’s call was meant to echo, the papiha’s song was to rise—and what have you become? This barren crowd of thoughts, this useless mass, this litter! With it you filled the vessel of your life in which nectar could have been held. You were born to be a garden and are ending as a desert—if this remembrance comes, then—from here, yes from here, life begins! With this remembrance, life begins. Because with this remembrance the search for the true Master begins. Then search for the one whose words fall upon your heart like seeds... “Dariya says: the Word is Nirvana”... whose nectar of Nirvana ensnares you too, whose voice of Nirvana calls you too, becomes your challenge; with whom you set out upon the journey into the infinite, into the unknown; so that the search for the Divine becomes your own.

As far as the eye can reach, you grasp only smoke;
nowhere is water—only the desert sings.
Nowhere is the false echo of anklets;
for fear of death, life here never weeps out loud.
From here—yes, from here—life truly begins!

Strong rocks stand with arms outstretched,
storms pass by with taut bows in their hands.
A terrible silence—no leaf stirs;
there isn’t even the support of a frail straw.
Sometimes frenzy laughs, sometimes hope weeps.

We live in name alone, we die in name alone.
From sleepy eyes broken dreams pass by.
The curtain between us and the light never lifts;
whether morning comes or not, night won’t leave us;
sadness walks with us, sadness sleeps with us.

To make a fate we forged it with our own hands;
failure is our capital, despair our earning;
we’re friends with envy, familiar with tangles;
if there is a fight with Existence, it is our own fight;
our own hand rows the boat and drowns it at the shore.

Joy often calls to us at the boundaries,
obstruction always encircles us as a ring;
sometimes there is a fair of cries and notions,
sometimes no answer comes to the most innocent questions;
our hand is empty, and only one pearl remains in the eye.

Finding us awake, the night always laughs;
in autumn moonlight, fire rains from the sky;
whoever we look upon, that star falls;
if we catch the current, the shore slips away;
a bud laughs and pricks thorns into our eyes.

The cremation ground’s threat, the storm’s curse—
the cup of our years is never empty of sorrow.
Over the desert clouds pour from dawn to dusk;
we dwell in the ocean yet thirst for water;
our lips come and are moistened by death’s kiss!

If we sink in the whirlpool, we are saved;
to enliven the image, we ourselves died.
In no wedding procession does our heart belong;
our path has no end that is a destination;
understanding takes the vermilion and stores pain in our parting-line.

As far as the eye can reach, you grasp only smoke;
nowhere is water—only the desert sings.
Nowhere is the false echo of anklets;
for fear of death, life here never weeps out loud.
From here—yes, from here—life truly begins!

The moment you remember that you are wasting away without cause, that this great opportunity of life is being lost like this; that so much could have been, everything could have been—and nothing is happening; that the Divine could have happened—and you came empty-handed and will depart empty-handed! What foolishness! What childishness! What stupidity! Break it! “Dariya says: the Word is Nirvana.” Listen to Dariya’s words—they can become boats for you. These words will startle you, wake you, shake you; they can carry you across. If even the memory of Nirvana stirs, if a dream of that far shore begins to rise in your heart, then this shore cannot hold you much longer. The chains that bind you to this shore will begin to break.

“In meeting Bevaha, the eyes are made glad.”
Bevaha is the name the devotees of Dariya give to Omkar. As Nanak says: “One Omkar Satnam”—he named Omkar “Satnam.” As Hindus say “Ram,” Muslims “Allah,” Jains chant Namokar, Buddhists declare refuge in the Buddha; Gayatri, or the Japji—small mantras, great mantras, yet the aim of all mantras is one: to awaken the music asleep within you. Whether it is stirred by Namokar or by Gayatri, by some verse of the Quran awakening it—it makes no difference.

The veena is within you. It must be touched—by what finger you touch it does not matter; whether the finger wears a diamond ring, a gold ring, or no ring at all—no difference. Whether the finger is fair or dark, long or short—no difference. Let the inner strings be stirred, let the resonance arise—and bathe in that resonance!

Dariyapanthis call their great mantra Bevaha. Bevaha lies asleep within you; you brought it from birth; it is woven into each pore of you. But until you awaken it, you will be deprived of light, of meaning, of joy. Dariya says: “In meeting Bevaha...” and the one who is united with that supreme music, that unstruck sound, who has bathed in Omkar—“the eyes are made glad.” His eyes become blissful. Understand—

“When the tongue keeps your remembrance, and the eyes beg only for your vision—
this is ablution, this alone is called prayer.”

What the name is does not matter—Ram or Rahim, Krishna or Buddha—give it any name you wish. The name is but a pretext to remember. The name is like tying a knot in your shirt-tail so you won’t forget what you went to market for. The knot in itself has no value. How you tie it—like this or that—makes no difference. Whether on the left or the right—no difference. The knot has no value in itself; it has a purpose. It keeps reminding you; as you walk the road it keeps reminding you; even if you forget, others will ask—why have you tied that knot? It will remind you to buy what you came for before returning home. There is a purpose to fulfill. Whether it’s the knot of Ram or of Krishna, Gayatri, Namokar, or Bevaha—no difference. You need a knot that keeps you mindful—all twenty-four hours.

“When the tongue keeps your remembrance, and the eyes beg only for your vision—
this is ablution, this alone is called prayer.”

Let your tongue keep your remembrance; let your eyes hold one longing alone—to see you! Let the tongue remind the eyes to see, and the eyes remind the tongue to sing your praise.

“When the tongue keeps your remembrance, and the eyes beg only for your vision—
this is ablution, this alone is called prayer.”

