Dariya Kahe Sabad Nirvana #9

Dariya says: the Word is nirvana!

Nirvana means death—great death. A death after which there is no return. Ordinary death is merely the body's end; the mind's journey continues. The same mind that clutched at this body will clutch new bodies. As long as craving persists, you will keep arriving in ever-new wombs, ever-new forms. And this coming-and-going is a futile pilgrimage: much running about, much bustle, and nothing in hand. No destination is ever reached. Nirvana means the art of dying so that birth never happens again—and that art of dying joins you to the deathless.

The word 'nirvana' is unique. On the one hand it means great death; on the other, it means great life—eternal life. Ordinary death yields an ordinary birth; extraordinary death yields an extraordinary birth. Through ordinary death you enter another mother's womb; through extraordinary death you enter the womb of the divine.

Dariya says: the Word is nirvana!

Dariya’s entire teaching—and not only his; all who have known, all those rivers and oceans who recognized the Vast—offer a single message: die in such a way that there is no rebirth; die in such a way that great life dawns. Why run after the fleeting when the eternal is your rightful inheritance? Why pick pebbles when the wealth of existence is yours? Why confine yourself in a little body when you are vaster than the sky? When there is a way to be Brahman, to realize godliness, why waste your life in little toys? Whoever understands nirvana understands all. Nirvana is the distilled essence of life—just as perfume is extracted from thousands of flowers, the essence extracted by thousands of realized beings from their samadhi is called nirvana.

Why does this longing—for nirvana—arise at all? You will be surprised to know: it arises because of death. If there were no death, there would be no religion. If there were no death, you would not remember the divine. Thorns remind you of flowers. Death will not let you sleep; it shakes you awake—and still how few awaken! With an arrow like death lodged in the heart, how few hearts are pierced? Surrounded on all sides by the catastrophe of death, still your sleep does not break. Just imagine: if death did not exist, perhaps there would be no talk of religion, devotion, prayer, meditation, yoga, God on earth. Even with so much death, how few taste that supreme nectar!

Everyone knows they will vanish—and yet the fact never quite settles in. Every day you see death unfolding: today someone died, tomorrow someone; daily the bier is lifted, daily flames rise at the cremation ground—and still it does not occur to you that you too will die, that your death is drawing near; if not today, tomorrow, if not tomorrow, the day after—soon enough you will be carried on such a bier, such flames will burn you, this body will turn to ash, dust will dissolve into dust. If only you could remember this! If only this arrow pierced your heart deeply and stayed, its sting present every hour of the day—then the great revolution called nirvana can happen in your life. Then the dawn called God can break. Then the dark night can end, light can be, a lamp can be lit. Then showers of bliss can fall; songs awake; celebration happens.

Even now you sing, even now you celebrate—on Diwali you light lamps, but all those lamps are outside. On Holi you throw colors, but inside you remain utterly colorless. The shehnai plays at weddings, but only outside. When will you arrange the wedding within? When will you circumambulate inside? So that the shehnai of the eternal resounds, so that the music of the timeless is born. So that a flute’s notes arise that never fade.

Where is life, yet?
The one for whom I sing!

The lanes of Brij are still empty,
Madhuban is still desolate,
Creepers and trees are withered,
The garden lies ravaged.
Where is the monsoon, yet,
For which I gather clouds in the forest?

Where is the cup brimming with nectar,
Where is youth in flood,
Where storms rage in desire,
Where life whirls in tempests?
Where is the spring, yet?
I celebrate only autumn day and night.

No philosopher’s stone in any rock,
No magnet in the lodestone;
Where is the flame that still must burn,
Where is love in the lamp?
Where is Diwali, yet,
For which I set body and mind on fire?

Where is the tremor in the waterfalls,
The restlessness in the ocean,
The river’s quivering
With footsteps of a tryst?
Where the confluence? For now
I writhe with unending thirst.

Where is mischief in the buds,
Where in these pebbles of knowledge,
Where is fragrance in the breath,
Where honey in the blossoms?
Where the nectar? Become the bee
For whom I hum!

Where is resonance in the veena,
The gliding in the tabla and mridang?
The fresh surge of the dance of life
Has not yet filled my limbs.
Still out of rhythm and measure,
I can only sing tuneless lines.

Desire has not yet demanded
The churning of the unfathomable honey-ocean,
No uprising has yet stirred the heart
To digest the poison.
Who knows why I still shy away
From the kiss of fire!

