Hari Bolo Hari Bol #1

Say Hari, say Hari!
There is nothing else worth speaking, nothing else worth hearing. If you must speak, speak Hari; if you fall silent, be silent in Hari. Let the breath that enters be dipped in Hari; let the breath that leaves be dipped in Hari. Rise in Hari, sleep in Hari. When Hari surrounds you from all sides, when Hari circles around you, when you become the abode of Hari... In waking let Him fill your sight, in dreams let Him become your dream; let every hair of your body be steeped in Him; let there be no space left in you to contain anything other than Him—only when Hari pervades in this way, is He found.
If even a small space remains unfilled by Hari, you will create the world again. And a tiny drop of the world becomes an ocean. A small seed, the scientists say, can cover the entire earth in green. A small seed—where there is no Hari within you—is enough to send you astray—astray for lives upon lives.
Let nothing remain other than Hari—on such a new journey we will walk with Sundardas. Among the saints, many composed poems, but in the true sense of poetry only Sundardas can be called a poet. Others had something to sing, so they sang. But Sundar had both something to sing and the art of song. Alone among the nirguna saints, Sundardas can be installed at the rank of a great poet. What he said is incomparable; the way he said it is also incomparable. The message is lovely indeed, and each word of the message is precious beyond measure.
You are setting out on an important expedition. Before we descend into Sundardas’s sutras—and those sutras will lead you, step by step, into great depths—right up to the very source of the waters. If you wish to drink, then drink. For the saints can only awaken thirst. There is a proverb: you can lead a horse to the river, you can show it the water, but you cannot make it drink.
Hold Sundardas by the hand. He will take you to that lake whose single sip quenches forever. But he will only bring you to the lake, he will set the lake before you. It is your hands that must make the cup. It is you who must bow. It is you who must drink. Yet if you understand Sundar, then along the way he will also awaken thirst—he will call to the chakor sleeping within you, so that it begins gazing at the moon; he will awaken the chatak within you, so that it longs for the drop of Swati. He will explain that you are like a fish whose ocean is lost, floundering upon the shore.
Whether you know of the ocean or not, one thing you must acknowledge: you are writhing, you are troubled, you are afflicted, you are restless; there is not a single moment of true relief in your life; you have not known a single ray of real joy. You have hoped for it. But when did joy arrive? You thought it would come—now, then—but deception has continued. You have searched a great deal; not that you have searched too little—you have searched for lives. And yet you are empty-handed. Your search has moved in the wrong directions. Your search has not brought you to the lake—it has led you further and further away. And gradually, your experience has deepened inside you a belief that perhaps there is nothing to be found here. And if someone becomes so despairing as to believe that there is nothing to be found here, then truly nothing can be found—your feet will tire, you will fall, broken.
Sundar will remind you: there is much to be found here. Only the art of searching is needed—the right direction, the right dimension. There is much to attain here—Paramatma Himself is hidden here. But you have been searching wrongly. You are picking pebbles where there are mines of diamonds. He will awaken your thirst—awaken your chatak, awaken your chakor. He will kindle a flaming fire within you. A moment will certainly come, when from some unknown depth the words “Say Hari, say Hari” will arise within. Only then will you understand these sutras.
These sutras are not superficial; they are a communication from the innermost core of life-breath.
Before we enter the sutras, a few things about Sundardas must be understood; they will be of help.
Call it coincidence: Sundardas’s father was named Permanand, and his mother was named Sati—Permanand and Sati. From the meeting of these two streams of life this incomparable person was born. This birth can happen within you too—but these two streams must meet within you—bliss and truth. Seek bliss and you will find truth; seek truth and you will find bliss. They are linked—two sides of the same coin.
It may be coincidence that the father’s name was Permanand and the mother’s name Sati. But all saints are born from the meeting of satya and ananda. In olden times people chose names with great thought. Often all names were names of God. Think of ancient Hindu names—you will find the very names available in the Vishnu Sahasranama—the thousand names of God; those we would give to human beings: some are Ram, some Krishna, some Vishnu. Think of Muslim names: among Muslims there are the hundred names of Allah. If you search their names you will find they are fashioned from the names of God—whether Rahim or Rahman or Abdullah—these are all names of God. Abdullah means ‘abd Allah—the servant of Allah.
In olden days people gave a person God’s name. Why? Because being called again and again leaves an imprint. If your name is Ram, it becomes a little difficult to become a Ravana. And who knows in what auspicious moment your name might pierce your heart like an arrow? It begins with the name. Who can say on which day the name will become truth? The name can become truth.
That is why, when I give you sannyas, I give you new names—names connected with the Supreme. You are still very far from there. But you must be reminded that however far you may be, your destination is there; you have to go there, you have to arrive there. If you do not arrive there, life is wasted—thrown into the rubbish heap.
Remember, a name is a remembrance. But it is a coincidence that Sundardas was born to Sati, with Permanand as father. Within you too these two can meet; your saintliness can be born.
Sundardas’s sannyas is very unique—almost unbelievable. You will be startled to know: he took sannyas at the age of seven. Seven years! People do not become sannyasins even at seventy. An extraordinary genius he must have been.
What is the mark of genius? Only this: what others do not grasp even through experience, the genius grasps through others’ experience. The dull-witted do not understand even through their own experience; the intelligent learn from the experience of others.
There is the story of Yayati in the Upanishads. Death came to Yayati. He was a hundred years old. But he began to cry, to plead. He caught hold of the feet of Death and said: forgive me! I forgot that I had to die. I did nothing. I did not even take the name of Ram. Thinking that I would live a hundred years, what was the hurry?—I kept postponing. I got entangled in a thousand affairs. I remained in the marketplace. This will be injustice—forgive me! The fault is mine. Give me a hundred more years.
