Guru Partap Sadh Ki Sangati #3

Water keeps flowing on, enduring a few sorrows as it goes. The waves are a little murky, the surges spread a little far. The stars bend down and down, leaves fall in a hush. Fragments of cloud fly, are cut apart and join again. The stars flicker faintly, birds sleep in secret. Branches, head-in-hand and collar-torn, absolutely silent, astonished. Even the moon seems somewhat lost— somewhat awake, somewhat asleep. Dew drops drip… weeping; its tears are pearls. Silence in every leaf, stupefaction in every bud. Every speck mute, every drop mute, each star of the firmament mute. All the wind-blown blossoms silent, all the champa buds silent. Every surge of the river is silent, all the twisting waves are silent. Yarab! What is this panorama! What is the desert, and what is the door of home!

Such is the condition of man today. A deep hush has spread. In every pore of the inner being no note resounds, no music arises. Songs have died, celebration has died. Man lives drained, empty. The pitcher that was to be filled with nectar—there is not even poison in it. The pitcher that was to hold gold—there is not even ash in it. We had come carrying the promise of who knows how many flowers—now even thorns have become rare.

Never was it so. In the history of the human race man has never been so dejected, so despairing, so vacant, so meaningless. What has caused this catastrophe? Even the home feels deserted.

All is running—there is the race for wealth, the race for position; and within, someone seems to be cutting at the roots of your life-breath. Work goes on, nothing has stopped; but in the doer no thrill remains, no zest remains. There is no dance in the feet—we walk because we must. We perform out of duty—because it must be done. Out of duty; but there is no delight.

And where there is no delight, how will Dharma be? And where life lacks celebration, how will temples be raised? And where life is empty of song, how can there be any pilgrimage? Kaaba is empty, Kashi is empty—because you are empty. Temples are empty, mosques are empty—because you are empty.

There is much running and turmoil. Do not be deceived by it. There is so much hustle and bustle precisely so that somehow the inner emptiness does not become visible. Remain entangled, keep yourself entangled. Be entangled anywhere, anyhow. Keep counting cowries so that you need not look within. Keep fighting and quarreling, keep talking of trifles—listen to the radio, watch television, go to the cinema, sit in the club and play cards.

Ask people: what are you doing? They say, we are killing time. Time—so hard to come by! A single moment that slips from your hand never returns.

There is no way to bring it back. And you are killing that time which will not be obtained even if you beg for it, which will not be found even if you search. Kings and queens have been made of playing cards, wooden elephants and horses fashioned. Children are children—but here even the old are children. Chessboards have been spread.

Those whom you call wise—how unwise they are! What a race for chairs! If small children stand on chairs and shout, “No one is above us,” it is understandable; but what has happened to the elders in Delhi? The same game.

But there is a reason worth understanding behind this game. These are all devices to keep oneself entangled. This is a kind of mental alcohol. People may be in favor of prohibition, and yet there are all kinds of intoxicants. The intoxication of position—pride of position. The intoxication of wealth—pride of wealth. Those are the real liquors. What is sold in taverns is of no account—drink it in the morning, and by evening it is gone; drink it in the evening, and by morning it has evaporated. But the pride of office is such that it does not fade a lifetime. And the chairs you occupy—they were here before you. You will depart; those chairs will remain, and others will go on fighting for them. The wealth you seized is not yours—it was here before you, it will be here after you. You came and went—and you got lost in what was never yours.

There was great crowding in a train. After much searching a man found an empty seat and sat down. A little later a maharaj came and said to him, “Get up—this is my seat.”

“What proof?”

“I had spread my handkerchief here.”

“Tomorrow you will spread a handkerchief on the Prime Minister’s chair—will it become yours?” came the reply.

But in truth, what else is anyone doing except spreading handkerchiefs! What is the Prime Minister doing? Spreading a handkerchief. What is the President doing? Spreading a handkerchief. The chair belongs to no one.

Nothing here is ours—yet everyone has staked a claim. And whoever has claimed is a thief. Possessiveness is the mark of theft. Live, play, but do not claim. Live; if a chance comes, sit on a chair. If a chance comes, use wealth. But do not claim. Nothing here belongs to anyone.

Mulla Nasruddin gave a party on his fifth wedding anniversary. Tables were set, plates laid. Then Mulla’s wife said, “Mulla, go inside and bring the silver spoons that are in your chest.”

Mulla said, “I will not bring them—come what may, I will not bring them. Make do with other spoons.”

She said, “Do you not trust your friends? Do you consider them so low that they will steal silver spoons?”

Mulla said, “They will not steal them—but they will surely recognize them.”

Nothing here is ours. Nothing here can be ours. We come empty-handed and we go empty-handed. We bring nothing, we take nothing. Yet how much noise we make in between—how many flags we fly; how many disturbances, how many hassles—without cause. And all this goes on only on one basis: that if we do not do this, what will we do? If we do not play cards, the inner emptiness bites. If we do not spread the chess pieces, we have to face the inner void directly. If we do not keep ourselves entangled outside, we will have to turn within, we will have to look—and within all is empty. And within it will remain empty until Ram descends.

Bhikha says: Who has perceived the Name of Ram? Who has recognized Ram? Who has known the Name? Who has bound love with the Supreme? Only that one lives, only that one is meaningful. And the rest? For the rest life is haram—illicit, wasted. Without Ram life is haram.

Who has perceived the Name of Ram? Having given the pledge and promise, you forgot; to live without bhajan is haram.