This is prayer, this is worship, this is namaz. When the eyes have grown thirsty for his vision, and when the tongue thickens with his remembrance, then the revolution happens.

“My gaze is brimming with the splendors of Beauty.
How could there not be spring wherever I am?”

When the longing to see the Divine arises in one’s eyes, spring begins to dance all around. The month of honey has come! Then it is spring upon spring! One immersed in the remembrance of the Beloved knows but one season—spring. His seasons do not change. Time’s alterations vanish for him. Within him begins the song of the changeless eternal. He knows one season only—spring. Flowers alone fall within him. Honey alone he drinks.

“My gaze is brimming with the splendors of Beauty.
How could there not be spring wherever I am?”

And you can glimpse the Beloved’s beauty reflected in his eyes. His eyes overflow with beauty; they are glazed with beauty’s tears.

“My gaze is brimming with the splendors of Beauty.
How could there not be spring wherever I am?”

Wherever such a one sits, there is spring; wherever he sits, there is the wine-house. Wherever he walks, wherever his feet fall, there shrines are born.

“Someone, with proud grace, has spread across the climate of my life.
Looking into my eyes, someone has made me a true servant.”

And if you wish to see the Divine, simply wish to see him; the happening unfolds—for he is already seeing you. His eyes are fixed upon you. That is why we say he has a thousand eyes—because upon each and every one his gaze is fixed. Only you keep averting your eyes. You look here and there. Remember him and your eye will meet his. And where eyes meet, miracles happen.

“Someone, with proud grace, has spread across the climate of my life.
Looking into my eyes, someone has made me a true servant.”

“When the veil lifted from my heart, my eyes were illumined.
He dwelt veiled within my heart—and I did not know!”

The day you see him you will be startled; you will laugh and you will weep. Hence devotees are often called mad. For laughing and weeping together—only madmen do that. The so-called sensible laugh when there is call to laugh and weep when there is cause to weep; but to laugh and weep together? For the lips to laugh while the eyes weep? For one eye to laugh and the other to cry? Those are signs of derangement.

So people have called devotees mad. But understand the devotee: if devotees be mad, then madness is the thing worth attaining. And if those who are not devotees are the sensible, then that sensibleness is worth two pennies—cast it off. The devotee’s madness is a hundred times more precious than the sensibleness of your so-called wise ones.

Why does the devotee both laugh and weep? He laughs because—how perfectly absurd! You were seated within and I wandered life after life, who knows where, searching for you! You were inside—no need even to walk a step—and I made such journeys! So much dust and grit! I searched for you by the edges of moon and stars and you were seated within me! He laughs—this grand jest! And he weeps—he weeps for the days lost without you, for the hard days he lived without you, for the life until now being nothing but accident.

“In meeting Bevaha, the eyes are made glad.”
Understand this. This is priceless.
...“the eyes are made glad.”

You have seen things that give joy, but you have not yet an eye that showers joy. Yes, you have seen the sunrise and said: how beautiful. You have seen the rose bloom and said: very beautiful. You have seen a beautiful face and said: very beautiful. But that is beauty outside. Your eye is not yet so skillful that it makes things beautiful—that whatever you look upon becomes beautiful. Right now something is beautiful and then it appears so to you. Your eye is blank, empty; it merely reports. Your eye is not yet creative. It only registers images; it reports what is. Your eye is passive; its work is negative—reporting what is. But your eye does not yet have the power of creation: that whatever it sees becomes beautiful; that wherever your gaze falls, a song is born; that whatever you look upon is crowned with dignity, with glory. This is the wonder of a saint’s eye.

Bayazid writes: I stayed with my Master twelve years. For three years he did not speak to me at all. I sat and sat, as if I did not exist. He spoke with others, conversed, but did not look at me, nor speak to me. After three years he looked toward me—and in that look I was born. His gaze fell upon me and I was born. All changed in that instant.

Then three years passed and one day he spoke to me—and that word, such sweetness spread through body and breath, such savor, such ecstasy that no wine could ever hold. Then three more years passed and one day he placed his hand upon my shoulder and patted my back—and that touch, as if iron had turned to gold! After three more years he embraced me and said, “Bayazid, now you are ready! Now go and awaken the sleeping! Go, look into people’s eyes; pat their backs, speak to them, embrace them!” And the discipline was complete. Just sitting those twelve years—it was complete.

Let a true Master look toward you, and in his very seeing the junk within you catches fire. Your darkness dispels.

There is an eye whose nature is to generate bliss. And you know the opposite kind of eye, so you will understand—there are eyes that, if they look upon you, you shrink into a worm. Your so-called saints—whom you have worshipped and honored—go to them and see! Their eyes look upon you with censure, with condemnation; at their gaze you wish the earth would open and swallow you. In their eyes they see infernal worms within you. In their eyes your future is visible: you will rot in hells, you will be boiled in cauldrons of oil. In their eyes are hells, and the hell they see is in you. And in their eyes is condemnation, not respect, not welcome. This is not the mark of true saints.

In true saints’ eyes there is heaven. There is magic. The worst sinner, standing before a true saint, becomes a virtuous soul. Just by standing there. Nothing else is required. The magic of his gaze is enough—what more do you need? The alchemy of his glance is enough—what more do you need? If a true Master takes your hand in his—enough, the ultimate has occurred.

A true Master does not condemn. His very gift is to transform your wrong into the auspicious; to turn lust into a longing for the Lord; to transform anger into compassion; greed into generosity; and to raise your body of flesh and bone and dust into the stature of a temple. “The separated one lights the lamp in the temple”—Dariya is right: your body is a temple. Why weep? Light the lamp in this temple! Become a host; call the Guest; he will come into this very temple, this very body. Do not dismiss this body as mud, for it is the dwelling of the nectar. The nectar has chosen it as its home. In that very choosing, mud has become nectar; mud is not merely mud.