Death said: someone has to be taken. If any of your sons agrees to go, I will leave you.
Death was confident—if a hundred-year-old will not agree to go, why would his sons? Yayati had a hundred sons. He had many queens. He was an emperor. He looked to his sons—one was seventy, another seventy-five. All of them bowed their heads. One son, whose age was not much—just eighteen, the youngest—stood up and said: I will go. Even Death felt pity. Death is not given to pity; if pity begins, Death’s work cannot proceed. Leave Death; even those who work with Death—doctors and the like—their pity dries up. If a doctor begins to feel pity, he will hang himself. Twenty-four hours dealing in death, fighting disease, the heart becomes hard—it has to. If at each illness the doctor sits and weeps, if each patient who comes throws him into an emotional storm—life becomes impossible; the patient apart, the doctor himself will become a patient.
But Death has been carrying people off for lives upon lives. Carrying them off is her work. And yet it is said even she felt pity—on this innocent boy: he has not yet seen life; he knows nothing. She whispered into the boy’s ear: fool! Your father, a hundred years old, does not want to die; you are only eighteen—think a little! Your brothers, some seventy, some seventy-five—they too do not want to die; think a little—you have not yet tasted life!
Do you know what the boy said to Death? He said: When my father, even at a hundred, is not fulfilled by life, when my brothers, even at seventy-five, at seventy, are not fulfilled by life—what will I do living? Their experience is enough for me. If one is to go unfulfilled, and go after a hundred years, why be tormented so long? I am ready to go now.
This is called genius—learning from another’s experience. And you know, Yayati lived another hundred years. The son went. And because he was to live a hundred, he relaxed: what hurry now? Then Death came again, and the same incident repeated. Again he begged: forgive me. Thinking I had a hundred years, I forgot. Give me one more chance.
They say Yayati was given ten chances. He lived a thousand years. Yet in the one-thousandth year he was still clutching at Death’s feet. Death said: enough! There is a limit.
Do not take Yayati’s story as merely a story—it is your story. How many times have you lived, how many times have you asked for life again—again, again! Each time you died, you begged for life again—one more time; you returned, hurried into some womb, returned again. Thus you have come many times—and like Yayati you have forgotten, again and again.
The wise learn from another’s experience. The son was right—if all my ninety-nine brothers and my father, after so long, have attained nothing and are begging—what is the point? There is nothing here to be got. Here there is only wandering, running and falling. Before I fall, I prepare to go. I go. For me the world is futile.
Something like this happened in Sundar’s life. He was seven. Dadu came to the village. As Dadu awakened Razzab, so he awakened Sundardas. Dadu awakened many. Dadu is among the great masters. As many awakened through Dadu, through no other Indian saint did so many awaken.
Dadu came to the village—Rajasthan’s little village, Dausa. Sundardas says:
“When Dadu-ji came to Dausa, I was a child and had his darshan.
I bowed my head at his feet; he placed his hand upon my head.”
He was seven years old.
Understand: in the human life every seven years comes a moment of revolution. As the day completes a circle in twenty-four hours, so the mind’s tendencies complete their circle in seven years. Each seven years, a door opens. At seven the door opens. At fourteen the door opens. At twenty-one the door opens. Each seven years, once, the door opens. If you miss it, seven years of deep sleep ensue. Every seven years you are very close to God. Just stretch out a hand and you can have Him. It is keeping this seven in view that the Hindus decided that at fifty one should enter vanaprastha. At forty-nine the seventh cycle is completed; so the fiftieth year means: after forty-nine—hurry now. People used to live a hundred; that division was based on a hundred. Now people live seventy.
There are not a few opportunities in your life—there are many. But each opportunity arrives with great attractions; the door opens and the world appears in all its allure. If a seven-year-old child becomes a little alert, or gains the company of a Sadguru, a revolution can happen—because this is the moment when ahamkara is born. And in the same moment, with the right fortune, strength and genius, one can slip into egolessness forever. The chance for ego to be born never comes at all.
You have seen, after seven children begin to say “no” to everything. You say: don’t do this—they say: I will! Even if they don’t say it, they will do it. You say: don’t smoke—they will smoke. You say: don’t go to the cinema—they will go. You say: not this—they will do exactly that.
After seven, the ego arises within the child: I am something; I must announce myself to the world. The child becomes aggressive. This is the moment the ego takes birth. And the other side of this very moment is: if the right conjunction comes—good fortune, capacity, genius—one can slip into non-ego.
Keep this in mind: the two things happen together—either you slide into ego, or into egolessness. Either you walk out the door, or you shut it and walk the other way. So again at fourteen it happens: kama arises. Either you descend into kama, or into brahmacharya. That possibility is equally near.
So again at twenty-one it happens: either you descend into competition—jealousy, struggle, rivalry, hatred—or you become non-competitive.
So again at twenty-eight it happens: either you fall into accumulation—parigraha: collect, collect, collect—or you become aparigrahi, seeing: what will collecting collect? Within I am poor and will remain poor.
Again at thirty-five it happens. At thirty-five you come into midlife—the noon of life. Either you understand: now the days of decline have arrived; now let me transform. The hour has come; the descent has begun; now each day the sun will sink, and evening draws near.
At thirty-five, morning is equally far, evening is equally far. You stand in the middle. But the majority, rather than understanding that death is nearing, begin to struggle to avoid death. Therefore most illnesses arise between thirty-five and forty-two. You fight with death. Fight—and where will you win? The heart attacks, the mental tensions—these occur between thirty-five and forty-two. It is a time of great struggle.
