Guru Partap Sadh Ki Sangati #11

The rays are struggling with the dark,
The gates of the Mountain of Dawn are opening!
The moments of obscurity are nearing their end;
Now the crimson moments of light are arriving!
Where the step of man halts, there is night;
Where the step advances, there the maiden dawn appears.
In light, humanity finds communion;
In the shroud of darkness, it is alone!

That which gives the voiceless night of despair
The first, newborn note of birdsong—
That which grants to humanity, lost and unknowing in the gloom,
New eyes, a new recognition—

That light which, being free, shares, scatters,
Lavishes the glory of equality and magnanimity—
Not that which shrinks, narrows,
Increasing the stain upon man, earth, and nature.

That light in which man gives to man
The simple support of compassion, affection, motherliness;
That light in which, from the summit of humanity,
The stream of feeling melts and flows, becomes pure!

That darkness in which humanity is bound,
Stifled, dwarfed, demeaned—
Encircled by the perimeter of miserliness of self-interest,
It goes on bearing the burden, impoverished, without cease.

Unaffected by the night of waiting,
By the flower’s continuous reverence—
The moments of light descend into the world
By the pilgrim’s practice upon the path of awareness.

Let the moments of light come, and not return in vain—
Let’s make them meaningful through action!
As fulfillment, joy, delight, laughter, and growth,
May they gain an immortal place in human life!

After endless, endless ages, a true master, a Sadguru, appears. There are many siddhas; very few are Sadgurus. A siddha is one who has known truth; a Sadguru is one who has not only known but has made others know. A siddha has attained for himself, but could not share; a Sadguru attained, and shared. A siddha himself dissolves in the vast ocean of the Divine, but the crowd of humanity—lost in ignorance, darkness, blind belief—he cannot ferry across. A siddha is like a small fisherman’s dinghy—only one person can sit in it. The vehicle of the siddha is the Hinayana; it carries no second rider—he goes alone. The vehicle of the Sadguru is the Mahayana; it is a great boat; many can be accommodated; all who have the courage can enter. A single Sadguru becomes a doorway for countless ones.
There are many siddhas; Sadgurus are very few. And when a Sadguru is, do not miss the occasion.

Let the moments of light come, and not return in vain—
Let’s make them meaningful through action!
As fulfillment, joy, delight, laughter, and growth,
May they gain an immortal place in human life!

What is the message of the Sadguru? Then, whoever the Sadguru may be—Gulal, Kabir, or Nanak, Mansoor, Rabia, or Jalaluddin—there is no difference. The names of Sadgurus are different; their tone is one, their music one; their call one, their invitation one. Their languages may be many, but their heart is not many. He who has recognized one Sadguru has recognized all Sadgurus—of the past, the present, and the future. In a Sadguru, the differences of time disappear—those who were before are present in him; those who are now are present in him; those who ever will be are present in him. The Sadguru is pure light upon which no boundary of darkness can fall.

The rays are struggling with the dark,
The gates of the Mountain of Dawn are opening!
The moments of obscurity are nearing their end;
Now the crimson moments of light are arriving!

He who bows at the feet of the Sadguru—doors begin to open for him. Without bowing, these doors do not open. For the stiff-necked, the doors are closed. Even an open door is closed for the arrogant, because arrogance closes one’s eyes. Ego makes man blind; humility gives him eyes. The more one thinks, “I am,” the farther from the Divine he goes. The more one knows, “I am not,” the closer he begins to move toward the Divine; worship begins to happen; the Upanishad awakens; nearness grows; intimacy deepens. And he who has known, “I am not at all,” becomes the Divine. He who has known, “I am not at all,” can say—Aham Brahmasmi! I am Brahman!

Where the step of man halts, there is night;
Where the step advances, there the maiden dawn appears.
In light, humanity finds communion;
In the shroud of darkness, it is alone!

The moment you take a step in the search for truth, that is light, that is morning. And the moment you hesitate, falter—cling to the past, cling to notions; cling to scriptures and doctrines; seek not the truth but the security of dogmas; not the invitation arriving from afar but the dead traditions petrified by the past—know this is darkness, this is blindness.

Where the step of man halts, there is night—
That is the dark night, the new-moon night, when you stop, when you are afraid; when you are frightened of the Unknown and the Unknowable, and you clutch the known lest it slip from your hands... What is the known? The Hindu religion is known, the Mohammedan religion is known, the Sikh religion known, the Jain religion known, the Christian religion known—but the religion of the Divine is unknown, ever unknown. The temple is known, the mosque is known, the church, the gurudwara are known—but the abode of the Divine is unknown—absolutely unknown. It is forever unknown.
So only those who become ready to launch their boat into the unknown come to be related to That. Those who remain bound—in old tracks, in lines—remain stuck; their life is a new-moon night. And your life can be a full moon—this very moment it can be a full moon. Between the new moon and the full moon there is but the distance of a single step. New moon is the halted step; full moon is the step advanced.

Where the step of man halts, there is night;
Where the step advances, there the maiden dawn appears.
In light, humanity finds communion;
In the shroud of darkness, it is alone!

And there is a wondrous phenomenon: so long as you are in darkness, you are alone; and the moment light happens, you are no longer alone—the whole existence is with you. Trees, animals, birds, mountains, rivers, seas, moon and stars, manifest and unmanifest—whatever is, all is with you. In darkness you are alone. Hence in darkness you are frightened. In light you are not alone; existence is your companion. Therefore in light there is no fear; in light there is fearlessness.
The rishis have sung—
“Tamaso ma jyotirgamaya—Lead us, Lord, from darkness to light.
Asato ma sadgamaya—Lead us from untruth to truth.
Mrityorma amritam gamaya—Lead us from death to immortality.”
Do you think those rishis did not know scriptures? If truth could be found in scriptures, would they pray to the sky—Asato ma sadgamaya?
Were they unaware of words, theories, riches of doctrine? If light could come from words and concepts, if the wick of a lamp could be lit by words and the night dispelled, would they pray—Tamaso ma jyotirgamaya?
And if the priests and pundits could assure the eternity of life, of immortality—if from tradition and hardened beliefs faith in the immortal could arise—would they pray—Mrityorma amritam gamaya?
What does their prayer say? Their prayer says—on this shore, whatever is available, gives no clue to the other shore. Here are many scriptures, many doctrines, many who know the scriptures—Vedas lodged in the throat, Quran upon the tongue—such people are many; but on this shore the one who can give news of the other shore is seldom, rarely found.
News of the other shore can be given only by one who has gone to the other shore. The siddha reaches the other shore but does not return; he has gone, he has gone. The Jain and Buddhist scriptures have called them arhat—gone for good, not returning; they do not come back even to deliver news. They are drowned, drowned. They do not come again to this shore. And those who, having gone to the other shore, return to this shore—Buddhists have called them Bodhisattva, Jains have called them Tirthankara. Their compassion is boundless. Renouncing the unique bliss of truth, the great joy of Brahman, where the lotuses of eternity bloom—they return to this thorn-ridden shore to give news to those wandering behind. These are the Sadgurus.
With such Sadgurus, take just one step—and the full moon arrives in life. Ordinarily, between new moon and full moon there are fifteen days, but the new moon and full moon of which I speak have but the distance of a single step—surrender, and full moon; ego, and new moon.

