Dariya Kahe Sabad Nirvana #7

Dariya kahai sabd nirbana!

Jesus has said: If you have eyes, then see; if you have ears, then hear. Everyone has eyes, and everyone has ears — and certainly Jesus was not speaking to the blind and the deaf; he was speaking to people just like you — eyes like yours, ears like yours. But merely having eyes does not guarantee seeing. And merely having ears does not make hearing inevitable. One can still miss, even with eyes open. One can still miss, even with ears intact. Because there is another way of hearing, another way of seeing — that way is the essence of all religions.

If your house has caught fire, and in the marketplace someone tells you, Your house is burning — what are you doing here? — you would run toward home. People walking on the road would still be visible; someone might greet you on the way and you would still be able to see them — you have not turned blind — and yet nothing is seen. For the one whose house is on fire, passers-by are not seen. Someone may greet; it does not reach the ears. And if tomorrow someone reminds you, I met you on the path, I saluted you, you did not reply — you will apologize; you will say: Forgive me, in that moment I was not in awareness.

Which means: only when seen in awareness does it truly appear. Seen in unawareness, it does not. Heard in awareness, it truly resounds. Lived in awareness, life becomes Paramatma. And lived in unawareness, you will grasp nothing here but stones. We are all living in a stupor — as if sleepwalking, as if drunk on wine.

Our life is not a waking life. That is why Dariya says: I am speaking the words of nirvana — but whether you will hear or not depends wholly on you.

There may be a physician, there may be the medicine, but the patient may not swallow it! Diagnosis may be done, the remedy may be found — but that alone does not help. The diagnosis has been done, again and again; humanity's malady is well known — the disease of swoon, of heedlessness, of unawareness. Masters may have given different names, but the disease is one. And the medicine is one as well, known for ages: Wake up!

But you either indulge or you renounce — you never awaken. The indulger is drowned, the renouncer is drowned; there is not much difference between the hedonist and the ascetic — they are of one kind. One is running facing the world; the other is running with his back toward it — but both are running; none is awakening. Only one who awakens can listen. And when one awakens, within his life the unstruck sound arises, Krishna's flute sings, the ayat of the Quran are born, his every word becomes the Bhagavadgita. One who knows also knows that I and Paramatma are not two — the declaration of Anal Haq bursts forth.

In the West there is a new discovery — the hologram. It is worth understanding. If you tear an ordinary photograph into four pieces, the picture splits into four parts. A hologram is a new art of imaging, made with laser light. You throw laser beams on a rose and capture its image. The image is unique, so miraculous that, if you grasp it, the Mahavakya of the Upanishads — tattvamasi, Shvetaketu — becomes clear. Mansoor's proclamation — Anal Haq, I am God — becomes understandable. For the first time science has given support to tattvamasi.

Many marvels belong to the holographic image.

First: when laser beams are thrown upon the rose and the image is taken, the rose itself does not appear on the film; only the waves, the dancing interference patterns of laser light around the rose appear — the rose does not appear! Like tossing a stone in a lake: the stone sinks to the bed, but the circular ripples remain; if you photograph them, only the ripples are caught. Likewise, laser light cast upon an object does not catch the object on film, but the circular wave-pattern around it. Yet the image is wondrous: if you then shine laser light through that film, on the screen a rose blooms.

And more wondrous still: if you break that film into two pieces, it makes no difference — each piece can still produce the whole rose on the screen. Break it into four — no difference; each fragment produces the complete flower. Shatter it into a thousand fragments — still no difference. Make the fragments as small as you like — from every small fragment the whole rose appears.

This is a startling discovery. It means the old mathematics is overturned. Old mathematics says: the part is never equal to the whole. How could it be? The part is smaller than the whole; the fragment smaller than the unfragmented. But the hologram declares: the fragment equals the whole; the part equals the total. However tiny it appears, the whole is enfolded in it. The ocean is contained in the drop. The tree is contained in the seed. The entire cosmos is contained in a minute atom. This is precisely the Upanishadic proclamation. Tattvamasi. I am That. You are That.

There is no qualitative difference between you and Paramatma. You are His small image, yet within you the whole of Paramatma is present — exactly as He is present in the vast existence, not a whit less.

This is a new revolution in mathematics, a new proclamation in science. Mystics have always known it; for the first time science lends support. To see it you will have to change your angle of vision. It is such a great event — to see the ocean in the drop. Your eyes must be made new. Your inner world must be given new forms, new hues, a new style. You must learn new sutras for singing. You must tie anklets to your feet. You must become adept in the art of celebration. The name of this art is religion.

Dariya kahai sabd nirbana!

Dariya says: I am speaking to you of that supreme Word — but will you hear, or will you not? Do not mistake mere hearing for hearing. All hear; only the one who imbibes truly hears. If you only hear, what will come of it? If you do not understand, hearing is wasted. Even if you understand, what of it? If you do not live it, understanding is wasted. Hear, understand, live, become it — only then will the nectar descend into your life-breath. Then the dancing Paramatma enters within you. Or say it this way: He was always asleep there; He awakes and begins to dance. He does not even come — He was present already, as the flower is hidden in the bud and the bud blossoms and fragrance is shed. The day your life-breath spills its fragrance, that day know your life has been fulfilled.

