Dariya Kahe Sabad Nirvana #5

Dariya says: the word is nirvana!

The ocean will speak, but will you listen or not? That is the real question. The sun will rise, but will you open your eyes or not? There lies the real issue. Someone plays the veena, yet you can sit there like stone-deaf. Whether any resonance trembles in your heart or not—that is the real question.

True masters have always been. This earth has never been barren. Sometimes a Meera danced, sometimes a Nanak sang, sometimes a Dariya called out—but how many heard? So few heard! Countable on the fingers. We are so crammed with desires that the meaningful escapes our gaze. We are so attached, so addicted to hollow words that even when words of truth reach our ears, we cannot grasp them. Falsehood can be grasped by the mind—no hurdle there. Truth has to be held by the heart—and that is where the difficulty is. Our hearts have gone numb. Centuries have passed: we have neither walked those paths nor cleared the heaps of rubbish piled upon them. We have even forgotten that within us there is something called a heart. We have shut ourselves up in our skulls. And shut up in skulls you may become scholars, but you will never be wise. These words are for those who want to fly in the sky of knowing.

Scholarship is a prison; knowing is the sky. Scholarship is chains, fetters. They may be gold-plated, studded with diamonds and jewels—but fetters are fetters all the same. No one has ever been liberated by scholarship, nor will anyone ever be. The mind has no connection with moksha whatsoever. But the heart is linked to freedom. Listen a little to the heart’s humming; come just a little closer to the heart, and these words will open your closed buds, light your extinguished lamps, breathe life again into the stone your heart has become. Then you will no longer remain mere clay; you can be nectar. You won’t remain worms crawling on the earth; you have the capacity to fly in the open sky.

Swan, rise, fly to your land!

You are a swan, yet you have been sitting by small ponds and puddles. You live among trash and mud. You were meant to pick pearls; the Manasarovar was yours—what mire and junk are you lost in? And so, wherever you are, you are unhappy; for you are going against your nature. Wherever you are, you are out of tune with your own being. And death draws closer day by day—will you waste your life on the banks of these stagnant pools where there is nothing but stench and decay? Won’t you flap your wings? Won’t you fly toward the Manasarovar? Don’t the crystalline cascades of the Himalayas call to you? Doesn’t that peace, that virginal bliss, awaken a thirst in your very soul? If it does, you will be able to hear…

Dariya says: the word is nirvana!

Dariya will speak, Dariya has always spoken, and Dariya will go on speaking. The oceans have kept coming, and they will keep coming.

“Dariya”—the very word is lovely; it means “the ocean.” The ocean has always called, but you have become content with being a drop! When will the longing arise within you to become an ocean too? And remember—there are but a few days, counted days; death can come any moment. The flower that just bloomed will fall by evening. The spring that is now will soon turn to autumn.

Here comes the fall again—
leaves all turning yellow,
some still clinging, some already shed.
Another year has gone,
spring’s fragrance spent;
here comes the fall again.

Some days of rain, of winter,
some of summer, some of spring—
they pass and pass, and this world
is built and unbuilt.
Here comes the fall again.

Just yesterday here it was spring,
the swan laughed,
the bee got tangled in bud and bloom;
for one brief moment
the inert and the conscious
locked eyes.
Here comes the fall again.

No fragrance now rides the breeze,
no redness remains upon the leaves;
if anything is left, it’s only
night’s necklace of tears.
Here comes the fall again.

What meaning has this sigh?
To recount sorrow and joy is vain.
The restless call of the cuckoo
could not bring the beloved back.
Here comes the fall again.

In which the spring has dissolved,
what end has that emptiness?
Shall our love, too, one day
be lost in the void?
Here comes the fall again.

How long will you delay? Autumn has already set in. The leaves have begun yellowing. Any moment this life will drop—this youth, this hustle and bustle, these dreams! Is it only to vanish into emptiness? Have you taken the grave as your destination? If you have decided the grave is your goal and beyond gathering the shards of wealth you have no greater longing in life, then you will not be able to hear. Then let the ocean beat its head a thousand times, let it cry out a thousand times—you will remain deaf.

But beings like Dariya do not fret about your deafness—they go on calling! Who knows when you might hear? In what unknown moment, by chance, you might hear? In what unimagined hour you might hear despite yourself—even when you don’t want to? In that hope Dariya calls: “Dariya says: the word is nirvana.”

Beyond the three worlds lies the vast realm of fearlessness.

The three worlds are profoundly psychological. We should understand their psychology. You’ve been taught a lot of geography about the three worlds: that the netherworld lies beneath the earth, the heaven above the clouds, and in between is this mortal world. These are tales for children. There is no netherworld under the ground—America is there! If you start digging from where you sit, you’ll emerge in America. And Americans think hell is below them; if they dig, they’ll pop up here in Pune!

And above… When Yuri Gagarin, Russia’s first cosmonaut, returned from space, do you know what people first asked him? “Did you find God on the moon?” For the stories say God lives there. He said, “No God there—complete silence! Forget God; there isn’t even a man there, not even a priest or a pundit.”

In Moscow, in remembrance of that event, there’s a museum where the pebbles and rocks he brought are kept. On its gate is written: “We have gone even to the moon and seen—there too, there is no God.”

Who said God lives on the moon? These are bedtime stories, fairy-tales for children.

These are not geographical matters but psychological ones.

Ordinary humans have three possibilities—and then a fourth. To rise into the fourth is religion. To remain submerged in the first three is the world. We have not given the fourth a name, for what name can we give it? All our names are of the three, because only the three are within our experience. So we simply call the fourth “the fourth”—turiya.

