Guru Partap Sadh Ki Sangati #9

O my city, homeland of roses, my garden,
I have returned again from the deserts of death.
Let some couplet, some nazm call me once more—
let me weave new fables from your fables.
Apart from the torrents of my own urgings, far even from you,
I could not guard my dreams even for a single night.
My eyes kept opening in the stillness of the night—
complaints of a restless heart could not be contained.
In the room’s grave, wrapped in a blanket’s shroud,
I kept gazing outward through open doors.
Even my voice seemed no longer my own—
in a crowded bazaar I was lonely, astonished.
Gathering the shards of my own role,
I returned—what was there left for me there to gain?
Ask a madman something about wounds.
Rise, O desolate thoroughfares of my city!
Fill again and again my chalices of memory with wine.
Come, O nameless gods of my dreams—come!
Many wounds are still alive in my breast.
Come, O winds of the Ganga, heavy with motherly tenderness—come.

In this world, man is a stranger. Here we have no home; here we are homeless. Make as many houses as you wish—no house can truly be made here. Here whatever you build, today or tomorrow, will be laid waste. For a few days we may allow ourselves this sweet deception, grant the mind a little respite—but today or tomorrow the camp must be lifted, it has to be lifted. There is no device to escape death.
And because there is no way to escape death, remember your home in time. Remember your real home. From where do you come? Who are you? Recognize this. Without recognizing it, no one has ever attained peace, or bliss, or immortality—nor can they. Without recognizing it, you will remain in the crowd yet alone. And what friendship is there in the crowd? Even in the name of love, it is a counterfeit of love.

In the room’s grave, wrapped in a blanket’s shroud,
I kept gazing outward through open doors.
Even my voice seemed no longer my own—
in a crowded bazaar I was lonely, astonished.

The market is crowded. Noise everywhere. People on every side. But who is one’s own? We are not even our own; how then will another be ours? This body is not ours; it is of dust and will fall back into dust. This mind is not ours; it is borrowed from outside and will scatter outside, be blown to bits. What we presume to be ours—even that is not ours. And what else happens in this life except to be broken into fragments? As if someone has hurled a mirror to the ground and it is shattered—such is our condition, shattered we are.

Gathering the shards of my role,
I returned—what was there left for me there to gain?
Ask a madman something about wounds.
Rise, O desolate thoroughfares of my city!

One day or another you will have to gather your pieces, collect your scattered fragments, and begin the search for the real home; you will have to seek your true city. Call that city what you will—call it Paramatma, call it moksha, call it nirvana, kaivalya—those are only differences of name. But one thing is certain: here we are not at home. However many arrangements we make, they all go awry. Paper boats cannot carry you across. And every device forged in this flickering life is destined to prove futile.

Fill my goblets of memory once more with wine.
Come, O nameless gods of my dreams—come.
Many wounds are still alive in my breast—
come, O tender, mother-breathing winds of the Ganga, come.

A call should arise for the Paramatma. A call should rise for the winds of heaven. A call should rise for that divine intoxication which comes only through dharma.
Call the Guest!
The word ‘atithi’ is beautiful. It was first used for the Paramatma. You have heard the saying: “Atithi is God.” I tell you: “God is the Atithi—the Guest.” Atithi means one who arrives without a tithi, without a date; who sends no word beforehand, no notice; who, one day, suddenly stands at the door.
But even if he suddenly stands at the door and your eyes are closed, and no prayer has arisen in your heart, you will miss. You have missed many times. He has often knocked, but you did not hear. Such clamour in the mind—how could you hear? His voice is delicate. His voice is hushed conversation. He does not shout—he whispers. He is not aggressive, he comes gently. Even his feet on your steps make no sound. His knock is filled with such sweetness, such music.
If you are not silent, you will miss. And your mind is so full of disturbance, agitation, noise—missing is certain. And where are you, even to be found? If he comes, where will he find you? You are never where you are. Even the Paramatma could not find you: you are always in flight. The mind is incessantly in motion, restless—now here, now there. Not for one moment do you stand still. If you stop, there is meeting. To stop is called dhyana—meditation. To lift your eyes toward him is called bhajan—devotion. To bow in quiet prayer is called preparation.

What ground is there
where I might place my feet?
Where shall I rest
for a moment’s breath of shade?
A swift river
of dilemma—
no landing place.
Sure it is,
I shall drown—
wide is the span.
Shelter amid the gale,
a corner in the whirlpool—
where shall I rest
for a moment’s shade?