The jasmine blooms, champa flowers, a new rose arrives laughing;
A wondrous bee has come to me, bearing forest fragrance.
But here that bee has turned ascetic, intent on some practice;
The Beloved’s abode is not yet found; the secret of the Lover remains immense.
All I have heard is this: youth repents, it weeps;
All I have seen is this: the body turns to dust.
But that wisdom is a little awkward, that account somewhat impure;
Those who have seen the Beloved with their own eyes say something else.

If you only skim the surface, there is dust everywhere — where is a glimpse of nectar? If you only look on the surface, there is matter everywhere — where is the recognition of Paramatma? On the surface you may find the veena, but where are its notes to be heard? Even if the flute falls into your hand, the music does not arise by itself.

The jasmine blooms, champa flowers, a new rose arrives laughing;
A wondrous bee has come to me, bearing forest fragrance.
But here that bee has turned ascetic, intent on some practice;
The Beloved’s abode is not yet found; the secret of the Lover remains immense.
All I have heard is this: youth repents, it weeps;
All I have seen is this: the body turns to dust.
But that wisdom is a little awkward, that account somewhat impure;
Those who have seen the Beloved with their own eyes say something else.

Awake, traveler — take the footpath; the roads are like that —
Bending boughs of trees await — arms like that.
Again and again it knots and unknots — the heart of a friend is just so;
Who knows the secret, who knows the pain — the lover’s heart is just so.
The path is rare, the road uncanny, forms diverse in every heart —
Who can say if, somewhere in this very moment, they are not in tune with the world?
Do not mistake them for ears of rice — they are mustard seeds;
In which seed they are seated — who can say this secret?
Keep watering these dull branches — one day, perhaps, the Beloved opens eyes;
Perhaps upon these boughs some day the bird will speak its speech!
Awake, traveler — take the footpath; the roads are like that —
Bending boughs of trees await — arms like that.

Paramatma is ready to take you in His embrace — like the drooping boughs of trees; He longs to flood your nostrils with the primal, beginningless fragrance; He seeks to come into you like a dancing ray, to rise within you as the full moon, to appear upon the sky of your heart like the star-studded night — but open the door, give the path, step down from the throne! You have seated yourself upon the throne; you have left no space for Him. And then if in your life you grasp nothing but gloom, despondency, despair, tears — remember, the one at fault is you.

Those who told you there is nothing in this life — they spoke falsely.

But that wisdom is a little awkward, that account somewhat impure;
Those who have seen the Beloved with their own eyes say something else.

Those who have seen the Beloved have said something else. They have called nature His veil. Those who have seen the Beloved have seen His glimpse also in nature. In every flower His fragrance, in every color His hue, all rainbows are His. In the moon and stars it is His light; within people’s hearts it is His heartbeat; He is your breath, He is your ebbing breath. He is awake in you, He lives in you, He sleeps in you; He is your love, your prayer, your worship — you are the temple. Why go to Kaaba, why go to Kashi? You are the temple. And if you cannot find Him within, you will never find Him in any Kaaba. And one who has found Him within — the whole existence becomes Kaaba, the whole existence becomes Kailash. Then wherever you place your feet, a pilgrimage arises. Wherever you sit, there is the temple. The Master dwells within you. Dariya kahai sabd nirbana — these words of nirvana are spoken to remind you of this very fact.

The five-element house, and within it nets and snares;
There the jiva makes his abode — right beside Death.

You have no memory of what is happening within you, what can happen within you.

I have heard: one night, the full moon — the Sharad Purnima night — a few friends had drunk a bit too much bhang. The full moon in the sky, a showering cascade of moonlight, the intoxication of bhang — they thought, Let us go rowing. They went to the lake. The boatmen had moored their boats and gone home. They untied one boat, sat in it and began to row. Starting at midnight, they rowed on and on. When dawn came, the cool breeze began to blow, the intoxication faded a little, and they remembered home. Someone said, Step out at the ghat and see, how far we have come. We will have to return. Did we go east or west? In that fog they had no idea. How many miles had they covered? One of them stepped onto the steps and burst out laughing. The others asked, Why are you laughing? He was holding his belly, laughing so hard. He said, Let me laugh first, then I can tell you. If you want the full fun, step down and see for yourselves. They all stepped out — and all began laughing. For through the night they had forgotten that the boat was still chained to the shore; they had never loosed it. You can row all you want — but if the chain is not loosed, there is no journey. They remained exactly where they were.

Where you were born you will remain — however much you row, however much wealth you gather, however many positions; however furiously you run in ambition. This race of ambitions is nothing but delirium. You are where you are. This race of ambitions is only a dream; when morning opens your eyes, you will find yourself in your own hut, on your own cot. At night you may wander to Timbuktu or Constantinople or wherever — but when morning opens, you are back in your old home on your old cot. Such is your life. Breaking the chain is the first necessity. And the chain is unawareness, the lack of meditation. You do not know precisely who you are; you cannot answer, Who am I? And one who has no answer to that, all his other answers are worth two cowries. He may have the scriptures by heart — they are worthless. Memorized scriptures do no work. Scriptures remain on the surface; within, your trash remains as it was. Like parrots that repeat Ram-Ram — within there is no Ram.