The mark of a true saint is this: that you go to him as a sinner and return as a virtuous soul; that you go weeping and return laughing; that you go as if bearing the burden of mountains and return as if winged. Where such a happening occurs, do not miss it. Then hold his feet, clasp his arm; the hour has come to lay yourself at his feet.

“In meeting Bevaha, the eyes are made glad.”
But such eyes are born only when the inner unstruck sound is met. Only one who has bathed in Omkar can have these eyes—these magical eyes whose touch makes one a citizen of another world. Their touch is the Philosopher’s Stone.

Such an incident occurred.
Vivekananda was the guest of a Rajasthani prince—the Maharaja of Khetri—before he left for America. Now a king is a king. How to honor Vivekananda? And a sannyasin is going to America—the first—there must be a send-off! Everyone has his own language, his own way of thinking. What else could the king do? He summoned the most famed courtesan in the land and arranged a grand soiree, a dance performance. He forgot for whom the ceremony was—Vivekananda!

When Vivekananda learned at the last moment—musicians seated, the courtesan ready to dance, the court filled—then he was called to come. He learned it would be a courtesan’s dance in his honor! Imagine his condition. A great heart felt wounded: what is this? A courtesan in honor of a sannyasin! He refused to go. This is the conventional Indian notion of renunciation. He felt humiliated. This is disrespectful.

The courtesan had dressed with utmost care—to welcome a saint; never before had she danced in honor of a monk. She came prepared, with many verses memorized—Kabir, Meera, Narsi Mehta. She was deeply hurt that the monk would not come. But she sang a hymn by Narsi Mehta—with great feeling, weeping, tears flowing. The strains reached Vivekananda’s room. Waves crashed upon his heart as if the ocean were breaking upon the shore. He felt deep remorse.

Narsi Mehta’s song says: one piece of iron sits in the worship-room, another in a butcher’s house; but the Philosopher’s Stone does not discriminate. Bring iron from the butcher’s—it has slaughtered animals—and bring iron from the temple—it has served worship; the Philosopher’s Stone turns both to gold at a touch. This cut him to the quick; made a wound. It was a great turning in his life.

In my view, what even Ramakrishna could not do, that courtesan did. Vivekananda could not restrain himself. Tears fell from his eyes—such a blow! If you are the Philosopher’s Stone, what is this distinction? Will a stone that turns iron to gold see courtesan or chaste woman? What difference to the Stone where the iron comes from? At its touch, all iron becomes gold.

He could not hold himself. He entered the court. The king was startled; all were surprised—first he refused, now he came! And he came with tears flowing. He said, “Forgive me.” To the courtesan he said, “Forgive me. I am still raw; that is why I feared to come. Somewhere within my mind some desire must still be hidden—that is why I feared. Else, what was there to fear? But you did well. Your song startled and awakened me.”

Vivekananda often remembered that incident: a courtesan gave me a teaching. This distinction! In the truly knowing there is non-differentiation. Whether sinner or saint comes—he touches both and turns both to gold. Such is the magic of his eyes; such is the magic of his heart.

But this becomes possible only when the inner unstruck sound has been heard.

“In meeting Bevaha, the eyes are made glad.”
The eyes not only become intoxicated; they become intoxicants. Know this: the eyes are truly intoxicated only when they themselves begin to intoxicate.

What tear of what cloud is this
that has slid upon my lips?
Dreams that were sad since childhood
now asleep, begin to be fragrant.

I lost, searching and searching—
never found anyone like my own;
who knows where I have wandered,
silent, self-enchanted like a dream.

What anklet’s melody is this
that has filled my throat?
Songs that were mute for years
now chirp like the cuckoo.

What tear of what cloud is this
that has slid upon my lips?
Dreams that were sad since childhood
now asleep, begin to be fragrant.

A single drop of the unstruck sound falls and life is transformed. The world remains the same, but you are no longer the same. And when you are not the same, how can the world remain the same? Your way of seeing changes, and everything appears changed. Vision changed—creation changed. Eyes changed—the world changed. You will look at the same trees with eyes dipped in the unstruck sound and be astonished—these are not just trees; they are Earth’s longing to touch the sky. These trees are growing toward Truth, as you are. They have their way. The flowers blooming on them are as your prayers rising within you. Flowers are their prayers.

And the birds singing in the morning are singing his welcome. It is all part of his festival. This whole world is absorbed in prayer to him, in worship to him. The mountains bow in their namaz. The oceans yearn in their longing for him.

Once you become aware of your inner note, you will perceive the whole world filled with his sound. On every veena you will hear his tune. In every flute you will hear his song. Every flute player becomes Krishna. Until this happens, know that you are missing, missing, losing, losing.

Where is the heart drawn? In whose remembrance?
How can we say why the prayer was abandoned?

Small prayers then fall away. When the great prayer happens, when his remembrance descends, who worries anymore whether we went to temple, gurdwara, church—who cares? Whether we went or not—who cares?

All his life a Sufi went to the mosque five times daily, never missed. He never left his village lest there be no mosque. Seventy years! The village became accustomed to seeing him there. Even when ill he went. Once he was so sick people carried him—he could not walk. One morning he did not arrive; the natural conclusion—the villagers thought he must have died in the night. What else? If alive, he would have come. So all went to his hut. And what was he doing? Not dead. In truth, never before had anyone seen so much life in him—he was so alive! Sitting beneath a tree, beating his little tambourine; the sun rising, birds singing; he keeping time as if to their songs—so ecstatic, swaying, with tears of joy. The villagers said, “Now at death’s door you’ve become an infidel! What blasphemy! Why did you miss the mosque today, why skip the prayer?” He said, “Until the prayer had not yet come, I went to the mosque; now the prayer has come. What use going now? When the lesson is learned, why go to school? I tell you truly,” said the old fakir, “that today prayer has been born! Today worship has been born! Where to go now? Wherever I am, there is the mosque.”