Dusty lanes,
all
roads paved;
what I see—
in everyone’s
eyes, suspicion.
Every city a stranger,
every village alien—
where shall I rest
for a moment’s shade?

Where is shade here? These are trees of babul; they do not give cool shade, they bristle only with thorns. Not even two moments of rest are found here. Yet you postpone until tomorrow. You are fettered by hope—today it has not happened, tomorrow it will. But has tomorrow ever come? Tomorrow never comes. Recognize this truth, test it—hold it in your very breath: tomorrow has never come, nor will it; only today comes, only today is. Do not postpone to tomorrow. If you go on postponing, you will never meet the Paramatma. Paramatma is cash-in-hand; you are credit—always tomorrow.

I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin was tormented by borrowers. He asked a fakir for advice: “What shall I do? They are acquaintances, I cannot refuse. They come to the door, out of shame I have to give. I have lent so much, my shop is drowning; bankruptcy is near. Help me somehow.”
The fakir said: “Is this difficult? Hang a board on your door—‘Cash today, credit tomorrow.’”
Mulla said: “I understand—I'll hang it. But tomorrow, when they ask for credit, then what?”
The fakir said: “Don’t worry—has tomorrow ever arrived?”
And since then Mulla has kept the sign: “Cash today, credit tomorrow.” People come, read it, and say, “Mulla, we will come tomorrow.” Mulla says, “Do come.” But when they come tomorrow, the board is still the same: “Cash today, credit tomorrow.”
Tomorrow is never—and we sit hoping for tomorrow. To hope for tomorrow is called the world; to live today is called moksha. The spread of tomorrow is desire; settling into today is prayer.

What ground is there
where I might place my feet?
If you wish to set your foot in tomorrow, you never will—there is no tomorrow; where will you place your feet?

Where shall I rest
for a moment’s breath of shade?
If you plan to rest in tomorrow, you will never rest. Tomorrow will keep you running—running until death arrives; running until you fall in the grave. The life bound to ‘tomorrow’ has no possibility of rest.

A swift river
of dilemma—
no landing place.
And your mind is riddled with dilemmas: Shall I do this, or that? Like a fish ensnared in the fisherman’s net, you are entangled in the mesh of doubt. Nothing is steady within you—no focus, no wholeness. If even one thing within becomes whole, becomes one-pointed, from there the door into the Paramatma is found.

A swift river
of dilemma—
no landing place.
This river of doubt has no ghat—none can exist.

Sure it is,
I shall drown—
wide is the span.
Reflect a little—how many before you have drowned, how many today are drowning—and will you cross? The great ones did not cross; will you? But ego is such that each ego thinks: I am the exception. Others could not cross—but I will. Their boats were weak; their oars were poor; their stars were unfortunate. I will consult the astrologers, sail at the auspicious hour; build a strong boat, oars in firm hands—I'll be alert. The same they thought who drowned before you. All think thus—and in the thinking they drown.
No, the span is so vast that you cannot cross by your own strength. If the Paramatma ferries you, you cross. He who makes the Paramatma his boat—he crosses. He who builds his own boat and would cross by effort alone—surely drowns.

Shelter amid the gale,
a corner in the whirlpool—
where shall I rest
for a moment’s shade?

Dusty lanes,
all
roads paved;
what I see—
in everyone’s
eyes, suspicion.
Peer into people’s eyes—do you see lamps of trust alight anywhere? Not even among those called the faithful. Go to temples, to mosques, to gurudwaras, to churches—look into the eyes: do you see a lamp of trust? Do you feel the fragrance of reverence? No. These are the same people you meet in the market, at the shop, in gambling dens, in taverns—these same people also go to temples. Garments may be changed, they may bathe and come—but that is surface; within they remain the same. In the temple their minds are elsewhere; in the mosque their breath is elsewhere; in the church they are absent—their life is snagged somewhere else. Look within them—sitting in the church, they are in the bazaar.