These three are states of mind. One is sorrow—we know it well. The density of sorrow is what we call hell. It’s not under the earth; it’s the bottom of your own mind—it lies buried in your unconscious. From that unconscious arise your nightmares. The second state is happiness—we have tasted it a little, glimpses here and there; if not in reality, then in hope or in dreams—you think, now I’ll get it, any moment. Even if you haven’t experienced it, you can at least conceive that happiness is the opposite of sorrow: if sorrow is a thorn, happiness must be a shower of flowers. And the middle state—everyone knows it: a mixture of sorrow and happiness. That is the mortal world, where they are two faces of the same coin—one hand happiness, the other sorrow. Create as much sorrow as you like, and in equal measure happiness; create as much happiness as you like, and in equal measure sorrow.

Understand this—there is deep analysis behind it.

Haven’t you seen? The more a person amasses means of pleasure, the more miserable he becomes. There is a proportion. So if today the greatest misery is in America, don’t assume you are therefore in good shape; it only means that today in America the means of pleasure are greatest, hence so is the misery. Sorrow and happiness grow proportionally, together, hand in hand. If sorrow is ten, happiness is ten. If sorrow is a hundred, happiness is a hundred. As soon as a society grows affluent it fills with deep inner poverty and pain. Today nowhere are so many people going insane as in America. Nowhere are so many suicides. Nowhere is the search for mental peace as intense. The Indian mind is shocked: we should be the miserable ones—we have nothing to eat, no clothes, no roof, no medicine, no way to send the children to school—nothing; surely we should be the unhappy ones.

But you don’t know life’s mathematics.

Those with nothing are not the most miserable. To be very miserable, one must first be very happy. One who has known happiness comes to know sorrow. Imagine you lived in palaces and are suddenly told to live in a hut—then you’ll feel a hut’s misery. One who has always lived in a hut knows no such misery. One who always sleeps on the street finds no special misery in it; but bring someone off a palace bed and tell him to sleep on the street—then he’ll know. The feeling of sorrow needs happiness as its background. And the reverse is equally true. Without the touch of sorrow, happiness is also not felt.

Hence those who want to feel happiness create different sorts of sorrows for themselves; only then do they manage to feel a little joy. A man has nothing to prove—he goes to climb a mountain! Climbing is a painful business, a risk to life, yet he will climb. On that ascent, where life is at risk each moment—one slip and you’re lost in the ravines forever, bone and marrow in pieces… Yet precisely because of that risk, reaching the summit becomes a thrill of joy.

What joy is there in going to the moon, in walking on it? The joy is that it is dangerous. The bigger the challenge, the greater the risk, the more hope of happiness arises. Those who want great joy must create great sorrow. Soldiers know from battlefields that where life is utterly at risk, great waves of joy surge. Where death hovers moment to moment, life gains brilliance; all dust shakes off; life becomes intensely alive.

Sorrow and happiness are mixed—two faces of one coin. You cannot cut away just one. So hell and heaven are only projections. We have known sorrow—hell is sorrow’s extremity imagined. We have known happiness—heaven is happiness’ imagined extremity. For heaven we mentally remove sorrow entirely and keep only happiness; for hell we remove happiness and keep only sorrow. Thus, hell is for your enemies; heaven for yourself, for your friends and loved ones. If you’re Christian, only Christians will go to heaven; the rest to hell. If Muslim, paradise is for Muslims alone. If Jain or Buddhist, then heaven is for your sect. For yourself, heaven; for all others, hell. This is the common human trend of jealousy, envy, antagonism. And these three states we turned into three “worlds.”

Dariya says:

Beyond the three worlds…

If you truly want to seek truth, you must go beyond mind—beyond psychology.

Beyond the three worlds lies the vast realm of fearlessness.

That fourth state—where mind dissolves; where there is no sorrow, no happiness, and no mixture of the two; where sorrow is silent and happiness is silent; where all ripples subside; where consciousness is a motionless lake; where all is still—no noise pleasing or displeasing; no thorns, no flowers; no “mine,” no “other”; no success, no failure; where all the mind’s running ceases—where there is no mind at all. That mindless state, that unmani, is called the fourth—the turiya.

Patanjali calls it nirvikalpa samadhi. So long as there are alternatives, samadhi is not complete. So long as any thought remains, samadhi is incomplete. If any experience is still happening—of happiness or sorrow—samadhi is incomplete. When no experience whatsoever is happening, when the mirror of awareness is utterly clear—chitta-vritti nirodhah—when the movements of mind are stilled—that is yoga. There you meet the divine. In that fourth state, you are the divine.

Beyond the three worlds lies the vast realm of fearlessness.

And only there does fear end—hence it is called the fear-free realm. The sorrowful are afraid—lest more sorrows come. The sorrowful worry: who knows when we will be free of these sorrows, if ever. The happy are afraid too: how long will this last? Past experience says happiness comes and goes, it does not stay. So the happy clutch out of fear. The sorrowful push away. But neither is at ease. The happy know: if not today, then tomorrow, happiness will slip from the hand—so hold on, drink it dry! Yet the tighter you clutch, the sooner it slips away.

Happiness is like quicksilver; clench your fist and it scatters. Then you spend your life picking up beads of mercury from the floor—and never quite gathering them. And sorrow— the more you shove it away, the more it clings. Run from sorrow and it will follow like a shadow. This is our normal state: in both, fear remains. The sorrowful tremble: “If this much has come, O Lord, what next?”