And this Name of Ram—this is not the business of intellect, not the domain of thought. Whoever goes by thinking and reasoning will grasp nothing; the fist will remain empty. Ram cannot be perceived that way. This is a heart-born experience. If you go on chanting Ram-Ram, Ram-Ram with the tongue all your life—you will be born as a parrot in the next birth. You will be caged, and you will chant Ram-Ram. You are rehearsing the birth of a parrot if you chant only with the tongue. And if your skull too reverberates with Ram-Ram, what will happen?

In the skull there is nothing but trash. The skull is rubbish—junk. Hollow words! No—until your heart is exhilarated with the feeling of Ram; until waves begin to rise in the heart, waves of devotional ecstasy; until you are imbued with feeling; until you become intoxicated—such an intoxication that never fades; until such a rapture is born—there is no acquaintance with Ram.

The place of acquaintance with Ram is not the head, it is the heart. Connection with Ram is not joined through thought, but through feeling. Not through logic, but through love. Ram has no relation to study and contemplation. Read a hundred Vedas, read a hundred Qur’ans—you will gain nothing. You will become a pundit, not a sage. You will know much about light, but your eyes will not open; you will not know light itself.

Always remember: to know about light is not to know light. This is the difference between philosophy and religion. Philosophy knows about light; religion opens the eyes and knows light. Religion is taste. Religion is to drink and to digest. Religion is to make Ram your bone, flesh, marrow. Religion is for Ram to pervade your every pore. Sitting and standing, sleeping and waking—to rise in Him, to sit in Him, to sleep in Him, to awaken in Him. Let Him be within you, and let nothing else remain. Let Him fill you so completely that there is no room for anything else. Then someone has perceived. And one who perceives Ram becomes full. He is filled to the brim. He is content. He has known the meaning of life. He has known life’s dignity, its glory. He is adorned with the unparalleled bliss of life. He is blessed.

Someone has tied sunlight, as if with a silky thread of shade. Like a dream of the night remembered, golden-bright in the mind at dawn— like a lotus flowering at twilight… Someone cut a watermelon right through the middle, set it down somewhere and went— this very redness… This—your form? No— in the river of lamps your radiance floats. As if someone has made the barren fertile. When Ram descends, He descends like this— like a lotus flowering at twilight… As if someone has made the barren fertile.

Without Ram man is barren: nothing grows in him—infertile, a desert. With the coming of Ram, an orchard appears, an oasis arises. Springs of cool water burst forth, greenery surges, flowers begin to bloom, lamps are lit. At once both Holi and Diwali happen!

But this Ram—we have let Him slip from memory. We have forgotten.

Having given the pledge and promise, you forgot…

And remember—when we came from that realm, we came giving an assurance that we would not forget.

Having given the pledge and promise, you forgot! You made a pledge, you made a promise, you assured that you would not forget—and you forgot, and you went astray. Every consciousness that descends from the Infinite into the world descends on this very assurance—that it will not forget, it will remember. But our capacity to remember is small, and we forget soon. We begin gathering colored pebbles—the memory of home itself is lost.

We are like those little children who get lost in fairs—and who no longer remember home. And evening is falling. But the colorful toys, swings and the jugglers’ tricks—one distraction after another. The drums of the snake-charmers beat, swings whirl, toys are sold, flutes play. Colorful crowds, people of many kinds…the fair is full. The child has forgotten that he has to return home, that evening draws near, that lamps are being lit, that the time for the fair to be dismantled has come—and in the darkness he will wander. It will be hard to return home. The child has forgotten that those with whom he had come have long been lost. Such is our condition—like a child, lost in a fair.

Having given the pledge and promise, you forgot…

And it is not that if we sit quietly and remember we will not recall that pledge and promise. Whoever sits a little silently—immediately the remembrance returns. Like an explosion, clarity dawns within: from where have I come? why have I come? what is the purpose of coming here? I have forgotten everything. I have forgotten the Master who sent me. I have forgotten the work for which I was sent. I have begun doing something else. We had come to sing Hari’s praise—and we began carding cotton! You all have come to worship Hari. You have come in search of Hari alone.

This world is a touchstone, a test—to see whether in the midst of such commotion you will remember God or not. You had come to take an exam, to pass—and you forgot. You forgot from where you came, where you have to go. You know nothing. From where you came, where you must go—far from that, you do not even know who you are! Whether you even are—is not certain. Such is the pitiable state!

…To live without bhajan is haram.

Therefore Bhikha speaks rightly: the way you are living—this living is haram, because there is no Ram in it. Because even the power to fulfill your own given promise is not in it. This living is barren. Nothing grows, nothing fruits, nothing flowers. You are an amavas night in which not even a single lamp is lit. And then you fret: why am I unhappy? You worry: why does life feel lost, incomplete? If it did not, what would happen?

“In which there is not the rapture, the pain, the sorrow of love— that ‘life’ is but death; it is not life.”

What you call life—how can we call it life? It should be called death. A long sequence of dying, which begins at birth and ends at death. A seventy-year-long tale and wail of dying!

“In which there is not the rapture, the pain, the sorrow of love— that ‘life’ is but death; it is not life.”

In which there is no intoxication of love—what love? The supreme love, the love of the Lord. In which there is no intoxication of love, in which there is no sweet ache of love—do not call it life; it is death. It is slow—so you do not notice. Remember: we do not notice things that happen gradually. You die every day, every moment. One day passes—you are twenty-four hours more dead.