That which gives the voiceless night of despair
The first, newborn note of birdsong—
That which grants to humanity, lost and unknowing in the gloom,
New eyes, a new recognition—
That voice is the Upanishad, the Veda, the Quran—the living voice that gives you new eyes.

That which grants to humanity, lost and unknowing in the gloom,
New eyes, a new recognition—
The Divine has to be revealed again and again because again and again the truth of the Divine gets lost in the net of words of pundits and priests. Buddha found it—and the moment Buddha died it got lost amidst the crowd of scholars and priests. Mahavira found it—and with Mahavira’s departure it got lost amidst the crowd of pundits and priests. It is almost a natural law that truth lives only so long as the one who holds truth lives; truth lives only so long as the earthen lamp holds that flame. The moment the earthen lamp breaks, the flame dissolves into the Great Flame. Then, around the broken lamp and the spilled oil, the clamour of priests and pundits continues. Centuries pass, and the worship of broken lamps continues—neither do new eyes come from them, nor new experience, nor new recognition.
And the wonder is that whenever anyone comes to give you new eyes, you are eager to gouge out his eyes. When someone comes to give you a new recognition, you are ready to cut off his head. Because going with a new recognition is risky. What is the credibility of the new recognition? Behind the new there is no power of the past.
If I give you a new eye, who other than I can be witness to my eye? I cannot line up a procession of pundits and priests to testify for me. What I have known, I have known—I alone am the witness. I cannot produce a second person to bear witness.
Who believes one without a witness? Who knows—he may be deluded. Who knows—he may have had a dream. Who knows—he is hallucinating. Who knows—he deceives and betrays. A thousand doubts arise in the mind. The past appears more reliable. People by the thousands have believed it through ages; if so many believe, it must be right—otherwise why would so many believe?
We trust the crowd greatly—we are sheep, not men. We trust the crowd, not the truth. As if truth were decided by headcount—as if decided by vote! How many believe? If truth is decided that way, then Christianity is true and Hinduism is not. If decided that way, Hinduism is true and Jainism is not. If decided that way, the priests and pundits are right and I am not.
But this is not the way truth is decided. Truth is decided by experience. Truth is determined by solitary testimonies. Truth is realized by the individual, not by the crowd. Nowhere is it recorded that a crowd of a thousand encountered the Divine; that ten thousand realized truth. Whenever truth arrives, it arrives in the inner core of an individual, in his privacy, in supreme aloneness. There is no witness there.
And only such individuals can give new eyes, a new recognition. And blessed are those with whom this happens.

That light which, being free, shares, scatters,
Lavishes the glory of equality and magnanimity—
Not that which shrinks, narrows,
Increasing the stain upon man, earth, and nature.

And light is that which is free—and which frees. Light is not that which is bound and binds. One is bound in being Hindu, another bound in being Muslim. One has made the mosque a prison, another the temple. Someone’s prison is in Kashi, someone’s prison in Kaaba.

That light which, being free, shares, scatters,
Lavishes the glory of equality and magnanimity.

Light removes all divisions. It gives man equality, communion, friendship—not enmity. It lavishes the splendour of generosity—light is generous, not ungenerous. And all your so-called religions are deeply ungenerous; generosity is not even in their name. Even if they speak of generosity it is hollow... Ram on the lips, a dagger in the armpit.

Not that which shrinks, narrows,
Increasing the stain upon man, earth, and nature.

All these so-called religions have increased the darkness in human life, not lessened it. In the name of religion more blood has been shed upon this earth than for any other cause. In the name of religion more rapes have occurred than for any other reason; and in the name of religion more homes and people have been burned alive than for any other cause!
And you go on calling all this religion! When will you learn the language of new eyes? When will you recognize the Divine? The Divine is love, and your so-called religions teach you hatred—only hatred. These so-called religions divide man from man, they do not unite. And that which divides is not religion; that which unites—that alone is religion.

That light in which man gives to man
The simple support of compassion, affection, motherliness;
That light in which, from the summit of humanity,
The stream of feeling melts and flows, becomes pure!

That darkness in which humanity is bound,
Stifled, dwarfed, demeaned—
Encircled by the perimeter of miserliness of self-interest,
It goes on bearing the burden, impoverished, without cease.

Look around and you will find the proof—how impoverished man has become. Who is responsible? Who brought man to this plight? Who robbed man of his soul? Who took away his generosity? Who murdered his compassion? Who snuffed out the lamp of love from his life? And you will be shocked to find that your temples, mosques, gurudwaras, shrines and chaityalayas have a hand in it. Your temples are no longer temples of God, but of the devil. The idol may be of God, but the hands behind it are the devil’s. And until you awaken, until you open your eyes and look, you will remain trapped in these webs.
Awaken! And there is only one way to awaken—by the grace of the Guru, in the company of the seekers! Bhikha’s words are plain, simple, easy—but like sparks. And a single spark can set the whole forest ablaze—such is the power of one spark. Open your heart, take this spark within. A disciple is one who receives the spark like a flower into himself. The spark will burn all that is false, all that is futile, all that is trash. The spark will burn and blaze all that should not be—and refine all that should be. The spark burns the untrue and polishes the true. And one who passes through this fire one day appears as pure gold, appears as kundan, as refined gold.

“Call him Brahmin who is immersed in Brahman; blessed is he.
They are not Brahmin who, beast-like in ignorance, just hang three threads on the neck.”

