Guru Partap Sadh Ki Sangati #1

The Master’s radiance—the fellowship of the seekers!
In these few words lies the distillation of centuries upon centuries of search; the fragrance of innumerable seekers’ austerities; the sheen of many siddhas’ blossomed lotuses. Whoever has understood these few words has understood the very soul of the East.
The West has given man science, the East has given religion. And the very essence of religion is contained in these few words—the Master’s radiance—the fellowship of the seekers!
The word ‘guru’ is immensely significant. It does not mean teacher, nor instructor, nor lecturer. There is no way to translate this word into any language of the world. No language possesses its equivalent—because the experience it points to has not been sought elsewhere on the globe.
‘Guru’ arises from two syllables—gu and ru. Gu means darkness; ru means that which dispels darkness. Guru means: one whose inner lamp is lit; whose being is illumined; who has become a sun; from whose limbs, doors, windows, very joints, light is cascading. And whoever sits near him will bathe in that light; will be stirred by his aura. The note that resounds in the guru will begin to strike the strings of your heart as well.
What the guru has known, he cannot make you know by saying it; what he has realized, he cannot tell you as information. Yet in his presence, without words, something is said; without instruction, something is conveyed. His very presence sets you vibrating.
Naturally—sit near light: even with eyes closed you are bathed in it. Music—even if not audibly heard—still touches every pore. And fragrance, though your nostrils be inattentive, will still arrive at them, reach your lungs. And if fragrance reaches your lungs, the nostrils will awaken. And if light bathes every pore, the eyes will open.
In the morning—you haven’t looked, you are under the quilt in bed; the sun has begun to rise! The doors are shut, the curtains drawn; yet through their seams light slips in and falls upon your closed eyelids: instantly something within awakens. Instantly something within whispers: morning has come, now arise.
Just such a happening takes place in the satsang of a guru. You lie asleep; in someone, the sun has risen, and his light begins to fall upon your closed eyes. Even shut, a little light enters through them; and its touch will compel you to open them—force you. You will have to open your eyes. For darkness is not our nature. We lie in darkness—this is our helplessness. We lie in darkness because we as yet have no acquaintance with light. Yet in the innermost of our life-breath is the thirst for light.
Tamaso ma jyotirgamaya! Someone within is calling—lead me, lead me from darkness to light! Not darkness, but illumination. For darkness is not only darkness—it is death. And light is not only light—it is amrit, the deathless nectar.
Asato ma sadgamaya! Lead me from the unreal to the Real, for there is nothing more unreal in this world than darkness. Darkness has no substance. Darkness is outright asat—non-being. Hence you cannot do anything directly to darkness. You cannot push darkness out with your hands. It is not there—whom will you push? You cannot cut darkness with swords—it is not there—what will you cut?
There is no direct way to deal with darkness. If anything is to be done about darkness, something has to be done about light. For light is; darkness is only the absence, the non-presence of light. If you want to bring darkness—extinguish the lamp. If you want to remove darkness—kindle the lamp. You will have to do something with light.
Darkness is much—and yet it is a non-thing. It has no being, no existence, no solidity. Darkness is merely non-presence, absence, emptiness; asat. Asato ma sadgamaya. Light is sat.
Therefore all religions have called the Ultimate—light. All religions have called life’s supreme realization—the realization of light. And darkness is not in itself; it is in our blindness, in our closed eyes. Otherwise the whole of existence is filled with light, for all of existence is Paramatma-made.
Yet man has the freedom—to open the eyes and see the light, or to keep them closed and not see it. This freedom is both his blessing and his curse. A blessing—because no other creature has such freedom; it is man’s dignity. A curse—because ninety-nine out of a hundred use this freedom to commit suicide.
The rishis pray: Lead us from darkness to light. Lead us from the unreal to the Real. Mrityor ma amritam gamaya! Lead us from death to deathlessness! Darkness is death—who lives in darkness becomes darkness. You become the company you keep. This is life’s fundamental law: you become that with which you relate. Relate with darkness—become darkness; relate with light—become light.
The guru is one who separates you from darkness. Hence guru does not mean teacher. Guru is not instructor, not exegete, not acharya.
There is no other word like guru; it has no synonym. The word is unique.
Only those can find a guru in whose depths the quest for light has arisen; who have seen life circled by death; who have set out in search of amrit. Who have seen that all here is dream, asat; in whose being an indomitable longing to know truth has been born. Those whose thirst to drink truth has arisen—only such people find the guru. Such a person is called shishya.
Remember again: shishya does not mean ‘student’. If you are a student, you will find a teacher—your worth goes no farther. If you are a shishya, you can find the guru. Shishya means one ready to place his head at stake—ready to risk all. The student hunts knowledge; the shishya seeks experience.
There are things that can only be experienced—and those alone are valuable. There are many things you can know; all of them are market-stuff. They have no value. Geography, history—and thousands of disciplines—you can know them. But love, prayer, Paramatma, life, death—these can only be experienced.