But we are upside-down people. We celebrate birthdays. We say: this is my thirtieth birthday. This is not a thirtieth birthday—this is the thirtieth milestone of death. Not a birthday; a death-day. Death has come nearer, has drawn closer. You stand in a queue. The queue ahead grows shorter. People are stepping out; your number is drawing near. In which moment your name will be called—it is hard to say.

But there is a psychological truth: things that happen slowly are not noticed. A psychologist wondered why. A child grows slowly—you do not notice when he was a child and when he became a youth. A youth ages slowly—you do not notice when he was young and when he became old. Things happen so slowly—leaf by leaf unfolds, and you do not notice when the tree has become dense. When leaves fall…leaves fall one by one, and sprout likewise.

Nothing in this world happens suddenly. It happens very slowly and softly—for there is eternity. There is no hurry. This is not a human life that there should be a rush, that one must do things quickly. This is the Infinite, the Eternal—there is no haste here.

That psychologist performed an experiment. He threw a frog into boiling water. Boiling water—the frog instantly leapt out. It was fire, not water—how could he remain in it? He made a long leap, a leap perhaps never made in his life—and was out at once. Then the same psychologist put the same frog into cold water and slowly began to heat it. Slowly—lukewarm, warmer, warmer…until the water began to boil—and this time the frog did not leap out; he died there. What happened? The water warmed so slowly that the frog never realized when it ceased to be cold and came to a boil.

Such is man’s state. If death came upon you suddenly—you would remember Ram. When Mahatma Gandhi was shot, the last words that arose were “He Ram!” It was sudden; the remembrance of Ram was natural. But if Gandhi had worn away on a cot, dying slowly, perhaps even the words “He Ram” would not have come. That “He Ram” came of suddenness.

You are dying slowly. You are being killed so gently; the poison is being administered so slowly that you do not notice.

“In which there is not the rapture, the pain, the sorrow of love— that ‘life’ is but death; it is not life.”

“In which one deals with Him directly— by God! that is true sobriety; it is not intoxication.”

“All the spring was from the blood of one nightingale; now flowers bear neither hue nor charm.”

“Wondrous astonishments of separation from the Beloved— The moon has risen, yet there is no light.”

“How shall I lift my longing gaze toward Him now? Even from my own theophanies I have no leisure.”

“Thus I pass my days in someone’s yearning— alive in name only; yet there is no life.”

Once, reflect on your life. Cast a glance over it. “Alive in name only; yet there is no life”—this is what you will find. This will be your verdict too—I am alive only nominally; where is life? And you too—knowingly or unknowingly—are waiting for Someone. You may lack awareness of it. For that awareness—Guru’s grace, the company of the wise! You are waiting for Someone—and have even forgotten for Whom you wait.

Mulla Nasruddin’s wife sent him to the bazaar to buy some things. Lest he forget—because whoever he meets on the way, he will gossip, and hours will pass—she said, “Tie a knot in your shirt; you will remember to bring the goods.” So Mulla went to the market with a knot in his shirt. He left in the morning, returned at dusk. “Did you bring the goods?” she asked. He said, “No. I have come to ask: what was this knot for?”

Merely tying a knot will not do. We too have been sent into this world with many knots tied. The whole secret of existence is hidden in our unconscious—the keys lie there. But we have forgotten even that we have an unconscious. We live only in the porch of our house—never entering within. We do not even remember there is an inner—this very porch we take to be the house! We have a palace, but there are chambers in which we have never stepped—whose doors we have never opened.

“All the spring was from the blood of one nightingale; now flowers bear neither hue nor charm. Wondrous astonishments of separation from the Beloved— The moon has risen, yet there is no light. Thus I pass my days in someone’s yearning— alive in name only; yet there is no life.”

Is it to live only nominally—or to be alive? There is only one way to be alive: to live Ram. To let Ram live in you. There is only one way to be alive: that into your emptiness the Supreme descend; that into your dark night His sun rise; that in your within, upon the throne of the within, Ram be enthroned—then you will live. Without Ram there is no life.

Having given the pledge and promise, you forgot; to live without bhajan is haram.

The Vedas and Vedanta describe this through all the four ages; yet you do not find stable rest. You have heard these truths; you have even memorized them. But there is little benefit in that. Read the Veda or the Qur’an or the Bible—there is little gain. You will read the Veda, but you will not read it! Its meaning will not open, because the meaning of the Veda is hidden in your heart. There is the knot; there it must be untied. When the knot of your heart opens, and the diamonds hidden in the heart become visible—then, by their very light, the meaning of the Veda opens; otherwise, not. The Veda is not grammar, not language; the Veda is your own experience. The Vedas and Vedanta have been describing That through all ages, calling you—but your restless mind, your racing about, has not yet found repose.

Find Ram—and you will find rest. Ram is rest. Without Ram, where is rest? The race continues until the final destination is found. These are but halts—stay for the night; in the morning you must walk again. Keep walking until then. And if, stubbornly, you mistake a halt for the destination and stop—still your life-breath will keep fluttering. There is no way without meeting Ram.

The Vedas and Vedanta describe it through all the four ages; yet you do not find stable rest.

Yoga, sacrifice, austerity, charity, disciplines, vows— still you wander from dawn to dusk.