If at thirty-five a person understands that death will certainly come—where is the sense in fighting?—accept it; not only accept it, begin preparing for it, arranging for death. And remember, just as there is an education for life, so too there is an education for death. There will be a better world one day—and once there was such a world—where there were universities that taught life, and universities that taught death. Today’s education is incomplete. It teaches you how to live, but not how to die.
And in the end, one must die.
So your knowledge is incomplete. Your boat is such that you have been given one oar, not the other. Have you seen a boat rowed with one oar? If you row with one oar, the boat goes round and round—it goes nowhere. The other shore cannot be reached; it simply circles. Two oars are needed. With both, the other shore can be reached. People are taught the education of life; then their boat goes in circles. They get caught in the cycle of life.
Samsara means: to be caught in the cycle.
At thirty-five the door opens again for a moment. Glimpses of death begin to come. The grip on life begins to slip. Out of fear people clutch life more tightly. Clutch hard and you will lose badly; you will break. Let it be by its own tide—no one will break you. Let go with understanding.
At forty-two kama begins to wane. As at fourteen kama arises, so at forty-two it begins to ebb—this is a natural sequence. But one becomes disturbed: at forty-two when he finds kama waning—and that is what his life has been—he runs to physicians, doctors, hakims. You have seen the posters on the walls: “methods to increase virility,” “methods to cure secret diseases.” If you go to those doctors you will be amazed: the people there are around forty-two. Because kama is ebbing, energy is leaving the body, and they want some miracle, some herb, some medicine. There is no medicine anywhere—but there are exploiters—vaidyas, physicians, hakims—Hakim Virumal and the like—waiting to exploit. And this business is such that it cannot be exposed; the one who goes goes secretly; he doesn’t want anyone to know why he has gone. When he gets no success, he knocks at another Virumal’s door—and cannot even tell anyone that the drug did not work. Have drugs ever worked? It is foolishness.
All kinds of superstitions flourish—mantras, tantras, amulets, services to tantrics—in the hope some miracle will happen, that the life-energy slipping from the hands will return, that one will become young again.
The age of forty-two is the hour to let kama go. Now the time has come for the longing for Ram to arise. If kama departs, let Ram arrive. Again the door opens—but you miss it.
Thus every seven years the door opens. One who awakens even at the first seven has extraordinary genius. Perhaps Dadu came to Dausa in search of this little child. For a Sadguru does not arrive without reason.
A story from Buddha’s life: he was going to a village. His disciples said there was no point. There were only small folk—farmers. Who will understand your words? Vaishali is near—let us go to the capital. In this small village there is not even a proper place to stay. But Buddha insisted: first that village; without going there we will not go to Vaishali. A needless detour of twenty miles on foot. He did not agree; they went. As they neared the village, a small girl—no more than fifteen—was going to the fields with food for her father. She met them, bowed at Buddha’s feet and said: do not begin the discourse until I return. No one paid much attention to this. They reached the village; people gathered. The village was small, but Buddha had come—what good fortune! The whole village gathered. All sat, waiting for him to speak. Buddha sat, watching.
Finally someone stood and said: Lord, speak. He said: I am waiting for someone. The man looked around: I know everyone in the village—there are only a hundred or so. All are here. Whom are you waiting for?
Buddha said: wait. The girl came running, sat down—and Buddha began to speak. He said: I was waiting for this girl. Truly, I came for her.
Dadu went to Dausa—very likely he went for Sundardas. He was the only diamond there whose sparkle would have reached Dadu; shining like a lit lamp among stones. He went in search of him.
Sundardas has said:
“Sundar’s own Satguru, showing grace, himself came,
We were sleeping in the night of delusion—he awoke us.”
He gave sannyas to a seven-year-old. There are a few small children here too. People ask me why I give sannyas to such little ones. You would have asked Dadu too: why give sannyas to Sundar? A child of seven—what has he seen, what has he known? But the truth is—who here is a child? Behind each of you lies the long journey of many births. Everything has been known, many times over. Who is little here? This world is not new—very ancient. And you have always been here. This body is not your first. In how many bodies you have dwelt—who knows! It may be that in this body you appear new; the body is new—but you are not new.
Dadu would have seen the glimpse. He lifted this child like a diamond, and kept him like a diamond. Therefore he named him Sundar—“beautiful.” The child must indeed have been beautiful.
This is the one beauty: that a person burns in the thirst for God. And such a thirst that he stakes his whole life. A seventy-year-old is not ready to stake anything—there is nothing left to stake; only bones and dried marrow remain—yet even then he is not ready to stake, coiling and guarding the remnants: let nothing slip; let nothing fall from the hands.
This child was new. Dadu named him Sundar. There is only one beauty in this world—the beauty of the search for God. There is only one grace in this world—the grace of the longing to attain God. Blessed are they—only they are truly “beautiful”—in whose eyes the image of God abides. Your eyes are not beautiful—what abides in your eyes is the beauty. Your form is not beautiful—whose desire abides in your form, that is beauty. And you must have noticed: in one who walks the path of God, a unique beauty begins to appear—in his movements, his speech, his silence, in his eyes, in the gestures of his hands—a beauty appears that is not of this world.
Dadu raised Sundar with great love, poured love like rain upon him. He was a diamond—Dadu polished him well. He told all his disciples: take care of Sundar, be concerned for Sundar—something glorious is about to manifest from him. And something glorious did manifest.