I have only heard
There grows a wish-fulfilling tree in heaven’s garden,
But where have I brought
The wish-cow into the world’s courtyard?
For now, in emptiness alone
I pour a river of milk.

The body is still restless to shape
The whole earth to its dream;
Where is life? For now
It is only life’s preparation.
Where is life, yet—
The one for whom I sing!

You have been born, yes—but where is life yet? Birth is not life. Nor is death the end of life. Life is not bound between birth and death. Life is before birth and after death. Birth and death are not the beginning and end of life; they are small events that happen in the middle. They have happened many times; if you do not awaken, they will happen many more times. Wake up! “Dariya says: the Word is nirvana.” Dariya is saying: I want to give you a glimpse of the life that, once gained, never leaves you; I want to lead you to those Diwalis whose lamps do not know how to go out. I will teach you a Holi where colors explode within, where gulal rises inside; I would make you master of moon and stars; I would make you wealthy with nectar. What you now take for life is deception—pure deception.

Where is life, yet—
The one for whom I sing!
Where is the monsoon, yet—
For which I gather clouds!

There is nothing yet—only your assumptions. But if you didn’t assume, what would you do? You contrive and console yourself. Where there is no sign of monsoon, you shut your eyes and weave monsoon dreams. Where no flowers are seen, you fabricate sky-flowers. You are trying to squeeze oil from sand. If you can hear Dariya, real life can begin. And once you hear, don’t sit quietly. If Dariya’s word makes sense to you, there are many still asleep—you must call them too.

Do not be silent, my fellow travelers;
when I call out, you too call out!

Just as Dariya is waking you. When a hint of light touches your eyes, when a faint echo of awakening arises in your being, call out too. Often, in waking another your own awakening grows clearer, sharper, more luminous. In explaining to another, you begin to understand. In attempting to tell another, your own tangles unravel. Solve another’s problems and you gain insight into your own—for the problems are the same. Whether yours or another’s, the questions are the same, the doubts are the same, life’s disturbances are the same; degrees differ, not the kind. So if even a little of a true Master’s word reaches your ear, let it resound—within and without.

Do not be silent, my fellow travelers;
when I call out, you too call out!

These are Dariya’s dear words. So simple, so direct—nothing much to explain, and yet so much to understand.

Has the chain of life’s captivity ever broken by dying?
At most, the chain is changed.

What happens by dying again and again? The chain does not break. If it broke, that would be nirvana. What happens is merely this—we die so many times, and only the chain is changed. From one cell of the prison to another—hoping, “Now I am free, now the sky is mine.” Soon that hope breaks too. Every child is born brimming with hope; every old person dies in despair. Look into a child’s eyes—he feels he will find fulfillment, joy, victory. Look into the eyes of the aged—every dream is shattered, every illusion turned to dust; only a film of sorrow remains. Yet this repeats: the old die, a new child is born, hope swells again; then old age returns, hope dies again.

Has the chain of life’s captivity ever broken by dying?
At most, the chain is changed.

And often even changing chains brings some relief. You’ve seen pall-bearers change shoulders on the way to the cremation ground. The weight does not lessen, but a momentary ease is felt. Bored with one business, we shift to another. Tired of one religion, we join another. Weary of one wife, we remarry. But these are only changes of chains. The series will not end this way. There is only one art to break the chain; that art is called nirvana.

The word nirvana has two senses. One is a lamp’s going out. We say, “the lamp is nirvana”—you blow on it and it goes dark. Buddha used this sense with great honor. He said: this too is precious—when the lamp of ego is blown out, that is nirvana. Here, the ego-lamp goes out and the divine light appears there. Let yourself vanish—nirvana. But your hopes and desires won’t let you vanish; they say, “Wait a little longer—who knows, tomorrow everything may turn out well. True, up to now it hasn’t, but there is always tomorrow.” And there is no tomorrow; it has never come, never will. Yet the mind whispers, “There is tomorrow—what’s the hurry? Try a little more; take two more steps. What hasn’t happened yet may happen tomorrow.” Tomorrow it will be the same, and the day after, and every day the mind keeps you bound with threads of hope—thin, fragile threads, which become chains because you are so weak. On these threads the ego lives, promising: I will do this, achieve that; so much wealth, so much position, so much prestige. Buddha said: let the ego-lamp be blown out—this is one meaning of nirvana.

The second meaning: freedom from desire. Where craving is zero, there is nirvana. If ego is the flame of the false lamp you call life, desire is the oil that keeps it burning. They go together. Without oil, no wick; without wick, no oil. With both together, the lamp burns. So both meanings matter—two faces of one coin. The day nirvana happens, desire drains, the oil is spent, the ego-lamp goes out—that day eternal life is. Then you live in Brahman—that is true brahmacharya: conduct like the divine, a godly life. These sutras remind you of that godly life.