I have heard: a priest had a parrot — very learned, a Ram-nam parrot. From morning till evening it was absorbed in prayer. A lady who attended the priest’s church said to him, I too have bought a parrot and I am in great trouble. It must have lived in some brothel or tavern — it spews terrible curses! Obscene words! When guests come I am in dread of what the parrot might say. When you come to my home I have to cover the parrot lest it says something on seeing you. How to change this parrot? You change people — can you not change this parrot? The priest said, Do not worry; we have a very religious parrot — it knows only worship. It remembers only Jesus, Jesus — it is very virtuous. Bring your parrot here. We will keep them together — satsang benefits. The lady brought her parrot. Both parrots were kept in one cage. Two days passed; the priest was puzzled: neither did the lady’s parrot abuse, nor did the priest’s parrot remember God. The priest asked his parrot, What has happened to you? You were such a devotee — why have you stopped calling on God? It said, That for which I remembered God has been fulfilled. I wanted a lady — I have found her. That is why I used to cry, O Lord, O Lord! They asked the lady’s parrot, Why have you stopped cursing? It said, The man for whom I longed — he has arrived.

Whether parrots curse on the surface or parrot Ram-naam — it makes no difference. The real matter is within. You can drape a cloth of God’s name — what will it do? Yet this is what is happening. You do not even know who you are — and you have memorized the Ramayana and the words of the Gita! You have not taken even the first step of revolution, and you imagine the revolution is complete.

A truly religious person begins at the beginning. He asks: Who am I? And in asking, do not accept anything beforehand. Whatever you accept in advance will become the obstacle. No genuine inquiry, no true search begins with bias; it begins in neutrality. One who is beforehand a Hindu, a Muslim, a Jain, a Christian, will never attain Truth. He has decided what Truth is before finding it — this is not scientific inquiry; it is superstition. You have decided in advance that it is night — whether or not it is day; and you set out to prove your thesis. Mind is clever: whatever you wish to prove, it gathers arguments for it. The world is vast — arguments are available for everything.

A man brought me a book; he had proven that the number thirteen is inauspicious. He had collected all accidents that occurred on the thirteenth from newspapers. On the thirteenth things do happen — cars collide, trains derail, airplanes crash; there are murders, suicides — people die. He said, This is proof. I said, Do one more thing: now collect the accidents of the fourteenth; then of the fifteenth. You will be surprised — not fewer than the thirteenth. But once you decide that thirteen is bad... In America things are so bad that hotels have no room thirteen, no thirteenth floor — because no one wants to stay there. So after twelve comes fourteen. It is in fact the thirteenth, but numbered fourteen. People stay there happily — no harm comes. And if you knew it was thirteen, you would not sleep all night.

True inquiry begins neither with belief nor disbelief. True inquiry begins without for or against — with a clear, innocent curiosity, an open mind.

You ask yourself: Who am I? and you quickly answer, I am Atman — then the search is false. You ask, Who am I? and quickly answer, I am nothing but body — again the search is false. The answer will not come so quickly; you must dig deep. Like digging a well: first you hit rubbish. Do not return. Dig deeper. Then pebbles and stones — do not be alarmed. Dig deeper. Then dry earth appears. Do not panic that such dry soil could never yield water. Keep digging. Slowly you will find damp earth — the first signs. Keep digging. Suddenly a pure spring will not gush forth so you can drink — first comes sludge, then muddy water — keep digging; a day comes when the clear spring is yours. And when one drinks from one’s own inner spring, there is fulfillment, contentment — sat-chit-ananda.

The five-element house...

This temple made of five elements — your house...

...within it nets and snares.

It is very complex. Not a small happening. From above the skin you cannot know the complexity within. You are a whole world. In a small brain — not very large, a little skull within which sits a tiny brain — on a small scale it can be weighed — into this small brain can be fitted all the information contained in all the libraries of the earth. No Einstein’s brain is needed; any ordinary brain will do. In a small, ordinary human brain all the information of all earthly libraries can be stored.

In your small body there are seven billion microorganisms. Bombay is a small city; Calcutta too is very small. Add Calcutta, Bombay, London, New York — even then the citizens of your bodily city exceed them. The whole earth is small — there are only four billion humans. In your little body seven billion living cells reside. Hence the ancient seers called you Purusha — pur means city, you dwell within a great city; thus you are called Purusha. Amidst these seven billion residents your dwelling is set. You are a great metropolis, a great earth. You are not small — only appearing so. Within you is vast expanse — and how much work is going on within you.

Scientists say: the work done within one human body — if we had to do it, we would need a factory spread over at least four square miles; and still we may not succeed in performing all functions. We still do not know how bread becomes blood; how bread becomes flesh and marrow. And how bread becomes thought, dream, love — perhaps centuries will pass. The day we feed bread into one end of an engine and on the other side the Ganga of love flows — that day is not yet in sight. That we will feed bread and meditation will emerge — not yet.

You eat bread; Buddha eats bread. Your bread becomes anger; Buddha’s bread becomes samadhi. You breathe the same air as Buddha. Your breath comes and goes in vain; in Buddha’s every breath nectar showers.

You are a very complex phenomenon — man is the most complex event on this earth. Do not accept yourself casually and live on. Great search is needed. What will not be found by searching the stars can be found within man. Climbing Everest achieves nothing; if only you could climb your inner Everest! The sages have called it the sahasrar — the ultimate height of your consciousness, the final peak, the supreme purity of your awareness — Samadhi, Buddhahood — that is nirvana. Dariya kahai sabd nirbana.

The five-element house, and within it nets and snares;
There the jiva makes his abode — right beside Death.