In a small sutra the ultimate commentary is contained; in a small sutra the essence of the Vedas is condensed—“Call him Brahmin who is immersed in Brahman”... he who is drowned in Brahman, he is Brahmin.
A Brahmin is not by birth. And those who have assumed they are Brahmin by birth—none more deluded than they. Their condition is worse than even the Shudras. At least the Shudra has this awareness—I am Shudra. Even that awareness men like Mahatma Gandhi tried to erase. They told him, “You are Harijan, not Shudra.” As the Brahmin’s delusion is that he is Brahmin by birth, so they have now induced another delusion in the Shudra—by well-meaning people whom you call “Mahatma”—that you are Harijan by birth. Harijan is another name for Brahmin—the one who has known Hari is Harijan; the one who has known Brahman is Brahmin. To call him Harijan has created another delusion—that some people are Harijan by birth. Now Harijans too have become arrogant; for them too the pride of being Brahmin has arisen. Neither are Brahmins Brahmin, nor Harijans Harijan.
If you ask me, I will say—we are all born Shudra. By birth we are all Shudra—none is Brahmin, none is Vaishya, none is Kshatriya, none is Harijan. By birth we are Shudra, because by birth we are ignorant. After birth, what journey we undertake—that will decide. Ninety-nine out of a hundred will remain Shudra. Without catching hold of a Sadguru, they will remain Shudra. Out of a hundred, one may become a Brahmin. Even one—enough. Even one—plenty.
The greatest obstacle is that we assume with birth that we are Brahmin. There the miss takes place. Like a sick man assuming he is healthy—why would he seek treatment? Why go to a physician? Why get a diagnosis? Why take medicine? If the sick man believes he is healthy, the matter is finished.
The Brahmin has been ill for centuries; now by the grace of Mahatma Gandhi the Shudra too has been infected. He too has been saturated with the identity of being Harijan. The conflicts you see in many places between Hindus and Harijans—know that not only Brahmins have a hand in it, but also the arrogance that has arisen among Harijans. I am not saying what is happening is right—what the Brahmins do is utterly wrong, sin. But if you think only the Brahmins are responsible, you err. The new arrogance of being Harijan also has a great hand. Naturally, the Brahmin has been wrong for centuries, so his arrogance is ancient; but remember, the new Muslim prays the namaz more loudly. The new Muslim goes to the mosque daily; the old one may sometimes skip. New converts have great arrogance.
So the madness that had slowly seeped into the blood of Brahmins, of which they were hardly conscious, that new madness has now seized Harijans. And theirs is new. New diseases are dangerous; their blow is perilous. They walk with great swagger. They create arrogance in everything. They say, “Let us enter the temples.”
Now, here is the strange thing. Mahatma Gandhi spent a lifetime trying to secure entry to temples for Harijans. And he did not even see that those who have been sitting in temples for lifetimes—what have they gotten? When Brahmins themselves got nothing by worshipping and worshipping, what will these poor Harijans get by entering the same temples? If you ask me, I would say, “O Harijans, do not enter the temples even by mistake. Those who sit in them have gotten nothing; why enter this mess now? Seek the Divine in the vast sky; the Divine is not imprisoned by these walls.”
But no, Mahatma Gandhi proclaimed it a great revolution—to give Harijans entry into temples. Brahmin, Kshatriya, Vaishya had been sitting in temples already; what revolution happened to their lives? Their lives are trash; you now include Harijans in the same trash. And to become that trash, they have gone mad. Riots began.
In this world, to produce disease is easy. Mahatma Gandhi is not a religious man, he is a political man; he used Harijans as a political strategy. The word Harijan is ancient, not Gandhi’s invention. But we called Harijan the one who belongs to Hari. Nanak, Kabir, Dadu, Bhikha—they were Harijan. Rabia, Meera, Sahajo—they were Harijan.
Harijan is a very high word—its exact sense equals that of Brahmin. Because the meaning of “Brahmin” had died slowly, the word became hollow, tied to birth; therefore the saints sought “Harijan.” Gandhi murdered that word too, killed it as well.
Likewise Vinoba killed the word “Sarvodaya.” It is also an old term—some sixteen hundred years old—first appearing in Jain scriptures. Acharya Amritchandra used it first—Sarvodaya—and with such a lovely meaning. Vinoba spoiled it.
In the hands of politicians, genuine coins become counterfeit. Bad company corrupts the good. Amritchandra explains Sarvodaya thus—those who have attained Samadhi and in whose life a longing has arisen for the rising of all—for all: stones, plants, animals, birds, human beings, all included. Those whose inner being longs to lead the entire existence toward Samadhi, they are Sarvodayi.
And nowadays, what Vinoba calls Sarvodayi—what is it? Only one climbing the ladder of politics. Beginning with Sarvodaya—because beginning from there is easy. If you wish to choke someone’s neck, start with massaging his feet—this is the arithmetic; if you start directly with the neck, you will not succeed. First massage the feet; anyone will agree. Then step by step go upward—then choke the neck.
Sarvodaya is a political stratagem. Therefore Jayaprakash Narayan surfaced. He had given his life for Sarvodaya, but ended his life amidst the most degraded politicians of the country.
Beautiful words, in the wrong hands, become ugly. “Brahmin” is a lofty, otherworldly word—one who knows Brahman. Buddha defined it likewise—one who knows Brahman, one who is steeped in Brahman.
Bhikha speaks rightly—
“Call him Brahmin who is immersed in Brahman; blessed is he.”

But who can be immersed in Brahman? Who has the capacity to be immersed in Brahman? Who has the capacity to be Brahmin? Only he who gives birth to the zero of Samadhi—because the Whole descends only in the zero; there has never been, nor will there ever be, any other way. The one who agrees to efface himself, who agrees to die while alive, who dons the shroud while living. You see, in this land, when a corpse is covered with a shroud, it is red—therefore the sannyasin’s garment is chosen red—it is the shroud. The red robe of the sannyasin carries many meanings; one is that of the shroud. Sannyasin means one who has said, “This life is finished. Enough—seen enough.”

“Till there is vermilion in someone’s parting,
Bangles chiming on the wrists
Singing the melody of life—
Do not come to my door
And talk of death.
Do not, even by mistake,
Take the name of God;
If the scent of burning pyre
Fills the air—
Even if it be true.”

People go on thus—do not speak of death now. It may be true—we’ll see when we burn on the pyre. For now there is the colour of life—bangles ringing, vermilion fresh in the parting, engagements newly done...

“Till there is vermilion in someone’s parting,
Bangles chiming on the wrists
Singing the melody of life—
Do not come to my door
And talk of death.
Do not, even by mistake,
Take the name of God;
If the scent of burning pyre
Fills the air—
Even if it be true.”