I heard of a Delhi politician who was dying. Before death—he was a great leader, with far-reaching contacts—angels came and said death was near. He said, “Grant me a favor… Where am I to go? Before I go, I want to see both heaven and hell, so I can choose.” A great leader—he must have the right to choose! The angels agreed. Bribes work there too; it’s people from here who become angels there—their habits go along. He bribed; they said, “Fine, we’ll give you a peek.”

First they took him to heaven. It felt a bit dull. Languid! Of course—if your saints populate heaven, it will be sluggish! No veenas or flutes playing. Saints sitting under their respective trees, dust settled upon them from centuries of sitting. And saints don’t bathe—what is this fuss about the body! The very advanced ones don’t even brush their teeth. Tooth-brushing is for worldly people! If Jain monks made films, kisses would be outlawed—and toothbrushes too. A spray to sweeten the breath in the West—where kissing abounds… Anyway, sitting with their hearths smoldering—didn’t impress the leader. Felt like a Kumbh fair—various circuses and akharas. He said, “Show me hell.”

He was stunned. Couldn’t believe it. The lounge where they sat him was air-conditioned; sweet music playing; beautiful cabaret dances going on. He was delighted! A Delhi leader, after all. “This is like the Ashoka Hotel! Better!” The devil garlanded him with real flowers— not khadi ones! Such fragrance as he’d never known. “Tea? Coffee? Coca-Cola?” “Coca-Cola here too? It’s hard to get in Delhi!” Perfectly chilled from the fridge. He was overjoyed. “I want to come here,” he told the angels. “After I die, bring me here.”

Six hours later he died. The angels took him to hell. He opened his eyes—and panic! Flames raging, cauldrons boiling oil; people thrown in and fried, great whips lashing. “What’s going on? Some mistake? Just six hours ago I came…” The devil burst out laughing: “That was our guesthouse—for visitors. This is the real hell. For tourists we make special arrangements everywhere—show the best. Now enjoy the real thing!”

I heard of another leader. He died—straight to hell. Where else can leaders go? If they go elsewhere, who will go to hell? But he was a famous senior leader—well known, pictures even in hell’s newspapers. The devil said, “You’re a big man, renowned in the world; I can at least grant you a choice. Hell has many departments—choose where you’ll stay.”

Relieved to have a little democracy of choice! In one place, people were being boiled in cauldrons. In another, whipped savagely. In another, heavy stones were placed on people’s chests and demons leapt on them. Everywhere—ghastly scenes. He was terrified—choosing any would be trouble. Then he saw a place that seemed a bit better. People were standing knee-deep in filth—but they were drinking tea. “At least this is better. Filth I can handle—life-long habit. Politics is nothing but this filth anyway. Knee-deep? Even neck-deep I’ve dipped. This will do. And they’re sipping tea and gossiping—nice!” He chose it. A cup of hot tea was placed in his hand. He stood knee-deep in filth and began to sip—when suddenly a bell rang and a loud announcement: “Now everyone do headstands.”

These things don’t last. Even if you find tea in hell, beware—soon they’ll have you do headstands. A headstand in knee-deep filth!

Hell is our imagination of sorrow. Yet remember: whatever man can imagine, can be—and is. People are standing in filth; they drink their tea in it; they even do headstands in it. Look closely at your life—what fragrance do you find there? And the little happiness you do have—it’s dull. No glow, no color. Dust-coated, repetitive. Yes, sometimes a moment feels good—but such moments have come many times. They are not new. Even in them there is no real thrill: no exultation.

Yet between these two, man swings—happiness and sorrow. When happiness comes he fears sorrow—so he clutches happiness, even though there’s not much in it; still, better than nothing—at least it’s not sorrow.

A rich man was dying. He called his son close and said, “I must tell you one thing: money does not bring happiness. I gathered wealth all my life—and learned this: money does not bring happiness.” The son said, “Whatever it is, still, be sure to will the money to me.” The father said, “Didn’t you understand what I said?” The son said, “I understood perfectly: money does not bring happiness. But money has one advantage—you can choose your sorrow. You can pick whichever sorrow you want. Without money, you don’t even have the freedom to choose your sorrow. Consider that. With money, if you want sorrow in a palace, you can have sorrow in a palace; if in the Himalayas, then sorrow in the Himalayas; sorrow in Switzerland, then sorrow in Switzerland; sorrow with this woman or that woman—your choice. Money gives at least that much freedom: to choose your sorrow.” The father said, “You are right: money does not bring happiness.” The son added, “Just remember this much—money lets a man choose his sorrows at will.”

Perhaps that is the only difference between poor and rich. The poor don’t have the freedom to choose their sorrow; the rich do. But freedom only to choose sorrow—is that such a great difference? And often our old, familiar sorrows slowly become acceptable to us; picking new ones every day makes you even more miserable, for their pain is unfamiliar, their torment new, their thorns prick at new places.

Dariya says: both are states of fear. Where is fearlessness? Only where neither the wish for sorrow remains nor the wish for happiness. Where a man has seen that sorrow is futile, and happiness is futile too. Unless both are seen together, there will be no revolution in your life. If you think sorrow is futile but happiness is not, then in saving happiness you will save sorrow too; they come together—no sword can cut them apart. They are two ways of seeing one and the same thing.

Suppose you have five lakh rupees, and tomorrow you get ten lakh—happy or unhappy? You’ll be very happy. And someone else today has fifteen lakh, and tomorrow has only ten—what of him? He’ll be very unhappy. Both have ten lakh. One had five and gained to ten; one had fifteen and dropped to ten. If happiness lay in ten lakh, both should be happy. If sorrow, both sorrowful. But one is happy because he rose from five; the other is unhappy because he fell from fifteen. So happiness and sorrow do not lie in ten lakh; they depend on how you look. On comparison. On expectation.