And in this five-element chamber, in this temple of the body, your Atman dwells; the Purusha resides in this city. A marvel: this Purusha is eternal life — without beginning, without end — and yet he lives right next door to death. Your death sits beside you, not an inch away; when it will seize you, no one knows. Whether you will survive one more moment — no one can say. Whether there will be a tomorrow — nobody knows.

I have heard a Sufi tale:

An emperor saw a dream by night: a black, terrifying shadow laid its hand upon his shoulder. He turned and saw — and trembled, in the dream itself. He was a brave man, fought wars, played with the sword, the sword-edge was his life — yet he trembled. He asked, Who are you? The black shadow laughed and said, I am your death. And I have come to warn you: before tomorrow’s sunset, be ready — I will come to take you. As the sun sets, you will set. After such a message how could one sleep? He awoke. It was midnight, he was drenched in sweat. The alarm was sounded; generals assembled. But what can generals do before death? Horsemen encircled the palace, naked swords flashed in the night — but what can swords do before death? Cannons were loaded — but what will cannons do?

The vizier said, What are you doing? A dream is a dream. Here even facts turn into dreams — and you are taking a dream as fact? Here even realities cannot be trusted — and you trust a dream? And these arrangements are useless. If any arrangement is to be made, call the astrologers — let them read your hand, your horoscope, and decide if there is meaning in the dream. Great astrologers were summoned; great psychoanalysts — the Freuds, Jungs, Adlers of that time — were brought. As is the habit of pundits, debate is their trade; they never reach a conclusion. They babble; debate is their business. They came with tomes, and a great dispute began about the meaning of the dream. One will interpret this way, another that way. If you go to a Freudian, your dream means one thing. If you saw in dream the symbol of Shiva’s lingam, he will say: a sexual symbol and nothing more. Beware — repressed sexuality is erupting. If you go to Adler, there will be another interpretation: a white marble image means a surge of ambition to become pure. Different interpreters, different meanings. The emperor became more confused. Dawn approached; the sun rose. The emperor said to his vizier, This is trouble; there will be no solution. Once the sun rises, how long before it sets! When the sun rises, it begins to set. The moment a child is born, he begins to die. What should I do?

The vizier said, Their disputes never end, nor will they. For ten thousand years pundits have disputed; they have not agreed on any single thing — how many hands God has; how many faces; whether God even is. They agree on nothing; to agree would drain the life from them. Disagreement is their business. Do not be entangled in them. The emperor asked, Then what? He said, You have a swift Arabian horse — mount it and go as far as you can. This palace is dangerous — here death gave you audience. Get as far from this palace as possible — it is ill-omened.

The idea appealed. The emperor mounted his horse and fled. It was very swift; by evening he had covered hundreds of miles. He was happy. As the sun sank, the last rays fading, he reached a garden in Damascus, tied his horse, embraced it, patted it and said, Thank you, you brought me hundreds of miles away from that ill-omened place. But suddenly there was laughter behind him. He turned — the same death stood there, the same dark face. The emperor cried, You again! Why do you laugh? Death said, Do not thank your horse — thank me. I was anxious — your death was scheduled beneath this very tree; I feared your horse might not bring you here on time. But you have come to the right place at the right moment.

Run where you will, one day you will arrive exactly where death waits for you. Flee death — yet you arrive in death. You are surrounded by death. And still, wonder of wonders — you are of the nature of nectar. The greatest mystery is not the Taj Mahal, not the fallen tower of Babylon with its everlasting flame without oil, not the Great Wall of China. The greatest wonder is this: man is immortal, surrounded by mortality. Man is an island of amrita, encircled by the ocean of death. Naturally, you can see only the sea of death whose waves curl all around; your immortal nature is not seen. One who knows that nature becomes free. Upon one who knows it, the rain of ambrosia showers.

There the jiva makes his abode — right beside Death.

That heart was my fate to receive to which no wound was given;
I found that fragrant house where even a lamp was not to be found.
She had gone saying, I will bring the scent of the Beloved’s tresses;
She returned — and the morning breeze’s very mind was not found.
Having ensnared me, why did the hunter set me free?
I lost my fellow-travelers — I found not the garden either.
Lost in idols’ love — could we have remembered God?
Neither heart had a dwelling, nor was there any spaciousness to be found.
I had sent a message to the Friend — it was lost so utterly
That even now no trace is found of my departing senses.
How could I show the Beloved the tour of this scarred body?
We did not even find a single garden to deceive our gaze.
Why should my eyes not brim in the vintner’s assembly?
So ill-starred that even an empty goblet was not found.
With a lamp in hand we had resolved to seek our fortune;
But it was the night of separation — even a lamp could not be found.
In the garden of the world we are that nightingale Jalal,
The garden found its flowers — even a thorn was not found for us.

If you seek wrongly, not only flowers will be missing — even thorns may not be found.

Why should my eyes not brim in the vintner’s assembly —
Where wine is being poured, if you cannot find even an empty cup, naturally your eyes will fill...

Why should my eyes not brim in the vintner’s assembly —
So ill-starred that even an empty goblet was not found.

We had resolved to seek our destiny with a lamp in our hands —
We thought we would search Time, search fate, search our destiny, search God.

We had resolved to seek our fortune with a lamp in our hands —
But it was the night of separation — even a lamp could not be found.

We are such wretches that even a tiny flame was not granted to us.

In the world’s garden we are that nightingale Jalal —
The garden found its flowers; even a scar was not given to us.