That’s why people found a trick in this country. When a man dies, with the bier they chant: “Ram nam satya hai—The Name of Ram is truth.” All life long the Name was untrue; now around the corpse they say, “The Name of Ram is truth.” And they say it for the dead—not for themselves, remember. If you ask them—for whom? They’ll say, “For the dead.” The one who is dead cannot get up and say, “Wait! Don’t take the Name yet; I can still hear the chiming of bangles; not yet.” The “Ram nam satya hai” would stop that instant. They are not saying it for themselves.

I have heard—one man died. He reached heaven and knocked at the gate. From within—“Who?” He said, “I come from the earth.” Then again, “Were you married?” He said, “Yes.” Instantly the sentry opened the gate—“Welcome, come in—for you have already seen hell.”
The sentry barely shut the door when another knocked. “Who?” “I come from the earth.” “Were you married?” “Not once, twice.” The sentry said, “Then go to hell; there is no place for fools here.”
To err once is understandable—pardonable; but twice!... And how many times have you erred? A life full of errors upon errors. And the greatest, the most fundamental error—from which all other leaves and branches sprout—is ego.
Remember two words. I call one “ahancharya”—the practice of ego; the other “brahmacharya”—the practice of Brahman. Only two kinds of people exist in the world. He who lives by ahancharya is Shudra; he who lives by brahmacharya is Brahmin. He who is a little inclined toward the Brahmin is Kshatriya; he who is a little inclined toward the Shudra is Vaishya—rungs in between. The one with the courage to be Brahmin but who has not yet taken the step—he is Kshatriya. The one who aspires to rise above the Shudra but has not yet dared—he is Vaishya.
But essentially there are only two castes—Shudra and Brahmin. Ahancharya is the mark of the Shudra; brahmacharya of the Brahmin. But by brahmacharya I do not mean that petty sense you understand—that someone does not beget children or someone did not marry—so it is brahmacharya. That is to give a limitless, vast word such a petty meaning. Brahmacharya means—conduct like Brahman. A married person can attain to brahmacharya, an unmarried one may fail to attain it. Conduct like Brahman has nothing to do with marriage or non-marriage; it is an inner disposition.
Krishna is established in brahmacharya as much as Buddha—no difference at all. Krishna attains brahmacharya in the midst of the world, amidst women; Buddha attains it by leaving. If one had to choose, I would say—choose Krishna—because how many can leave the world and run away? And if all run away, great difficulty will arise. Buddha was able to live because others did not run away—do not forget. Others remained at home, cooked bread, prepared food—so Buddha received alms. Imagine everyone saying to Buddha, “All right, we too become bhikshus.” Who would give alms? Buddha might have had to open a shop again. Mahavira might have had to rethink—return home. Buddha lives because the whole society is not sannyasin, not runaway.
Buddha’s life is society-dependent. A whole society is needed to support a Buddhist monk, a Jain muni. Therefore the freedom is not total; there is a shortfall. Hence we do not call Buddha a complete avatar; we call Krishna Purnavatar. The reason? Transparent: Krishna, right in the midst of the world, attains brahmacharya. It is a deeper, higher, more intense search—and more harmonious with life—and closer to the order of the Divine. Because the Divine is the creator of life. Life is not made to be renounced; life is made to be awakened—not to be fled from.

“Call him Brahmin who is immersed in Brahman; blessed is he.
Not the beast-like ignorant, who just hang three threads on the neck.”

Bhikha does not call them Brahmin—those who are beast-like, whose life is full of animality, in whom there is not even the aura of humanity, far from divinity—who have only hung three threads on their necks. Three sacred threads—and Brahmin! So cheap to be Brahmin! Yet those three threads had their meaning. Those who devised them thought something through. They symbolize the three gunas—tamas, rajas, sattva—and they must be brought into such balance, woven so as to become one—then the fourth state arises—beyond the gunas, gunatita.
That state beyond the gunas is brahmacharya. To know that gunatita state is to be in Brahman.
Where there is only tamas, only darkness—that is Shudra. Where there is energy, the fervour to do, resolve, the power to struggle—that is Kshatriya. Between them is Vaishya. He who is tired of doing, bored of resolve, who has seen the futility of struggle, who feels “nothing happens by my doing; here, whatever happens, happens by the Divine, by His grace”—sattva arises in him; he is a sadhu, a sannyasin.
And the one who binds these three into a single harmony—within whom the three notes become one music—within whom no opposition remains among the three, because all three are needed—when anger arises, laziness is good; when compassion arises, rajas is good. None is evil in itself; evil depends on context. If an angry man is lazy, tamasic, he will not act in anger—“Who wants to get into trouble?” You may even abuse him; he will say, “All right, go.”
You’ve heard the story of two tamasic men—lying beneath a tree. A jamun tree—ripe jamuns dropping. After half an hour, one says to the other, “What friendship is this! For half an hour I’ve lain waiting—the jamuns are falling, I am here—you cannot even pick one jamun and put it in my mouth!”
The other says, “Go away! So I’ve seen friendship. A dog was peeing in my ear just now and you didn’t even shoo it away!”
A third man passing by heard this. He had seen many lazy men, but these were maha-purush—great masters of tamas. Pity arose; he picked a jamun and put it into each one’s mouth. As he was about to leave, both said, “Stay! Where are you going—who will take out the pits?”
Such a man cannot be angry, cannot do violence—know it for sure. He can create no mischief. Against mischief his whole lifestyle stands. Neither will he do great good—nor great evil. In a higher life this capacity of laziness becomes a protection against vices.
Then the man filled with energy, rajas, the Kshatriya—he draws his sword for trifles. At the slightest thing he twirls his moustache. He is expert in creating mischief. History is full of his mischief. Remove Kshatriyas from the world and ninety percent of history will vanish; the children’s burden will be gone; nothing left to study.
A Chinese emperor once went to meet a Zen fakir. The emperor’s arrogance—the Kshatriya’s pride! In Japan the Kshatriya’s pride is as strong as in India—stronger. There the Kshatriya is called “samurai.” The refinement achieved in Japan by the samurai, no one else has. Even great Rajputs pale before the samurai—because for centuries they honed their sword to the finest edge.
This emperor was a samurai. He went to see the fakir and said, “I have a question that always arises in my mind; no one has been able to answer. They say you can; therefore I have come. My question is—what is heaven, what is hell?”
The fakir burst out laughing. “Have you ever looked at your face in a mirror? Look, disciples—see this face—and such a question! A face such that even flies would hesitate to buzz.”
The emperor flared up—this is outrageous!
“Go wash your face,” said the fakir. “You must have eaten dal-rice four or six days ago—still stuck there.”
Hearing this much, the emperor drew his sword to cut off the head, when the fakir said, “Stop! This is the gate of hell opening.” In a flash, the emperor understood. He sheathed the sword. When compassion and understanding appeared on his face, the fakir said, “This is the gate of heaven. This is your answer.”
Where there is compassion—there is heaven; where there is anger—there is hell. He who can be angry can be compassionate. Therefore, in the supreme harmony, the Shudra’s tamas becomes a protection against vice; the Kshatriya’s rajas becomes the resolve for virtue.
And sattva is saintliness, simplicity, innocence—like a small child, guileless, whose paper has not been written upon. Through meditation comes sattva. When these three join; when the three are in equal proportion; when their orchestra is born—when the flute plays, and the sitar sings, and the tabla keeps the beat, and all three are in accord—when the confluence of the three becomes the Triveni—then a tirtha is created, then Prayag is born. Two are visible—the Ganga and Yamuna; the third, Saraswati, unseen. Therefore tamas and rajas are visible; sattva is invisible—it is Saraswati.
The sacred thread is the symbol of these three gunas. But of what use are symbols? People wound three threads about their neck and think they have become Brahmin. If Brahminhood were so cheap, what difficulty—just put the sacred thread on everyone and all would be Brahmin.