Thus happiness and sorrow cannot be separated.

A man came home and found his closest friend embracing his wife. The friend was flustered—what to say? But the husband said, “Don’t worry—come with me to the next room.” There he said, “I have to embrace her—fool, why are you? I married her, I’m compelled to embrace her, but you—what’s wrong with you?”

What is happiness for one may be sorrow for another. What is happiness for you today can be sorrow tomorrow. Today you’re crazy about your wife; tomorrow you may be crazy to escape her. Today you would have died for her; tomorrow you may kill her. Today’s friend is tomorrow’s enemy, and vice versa.

Happiness and sorrow are not separate things—they are ways of seeing, perspectives. One who rises beyond all perspectives attains vision. To whom no bias remains; who says, “I want neither this nor that; I don’t have to grasp this or drop that.” The sensualist grasps happiness; the renunciate grasps sorrow—the knower does neither. Your sensualist is ignorant; your renunciate is ignorant. The knower neither clutches nor rejects; what comes, he watches; what goes, he watches it go. He is simply a witness. A mere seer. A thorn pierces—he watches the thorn. A flower falls—he watches the flower. No wish to hold onto the flower, no longing that the thorn should not have been. In such quietude of consciousness, transgression happens—one rises beyond fear.

Beyond the three worlds lies the vast realm of fearlessness.

Only those reach there who are moths to truth—ready to burn in the flame of truth.

Only those who are ready to reduce their ego to ash, to burn their minds to cinders—only they… “reach that wondrous shore.” Their boat lands on that shore where there is neither happiness nor sorrow. Happiness is heaven, sorrow is hell—and beyond both is moksha, nirvana. “Dariya says: the word is nirvana.”

Brahma, Vishnu, Shiva—are all of light; and you too will become light if you attain yoga, if you attain meditation. Meditation means: your identification drops—with all that happens around you but is not you. As if, in front of a mirror, a beautiful woman passes, and the mirror says, “Ah, how beautiful I am!”—that identification. An ugly man passes and the mirror shrinks in disgust: “How ugly I am!”—identification. But whether a beautiful woman passes or an ugly man, the mirror silently reflects, and knows: “I am only a mirror; whatever comes before me, its image appears”—that witnessing—that is meditation.

Sorrow comes, and you become sorrowful—meditation missed. Happiness comes, you become happy—meditation missed. Sorrow came—let it come and go; happiness came—let it come and go. Remain the mirror. Simply note: now there is sorrow, now there is happiness; now it is morning, now evening; now light, now darkness; now spring, now fall; now life, now death. Just watch—and do not become one with what you watch. This little art is meditation!

And one who attains meditation attains yoga. For one who severs his connection with the events around him, his connection is joined to that supreme divinity hidden within. You can be connected to one of two—either the world around you, or the divine within you.

Brahma, Vishnu, Shiva—are all of light; the yogi is meditation.
In the hidden realm dwells the True Person—his is the whole universe.

And if you leave all identification, then within you is the hidden realm—the secret kingdom—the inner cave of the heart into which no one but you can enter; that’s why it’s called the hidden realm. Only you can go there. You cannot take anyone else, not your closest friend; not even your beloved; not even your mind, not your body; not even a particle of your thought. Nothing can be taken; all must be left outside. Only utterly unburdened… chitta-vritti nirodhah… when all the mind’s movements are left outside—in such renunciation you enter within. Alone—only you can enter. Dariya calls it: the hidden realm.

In that hidden realm you will find the One to whom this entire universe belongs, this entire expanse. There you will meet the Lord of lords. And one who has found that—has found all. One who has known that—has known all that is worth knowing.

His beauty is inaccessible, boundless…

His beauty is beyond reach, infinite…

His beauty is inaccessible, boundless—only swans find joy there.
A few wise ones reflect—and let love’s essence abide in their hearts.

His beauty is beyond words—you will fall dumb. You cannot speak; you are struck silent. You halt, transfixed. What you see is so vast that you dissolve into it—as a small lamp meets the sun; as a drop merges into the ocean.

His beauty is inaccessible, boundless—only swans find joy there.

But only those can find it who remember they are swans—born of a lineage of swans.

You are heirs of the Buddhas—Mahavira, Mohammed, Zarathustra, Lao Tzu, Buddha, Kabir, Nanak, Dariya, Farid—you are their descendants. You come from the lineage of the supreme swans. But by what delusion are you sitting by little ponds and filthy puddles, building homes there, arranging households there?

Those who settle by the puddles are householders. And those who have forgotten that beyond the Himalayas, behind soaring peaks, lies our land, our Manasarovar; who have forgotten that we used to pick pearls and now rely on pebbles—those who have awakened call out to remind them: Swans, awake! Swan, fly to your land!

All the processes of the awakened ones, all their words can be bound into one small sutra: “Swan, fly to your land!” They have to remind you of your homeland. You are in exile. You have forgotten your own country.

His beauty is inaccessible, boundless—only swans find joy there.

But those who hear Dariya’s words—and recall even a little, “Ah, who am I!”—they will receive great joy.

…only swans find joy there.

As these words fall into their ears, they pour nectar.

…only swans find joy there.

In a single instant, revolution can happen within them. For those who have heard, revolution has happened in a single instant.

I have heard of an emperor who grew angry with his son and banished him. After exiling him, he regretted it, but he was stubborn. “If not today, tomorrow the boy will come, ask forgiveness; I’ll pardon him. How long can he wander?” But the son was his father’s son—stubborn too. He did not return. Ten years passed. The father grew old. He had only one son, heir to the whole kingdom. He repented deeply. He sent his ministers: “Find where he is.” The prince knew no craft—never had he worked; servants did everything for him. If a king’s son falls from his state, no path remains but to become a beggar. He became a beggar. In ten years he slowly forgot he had been a prince.

