Guru Partap Sadh Ki Sangati #7

Guru-pratap—sadh ki sangati!

To attain Truth is an inside-outness, a paradox. To attain Truth is beyond logic; it runs contrary to all arithmetic, all calculation. And the most fundamental paradox is this—that Truth is not found by effort, and it is not found without effort either. Those who never strive will certainly not find it; and those who do nothing but strive will not find it either.

Ordinary logic does not function like this. Common mathematics does not move in this way. Ordinary reasoning thinks—either it will come by effort, or it will come without effort. But Truth is a paradox—it does not come through effort, nor through effortlessness alone.

Then how does Truth come? Effort is needed—tireless effort, total effort. But that alone will not do. Along with effort, prayer is needed—then it happens, then fragrance enters the gold. When effort is complete, logic says, What need is there now of prayer? When we are putting in a hundred percent effort, the fruit must follow from effort. But when effort stands alone, there is no release from ego. Effort alone strengthens the ego; I-ness grows dense; the doer takes deeper root.

And as long as ego is, there is no attainment of Truth. As long as ego is, there is no recognition of Paramatma. As long as ego is, there is no realization of oneself. And effort will not remove ego; effort only fattens it. Whatever effort you make—accumulate wealth and the ego of being wealthy will arise; renounce and the ego of renunciation will arise; acquire knowledge and the ego of the knower will arise; descend into meditation and the ego of the meditator will arise.

From doing there is no escape from ego. Ego will dog you; whatever you do, it will sprout from that very doing. It will take new forms, new expressions, new disguises so subtle you may not even recognize them. Try to become humble and ego will stand up in your humility. Within you a proclamation will begin—No one is more humble than me. See, there is none more humble than me! Even your humility will become an ornament of the ego, its handmaid. Therefore, even with complete effort there will be no attainment.

How then is one freed of ego? Ego melts in prayer. As the sun rises and ice begins to melt; as the sun rises and dewdrops start to vanish—so, with the awakening of prayer, ego begins to turn to emptiness. Prayer is prasad. How will your effort take you above yourself? How will your effort lift you beyond yourself? That would be like trying to lift yourself by pulling on your own shoelaces. No—help must be sought. Help from the Other Shore. You must call to Paramatma. You must seek His hand. If He raises you, then rising becomes possible. If He awakens you, then awakening happens.

But the call reaches Him only from one who has done, on his own, whatever could be done. The prayers of the slothful, the lazy, the indolent do not reach Him. In the prayer of the indolent there is no life. The indolent person’s prayer is a corpse—it smells; it carries no fragrance. What meaning is there in the lazy one’s prayer?—it is a device to hide laziness. The lazy man’s prayer is only a way to cover his sloth. Prayer belongs to the one who has staked himself wholly. Prayer belongs to the one who has done all that could be done, leaving nothing undone. He is worthy of prayer. His prayer will have life; his prayer will have wings; his prayer will soar into the infinite.

What does prayer mean? It means: Whatever I could do, I have done—now I am helpless. Whatever I could do, I have done—now I am powerless. Now I call to You—now You, do. Prayer means: By what I did, I have come to the shore; but unless You extend Your hand, I cannot rise upon the shore. Otherwise, people do not drown only in midstream—people drown at the very bank as well. Often they drown at the bank; they survive midstream—because in midstream they remain alert, watchful, full of awareness. Nearing the shore, they become unconscious. They think: Now I have arrived, now I have arrived—what worry remains? They begin to relax. In that very relaxation lies the danger. As the shore draws near, one starts believing: Now I have made it—what need is there to call out now!

I have heard: a boat was about to sink. People were on their knees praying to God. Nothing else occurred to them. The storm was fierce; the wind violent; the waves tried to touch the sky. The boat was small, rocking. Water was entering; they were bailing—but there was no hope. The shore was far… no trace of the shore.

Everyone was praying, but one Muslim fakir sat silently. People grew angry with him. They said, You are a fakir—you should be the first to pray, and you sit silent! All our lives are in danger and you cannot even pray. And perhaps our prayer will not reach, for we have never prayed before. Yours would reach—you have been drowned in prayer your whole life. What has happened to you today? Every day we saw you pray—morning, noon, evening. The Muslim fakir performed namaz five times. What happened today? Why do you appear so bewildered?

But the fakir kept smiling. He did not pray—and then he suddenly shouted, Stop! because people were praying—one saying, If I survive I will donate a thousand rupees; someone said, I will give it to the temple; someone to the masjid; another to the church; someone said, I will take sannyas, renounce everything. In the middle the fakir cried out, Careful! Do not make such promises—the shore is visible.

The shore had come close. The waves of the storm had carried the boat swiftly toward the bank. All the prayers ended right there. People rose from their incomplete prayers, began tying their bundles, forgot both prayer and God. Then the fakir sat to pray. People laughed. They said, You seem mad. What are you praying for now? The shore is near.

The fakir said, I have heard from the true Masters—boats do not sink in midstream; they sink at the shore. I have heard from the Masters—in midstream people are alert, cautious; at the bank they fall unconscious. I have heard from the Masters—midstream people pray, call out to God; the moment they see the shore, they forget God. Who cares then! When the shore itself is near, who cares for God? People are such tricksters, such cheats, beyond counting.

When the shore is near, who cares for God? Tricksters they are, cheats beyond count.