All the flowers were yours, the whole garden was yours; all the stars and moon were yours — and you cannot find a lamp! The oceans are yours, and you cannot even find an empty cup! Somewhere the vision is wrong. You are looking where you ought not to look, and you refuse to look where the secret of secrets lies.

A beggar died in a town. He had begged for thirty years, sitting on the same patch of earth. When he died, the villagers thought — for thirty years he sat here in filthy rags — let us clean this patch of ground. They dug a little — and were amazed. Treasure was buried there, heaps of gold coins. The whole village laughed: What a beggar! Upon the very soil where he sat, he could have been emperor; he never searched. He kept begging with his bowl. And I tell you — even then the villagers learned nothing.

The beggar’s story is your story — the story of every village. Right where you sit the kingdom of heaven is hidden — and you beg! You beg for cowries.

Vasana is the begging bowl. Prayer is the inner search. There you will find a lamp that does not go out, and you will behold the amrita that was before birth and will be after death.

Dariya tan se nahin juda — He is not separate from the body; everything is within the body.

Remember, that Paramatma is not separate from the body. Therefore those who told you to be the enemy of the body in the name of religion — they were not religious.

Dariya tan se nahin juda — everything is within the body.

Yog-jugati se paiye — without the art nothing is attained.

He is hidden in the body; He is not separate from the body. So those who become enemies of the body in the name of religion become enemies of Paramatma. One who demolishes the temple demolishes the deity as well. If you wish to protect the deity, honor the temple. I teach you this: regard your body as a temple; honor it, respect it; love it; the body is a gift of Paramatma — do not break it, do not torment it, do not burn it. Those who torment the body are masochists, ill, diseased; they need psychotherapy. Ninety-nine percent of your so-called monks need therapy. Rarely is there one who has truly understood.

Someone lies on thorns; another sits in blazing midday amid surrounding fires; someone stands naked in falling snow under open sky; someone fasts; another has speared his cheeks. Beware of these madmen! They are unhealthy people; they are sick. They need treatment.

Knowers speak otherwise — those who have recognized the Beloved speak otherwise.

Dariya tan se nahin juda — everything is within the body.

Whatever you wish to find is hidden in your body. So do not break the body — care for it; serve it. Service of the body reaches His feet. That is why I oppose both indulgence and dry asceticism. I do not favor indulgence, but I do oppose renunciation and mortification. Indulgence is one extreme; renunciation is the other. The wise one rests in the middle — he holds the golden mean. Neither overeating nor fasting is needed. Neither twenty-four-hour obsession with clothes nor nakedness is needed. Neither dissolving in the marketplace nor running away to caves. Both are distortions, not signs of a healthy consciousness. The mark of healthy consciousness is this: remain in the marketplace and yet be untouched — like the lotus. The art of being lotus-like is yog-jugati — the art of yoga.

Yog-jugati se paiye — bina jugati kichhu nahin.

A little art must be learned. If someone places a veena in your hands, do not assume you can play it. Life has been placed in your hands at birth — do not assume you can raise music from life’s veena thereby.

To tease Mulla Nasruddin, a neighbor gifted his child a drum on the child’s birthday. The child beat the drum day and night. Mulla’s chest was splitting — the drum pounded on. The family was tormented; the more people suffered, the more pleased the child was. He became the leader of the neighborhood; whenever he passed, people pleaded: Brother, guests are coming today — do not beat the drum. Elderly folk folded hands: Please, tonight, do not beat the drum. One day the drum did not sound. The father asked, Son, what happened to the drum? He said, What can I say — Mulla gifted me a knife and said, Try thrusting it into the drum — it will be great fun. I thrust it in; since then there is no sound.

Having a drum does not mean you know drumming. Nor does having a flute mean you can play it. In truth, if a flute falls into your hand, whatever you do will be wrong — tu-tu-tu, me-me — pestering the neighbors.

Once a whim caught Mulla to play the sitar. The neighborhood went mad — he kept plucking only one string: reee-reee, reee-reee. The neighborhood went insane. His wife too folded hands — who had never folded hands before; before whom Mulla always stood with folded hands — she begged: Forgive us — how long will this reee-reee go on? We have heard classical music — but reee-reee, on and on! Life in the house is impossible. Neighbors ask me: what has happened to your husband? If you must play, then play some other rags. Mulla said, Why should I play other rags? She said, But others do; no one plays only one. Mulla said, They are searching for their rag — I have found mine. They go here and there; why should I?

Life has been given to you — a veena, very subtle, very delicate. Most people only go reee-reee and think they have found their rag. Life is an art. That art is called religion. Birth is only the beginning, an opportunity — not the end. It is a seed. To make the seed into a tree, to take the tree to flowering — it is a long journey. In it much must be offered. Do not, frightened by the discordant reee-reee of life, break the veena, do not vow not to play again; for without playing, you will never enter the temple of God.

Yesterday we had sworn an oath:
We will not lift our lips to wine again.
If only we had known beforehand —
Today He Himself would pour for us.

A day will surely come when Paramatma pours wine into the cup of your life — the sweet elixir. Do not break the cup. A day will come when He plays your veena. Do not smash the veena.

Every bud would be lost in its dream,
Every leaf would become a rose;
Had you not cast your I-laden gaze,
Even the dewdrop would have turned to wine.