You have mistaken wealth and “self-interest,” O fool. You wander into a house beyond reach, unfathomable and deep.

“You have mistaken wealth and self-interest, O fool.” What have you been lost in? Wealth? Because you are blind, you see wealth in wealth. Otherwise you would see calamity in it. Heap up as much as you will, anxiety grows, torment grows, the mind’s unrest grows—yet no glimpse of spring, no blossoms of bliss, no unstruck music resounds within. What kind of riches are these?

Understand the word sam—“equipoise.” A priceless word. From it come samadhi, samyak, samata (equanimity), sambodhi, sampada (true wealth), sampatti. That which brings equanimity, which levels you within, which cuts the net of thoughts and worries—only that is wealth. There is no wealth other than samadhi, for in samadhi is solution—the dissolution of worry, the end of inner turbulence. Only that deserves to be called wealth which yields such a supreme, silent emptiness within that not a single restless ripple arises—the lake utterly still. If that does not happen, what you call wealth is misfortune.

You have mistaken wealth and “self-interest,” O fool...

What have you taken as wealth and lost yourself? You come empty-handed, you go empty-handed—yet in between what a racket! You bring nothing, you can take nothing; all remains lying here—yet how many quarrels, what commotion, how much rivalry and hatred—for what will be left behind! People are ready to die and to kill for it. And this so-called wealth you have made your “self-interest,” the meaning of your very self.

“Self-interest” is a lovely word, now spoiled—we have spoiled even beautiful words. Swarath: sw + artha—the meaning of the Self. The inner significance, the fragrance of your inner world—that is self-interest. But it became a slur. We linked it to trivialities: hoarding money, chasing rank—selfishness! There is no self in money, no self in rank; the Self is in meditation, in devotion, in the quest for the divine.

So Dariya is right: you are deluded; what have you taken for wealth? what for self-interest?

...And because of this delusion you are falling into an abyss with no bottom, entangled in a dream-web that will be hard to escape. Entering an illusion is easy; coming out is hard. Why? A small mistake starts it. You’re working a math problem; a tiny error—two and two become five. Not a massive mistake, but now everything that follows will be wrong. One small error becomes the basis for millions of errors. And to find that original mistake grows harder, because the calculation spreads. In life, no great blunders—only such little ones: we missed the real self-interest and took the fake for real; we missed true wealth and took the false for wealth. A small error—and on that, a journey of births begins. Illusion leading to illusion. Returning to the root error becomes difficult. Dariya is reminding you of that root.

You have mistaken wealth and “self-interest,” O fool. You wander into a house beyond reach, unfathomable and deep.

When people go near saints, they quickly run away; then they dive back into sense-pleasures.

Sometimes such a moment comes in life—you arrive by chance near a true Master... “When people go near saints, they run away.” You don’t stay. No one wants to see his own mistake.

Understand this.

No one in this world wants to admit, “I am in error.” It wounds the ego, it opens pus-filled sores. And what can a saint do except tell you, “You are mistaken”—not once, but a thousand ways—expose the whole net of your errors. You prefer those who flatter you, who praise you.

A saint cannot praise you. There is nothing yet worthy of praise. Spring has not come—what songs can he sing? The monsoon hasn’t gathered—what melodies of rain can he sing? You are full of thorns, but you want people to exclaim, “Oh! what flowers! what fragrance!” You want lies to support your ego. That’s why flattery is so effective in the world; yes-men succeed. You want someone to butter your ego. Where that happens, know: there is no saint. You give two coins and the “saint” thumps your back: “Don’t worry, I’ll write God a letter to reserve you a special place in heaven.” You build a temple and they hail you, “Great donor, crown among patrons, supremely meritorious.” These are flatterers, strengthening your ego. If there is any hell, they are pushing you into it. For centuries your so-called saints have done this—flattery and fawning.

A true Master will shatter your dreams, shake you hard. He will drop like a hammer on your head—break your head, break your ego, cut your webs of illusion. A true saint is a surgery. And so often it happens—“When people go near saints, they run away.” Even if you arrive by mistake, you flee. And to flee, you must find reasons. If you bolt without reason, you will feel your own shame. So you find arguments: “There was nothing there; what he said wasn’t right; it wasn’t scriptural.” A thousand specious reasons, all to aid your escape.