I have heard Mulla Nasruddin was returning with much wealth and the boat began to sink. It came to the final moment—now it sinks, now it sinks… not much time left. As long as there was hope he kept up his courage. Seeing that now it would sink, he said—Listen!—speaking to God, My seven-lakh mansion I will donate. He had great attachment to that mansion—none like it for miles around; its fame spread far. Many times people offered to buy it; emperors asked for it; he never gave it. It was his one great attachment. He said, I will even give the mansion. When life itself is in danger, You take the house—donate it among the poor, sell it and distribute all the money.

By coincidence the boat was saved. Now you can understand Mulla’s crisis. Others had also heard his prayer. They said, Mulla—now?

Mulla said, Don’t panic. The same mind that produced the prayer will also find a trick. God cannot loot me so easily. Now the shore has come—now we shall see.

The next day he had a drum-beat in the village: the mansion is up for auction. Buyers came from far and wide; a great crowd gathered—rajas and maharajas came. Such was the mansion. And to everyone’s astonishment, he had tied a cat to a marble pillar in front of the house.

People asked, Why have you tied this cat? For what?

He said, Wait—first listen. The cat’s price is seven lakh rupees; the mansion’s price is one rupee. But both will be sold together.

People said, Have you gone mad? Seven lakh for a cat! A stray cat—you’ve caught some alley cat, not yours, not your father’s—wandering in the neighborhood—and seven lakh for the cat and one rupee for the mansion!

Mulla said, Do not worry about that—both will be sold together.

People said, What do we care! Even if you ask seven—or nine—lakhs for the house, we are ready to pay.

The mansion sold for one rupee—and the cat for seven lakhs. The seven lakhs Mulla put in his strongbox; the one rupee he distributed among the poor.

He who even survives midstream will become a cheat again at the shore—because his prayer was calculation, arithmetic. Prayer was not his life. Prayer was only a device for survival; a weapon, not a sadhana; a safety, not surrender.

Your effort may bring you up to the bank—but who will draw you up onto the shore? Those hands can reach you only through prayer. Prayer is the bridge between man and Paramatma. Prayer alone joins man with Paramatma, not effort. And why does prayer join? Because a prayerful heart opens. As the lotus opens in the morning and the sunrays dance into its innermost core, so in prayer your life opens, the lotus of life opens—and the dancing God enters. In prayer there is a shower of prasad.

But where will you learn prayer? Effort you know. The very same effort you used to earn wealth—will be useful. The same running about, the same worry and concern, the same labor—will be useful. Only the direction will change—the striving that was aimed toward wealth will turn toward dhyan; the exertion that chased position will turn toward Paramatma; the stubbornness that wanted to conquer the world will be engaged in self-victory.

You know effort—because in the world everyone practices effort, more or less. Degrees differ, but all are familiar with effort. Where will you learn prayer? Prayer is contagious. Prayer happens only by sitting near those who have known prayer. Prayer is an unprecedented, wordless wave. Sit near the intoxicated and you will become intoxicated; sit near the despondent and you will become despondent; sit near the weeping and you will begin to weep. If not today, then tomorrow—how long will you protect your own?

Prayer is learned just so—Guru-pratap, sadh ki sangati. Guru means: one who has arrived, who has shattered his darkness, into whom light has descended, whose veena has begun to sing. Sit near him and his singing veena will make the strings of your sleeping veena tremble. Musicians say, in the same room if a veena-player plays and another veena is left in the corner, when the player strikes his veena with totality, the strings of the veena in the corner begin to vibrate and notes arise from it, for the waves fill the whole chamber. When one veena wakes, how can another remain asleep?

Can a sleeping man be awakened by another sleeping man—or do you think he can? Only one who is awake can awaken the sleeping—for the awake can shake you, the awake can call out, the awake can bring cold water and splash your eyes, the awake can arrange something—drag you out of bed, snatch away your blanket. The awake can do something. But one who himself sleeps—what will he do? Perhaps the very mood of the sleeper, the field around him, will prevent your waking—even if you were about to awaken. A sleeping person too creates an electrical field around him. Have you noticed—if someone sitting near you yawns, you begin to yawn? Perhaps you never paid attention—if a person near you starts dozing, you feel sleepy too.

Every person creates an energy-field around him. What is within him ripples outward.

A fruit-seller had reared a fox. The fox is a cunning, clever animal—politician among beasts. He kept the fox to watch the shop. The fox grew very smart. If ever the shopkeeper went to eat, he would say, Sit here in my place and watch—let no one steal anything, let no one enter; raise a commotion and I will come.

Mulla was passing by. He heard the shopkeeper telling the fox, Sit here and watch—and be careful. If anyone does anything suspicious, raise your voice. If anyone does anything of any kind around the shop, be alert. Mulla heard. The shopkeeper went inside to eat. Mulla saw bunches of grapes, pomegranates, pears, apples—his mouth watered. But the fox sat in front absolutely alert, yogic, meditative. She watched—and began staring closely at Mulla.

What did Mulla do? He sat down right before the fox on the street, closed his eyes, and started to nod. In a short while the fox fell asleep—then he polished off the grapes.

When the shopkeeper came, he saw the grapes missing. He asked the fox, Where did the grapes go?

She said, As far as I saw, no one came.

The shopkeeper said, But surely someone must have come. Did you see anyone?

She said, Yes, I saw a man walking by.

Did he do anything?

The fox said, He did nothing—had he done anything, I would have raised my voice. That man did nothing—he sat down and slept. Yes, from his sleeping one nuisance occurred—seeing him sleep, he began to snore, and I too fell asleep.