And it is not that you have done nothing. You have done yoga, performed sacrifices, undergone austerities, given charity, kept disciplines and vows—yet from morning till evening there is only wandering. Because you did all this—but in that doing there was no love of Ram. In that doing there was the greed to attain heaven. In that doing the desire to arrange for the beyond even now—to insure it now. In all that, there was the fear of hell. In all that was the hand of the fears and lures given you by pundits—not the love of Ram. In that too, perhaps, the desire to gain wealth, position, prestige. Even when you go to temples—what do you ask?

A rich man came and placed a thousand gold coins before the Sufi mystic Junnaid. “Accept these—it will be great grace.”

Junnaid peered into the man and said, “First a few questions. Do you have more coins?”

“Yes—many.”

“Do you desire even more coins?”

“Of course I do. In fact, these thousand coins I offer at your feet—in the hope that, as I have heard—offer one at your feet and you receive a crore-fold in return.”

Junnaid said, “Then take them back—you have come for the wrong reason. Love has not arisen in you; you have come out of greed. This is not charity; it is a bargain. And you are a poor man—you still need more coins. We are rich—we need no more coins. Take them away. Why take from the poor! We will take from some rich one.”

He returned the man his coins. The man pleaded, “No, please take them.” Junnaid said, “No—these coins are sin, for in them there is no charity, no love. I have no connection with you—you are merely making a deal. You are gambling; placing a stake. I am not your gamble; I will not become your wager. This is no bargain, no shop. Take them—run from here, and never come again. And those who told you that if you give one to Junnaid you receive a crore—they spoke falsely. They must be dishonest. As long as I am alive, do not spread such lies. After I am dead, surely these very people will gather,” said Junnaid, “and this very lure…”

You do yoga, vows, austerities, charity, disciplines—but are they born from the joy of your soul? Do you do them in elation? Or from some lure? If there is lure—you will keep wandering from morning to evening, from birth to death.

“Gods, men, and so-called sages— were cooked and defeated; by much discourse they did not find the end.”

Even gods, men, and those we call sages—were cooked, were defeated—defeated badly; because the beginning was wrong. The seed sown was wrong—neem was sown, and mangoes awaited. Defeated—what else could happen? From neem seed a mango plant will never sprout. Do whatever you will—yoga, sacrifice, austerity, charity, disciplines, vows—if neem is sown, neem alone will grow. Leave aside ordinary people—even your so-called monks and saints are no different from you. Not an inch of distance lies between them and you. Their arithmetic and yours are the same.

And perhaps that is why they impress you—for their language and yours are the same. Perhaps that is why you gather around them—for they say what you wish to hear. They can only say what you wish to hear. They have nothing else. There is no revolution in their lives. No proclamation of the new. The old, hackneyed words they repeat. You too have heard those words. They have been said so often, repeated so often, that they have entered your blood. And when untruths are repeated many times, they begin to seem like truth.

That is why advertisers repeat untruths. They do not worry whether you will accept or not—they repeat, repeat, repeat. There is a limit—beyond which you begin to believe.

If from morning to evening you hear the same line—in the newspaper, on radio, on television, in films, in the market, on posters on the street—whether you consciously attend or not, whether you take note or not—that Lux toilet soap is the best soap. Perhaps you did not even read it carefully—but passing, it did cross your vision. And now advertisements with electricity—earlier they were static, fixed. Then psychologists said: do not keep the light fixed. If “Lux toilet soap is the best soap” stays lit, a person reads it once; extinguish it, light it; extinguish it, light it. The more you extinguish and light, the more times it must be read. The more the repetition, the deeper it sinks into the unconscious.

In the newspaper the same, on radio the same, in films the same…and add to it those elements that influence people. No one is eager to look at a box of Lux soap—but place Hema Malini beside it. Say, Hema Malini says Lux toilet soap is the best. You will have to look at Hema Malini. Along with her, you will have to see the cake of Lux. And when Hema Malini says it—it is as if the Vedas say it. How can it be false!

One day you go to the market. The shopkeeper asks, which soap? And you say, Lux toilet. You think you are saying it after thinking. You think you are saying it with deliberation. These are your delusions. Deliberation is not the mark of the ordinary man.

Aristotle’s definition—that man is a rational animal—is the falsest definition. Among men, occasionally someone has been rational; but from that, the definition of mankind does not arise. You cannot define by exceptions. A Buddha, a Krishna, a Kabir, a Bhikha—a few rare ones have become free of the circle of unthinking. They have attained the consciousness of no-thought. And only he who has attained the consciousness of no-thought has the capacity for thought. What will you think—you are asleep. You can dream.

And dreams can be induced from outside. That is what is being done. Through advertisement, an atmosphere is created around you. You will be amazed to know—even your night-dreams can be induced from outside. You are asleep at night; you know nothing. A pillow is placed on your chest—immediately a dream arises: a demon sits on your chest. It is a pillow—but in sleep you will feel a demon. A little cool air is directed at your feet—and you dream you are climbing an icy mountain, your feet growing cold. Now even your dreams can be influenced. Many experiments are underway: why let a man sleep in peace? Keep working even in his dreams. Slowly as this art develops, even in your dreams Hema Malini will be standing, holding that Lux soap: Lux is the best soap.

Advertisers have made a strange discovery—dangerous. When you go to see a film, the film spins rapidly. Because of the speed you see motion. A man is walking—you imagine there is a film of a walking man? There is no film of a walking man. The man lifts one foot, then the other, then the third—there are thousands of frames. The foot rises a little—one frame; a little more—second frame; third…all these frames pass rapidly. So rapidly you see the foot lift. If you go look closely—you will find one to thousands of frames. Among these frames they insert one—just a tiny frame—Lux toilet soap. It will not even be visible—it is a single frame. You are watching something else—it will not be caught by your eyes. You will not hear “Lux toilet soap”—yet your unconscious will receive it.