I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin would not go to the mosque. A fakir came to the village. Mulla’s wife was impressed. She said, “If you bring my husband to the mosque, I will call that a miracle. Not ashes from your hand, not pulling a watch from the air—put him in prayer, in God—that will be miracle.”
The fakir said, “I will come in the morning.” Early he came. Mulla was strolling in the garden. The wife was in the shrine room, doing the dawn prayer. The fakir told Mulla, “It does not befit you. Age has come, hair has greyed—when will you remember God? And your wife—where is she?”
Mulla said, “To tell the truth, my wife is at the market buying vegetables. And with the vegetable seller she is quarreling—near to blows; they have seized each other’s hair.”
The fakir said, “Wait! So early—what market is open?”
Just hearing this, the wife—who was praying—came out. “What a limit to lying! I am praying and you lie so!”
Mulla said, “Speak truth—praying you were; but is what I said false?”
She started, remembered—the matter was true. The fakir was present; she could not lie. “Yes. I sat to pray—but I must go to buy vegetables; we have a guest; good food must be cooked. That thought spun in the mind; in thought I had gone to the market. Prices were doubled; quarrel started; we pulled each other’s hair. Then my husband said to you….”
Mulla said, “Sitting in the prayer hall—what will it do? To seat the mind is hard. People do puja, havan, yajna, rituals—the mind does not sit; it keeps running.”

A swift river
of dilemma—
no landing place.
What I see—
in everyone’s
eyes, suspicion.
Even the so-called faithful wear a borrowed faith—imposed, draped. Scratch a little, peep behind the curtain—behind flowers there is pus; behind fair talk there are foul intentions. The road to hell is paved with good intentions—so it is said. Words are fair—life is foul. There is talk of nectar—yet the vessel of life is filled with poison.

Every city is strange,
every village alien—
where shall I rest
for a moment’s shade?

Here there is no home, no own village. No possibility of shade. Where is even a two-moment rest? Rest is only in Ram. Ram is vishram—rest. And that rest can be found in the presence of a guru; in the company of the mad, the intoxicated—in satsang. Sit and rise where lives are perfumed with trust; carry your unlit lamp to a lit lamp. Near a lit lamp, the unlit catches fire. Jyoti se jyoti jale—may lamp light lamp.

Bhikha’s sutras:
Pahun ayo bhav so, ghar me nahi anaj.
Ghar me nahi anaj, bhajan binu khali jano.
Pahun ayo bhav so…

The Paramatma has come, as Guest, as pahunā; he stands at the door. Like the morning sun whose rays stand at your threshold—but if your door is closed, they will not force entry. If even these rays of the sun do not make unlawful entry without permission, how will the rays of the Supreme Light enter without your consent? Invite him. Lay out the welcome. Only then will the Supreme Guest enter within.

Pahun ayo bhav so…
And whenever the Paramatma comes, he comes with love. Paramatma means love. Paramatma has no other mode of being. His very essence is love, his fragrance love.

Pahun ayo bhav so…
With much feeling, much love, he stands at your door—and you? You sleep. Your eyes are shut. You have no readiness to receive the Guest.

…Ghar me nahi anaj.
Bhikha speaks the language of the village. He says: there is no preparation at all. There is no grain in the house—and the Guest has come to the door. What will you do?
Ghar me nahi anaj, bhajan binu khali jano.
Which grain? Bhajan. For the Paramatma is welcomed only in one way—through bhajan. He hungers for bhakti. You cannot appease him otherwise. Let there be devotion in you—he is fulfilled.
And remember, the day the Paramatma is fulfilled by you, that day you will be fulfilled—before that, never. Not in thousands of lifetimes. Until he is contented with you, you cannot be contented. His fulfillment reflects in your inmost being as your fulfillment. His contentment appears in the mirror of your heart as contentment.
The day he is content with you, that day you are content. There is no other contentment; all others are illusions.
Without bhajan, what are you? A house with no lamp lit. A flower that never bloomed. A door that is shut. A life with no heartbeat. Without bhajan what are you? A corpse. A deception called life. Yes, you walk, you rise; you go to market, keep a shop, earn a few coins—granted. But all this is mechanical—no awareness, no wonder, no joy, no surge, no celebration—no sign of life.
Is life merely breath going in and out? Merely eating food and drinking water and excreting? Every morning rising and rushing, every evening collapsing on the bed, and again the same hurry next morning—this repetition you call life! Where is poetry in it? Where is music? Where is dance? No flute plays; no drumbeat resounds.
If this is life, then what harm is death? If this is life, death is a thousand times better. At least there will be rest. At least in the grave there will be silence. At least green grass will sprout upon the grave; perhaps some flower will bloom; you will become manure, and the grass will be green; you will become manure, and a crimson flower will bloom; a butterfly will hover there; the moon will rise there; a bird will sing; a peacock will dance—something will happen! But in your life—when did a peacock dance? When did butterflies fly? When rose fragrance? When did light shower?
No. Without bhajan you are utterly empty.
…Bhajan binu khali jano.