The shopkeeper said, Next time remember—sleeping too is an act, a deed. If anyone tries such a trick of sleeping before you, be absolutely alert—then understand, some very sly fellow… even more cunning than you.

Seeing sleepers, it is natural you feel sleepy—because a sleeper generates a magnetic field in which sleep arises. Sit near a yawner and you begin to yawn. Exactly so at the plane of awakening. If one who is awake sits near a sleeper—even if he does nothing, does not utter a sound…

Try one small experiment—you will be amazed. Your wife is asleep, your husband asleep, your child asleep—just sit near them very wakefully, as awake as you can be, with all your energy summon awareness, sit awake by their side. You will be astonished—moments will not pass and their eyes will open. These are known experiments. Something within them is stirred. Your wakefulness strikes them, wounds them—they begin to turn, their sleep starts breaking. Guru-pratap…! Just so, sitting near those who are utterly awake, there is a shower of prasad. By their radiance, by their aura, by the rays emanating from them—your sleep begins to break.

Guru-pratap—sadh ki sangati!

And sit, move, among the mad lovers—the sadhus. For we do in life, and we become in life, exactly what waves we imbibe within.

You have heard the saying—man becomes what he eats. But perhaps you have not understood its meaning. Its obvious meaning seems clear, but such sayings hold many meanings. The superficial meaning you understand—man becomes like the food he eats. You think—then vegetarianism is needed; if you eat meat, devour wild animals, you will become wild. Then you think further—if you eat only vegetables, you will become greens! The vegetarians never say that. Jain monks tell people—never eat meat, otherwise you will become like beasts. Understood, all right. But if you eat only vegetables then?—worse will happen—you will become thickets, branches will sprout, leaves and flowers! That would be trouble too. Animals at least are a more evolved state than plants.

To say, You become what you eat, does not mean what people take it to mean—otherwise if a man drinks milk, he becomes milk, and what then of Morarji Desai? Drink “life-water” and become “life-water”! No, the outer meaning will not work. Food has a much deeper meaning. Food—ahar—means this: whatever subtle waves you assimilate, by that you become. Ahar means subtle nourishment. One who drinks music—something musical will inevitably grow within him. If one drinks music, lives in music, plays the veena, listens to the flute, dissolves in the sitar—his life will begin to change; the imprint of music will be seen; music will enter his manner; music will pervade his movements; when he speaks there will be music; when he is silent, there will be music. One who is absorbed in puja, in prayer, in worship—naturally there will arise within him a fragrance like temple-incense; within him the lamp of the temple will begin to burn.

Ahar does not mean only what you take through the mouth; it means what you receive through the soul. One who listens to abuse, sits where foul words are flung—do you think music and poetry will arise in his life? Only abuse will be born. Be friends with acacias and you will become acacias—full of thorns. If you must befriend, befriend lotuses; for we become like those we keep company with. Ahar is a great thing; mere food is a petty matter.

Sit under a full moon one night and gaze fixedly at the sky—at the full moon—something within you will begin to move. Scientists say—life was first born in the ocean. The first form of life was fish. The Hindu saying seems true—that God’s first avatar is Matsya—fish. Evolutionary science also accepts this—and has reasons. Even now there is eighty percent water in the human body. You are eighty percent water. And the very salts that are in the sea are the salts in your body—just that much salt and those same chemicals—exactly so.

Within you there is not ordinary water—there is precisely ocean-water. In the mother’s womb, when the child is conceived, the state is that of the sea. A little pond of ocean-water forms; in it the child floats. Again the journey begins—first like a fish… If you watch the nine-month development of the child you will see the evolution from fish to monkey. That is why pregnant women like more salt—salty things attract them, because the womb needs salt; for the child, a salt-filled pond is needed—to swim in, to grow in.

On the full-moon night, you have seen the sea surge with high waves—and you are eighty percent sea-water—on seeing the full moon, waves will arise within you too; they do arise. You will be surprised to know—the largest number of people go mad on the full-moon night. The largest number of people attain Buddhahood on the full-moon night. Falling happens on the full moon; rising also on the full moon. There is a lovely note in Buddha’s life—he was born on a full moon, attained Buddhahood on a full moon, and died on a full moon.

Among those who have attained Buddhahood in this world, most have done so on the full moon. The full-moon night is wondrous. And most murders happen on full-moon nights—and most suicides too. In all the world’s languages, words for the mad are tied to the moon. In Hindi we say chandamara—moon-struck. In English, lunatic—from luna, moon—moon-struck.

If the moon so far away can have such effect—that it can make someone mad, bring someone to Buddhahood, drive someone to suicide, drive someone to murder—then it is difficult to find a person who is not affected by the moon in some way. Impossible! The moon affects everyone in some way or other.

What then of those in whom the inner moon has arisen—whose clouds have parted—who have become a full moon within; who have become complete within; who have attained the fullness of consciousness? They are the Sadgurus—by their radiance, prayer is born. And the crowd that gathers around them—the mad, the drinkers of the divine, the intoxicated—them we call sadhus. In the company of sadhus, under the Guru’s radiance, all your efforts bear fruit. Because then—

Effort + Prayer… The melody of prayer begins to play within you. And when Effort + Prayer, then no obstacle remains. Effort + Prayer = Paramatma—that is the equation. Guru-pratap—sadh ki sangati!

As music’s sound frolics in the air!
Or as, toward the last watch, night melts into nectar!
So in meditation youth’s form begins to dance:
Like a dream’s shadow moving in the eyes!
As the heart-swan bathes in the lake of Soma!
As the flute’s note in the moonlit waves!
So on the soft lips of the maiden—speaks the sage:
Like the sacred smile of a dew-washed flower!