Experiments in America and Russia have yielded astonishing results. For instance, how much ice cream is sold on average each evening at a cinema was noted for a month—say, a thousand rupees. Then this subliminal ad was shown—neither seen nor heard; only the unconscious catches it. That night suddenly two thousand rupees worth of ice cream sold. Many experiments were done—and it was found that while the conscious knows nothing, the unconscious picks it up; and then a man goes out and buys exactly that ice cream that was planted in the unconscious.

This is a dangerous discovery. Politicians will use it. “Vote only for Morarji Desai”—it will not be seen, it will not be heard, and it will lodge in your unconscious…you go to vote…And you imagine you are exercising freedom, exercising your franchise. This is no franchise, no freedom. Like a slave, like a sleeper—you will drop your ballot in Morarji Bhai’s box, and still remain in the illusion that you are a thoughtful person and have voted with deliberation.

This is today’s tale—but for centuries this has been happening—likewise you were made Hindu; likewise you were made Muslim. Pounded from outside, advertised, explained and explained—that Jesus is the only-begotten son of God. Jesus alone is right. Whoever accepts Jesus will arrive. This has been hammered so solidly into you that you cannot think how to separate from the Church; someone explains Mahavira, someone Buddha, someone Mohammed—but it is the same story, the same propaganda, the same business.

Through such propaganda you may even begin to do things—but in that doing there is no cooperation of your life-breath.

“Gods, men, and sages were cooked and defeated; by much discourse they did not find the end.”

They could not find the end. The final destination never came into view. Ram did not come to them. And it is not that they did not have visions of Ram. Many do have visions—Ram with bow and arrow; Mother Sita by His side; Hanuman sitting nearby, tail coiled—this vision too occurs. But as long as such visions occur—know that dreams are afoot. This is all dream.

Ram will not appear like a picture, standing with bow and arrow. Ram will not appear like an image. Ram is self-experience—not as the seen, but as the seer. “I am Ram”—thus it will be experienced. Aham Brahmasmi—thus it will be experienced. As long as Ram appears outside you—know that these are the publicized Rams, the advertised Rams. The shadow, the stamp of what others have explained to you for centuries. Until then, this is the net of imagination.

“Sahib is unseen and indescribable—yet very near; light in every vessel—the abode of Brahman.”

Whom you seek is very near. Sahib—unseen, unreadable; there is no commentary for Him, no exposition—and yet very near; nearer than near. Even to say “near” is not right, for He is your inmost.

Sahib is unseen and indescribable—yet very near; light in every vessel—the abode of Brahman.

Where are you searching—in which archer Ram, in which flute-playing Krishna, in which naked-standing Mahavira—where? He stands within you; He abides within you. And as He abides within you, so within everyone—but the first recognition is within oneself.

Then—light in every vessel—the abode of Brahman—who has seen within has seen in all. Who has found Him in a drop has found Him in the oceans. Who has recognized Him within—there the essential thing is done. Then not only in humans—you will see Him in trees, in rocks. In rock He is rock, in tree He is tree, in animal He is animal, in bird He is bird, in man He is man—these are all His forms, all His hues. The Divine is very colorful. The Divine is seven-hued. The Divine is the whole rainbow. The Divine is all seven notes of music. The Divine is not one-dimensional—He is multidimensional. The full scale—sa re ga ma pa dha ni…complete! Nothing remains outside Him. But first recognition—within.

Who goes seeking Him outside will keep missing. How can you know Him outside when you do not know Him within? What was near—you could not recognize—how will you recognize the far? One who has tasted honey—knows sweetness; now seeing another drink honey, he knows what is happening. But one who has never tasted—however he may see another drinking—nothing will be known. Thirst burned you and you drank water—now, whenever you see someone drink, you will know the quenching of thirst. You sat in shade from the sun—you know the experience of one who sits in shade. But if you have never known sun or shade, never known thirst or quenching, never tasted honey—how will you understand? How will you recognize?

By observing another you can recognize nothing until first recognition is forged within, created and digested within.

Sahib is unseen and indescribable—yet very near; light in every vessel—the abode of Brahman.

“In every star that meets my gaze, I find Him— yet in the tangles of my heart, alas, I lose my way. The pleasure of grief is my solace; the burning of the heart, my peace. In the bitterness of failure I find a strange delight. The glance they once bequeathed me at the hour of parting— I still find that memory hidden in my breast. On one side their expectations, on the other, disappointments— thus I pass along the road of life. I meet them thus in the privacy of my heart— as if I had found some long-lost thing. I look at the moon, the stars, the rose, the garden’s buds— and then I grow desolate again. So much flavor comes now in the sweetness of pain— I begin to forget life’s comforts. What their glances did, secretly I know not— my heart will not be consoled, though I try a hundred times.”

Once you get a glimpse—once your eyes fill with Ram—then the whole world, as you knew it yesterday, dissolves; and a new world arises. What you knew till yesterday was false, Maya; what now appears is Truth.

“In every star that meets my gaze, I find Him— yet in the tangles of my heart, alas, I lose my way.”