Where is the heart drawn? In whose remembrance?
How can we say why the prayer was abandoned?

Why the prayer was dropped—how can we explain? Who would understand? It fell away because the prayer was fulfilled. When meditation is complete, it drops. The fulfillment of meditation is samadhi. When meditation is no longer needed, that is samadhi. When love is complete, it becomes silence. Nothing remains to say. And what remains is unsayable, inexpressible.

“In meeting Bevaha, the eyes are made glad.
The heart and mind grow drunk and ecstatic; the dumb one tastes a deep nectar.”

Dariya says: not only the heart became intoxicated, the mind did too. The mind is hard to intoxicate! It is not the mind’s habit to be drunk. But it must, when the heart is brimming. “Mind” here means the brain; “heart” is the heart. For the heart, intoxication is easy. For the brain it is difficult; the brain is arithmetic, logic, thought, calculation. The heart becomes intoxicated easily. Yet Dariya is right: until the mind, along with the heart, becomes intoxicated, know that your ecstasy is incomplete; it is partial. A part of you remains untouched, not soaked. The rain has not been full. The soaking must be total. And it can happen: if the heart is wholly immersed, its overflowing intoxication will soak the mind as well. This is the rare revolution—when the mind too sings the songs of ecstasy; when the brain’s calculation and logic enlist in the service of celebration.

“The heart and mind grow drunk and ecstatic...
the dumb one tastes a deep nectar.”

Such a flavor, such a wine has been drunk that now one is like a dumb man—unable to say what was drunk, what was tasted, what happened.

“...the dumb one tastes a deep nectar.”
There is such rasa—such depth of flavor—that a profound dumbness has arisen; speech will not form.

Beloved, our sweet raga at every coming and going;
sing, my dear, do not hold back in this unfathomable, ineffable.
Today some light has come to dwell within these eyelids;
the pupils have understood all secrets—within me, within the Beloved.

The golden hue burst forth and flew to sit upon the branch;
lying so long, now tremble, simple one, in the densest dark.
If you pluck flowers forest to forest, who will be pricked by thorns?
Know this, my Mohan, lost in sweet bewilderment—
I sit joining blade to blade of grass, singing joy and sorrow;
at the very first opening of the beak, I reached the fifth note.

In a single instant it happens—the drop becomes the ocean.

At the very first opening of the beak, I reached the fifth note.

Beloved, our sweet raga at every coming and going;
sing, my dear, do not hold back in this unfathomable, ineffable.
Today some light has come to dwell within these eyelids;
the pupils have understood all secrets—within me, within the Beloved.

Such a rain of nectar falls—how to say it? How to tell it? Those who have known take others by the hand and say, Come with me; you too can know; you too can drink—for there is no other way. This relationship is called discipleship. One who has known takes your hand and leads you toward that which cannot be spoken, cannot be defined. Hence, without trust, discipleship cannot happen.

Do you understand trust?
Someone has known—and one who has known cannot say what he has known, cannot define it, cannot prove it. To take such a one’s hand can only be the work of the intoxicated, the lovers. To set out with such a one on the journey from the known to the unknown, to leave the familiar shore and step into his boat not knowing if there is any other shore—this is the work of the courageous, the audacious! Religion is not for cowards.

And mostly the reverse is happening: in temples and mosques you will find the cowards gathered. Religion is for the brave, the daring. True God is not born of fear; your so-called god is only a manufacture of fear. The real God is the experience of a journey into fearlessness.

No one is more fearless than the man of trust. He sets out along unknown paths, relying on someone. And you are to rely on one who is altogether dumb—who gestures and hints but does not speak. To follow him is possible only for those who can look into his eyes, come close to him, and learn to be moved by the waves around him. His waves alone can explain. His very being can call to you from within.

This moonlight is altogether new; a new sweetness!
The lamps of raga are lit; the city of love shines.
Today, beloved, the papiha calls from every home;
far off the honey-flute sounds, and the lonely wander forest to forest.
What a wondrous dusk; a doubt arises—is it dawn?
What an astounding night, that if a lamp be lit, it becomes morning!
Shall I become a rose, a nightingale, a cuckoo, or a partridge?
O bee, is this monsoon cloud or dawn? Within me my peacock dances!
This night, such a wine; “Mira” walks in her own direction.
The henna has taken color—some hearts move, some burn.
What a different dye when the fakir is occupied!
Whether the world rises or sets, Kabir is drunk in his tune!
In Magh it feels like Phagun; beloved, a gentle rain!
Moonlight has touched this tree; in fall the fruit falls!

This unique moonlight—what can it not undo, what can it not do!
The brimming pitcher—what can it not fill, what can it not spill!
What hue, O bee—how long these flowers have bloomed upon the path!
What manner—say, this is the dust of someone’s feet!
This dust is something else—the pride of a jewel!
You have not yet seen the splendor—the yogini is naïve!

The disciple is naïve. He knows nothing. And the Master’s language is strange—an inverted flute. For what he wants to convey is of another realm; it won’t fit into the language of this world. It is of such a world that if you drag it here it dies.

You cannot lock the wind in boxes; nor store sunbeams in bags. It is like that. You cannot close the sky in your fist—it is like that. And when it happens, on the one hand a man becomes utterly dumb, and on the other a great humming arises. Yet even the humming is unintelligible.