Satynam gayo bhool, jhooth man maya mano.
And what is to be remembered is nothing new. It was once remembered—now forgotten. Every child is born with the remembrance of the Paramatma. He has just crossed death—only nine months ago he died. The shock of death is fresh—the jolt that says: a life went waste; you lived in vain; you attained nothing. And then nine months of the womb—silence, emptiness, stillness, meditation. Death has warned—“Dust returns to dust—see it now.” Nine months of rest in the mother’s womb—no work, no worry.
The child, when born, is filled with remembrance of the Paramatma—so it must be. He has remembered his real home. But we begin to make him forget. Society, education, state—all strive to befuddle and distract. We rush to teach language so that silence is broken. The day the child says mama, papa, daddy—we are overjoyed. Alas, we should weep: the child is forgetting silence; the child’s peace is broken. Into the still lake of the child’s being we throw stones—“Daddy”—one stone; “Mommy”—another. The lake is agitated. But mother and father are happy: their egos are gratified—their boy speaks. Thus begins the slip. The wandering begins. Again the old wheel.
Satynam gayo bhool, jhooth man maya mano.
God forgotten; mind entangled in lies and maya. Rarely does one meet someone who can wake you—because all is arranged to deepen your sleep. Doctrines, dogmas, scriptures—all opium, all consolations. False consolations—for only truth consoles.

I heard: A fakir became a university teacher. On the first day in class, a prankish student, when his name was called, stood up and said, “Yes, madam!” The class burst into laughter. But the fakir was a fakir—he laughed louder, so loud that all giggling stopped. Then he said with grace:
“This is the taste of love—one should see it:
Even Allah appears to Majnun as Layla.”
Now the whole class roared. Poor Majnun’s condition was worth seeing.
Who will startle you awake? Fakirs are rare. Those you do meet are bound—some Hindu, some Muslim, some Christian. But whoever is Hindu, Muslim, or Christian is not a sadhu. Can a sadhu have any sect? All religions are his. The sadhu is himself dharma—religion. He has no adjective. If someone says “a Jain sadhu,” understand—no sadhu yet. When one dares to say simply “sadhu,” adjective-less—then something has happened, a revolution.
If such a sadhu is found, such company is found—you can awaken: guru-pratap—by the grace of the guru, by the company of the wise. Otherwise, this world is arranged to lull you. It is a world of sleepers. And sleepers cannot tolerate one who is awake, for he will create commotion—get up, sit down….

When I was a university student, I had a professor—of philosophy, as he should be—eccentric, quite so. In his class I was the only student; none would attend, for his classes were odd. Sometimes he spoke three or four hours. He would say, “I control the starting of the hour, but until I am complete, I cannot stop. The bell may ring, but how can I finish?” Who would sit four hours? I could. I told him, “I have a rule.” He asked, “What rule?” “I listen with eyes closed; I dislike interruption.” He said, “I have no objection.” So I slept in his class—he could speak as long as he pleased. He told me, “If you must go out, you may, but do not ask permission; it interrupts me. Go out, walk about, I will speak on; I do not like any interruption to my stream.”
For two or three years no student had come to his class. When I came, I became beloved. He said, “Why not come live with me? Why the hostel? I have a big bungalow.” I went. There a difficulty arose—he would rise at two in the night and play an electric guitar. How could I sleep? I bore it a day, then told him, “Forgive me—my habit too: I study aloud till two.” I read so loudly he could not sleep. He said in the morning, “Leave your habit; I will leave mine. Otherwise, if one of us remains awake, the other cannot sleep. You read as though addressing two thousand.” I said, “I am practicing for the future.” He left the guitar, I left loud reading, then we could sleep.
Even one awakened disturbs the sleepers. And so, awakened ones feel troublesome to us. We do not endure them; we mistreat them—yet they alone are our fortune, our possibility. Through them our transformation can happen; through them our darkness can break and morning come. But we worship those who deepen our sleep.
We honor pundits and priests. But what did you do with Jesus? With Socrates? With Mansur? These awakened ones—had you been with them, your lamp too would have been lit; perhaps you would not need to return—by now you would be dissolved in the sky. But no, the awakened one pains us.
This is a world of sleepers. If you sleep with them, all feel good; you too will be comfortable.