“Not the beast-like ignorant...
...who just hang three threads on the neck.”

Ignorant like animals. Think about this—calling Brahmins beast-like ignorant—think! For centuries the Brahmin has been pundit; one should call him “knowledgeable.” But his knowledge is hollow—verbal, scriptural—not experiential, existential, of the soul. His awareness has not arisen; thus his knowledge is false. When awareness arises, the aura of true knowledge appears. When the lamp of attention is lit, the light of knowing spreads. Information is not knowledge; it may camouflage ignorance, but it does not yield knowing.
Therefore Bhikha says: “Beast-like ignorance!” And they hang three threads on the neck and become Brahmin! No, not so easy. To be Brahmin is the greatest treasure of the world. Brahminhood is the mark of Buddhas. Buddha is Brahmin, Mahavira is Brahmin, Jesus is Brahmin, Zarathustra is Brahmin—though Zarathustra may never have heard the word “Brahmin,” Jesus may not have known the term. What does it matter? The quality of the Brahmin—self-experience, realization, witnessing, beyond the three gunas—is in them.
Wherever such a person is found—he is Brahmin—“Call him Brahmin who is immersed in Brahman.” Then hold his feet. You have found the tirtha—now bathe in it, dive in it.

“Cling to the feet of the saint—such a one attains the secret.
By the Guru’s grace, says Bhikha, the deceitful sacred thread is torn off.”

If such feet are found anywhere, do not leave. The mind will try a thousand ways to make you leave; it is cunning, scheming—and will pull you from the very place where its death is certain. The mind will raise innumerable arguments against the Sadguru—for the mind will try to save itself. Understandable—either the mind will survive, or Brahman—both cannot coexist at the feet of the Sadguru.
When you light a lamp in a dark room, if darkness had words it would say, “Stop, do not light the lamp; there are great dangers.” Darkness would give a thousand arguments against the lamp. It would say, “See, in darkness what peace—light will destroy the peace! See, in darkness no one can see you—you are safe; once the lamp is lit, you will be unsafe.
I was a guest in a house—an old-style home—then a large courtyard, and beyond that the bath and latrine. One son of the house was very timid; if he had to go at night, his mother had to go with him. His mother told me, ‘His age is now considerable—twelve. When little, it was okay. But I still have to stand at the latrine door if he must go at night. He is very afraid of ghosts. Please explain to him—there are no ghosts.’
I told the boy, ‘Do one thing—if you are afraid of ghosts, take a lantern. Why bother your mother?’ He said, ‘Leave it! In darkness, somehow I save myself; with a lantern they will surely see me.’
His point touched me—the way of darkness: in darkness, somehow one slips by, here and there—if a ghost stands there, I go here. You are giving me another trouble—the lantern! Then they will encircle me; there will be no chance to escape.”
If darkness could speak and you lit a lamp, darkness too would say, “For now you are somehow safe; in light a thousand hassles—things will become visible. Thieves and bandits will see, ‘Aha! You are at home!’ Murderers will come. In darkness you are safe—no one can see... you are invisible. And what reliance on the lamp—the oil will run out, it will go out—what will you do then? I am your constant companion. Lamps come and go; darkness is forever. I do not need to be lit or extinguished. And you see—how hard it is to get kerosene; prices are rising. Darkness is free; light costs money.”
Darkness, too, would argue—and perhaps you would agree with darkness. Darkness would say, “In me you find rest. With some light, you cannot sleep; in the dark you can. I am rest. And rest is what the scriptures call ‘Ram.’ Supreme rest is Samadhi.” It would search out scriptures and cite references. There is a saying—the devil, too, can quote scripture—so can darkness.
But darkness cannot speak. The mind can—and it is loquacious; not only can it speak, it babbles. It never keeps silent; it keeps talking. You may say, “Be quiet; let me rest a while,” and it says, “Rest—you rest; I will keep talking. I will continue my practice. I am not one to be silent. Why fall silent? What is there in silence?” The mind will keep chattering. When you reach the feet of the Sadguru, the greatest caution—beware of your own mind. Because you do not beware of the mind, the pundits and priests ensnare you—they are the mind’s symbol, outside. They convince the mind, capture the mind—you get bound.

“Midnight—the robbers’ camp—
Beware, O beware!
A slight miss and you are robbed;
Then, beating your head, you will repent—
Knowledge will be of no use.

These feather-soft speakers,
Despair at the sight of truth—
They tie knots and turn you into
Believers for many births—
Unwittingly they steal your breath.

When they bite, not a ripple rises—
Ill-fated defilers of the age of auspiciousness—
Unstrung by caste, clan, creed—
Morning they are wedding guests; night they are bandits—
Devourers of compassion, religion, honesty.

Come, let us take them on—
Together, let us perforate them—
Clear the road of the highwaymen—
Remove the heat and sorrow of life—
Let the earth receive release for life.

Do not think; halting is fatal—
Drunk with pride, the sinner is blind—
Come, act now, begin the campaign at once—
Midnight—the robbers’ camp—
Beware, O beware!”