George Gurdjieff—one of this century’s great sadgurus—often told a small story. Whenever a newcomer came to him he would ask: Have you come as a student or as a disciple? For then I will behave and welcome you accordingly. If you have come as a student, I can dump on you the junk of knowledge—then run, go your way. If you have come as a disciple, I will hand you my very life, I will give you my soul—I will pour myself into your vessel.
He would say: Once it so happened that a student, by mistake, reached God. God said: Ask, ask for a boon. Since you have come, it is not right to send you back empty-handed.
Thousands of questions rose in the student’s mind. God must have seen that his skull was stormed by questions! God advised him: Look—ask only that for which an answer exists. Do not ask that for which there is no answer but only experience.
He searched much and then said: If I may ask only one question, then I want to ask—what is death? No sooner had he asked than God lifted a sword and cut off his head—for death can only be experienced; there is no answer to it.
Gurdjieff would tell his disciples: Think it over. If you are ready to have your head cut off—only then can you be disciples. Remember this story. For there are things that are only, simply, to be experienced.
A shishya is one who seeks experience. He does not want to know about God—he wants to know God! He does not want to learn about love—he wants to know love! He has not come to learn prayer—he has come to become prayerful!
The shishya’s soul is on an existential quest. The student is filled with intellectual curiosity. He will collect some information and go on his way. At the most he will become a pundit. The shishya will attain prajna. Only shishyas can attain buddhahood, not students. And he who is a shishya today can one day be a guru; a student never can.
And remember: information looks like knowledge—only ‘like’. It can never be knowledge—it is counterfeit coin that looks real.
Seek the guru; but you can only do so when within you the urge to seek light begins to surge; when you can feel the thirst for truth parching your throat; when to know amrit such an indomitable vehemence, such urgency arises that even if the head must be offered—you are ready.
The Master’s radiance—the fellowship of the seekers!
The guru’s glory is one—a light, a radiance, a miracle! His very being is an unprecedented event in this world—unique. Such flowers do not bloom every day. Centuries pass before a sadguru appears. Hence we forget how to recognize them; for centuries we have no recognition. For centuries our relations are only with pundits and priests—and when a sadguru arrives, we fail to recognize him. Recognition is far—we become annoyed, displeased; we turn enemy. For all our familiarity is with pundits and priests.
And the sadguru is utterly the reverse of the pundit-priest—wholly different.
Blessed are those who come under the shade of the guru’s radiance! Bhikha’s utterance is very sweet: The Master’s radiance—the fellowship of the seekers! Be adorned by the guru’s aura—and plunge among those sadhus who are adorned by his aura; be absorbed there. Catch hold of some Buddha and take a plunge into his field—then the rest happens of itself.
To find Paramatma you need not cross the seven seas. To find Paramatma you need not go to Kailash, Kashi, or Kaaba. Paramatma is where a sadguru is; where the company of sadhus is. Paramatma is where the mad lovers sit and drink his rasa. Where the bees have gathered, and drinking God they hum their songs. Where around one lit lamp, other lamps sidle close and begin to kindle. Where around one lamp many lamps have caught fire. Where it has become Diwali. The Master’s radiance—the fellowship of the seekers!… enter there. If such a door is found, never leave it. Pay whatever price is asked. For what do we have to pay with? We are empty, naked. Even if our neck is taken—what do we really lose? Death will seize it today or tomorrow and give nothing in return. What is a neck worth!
A Sufi fakir was once seized by some bandits. He was a bliss-intoxicated fakir! His body was sturdy, robust. The bandits caught him and thought: We will sell him. In those days the world had slaves. Even now it has them—only the labels have changed.
So long as politics exists, slaves will remain—politics feeds on slaves. The labels of slavery change. The old label begins to offend—so a new label is pasted. Red slavery becomes yellow slavery; yellow slavery becomes green slavery. The slave of the temple goes to the mosque, the slave of the mosque to the church. Slavery just continues; people move from one prison to another—and call it freedom, revolution!
Slavery has always been—but in those days it was very explicit. People were sold in markets as goods are sold. They are sold even now—only indirectly. Man has become a little clever. He no longer buys openly. People are not stood on the block for bidding. Yet there is a price on people—even on the so-called great. Someone sells for a thousand, someone for ten thousand, someone for a lakh, someone for ten lakhs. The sale goes on, only now it is not in the bazaar. The auction is not so obvious. There is no advertisement. It happens quietly. The arithmetic now sits a little roundabout, not straightforward.
In those days slavery was straight. They thought, we will sell the fakir. He looks fine—fetch a high price. They bound chains on his hands. He said: You are toiling in vain! I am walking by my own will. Why bind chains? There is no need. Tell me where to go—I will go. For I have surrendered myself to That; wherever That takes me. Now you are its hands—it will be its will.
The bandits felt a little embarrassed, a little ashamed. After all, they were men; even the worst of men is still a man. Humanity never dies completely in anyone. Somewhere the seed lies buried. And this man said: Have at least this much trust. I won’t run. I have surrendered to That—now whatever It wills.