There is an art to living. If the seeing is right, the dewdrop can be wine. If the drinking is right, even water can intoxicate; if not, even wine is water. If the living is right, life is a celebration, a great festival; if not, it is a burden we somehow drag along.

You have seen the moonlight — tell me, how does the world seem?
Do you now love this flower of dust — tell me.
That day there was a little rain,
It was a dark night;
We stopped a tender, lovely thing — tell me.
Beloved, this is the riverbank,
Here Yamuna is deep and grave;
If you are pierced by pain, then you have already crossed — tell me.
There are pebbles plenty — play;
Bear sorrow, endure hurdles;
If you find the Beloved on the path, what other gift was left — tell me.
Of this secret I was unaware,
I had thought otherwise;
I was mindful of Vrindavan’s lanes — these strings began to vibrate — tell me.
Lightning will flash awhile,
The night will arrive again;
The mad kachnar will blossom with love — tell me.
You may cut a gem of diamond,
Make of it a little moonlight;
But from where will you bring this garland for the throat — tell me.
Is there any name for the lover?
Is longing of any use?
Life is of three days — and day four is already gone — tell me.

Life is ebbing. Life is of three days; the fourth is already passing. More is ebbing than remains — and needlessly.

You have seen the moonlight — tell me, how does the world seem?
Do you now love this flower of dust — tell me.

But there are two ways to see moonlight: the blind way — you see moonlight and see nothing; and the way of those with eyes — in the moonlight the real moon is seen.

There is a way where the flower appears as dust; and another where even dust becomes a flower. It all depends on your vision. Vision creates the world.

Dariya dil dariyav hai — the heart is oceanic; unfathomable, shoreless, without end.
Sab me tum, tum me sabhe — You in all, all in You;
Only the rare saint knows this secret.

A saint is one who has known Truth. And what is Truth? That apart from Paramatma, all else is untrue. And what is untruth? That Paramatma is untrue and all else is true. The Truth is: Paramatma — and the rest are His shadows. The untruth is: the world is true and Paramatma is mere imagination. There are only two kinds of people: those who believe the gross — they remain gross; and those who trust the subtlest — they themselves become subtle.

If you would fly in the vast sky of the Absolute, you need wings — the wings of the subtle. If you would wriggle on the ground like insects, no wings are needed.

Whenever your memory of the Beloved arises,
The weariness of my face is washed away,
Lotuses of joy blossom in my heart,
Moonlight dissolves into my feeling.
Then, with a surging zeal,
I set out again to seek You.
In the arches of my bewildered eyes,
I lit how many rose-hued lamps.
How long I kept filling the outline of my longing
With the color of Your rosy face;
Taking You in the arms of creativity,
I sang, I danced.
Singing thus, dancing thus,
I wandered deserts — so many.
In my soul fragrances kept swelling,
Yet thorns kept pricking my feet.
For ages, searching, searching —
At last I reached near You.
I raised my eyes and saw Your face —
My lovely dream began to bite me.
Were these those terrifying features
That tickled my resolve?
For whose sake my youthful ardors
Borne ordeals lifelong?

This gross life — search its surface as long as you will — one day you will collapse defeated, in deep sorrow. Distant drums sound sweet; but Paramatma is not on the periphery — He is at the center. Do not run around the circumference — descend within. The ladder is within you; you do not need to borrow one. But you never look within. Your eyes have become fixed outward; they have forgotten how to turn in. A paralysis has set in. You do not remember there is an inner. Those who know say: the outer sky is very small compared to the inner; the outer light is like darkness before the inner; the outer life is like death before the inner. The outer wealth cannot be compared to the inner.

Rosaries, caps, costumes — not that;
Gold and ornaments — not that.
Forever the feeling for satsang —
Whoever makes such a covenant.

Outer things will not do — rituals, havan, yagna — coverings and cloaks — drape yourself in Ram-naam.

Rosaries, caps, costumes — not that;
Gold and ornaments — not that.
Forever the feeling for satsang —
Whoever makes such a covenant.

Only one thing works — feeling. Not outer patterns — the inner state of feeling.

Forever the feeling for satsang — whoever vows. If the resolve to seek Paramatma is made, if the longing to make life meaningful has arisen, if you decide not to die in vain but to know — if your resolve has become intense: Is this life — to gather shards and die? Is this life — to hoard and let death snatch all? Is this life — to be mad for name, and four days after we go no trace remains?

The Jain scriptures tell: a Chakravarti emperor died — emperor of the six continents. When a Chakravarti dies, there is a special arrangement in heaven: on the mountain parallel to the Himalayas, Mount Kailash, the Chakravarti is given a chance to carve his signature. Only a Chakravarti. Naturally, when this emperor got the chance to go to heaven and inscribe his name upon Kailash, his joy was boundless. With great retinue he set out. But all were stopped at the gate. The keeper said: Go alone — this is the rule. Go, inscribe your name, and return. The rest wait outside.

Half the fun vanished — the fun of this world is that others see. If someone seated you alone in a room and made you prime minister and told no one, what would be the essence of it? It would feel like a ramleela with no audience. He had brought such retinue, invited friends — all stopped at the gate. This is a rare event — it happens once in ages; sometimes a single Chakravarti. He went within with chisel and hammer. When he saw that vast Kailash he was stunned. Our Himalaya is nothing — like a grain of sand before it. The peaks were so lofty; for a moment he was overwhelmed. He began searching for a place to carve his name — and there was his trouble. The entire Kailash was full of names. So many emperors before, so many Chakravartis — no space remained. He had thought there would be two or four names, perhaps ten — but the ranges were full of signatures. Not an inch of space. He returned. He asked the gatekeeper, Forgive me — all my hope is turned to water. First, people could not enter. Now I see it is well they did not — or it would have been a scandal. I thought I was among a chosen few. Here, innumerable Chakravartis have come. I ask you: where can I sign? He said, Forgive me — erase anyone’s name and write yours; this is how it has always been. People erase and inscribe.