But even after glimpses, at first, the glimpse will be lost many times. It comes, stays for a moment, and departs. But slowly stability comes. Glimpses upon glimpses upon glimpses…until one day suddenly all becomes still—the glimpse no longer remains a glimpse; it becomes your nature. Then—Samadhi! Until glimpses come, it is dhyana; when the glimpse becomes steady, it is Samadhi.

“Narads and Saraswatis search in such and such ways— thus the days and nights slip by.”

People search—this way, that way; but time is being spent. The one who searches—the very search wastes time, because search means searching outside; search means you have assumed it lies elsewhere. Hidden in the searcher is the Sought—so how will there be searching? All searching must be dropped.

Let me repeat—Ram is found only by those who, having searched, sit silently. He is found in hush, in silence, in a mind utterly inactive and quiet. He is not found by running—He is found by sitting. In this world, everything else is found by running—except the Divine; the Divine is found by stopping. All things are obtained by haste; the Divine is found by repose—because He is within you. If you keep running, you will remain entangled in the run. Fix a sitting…Where to sit? Guru-pratap—through the company of the realized! Sit by one who is sitting; someone who has become still—sit by him; stillness will become contagious.

“An easy device for union— Bhikha says, this work is through the Satguru.”

Therefore Bhikha says: I will tell you an easy device—not yoga, not sacrifice, not austerity, not charity, not disciplines, not vows—an easy device for union: Bhikha says, this work is through the Satguru. Find a true master…the master’s simple work is this: he himself has sat, and he teaches you to sit; he himself has stopped, and he teaches you to stop. Sit near one who is peaceful—you will begin to be peaceful. You have experienced it—sometimes you are sad, and four laughing friends arrive; you forget sadness and begin to laugh. And you have seen—you were laughing, joyous; four desolate people arrive; your laughter is lost and you become sorrowful.

We are not isolated—we enter each other. Our waves stir each other. Our energies are exchanged. The breath now in me will be in you in a moment; yours will be in me. As breath is exchanged—so too the life-energy enters one another through every pore.

Satsang means: to sit by one who sits by the Divine. To bathe in his waves, in his current; to be with him; to place your hand in his. And what cannot be achieved by great devices, for which—“Narads and Saraswatis searched”—such great searchers sought and expired in searching…that incomparable thing happens without effort, as grace—Guru-pratap, through the company of the sage. It happens through the Master’s prasad! An easy device for union—Bhikha says, this work is through the Satguru.

“Storms have been raised and raised again whenever love has dared. Whose glances have we saved our eyes from? What tears the sorrow of life has drunk! Dark were the roads of life— we lit lamps of remembrance. O ruined state! O grieving heart! When nothing else could be done—we laughed. Do not ask of that mischief-making glance— on what hope we have lived till today. The rites of grief have been perfected— when madness stitched up the torn seams. O beauty of conduct, O grace of kindness! With what pride has she gifted grief! The heart knows its state— though I have much to say and give. O companions of the poetic gathering— we have sealed our lips, thinking a little. Storms have been raised and raised again whenever love has dared.”

To sit by the Guru is love’s daring, the courage—the audacity—of love. Because to sit by the Guru means only one thing—preparing to melt; preparing to dissolve. Whoever sits by the Guru and melts and flows—that one has found satsang. And the very moment you melt and flow—in that moment the Divine enters you. When you are not—then He is. As long as you are—there is no Ram; when you are not—there is Ram. For the defeated—the Name of Hari! When you are utterly defeated—so defeated that you are no more—just then, in that very moment, a bliss rises from within you and spreads through the whole world.

“Sadhos, recognize the Self in all— then you will see the world filled in all four kinds.”

Then you will recognize yourself in all. Not only in humans—in oviparous, sweat-born, womb-born, and sprout-born—across all four classes you will see Him. Then you will find the world filled with Him—“the world full in all four kinds”—filled with That.

“The Unfathomable, Unseen, Undivided, Formless— only a Guru-knower sees.”

He is unknowable; unseen; undivided; formless—He cannot be seen by these eyes, these broken eyes. With the fleshly eyes only objects can be seen—surface things. The inner world cannot be seen with them. For that, the eye of knowing is needed—the eye of dhyana. Only one who has dispelled inner darkness—a Guru; one who has awakened dhyana and attained knowing—a sage—can see Him. But this capacity is yours too; this right is yours as well.

“To that state, only a few rarely arrive— by the device of yoga, the meditator.”

Sometimes, rarely, a few reach there—some meditator. Dhyana means: a thoughtless mind. Dhyana means: an inactive mind. Dhyana means: a choiceless awareness—full wakefulness, but absolutely no thought.

Man knows two states; he is unfamiliar with the third. One—the day so-called ‘waking’: there are many thoughts, and no awareness. What we call waking is a reversed term—there is no wakefulness in it; only thoughts upon thoughts. From the moment you get up—what do you do? All day—thoughts and thoughts…the crowd of thoughts keeps coming; a sequence remains tied; an unbroken current flows. In these thoughts you are stuck; in these you are weighed down. As dust settles on a mirror, so these thoughts settle on your consciousness. One state is this—our so-called waking—which is not waking at all; it is another form of sleep—sleep with open eyes.

The second state: when thoughts go. In the deep night, in deep sleep when there are no dreams, thoughts are gone—but then wakefulness is not there either; you have sunk into deep slumber.