Remember, near a true Master you will be hurt. An arrow will pierce your chest. There will be blood, wounds, deep pain. But from that pain, a new birth. That pain is the pangs of labor—don’t run. If by great fortune you meet one who can annihilate your head, lay your head at his threshold. If someone compassionate enough to erase you is found, don’t be a coward; don’t escape; don’t protect yourself with sophistry. This self-protecting tendency is natural—hence Dariya’s reminder: “When people go near saints, they run away.” They come, then flee. Again and again they fall into bondage; again and again they clutch the wrong. The wrong is familiar; with it you are skilled. With the right you must learn your ABC—and no one wants to begin again.

No one wants new chapters in life. Near a true Master, your life becomes an entirely new chapter; the old book is thrown into the fire; the story must be rewritten—from the alphabet. Only the brave, the daring, those ready for such risk can remain near a Master. Many come; they run away. And remember: those who run don’t flee empty-handed—they justify it: “It was necessary to leave. The place was wrong. This wasn’t religion.” This is how they keep the ego safe.

Do you even know what religion is? Do you know truth? Do you know what God is? You know nothing—how can you judge? An honest seeker will not judge; he will say, “I will experiment; I will experience; experience alone will decide.” If anyone’s eyes flash truth for him, he will stay; he will stake his life. If there is truth, it will be revealed; if not, still there is gain: now you know what is not. Even wrong experiments benefit a seeker—knowing the false makes it easier to recognize the true.

And I tell you: at the end of life, when one looks back over the long journey, one is amazed: those who were true helped—and those who were not, also helped. The false gave the capacity to recognize falsehood; the true gave the capacity to recognize truth—both capacities are needed. Then no complaint remains; gratitude to the good and the bad; thanks to saints and to the pseudo-saints. Thorns taught, and flowers taught. Dark nights gave much, radiant days gave much. From all together one finally arrives at the supreme truth.

Wandering is not evil; wandering is an indispensable part of the way to arrival. Therefore a seeker of truth does not run; he is no deserter.

When people go near saints, they quickly run away; then they dive back into sense-pleasures.

They flee the Master—then what? Even if you meet a Master accidentally, his shadow follows; his eyes sink into your eyes; his voice becomes part of your inner voice. He starts calling you from within. “Dariya says: the Word is nirvana.” You cannot escape—so there seems one way: drown yourself in desires. Drink; plunge into lust, into money, into intoxications—so the little glimpse that fell within cannot catch you. Fleeing saints, people dive even deeper into cravings—that seems the only way to be “safe.”

What are you thinking now, lost in intoxications? Like the parrot pecking the silk-cotton blossom—only to repent.

But such people repent—when the chance of life has slipped from their hands, when time has flown.

What are you thinking now, lost in intoxications...

People repent on their deathbeds—but then it is too late. For such repenters, fake priests have invented tricks: “At the moment of death, just take the name of Ram, and you will be liberated.” Serve Ravana all your life and take Ram’s name at the end! What dishonesty! Embrace darkness for a lifetime and at death only take the name of light—what else can you do, you know only darkness. “Light, light, light!” mutter nonsense while all your life you experienced only night—and you will be free! Such deceivers have become your gurus—and you are the reason, for this is what you want.

You want to carry on in darkness unhindered—and at death “we’ll take the Name.” Often, even that you will not manage—death doesn’t send a notice; it comes suddenly, leaving not a moment to prepare. Will you yourself take the Name? No—someone else will pour Ganges water from a bottle into your mouth; a priest will chant a mantra into your ear: Gayatri, Navkar; “Buddham sharanam gachhami...” His own lips have never gone to the Buddha for refuge—he is sending you there. And you are going into the refuge of death—where is the Buddha there? You may not even hear—just a distant noise; “What babble is this?” You are drowning, disintegrating—someone is reciting scriptures. Revolutions do not happen this way—like reading recipes into the ear of a starving man. No. But we are crooked and deceiving; we find those who suit our deceit—ready to deceive us.

What are you thinking now, lost in intoxications...

All your life you were drunk—on wealth, on power, on a thousand things; now, at death, you think of thinking? Too late. Like the parrot at the silk-cotton bloom: it looks like fruit, the parrot pecks—there is nothing but cotton, which flies away, leaving nothing in its beak. Such is your life.

...The parrot pecks at silk-cotton, and repents.

Strike your beak into this life and the fluff will fly—nothing will remain. Then you sit regretting. Then another life and the same mistakes—our memory is weak.