After Dadu Dayal’s death, Dadu entrusted Sundar to Razzab’s care. And as an unparalleled event occurred in Razzab’s life—after Dadu’s death Razzab never opened his eyes again. He said: what is there to see now? That which was worth seeing, I saw. I saw that which cannot be seen. That which is beyond the eyes flashed within the eyes. What is there to open them for now? What remains in this world? He lived for a few years, but never opened his eyes—alive, and yet like a blind man.
A similar incomparable event occurred in Sundar’s life. Dadu passed soon—the child was young, Dadu was old. He entrusted him to Razzab. Razzab took care. But the child was small—one day Razzab also left. After Dadu left, then Razzab left—what happened to Sundar? An unusual event again. These are events to be understood—because they happen between you and me and will happen; understanding them is useful. A few days before Razzab died—Sundar was far away, in Kashi—Sundar suddenly began running from Kashi. Razzab was in Rajasthan—Sanganer. A long journey. Friends and disciples said: why are you rushing, what is the hurry? Sundar said: no delay now. He would not rest on the way. Somehow, reach Sanganer. Meanwhile Razzab’s breaths were hanging; he opened his eyes again and again and asked: “Has Sundar come or not?” As soon as Sundar arrived, Razzab saw him—took him near. He did not open his outer eyes; he saw with the inner. Peace came to Razzab; he lay down, took Sundar’s hand in his own, and departed.
What happened to Sundar? Sundar was young, completely healthy—but from that moment he fell ill. He died on the very bed on which Razzab died. There he fell ill. The illness was so sudden. Friends asked: what happened? Disciples asked: what happened? You came well. Sundar said: now there is no reason to live. Now there is no savor to living. For my own sake the savor had gone already. There was no reason to live. But Razzab is old—if I die the shock will be too much for him—so I lived. Now there is no reason, no cause. Dadu has gone, Razzab has gone—now I will go.
In Sanganer a stone inscription has been found on which these words are carved—
“Samvat 1681, eighth of the bright fortnight of Kartik,
In the third watch, on Thursday, Sundar met the Beautiful.”
A lovely phrase: “Sundar miliya Sundardas”—“The Beautiful met Sundardas.” They did not speak of death. Sundardas met the Beautiful—the supreme Beautiful! He plunged into that which he had sought. The thin, fragile veil of body fell away.
See death thus—“Sundar miliya Sundardas.” Death is not an enemy. Death takes nothing from you; she only removes the curtains between. Death comes to give, not to take. But you clutch useless things so tightly that you feel death comes to snatch. You consider death an enemy only because of your attachment to life. The day attachment to life disappears, death is a friend—the supreme friend—the supreme benefactor.
“Sundar miliya Sundardas.”
Until now he was the servant of the Beautiful, says Sundardas; now he became Beautiful. Until now he was beautiful only because he was the servant of the Beautiful—the reflection of His aura. A few glimpses were falling—snatches of the song were being caught. Now he drowned in That. Now the great light happened.
These were his last words before dying—
“Niralamb, nirvasana—this is the wishless way,
The body whirls on the winds of samskara, like a dry leaf.
Our physician is Lord Ram; the medicine is Hari’s Name.
Sundar, this is the remedy now—rememberance all the eight watches.
Sundar has no doubt—this is a great festival—
Atman has met Paramatma—let the body remain or perish.
Whether at seven years or after a hundred—it is only so many days for the body.
Sundar, Atman is immortal; the body is but dust of dust.”
Understand.
“Niralamb, nirvasana—this is the wishless way,”
The world is vasana—desire. Paramatma is nirvasana—desirelessness. The world is the race of desires—that is, you are turned away from Paramatma. Paramatma is nirvasana—then you are turned toward Him.
“The body whirls on the winds of samskara, like a dry leaf.”
Have you seen a dry leaf blown in the wind? In that way you whirl in the winds of samskara and habit. You are not yet walking with your own feet toward your own direction—you are a leaf blown by the wind. Accident is the arrangement of your life. You live by happenstance. Not yet by yoga—only by chance. Your direction is not determined; you do not know where you are going, why you are going, where you are coming from.
“The body whirls on the winds of samskara, like a dry leaf.”
This body is a dry leaf; it goes on in old habits, old samskaras. Awake—rise above old habits and old samskaras.
“Our physician is Lord Ram,”
For this disease of wandering there is only one physician—Ram.
“the medicine is Hari’s Name.”
And the medicine is only one—the Beloved’s Name, the Beloved’s remembrance, the Beloved’s memory; it should fill you so totally, enter every pore, that nothing else remains. Then your life will have direction, meaning. Then you will no longer be thrown here and there by the bang of events; you will not be carried along by the surge of the crowd; you will go like an arrow—an arrow that pierces Paramatma.
“Sundar, this is the remedy now—remembrance all the eight watches.
Sundar has no doubt—this is a great festival.”
He is dying—death is coming; friends, disciples, loved ones must have begun to weep. Many had received the remembrance of the Beautiful from Sundar; in many he had awakened the longing for the Beautiful. They must have wept, been pained. Sundar says to them: “Sundar has no doubt—this is a great festival.” Why do you weep? What is the doubt? I am not dying. I am not that which can die.
The Vedas say: amritasya putrah—you are the sons of immortality. You have tied yourself to the mortal, hence the delusion. Think of it this way: you put on clothes dyed with a poor dye; it rains, and the color runs. Is your color running? You have no color. The clothes are poor, their color runs. But if someone takes himself to be one with his garments—and many have—then if you take away their clothes, you have taken everything. Some have identified with their position—remove the post, and all is gone. Some have identified with money—if their money goes, they leap to their deaths; what is left to live for? What petty identifications you have formed!