So one state is sushupti—sleep so deep that there is no mirror, no dust. In the day there is a mirror—but a lot of dust. In both states we miss. A third state lies between the two—no dust, and the mirror is there. A state must be created that is as silent as sleep, void; and as alert as waking—that state is called dhyana; the art is called dhyana. A meditator is asleep in one sense, because as quiet as you are in deep sleep, that quiet he is in wakefulness. And in another sense he is awake in a way you never are. One who attains this is awake while awake, and awake even while asleep. His mirror remains empty—no thoughts arise, no dreams arise. In this empty mirror the whole secret lies— the secret of all religions.

“To that state a few rarely arrive— by the device of yoga, the meditator. Bhikha—blessed are those dyed in Hari’s hue— those are the ancient sages.”

And those who have found such dhyana—Bhikha says, how shall we speak of their joy, in what words?

Bhikha—blessed are those dyed in Hari’s hue… We can only say they are blessed—greatly fortunate—who drink the wine of the Divine and are intoxicated. This happens in meditation— a tavern of the Infinite opens.

Bhikha—blessed are those dyed in Hari’s hue… Those who are so dyed in the hue of Hari that they go mad—ranga-rate—ecstatic, intoxicated; who forget all else, for whom Hari remains the one and only…

Hari is a very dear word; it means: thief! In any language of the world there is no such sweet word for the Divine. Hari means: the One who takes away, who steals, who snatches. The moment you reach meditation—Hari will snatch, steal everything; He will leave nothing behind. He will take you wholly into Himself; drown you as the river is drowned in the ocean—Hari will steal you. Hari is a thief!

Bhikha—blessed are those dyed in Hari’s hue— those are the ancient sages.

Call them the true sadhus—the eternal sadhus—those who have been sadhus birth after birth—the ancient ones—who are intoxicated in Hari’s hue.

“Only the thought of you remains—without you. This alone is my support for living—without you. Where now that beauty of evening, that delight of dawn? I have turned from the world—without you. You grew angry and went—but tell me this: with whom shall I lodge my complaint, without you? Both worlds’ spring is lightless to my gaze— a trick now is every scene—without you. Come, and come take even the soul of life— what will I do, living alone, without you?”

Come—and come take even the soul of life—take this life too, take this existence—absorb me into Yourself!

Come, and come take even the soul of life— what will I do, living alone, without you?

Without you there is no meaning in living. To live without bhajan is haram…Without you life is futile; without you it is to carry a needless burden; without you—better to die. If You are—life has meaning. If You are not—life has no meaning.

“This is the rite of love I proclaim.”

Bhikha says: this is the rite of love—the readiness to disappear, to give oneself wholly; this is the invitation to the Divine: come, take me whole; I will not save even a grain of myself. Save a little—and you miss. Either give wholly—or you will not be able to give at all. In the realm of the Divine there is no bargain, no compromise; it cannot be given in fragments—it must be given whole. This is the rite of love—I tell you this.

“Whatever joy or sorrow befall the body— keep the lotus-feet in meditation.”

Whatever joy, whatever sorrow befall—now they no longer matter. Only one care remains—that your mind remain fixed at His lotus feet. Only one care remains—that the lotus of consciousness blossom within. Only one thing remains—morning to evening, evening to morning, every moment, every hour—one thing…that the thoughtless mind be established; that dust not settle on the mirror.

“Whatever joy or sorrow befall the body— keep the lotus-feet in meditation. Become conscious; give up delusion by discernment— do not mix sugar with dust.”

In this life the condition has become distorted. It is as if someone mixed dust into sugar; it has become very hard to sift. We have so identified with the futile that to separate essence from non-essence has become difficult. Do not mix sugar with dust! With our own hands we have mixed sugar and dust—now sifting is hard. But it can be sifted; there is a method: become conscious, give up delusion by discernment—if you become conscious, if you awaken awareness, if you rise, sit, walk in awareness—whatever you do, let the quality of awareness be maintained. Even if the lips move, even if a little ripple of thought arises—let it not be without awareness. Let every act be full of awareness. As you sit in hush now—mindfully—let this silence not pass meaninglessly. Awake—the birds’ sounds begin to be heard; someone will pass on the road; a watermill whirs far away—your awareness begins to experience all. Even a cricket chirps—and it comes into your consciousness.

There is only one process for awakening awareness: mindfulness in every act—walk mindfully, eat mindfully, bathe mindfully. Keep enlarging awareness. The more mindfully you act, the denser awareness becomes. And then a moment comes when awareness is so dense that whatever you see—that is the True; or, you see only the True and nothing else.

Become conscious; give up delusion by discernment— do not mix sugar with dust.

In that moment dust separates, sugar separates. In that moment body separates, Atman separates. In that moment matter separates, the Divine separates. In that moment you will know what is the house and who is the Owner of the house. In that moment the ancient identification of centuries will break.

“Like the chaatak without the Swati drop— fix your vow to surrender life.”

Like the chaatak bird, which stakes everything—it says: I will drink only the Swati drop. It vows its life to surrender—fixes such a deep resolve and sits, with eyes fixed on the moon, awaiting the Swati drop. I will not drink any other water—only the Swati drop. Much water has been drunk—does thirst ever end? For a little while there is the illusion; then thirst returns. Now, only the Swati drop will be drunk—and the Swati drop quenches forever.

Thus the devotee, thus the meditator—fixes a firm resolve: I will drink the Divine alone. I have drunk all else. I have known all other wines—now I will drink the wine of the Divine. Much distilled from grapes have I drunk—now I will drink what is distilled from the soul. I have seen much wealth—now I will see the supreme wealth. I have attained many positions—now I will attain the Supreme Position.