First, beware of the mind—and you will be saved from the pundit. The pundit outside is the mind inside; the pundit is the mind’s manifestation in the outer world, and the mind is the pundit’s unmanifest form. They are linked. Therefore the pundit leaves a deep imprint upon the mind; the mind is easily impressed.
If a Sadguru is found, he will free you from the pundit and from the mind. But you must be ready to let go; without your cooperation, nothing can happen.

“Cling to the feet of the saint—
Such a one attains the secret.

Says Bhikha: with the Guru’s grace,
The deceitful sacred thread is torn off.”

Once such feet are found, then cling; hold, and never let go. Let the mind scream and reason in thousands—do not let go.

“...Such a one attains the secret.”
Only such a person comes to know life’s mystery and its secret.

“Neither can I live nor die—
Must I only writhe?
Even the cuckoo’s refrain
Falls silent in waves—
From the cracked heavens
Swarms the monsoon of love.

When the lamp burns through the night,
The flower of dawn opens—
They say, those who practice find God—
But shall I only languish,
Flowing, helpless?

Neither can I live nor die—
Must I only writhe?”

All depends on you. If you cling to yourself, you will go on writhing, wandering. Then the night has no end; then there will be no morning. But if you find feet somewhere where love wells up, where reverence is born—then be courageous, even reckless—take the risk. Bow down—for in that bowing lies victory. Die—for in that dying is hidden being.

“By the Guru’s grace and the company of seekers!
By the Guru’s grace, says Bhikha, the deceitful sacred thread is torn off.”

If you hold to the feet, the Guru will, bit by bit, cut your cunning mind, your crafty mind. Slowly, without your even knowing, with chisel and hammer he will sculpt your mind. From the raw stone within you he will carve the image of the Divine.

“Going to the saint’s feet, I crowned my head with dust.
Says Bhikha: the moment that dust touched me, the heavens sounded the flute.”

Bhikha speaks from his experience: when I went to my Guru’s feet—“Going to the saint’s feet, I crowned my head with dust”—even touching the feet was not my right. Do you hear? Bhikha says: touching the feet was not my right—I placed upon my head the dust that lay beneath the feet. That much was enough, more than enough.
“And the moment that dust touched me, the heavens sounded the flute”—in the sky the drums sounded, the music of the unstruck began; Omkar resounded—I heard the Divine for the first time, heard His resonance.
“The heavens sounded the flute.” His veena played; His flute played—the unstruck, of the sky; there was a rain of music.

“The days of monsoon have returned—hang the swing, O hang the swing!
The earth in green veil
Adorns herself anew.
The mad cloud scatters
Pearls in torrents.

The peacocks with anklets wait—
Come, make them dance.”

“The companion, friend, and sister are all mad—
All set to sing—
And here Radha, drenched in rasa,
Is drunk with ecstasy—
Krishna, hidden, plays the flute—
Sing the kajri, O sing!”

“Rise, shine—lightning flashes—
The anklets jingle—
Let those who must die, die—
Let the drops of nectar fall.
This chance will not come again—
Rise and be intoxicated!”

“The days of monsoon have returned—hang the swing, O hang the swing!”

If you can bow, the monsoon arrives—the clouds of monsoon gather, peacocks dance, the cuckoo sings, the pied cuckoo calls... “The days of monsoon have returned—hang the swing!” Then life becomes a festival, an enthusiasm, an upsurge. Not the life you have known till now—like a porter carrying a load—not even your own load, but others’.

“The earth in green veil
Adorns herself anew.
The mad cloud scatters
Pearls in torrents.

The peacocks with anklets wait—
Come, make them dance.”

Once you hear the flute of the sky—once you hear even a single tone of the unstruck in your ear—you cannot remain what you were. The old is gone, the new has come. Eyes opened anew, breath renewed, life renewed—you are dvija—twice-born. And the twice-born—he alone is Brahmin.

“The companion, friend, and sister are all mad—
All set to sing—
And here Radha, drenched in rasa,
Is drunk with ecstasy—
Krishna, hidden, plays the flute—
Sing the kajri, O sing!”

Krishna’s flute is playing—never stops, day and night it plays. Today it plays as ever—no difference at all. It is the eternal resonance; we are deaf. We are deaf because with our ego we have sealed our ears. We are blind—we have tied the blindfold of ego upon our eyes. Our heart does not feel; the rasa does not arise. We have tied stones upon our chest—stones of ego. Become Radha—dance, sing, hum!

“Krishna, hidden, plays the flute—
Sing the kajri, O sing!”

“Rise, shine—lightning flashes—
The anklets jingle—
Let those who must die, die—
Let the drops of nectar fall.
This chance will not come again—
Rise and be intoxicated!”

And when a Sadguru is found—do not miss, because who knows when again, in which lifetimes, after how many births, you may or may not meet.

“This chance will not come again—
Rise and be intoxicated!”

And when the Sadguru aims the arrow at your heart, open your chest. Show readiness to die. He who shows readiness to die—he alone is the disciple. He who shows readiness to die—he alone has a new birth.

“The flute sounded, I was lost—
The hope of the world fell away—
And since I heard this veena—
Worldly longings fell away.”

Since I have heard the unstruck sound—“the hope of the world fell away.” No more craving, no more desire. Listen, understand: you have been told again and again—first renounce the world, then you will hear the unstruck sound. But Bhikha says something else, as I tell you daily—“The flute sounded, I was lost, the hope of the world fell away!” When the flute began to play, then the world’s hope fell away, the world’s desire fell away.
Darkness does not disappear first. If someone says, “Let the darkness go, then we will light the lamp”—the lamp will never be lit. The lamp is lit—and darkness departs. Renunciation does not give meditation; meditation flowers into renunciation.
Therefore I do not tell my sannyasins to leave anything; I say—attain. What to leave? What leave-language? The language of leaving is the language of beggars. Learn the language of emperors—attain! We are not to leave the world; we are to attain the Divine. A creative campaign—not negative. “Leave this, leave that.” People are engaged in leaving trifles and think the Divine will be attained thereby. Someone has left salt—thinks the Divine will be found. What did you leave? Salt! Will Brahma-jnana happen by leaving salt? The body will be troubled a bit, because the body needs salt; without salt you will feel sluggish, enervated—but how will the Divine be attained?
Someone left salt; someone left ghee. Someone eats one day, fasts one day. What relation do these bodily arrangements have with attaining the Divine? The Jain monk eats only once—he should know, in Africa a tribe eats once—all of them—for centuries. You will be surprised—why once? Because you are habituated to twice. In America, people eat five times a day; they are astonished—how do you manage with just two! The one who eats five times will be astonished at the one who eats twice—“great renunciate!” And the one who eats once—greater astonishment—“supreme renunciate!” It is a matter of habit. The body can take enough in one meal to last twenty-four hours.
This has nothing to do with attaining the Divine—otherwise that whole tribe would be enlightened, all Brahma-jnanis. Someone does not drink water at night—yes, you will be uncomfortable—but what has this to do with the Divine? Have you taken God to be a fiend—that if you torture yourself, he will be pleased? What an upside-down notion—that a child tortures himself and the mother’s love increases! The mother will thrash him—“What nonsense! Leaving salt—will you get my love by this? Not eating once—will you gain my love by this?” If the Divine is, he will stay far away from your so-called munis—he will avoid them. If by mistake he meets them on the road, he will slip into a lane. These are sick souls. Negation always brings disease. Negativity is not life’s dharma—creativity is. Not no—not yes. Say yes to yes.
Bhikha says: “The flute sounded, I was lost...”—and when the sky’s veena is heard, the inner veena too begins to play. In its resonance, it plays. When the sky’s light falls upon you, the inner lamp is lit. It was asleep—it opens its eyes.