What happens near the Sadgurus is hard to say in words. As music’s sound frolics in the air! Yet a few hints can be given. In the company of the Sadguru something happens—some music… as music frolics in the air! Music has no definition, nor will it ever have one. There is no way to translate music into language. Nor is it right to say that music has meaning. Music carries no meaning. It has import, but no literal meaning. It yields immense joy. But if someone asks you—say exactly what, bind it in words—you will fall dumb, mute. For the mute, jaggery—music is exactly that.

What happens near the Sadguru is great music. Ordinary music is heard by the ears; what happens near the Sadguru is received only by the inner soul. Even the ears do not hear it; the eyes do not see it; hands cannot touch it. Only the heart sees it, the heart hears it, the heart touches it; it is the holiest event of love.

As music’s sound frolics in the air!
Or as, toward the last watch, night melts into nectar!
Sometimes if you have risen early… now people have stopped rising early—late to bed and late to rise—and they miss the most important watch of the day—when nectar flows. That watch we called Brahma-muhurta. When the sun has not yet risen, night feels as if departing; the last moment of farewell has come—and the sun not yet up, about to rise—the middle state, the twilight, the interval—this is the Brahma-muhurta. In that moment nectar flows. Why? Because whenever such a great transformation occurs—night turning into day—for a short while it is neither night nor day; a middle state comes. The middle is balance—the state of samyakta.

Therefore two watches are most important for prayer—one in the morning, when night has gone and day has not yet come; and one in the evening, when the day has gone and night is arriving—not yet arrived. These two moments are the most significant for prayer—because in them you are the freest from the earth’s gravitation; in these two you are closest to yourself; in these two Paramatma is very near—if you extend your hand a little, His hand meets yours.

Therefore in India—this land has made more experiments in prayer than any other. In other lands much work has occurred—we cannot claim on those counts—science, mathematics, physics, chemistry, engineering—great achievements across the world. We can make only one claim—that we discovered the science of prayer. Having experimented deeply with prayer, we learned that in the twenty-four hours there are two moments that bring you closest to God. Thus in India “sandhya” became another name for prayer. People say, We are doing sandhya—meaning, we are praying. Prayer and sandhya became synonymous.

As music’s sound frolics in the air!
Or as, toward the last watch, night melts into nectar!
Something like this happens near the Guru—the fresh air of dawn, the fresh ray, the fresh dew, the morning’s virginal beauty…! So in meditation youth’s form begins to dance! As in youth beauty attracts, so the Sadguru attracts the seeker of Truth.

Like a dream’s shadow moving in the eyes! The matter is so subtle that only by comparing it to even the shadow of a dream can we hint. Dream itself is a shadow—its shadow, a shadow of a shadow, hardly exists. But if a dream’s shadow could exist—then what happens near the Sadguru is that subtle, that delicate, that fine…

As the heart-swan bathes in the lake of Soma!—as if there were an ocean of moonlight, a sea of Soma—or we can take another meaning of Soma—Veda speaks of Somarasa, the nectar; if there were an ocean of Soma, a sea of nectar… as the heart becomes a hansa and bathes in the Soma-lake—so does the disciple bathe near the Guru. The Guru becomes the Soma-lake; the disciple becomes the swan!

As the flute’s note in the moonlit waves!
So on the soft lips of the maiden—speaks the sage:
Like the sacred smile of a dew-washed flower!
As in the morning the sacred smile of a dew-washed flower—such an unprecedented happening takes place between Sadguru and disciple. None else even gets wind of it. The happening happens, the revolution happens, the sleeping awaken—but others remain unaware. Only the Guru and the disciple know when the transaction occurred—when two hearts met and became one—when two souls lost their distance. A third may sit close by as a spectator—nothing will be known to him.

The search for Truth belongs only to those ready to drown. It cannot be done as a bystander; for this search surrender is essential.

Bhikha’s sutras:
He who beholds the form of Ram—that person is supremely wise.
He says: I will call wise only him, skillful only him, proficient only him—who sees the form of Ram. All others called wise are but fools of words. They may know arithmetic, and the art of earning money; they may be great scholars of history, researchers; great knowers of geography, great travelers; they may hold high positions; great prestige, fame, titles—but all is futile, because death will snatch it all away. Such people live in deception.

Bhikha speaks rightly: He who beholds the form of Ram! I call only one wise, he says—the one who sees the form of Ram, who beholds Ram, who has the vision of Truth, who weds the Brahman pervading this world. He who beholds the form of Ram—that person is supremely proficient! Only he is skillful, only he is truly intelligent, truly wise.

Such a one, both the world and the Vedas proclaim.
And Bhikha says—what I say is not mine alone; the Vedas say the same, and the age-long experience of people says the same. To spend time accruing what death will take is not earning—it is squandering. That which death cannot snatch—even if in gaining it you lose everything—you have earned. Jesus has said: If you try to save your life, you will lose it; if you are ready to lose it, I give you the key to gain all.

In satsang, through feeling and devotion, the supreme bliss is known.
Only one thing remains beyond death—one who has bathed in satsang, in love and bhakti, and has known supreme bliss. All else will be lost. All else are lines drawn on water—you will scarcely draw them before they melt. Your talk of prestige, your ambitions—all are paper boats; you will not even be able to launch them before they sink. Sand castles—now standing, now fallen; a little gust of wind and all returns to dust.