When like the chaatak your eyes are fixed on the moon; when life is filled with a single longing—then revolution certainly happens. This is the eligibility to attain the Lord.

“Like the chaatak without the Swati drop— fix your vow to surrender life. Bhikha—one whose body has no Ram-bhajan— know him to be death itself.”

One in whose life there is no Ram-bhajan—Bhikha says—he should understand: his life is nothing but death. Again and again, he says: your life is presently death! The house is empty; the Owner of the house is asleep. The temple has been built—the idol where is it? What kind of tree is this—bearing neither fruit nor flower, no fragrance rising! What kind of bird are you—that neither spreads its wings, nor flies the sky, nor journeys toward the moon and stars—caged. And you have gripped the cage tightly; you take the cage to be security!

This body is a cage—do not grip it so tightly. Live in it, use it—it is the gift of the Divine; respect it. But do not clutch it; do not identify with it; do not say, I am the body. Live in the world—Bhikha does not say abandon the world. If the eye does not change, and you flee the world—what gain will there be?

Yoga, sacrifice, austerity, charity, disciplines, vows— still you wander from dawn to dusk.

You will wander from morning to evening; you will gain nothing. The real question is transformation of vision; the perspective must change; your style of seeing must change; a new arithmetic, a new equation of life must come.

What is that equation, how will it come? Drop thought, hold awareness; drop sleep, guard wakefulness; descend from the intellect and awaken the heart. Do not wander in words and scriptures alone. Wandering in words and scriptures—you have done that for births on births. The Veda is on your tongue, the Gita is in memory; you know the Qur’an, you have read the Bible—what happened then? Where is the fire lit? No lamp lights by discussing lamps.

Gurdjieff used to tell a story. In a forest a king came to hunt. The tablecloth was spread—it was time to eat. Exquisite dishes were brought; plates were set; a great arrangement began. Some ants got the scent—messenger ants that go to gather news. Such food they had never seen—such colorful dishes, such fragrance—as if heaven had descended to earth. They danced back, intoxicated, gave the news to the ants. Among the ants a storm arose—they became utterly delirious—hearing the talk, some fell unconscious. Such food, so many plates, such fragrance…The talk was so thrilling that who would remember to go!

So much excitement spread in telling each other that the ants’ king grew very troubled. He said: they will go mad. “Wait,” he said, “first I will take my ministers and go, get certain knowledge.”

He went with his ministers. He saw—matters were as reported. But hearing the talk, when the ants were already reeling and fainting—what would be their fate if they came near such food? He asked his ministers, “What shall we do?”

The old wise minister said, “We shall do what men do. In compulsion we must imitate men, because in the history of the ants such an event has never occurred before; in the history of men it has.”

“I do not understand,” said the king of ants.

“We shall draw a map,” they said. “On the map we shall draw plates, fill them with colorful foods. We shall take the map, spread it out, and say to the ants—look, such foods, such plates…They will be intoxicated with the map itself; they will neither come here, nor any fuss.”

And so it happened. The map was made and brought; and what to say of the ants! Bands played, there was dancing and welcome. All night the ants did not sleep—they wandered over the map, here and there—this color, that color. The clever ministers had even sprinkled a little fragrance on the map. The ants’ nostrils filled. The ants forgot the very matter of food.

Gurdjieff said: the ants are still entangled in the map—stuck to the map, enjoying the map. And the minister was right: we must imitate men.

Thus are the Vedas a map; the Qur’an, another map; the Bible, a third map. And people, like ants, are entangled with maps—some stuck to the Veda, some to the Qur’an, some to the Bible. Their eyes are ruined reading the Vedas; their minds are bewildered. People sway reading only the Gita—the same condition as the ants. They are delighted reading the Qur’an—who cares to become Mohammed! Who worries to become Mahavira? Who is to become Buddha? Who is to attain the Samadhi of Chaitanya? The word samadhi is enough. People are researching the word. On Patanjali’s Yoga Sutras, book upon book is being written; on Badarayana’s Brahma Sutras, commentaries upon commentaries. Maps upon maps, and maps of maps are being made.

This has gone on long. Bhikha says: awaken from this—nothing will happen this way.

Whoever has awakened says the same: nothing will happen this way; the real journey must be taken. And the real journey is not outward—but inward. A real eye is needed—and this leather eye is not it; it is the eye of meditation. Open the eye of dhyana—then there is the incomparable bliss—the Sat-Chit-Ananda.

And this can happen here, in your life—there is possibility. It can happen. If it does not, no one but you will be responsible. Doors are being opened—if you stand with your back turned, that is your wish. I am not giving you a map—I am calling you to the real food. Therefore the owners and contractors of maps are very angry with me. They must be—what will become of their maps? If people listen to me and begin to move toward Samadhi—what will become of those writing books on Patanjali’s sutras? If people listen to me and the Bhagavad Gita begins to descend within them—what will become of the thousands of commentaries on the Gita? Those pundits doing research in universities, who have spent their lives in research—what research is there! Not their own purification—research in books! What will become of them? Naturally they will be angry with me. Their anger can be understood.

But I do not worry about their anger; I worry for you—lest it happen that you, having come so near, miss. Sometimes it happens that even at the river’s edge, people go back thirsty. A horse can be brought to the river by force—but he cannot be made to drink by force.

Guru-pratap—through the company of the realized!

Enough for today.