“The flute sounded, I was lost—
The hope of the world fell away.”

Since then, a miracle—the desire for wealth, position, prestige—which did not leave by leaving—suddenly disappears without your knowing. As the lamp is lit, darkness is gone.

“By the Guru’s grace says Bhikha—
I took up residence at the feet.”

Then, those feet I never left. I did not leave Gulal. I remained dust at those feet. Where to go now? What remains to be sought?

“Bhikha is only one—yet countless became his fame.
The One Atman pervades all vessels—
This is the way the saints know.”

And when the unstruck is known, it is seen—He is One; we see the many because we do not have the eye to see the truth. Our eye is artificial.
In a royal palace, the walls were made of mirrors—tiny mirrors. The king’s dog, by mistake, got locked inside for the night. Understand his predicament—it is man’s predicament. He opened his eyes; the light came on. Till then he sat untroubled. When the lights came on, he saw—one dog? No—millions of dogs on all sides. Each small mirror held one dog. Dogs everywhere! He had never seen so many. His breath stopped—“I am doomed.” No place to flee—wherever he turns, dogs. He did what he knew—barked. He barked—millions barked. He lunged—millions lunged. He attacked the dogs—so the dogs attacked him, he felt. He crashed into the walls; his head broke; he bled. All night he barked and crashed; barked and crashed. In the morning his corpse was found, and on all the walls his blood marks.
Such is man’s condition. We lack the eye to see truth. We have not yet seen ourselves—what else can we see! Even self-vision has not happened; we look at others! And we see our image in others’ eyes—they are mirrors. Thousands of people—thousands of walking mirrors. And in those mirrors you see yourself. They look into your eyes, you into theirs. Someone says, “How lovely!”—your heart blossoms. Someone says, “Out of the way! Don’t bother me!”—your heart is sore. In one mirror you look beautiful—blissful; in another mirror you look ugly—you feel ashamed. And so many mirrors, and each has different language—one says this, one that. You collect your identity from these mirrors—collecting scraps, different scraps—from different people. Patching them all together, you take it to be your soul.
This is not soul. Soul is not known this way. To know the soul you need no mirror. In a mirror what will you see but yourself? The dog, in the mirror, saw only a dog.
I have heard, Mulla Nasruddin once found a mirror lying by the roadside. He had never seen a mirror. He picked it up—was startled. “Looks exactly like my father!” His father had died. “So—he was a colorful fellow! Got his photo taken! I never thought father had such a colorful temperament—prayed five times a day!” He quickly hid it in his coat—no one should know. “He had such a name—a great saint. If anybody hears he got a photograph taken—more defamation. Now he is dead—what defamation! He is in heaven now. What happened has happened. I’ll hide it at home.”
He climbed to the loft and hid the mirror. But how can you hide anything from your wives—can you? Has any husband ever hidden anything? Try to hide—and be caught! All husbands know—there’s no use hiding. The wife will find it. She saw Mulla climb and hide something. She thought—“Let him finish first; he must be hiding something.”
When Mulla came down and after lunch went to sleep, the wife climbed up. She found the mirror—looked—“Aha! So this is the whore he is involved with! Old age—and he hides the photo.” She said, “Let him wake up—I’ll make him remember his mother’s milk.”
After all, what will you see in a mirror? Only your image—and only the outer image; no mirror can photograph your inner being. No X-ray reaches there. Bones—yes; but the soul—there is no way to photograph it. It must be known.

“Bhikha is only one—yet countless became his fame.”

He who knows the One—knows all. Knowing within, he knows within all.

“The One Atman pervades all vessels—
This is the way the saints know.”

The same One is present—the same in me, the same in you. The same One—present in the Divine, present in the stone. To express this truth we first created stone images. But truths get lost; symbols get lost; in wrong hands—good is wasted. To express the great truth that the same One is the Divine and the same in the stone, we made stone images—so you would remember, be reminded—that in the lowliest is hidden the highest; in the meanest, the vast; in every particle the Infinite resides.

“The One Atman pervades all vessels—
This is the way the saints know.”