Now the joy was even less. If I erase and write, tomorrow someone will erase mine and write his.

Such is our condition. We run after name, wealth, position. What will we get? This is not earning — it is losing.

There is only one thing worth resolving: that I may know the Lord — for He alone is eternal. Those with a little courage set the whole of their resolve in one direction: I will not go without knowing myself. I will light this inner lamp — I will!

Forever the feeling for satsang — whoever vows.

And what else do I have in this separation?
In this long dark night I have nothing else;
Only Your ache I have hidden close to my heart.
Ah, that memory — compelled by that remembrance
My hopeless heart has kept forgetting for ages.

What do we have to offer to Paramatma?

And what else do I have in this separation?
In this long night what price can we pay?

Only Your ache I have hidden close to my heart.

That alone is enough. Let the pain to attain Him come to your side, as the Swati drop falls into the shell and a pearl is born — that pearl is the soul.

After years of searching
From the garden of life I have picked;
If You want, I will present them —
There are a few thorns in my hem.

What else can we offer Him?

After years of searching
From the garden of life I have picked;
If You want, I will present them —
There are a few thorns in my hem.

Pour all your sorrows, all your thorns at His feet. I say to you: the moment you pour the thorns, they become flowers. The stones you place at His feet become Kohinoors. Offer with feeling — that is the alchemy, that is the magic.

I have brought the dreams of nights of sorrow,
This is the limit of my restlessness;
In delicate crystal goblets of words
I have brought the wine of my tears.

We have nothing else. But in the vessels of yearning we can offer the wine of our tears.

I have brought the dreams of nights of sorrow —
What were our lives till now? Nights of sorrow, of separation.

This is the limit of my restlessness —
Only a thirst to attain remains.

In delicate crystal goblets of words
I have brought the wine of my tears.

What are your words? What are your prayers? Expressions of your tears.

What cannot be said with words, say with tears. What cannot be petitioned, say by dancing. What cannot be spoken, say by bowing. Prayer is difficult — how to make this covenant?

Given the urge to sing, but no tune?
Given countless longings,
Yet their fulfillment denied;
Told, Build a temple —
But no deity installed.
They say, Worship the void —
To the ever-thirsty they gave a desert, not a spring!
Given the urge to sing, but no tune?
Light the lamp of love,
And given sighs and groans;
Given a clay form, but in the heart
The craving for immortality.
They say, Be silent and go on practicing —
What you gained by living, do not lose by dying!
Given the urge to sing, but no tune?
Sky without bounds, a perilous sea,
A circumference without shore;
Beginningless, endless — and to me
A rugged, trackless path.
They say, Wander ceaselessly through the world —
Made me a traveler, gave me exile — but not home!
Given the urge to sing, but no tune?

No — there is no way to confine prayer within words. Yet it descends into tears. Dance! Bow! Sing! In that covenant, in that resolve, the first glimpses of Paramatma begin to come. Windows open, His image descends, His resonance is heard.

Worship the pure Name of Paramatma;
Pundits worship stones — thus they stray at the doors of Death.

You have worshiped stones enough — whether in temples or mosques — stones you have worshiped. From stones you can go nowhere. I do not say there is no God in stones — but if you do not see Him in the living breath, how will you see Him in stones? First recognize Him in life — then He is seen in stones too; in temple stones and in Kaaba’s stone — but first the recognition must be in your life-breath. If seen in the living, He is seen everywhere.

Why do people worship stones? It is easy — there is no risk, no challenge. Stones demand nothing. Offer two flowers — fine; offer none — fine. But if you seek a living Satguru, it is not a cheap bargain. Flowers will not do — the flowers of your very life will be needed. If you sit at the feet of a Krishna, a Kabir, a Dariya, a Nanak, a Mohammed, a Mansoor — no cheap bargain. Cowardice will not do; risk must be taken. People are clever — they crucify living Mansurs, kill living Jesuses, and then build churches and put stone statues in them — and worship those stones. That worship is easy; toys in your hands. Play with toys — your life will not change. Life changes when one risks.

Pundits worship stones — they stray at the doors of Death. Keep worshiping and guarding your punditry — you will keep wandering at the portals of death; from one death to another death, borders of death without end. You will not relate to amrita. There is only one way: worship where you have the living glimpse of Paramatma; bow there; break the ego; fall there; do not hold back by old habits. Once you glimpse the living God in some eyes, once you come into the company of a Satguru, revolution happens; the extinguished lamp is lit.

Their remembrance stays with me all the time —
What else then remains to be remembered?
Only one remembrance remains, twenty-four hours — woven into every breath.

This too the etiquette of love did not permit —
I could not even remove their image from my eyes.

Once four eyes meet — with one who has known the Beloved — that picture will not leave your eyes. Even if you would remove it, you cannot. It would be discourtesy to remove it.

From behind the veil they gave only a glimpse —
Those longing for the vision were left even more lured.