He walked along with them. On the road a rich man passed by in his palanquin. He stopped and asked: What is this? Do you intend to sell this man? I am ready to pay one lakh rupees.
The bandits drooled—one lakh! They hadn’t even dreamed of it. They thought five or ten thousand would be plenty. They were eager to sell. The fakir said: Wait—you do not know my price. Just wait. Other buyers will come. When the right price is bid, I will tell you: This is the proper price—sell me now.
They agreed to the fakir’s word—for there was strength in it. If someone is offering a lakh, perhaps someone will give two. They went on. A vizier riding out to hunt said: Stop—are you selling this man? He is splendid and royal-looking. I will give two lakhs.
The fakir said: You heard—do not sell yet. Soon the man will arrive who will pay the exact price.
Now they had to agree. From one lakh to two lakhs—the price was rising. Who knows where it might end—ten lakhs! A jewel indeed! Just then, on the path, a grass-cutter met them. He asked: Are you selling this man? The bandits said: Get lost—what will you buy! Great merchants and viziers could not buy him. Move along!
The fakir said: First ask him—what price will he pay? The grass-cutter said: Price? Take this bundle of grass—and give me the man.
The bandits laughed. The fakir said: Do not laugh—this is the right price. What more is this head worth? Today or tomorrow I will die—even this much price, no one will give. Take it.
The bandits beat their heads—what sort of madman had trapped them! They repented. But the fakir spoke true. When you die, what price will your head fetch? Not even a couple of coppers! And death is coming.
A shishya is one who, seeing that his own self is anyway of no worth, lays everything at some Feet—perhaps a touch of the Philosopher’s Stone happens and iron turns to gold! Iron does turn to gold—the Master’s radiance—the fellowship of the seekers! All of Bhikha’s utterances circle around these five words, for his whole life was made of them.
Before we enter the sutras, a few things about Bhikha. From childhood he was mad after the company of sadhus. ‘The qualities of the child show in the cradle.’ Even in very tender years he went to sadhus. Whenever sadhus came to the village, Bhikha never missed them. Parents laughed, the neighbors laughed: Bhikha, do you understand anything? People think that intelligence is needed to understand. Intelligence is not needed—heartfulness is. People think much scriptural knowledge is needed to understand. Scriptural knowledge becomes a barrier, not a help. Innocence is needed to understand.
Jesus went to a village. A crowd gathered; he spoke to them. He would continually say: The kingdom of God is very near; very near—do not delay! Awake! Much time has passed. The hour has come. The kingdom of God is very near! This he repeated again and again. It was his refrain: The kingdom of God is very near! A man asked: Who will be eligible to enter this kingdom of yours? Jesus looked around and lifted a small child from the crowd onto his shoulder and said: Those who are simple like this child. He did not point to a pundit; nor to a donor; nor to an ascetic. Those are all vanities—of knowledge, of wealth, of renunciation. They are names for ego. He raised a tiny, innocent child on his shoulder and said: Those who are simple-hearted like this child—they are the heirs to my Father’s kingdom.
Bhikha was a small child. People laughed—what can you understand? Perhaps the odd ways of sadhus attract you; perhaps their ocher robes, their beards, their long hair, their fires, their tongs, their mridang, their khanjari—perhaps for these you go. Who knew Bhikha was not going for any of these! His simple heart, blank like a fresh page, had begun to drink, to assimilate. The supreme experience of light that sadhus carry was stirring him. Their ecstasy was touching him, intoxicating him. He too was becoming a drunkard.
At the age of twelve Bhikha left home. Twelve years old! People become seventy, eighty—and still clutch their houses as if they will remain forever! As if wealth is forever; position forever! If you doubt, go to Delhi. Some are sixty, some sixty-five, some seventy, seventy-five, eighty, eighty-four. Yet the grip does not loosen—on office, prestige, ego. At twelve Bhikha left everything! Great intelligence is needed—intelligence in the sense of innocence; not in the sense of thought, but of no-thought. Intelligence in the sense of awakening, not in the sense of information. A keen capacity, a genius, a brilliance he must have had—who else can see at twelve!
Mulla Nasruddin once went to a fair in Lucknow—gaudy, colorful people, decked out in finery. Seeing a beautiful woman Mulla could not restrain himself; he trailed after her. Where he found a chance—he would jostle her. Indian culture! Where there is a chance—pinch if you can. At last the woman could bear no more. How long could she be silent! She said: Old man, aren’t you ashamed? Your hair is white, and still you push women?
Mulla said: Sister, now that you ask, why should I hide it! My hair may have turned white—but my heart is still black. What does white hair matter—until the heart turns white?
He spoke a home-truth. Hearts remain black. People become ninety—and the heart remains black. A black heart means the grip on wealth, position, fame.
Immense brilliance is needed! People do not awaken even from the experiences of their own life. He who awakens by seeing others’ lives—his brilliance must be great. Such brilliance was in Bhikha. At twelve—he left.