In court, two lawyers’ debate heated into abuse. The state attorney told the defense attorney, “You are a donkey.” The defense replied, “I am not; you are a donkey.” The magistrate banged his gavel: “Gentlemen, you forget—I am also here.”
The sleepers’ world—their logic agrees, their arithmetic agrees; there is a harmony. The awakened one stands out of tune—his language differs, his direction differs. You run after shadows—he turns his back to them. Only by the company of the awakened can you awaken.

Satynam gayo bhool…
Those who have remembered the True Name; who have become like little children again—dvija, twice-born, brahmins in the true sense, who have known Brahman—they alone can beget you anew.
…Jhooth man maya mano.
The mind is tangled in great untruth, deep maya.

A fly perched on a wheel’s axle,
filled with pride, strutted and said,
“How much dust rises from my footfall!
You must admit—it is my glory!”
A flea piped up, “That too could be true—
Do you not see the sky beneath my feet?”
Hearing these boasts, a donkey brayed,
“See—any singer like me anywhere?”
Astonished, the Creator said, “What have I done—
I filled a doll with an elephant’s pride!”
He made anew a race of man—
and man banished the Creator himself.

Horses and asses were left behind; man trumpeted the greatest ego. Hence, after man, the Paramatma created nothing; he tired, he trembled. Enough mistake had been made in making man. Man’s greatest foolishness is his ego. How then will he remember the Paramatma? Remembrance needs surrender; ego must be offered; one must bow at the feet. Bhajan is nothing but the art of bowing, of dissolving. Bhajan means the melting of ego and the remembering of the Beloved—two faces of one coin.

Mahapratapi Ramji, taki dyo bisari.
Ab kar chhati ka hano, gaye so baji hari.
You have forgotten the One with whom you become all-powerful; you chase trifles—wealth, rank, fame. Toys of two pennies have ensnared you. The false forgets the real. The false has virtues the real will never have: the false lives on advertisement; the real needs none. The sun rises—he issues no proclamation. Flowers bloom; birds sing; people wake. But if a fake sun should rise, it must advertise, beat the drum—then perhaps some bewildered bird may sing, some flower may open, some man may wake.
The false thrives by propaganda. And how much propaganda have you heard for the false! Centuries upon centuries. So much hammered upon you that untruth appears truth. Adolf Hitler wrote rightly: if a lie is repeated often enough, it seems true.
This is the art of advertisement—repeat, repeat. People accept in three stages: first they say, “False, impossible.” That is the first step. Then they say, “Perhaps—maybe.” Second step. Third: “We always knew it was true. We said so from the start.” Only patience is needed.
A strip of cloth tied becomes a flag—and multitudes cry, “May our flag fly high! Let lives go, but not the flag!” What is in a flag? Only centuries of promotion. Lines on a map divide nations; men die for those lines. The lines are false; the earth is one. But small fiefs have been made. Politicians cannot live without such lies. If these lies vanish, politics ends; if politics ends, wars end, enmity ends. But then many people lose their fun. Leadership is their pleasure. If the world lives in peace, who needs leaders? If people live in love, what use for priests? Their effort is that you forget the Paramatma. For one who remembers cannot be caught in any net. When a single lamp goes out, a thousand lies in the dark begin; when one lamp is lit, a thousand lies end together.

Ab kar chhati ka hano, gaye so baji hari.
You have forgotten Ram—then you beat your chest: life has no meaning, what shall we do? You do not water the tree—and you complain the flowers do not come!
Friedrich Nietzsche proclaimed in the West: “God is dead.” And then he went mad. For then the question arises—what meaning remains? Why live? First the ego declared God not there—then the calamity. Without God, meaning is lost. Without God, the context is gone in which meaning can arise.
What are we without God? Mere accidents. Dolls of dust—today here, tomorrow gone. If there is God, there is the eternal; there is immortality; after the body we live—new wings, new dimensions. God means no end—ananta. Only in such a vast context can meaning be.
Understand well: meaning arises only in a context greater than oneself. A poem has meaning in a line; a line has meaning in the poem. A word has meaning in the line. Letters have none alone—A, what meaning? B, what meaning? But “ab”—now—has meaning; “Ram” has meaning; and in the whole story of Ram, even more; and in the context of the cosmos—meaning upon meaning.
But the ego wants nothing above itself; so meaning evaporates. The one who says, “Above me—nothing,” loses meaning. The one who says, “Above me—everything, sky upon sky”—upon him meaning showers. Then whatever he says becomes Upanishad; his very sitting and rising becomes worship. Silence is music.