If I ask you today—what did you do on January 31 last year? Could you recall? Nothing comes to mind. Yet if you’re hypnotized and asked, you can narrate in detail—from morning till night, even that the tea was cold, the vegetable salty, even the dreams of that night. In ordinary mind you recall nothing; from the unconscious, under hypnosis, it can be retrieved—the unconscious stores all.

If this is so for a year ago, what of past lives? You shrug: what life? I remember nothing. But there are deep methods of hypnosis by which you can be led to remember: what you did in your last life, what decisions you took at death, how you repented, how you resolved never to chase money or position again... All forgotten in nine months of the womb; then the world starts up—and the same old world again.

Closer home: in the evening you resolve to rise at 4 a.m., to meditate at dawn. You swear it is a matter of life and death; you set the alarm. At 4, you shut the alarm off yourself, turn over, and sleep. At 8 you wake and regret: “How did it happen? Who turned off the alarm?” Reminded that you were alone, you remember—more astonished: “But I had decided to get up—why did I switch it off?” Then you resolve again for tomorrow—and it repeats. All life it repeats.

Someone told me, “For thirty years I’ve tried to quit cigarettes, and I can’t. Show me a way.” I said, “Whatever harm the smoking has done, trying to quit for thirty years has done you more harm. If you had to smoke, just smoke. You weren’t doing anything great—drawing smoke in and out. Nothing to merit thirty years of effort to stop. There was nothing much to grasp, nothing to drop. Why such struggle?” He was stunned. “Every saint I meet tells me: take a stronger vow, resolve before God not to smoke.” I told him, “Make only this vow: thirty years are enough—don’t waste more time on this business. If you want to smoke, smoke; if not, don’t. But drop the vow to drop it. And know this: there is no sin in smoking. You’re not murdering anyone, not robbing anyone; if you harm anyone, it’s yourself—and everyone has the right to harm himself. So you won’t live to seventy—live two or four years less—what’s the loss? Even at seventy, what would you do? The world is already crowded; the world will be spared you four years sooner—no harm.”

He protested, “What are you saying—there is no sin?” I said, “No sin—only stupidity. If you want, consider it a kind of pranayama with smoke. Pure air is free if you prefer.” He was more offended by “stupid” than by “sinful.” No one is upset if you call them a sinner—it’s religious language. But call someone a fool and their ego is hurt. The truth is: there is no sin but unconsciousness, no virtue but awareness. Awareness is virtue; stupor is sin.

In this very life you try so much and change nothing—what memory will you have of decisions taken last life? The regrets of your deathbed? It has happened not once but countless times. The wheel just turns.

What are you thinking now, lost in intoxications? Like the parrot pecking silk-cotton, you’ll repent.

At death no one goes with you, when the lord of death lays a hand upon your head.

No priest will accompany you, no doctrines, temples or mosques, no kin or dear ones.

At the time of dying, no one goes with you...

Death is just life turning on its other side.

Life turned and that was that.

Death is life’s other turn. Face this way, then that. In this body, then another. Only you can do something; no one else can. It is your turning—and no one but you is master of it.

At the time of dying, no one goes with you...

In that moment you are utterly alone—and that is your very nature. At birth too you are utterly alone. Understand this aloneness well—it is your essence. Friends, family, crowds are ways to forget, to drown out your aloneness. But your aloneness cannot be erased. You are alone. All relationships here are chance meetings on the road.

I did not come to your door—
the path simply turned.

I found the way and walked on; the path allowed no stopping,
Unknown road, unseen land, unheard companions.
Like sun and moon, I moved, not knowing day or night;
How we two met—hard to say even today.
My body did not come seeking a tryst,
Only the heart was joined.
I did not come to your door—
the path simply turned.

Seeing my moving wings, the vines began to sway,
Buds smiled, faces hidden in leaf-covers.
For a moment, my wings paused,
Misunderstanding a moment’s rest—
But a strong storm rose in full force.
Branches swayed but did not break;
Yet the bird flew away.
I did not come to your door—
the path simply turned.

How did we meet? How did this union happen—husband and wife, father and mother, son, brother, sister, friend, enemy? All by chance. Who is “mine” here, who “other”? Fellow travelers met upon the road and fell in step. They are alone, you are alone; they do not want to be alone, nor do you—so you tie bonds. How many devices we invent to forget: I am alone. Forget it you may; erase it you cannot. Death will expose it; death will break these deceits.

At the time of dying, no one goes with you... when the lord of death lays a hand upon your head.