Better to forget, too—otherwise the wound would never heal; but one has to live, to beg—holding an aluminum bowl, asking for alms: “My feet are burning, the sun is fierce, I have no shoes—some coins so I can buy a pair.” He rattled the coins in his bowl, pleading in front of a roadside café where people gambled, drank tea, smoked cigarettes.

Just then a golden chariot of the ministers pulled up before the café. The sight of the golden chariot—and ten years vanished in an instant! The chariot stopping, the minister stepping down, falling at the beggar’s feet: “Your Highness, come back. Your father calls; he is old. The whole kingdom is yours. What are you doing here?”

In a single instant revolution happened. The earthen bowl with a few coins—he threw it onto the road. Moments earlier he had been pleading for those very coins. Those who wouldn’t give him a penny—now gambling stopped, the café owner, the manager, everyone rushed and gathered around: “Your Highness, remember us, don’t forget us!”

The prince said, “First arrange a bath for me, and fine clothes—then I will return.” In a single instant, ten years became nothing, as if they had never been. People saw that his eyes were different—the beggar’s eyes had become the prince’s eyes. His clothes were still the beggar’s, but a light, an aura began to radiate from within. His gait changed, his stance changed. When he sat on the throne he was another man. No one could have imagined he had begged for ten years.

If Dariya’s words reach you, such a thing can happen within you—and should.

…only swans find joy there.
A few wise ones reflect,
and let love’s essence abide in their hearts.

Among you, those with a little awareness will understand, will ponder.

…love’s essence abides in your heart.

Within you is that very essence of love which ultimately unveils the divine. Within you is the ray of love that will connect you to the sun of God. Listen! Ponder! “Dariya says: the word is nirvana.”

Whoever reflects on the true word—he sets out for the fear-free realm.

Merely reflecting, the gates of the fear-free realm begin to open. At that impact, in a single instant, great revolution happens. It is not that God has to be attained—we have merely forgotten. We have to remember. That is why the sages have said: name-remembrance. A great secret lies in it. Its meaning is simply this: you have nothing to do—only to remember, only to call. You don’t have to change yourself; you already are that.

Did the prince have to change himself? He was the prince—he had just forgotten.

And forgetfulness happens—very easily. For around you are the forgetful. You are joined to them. The blessing of sat­sang is rare; only a very fortunate one finds it. Otherwise, there’s a crowd—people just like you.

I heard that a swan was flying with his swan-mate. Night fell, they were tired, they settled on a tree. A crow lost his heart to the swan’s mate—natural enough. “Where are you taking Hema Malini off to!” he must have thought. “Buster, you won’t get away!” The tree was full of crows. He told the others, “We won’t let him leave like this! Such a lovely thing—where’s he taking her!”

Morning came. As the swan rose to fly, the crow leader said, “Wait! Where are you taking my wife?” The swan said, “Your wife? Speak sense! She’s a swan, you’re a crow…” The crow said, “You speak sense! Don’t you know a black man can have a white woman? This color prejudice won’t do. What antiquated talk! From Manu’s time? Granted she’s fair, but she’s my wife! If you insist, we’ll call a council.”

The swan was a bit frightened—because the council would be of crows; there was no other swan. The council decided: the wife belongs to the crow. The swan wept—but what could he do? It was a crowd of crows!

You too are surrounded by a crowd of crows. All their effort is to make you forget. They have forgotten; they make you forget. You have to wake up from the crowd. Whoever wakes from the crowd is a sannyasin. The crowd has great hypnosis, great power. It cannot create you—but it can destroy you. That is its strength.

From childhood the crowd seizes every child and begins making him into a crow. They paint and smear and indoctrinate—Hindu crow, Muslim crow, Christian, Jain, Buddhist—different crows of every sort. Who will remind you that you are a swan! They smear so much black upon you that even if you stand before a mirror you think, “I am a crow—these traits must be swan-like mannerisms!”

All your conditioning has been given by the ignorant. That’s why when someone like Dariya calls, you still do not remember. Buddha calls, and you don’t remember. Drums are beaten at your door, and you do not hear. Not that you don’t hear—even if you do, you can’t believe: “I, a swan? A traveler to Manasarovar? No—this must be for someone else. It cannot be true about me. I know my own blackness.”

I tell you, your blackness is false. Bathe a little in meditation—it will wash away. The swan within will shine.

Whoever reflects on the true word—he sets out for the fear-free realm.

You must think. You must ponder the words of those who have awakened. And remember: the awakened are very few; the sleepers are many. And truth is not decided by democracy. Not by votes. If it were, Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna, Christ would have long ago lost. The crowd of crows would have snatched all the swan brides.

Truth is not decided by votes. It does not depend on opinions and crowds. Truth is truth—whether one says it or many. And often, only one will say it. Many cannot. For only a rare one attains meditation—rising against the many, freeing himself from the many—a rare one attempts the journey to Manasarovar. Do not argue over their words—reflect on them.

Understand the difference between debate and reflection.

Debate means prejudices already fixed, thinking accordingly. Reflection means listening without bias, thinking without bias. Reflection means staying open to the possibility that perhaps Dariya is right.

Listen to Dariya with your whole attention.

Whoever reflects on the true word—he sets out for the fear-free realm.

How can saying and hearing ever capture it? Only the true name’s self-revelation gives recognition.

Dariya says: Even though I say—“Dariya says: the word is nirvana”—there is great difficulty, for that experience cannot be contained in words.