In satsang, through feeling and devotion, the supreme bliss is known.
He who beholds the form of Ram—that person is supremely wise.

Renouncing all objects, he does not re-enter the beyond.
He who has drunk the rasa of Ram—desire for all objects falls away. Renouncing all objects, he does not return to this world again. There is no more need. He is graduated—he has passed the examination of the world—he has been tested on the touchstone of the world.

Only the Self hides the Self within the Self.
Then he realizes the wondrous secret—He was hidden in Himself, by Himself, seeking Himself, to be found within Himself. All is within oneself. The entire world, the whole cosmos is within oneself. But we do not go within—we run without. We avoid the within—lest we be forced to go there. We fear the within. Sit alone for a short while and trouble arises—What shall I do, what not?

Emptiness bites. For centuries the intelligent sought solitude. The unintelligent?—they keep killing time. People play cards. Ask them, What are you doing? They say, Passing time! Someone plays chess, moves wooden elephants and horses. Ask him, What are you doing?—Passing time! Someone sits with the radio on. People sit for hours before the television—watching three-hour films! No work at all. Sitting in hotels chattering, in clubs gossiping—the same nonsense spoken a thousand times before, heard a thousand times before.

But none is willing to sit alone. What has happened to man? For ages we did the opposite—we sought solitude. If we found a moment, we would sit with eyes closed. Now no one sits with eyes closed. Now no one closes door and window for a little while to sit alone. Now no one goes to the forest for a few days—to the mountains—to sit silently. Even when they go to the mountains, they carry a transistor radio. Then why go there? You can hear the radio here—hearing it on the mountain—what is the gain? Even on the mountain people carry a camera.

I went to the Himalayas with a friend. However beautiful the scene, however beautiful the moment—he kept clicking his camera. I said, When will you look? The sun is rising so beautifully—and you are busy with your camera! Such a lovely play of clouds—and you are busy with your camera!

He said, Do not worry. When we return home, I will make an album and enjoy it at leisure.

Then why come here at all? Albums are available in the market—beautiful albums of the Himalayas. You cannot take pictures so lovely; those are by highly professional people. Why trouble yourself here? You will look at the pictures while the living beauty stands before you!

But people are like that. Even on the mountain—the same habits… They have gone to breathe pure air—and sit there smoking cigarettes! Is there any limit to man’s foolishness? If you must smoke, Bombay is better—without smoking the air has so much smoke that whether you smoke or not, you are smoking. Why come to the Himalayas then? Make friendship with the mountains—the mountains hold secrets—still absorbed in meditation; not yet civilized; not yet graduates of your universities; not yet stricken with the madness to go to Delhi; still innocent—befriend them; sit by them. Leave the world for a while, forget it—sink a little within.

Only the Self hides the Self within the Self.
Then you will know—there is nowhere to go. What we were seeking is within. What we sought outside was within—therefore outside it was never found. How could it be, when it was not there? The treasury of treasures is within, the kingdom of kingdoms is within. You are emperors yet sit like beggars. You will remain beggars as long as your hands stretch outward. Door by door they will say—move on. And those who push you on—their condition is no better than yours; they too are beggars like you.

I have heard—a beggar cried in front of a Marwari’s house, Give me something! The beggar did not know it was a Marwari’s house—else he would not have called. It’s written in the beggars’ scriptures—avoid the Marwari; if you meet one alone, run—forget giving you something—he may snatch what you have! New to the village, he did not know. The old beggars never begged at that door—since no one ever received anything there. In fact beggars recognized—if anyone cried at that door, a new competitor had arrived in the village.

This beggar called out, Give me something—I’ve been hungry three days. The Marwari said, My wife is not home.

But the beggar was one of a kind—must have been a Marwari in his past life. He said, I am not asking for your wife. Give me bread—what will I do with your wife? I am starving, and you are offering me your wife! Keep your wife and give me two loaves.

But Marwaris cannot be handled so easily. He said, There is no one at home—who will give you bread?

The beggar said, Don’t you have hands and feet? You sit there hale and hearty—get up, it will be good exercise.

Two Marwaris collided. They do not lose to each other. The Marwari said, Get along!—move on. There is nothing in the house to give—what use my rising and exercising?

The beggar said, Then do this—come with me. If there is nothing in the house, why sit here—you will starve to death. We will both beg and eat—both enjoy. Come—let’s go.

Those before whom you extend your hand are beggars themselves—they have nothing to give. From whom are you asking? In this world no one can give you what you truly need. And what you seek—Paramatma has already given you. He has sent you as the master; you are a part of that Master. Remember it—smarana. The Upanishads say again and again—Remember—remember that you belong to the Master.

Bhikha says, Be smaller than all—remain absorbed at the Lotus Feet.
And if you wish to meet the Emperor of the world—and become an emperor—if you wish to meet the Lord of Lords and become a lord—then the art is simple: be utterly small—be nothing—be like a zero. Remain melted at His Feet. Let no other desire remain in your mind except the yearning for the Lord’s Feet. He who beholds the form of Ram—that person is supremely wise! He who becomes utterly small, a nothing—a zero—that one alone attains the Feet of God. Bhikha says—I call only him wise—no one else.

Khuda knows what befell Your drunkards—that in the assembly
There is neither lute nor decanter, O Cup-bearer—nor the dance of the goblet, O Cup-bearer.

Today the state is very bad. Who knows what befell God’s mad lovers? The tavern is empty; the jars are empty; the cups are empty; no rounds of wine are moving—no color, no juice, no ecstasy—man is desolate.