When death grips your neck, you will know: no companion, no friend. And you will also see: there never was. You were always alone; you were deluded by the crowd. If only you realized earlier, sannyas would happen.

What is sannyas?

Not running to the forest. Not abandoning house and home. Sannyas means: a clear seeing that my aloneness is eternal. The recognition that I am alone, that there is no other way; aloneness is my nature. To embrace that aloneness fully—that is sannyas.

Sannyas is revolution, a turning. With sannyas, the journey turns away from death and faces the deathless. You need not flee the world, but you become indifferent to it and face the divine.

Where you are, it happens. Those who run are the ones who still believe they are attached.

Someone came to me: “I left my home. I won’t go back. You teach there is no wife, no husband, no son—then why send me home?” He had taken sannyas. I said, “Good—now go home.” He said, “You say go home? No mother, no father, no wife—why go?” I said, “If there is no one, why fear going? Do you have a wife or not?” He was stuck: If yes, I would say go; if no, I would also say go. “You’ve put me in a dilemma.” People go believing there is a wife—and flee believing there is a wife. One who knows doesn’t flee; he simply awakens. He remains where he is, as he is—but his vision changes. That transformation of vision is sannyas.

And if your inner solitude is remembered, why seek a mountain’s solitude? The inner cave is within you—sit there and you are alone; a solitude that has never been violated, eternally virgin, with no footprints upon it.

Even on the Himalayas it’s hard now to find virgin snow; human footprints are there. Even on the moon, solitude is difficult.

I’ve heard: when the first American astronauts reached the moon, they were shocked to find a crowd of Indians—a fair like Kumbh Mela! “How did you get here?” “No problem—we stood on each other’s shoulders. Who needs a spacecraft when there are so many of us?” Govinda aala re... one atop another—thus we came to the moon.

There is no untrampled ground left on the moon. Only within your own depths can virgin flowers bloom, only there can solitude be found. And the beauty is, you need not travel an inch. Close your eyes and arrive.

The beloved’s image is in the mirror of the heart;
I need only lower my head a little to see.

Once you taste the inner music of solitude, its echo appears all around.

Every melody brought the message of longing for Him;
Every instrument sounded only His call to me.

Once you hear the inner song, the chirping of birds, the wind through trees, the mountain stream, the patter of rain on the roof—all reveal themselves as His voice, His Veda, His Upanishad, His Koran.

Every melody brought the message of longing for Him;
Every instrument sounded only His call to me.

Then remembrance grows dense. When you see that relationships here are shallow and chance, remembrance of the One with whom the bond is eternal also arises—the One of whom we are a part, in whom our roots are, the life of our life, the soul of our soul. Then not only life, but death too reminds you of Him. Not only a blooming flower, but a dry falling leaf recalls Him—for He is the one who blooms and withers; His are spring and autumn alike. His are gardens and deserts.

What is life worth—fleeting, who can say?
They call death “life’s awakening.”

When awareness dawns, even death feels like awakening. The body goes, the ego goes, the mind goes—but we? We become more. We grow larger. Boundaries fall, the pot breaks, and the space hidden within merges with the vast sky.

Mother, father, and wife stand by;
Before their eyes, Death pulls the life-breath out.

All will stand—mother, father, wife, husband—but death will come with no footfall heard and pull the breath away.

Awaken—before death comes. Let this truth sink deep in the heart.

O heedless traveler! In what pride are you lost?
Do not be fooled by the promise of a destination.
This road has been well trodden,
But on this road there is no destination.

Here, all who run end up in their graves. The poor arrive there, the rich arrive there; sinners and saints alike; the unknown and the famous—all fall into the same earth.

O heedless traveler! Don’t be deceived by a destination.
This road has been well trodden—
On this road there is no destination.

Only road upon road. Like the oil-press bullock who circles endlessly and reaches nowhere. Do not be deluded; no destination lies outside. The destination is within. The master is within, and you run without. Wealth is within, you seek without. Samadhi is within, and you spread your begging bowl without.

O heedless traveler! Don’t be deceived by a destination.
This road has been well trodden—
On this road there is no destination.

No matter how deep you bury your treasure, you cannot take it with you. It will remain in the earthen jar.

The mansion becomes a forest; your dwelling moves outside...

And as the breath breaks, they will carry you out from your house—toward the cremation ground.

The mansion becomes a forest; the dwelling moves outside.
They gather and weep, encircling the courtyard.