There is a Russian proverb: A clever man, once entangled, finds a way out; a wise man does not get entangled. I like this proverb. The clever get entangled—but find exits. The wise don’t enter entanglements at all.
Bhikha never entered. He must have looked around—so many entangled, so many miserable, so many afflicted—enough to see. Seeing others he understood: there is no essence here.
The quest for a sadguru began. Naturally—where else would he go to search—he went to Kashi. Picture it: a guileless boy of twelve, searching in Kashi for a sadguru. Had he been older he might have fallen into some net—some pundit’s verbiage. But he was utterly innocent. It is a great secret—people say the innocent are easy to deceive. Experience says otherwise. If a man is truly innocent, deceiving him is impossible. Stupid people you call innocent—that is another matter; they are easy to cheat, but call them fools, not innocent.
Often in the popular mind, the stupid and the innocent are taken as the same. People call the innocent ‘stupid’, and the stupid ‘innocent’. This is wrong. They are very different. An innocent man is clear like a mirror. You cannot deceive him—impossible. A cunning man can be deceived—if you are more cunning. A corrupt man can be deceived—if you are more corrupt.
But the innocent cannot be deceived; for he is a mirror—your picture, which even you cannot see, is reflected in him. The hidden diseases in you, unseen by you, are exposed before him as if an X-ray had revealed your inner ailments. The innocent has X-ray eyes and the heart of a mirror.
Bhikha wandered in Kashi—and returned empty-handed. Kashi and Kaaba, Girnar and Shikhar—now empty. Yes, lamps were lit there centuries ago. Because of those lamps the places became tirthas. But the lamps are long out. Not only out—there is no trace of them. Around those lamps crowds of pundits gathered, crowds of tricksters, of exploiters; they make a hullabaloo, frighten people, tempt them. People come and go, thinking: If we reach Kashi, all will be well! Kashi-death! Die in Kashi—everything is fine! Today the condition has changed—now people take the Delhi-turn. Die in Delhi—heaven is certain! If you get a spot at Rajghat—heaven is assured! Sin all your life—at the end, take the Kashi-turn!
They say Kashi has three crowds—bhands (buffoons), raands (widows/prostitutes), and saands (bulls). Bulls roam intoxicated under Shankar’s influence! Raands gather—for there is no better place for the last turn. And bhands. Bhikha must have seen—recognized these three: some raands, some saands, some bhands. There is nothing else in Kashi. He turned back empty, very sad; eyes wet. Where to go now? He had thought the meeting would be in Kashi. If not there, where?
But whom one seeks—one must meet. The search itself finds the guru.
There is an ancient Egyptian proverb: When the disciple is ready, the guru appears on his own. On the road someone sang a pada. Some stranger—just walking alongside—sang a verse whose signature at the end was ‘Gulal’. It was Gulal’s pada. The very name cast a spell. The pada itself was nothing much. But ‘Gulal’… some strings tuned, some resonance occurred.
This world is marvelous—who knows where strings will meet, where rhythms will fall into accord! By what mysterious way one meets the guru—no one knows. There is no method. No procedure. That stranger—accidentally—sang a verse. At its end came the name Gulal. It was Gulal’s verse. The verse was likely not important—no one has ever mentioned it. Only this is mentioned: the stamp ‘Gulal’ at the end—like ‘says Kabir’ in Kabir. The word ‘Gulal’ awakened some sleeping memories.
If you ask me, I will say: This bond must be of many births—otherwise how could sleeping memories awaken? Often the guru-disciple ties are of many lives. They are not formed in a life or two. A life or two is too brief—momentary. These are not seasonal flowers; these are chinar trees touching the sky—centuries they take to grow. Husband-wife relations form in a moment; worldly friendships form and dissolve in moments. As quickly as they form, they dissolve. But the sadguru relationship is built over centuries—slowly, gently.
Surely in past births Bhikha had been connected with Gulal. They walked the same path. They drank in the same tavern—from the same cup. Hence today—just a slight touch… You too have heard the word ‘Gulal’—I have repeated it many times: Gulal, Gulal, Gulal! At most you recall the colored powder of spring. But within Bhikha a string vibrated; a music began; a door opened. He asked: Where will I find Gulal? The man said: I do not know—I heard this verse from someone. In him nothing resonated. But Bhikha kept asking: Where is Gulal? Where will I find Gulal?
Gulal was not famous. The famous were in Kashi. Bhikha had already seen them—and found nothing! Searching, he came to a small village whose name you wouldn’t have heard—Bhurkuda. A tiny hamlet, perhaps ten or five huts. The name itself betrays it—Bhurkuda. There he found Gulal. And seeing Gulal—not only did Bhikha recognize him, Gulal recognized Bhikha. He lifted this twelve-year-old child and seated him beside himself—on his own seat! The old disciples were jealous, alert—what is this? He never seated anyone here. Great honor was given to a twelve-year-old child!
For there is another world where nothing is measured by age—but hearts are weighed; souls are tested. He honored him like a sovereign.