Shall I become a rose, a nightingale, a cuckoo, or a partridge?
O bee, is this monsoon cloud or dawn? Within me my peacock dances!
This night, such a wine; “Mira” walks in her own direction.
The henna has taken color—some hearts move, some burn.

An amazing monsoon! Shall Mira dance? Shall she speak by dancing? Shall she sing it? She danced and sang indeed, and yet what was unspoken remains unspoken.

Dariya says: “Dariya declares: the Word is Nirvana...” and yet—how can it be said? Only a dumb man’s gestures.

What a different dye when the fakir is occupied!
Whether the world rises or sets, Kabir is drunk in his tune!
In Magh it feels like Phagun; beloved, a gentle rain!
Moonlight has touched this tree; in fall the fruit falls!

All turns upside-down. The laws of this world are the opposite of the laws of that world; its arithmetic, its logic, the reverse of this. Translation is not possible. Hindi to English is easy; English to Japanese easy; Japanese to Russian easy—translation possible, though even then difficult. But to translate the experience of that ecstasy into the beggarly psychology of man is very difficult. To translate the realm of light into the language of the blind—not just difficult, impossible.

Today, beloved, the papiha calls from every home!
Far off the honey-flute sounds; forest to forest the lonely wander!
What a wondrous dusk; a doubt arises—is it dawn?
What an astounding night, that if a lamp be lit, it becomes morning!

But when it happens, though the one to whom it happens becomes dumb, yet in his dumbness there is a great eloquence. He dances, sings, calls, cries. And those with even an iota of understanding see that he has found something—a jewel—that he cannot say.

This unique moonlight—what can it not undo, what can it not do!
The brimming pitcher—what can it not fill, what can it not spill!
What hue, O bee—how long these flowers have bloomed upon the path!
What manner—say, this is the dust of someone’s feet!

Yet even this entire ecstasy, this ocean of honey descending—this is nothing but the dust of the Beloved’s feet. But even the dust of that world is more precious than the diamonds and pearls of this one.

This dust is something else—the pride of a jewel!
You have not yet seen the splendor—the yogini is naïve!

The disciple has not yet seen the radiance—how will he understand talk of radiance? Hence trust. Hence reliance. One in whom trust arises—follow him. If you wander, no matter; if errors occur, do not panic. No one ever reached the door of Truth without mistakes. Do not be overly clever. People come asking me: How shall we recognize a true Master? I tell them: go—follow the one you love! If he is a true Master, wonderful; if he is not, you will gain criteria—what a false master is. If you sit and think in advance, “Who is true, who is false?” you will never know. These things are known by living. Follow the one you love. If he proves false, offer thanks that at least you learned what a false one is. That is enough—fifty percent of the work done. If you know the false, the true is not far. He who has recognized darkness as darkness has already stepped toward light. He who has recognized untruth as untruth, Truth is not far.

Devotion, trust is the one strength; one hope—faith.
Love and realization in the One Name—such is the wise servant of saints.

These are matters of such ecstasy that only one thing works: trust.

Devotion, trust is the one strength...
Let this song hold you, hold you, hold you; sink and sink and sink; one day it becomes your strength because it has become your experience. Dancing with Mira, one day you will know which flute’s melody she hears that makes her dance. As you dance like Mira, that flute you will hear. Drinking with Kabir, one day you will understand what source he has found for such intoxication—and that source is within you too. Only awareness is needed.

Devotion, trust is the one strength; one hope—faith.
For the search of the Supreme, trust is the only hope. Those whose lives lack trust—their sum total will be despair, nothing else. They will spend life joining worthless shards.

What great revolutions have happened in this world!
The sky changed, the earth changed—only the nature of the Friend has not.

In this world everything has changed—only the Beloved’s ways have not. Even now he is pleased by the hymn. Even now he dances with those who dance.

What great revolutions have happened in this world!
The ground has known such upheavals, everything has changed; those times, those people, those arrangements are gone; ox-carts have become rockets to the moon; rough stone tools have become atomic and hydrogen bombs; man has changed everything. Nothing now is as it was in the days of Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna, Zarathustra, or Lao Tzu. Nothing. Lao Tzu wrote: a river flowed near my village; we knew there was another village across it because at night in the silence we heard their dogs bark; sometimes at dusk when their hearths were lit and smoke rose we knew they were there. But no one from our village had ever crossed to see it. Such was a time!

Now the time is this: the earth has become small—circle it in twenty-four hours! Now man’s feet reach the moon and stars. All changed.

What great revolutions have happened in this world!
The sky changed, the earth changed—only the nature of the Friend has not.

Only the nature of that supreme Friend has not changed. So even now if you tie bells upon your feet—“with ankle-bells tied, Mira danced”—you can still charm him. Even now if you play Krishna’s flute, he will come bound. Even now he is bound by love’s frail thread.

In the flowing change of this world, only the Divine is unchanging, eternal, as he was.

Shad, those caught in doubt will remain in doubt;
we, with these very eyes, will one day see the Friend’s face.

Those who linger in doubt will remain in doubt.

Shad, those caught in doubt will remain in doubt.

Those who sit as great intellectuals, encircled by doubts, planting big question-marks in their souls—they will drown in their cleverness. They will die on the shore. They will never taste the joy of drowning midstream. Remember: the one who dies on the shore dies badly, dies like a dog. The one who drowns midstream does not die—he attains the nectar.

Shad, those caught in doubt will remain in doubt;
we, with these very eyes, will one day see the Friend’s face.