God of utterance!
Speak such words—
words in whose syllables
the ocean of immortality swells;
words at whose hearing
the Himalaya lifts his head in reverence.
Speak so that sweetness of rhythm
is poured in the breath of the age.
May sprouts of insight
burst forth upon the fervid soil of ecstasies;
let no tender art-flower
be crushed by hard new knowing.
Inner artist, do not weigh yourself
on the scales of intellect.
Worship the shrine of silence;
do not let tears of anguish fall.
On the path of ecstatic sacrifice,
offer your head like a flower.
Let the chalice of your voice
brim with the sap of pain,
and pour it—life-sprinkled—upon the earth.
God of utterance!
Speak such words!

Such words arise—but not from “you.” They arise when you are a medium. When you are only the flute, left upon the lips of the Paramatma—then such words are born, filled with sweetness and nectar. Thus were the Upanishads born; thus the Quran; thus the Bible; thus the Dhammapada; thus Bhikha’s simple sayings.

Mahapratapi Ramji, taki dyo bisari.
Ab kar chhati ka hano, gaye so baji hari.
In this world there is only one wager—to win or lose. Join with Ram—you win. Fall from Ram—you lose. The arithmetic is clear as two plus two makes four. If you want to win, join with Ram; if you want to lose, separate from Ram. But remember: if you join Ram in order to win, you will never win. If ambition for victory is your reason, you have not joined Ram; you remain joined to ego; you begin to exploit Ram. That is not bhajan, not bhakti—only exploitation. You make even Ram a means; the end remains you.
Again I say: If you want victory, join Ram—but let not victory be your ambition. He who joins Ram wins as consequence. And how to join? He who loses before Ram joins Ram. In this paradox is the whole science of devotion. Lose—and you are joined. Hare ko Harinam. He who, losing, is joined with Ram—wins. This is the arithmetic of love; here losing becomes winning, winning becomes losing.

Bhikha gaye Haribhajan binu, turatahi bhayo akaj.
If you go without Hari-bhajan, calamity happens at once. What calamity? Here you die—there you are born. No delay. At the time of death all desires condense into one: the urge to live—jiveshana. The whole being focuses on one point: Let me not die, let there be no death. That very urge carries you into a new womb. That is akaj—a bad business.
Therefore Bhikha says: Be warned—if you leave without Hari-bhajan… you have left thus many times. Each time it has been akaj. This time take care! Let there be Hari-bhajan as death comes—not jiveshana. Let Ram be in the heart—not lust. Let the heart be prayerful—not driven by desire. Let there be the longing to be free of body and mind—then sukaj, good fortune, will befall. No new body will be needed; no coming-and-going will remain. You will become part of the open sky—the entire sky will be yours. No longer bound in a petty body; no longer limited. To bind the limitless in limitation is hell; the limitless dissolving into the limitless is heaven.

Pahun ayo bhav so, ghar me nahi anaj.
And when death comes, it is not only death that comes. There are two faces. You have heard the story—on a buffalo the emissary of Yama, black and terrible. That is only half the story—told by the wrong people, for the wrong people. For ninety-nine among a hundred it is so. But in the lives of the awakened, the buffalo-riding messenger does not come; to them the Paramatma himself arrives; light itself descends; nectar itself showers. For them death is a door to the Divine.
For the unawakened, yes—the buffalo and the Yama-duta arrive: these are the thickened forms of their own tendencies, reflections of their minds, the residue of their living. The soot is their own heart’s soot; the buffalo is the buffalo of their lust.
But those who have known dhyana, known bhajan—death comes to them like a rain of lotus petals. Liberation from the body is not painful; it is blissful, supremely blissful—like a cage being opened and the sky-bird taking wing.

Ved-Puran padhe kaha, jo akshar samujha nahin.
Read the Vedas and Puranas, the Quran and Bible—nothing will happen.
If you have not known the Akshar—the Imperishable—the eternal, the nitya; if you remain entangled in letters and do not know the Akshar, remain lost in words and never taste the wordless—you will miss. You will gather rubbish; within you remain the same.

Satyapriya sent me a story. A famous surgeon needed an assistant. Many with grand degrees applied. He chose a Sardar—a Sikh—just back from England, laden with certificates. The very first day: A major operation. Before completion, the patient stirred. The surgeon said quickly, “Run and fetch the chloroform bottle.” The Sardar ran—polished floor, his shoes clattered, the clock struck twelve—down he slipped, the bottle smashed. The surgeon panicked: “Now what? That was the last bottle!” The Sardar said, “Sir, do not worry. I shall put him under right now.” He took off his shirt, rubbed his palm in his armpit, and held it beneath the patient’s nose—the patient instantly fell unconscious. The surgeon stared. The Sardar said, “Do not worry, sir. The other armpit is still in reserve.”
England also he visited, big degrees he brought. But within, what has changed? You may memorize the Vedas and Puranas, become a parrot—no use.