For a while people will weep in the courtyard—but don’t be fooled by those tears. They are not for you, remember; they are for themselves. The wife is not crying because her husband died; she is crying because she is widowed. Who will earn the bread now? On whom will she lean? Her security is gone; what of her future? When you weep at another’s death, look closely: do you truly weep for him, or for the hole he leaves in you? You will always find: you weep for yourself.

The Upanishads say: no one loves the husband or the wife; each loves only oneself. Here each exploits the other—though we give sugar-coated names; we paint bright colors on the thorns of exploitation.

They will cry together for a while in the yard.

They will hoist the cot upon their shoulders...

They won’t let you linger; they’ll quickly carry you away—

...and outside they will give you to the fire.

The same body you guarded so carefully—how a mere thorn pained you, how fire singed you, how the sun’s glare tormented you—this dear body!

Whenever a monk took initiation with Buddha, he would say: “For three months, live at the cremation ground.” “We came for satsang,” they would protest. “After that,” Buddha would say. “First sit at the burning grounds—watch, as a witness.” Day and night, bodies come, pyres burn. Three months—long enough for realization to settle: “That man I saw on the road yesterday—dead today. That woman who fed me yesterday—dead today.” Every day they come and burn—and only ashes remain. This will be my fate. How long can you avoid this thought? Three months will etch it into you like a spear-wound: this is what is going to happen to me.

Until a person remembers deeply that death is an inevitable, certain step in life—and that no destination is reached here, only death—till then religion is mere formality. A Satyanarayana-katha, a hawan, a yajna—decorations for the ego, but not true religion. Religion begins when the certainty of your death sits upon your chest like a stone—unmovable, unforgettable, when death follows you like a shadow.

O traveler friend of mine!
If only my captive songs could reach you today,
If only you could see
The eyes in which
The dreams of union are imprisoned.
If only the heart’s call
Could be spoken—
If mountains could testify,
Ask these peaks:
Even their corners of the eyes
Are wet today.
Or if the winds could reach you
Across these hills,
Perhaps they could tell the tale
Of a heart that writhes—
Yours,
That was yours.
Alas! Separated from you,
Like a vine torn from the tree;
Lightning once clasped in the arms of clouds,
Cruel storm snatched it away—
A bud snapped from the bough,
A fish thrown to writhe
On burning sand.

Death will come—it is already coming.

Lightning once clasped in the arms of clouds,
Cruel storm snatched it away—
A bud snapped from the bough,
A fish thrown to writhe
On burning sand.

Soon the moment will come—you will be that fish gasping on sand, that flower torn from its branch. The whirlwind is not far; it is on its way. Each moment we move closer to death. Remember this—again and again—because this remembering is the knock on the door of religion.

The skin burns; ashes fly on the wind...

They will carry you and lay you on the pyre; the skin will burn, your ash will scatter.

...and for four days they will speak of wisdom.

Those who burn you will speak of wisdom for a few days. Go to a cremation ground and listen: while a body burns, those who came, because they had to, sit with their backs to the fire and gossip. Some chat about a film in town; others discuss the soul and immortality—both are gossip. The film fellow may at least be telling a little truth; the metaphysician lies—he knows neither soul nor its immortality.

Why such talk at the burning ground? To forget death. To dull its sting. Let the dead man be dead; don’t remind us! Flames leap—lest we see our own flames in them. “Life must go on; the shop must run; the child must go to school; we just married... for now, push death away, shut your eyes.” All this talk is a way to avert death. For two or three days at home too there will be “brahma-charcha”—and then...

Then, people dive back into business, forgetting the dead, forgetting even his name.

But it’s a matter of a few days—the philosophizing. Afterwards, there is business—who can linger? How long will you read scriptures?

Do you read books all day?
What kind of sculptor are you—who never carves the image?
You say you lack tools?
The colors blooming in leaves and flowers,
Pearls pouring drop by drop in straws of grass,
Moon, planets, stars sowing seeds of light,
In whose lap dawn and dusk awake and sleep—
The brightness that flashes in lightning,
The dusky tint that ripens in spring,
The quiet that filled the jasmine,
The musk the champak spilled,
The silver cradle of the moon,
The throb scattered in waves,
The ache that sobbed through the empty hours,
The blush on the cheeks of the rose,
The moisture on the eyelids of the bela,
The marigold’s ticklish hands gone yellow,
The loosening corset of the night-blooming queen—
Gather it all—and still more remains:
Even in stale flowers, fragrance stays, O cup-bearer!
What you gather is only a dream;
What you scatter is truly your own.
When your hands have run through a hundred molds,
When gold melts in a hundred fires,
Then a single line somewhere will fill,
Then the charm of a single form will shine.
From all that steaming, just a drop will filter:
In a whole life, only one image is carved—
One that dissolves the inner grime,
Gives form to the formless age,
In which all discipline is absorbed,
That becomes the age’s history,
Where the colors of dreams deepen,
Where the poet’s heart-scars arise.