Bhikha became Gulal’s, Gulal became Bhikha’s. Bhikha never left. He never left Bhurkuda; died there, at the guru’s feet. Stayed there. Not a day did he leave; not a night; not even a moment. That very door became a temple, that very door a pilgrimage.
Bhikha himself bound this experience in words—
For twelve years past, my love for the Name of Ram arose.
It seized me wholly, sharp and total—as if the four life-stages passed in a flash.
And then such a fire blazed… That love for Ram ignited such a fire that by twelve it felt all four ashramas were over! Suddenly aged at twelve—I had seen what was to be seen. I saw all was futile. Death stood before me. At twelve, death stood before me—while others weave dreams that will break today or tomorrow; while people fashion grand schemes and fantasies that will all turn to dust!
When the tune of the Eternal begins to sound, all time passes; death stands before you.
Food and drink pleased me no more—not even for a moment… The body grew very weak.
In house and village, all turned bitter—as if in a game of dice I had lost wealth and mind alike.
Such was my condition—as if, separated from its herd, a deer stands startled and afraid.
Searching, frantic—like one who has dropped a precious thing from his hand and seeks it madly, yet cannot find it.
Seek satsang with all your heart—where the Unseen, the Unwritable abides.
I search for satsang—satsang where the Alakh, the unsayable, unmeasurable dwells—and yet which can be poured out. Such satsang I seek.
Grant your grace—where shall I meet him, in what guise?
I ask from door to door: Where will I find the guru? By grace—where? And in what apparel?
Had there been even a little partiality, a sadguru would not have been found. If in Bhikha’s mind there had been the insistence: The guru must be like Krishna—flute in hand, peacock crown—he would not have found him. Or if like Ram—bow and arrow, with Sita beside—no. Or like Mahavira, or Buddha… But his heart was utterly impartial.
Where in all the ten directions, and in whatever dress—you may appear, I do not know. How then shall I search for you? Perhaps—you search for me. Perhaps if you call—this event will happen.
Someone said: There are many sadhus in Banaras—the seed of devotion always remains there.
So I went, Bhikha says; and I saw—there was much knowledge of scriptures, sects, philosophies.
But no one spoke a word that revealed the secret of the guru. No utterance that made me know: The door has arrived—now there is nowhere else to go. The destination is here!
I stayed a few days, pondered and saw—an endless web of illusion and ritual.
Enough service, worship, kirtan—but the mind was in maya, in attachment; the same grip on wealth, position, prestige. But the moment I beheld Gulal, my eyes brimmed, my soul filled. Seeing Gulal, Bhikha said: The Master’s radiance—the fellowship of the seekers!
Bhikha’s words—
The world’s doings are very difficult—thereby I wandered and was exhausted.
The learned are ignorant—the old behave childishly.
The world’s doings are very difficult…
To attain Paramatma is not hard—but the world imprints such conditioning on the mind that the conditioning becomes a barrier. The world teaches such rituals that those very rituals raise walls. The world gives such teachings that by them man becomes blind.
Hindus, Muslims, Christians, Jains, Buddhists—their scriptures, pundits, sects—all have a hand in keeping you from seeing God. Only he can see Paramatma who is free of sect; free of partiality; who has set scriptures aside. He whose eyes wear the spectacles of scripture cannot see Paramatma. To see God, eyes of no-thought are needed—and scriptures are nothing but thought upon thought upon thought. Scriptures contain thoughts and rituals: Do this and God will be attained; think thus and God will be attained. And the wonder—the Paramatma is already attained. Think nothing, do nothing—and he is here! Sit but for a moment in emptiness—think nothing, do nothing—and he is here.
The Zen fakirs say: Sitting silently, doing nothing, the spring comes—and the grass grows by itself. Sitting silently… doing nothing… the spring comes… and the grass grows by itself. Paramatma—he is to be met now, here! There is no need to wait even a moment. If he is not met, we think he is difficult to attain.
God is not difficult; what is difficult is breaking through the net the society has woven all around you. Hard is cutting through that mesh. Being Hindu does not leave you; being Muslim does not leave you. It has penetrated your blood, bone, marrow.
How will Paramatma be seen? If only you could be simply human—God would be met now. If only you carried no burden of traditions—your eyes would open now. Your eyes are weighed down by rocks.
The world’s doings are very difficult…
Bhikha says: The difficulty is because of the world, not because of God.
Hence, wandering and wandering, we are confounded by society’s teachings.
The learned have become unlearned—
And here the condition is strange: those whom you call ‘knowers’—none are more ignorant than they. Finding greater fools than pundits is impossible. For a pundit has only words—no experience. With words neither hunger is appeased nor thirst quenched. You cannot wear words nor spread them as bedding. When it rains, the word ‘roof’ will not help—you need a roof. The word ‘umbrella’ will not help—you need an umbrella! If there is a fire, the word ‘water’ will not douse it—you need water!
Life accepts only ‘what is’. The pundit keeps filling himself with information about it. Often pundits have very beautiful, ornate, logic-laden, scripture-sanctioned ideas—mere ideas. Look for anything in their life—you will find nothing.