But those with the eyes of trust will certainly see the Divine one day. This is the eternal law. Trust is the doorway to seeing him. Anoint your eyes with trust; make trust your kohl.

Devotion, trust is the one strength; one hope—faith.
Love and realization in the One Name—such is the wise servant of saints.

Dariya says: I call only him truly discerning, truly wise, who has understood this—“love and realization in the One Name”—whose love is for the One—“Ek Omkar Satnam”—whose realization seeks only the One. Such a one I call the wise servant of saints.

O Shad! When we found nothing else to take as an offering,
we took our shame into his court.

What do we have to offer the Divine?

O Shad! When we found nothing else to take as an offering...

What do we have? Our arguments are hollow, our arithmetic futile; our cogitation only deepens entanglement. Nothing is resolved.

O Shad! When we found nothing else to take as an offering,
we took our shame into his court.

What then shall we take into his temple? Our helplessness, our shame, our poverty, our nothingness; our empty vessel—take that. Only a person of trust has the courage to go with an empty bowl. Otherwise people bring knowledge, scriptures. The trusting one brings an empty bowl. And what else do we have? The empty bowl of the soul. One who sets that empty bowl at his feet—he is filled, filled to overflowing. All else has changed in this world—

What great revolutions have happened in this world!
The sky changed, the earth changed—only the nature of the Friend has not.

Only his nature has not changed. The one who consents to be empty in his trust becomes complete.

“The fragrance is near, yet you do not know.”
And the wonder, the irony is this: what we seek is very near; the fragrance we search for is within us. The musk deer’s scent sits in his own navel; the poor creature, mad, runs through the forest searching for the fragrance that arises from his own being.

Beauty is within you. Truth is within you. Sat-Chit-Ananda is within you. You have come from That; you are a fragment of That; That is still hidden within you as much as ever. Let the seed crack, let the ego break. It is a fact of experience that the nearer something is, the more it is forgotten. Distant things are remembered.

Do you know the human mind?
What is close does not come to mind. What is far occurs to us. What we have does not thrill us; what another has arouses desire. And it is not that when you get it you will be in great joy. For two or four days there is the fever of the new; then all goes flat. The most beautiful woman, becoming your wife, becomes drab. The most handsome man, becoming your husband, becomes drab. The great mansion, once obtained, turns useless.

“The fragrance is near, yet you do not know.”
The Divine is so near—that is why you do not understand.

Man’s wretchedness is beyond measure.
Wretched—he himself is God, yet he appears as a slave.

“Lost in delusion, all wander, on pilgrimages, fasts and rituals.”
There is only one delusion in the world: that what we seek outside is within. We are all musk-deer; the scent within, and we go searching outside. The one delusion, the one maya, is this: that what is within you, you seek outside. That which is already given to you—how will you find it by seeking? Let seeking drop and union happens. Stop running and it is there. Sit quietly and you will find it. Close your eyes and you will have it.

“The itinerant yogi, the ascetic—fall into the hands of Time.
Says Dariya: only he will be saved—one who is with the True Name.”

How much seeking goes on! Hatha yogis—burning the body, roasting it. Sleeping on thorns, standing on their heads. Some have stood for years. Some have sworn never to close their eyes; they have torn off their eyelids. Some have pierced their mouths with lances. What follies people practice! You call this yoga. It only thickens the ego, increases the distance.

“The itinerant yogi, the ascetic...”
“Sevra” is a Jain monk—great vows, fasts; much torturing and melting of the body.
Dariya says:
“The itinerant yogi, the ascetic—fall into the hands of Time.”
All this falls into the hands of death. Nothing they have done will be of use. For every “doing” strengthens the ego. “I am the doer”—the “I” grows fat. “I have done so many fasts.” You know, each year Jain monks publish diaries of how many fasts they have done, who has done how many—accounts! Even of fasting they keep accounts. The shopkeeper’s ledger never leaves them. These gentlemen kept ledgers in their shops; now, as monks, they keep ledgers still. If ever they meet God, they will open their books: see, this much done, this much done—we need our profit, with interest! Is this a way to meet the Divine?

This is not the path of love. Love keeps no ledgers. Love does not trust in its own act. Love knows surrender. Love says: What will be, will be yours; what I do—what comes of that? And if ever I fasted, it was you who made me fast. Love is so courageous it says: Even my virtue is yours and my sin is yours. What you made me do, I did. There is none but you. I am not. If you want to have me do evil, have me do it; good, then good. You are the master. But people are busy in their acts—this trick, that trick; such exertions, such disciplines! And the result? The same small ego.

Cursed be this sleep! What sleep is this?
When did my eyes open? When the caravan had already left.

Their eyes will open at death. Then it will be too late. When death seizes their throat, they will realize they are finished: all the fasts, vows, rules, yoga, meditation, tapas—all gone! In that moment only surrender helps—and surrender they have never practiced.

Cursed be this sleep! What sleep is this?
When did my eyes open? When the caravan had already left.

Awaken—before the caravan departs. Before death knocks, be ready. Taste a little of the nectar—this is the preparation.

Ask not my state: I am dry desert wood—
they set me ablaze and the caravan moved on.

Otherwise your condition will be like wood gathered in a jungle by a caravan to light a fire, cook bread, and move on. The wood remains as ash. Do not let your life be like wood burned in passing while the caravan goes away.

Ask not my state: I am dry desert wood.
The caravan set me alight and moved on.