Sundar says:
“Sundar has no doubt—this is a great festival.”
It is a great festival—do not weep. Do not be anxious; have no doubts. I am not dying. I am going into the supreme life.
“Atman has met Paramatma—let the body remain or perish.”
Let the body remain or go—what does it matter?
“Atman has met Paramatma,”
The drop is entering the ocean. It will not remain as a drop—what is the difference? It will remain as the ocean.
“Whether at seven years or after a hundred—it is only so many days for the body.
It is only so many days for the body.”
There is a count of days. It has a limit, a time. Time will pass.
“Sundar, Atman is immortal; the body is but dust of dust.”
Hold only that which is amrita. Take into your hands only that which is amrita. Join yourself to the eternal. If you join yourself to the perishable, you will be miserable—these bubbles of water will keep bursting and bursting, bringing sorrow and pain.
These were his last words. With such words of this beloved man we begin our journey.
“Like a fish without water, like an infant without milk,
One in pain without the medicine—how can he endure?”
Like a fish floundering without water, so are you without the water. The wonder is: you are writhing, yet you do not remember. You writhe and then seek reasons which are not the cause of your pain. If you suffer you say: how can I not suffer—I need wealth! As if a fish thrown upon the burning sand thinks: I am writhing because I have no riches. If only I had diamonds my pain would end. If only I had position, my pain would end. If only I had fame—would the fish’s pain end? Would fame end it? Position? Wealth?
Look around you: what you want has been attained by others. Their writhing has not ended. Yours will not end either. Look at the failures of the successful! Look at the poverty of the rich! Those with great names—look at their small deeds! Those who have somehow manufactured prestige and egos—see their inner hollowness! Recognize the shallowness of those you think great!
If you want to see human pettiness at its worst, go to any capital—sit in its parliament. Go to Delhi, if you want to see human baseness—meanness, trickery, dishonesty, throat-cutting competition, leg-pulling, the attempt to topple one another—go to Delhi.
Whenever you begin to be enamored of the world—go to Delhi. Dispassion will arise at once.
Look into the anxieties of a wealthy man. See his poisoned life. Recognize his inner emptiness. See that he cannot sleep at night—where is sleep? See that he cannot really live—life passes in arranging to live; when is there time to live? People go on with preparation alone.
I have heard of a great thinker in Germany. He had only one obsession: he must read all the great books of the world. He created a huge library. He roamed the world, and whenever he found an important book in any language, he purchased it and sent it back home. The books accumulated—but by then there was no time left to read. When he died he left hundreds of thousands of books. He had read not even one. All the time went into organizing.
I have read an old Sufi story similar to this. A man wanted to know the essence of all the scriptures of the world. He was very rich. He employed thousands of scholars: I have no leisure to read—you bring me the essence; digest it. Extract the essence of all religions. The scholars worked hard for years. But even the essence turned into huge tomes—how many scriptures there are; if you extract the essence of thousands, you will still have volumes. The man saw the tomes and said: this will not do. I am getting old. I do not have that much time—and I have no convenience of leisure either; reduce it further. Make it into one book—everything arranged within it.
More years passed; finally they brought one book. By then the man was bedridden. They said: here is the one book. He said: too late now—now I do not have time even to read one book. Condense it onto one page.
To condense one book into one page was difficult. The book had already been reduced to sutras; even selecting among those was very hard. They worked at it; when they came with one page, the man was dying. He said: too late—now I do not have the convenience even to read one page. Whisper one sentence into my ear.
They said: we will need a little time; to make one sentence out of this—by the time they returned with one sentence, the man had died.
Most people live like this. The arrangement of life goes on. Where is the experience of life? You are writhing, the whole world is writhing—but what is the cause? Ask those who know, who are awakened. They say: your pain is not because you lack wealth, fame, or position. Your pain is because you are a fish and your ocean is lost—and you lie upon the sand.
“Like a fish without water,”
The ocean is Paramatma; you are a fish of that ocean. The Atman is like the fish in the ocean. As the fish blossoms in the ocean, the Atman blossoms in Paramatma. As soon as you move away, restlessness begins. The further away, the greater the restlessness. The more miserable a man is, the further know that he has gone from Paramatma. This is one of the East’s supreme discoveries. In the West, if you are miserable and you go to a specialist, each affliction has a different medicine. In the East, no: if you are miserable and you go to a knower, there is only one medicine—
“Our physician is Lord Ram; the medicine is Hari’s Name.”
He says: don’t recite the long account of your sorrows. It makes no difference. We know what your sorrow is; we know the sorrow of all fish—their ocean is lost. Dive again into the ocean of Ram. “Say Hari, say Hari.”
“Like a fish without water, like an infant without milk,”
Like a small child who has not received milk. Perhaps the small child does not even know why he is crying. The first time he is born, how would he know he cries for milk? He has not tasted it. He has only just taken breath and he is crying. For what? Even if the child could speak, he could not say why he cries. He would shrug his shoulders and say: I don’t know, but the crying comes. “What do you want?” Do you think he could answer what he wants? What has never been known, recognized, tasted—how to say it? But the mother recognizes from the crying—he wants milk; he wants the breast. The moment milk arrives, the child relaxes—falls asleep in deep rest. When hunger comes again, he cries again. Gradually he himself will come to know: I cry because I am hungry. And he will learn that when hungry, he needs milk.