The learned have become ignorant! Strange indeed. Those you call ‘learned’ are the most unlearned! The old behave childishly! Even elders behave in ways that, if boys did so, would be disgraceful. But elders do the same. They grow old, but never ripen. The years increase—but maturity does not come.
And this a boy of twelve saw and recognized. He must have had a sharp brilliance—the blade of a sword. A refinement of many births, the dignity of centuries of satsang—only then could this be possible.
Leaving the supreme good, they serve petty self-interest—what greatness is there in this?
They have abandoned the supreme meaning—Param-arth—and are busy with small selfish ends. For petty, paltry interests of two coppers—what won’t a man do! How much he is ready to debase himself, to be infamous. He runs after pebbles while diamonds lie unregarded—because his run is toward pebbles.
Leaving the supreme good, they serve self-interest…
Those with a little awareness seek life’s supreme meaning. For this life will be wiped away by death. Before that, find the meaning that knows no death, no end.
And the very notion of ‘self’ is born of delusion—for I am not. And because of this ‘I’, I extend into ‘mine’. This first step is false. I am not—only Paramatma is. We are but waves upon his ocean. What existence do waves have? Now they are—now they are gone. The ocean remains. What remains is truth.
They ponder the meanings of the Vedas and Vedanta—raising many fancies.
They are much entangled—filled with curiosity. They debate meanings of Veda and Vedanta. Argue: this is the meaning, no—that is the meaning. No one cares to enter experience.
Buddha passed away—and his disciples, instantly, split into thirty-six sects! One made one meaning, another another; a great quarrel erupted: What did Buddha say—what is the exact meaning? Such clamors. A few were there who did not enter dispute; they sat silently beneath their trees.
Someone asked one such—Manjushri, a wondrous disciple—sitting silent: You are neither weeping nor sorrowful, nor arguing. For all the disciples are disputing—what is the correct meaning of Buddha’s words? Manjushri said: Buddha has gone—I too will go. If even Buddha has gone, what is my worth? Where life is so transient that even the wave of a Buddha subsides—why should I weep? Why waste time in weeping? What Buddha knew—let me know that and go, so that when my wave subsides, I go knowing: I am ocean, not wave. The same ease with which Buddha went, the same smile he left behind—let me leave that. And what will come of dispute? What will come of meanings of words? I sit to experience what Buddha spoke. Let those who wish to dispute—dispute.
And the strange thing—the experiencers get lost, and the disputers make headquarters. Their sects still thrive. Those who followed Manjushri—no one follows them. But the disputers’ sects still stand. People have immense faith in words. It is astonishing—how much faith people place in words! They do not seek truth—they settle for words.
They ponder Vedas and Vedanta—raising many fancies.
Night and day they are engulfed in maya and attachment—what great joy comes of it?
Carry on with Veda-Vedanta talk—neither maya nor attachment is dispelled. Night and day lost in illusion; and talk big about knowledge. Keep talking. Words about light do not create light; darkness does not vanish. From these, showers of bliss will not fall on life.
They deal and take in glass—losing the gold named the Name.
Lost in words, you clutch glass—words are like glass. You lose the gold—the golden Name of the Lord—you do not dive into it.
Leaving amrit, they sip poison—
Amrit is present, and you drink poison! But on poison bottles, people have pasted the label ‘amrit’. And people trust labels. No one peeks in to see what is within—only the label is believed. People can drink poison if it says ‘amrit’. Such is the hypnosis of words!
Tell someone—‘It is written’—and it must be right! Spoken words are suspect; but if written—then certainly true. What madness!
Mulla Nasruddin’s wife threw a party. The salt fell short. Mulla ran to the kitchen: ‘I’ll bring it.’ But there was a long clatter—opening tins, shutting them, lifting, setting down. The wife shouted: How long will you take? When will you bring the salt? He said: I can’t find it!
She said: Are you blind? Right in front of you—the tin labeled ‘chilli’—that’s where the salt is. But a label-trusting man had thought—‘chilli’—and left it. Women’s intelligence has its own way: where ‘chilli’ is written—salt is kept. Private code, their own. In one’s own kitchen it works—but how will another find? People trust words so much that when ‘chilli’ is written—the matter is settled. Even if salt is visible within—if ‘chilli’ is written on top, the case is closed. People do not look at things—they look only at words.
Leaving amrit and sipping poison—how then will there be sweetness? How will there be joy?
Seek the Master’s radiance—the fellowship of the seekers—why don’t you, my brother?
Will you remain lost in scriptures? Won’t you hold the feet of a living sadguru? The Master’s radiance—the fellowship of the seekers! If anything is to be done, do this: be adorned by a guru’s aura. Drown in the guru’s music—fall into rhyme with it. Go where the guru is, surrounded by a circle of seekers; where lovers of God and madmen dance, are ecstatic, drunk on bliss—go there. Perhaps their intoxication will set every hair in your body trembling. Perhaps their dance will bring dance to your feet as well.