Life’s caravan will keep moving; it will rest in other jungles, dwell in other houses, enter other bodies, be born in other wombs—and your corpse will lie here. All you did with this body will lie here—what is of the body will remain with the body. Whether you stood on your head or stood on your feet—your body will lie here. Whether you slept on soft beds or on thorns—your body will lie here. If the body lies here, all acts done by the body lie here—they were in vain! Do something in the soul. Do something that enkindles consciousness. The body will be left; the body’s deeds will be left; the bird of awareness will fly. Awake the swan within—that alone is of use! It awakens only one way—through a thirst for the Divine, through prayer.

Devotion, trust is the one strength; one hope—faith.
Love and realization in the One Name—such is the wise servant of saints.
“The itinerant yogi, the ascetic—fall into the hands of Time.
Says Dariya: only he will be saved—one who is with the True Name.”

You are busy with futile things. Your condition is like—

Forever dusting the dirt off their clothes, O heedless one!
They do not understand that beneath the clothes is earth.

Some keep dusting their garments, forgetting that the body beneath is also dust. Some are busy with: strain your water; cook food like this; eat this, not that; don’t eat at night, eat by day; eat by alms. Dusting the garments. All outward acts.

What strange things people have invented!
The Jain monk eats standing, not seated. Have you gone mad? The Digambar Jain monk eats standing. Whether you eat standing or sitting—or I know some who eat lying in a swing—no difference! You eat, that’s all. How you took it—standing, sitting, lying—no difference.

Zen fakirs love this kind of jest.
A Zen fakir was near death. He opened his eyes and asked his disciples, “Tell me, is it heard of that someone died sitting?” They said, “Sitting? We have not seen, but we’ve heard of some who died seated in lotus.” He said, “Let that be; it won’t feel right. Have you heard of someone dying standing?” They said, “Harder, but we’ve heard that rarely someone died standing.” He said, “Let that go as well. Have you ever heard of someone dying in a headstand?” The disciples were stupefied. They had never heard, nor imagined, someone dying in headstand. “No,” they said. He said, “Then that will do.” He stood on his head. Now—was he dead or alive? The disciples could not tell. Their thought was: if dead, he’ll fall. But he stood. They checked—no breath seemed to move. But dead—and standing on his head? They were a little afraid—some spirit-phenomenon? A corpse in headstand!

His sister was in a nearby nunnery—a nun. They sent for her. She came and said, “Ill-mannered brother! All your life you did upside-down things; will you not let me be at peace even in death? Come down from there!” Hearing her voice, the fakir came down. “Who called my sister?” he said. “She won’t let me die in peace. What do you advise—how shall I die?” She said, “Lie straight on the bed—die properly.” He lay down and died.

This is Zen’s joke—a poke at those immersed in such trivialities. All this is possible—die standing, seated, even in headstand. But death is death. Learn something that you do not die. Let the body die, and you set out on the journey of nectar.

Forever dusting the dirt off their clothes, O heedless one—
they do not understand what is beneath the clothes: dust!

In all this outward play, you may do whatever you like—nothing essential happens. The illusion of doing remains; no revolution.

Even if you tear down the four walls of the elements—so what?
The same illusion remains, the same veil still hangs.

Tear down walls of mud and brick—what difference?

Even if you tear down the four walls of the elements—so what?
The same illusion remains, the same veil still hangs.

Torment the body, burn it, harass it; lie on thorns; scourge it; gouge out the eyes; cut off the ears; split the lobes—do what you will—nothing happens. You are playing with clay. The same illusion remains; the ego’s veil remains. It dissolves only one way—

Says Dariya: only he will be saved—
one who is with the True Name.

One who binds himself to the Divine; who boards his boat; who says, “I am not the doer; you are the doer. I am only a witness”—his name is linked with the True Name. His hand has fallen into the hand of the Divine.

Without you, O Life of my life—
my breath has sobbed all my years!
The note that parted from the flute
was filled by the empty sky in my throat;
the branch made widowed by autumn
was filled with innocent spring!
The riverbank that grew angry at the boat—
she found the love of the midstream.
The lamp that dimmed like a beggar at dawn
became the night’s emperor of darkness.
He who was a pauper at morning—by evening a king;
what was plundered yesterday is restored today.
Only I—beneath whose feet the earth
slipped grain by grain, all my years!
Without you, O Life of my life—
my breath has sobbed all my years!

I loved so much in life that even
the mute silence of cremation grounds was made to speak;
I lavished such beauty that upon every beggar’s palm
I laid the moon!
Such devotion, such attachment I found that
every face of creation became like my own;
where I closed my eyes, night arrived;
where I opened them, morning came!
Yet on this road of raga and love,
some jewel was lost—
which, searching far from me,
my years kept slipping away!
Without you, O Life of my life—
my breath has sobbed all my years!

I knew not which guise would please you—
so I changed my garments every day;
where and when your hand would clasp mine—
so I fell and rose every day.
Which melody would capture your heart—
so I sang every raga;
I strummed the raga of tears sometimes,
blew the conch of revolution, of fire, at times.
In what game, how to play, that you might meet—
so I played all the world’s sports.
When you might remember me—I knew not—
so a yearning kept aching all my years!
Without you, O Life of my life—
my breath has sobbed all my years!

Night came and went each day; the eyes
blinked daily, but sleep never came.
Every morning, every bud
opened yet did not smile.
Nightly the moon staged its dance in Braj,
yet Shyam’s flute never played.
Everywhere Ayodhya was founded in hearts,
yet the memory of some Ram was never lost.
Everywhere in life there was some lack;
every smile was bathed in tears;
every moment, every hour, from earth to heaven,
some fire kept blazing all my years!
Without you, O Life of my life—
my breath has sobbed all my years!