How can saying and hearing capture it?

How am I to say it? How can I awaken you? How can I make the deaf hear, the blind see? The true name is such that only self-recognition is recognition.

So if anyone thinks: “When the master explains it to me fully, then I’ll go with him”—then the journey is over before it begins. If one insists upon complete understanding before accompanying the master, that insistence cannot be fulfilled.

How then does the journey with the master begin?

You need lovers—moths. A moth does not ask the flame to first prove she is flame; to prove that burning in her will grant rebirth; to prove why he should come when he sees only death and no nectar. The master is the flame. The disciple comes to him drawn by a magnetic pull. It is not merely a matter of thought. Beyond thought, something takes hold of his heart, churns it. As one falls in love with a person, so fall in love with the master—only then can the journey begin. To bond with the master is the work of a few courageous madmen, the intoxicated ones.

The heart has hidden in every vein the secret of the beloved’s love.
Such an illness, the pulse cannot diagnose.

Illnesses that pulses can detect—love is not one of them. Medicines that can cure—love is not among them. Its cure is only samadhi, not remedy. It is an inner affliction—and not an affliction but a blessing. Blessed are those whose hearts find a love-bond with a true master—who drop all and go with him. For theirs is the kingdom of God.

Behold, discern your own essence; understand—and you will cross over.

Sitting with the master, what is there to do? Witnessing. Sit and watch the master—how he rises, how he sits, how he speaks and how he falls silent. Look into his eyes. Put your hand in his. Place your head at his feet. Breathe his air. Yes—draw his air into your breath; for in his very air there is pollen that, through your breath, will stir your heart too.

That is the meaning of satsang.

Behold, discern your own essence…

Look deeply, drink deeply!

…understand—and you will cross over.

One day you will understand: this man has gone to the other shore; we are on this shore. The moment this understanding dawns—this man is on the far shore, we on the near—at that very moment the leap happens. That is when sannyas happens.

First one comes as a student—full of curiosity. Then he becomes a disciple; curiosity settles, longing awakens. Words no longer delight—now the silent presence of the guru delights. Then he becomes a devotee; he takes the leap, sets out for the unknown shore of the unknown ocean. He has no boat, no oar—only trust, only faith. But faith is the boat; faith is the oar.

The lamp won’t dispel the darkness of the mind—
lift the earth, bend the sky!
Many Diwalis have come and gone,
yet darkness stands where it stood.
The flame has flared and died many times,
but night’s shroud still covers every garden.
Let the sun no more sulk, nor dreams be broken—
wake the dawn, lull the night!
The lamp won’t dispel the darkness of the mind—
lift the earth, bend the sky!

For peace to be born, a great creation is needed—
that at every door light may sing its song.
Only then is the sacrifice of liberation fulfilled,
when love wins over the sword.
Hatred is rising, new-moon darkness is thickening—
revive the human, erase the demonic!
The lamp won’t dispel the darkness of the mind—
lift the earth, bend the sky!

Swift are the wings of light;
it stays in no one’s house.
Whoever tries to cage it by force and guile
himself turns to smoke and vanishes on the wind.
This hour belongs to none and to all—
call this one too, and that one too!
The lamp won’t dispel the darkness of the mind—
lift the earth, bend the sky!

But you want all the radiance
to remain your slave forever,
not knowing that in a straw hut
one ember calls morning in.
Let no one ever dance romance with fire again—
teach tears to laugh who now all weep!
The lamp won’t dispel the darkness of the mind—
lift the earth, bend the sky!

A great, vast undertaking is needed!

The lamp won’t dispel the darkness of the mind—
lift the earth, bend the sky!

Such a mighty undertaking is needed—as if one lifted the earth and bent the sky! This darkness will not go with little lamps. These outer Diwalis won’t help. But man is clever—he celebrates the outer Diwali to avoid the inner one.

Jain scriptures say: Diwali was born in celebration of Mahavira’s great attainment. On the night of Diwali’s new moon, Mahavira attained the supreme knowing—sambodhi, samadhi; the inner lamp was lit, the sun rose; the darkness of infinite ages was cut, the night ended, dawn arrived. But what did we do? We lit clay lamps outside—in festival. If you truly love Mahavira, light the inner lamp. What will outer Diwali do? Mahavira did not light any outer lamp. When dawn comes, on Diwali’s dark night, laddus are offered in Jain temples—nirvana laddus! Because Mahavira attained nirvana—distribute sweets! Mahavira tasted the inner nectar and you are sated by boondi laddus—and call them “nirvana laddus!” A little shame, please! A little modesty! The sun rose within Mahavira—you lit lamps outside. He drank the sweetness of immortality—you distribute laddus. How long will you keep deceiving yourselves? No…

The lamp won’t dispel the darkness of the mind.
Lift the earth, bend the sky!

Something great must be done. What is the greatest thing? Greater than lifting earth and bending sky? Erase yourself! Let the “I” dissolve! That is the veil, the covering, the wall. Bring it down and you are only light—light is your nature.

Behold, discern your own essence; understand—and you will cross over.
As gold is purified in fire, so burn this body, brother.

Just as we cast raw gold into fire to make it pure—kundan—so learn to cast yourself into the fire.

As gold is purified in fire,
so burn this body, brother.

Burn yourself like a moth!

But we are so skilled—we build false temples, false mosques; we bang our heads there and carry our egos back intact. We perform worship, we offer prayers, read namaz—and nothing bows within us.