But you can deceive the child if you wish. Many mothers do. The child cries, and they give him a false nipple of rubber. The child sucks and thinks great bliss is coming—he sucks and falls asleep. He creates a delusion. There is no nourishment in it—nothing to strengthen, no food. What will come from a rubber nipple? But it seems reassuring. The deception cannot go on long—sometimes it will do. If there is nothing, he sucks his thumb. Now nothing comes from the thumb. In the world you will find such people—sucking rubber nipples, sucking their own thumbs. I do not speak of children—I speak of you. Whatever fell into your hands, you suck. There is an obsession with sucking—as if sucking will bring fulfillment. But only if there is a breast does sucking bring fulfillment. Only if milk flows there, does sucking fulfill.
The bhakta drinks from the life-stream of God; the un-devout suck upon the toys of the world. One sucks at wealth—that is a rubber nipple. Another sets out to become prime minister—that too is a rubber nipple. Even if the nipple is so big it must be lifted by a crane, it makes no difference. Small or big is not the question—does the stream of life stand behind it? Does love flow there or not?
Therefore in life a strange event occurs: people suck all their lives and remain hungry; whenever you see them, they are crying. You know this well. When you talk, what do you do?—you cry. The other cries as well. Listen to people: they sit and weep—complaining about the world: this is wrong, that is wrong—everything is wrong; life has become unbearable; the old days are gone. They remember “the old days” to console the mind, and imagine that the future will bring socialism, that one day there will be such a society that milk will flow from the rubber nipple. But milk never flows from nipples—neither under socialism nor in Ram Rajya. It never has. A person must link himself to Paramatma—only then does the stream of fulfillment begin to flow.
“Like a fish without water, like an infant without milk,
One in pain without the medicine—how can he endure?”
And the pain is heavy. The suffering is much. Without the medicine how are you living? Sundar asks in wonder: why do you not seek the medicine? And the medicine is available—“Say Hari, say Hari.”
“As the chatak for the drop of Swati, as the chakor for the moon,”
The chakor gazes at the moon—eyes fixed upon it. The chatak waits for the drop of Swati. So the bhakta does not get entangled in rubbish; his eyes are fixed upon the sky, upon the light of the moon.
The devotee is a chakor, and a chatak. He does not drink from every dirty puddle; he waits for the drop under the Swati constellation. One drop in that nakshatra is enough, for from that one drop pearls are born. And here—drink as much as you wish, the thirst does not end; the more you drink, the more it burns.
Have you not seen: the more wealth increases, the greater the thirst for more! The deeper you go into kama, the greater kama grows. The more you indulge anger, the more it grows. An inverted arithmetic: by doing, it should be exhausted—but it is not. With practice, the habit becomes stronger.
“The serpent writhes in the longing for sandalwood,”
As the serpent begins to undulate with the fragrance of sandalwood—such is the ecstasy of the bhakta. The bhakta is a serpent in longing for the sandalwood; a chatak waiting for the drop of Swati; a chakor with eyes raised to the sky, drowned in love.
“As the poor long for wealth, as a woman longs for her lover,”
As a beloved searches for her lover and a lover for the beloved; as the poor seek wealth; as the lowly seek position; as the weak seek strength—the bhakta seeks none of these. The bhakta seeks only Bhagavan. His wealth is Bhagavan; his status is Bhagavan; his beloved is Bhagavan. He has gathered all his longings into one river and poured it toward God. He does not flow in little streams—he has become a Ganges and set out for the ocean.
“One whose such longing has arisen—nothing else pleases him.”
If such a longing has awakened, nothing else tastes right. Tell a bhakta: we will give you great prestige—nothing appeals. Whether you honor him or insult him—it makes no difference. He runs elsewhere; he is going elsewhere. He does not look at you—neither your praise nor your garlands. What is the worth of your garlands? With your garlands only your kind of fools are delighted.
I have heard: a politician was welcomed in a village. Garlands upon garlands, bouquets upon bouquets. When all were given, the politician’s secretary was still worried, for there was anger on the politician’s face, a furrow on his brow. He asked: why are you upset? So many garlands, so many flowers, so much honor! He said: nonsense! I had paid for thirty garlands; only twenty-nine came.
This world is strange—you have to pay to be garlanded; the money must be given in advance. He had paid for thirty, and only twenty-nine arrived. He kept count. Better to have put them on yourself; why trouble so many?
And I heard of a fakir. He came to a village. The villagers were angry—people have always been angry at fakirs—because they say things that disturb you. The big people were enraged. They strung a garland of shoes and put it around his neck. And the fakir began to dance. The people were further confounded. They said: do you understand? Have you any sense? A garland of shoes! He said: I am dancing precisely for that. I say to God: wonderful! I have been to many villages till now—perhaps those were villages of florists. I have come to a village of cobblers for the first time. This is excellent! After all, a man can only offer what he has. O brothers of leather—great kindness you have done. Do this always, for I will be passing through again and again. And my shoes were torn anyway; you have given me not one or two, but many shoes. Life will go on with these. Thank you greatly. Flowers wither and must be thrown away; shoes do not wither. They will serve me—and my disciples as well. Thank you! I just did not know this was a village entirely of cobblers.
When one sets out toward God, his standards change.
“One whose such longing has arisen—nothing else pleases him.”
“The power of love is such—where there is love, what need of rules?”
This line is wondrous. Carve it into your heart. As deeply as you can, take it in.
“The power of love is such,”
Love is the greatest magic in this world. Yet what you call love is something else. It is not love. That is why no magic has happened in your life—no otherworldly shine has entered.
“The power of love is such—where there is love, what need of rules?”
Where love for God has arisen, no other rule is needed. There is no separate conduct or morality. Love is sufficient conduct.