Once you have met a Satguru, once a little of the veil is lifted, once you catch a glimpse of the Beloved — madness arises. That madness is called sannyas.

From behind the veil they gave only a glimpse —
Those longing for the vision were left even more lured.

Then the mind longs only for one thing: How to drown utterly?

Let me be absorbed in Nature’s beauty;
Let me lose myself in the seamless light;
Would that for tonight
I might sleep in embrace with moonlight.

So pure is that glimpse — like virgin moonlight. The beauty of Truth — who would not lose oneself in it, once a glimpse is had?

One who truly reaches the temple does not return. He cannot. Once true prayer is born, the pray-er is lost in it. Then where is returning?

Let me be absorbed in Nature’s beauty;
Let me lose myself in the seamless light;
Would that for tonight
I might sleep in embrace with moonlight.

Let such a remembrance arise. Dariya kahai sabd nirbana. Listen.

Then Your remembrance came into the tyranny of my heart —
So filled with color and light,
As if a veiled maiden,
In a mausoleum, were lighting lamps.

Like a virgin girl in pure white going into the temple and lighting a lamp — just so His remembrance arrives, once there has been meeting with a Satguru.

Then Your remembrance came into the tyranny of my heart,
Into the darkness of the heart such a flash...
So full of color and light — like the advent of spring.
As if a veiled maiden
Were lighting lamps in a mausoleum.

This remembrance is true birth. One birth is from mother and father — merely of the body. Another birth is from the Satguru — from Dariya, Nanak, Bahauddin, Buddha, Lao Tzu, Zarathustra. Until you know that other birth, know that you are still wandering outside; you have not entered the temple. To indicate that birth, this land found a wondrous word — Dvija, the twice-born.

Ordinarily we call a Brahmin dvija — that is not right. Not all Brahmins are twice-born, although all dvijas are Brahmins. Dvija means: one who is born again — born through the Satguru. One who is twice-born is Brahmin. But not all Brahmins are dvija; remember. A shudra can be dvija; and a Brahmin has no guarantee of dvijahood. Raidas became dvija — he was a cobbler. Gora became dvija — he was a potter. Dvijahood has nothing to do with your birth; by birth all are shudras. In my reckoning, there are two castes — shudra and Brahmin. By birth all are shudras; once in a while, by effort, someone becomes a Brahmin — one who attains the second birth in samadhi, in dhyana.

Remembrance, mala, costume — not that; nor inked letters. Kabir said: I have not touched ink nor paper. He also said: It is not a matter of writing and reading — it is a matter of seeing.

Remembrance, mala, costume — not that; nor inked letters.
Only by making Truth and merit firm
Can the crooked fort be broken.

This tangled web — maya, delusion, dream, desire — does not break by reading books; it may become heavier, but will not break. It breaks when there is the realization of Truth, firmness in Truth. Who will give this firmness? Only one who has known can make it known; one who has reached can take you there.

Dariya — the ocean of becoming is unfathomable; make the Satguru your boat.

Dariya — the ocean of becoming is unfathomable; make the Satguru your boat.
Upon it mount like a swan — and cross into the kingdom of bliss.

Mansions, palaces, lofts — you have heard with eager ears many melodies;
But without recognizing the Satguru’s Word,
All those songs were like the cawing of crows among birds.

A lovely saying — keep it in your heart. Mansions, palaces, lofts — you have heard many songs, much music. But without the Satguru’s Word, they are all the cawing of crows. The cuckoo has not called within you; the papiha has not cried within you. You have only heard caw-caw.

He upon whom the Beloved’s glance bestows the knowledge of the secret —
Why should he not be proud of his fortune?

Blessed are they who hear. Dariya kahai sabd nirbana. Blessed are they who see, who recognize. Blessed are they who open their hearts.

He upon whom the Beloved’s glance bestows the knowledge of the secret —
Why should he not be proud of his fortune?

If there is any one worthy thing to be proud of in the world, it is this: that Paramatma should cast His glance upon you. And He first looks upon you through the eyes of a Satguru. Directly, you cannot relate to Him — you are too far, unknown; someone is needed who introduces you.

This much I trust:
However sweet a goblet you drink,
However delicious the wine —
Whether asleep or awake,
In frenzy or in consciousness —
The burning of separation in the heart
Cannot cease.
This much I trust:
Let someone abandon house and doorway,
Sever all ties,
Wander alone in lonely forests —
Yet this entanglement with the body
Cannot cease.
This much I trust:
Let someone, losing his heart, be embraced,
Merging and dissolving in another —
In love’s flow, a hundred times —
Yet the desire for union again
Cannot cease.
This much I trust.

Seek anything in this world — the search for Paramatma will keep raising its head within. Attain anything — He will keep interrupting. However much love may happen in the world, until prayer happens, nothing happens.

But it is our good fortune that, however much we try, however far we go, the search for Paramatma cannot end forever — the seed cannot be roasted. However much we bury it under stones, one day it sprouts.

This much I trust:
However sweet a goblet you drink,
However delicious the wine —
Whether asleep or awake,
In frenzy or in consciousness —
The burning of separation in the heart
Cannot cease.
This much I trust.

On the strength of that very trust, on the strength of that slender thread, people have always reached to Paramatma. You too will reach so. Make the covenant; take the vow; decide to awaken. Listen, if you can. See, if you can.

Dariya kahai sabd nirbana!

Enough for today.