Khuda knows what befell Your drunkards—that in the assembly
There is neither lute nor decanter, O Cup-bearer—nor the dance of the goblet, O Cup-bearer.

All dance has stopped, all song has ceased. O God! What has happened to Your drinkers?

Khuda knows what befell Your drunkards—that in the assembly
There is neither lute nor decanter, O Cup-bearer—nor the dance of the goblet, O Cup-bearer.

Between frenzy and reason the real difference is just this—
These are under the noose, O Cup-bearer, those under the price, O Cup-bearer.
So far only a few drops have reached these thirst-burned ones—
Yet in the mystic’s court there is an uproar, O Cup-bearer.
Toward the destination I go—tavern to tavern—
The sport of seeking is the name of thirsty lips, O Cup-bearer.
This order of thirst can no longer run—
For the tavern-nurturer is the one whose cup it is, O Cup-bearer.
Still some sense of profit and loss remains—
In frenzy’s hand, reason’s cup still sits, O Cup-bearer.
Never could they drink two or four drops properly—
Those are novice drunkards, O Cup-bearer—those are naked cups, O Cup-bearer.

Never could they drink even two sips of life’s juice; the cup remained empty; the lips remained thirsty. What has happened to man? He has forgotten the very art of drinking—the art of living—the science of knowing himself.

He is blessed who, in mind, deed and word, with awareness, chants Ram.
Learn that art again; the lessons forgotten must be learned anew.

He is blessed who, in mind, deed and word, with awareness, chants Ram.

With mind, with action, with speech—mindful—the one who remembers Ram becomes blessed. Mind this—many chant Ram; many wear the Ram shawl—you will find them in Kashi and Haridwar—chanting Ram-Ram. But it is a parrot’s rote. It has no value—not worth two cowries. For neither is Ram in their mind, nor in their act, nor in their speech; not in their awareness. Mechanically someone turns the rosary… people sit in shops and turn beads—running the shop and the mala. Bags have been made to hide the mala—and keep it turning.

These malas will not help. This chanting of “Ram-Ram” will not do. The feeling must rise from the heart. These words get stuck on the tongue; they go no deeper. Neither does the chanting of “bread, bread” still hunger, nor “water, water” quench thirst. What will “Ram, Ram” do? By chanting “Ram, Ram” you only expose your derangement—nothing else. This is not a matter for chanting—it must be poured into the heart—it is a matter of feeling. Let Ram dwell in your heart—then whether you chant or not—it is okay.

Blessed is he who chants—blessed the auspicious body.
He who chants Ram heartfully, with the soul—is blessed. Not only he is blessed—his body is blessed. For the body in which a heart full of Ram beats—that body has become a temple; no longer an ordinary body—a tirtha. Where such feet fall, a tirtha is born. Wherever he sits and rises, a tirtha happens. Thus Mecca came to be; thus Kashi; thus Girnar. How did tirthas arise? In someone Ram manifested; in someone’s feeling, Ram became dense; the very dust around him grew holy.

Ram-charan-anurag makes one eligible for the Supreme State.
And for the Supreme State, only one qualification is required—love for the Lord’s Feet. Man has forgotten how to bow. We do not know how to bend. We go to the temple sometimes and bow our head—but the ego stands intact. Have you seen—you go and bow in the temple—if there’s a crowd you bow very skillfully—with great style, with great grace—because people are watching; news will spread in the village that you are religious. If no one is there—you toss your head down and run—the chore’s done.

Tolstoy writes in his memoirs: One morning I went to church. The village’s richest man was praying—still dark, so he did not see me. In Christian confession there is repentance—confession—avowal of one’s sins. He was confessing—saying to God, I am a great sinner. No one worse than me. The wealth I have is the poor man’s I have seized. My eyes have strayed to other men’s wives… saying all that should be said.

Tolstoy listened. He could not believe it. This man had great prestige—considered a saint in the village. Then light began to dawn; he turned and saw Tolstoy—came to him and said, Mind you, these things must not go out—if anyone hears, I will file a case for defamation.

Tolstoy said, But you yourself were saying it.

He said, Yes, I was saying it—but to God, not to you. Not to the public. Want to make me infamous in the world! I’m telling you—if even one of these things leaves here, you alone will be responsible—for you alone are here.

Tolstoy said, What kind of prayer is this? If you truly repent your sins—let all know.

But that would hurt the ego—he cannot allow it. Telling God tickles the ego—there is no hurt. Psychologists say—and I agree—that those who have confessed their sins in their autobiographies—have exaggerated. For when one tells, man’s great art is hyperbole. Augustine’s confessions seem greatly exaggerated—so many sins by one man? Not possible. Even in Mahatma Gandhi’s autobiography there is exaggeration; not all is true—much is inflated.

There is a joy even in magnifying sin. What joy? That I am no small sinner—not just any ordinary sinner like you—an extraordinary sinner. And when you tell your sins greatly magnified—the backdrop enlarges your saintliness too. Naturally, one who committed such great sins and then became a saint—his glory is greater. Those who never did much sin—suppose you stole two paise and keep shouting, I stole two paise and now I have given up stealing. People will say—stop this nonsense. When the stealing is so small, how can renunciation be great? But say, I stole two crores and renounced—that carries weight. So one who stole two paise too will say two crores.

Even sin is exaggerated if it feeds the ego. And if from sin one’s saintliness appears greater—what to say!