“Where there is love, what need of rules?”
What need of rule or limitation? Love is enough.
Jesus said: you have heard the ten commandments Moses gave; I give you the eleventh: love—as I have loved. The eleventh is sufficient. Whoever fulfills the eleventh need not worry about the ten. Do not steal, do not be dishonest, do not lie, do not deceive, do not be violent—all this is nonsense for one who has love.
“The power of love is such,”
One in whose heart love has arisen—how can he be violent?
And note one more thing: it is not necessary that if you do not commit violence, love will arise. Not necessary. If love arises, violence departs. If love arises, theft departs. If love arises, dishonesty departs. But if dishonesty departs, love arises—that is not so.
Thus you will find many who have given up dishonesty, theft, adultery, misconduct—yet no lotus of love has blossomed in their lives. On the contrary, they have dried up—their inner lake has dried up. Sometimes it will even seem that an ordinary person who occasionally cheats a little, tells a lie, quarrels now and then—in his life you may find some trickle of juice. But those who have renounced all violence, all dishonesty, who have tightened themselves in conduct from all sides—in their life you will find stones, not flowers.
A great mistake is occurring. The mistake is this: when the lamp is lit, darkness disappears—that is true. But the other is not true—that if darkness disappears, the lamp is lit. The truth is, darkness does not go at all—you can only create the delusion that it has gone. Thus often you will find among so-called non-violent ones very hard people; among so-called honest ones such men that spending even a moment with them is impossible. Live for twenty-four hours with your so-called saints—and you will never again seek their company. A great ego is born—not love; ego is born, and ego is the opposite direction of love.
The bhakta moves from within—changing the inner; while you try to change the outer and think the inner will change. No—it has never happened thus, nor can it. Keep the sutra in mind: change moves from within to without—not from without to within. If there is joy within you, rays of joy will shine in your conduct. If laughter is in your heart, it will reach the lips. But do not think the reverse—that by sticking a smile on your lips, the heart will laugh. A Carter-like grin—show all the teeth—still it is not necessary that the heart laughs.
Have you seen skulls in hospitals? All skulls appear to be laughing—the teeth, like Carter’s, are all visible. The skin has gone; nothing remains. Therefore a skull seems frightening—the dead, and yet laughing; it creates dread. All skulls laugh, but that does not mean laughter comes from the heart—there is no heart. No soul remains—nothing remains. The skull laughs at you and at itself: we were fools, and you are fools.
People have learned to paste the outer—pasted smiles, pasted compassion—paper faces. They have become skilled in acting—wearing masks.
“The power of love is such—where there is love, what need of rules?”
Therefore the bhakta knows no rule. In the scriptures of bhakti there is no discussion of rules—do this, do not do that; drink filtered water; do not eat at night. None of this is discussed. If you go to ascetics and ask of bhaktas, they will say: all corrupt. Because there is no talk of rules—only “Say Hari, say Hari.” They say there must be rules! They do not know that when “Say Hari, say Hari” has entered life, all rules are fulfilled of themselves. When the supreme rule arrives, the rest follow. When the master arrives, the servants come behind.
“The power of love is such—where there is love, what need of rules?”
Sundar says: this is only a matter of love.
Sundar says: what I am saying is only about love—do not begin to search here for rules. Do not fall into the traps of conduct and ascetic practice. I speak only of love. I gained through love. I fell in love with Dadu, and Dadu’s love joined me to love for God. And when I gained love, I gained all; all fragrance came of itself.
“This is bhakti of love, which only a rare one knows.
Why would impurity remain in a heart in which such a thing happens?”
Where love happens, what impurity can remain? When the lamp is lit, where does darkness remain?
I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin was a servant in a Nawab’s house. It was a cold morning in Lucknow; the Nawab did not want to rise. He said to Nasruddin: go and see—has the sun risen? Has the night passed?
Nasruddin went out, returned, and began to light a lantern. The Nawab asked: what are you doing? He said: I went out, but it is very dark; the sun cannot be seen. I am lighting a lantern to go and see.
If there is the sun, you do not need to light a lantern to see. If the sun is, how can there be darkness? Such is the power of love.
“This is bhakti of love, which only a rare one knows.”
Very few recognize this bhakti of love—it is the most significant secret of this world. People are entangled in petty matters—what to eat, what to drink, how to sit, how to stand, where to sleep, where not to sleep—the essential is missed. Life passes entangled in such trifles. Let such a mistake not occur to you—do not fall into it. Just love.
“Why would impurity remain in a heart in which such a thing happens?”
“Truth is of two kinds—one truth that is spoken.
All the world is false; the other truth is Brahman.”
Sundar says truth is of two kinds. One is that which is spoken—secondary, superficial. At times you may even speak truth only to hurt another. You may speak truth to trap another. Your truth is not necessarily religious—behind it there may hide a great irreligion; such truth has no value. The real truth is the second—that Brahman arises within you; then it is otherwise. Then you speak truth, but it arises from your innermost. Otherwise even with truth you will play politics and calculation.
Have you noticed, when you wish to slander, you say: I am only speaking the truth—as it is. You are enjoying the slander, not the truth. Your pleasure lies in how low you can bring a person. The pleasure is tainted, but the pretext is truth.
There is another truth that has no relation to the outside—to saying—but to being. Become truth—then truth will manifest of itself. Whatever form it takes will be right. The essential is the second.
“All the world is false; the other truth is Brahman.”
Keep watch on that other truth—the hidden one. It manifests only through love.
“Sundar has examined, with inquiry, all kinds of knowledge.