How long will you linger over books?
Do you read books all day?
What kind of sculptor are you—who never carves the image?

Carve God—within yourself. You won’t find truth in scriptures; you must uncover it within. Do not overvalue talk. No matter how much you study about God, God is not known that way. No matter how much you read about love, its taste will not come.

Do you read books all day?
What kind of sculptor are you—who never carves the image?

Life is an opportunity to sculpt the image—and the math of this art is simple:

What you hoard is a dream;
What you pour out is truly yours.

If you want to know love, pour love—and you will know love. If you want to know bliss, pour bliss—and you will know bliss. If you want to know God, pour God—and you will know God.

What you hoard is a dream;
What you pour out is truly yours.

But people hoard here—and death snatches all. Give, share, scatter. A song, a music, a dance—make this earth a little more beautiful. Use this span to create.

I call only the creative one a true sannyasi. I do not call your ash-smeared layabouts sannyasis—lazy, crippled, sterile: not a song in them, not a bud turned to bloom. Their so-called practice is all contraction; real practice is expansion. Expand. Fill this whole sky with your joy. Hum—existence waits for your humming.

Do this before death—don’t let death come before you sing your song. Before you carve your image. Or else death finds you empty. Avoid such misfortune.

Then, people dive back into business, forgetting the dead, forgetting even his name.

Four days—then all is forgotten. Life has a thousand businesses; who will sit and think of the dead?

“Eat, drink, be merry”—people keep sinking this way. They learn nothing even from another’s death. They repeat their old slogans: Eat! Drink! Life is short—enjoy! Such foolish declarations have drowned many. Let them not drown you.

The wind kept playing
The flute in the bamboo grove,
And in my heart
A note of longing rose.
The water of inhibition
Was trapped in the lake of ego.
On the bank sat discrimination,
Skimming ripples across it
With pebbles of light.
Wisdom, crowned by restraint,
From the treasury of knowledge
Lavished gold
By the handful.
Time, the physician,
Heals every wound:
He keeps anointing the heart
With balm of forgetfulness—
Age’s great physician.

Time heals all wounds.

Time, the physician,
Heals every wound:
He keeps anointing the heart
With balm of forgetfulness—
Age’s great physician.

This doctor called Time heals every wound. Before it heals, use the wound. If a dear one dies, don’t miss the opportunity; you can turn that death into your fortune. A curse can become a blessing—if you awaken—and the sense of your own death emerges.

Only in such a one will the true Word of the Master sound like truth...

...says Dariya; only then will devotion be understood.

Those who have glimpsed death will recognize the true Master easily. And those who recognize the Master will immediately understand the scripture of love. For in this world, except for love, all is mortal. Only love is immortal. Whoever would cross beyond death must cross by the bridge of love. Love is the ladder from death to the deathless. But this ladder of love can be shown only by a true Master.

Only in such a one will the true Word of the Master sound like truth—says Dariya; then speak of devotion.

Lose not the root in illusions; who knows if such a birth will be yours again?

Do not miss. Do not squander life’s root in delusions. Do not tangle with leaves; hold the root. Who knows when such a birth will come again? And even if birth comes, will you meet a Master? Even if a Master appears, will the dense remembrance of death arise in you?

Wealth, property, elephants and horses...

All will be left behind.

...At death, not one will go with you.

None will go with you.

Mother, father, son, kin and wife...

All will be left.

...All will forget you.

They will forget you. They will not remember—after all, they have other things to do. They will not spend their lives remembering you; their eyes must see more than tears. They must live their lives, foster their delusions, chase their dreams.

From Dariya’s final sutras, take a few conclusions.

First: cultivate a deep, deep remembrance of death. Second: when that remembrance comes, meeting a true Master is not difficult. And once you meet him—do not run. The mind will try to make you run; it will whisper, “Leave—this is dangerous.” The mind will see its own death. Ego will find a thousand reasons not to bow, not to take refuge. But only the one who surrenders is related to the Master; without surrender there is no connection.

And having connected with the Master, do not stop there. Contemplate what he says; ponder, meditate. Let the sutras of love he gives become your life’s song. Then revolution is possible—great revolution. In your life too, the lotus of nirvana can bloom.

Dariya says: the Word is nirvana!

Enough for today.