Ved-Puran padhe kaha, jo akshar samujha nahin.
Akshar samujha nahin—raha jaise ka taisa.
If you do not understand the Akshar, you remain the same. Your scholarship is of no use. Bathe in the Ganga, go to Kashi, go to Kaaba—nothing will avail, until the Guest is received within, until there is readiness to embrace him, to lay your head at his feet.
And the Beloved comes every moment, every instant—only he comes; no one else. A gust of wind—his knock. A fragrance of flowers—his arrival. The sunbeam peeping in—his glance. A bird singing—his voice. A blossom upon the branch—his bloom. Apart from him, nothing is. For those who know—only the Paramatma is. For those who do not—everything but the Paramatma. But attain the One—and all is attained; chase the many—and all is lost.

Read Veda and Quran—you will become cunning, clever; your dishonesty will wear the guise of scholarship. You will be adept in words and arguments, weaving sweet nets to entangle others—and yourself. But bhajan will not be born, bhakti will not arise. And where there is no bhajan, no bhakti—you remain the same.

Ved-Puran padhe kaha, jo akshar samujha nahin.
Akshar samujha nahin, raha jaise ka taisa.
Paramarath son peeth, swarth sanmukh hoi baisa.
Your back is to the supreme welfare; your face is toward self-interest—worshiping false gods.
Sastra mat ko gyan, karam bhram me man lave.
And your scriptural knowledge? Borrowed, stale, somebody else’s. Without your own experience there is no liberation. My truth told to you becomes untruth in the telling. My truth cannot be your truth—engrain this in your heart. The easy and cheap way is to adopt others’ truths—no effort, no sadhana—“no turmeric, no alum, yet the dye is bright.” Read a book; learn noble sayings; speak noble words—but they will remain on the lips. Your heart’s grime will not be washed. The bath is only on the surface; the soul’s dust remains. Your intellect will become skilled; you will impress others—but not Ram. Ram is not impressed by knowledge, but by innocence; not by erudition, but by humility. This little skull—what can it know of the vast existence? Like trying to empty the ocean with a spoon.

I have heard: Aristotle—Greece’s great philosopher—walked by the sea. A naked fakir was at a strange task: with a spoon he scooped sea water into a pit he had dug in the sand. Neither could the ocean be emptied nor the pit filled—it drank the water. Aristotle watched, then said, “Forgive me—what are you doing?” The fakir said, “I will empty the sea into this hole.” Aristotle laughed. “Is it a joke? Such a vast sea, such a small spoon, such a pit—how can it be? Life is too short.” The fakir laughed: “It is for you I am doing this. Your skull—how much bigger than this spoon? This existence—how much vaster than the sea? And you plan to understand it with this little head? Life is short.” Before Aristotle could ask his name, the fakir left. Perhaps it was Diogenes; if not, then one of his mettle. From that day Aristotle found no rest. He kept thinking, knowing it was like emptying the sea with a spoon—certain to fail.

Sastra mat ko gyan, karam bhram me man lave.
Learn doctrines, philosophies, ideas—still the mind remains caught in desire and dream.
A big firm’s manager lay dying. The owner came to bid farewell. The manager was famed as religious—daily worship, vows, fasts, pilgrimages, Satyanarayan katha, yajna—all possible rituals. People forgot his real name and called him Bhagatji. Dying, he said, “Forgive me, sir. Now I must tell you: I embezzled lakhs from the firm; because of me the company has been in loss.” The owner said, “Do not worry, Bhagatji. You are not the only one who keeps fasts and vows; I too do. You are not the only one who performs Satyanarayan katha; I too do. You are not the only devotee—I too am a devotee.” Bhagatji said, “I do not understand.” The owner said, “Understand now—why hide at death? Do not be anxious. The poison which is killing you—I arranged it.”
All religion, all ritual is hypocrisy until Ram dwells in the heart—until the heart resounds with Ram. How will that resonance happen? You must step aside; make space; vacate the throne.

Pahun ayo bhav so, ghar me nahi anaj.
Ghar me nahi anaj, bhajan binu khali jano.
Fill this heart with joy, with festival—with his prayer. The Guest will surely enter; he always has. His coming is certain; only your readiness is needed.