A woman came every Sunday to her priest—to confess. The priest was a bit harassed—she had only one sin—she had made love once with a man. And that one sin she had confessed at least seven times. When she came the eighth time, the priest said, How long must I hear the same sin and give you pardon? You are forgiven. You committed it once—how many times will you seek pardon?

But the woman said, Speaking of that sin gives me such joy. And receiving pardon again and again also gives great pleasure, great flavor.

Man can take pleasure even in recounting his sin. Perhaps the rich man Tolstoy heard was also exaggerating. When you are telling God—why be stingy? Open your heart—tell it grandly. If expiation of sin is what makes saintliness—then better confess the greatest sins. Why count the petty?—there will be no count of petty sinners on Doomsday. Think—on Judgment Day—where will you stand in the queue? All the people will gather.

A Jew asked his rabbi, I want to know—can the judgment be completed in one day? It is said—Judgment Day—and everyone decided in one day. The Jew, anxious, scratched his head. He said again, All those born to date, all who will be born, all who are—everyone in one day?

The rabbi said, Yes, brother.

He said, One more thing—will women also be there?

The rabbi said, Why do you keep asking the same thing? Men will be there, women will be there.

He said, Then I should drop my worry. There will be such a hullabaloo—who will notice poor folk like us? We will be at the end of the queue—our number won’t come at all. Think a little—someone chews tobacco and thinks—my number will come. Are you crazy? With tobacco your number will come? Someone smokes a hookah and says—my number will come. There Hitler, Chengiz Khan, Nadir Shah, Mao, Stalin—these will have a hearing—crowds of them. What is the worth of an ordinary man?

To inflate the ego, one can exaggerate even sins—people do. And in that background their saintliness grows too. Make yourself small. Your sins are not great; your virtues are not great. Your being itself is not great. In fact—you are not.

Ram-charan-anurag makes one eligible for the Supreme State.
He who bows at His Feet becomes eligible for the Supreme State. But let me remind you—do not bow in order to become eligible for the Supreme State—else you will go wrong. These are the subtleties on the path. These are the entanglements of the pilgrimage. You read the saying—Ram-charan-anurag makes one eligible for the Supreme State! The heart says, Yes, this fits. We must become eligible for the Supreme State. Then, all right, let’s do even this—bow at the Feet. Let’s bow once—if flattery will do, if praise will do—we’ll do that too. But we must become eligible for the Supreme State.

If the desire to be eligible for the Supreme State is there—how will you bow? Ego will not allow it. No—the meaning here is different. Becoming eligible for the Supreme State should not be your goal—your goal is bowing itself. The delight is in bowing—its result is secondary. Do not worry for that, do not expect it. And do not glance from the corner of your eye while bowing to see whether the Supreme State has arrived. If you make such a mistake—and people keep making it…

People come to me and say, Meditation does not happen.

I say, It will—but drop expectation. Do not carry within you any thought that peace should come, health should come, bliss should come—drop all expectations. Do meditation for the joy of meditation.

Then they ask, Will it come then? Is it certain?

Missed. They did not understand. Meditation is its own goal. Love is its own goal. Prayer is its own goal. Yes—many flowers bloom as a consequence; much fragrance is released; many lamps are lit—but as consequences. They should not be part of your craving.

Let no wave of lust, anger, pride, greed, delusion arise in the bowing.
Mind this—if you bow, then in that bowing let not even a ripple of lust, anger, pride, greed, delusion arise. If even a slight ripple arises in the bowing, the bowing is wasted. If you asked slightly for heaven—if somewhere deep in the corner a voice whispered—O Lord, we suffered much in this world, now call us to Vaikuntha—What hides in that is: there, it is the virtuous who are respected; the simple are valued; the straightforward sit on thrones; those honored here will be in trouble there; there they will get jobs like sweeping, and we will sit Brahmins, twice-born.

If such a craving hides anywhere—even a ripple—mind the word ripple—let not even a ripple of lust, anger, pride, greed, delusion arise! If, while bowing, even a ripple arises—all is wasted. You did not bow at all.

Let the gaze dissolve in Paramatma—the form of pure consciousness.
Bow so that not even a single wave of craving arises—and only one gaze remains, fixed on Paramatma—no other demand, no condition—the whole gaze dissolved in Him. As rivers fall into the ocean and become one, so let your entire vision dissolve in Him—be absorbed in the One.

The All-pervading, Perfect Brahman—Bhikha—lives as nondual.
He who has done so—whose eye is drowned in Paramatma, whose very seeing is soaked in God, with no craving left—he has known that God is all-pervading. The all-pervading, Perfect Brahman—Bhikha—lives as ananya—nondual! Then there is no need even to remember God—for within us too it is He. In all, He. Ananya—we are not other than Him—we are one with Him. Then rising-sitting is prayer; eating-drinking is worship; walking-moving is archana; living is sadhana; each breath in and out—enough.

…Bhikha lives as nondual.
He is blessed who, in mind, deed and word, with awareness, chants Ram.

Blessed indeed is he who worships Hari—there is none equal to him.
Blessed are they who have thus worshiped and found Hari—for then none is comparable to them; they are incomparable, unique.

None equals them—who become their own Lord’s servants.
He who has become the servant of God—His das—who has poured himself entirely at His Feet—none can be compared to him. However much wealth you have—you are poor before that man. However high your post—you are positionless before him.

Buddha arrived at a town. The king was told by his old minister—Buddha is coming, Bhagwan is coming, the Tathagata is arriving—you must go to welcome him. Your presence at the city gate is necessary.

The king was a bit arrogant. He said, Why should I go to welcome that beggar? What do I lack? What does he have? If he wants to meet me, he will come himself.