I used to travel through Rajasthan; at Ajmer the train halted long, and I’d change trains. Evening time, and many Muslim passengers would quickly spread their prayer rugs and begin namaz right there on the platform—maghrib prayer. I would stroll and watch. I was amazed—they would pray, but keep glancing back to see if the train had left. A gentleman in my coach, whom I had met during the journey, spread his rug, praying, yet glancing back. I stood behind him and held his head straight! He was angry inside, but said nothing then. He quickly finished and burst out, “What kind of man are you? Why did you twist my head? It hurts! Is this what one does during namaz?”

I said, “What you were doing was wrong, or what I did? Why were you looking back? Were you praying, or checking whether the train had left? The two cannot happen together. If you’re afraid the train will leave, why pray? And if you are lost in prayer, then even if a thousand trains leave, what will they take away? What kind of namaz was this?”

I told him: Akbar once was lost in a jungle at dusk, returning from a hunt, and sat to pray. A young woman came running, pushed him aside—he even toppled—and rushed on. Akbar was angry—a king, and praying! When she returned, he said, “Impertinent woman! Don’t you know I am the emperor? Even aside from that—anyone deep in prayer—how can you behave so? You shoved me so hard I fell. What is your answer?”

She said, “Forgive me—but I don’t even remember you were there or that you fell. If you say you fell, perhaps you did—but I have no recollection. My lover was coming; I was on my way to meet him. I’ll only ask you one thing: for my lover’s sake I didn’t see you—and you were going to meet your Beloved, yet you felt my push! What kind of prayer is that? My lover is ordinary; I ran crazed to meet him after a year apart. I remember nothing—when you came, when you stood in the way, when I pushed you. Forgive me. But let me remind you: what sort of meeting with your supreme Beloved was it, that you even noticed my shove?”

Akbar writes in his memoirs: I never forgot that woman’s words. My prayer was false.

If you go to meet the Beloved, what else can remain in memory? But who goes to meet the Beloved? Our Diwalis are false, our nirvana laddus false, our temples and mosques and rituals false. We have arranged everything on the surface. It won’t be so cheap. The price to pay is the death of the self.

Only the diamond that endures many blows
becomes a flawless gem—returning no more.

Die—only by dying will you be. This world is fire—burn. This world is the blows of hammers—endure. This world is an examination—pass through, and you will not return. You will merge into the Master.

Grasp the root—and your speech becomes pure.
From the heart of Dariya, awareness descends within.

If you have such courage, the root will be in your hand.

Grasp the root—and pure speech springs forth.

Then within you a spring of pure words will burst forth! Become the Veda, become the Quran. Let verses arise from within you; let rishis’ hymns well up from your heart.

Grasp the root—and pure speech springs forth.

When the root is within, leaves will unfold, flowers will bloom. The extraordinary will be born within you. Every word will carry the fragrance of truth.

Grasp the root—and pure speech springs forth.
From the heart of Dariya, awareness descends within.

And one who has realized within need not seek any idol in any temple. He goes neither to Kashi nor to Kaaba.

…within his heart awareness is established.

Within him the lamp of remembrance is lit—the surati has awakened.

“Surati” is a sweet word. It was born with Buddha, ripened with Nanak. Buddha used “samma-sati”—in Sanskrit: samyak-smriti. Through use it wore down into common speech as surati. Surati means remembrance—remembrance of the Lord.

…within the heart surati abides.

If you die to yourself, then day and night a soundless sound arises within; asleep or awake, the Upanishads echo inside you.

What worth has the moth? He perished—
and the flame too was no longer as it had been.

Do not think that if you die to yourself, God will remain unmoved.

What worth has the moth? He perished—
a mere moth; what could he do? A drop meeting the sea. But do not think the flame remains untouched—the flame thrills and flares too.

What worth has the moth? He perished—
and the flame too was no longer as it had been.

The flame sways and dances. When the flame dances within you, Krishna’s flute plays; Meera ties bells to her feet and dances; Buddha speaks, Upanishads are composed, the Quran resounds, the Bible is born. These are different ways of that flame showering grace upon the world for the sake of some moth’s love. A single moth is consumed—and a fine drizzle begins over countless beings.

The touchstone’s secret cannot be told—
meet the master, and he shows it.

Touchstone turns iron into gold when it touches it. This cannot be achieved by talk. Say it a thousand times—iron won’t become gold. Even if the touchstone itself explains, “Touch me and you’ll be gold,” it won’t happen. The iron must draw near to the touchstone. That drawing near is called discipleship.

The touchstone’s word cannot explain—meet the master and he shows.

Until you meet a satguru, you cannot see. You have eyes and there is light—but you lack the means to relate the two.

A moment’s recognition,
and life’s provisions were given me.
The path and the traveler were there before,
but I had no love for the path.
Without you, this life
had no attachment, no entanglement.
What happened when I met you unawares?
I learned union and separation.
Shall I live for someone, or die?
I found a pride, a dignity.

Suddenly in my mind burst forth
streams long dammed;
and so many things there are
for which language has no words.
A longing to attain—
and the boon of losing myself.
A moment’s recognition,
and life’s provisions were given me.

The lamp is easy—light dwells in everyone;
hard to find is the wick of love.
Heaven may be easy,
but hard is to find a companion of the way—
one who gives such strength
that step by step you measure the limits of beginning and end;
in whose shade thorns give no fear,
and flowers no enchantment.
Without you, the glory of weak clay
would never have been awakened;
the meaning of life and death,
of ceaseless change,
would never have been proved.
The foot’s first inclination,
the yearning to be spent upon the path, you gave.
A moment’s recognition,
and life’s provisions were given me.

When you meet the master, he is a bridge. Between you and you—the master is the bridge. He joins you to yourself. You are both outside and inside—but the harmony between your outside and inside is broken. He restores that harmony.