Often this happens. Someone plays the tabla—and you begin to tap out the beat. What happened? The tabla player didn’t ask you to tap—but you begin. Someone dances—and dance enters your legs. Just so is satsang. There, an inner dance is happening; an inner drum is beating; an inner rhythm falls. Whoever arrives with an open heart—within him the stream of rasa begins to flow.
There is no other way—only one—the Master’s radiance—the fellowship of the seekers!
At the end-time, when Death devours, what cleverness will help?
All this cleverness will be useless. Vedas and Vedanta will lie aside. The Upanishads, the Gita, the Qur’an, the Bible—will lie aside. When Death knocks at the door—you will forget all your wits.
This human birth will not be gotten again so easily—do not let it go to waste; do not let the chance slip away. If you delay, you will repent later.
Bhikha says: The mind is full of guile and cunning—
It will keep you entangled by adopting all sorts of beliefs, all sorts of stratagems. Only if you long to awaken—will you awaken. If you retain even a little taste for sleep, the mind will coil around you and bind you. The mind is very skillful.
Understand and take hold of Hari-nam, O mind—understand and take hold of Hari-nam.
Understand this rightly: life is slipping away. Time is running like sand through the fist. Understand it well—and take hold of the Name of Hari. For only That remains forever—and with the eternal is joy; with the momentary is sorrow.
Understand—take hold of Hari-nam. O mind, understand—take hold of Hari-nam.
For ten days’ pleasure of this body—you cling to wealth and house.
You are clinging to money, to position, to prestige! It is the moonlight of four days—then a dark night. A small deception. Only fools are caught in this; but the many are in it—certainly the many are fools. Because fools are the crowd—you do not notice it. Being one in the crowd, you do not see how many fools there are. ‘When everyone is doing it—it must be right.’
Within us lurks a logic: What the crowd does must be right. Can so many be wrong? And others think the same: Can so many be wrong? You think so; your neighbor thinks so.
The neighbor thinks you cannot be wrong; you think he cannot be wrong. Thus a great delusion is erected—a web of confusion.
Look within your own heart and consider. If joy is found—fine. If life is a festival—fine. If the rain of amrit is falling—fine. Do not decide by the crowd—decide by inner taste.
Look within your own heart; apart from this, all your calculating is useless. Understand one thing clearly: What has your life given you? Has it given bliss? Amrit? Truth? The supreme life? If not—then there is another life; seek it. Do not delay. Do not postpone. Do not push it to tomorrow. For tomorrow never comes. He who postpones to tomorrow postpones to forever.
By yogic tricks, by knowledge or ‘meditation’, the near and easy is not obtained.
Remember, Paramatma is not attained by some technique. Jog-yukti—standing on your head—mastering asanas—and God is found? If only it were so easy—by bodily exercise! Yes, exercises have their own benefits: you will be healthier; live a few days more. But living longer and healthier—what will you do? The same mischief you do in shorter life!
Tamerlane asked an astrologer: I have heard it is auspicious to arise at dawn; to get up early. I never do. I never rise before ten. What do you say?
People knew Tamerlane—dangerous. But the astrologer was brave. He said: They are wrong. At least in your case. You should sleep twenty-four hours.
Tamerlane said: Twenty-four hours! Are you mad? What benefit?
The astrologer said: Only benefit! Because as long as you are awake—you wreak havoc. You kill, cut, torture. People will be saved if people like you sleep twenty-four hours. Others will benefit—and you will benefit. Others—because they will be spared; and you—because if you do not trouble others, you will not be troubled later. Benefit upon benefit.
If you live a little longer—what will you do? The same you do living shorter. The body will be healthier; diseases fewer. Certainly asanas have uses—but they have nothing to do with God. Often people get entangled in these and think they are approaching God—because they can stand on their heads an hour, two hours. Stand on your head twenty-four hours—some benefits, and nobody is harmed. And when you harm no one—some future benefit comes. It is an easy way to save others—from you! But no other gain.
Jog-yukti… Some imagine there is a trick, a key someone will hand you—and you will open the door. There is no trick. God is found by love—and love is no trick. He is found by total surrender—and surrender is no device, no cleverness.
Some think he will be found by ‘knowledge’—by hoarding scriptural lore. Others think by jap-tap—what they call ‘meditation’—which is not meditation. Some think they will just keep turning the rosary. They will count how many rounds—then say to God: I turned the mala one crore times—now grant me!
Is God a fool? Be sure—whoever turned the mala one crore times—he will not get him. Will God choose to do satsang with such a person? He has proved himself utterly brainless—rolling the beads. God will avoid him.
I have heard: A man died who always prayed twenty-four hours. Whenever he got a chance, he would chant: Hare Ram, Hare Krishna. He weighed on the scales—Hare Ram, Hare Krishna. He counted money—Hare Ram, Hare Krishna. He made it mechanical. Everything else went on—no obstacle. He drove off dogs—Hare Ram, Hare Krishna! He waved away beggars—Hare Ram, Hare Krishna! He picked his customers’ pockets—and Hare Ram, Hare Krishna. All went on as before—but the chant continued. He died. Angels dragged him to hell. He was furious: What are you doing? Hare Ram, Hare Krishna! What are you doing—Hare Ram, Hare Krishna! Taking me to hell—Hare Ram, Hare Krishna! All my life I chanted—and you drag me to hell! First take me to God. We will have it out.