Tears fell from the minister’s eyes. The king was surprised—he had never seen him weep. He asked, Why do you weep?

He said, I weep because today I am freeing myself from your service—accept my resignation.

That minister was precious. Without him the kingdom would be difficult to manage. The king spent his time in drink and making prostitutes dance. The minister did all the work. His intelligence kept the kingdom great, organized, orderly. If he left—all would become disordered. The king said, No, not for such a small reason. But am I wrong?

The old minister said, You are very wrong. I give my resignation so I can tell you your mistake. Until then I am your servant—how can I point your error? First my resignation, then your fault.

The king said, Tell me first—I will not be angry. I forgive you in advance. What is my mistake?

The minister said, Your mistake is this—that what you have, Buddha had too—but he kicked it away; you have not. And what Buddha has—it will take you many births to acquire. Far from acquiring it—you do not even have the eyes to see what Buddha has. You cannot even see it—therefore you think Buddha a beggar. I tell you—you are the beggar; Buddha is the emperor. Either come with me to welcome Buddha—place your head at his Feet—or accept my resignation. I cannot work under an eye so blind.

The minister’s words are of value. However much wealth—before the one who has Ram’s wealth, you are poor. However high your position—before one who has reached Ram’s throne—what is your worth!

None equals them—who become their own Lord’s servants.
But note one precious word—who become their Lord’s servants of their own accord—not under compulsion. Else, often it happens—parents bring their children to me. The child is not bowing; the mother pushes his head down to my feet—presses him.

I say, What are you doing? The child is not to bow. Your forcing him is meaningless. Forcing him, you will spoil his habit—he will become one who bows falsely all his life. People carry children to the temple and force their necks down.

So your neck too has been forced to bow. Do you bow in the temple from your own will—or have you simply forgotten that in childhood you were forced and now it has become habit? This is slavery. Therefore Bhikha is right—Become of your own accord the servant of Hari. Bow from yourself—not from conditioning; not because of society; not because of parents; not because of education; not from fear; not from greed. Bow out of your own understanding—bow for the joy of bowing. Then what difficulty is there?—you can bow in a mosque, in a gurudwara, in a temple. What is there to take and give? Even if there is no temple—you can bow before trees, under the sky, on the earth. You can bow anywhere. What obstruction is there to one who loves to bow? He who says, I have conditions—I bow only here—that man does not want to bow. He has added meaning to bowing. He has put conditions on bowing. He has employed even bowing in the service of ego.

Remain melted at the Feet—Ram’s special servant.
He who is melted only in His Feet—drowned—who sees His Feet everywhere, who sees His Feet in everyone’s feet.

The servant gains service—love and devotion perfected.
There is only one proof of your feeling and devotion—that you become absorbed in serving this God-filled world. Even if you pour water to a tree—pour it as if washing the Feet of Ram. If you feed a dog—feed as if feeding Ram. See Ram in your child, in your husband, in your wife. Slowly expand the feeling—that all feet are His, all hearts are His; He alone is—none other than He.

The fruit of service is Yoga—God becomes the devotee’s captive.
He who can serve thus—the fruit is Yoga, union with God. The fruit is nuptial night; the fruit is betrothal with Paramatma; the fruit is becoming one with God. And he who becomes one thus—God is under his sway—moves at his hint. Not that the devotee tries to make Him move—but He will move at the devotee’s hint.

I have heard an old tale—Krishna sat to eat. Half the meal eaten; he would lift a morsel to his mouth and then fling it down on the plate and run to the door. Rukmini asked, Where are you going? He did not reply. At the door he halted—stood sad for a moment—returned slowly, sat again, took the morsel he had dropped. Rukmini asked, Now tell—where did you run to? Why did you return from the door?

Krishna said, My devotee was passing along a road—people were pelting him with stones—but even those pelting him he saw me within. Blood flowed from his head—he was bleeding—yet he was lost in ecstasy, chanting Hare Krishna, Hare Ram. I had to run. He needed protection.

Rukmini said, I understand—then why return?

Krishna said, By the time I reached the door he himself had picked up a stone and said, To hell with you! He forgot me. Now he himself is replying to stones with stones—driving people off. Now he has taken his life back into his own hands—no need of me. His ego has returned.

The matter is subtle—the ego can return in an instant—just when it seemed to be leaving.

The fruit of service is Yoga—God becomes the devotee’s captive.
Only the Perfect Brahman is—Bhikha—neither one nor two.
Bhikha says—Only God is. There is no other. And because there is no second he says another important thing—neither one nor two. If there is no second, how call Him one? To call Him one is to begin the count toward two. Say “one,” and number has started. God is—neither can we say one nor two.

Therefore India discovered a new word—Advaita. Do you understand? Advaita does not mean “one”; it means “not two.” That much we can say—that there are not two. If we say “one,” we err. In saying “one,” the count of two is contained. “One” would be meaningless if there were not two. So we can say only, not two. But Bhikha says something sweeter—neither one nor two—just is. He does not come into counting. Beyond calculation. Beyond thought.

Blessed indeed is he who worships Hari—none equals him.
He who has known that God who is neither one nor two—he is blessed, greatly fortunate. None can be compared to him. Emperors are beggars before him; the wealthy are paupers before him. He has gained the kingdom of kingdoms, the throne of thrones. He who has attained God—has attained all. Nothing remains to be attained. Those who have not found God—have found nothing; those who have found Him—have found all.

Guru-pratap—sadh ki sangati!

Enough for today.