He who knows thus is a saint. A lovely definition: he who knows the One is saint; he who is lost in the many, deluded himself and deluding others—is not a saint. A saint cannot be Jain. A saint cannot be Hindu. A saint cannot be Muslim. If he is, know—he is not a saint. If he sees the One, how will adjectives remain? The temple is his, the mosque is his, the gurudwara is his.
I was in Amritsar. The heads of the gurudwara invited me. They took me in. At the door, the chief said, “Let me tell you first—Sikh dharma is the only religion where there is no difference between Hindu and Muslim.”
I said, “If there is no difference, why mention it? Even this talk of no difference carries difference. If there is no difference, how do you know who is Hindu or Muslim?”
They said, “Here we let all come—Hindu too, Muslim too.”
I said, “When you say, ‘We let all come—Hindu too, Muslim too,’ you maintain difference. You have not recognized Nanak—you have missed. Somewhere there is obstruction; somewhere there is none—but difference still persists.”
They were very uneasy taking me inside. I asked, “You look quite disturbed. It is early morning, cold, and yet your forehead is sweating. What is the matter?”
They said, “Now what is there to hide? Without saying it we cannot be at peace—later there will be much difficulty. You are not wearing a cap; without a cap, going in the gurudwara will be disrespect. Quickly,” he took out a handkerchief, “I will tie it on your head.”
I said, “Since I have accepted your invitation, I will endure this absurdity too. And having come, for such a small thing I will not turn back and hurt you and others who have gathered. Tie it. But do you think—tying a cloth on the head makes respect? I tell you—if I go bareheaded, it is respect; and you, no matter how many turbans you tie, it is no respect. Respect is of the heart—what of cap and no cap? And the Divine sends no one into the world wearing caps. At least He would put a cap—if he had even a little etiquette. Not the loincloth, not the pajama, not the achkan—but at least a cap!”
One day someone knocked at Mulla Nasruddin’s door; he came with his wife. Mulla, afraid, opened the door a crack. Both were startled—Mulla, wearing a cap, absolutely naked... Double curiosity—why naked? And if naked, why the cap? Having come, they could not turn back; and Mulla could not say nothing. He said, “Welcome, please sit.”
They sat. The husband asked, “Why are you naked?”
Mulla said, “Because no one visits at this hour. It is hot. Why bear suffering? Naked, I enjoy.”
The wife could contain herself no more. “This is answered—but then why the cap?”
Mulla said, “Ah! Someone may arrive by mistake. At least the cap remains—there is respect.”
I told them this story. “If you insist, tie the handkerchief—I will oblige you. But this respect is only show. If respect is in my heart, cap or no cap makes no difference; if respect is not in the heart, cap or no cap makes no difference. Still, I will tie it, not for Nanak, but for you—so you don’t sweat with worry, so people don’t harass you later. And just now you were saying—no difference between Hindu and Muslim—yet now there is difference between cap and no cap!”

Who is a saint?

“The One Atman pervades all vessels—
This is the way the saints know.”

“Had I not known you—
How could I have written songs?

The full moon is very beautiful—
Pouring nectar on the world—
But unless the tide rises,
Who knows what relation it has?

If eyes do not see the pearl—
How would I gather it?”

“Without the beloved guest of recognition—
There is no daily new melody of rasa in the home;
In whose thrill I receive
The boon of smiling, living.

Many boons I might receive—
But who would call me ‘giver’?”

“These songs are as dear to me
As rays are to sun and moon;
The silent flute’s melody
Gives awareness to the poet.

Like the dumb with his sweet jaggery—
Whom could I tell?”

What the saint receives is the dumb man’s sweet.

“If eyes do not see the pearl—
How would I gather it?”

He gets new eyes, new seeing; he discerns—what is pearl, what is pebble. The swan picks pearls! He sees the pearls everywhere. He finds pearls in the Quran, pearls in the Vedas, in the Upanishads, in the Dhammapada. I am telling you daily of these pearls.
People ask me—how many saints have you spoken on? On how many will you speak?
I speak on pearls—what have I to do with saints! Wherever pearls are found, where I see pearls—I cannot remain silent. I bring you news of pearls. Who knows—in what moment, in what auspicious instant—your eyes open and you recognize pearls. While Bhikha’s song is going—perhaps then; while Kabir’s song—perhaps then; while Mansoor’s tale—perhaps then. Who knows in what moment your eyes open—and you recognize pearls. Once you recognize—you will miss no more, you will err no more.

“One single thread of the Name—
All the bodies are beads on a garland.
Some saint keeps turning it—
Sadguru’s Name—Gulal.”

“One single thread of the Name...”

This whole existence is like a garland. You see the beads; the thread you do not see. All of us are beads; the whole existence is like beads, and inside is the thread tying it all—holding it together, bound in a single harmony. The beads do not scatter; the garland does not break. That invisible thread is the Divine—call it Ram, call it Allah—give it whatever name.

“One single thread of the Name—
All the bodies are beads on a garland.”

All else are gems, beads, pearls—do not get stuck in the pearls. Examine the pearls, go deep into the pearls—and you will find the one thread. Dive into Bhikha—you will find the same thread. Dive into Kabir—the same thread. Dive into Nanak—the same thread. Thus, day by day, I am trying to get you to grasp the thread by making you take such dips.

“Some saint keeps turning it—
Sadguru’s Name—Gulal.”

Bhikha says: I recognize Gulal—that is the name of his Guru. In Gulal I have seen Buddha; in Gulal I have seen Mahavira; in Gulal I have seen Mohammed. I recognized through Gulal; therefore Gulal dwells in my heart. Through Gulal, all Sadgurus dwell in my heart. But my reverence and my life-breath belong at Gulal’s feet—because placing even the dust of his feet upon my head—“the heavens sounded the flute.” The Divine showered nectar upon me at his feet. For me, Gulal is all.
For the disciple, his own Guru is all; all Gurus are contained in him. In the drop of his own Guru he finds the whole ocean. Therefore he has no need to go anywhere; no need remains. He settles, he rests in one place. But such moments have become rare on this earth; such moments of good fortune have declined. The Sadguru is difficult; now even the disciple is difficult! The Sadguru has always been rare, but disciples were not so rare—seekers, explorers, men who would risk life itself.

“Today on our own soil—
Even to raise the head is forbidden.
Have you not heard till now—
The story of a dwarf?
Do you not know—
A generous man was sacrificed?
Today on the land of dwarfs—
Even to hum a tune is forbidden.

That which should not be endured—
I endure, laughing;
Do not believe me—
Therefore I say such things;
Do not believe me—
Therefore I say such things;
On the blood-soaked earth—
Even to take a step is forbidden.

This is not the time to sing songs,
This is not the time to find a friend;
No donor of practice and perfection—
All seek excuses to strike;
Do not smile here—
Even to sing a song is forbidden.”

Now the condition is terrible; how will you hear the sky’s song—you do not even have the capacity to sing your own. If you sing—humming is forbidden; a thousand restrictions; bayonets stand guard. The state, the church, the pundit, the priest tighten man’s neck daily—how will a song rise from a strangled throat?
“Today on the land of dwarfs—
Even to hum a tune is forbidden.”

Very small, small dwarfs sit in seats of power; therefore, when anywhere a song is sung, when any talent is born, when the Divine descends—those dwarfs are greatly disturbed.
Now only those few can set out in search of truth who are prepared to give even life; who can offer life; who are ready to endure a thousand difficulties—a thousand troubles. Yet all these troubles are worth enduring. The day the song of truth is born, the day that veena sounds—you will find what we did was nothing; what was received—was immense. Our effort was a drop; what we received—a sea.

By the Guru’s grace and the company of seekers!
Enough for today.