Before God he cried: What impertinence! Hare Ram, Hare Krishna… What injustice—taking me to hell! All my life I chanted…
Just then he saw a neighbor of his—who had never chanted Hare Ram, never gone to temple, never did Satyanarayan katha—being brought to heaven with band and music. He said: This is the limit! What am I seeing—Hare Ram, Hare Krishna!
God said: Take him away—he will drive me mad with ‘Hare Ram, Hare Krishna’. You pestered me all your life—didn’t let me sleep or sit. You practiced it so, that even in sleep you shouted ‘Hare Ram, Hare Krishna’—when you shouted, my sleep broke. I won’t let you stay here. If you live in heaven—I’ll move to hell. We two cannot live together.
Your japs and taps will take you nowhere. What will? The Master’s radiance—the fellowship of the seekers! That alone is meditation. Satsang is meditation. All techniques of meditation are preparations for satsang, polishings of you. As you bathe and wear clean clothes to go to satsang—if you have meditated, you come bathed within. For satsang, meditation is a bath. But the supreme attainment is through satsang.
Abandon hopes here and there—and dwell with Atmaram.
Drop these futile outward hopes. What you seek sits within you. Why run outwards? Close the eyes—dive within.
Bhikha says: How can I describe that blessed hour—when one dives within and finds, enthroned in himself, That which for births upon births could not be found outside? Blessed is that moment—for in that instant life’s sorrow ends, all anguish vanishes, all darkness dissolves. The new moon night suddenly becomes full moon.
O mind—love Ram—
If you must love, love Ram.
Without Ram nothing avails. At the end you will collapse like a mud wall in the rain.
Understand, reflect—look into your heart—
Without Hari there is no well-wisher—none other.
The dust of Guru Gulal’s lotus-feet—Bhikha, hold it to your heart.
For me it happened thus—I placed my head at the feet of Guru Gulal. The dust of his feet turned to gold for me. That alone connected me to God.
Placing the head at the guru’s feet, and loving Paramatma—are the two faces of one event.
Holding the dust of Guru Gulal’s lotus-feet to the heart—thus I attained—thus may you attain. You can too. When the disciple first reaches the guru and that unparalleled moment of bowing happens—the greatest revolution in this world takes place. All other revolutions are small—they are nothing.
You are the pupil of my eyes,
you are the ancient tremor of my heart;
you are the pulse of my awareness,
the intoxicating fan of these breath-winds;
you are the deathless quest of my life,
the embodied form of my dreams;
you are the center of my worship,
you are my love—ever unique.
You immeasurable, you incomparable—
you are the moonlight of my night;
you the rosy flush of my dawn,
the sweet strain of my morning.
That midnight of my separation,
whose sky was without support—
in which the form of darkness surged—
reproach of the cloud of severance;
from moonbeams and the stars,
my sky was utterly empty.
Who had thought—ever there would be
an end to my separation?
That in the sky the dawn would smile,
that morning would scatter through my life,
that you would sing—the drunken song of this new union?
Today my hundred-petaled heart has blossomed,
my bee-swarms are freed;
a sweet fragrance waves and waves,
a humming hum resounds and resounds.
The tender mesh of rays from your toe-nails
has spread in my sky-courtyard;
those delicate, tiny, crimson signs of feet—
are imprinted once, in my courtyard.
My eyes—drowsy, lowered, flushed—
remained wide in wonder, O heart;
unblinking, full of compassion—
in which you were suffused, O Knower.
What should I say—what became of me today?
Shall I say fulfilled? Shall I say forever blessed?
When you arrived, O sovereign of my heart—
why should I not call myself the One-without-a-second?
The sun of my suhaag has arisen,
this vermilion glow has spread;
my moon of love is delighted—
my night, all directions, illumined.
My moon, my sun—
shine so, day and night;
my secret, my wonder—
life would be unbearable without you!
What should I say—what became of me today?
Shall I say fulfilled? Shall I say forever blessed?
When you came into my heart today—
why should I not call myself the One-without-a-second?
The moment the disciple finds the guru—he becomes ananya, the one-without-a-second; unique. The moment the disciple finds the guru—he has found the door to Paramatma. To find the guru is to find God. There is no distance left—no gap. Arrived. One step more—just one more…
Therefore for centuries we have called the guru—Bhagwan. There is reason. The guru is the last station—after him, only Paramatma.
Bhikha found—so can you. Bhikha spread his begging bowl—therefore called ‘Bhikha’. Spread yours too. Bhikha’s bowl was filled—he became an emperor. Your bowl can be filled—you can become a sovereign.
The Master’s radiance—the fellowship of the seekers!
Enough for today.