He alone is satguru who sets truth in motion within you,
who awakens the swan and sends it to the hidden realm.

The true master is the one who kindles in you the longing for truth, lights the thirst to know. Who raises such a storm within you that you cannot remain as you were.

…awakens the swan and sends it to the hidden realm.

He reminds you of the Manasarovar—that you are a swan, that you must pick pearls, that you must not wallow in trash. He acquaints you with your own glory.

A moment’s recognition,
and life’s provisions were given me.
The path and the traveler were there before,
but I had no love for the path.
Without you, this life
had no attachment, no entanglement.
What happened when I met you unawares?
I learned union and separation.
Shall I live for someone, or die?
I found a pride, a dignity.
Suddenly in my mind burst forth
streams long dammed;
and so many things there are
for which language has no words.
A longing to attain—
and the boon of losing myself.
A moment’s recognition,
and life’s provisions were given me.

If for a single instant your eyes meet the master’s—the great moment of revolution arrives!

The lamp is easy—light dwells in everyone;
hard to find is the wick of love.
Heaven may be easy,
but hard is to find a companion of the way—
one who gives such strength
that step by step you measure the limits of beginning and end;
in whose shade thorns give no fear,
and flowers no enchantment.
Without you, the glory of weak clay
would never have been awakened;
the meaning of life and death,
of ceaseless change,
would never have been proved.
The foot’s first inclination,
the yearning to be spent upon the path, you gave.
A moment’s recognition,
and life’s provisions were given me.

Seek. Seek the satguru—who sets truth in motion within you; who stirs your dimmed flame; who fills your breath with the longing for the infinite; who lifts your eyes toward the sky; who tells you, “Earth is not your home—it is exile. Your own land is to be found. Without finding your own land, no one has ever been fulfilled, no one has ever known bliss.”

In every house the stories of wisdom are told—
but they will not take you to our realm.

Every house tells stories… the Satyanarayan katha told in every home!

In every house the stories of wisdom are told—
but they will not take you to our realm.

Dariya says: remember, these household tales—Ramayana recitations, Satyanarayan readings—by hearing these, you will not reach our realm. You will reach only when you meet someone who has reached. These priests and pundits you buy for a few coins; these priests who are your hired hands, who serve your expectations; these priests who give you the illusion of religiosity—this won’t do!

The eyes told an untold story,
breath sobbed and bore the emptiness.
All life long we spoke of you—
yet even that much remained half-said.

Keep on hearing such stories—and the half will remain half; the tale won’t be completed.

If love’s shoots have not sprouted in our garden,
have not bloomed—
if birds of entreaty have not swung on our boughs—
if starless darkness has not wiped our wet eyes—
still we did not forget
the smile of that single ray.

Meet such a one whose smile reveals to you the smile of the divine; in whose eyes you glimpse a little of the divine.

If love’s shoots have not sprouted in our garden…
still we did not forget
the smile of that single ray.

A single ray’s smile can seize you—and your life begins to transform. Then you can no longer remain what you were.

The One fills every vessel—there is no other…
worship the inner God with a pure heart.

Yes, he pervades everything—but who will awaken you?

…worship the inner God with a pure heart.

There is no need to worship elsewhere; arrange worship trays within.

But who will alert you?

Your life is wasted in argument, fool…
and death draws near.

Your debates will not defeat death. To conquer death, get acquainted with the immortal.

You have read and read the scriptures—
and become egotistical…

You have read enough—more than enough—but all that has only thickened your pride. You did not burn like a moth in the flame; your ego only strengthened.

You have read and read and become proud;
all other techniques you praise are in vain.

Until someone gives you the key, the method—someone who knows and has walked that path, who puts his hand in yours—until then all this is futile and will remain so.

Unless you know the secret of the hidden realm,
the swan will not reach it through ritual.

Until you meet one who has been to Manasarovar, no matter how many rituals you perform—even all six—“the swan will not reach it through ritual, unless you know the secret of the hidden realm.”

When the essential word breeds firmness—
then the satguru reveals a little of himself.

When the word of one who is awake strikes your heart, firmness arises—faith is born.

When the essential word breeds firmness—
then the satguru lights the lamp in you.

Only then, in a heart brimming with firmness, can the master kindle the flame.

Dariya says: the word is nirvana. I speak not the Vedas’ exposition.

A lovely thing—he says, I speak my own; not an exposition of the Vedas, not a commentary on any scripture. I speak from my own experience.

Dariya says: the word is nirvana. I speak not the Vedas’ exposition.

The world is entangled in the Vedas—
and keeps returning to the womb.

Great talk of the Vedas—great scholars, researchers! How much is written! Commentaries upon commentaries! And yet all fall back into the womb. The same world goes on.

Dariya says: the word is nirvana. I speak not the Vedas’ exposition.

I speak my own. What the Vedas say—of that I have no concern.

Those who know always speak from their own experience. The delightful paradox is: one who speaks his own experience—the whole Veda stands witness to him. And those who only interpret the Vedas commit sacrilege upon them—because they have no experience; whatever meaning they make is wrong, disastrous.

One thing, one scripture, one light you have to discover—and it is within you. Drop all fuss; seek the One.

We dropped worrying and found repose;
what had been the work of effort
was granted by grace.

Drop effort. Sit in quiet trust within—and what is done by great striving is granted by destiny. What requires tremendous exertion simply happens through surrender.

Life is simple; the scriptures have made it complex. Truth is easy; doctrines have entangled it badly. Don’t fall into debate—descend into meditation. Nirvana is your birthright.

Dariya says: the word is nirvana!

Enough for today.