I searched and searched, yet even now
found no trace of your dwelling.
I spoke with knowledge—intellect said:
“He is truth—but do not try!”
I reached religion—learned he is still
locked in temples and mosques.
Yogis declared it is in japa and yoga;
the worldly said in pleasure is joy!
But when Love was asked his name,
he fell in the dust and burst into tears.
From that day seeing the world’s sorrow
my eyes have overflowed all my years!
Without you, O Life of my life—
my breath has sobbed all my years!

Until the life of our life is linked with us, breath merely runs in vain—like the bellows of a blacksmith: moving, but useless.

Without you, O Life of my life—
my breath has sobbed all my years!

This is how we live. Our living is merely living; not true living—shallow, hollow. Let Krishna’s flute sound within, let Rama’s Ayodhya be established within—then something is!

Dariya speaks true—

“The itinerant yogi, the ascetic—fall into the hands of Time.
Says Dariya: only he will be saved—one who is with the True Name.”

Only he will be saved who has placed his hand in the hand of the Divine and felt the Divine’s hand in his. There is no savior but the Divine; no boatman but he. But where to find him? His hands are not visible; his boat is not obvious. Temples and mosques lie empty; priests and pundits babble emptiness, reciting scriptures like parrots. Where to find him?

Dariya says:

“The ocean is inaccessible, unfathomable—how to cross without a boat?
Without the ferryman, the Master, you will drown midstream.”

The sea is deep and vast—“inaccessible, unfathomable”—water without measure...

...“how to cross without a boat?”

Unless you find a proper boat, a ship, how will you cross?

“Without the ferryman, the Master, you will drown midstream.”

Until the rowing Master is found you will drown somewhere midstream—you are drowning. The Divine’s hand is not visible, but a true Master’s hand can be seen. Between the ignorant soul and the Divine there is a mid-station—the true Master. He is such that one foot is on earth and one in the sky; one hand holds yours and the other holds God’s. The true Master becomes a bridge. Those who set out to find God directly become atheists, for they will find no proof. Those who seek the Divine without a Master—their fate is atheism.

The West became atheistic for this reason: the bridge of the true Master never formed there. The East still flickers with a faint theism. When this lamp will go out, no one can say—the winds are strong; storms have risen. China has sunk into atheism; at India’s door atheism rises like cyclones. This land too may become atheistic. Most already are—only they don’t know it. For most, religion is mere formality. Yet a lamp still trembles faintly. When it will go out, none can say. It needs oil; it needs a wick. And it flickers even now because—whether you accept or not—sometimes a Kabir arrives, sometimes a Nanak, sometimes a Dariya, sometimes a Mira; because of this the lamp flickers. Whether you take a Master’s hand or not, this country has the fortune that rays of true Masters have kept descending here. The slightly brave among us seize those rays and set off in search of the Great Sun.

God cannot be grasped directly. Where is the eye to see the Invisible? He must be such that he is partly visible, partly invisible. In the true Master this impossible event happens. To you he is somewhat visible and somewhat invisible. First you will connect with the visible: his words—sweet—you will connect. Soon, by the window of words he will give you the wordless; by the pretext of sound, he will pour silence into you. First you connect with the visible; then, if you are connected, you cannot remain long apart from the invisible. First you are drawn by his music; soon you are absorbed by his emptiness. First you fall in love with his body; soon his soul envelops you.

“The ocean is inaccessible, unfathomable—how to cross without a boat?”
The sea is vast and deep—you cannot cross without a ship. Nanak says, the Name is the ship. If you find someone like Nanak, a ship appears.

“Without the ferryman, the Master, you will drown midstream.”

Search—search; do not drown again. You have drowned many times; do not drown this time. Many times you came and went unawares—this time, be aware. Wake up, O simpleton!

You can awaken. The capacity is there. Gather it.

This is love’s strange lane; you will totter a little—but only by tottering does one learn to walk! When a child first stands up, he doesn’t go straight to the Olympics. He takes a step and falls; skins his knees; falls again and again. The more he falls, the more he accepts the challenge—he rises and walks.

So too you will fall many times and steady yourself; break many times and gather yourself. But if you keep on, not fearing falls, not fleeing mistakes, you will walk. Love’s road is a strange road; yet the one who walks it arrives. And there is no road but love’s.

A blow falls within, a new fear of awakening;
winds rise, clouds spread, Lanka of gold smolders.
A suspicion like a hidden dagger, speaking death-madness:
where now can the bottled waters quench this thirst?
The heart wounded, the creature harried—thorns are nothing;
the seed on which motherliness sprouts is no more.
Dreams broken, the face of joy blackened—blisters in place of henna;
what does the heart crave at such a moment? These clouds—so dark.
No noonday, no moonlight—tonight is a night of murder;
do not pluck at Shyama, do not call Mohan—love has turned upon me as a blow.
So many destinations, so many lanes—but love’s way is other;
the world is washed in milk, but the sigh of the heart is of another kind.

Love’s path is other; love’s sigh is other. Hold to love!

Devotion, trust is the one strength; one hope—faith.
Love and realization in the One Name—such is the wise servant of saints.
“The itinerant yogi, the ascetic—fall into the hands of Time.
Says Dariya: only he will be saved—one who is with the True Name.”
“The ocean is inaccessible, unfathomable—how to cross without a boat?
Without the ferryman, the Master, you will drown midstream.”

Enough for today.

Silent discourse
Just moments before Osho’s customary time of arrival on the fourth morning of the discourse series ‘Dariya Kahai Sabda Nirbana’ in the auditorium, an announcement is made that Osho will not be present among us today. It is also said that Osho wishes all of us to sit in silence for one hour, and that from his room he will join us in this silent discourse.
The next morning, too, we sit in the same way for a silent discourse.
From the very next morning, Osho would arrive in the auditorium and begin his discourse...