Sastra mat ko gyan, karam bhram man me lave.
Chhui na gayo vijnan, parampad ko pahunchave.
Caught in useless noise which you call knowledge—learn vijnan. Vijnan means Brahma-jnana; that special knowing which leads to Brahman.
Chhui na gayo vijnan—unless you touch vijnan, the Supreme State is not reached. Knowledge comes from books; vijnan? Guru-pratap—by the grace of the guru, by the company of the realized.

Bhikha dekhe aapu ko, Brahma-rup hiye mahin.
The day you see Brahman within your own heart—living, throbbing—then: Ved-Puran padhe kaha, jo akshar samujha nahin. Until then, read on—no use. The day you see the Imperishable within, all that is written in letters becomes clear—even without reading. You may not read the Quran—but you will understand.
A Christian missionary went to a Zen master to impress him with Jesus’ words. He chose the finest sayings—the Sermon on the Mount: “Blessed are the meek, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven; blessed are the last, for in my Father’s kingdom they will be first.” He began: “Blessed are the meek…” The Zen master said, “Enough. No need to read more. Whoever has said this has attained Buddhahood.” The missionary said, “Listen further!” The Zen said, “As you wish—but the matter is complete. Whoever said this—no matter who—has awakened.” He did not ask: Whose scripture? Which religion?
He who sees the Imperishable within himself, sees it in all. He recognizes the essence of all Upanishads. He becomes the Veda.

Bhikha dekhe aapu ko, Brahma-rup hiye mahin.
Ved-Puran padhe kaha, jo akshar samujha nahin.

Udh dhaye nid-or vihag-vrind phar-phar kar,
chai-chuk-chuk ke sucharu rav se nabh thar-thar kar.
Ghan-gan-sankulit gagan kajjal ka punj bana;
mano nabh-thali me drig anjan saghan sana;
Astaachal ot hua din-mani ka rath apna—
jag ko mohit karne aya nishi ka sapna;
Nabha-chari nabh-path se laut chale apne ghar—
pankhon se phar-phar kar!

Evening fell; the winged ones, fluttering, returned to their nests. The sky—like a platter of kohl; the sun-chariot hidden behind the western hill; the night’s dream arrives to enchant the world. Sky-wanderers return home, wings rustling.

Sanjh hui; saniketan ko grih ki sudh aayi;
aniketan ke hiya me nishi ki chinta chhai;
din-kshan, vicharan hi me, beet gaye dukhdai—
ab yeh vandhya sandhya, shramti-samasya laayi;
paye nishi-vas kahan thakit pathik yeh beghar?
Aaya vishram-prahar!

When the sun of life sets, the darkness of death spreads. The heart asks: what is this earthen enchantment? What change is this? What shadow? Who will grant a night’s shelter to this weary, homeless pilgrim? The hour of rest has come.

Nishi ka vishram kahan? Poocha jab yon man ne—
thaur kahan? Poocha jab yon is mrnmaya kan ne—
Boli tab amar sadh: kaise nishi ke sapne?
Ai re! Ahlan kiya tera, chir-chetan ne!
Kale avgunthan me chhip aaye hain priyavar—
mat dar, re ajar, amar!

“Where the night’s rest?” asked the mind. “Where shelter?” asked the clay-grain. Then the immortal Master spoke: “What dreams of night? Beloved, the Eternal has welcomed you! In a dark veil your Beloved has come—do not fear, O unborn, deathless one!”

Aaj, sanjh teri yeh nav prabhat poorn hui,
tujh se aniketan ki chinta sab choorn hui;
huye aaj dvandva door, aaj door hui dui;
marghat ke nabh se aaj amiy phui chhui;
mritu ka karal kanth gata hai jeevan-svar—
ab kaisa bhay? kya dar?

Today your dusk has become a new dawn; your homelessness is dust. Dualities end; the two are gone. From the cremation ground’s sky nectar drips today. Death’s terrible throat sings the song of life—what fear now? What dread?

If during life you have not remembered the Beloved, death is terrifying. If you have—then death’s dreadful throat sings the song of life. Through death, the taste of nectar.

Ab kaisa bhay? kya dar?
Aaj, sanjh teri yeh nav prabhat poorn hui—
then evening is morning; new moon—full moon; poison—nectar.

Seek the guru, seek satsang—so that your life may be truly life, and your death be life as well. This great opportunity—do not miss it. Awake!

Enough for today.