No one satisfies the heart—without the meditation on the immaculate.”
Sundar says: I examined all kinds of knowledge, searched them out—went into the scriptures, sat with pundits. He was seven when he took sannyas. Dadu sent him to Kashi: study well, study Sanskrit and the scriptures, sit with the wise. For eighteen years Sundar studied in Kashi. But after all that, he found that what was with Dadu was not in Kashi. Dadu sent him precisely because he was a child—let him see rightly where the real thing is: in knowledge or in love?
He returned from the greatest scholars a scholar. But he had to come back to Dadu.
“Sundar has examined, with inquiry, all kinds of knowledge.
No one satisfies the heart—without the meditation on the immaculate.”
Having seen Dadu, no other scripture can delude the mind; no scholarship can suffice. However beautiful the words, all is mere verbosity.
“No one satisfies the heart—without the meditation on the immaculate.”
Nothing comes through knowledge. Knowledge is rubbish, borrowed, stale, another’s. Through dhyana is the attainment. Dhyana is one’s own, of the self. And on the path of bhakti, dhyana means the state of love—“Say Hari, say Hari.”
“We sought the six darshanas; the yogis, the jangams, the sheikhs,
Renouncers and the ‘sevda,’ scholars, devotees in disguise.”
Sundar returned from Kashi to Dadu, but Dadu said: search more. Kashi is done—good; now go, sit with the yogis; sit with the famous sheikhs.
The “sevda” are Jain sadhus in Rajasthan—because people go to “serve” them; those to whom one goes in service—they were called sevda.
Go, sit with all kinds of those with robes—search everywhere, probe.
The Jain monk lives entirely by conduct—by rule. There is no talk of love there. The word love itself creates alarm there. Not prem—only nem, rule: rise thus, sit thus, walk thus—rules for everything. Read their scriptures—they are full of rules—like law books; rules and sub-rules, arrangements to leave no escape. But those who would escape—do they stop anywhere? Why then are there lawyers? They find a way out—so pundits find ways out of the scriptures.
Dadu sent him: go sit with the sevdas. Rajasthan is much influenced by them.
“We sought the six darshanas; the yogis, the jangams, the sheikhs,
Renouncers and the ‘sevda,’ scholars, devotees in disguise.”
Go to all the disguised ones, Sundar—sit and understand. Recognize the futile thoroughly—then return. Then your eye will not miss the diamond; you will recognize it.
“Such do not please the bhakta; they point to distance; they go to the tirtha and return.
They sing artificial songs, offer lifeless worship, affirm falsehood, lead astray.
They finger the rosary, paint the tilak—how will they attain without the Guru, O fool?
Dadu’s disciple, released from delusion, Sundar became separate—he played.”
Sundar went everywhere he was sent—and returned again and again.
“Such do not please the bhakta; they point to distance; they go to the tirtha and return.”
The sang artificial songs; brought worship—but where is the worshipper? There is no presence. They come like corpses and lay the puja.
He must have seen Dadu sing—ecstatic, beating his little tambourine, in his broken words awakening people, reminding them. He lived in Dadu’s breeze—since seven.
“Such do not please the bhakta; they point to distance.”
Sundar says: one who says the Divine is far does not please us—for we have seen Him nearer than near. We peered into Dadu and saw Him nearer than near.
Wherever distance is being described, know there is dishonesty. Distance is described where one does not know—then the only way to save oneself is to say: far, very far.
There is a tale of Khalil Gibran: a man went from village to village—an ascetic and philosopher—proclaiming: come with me, whoever wishes to reach God. But the path is difficult—so difficult that only a rare one reaches. He called: come. Then he explained so much difficulty that people thought: this is trouble; life is already hard; as it is, we barely manage—why take this on? They said: you are right—it must be so; but it is beyond us.
Difficulty is described precisely to tell you it is beyond you—otherwise you would soon recognize the claimant is false. If you get even a little glimpse of God, no false claimant can deceive you.
His fame grew, thousands listened. In one village a crank, a mad sort, stood and said: very well—however difficult, since you are going, I will go too; make me a disciple, I will follow you. The philosopher grew afraid—disciples are troublesome; today or tomorrow he will become a touchstone. He will ask: many days have passed—still no vision; I did all you said—where is the vision? So he decided to mislead him—take him around and around on twisted paths until he tires and returns. But the man was obstinate—he said: very well, whatever the guru says; where he goes, I go.
They say that walking, walking, six years passed. Again and again the man asked: how far now? He did not tire. The guru tired, for this created a real trouble—life was comfortable; now this was a nuisance. After six years, one day the guru slapped his forehead: I knew the path, by your company I lost it. Forgive me—leave me.
Such teachers keep saying: it is very far; so far that we ourselves barely reached—what are you? By telling you this, you say: indeed, too difficult; life is already so—why add this? We will see next birth. When convenient, we will see. Now there is no time.
Thus you do not follow, and gurus are never tested.
“Such do not please the bhakta; they point to distance.”
Sitting with Dadu, Sundar had heard—no, seen, known, recognized, been touched—that He is so near—nearer than near. Your own heart is not as near as Paramatma. Where is the distance? We are born in Him, live in Him, and one day disappear in Him. He is the life of our life.
Such talk does not appeal.
“They go to the tirtha and return.”
If the Guru sends, one goes. The Guru says: go—there is a Kumbha fair—go. There what does one see? All manner of hypocrisy and stupidity. One returns again and again.
Having found the Guru, the tirtha is found. What is there elsewhere now? Where Kaba, where Kashi?
“They sing artificial songs,”
Having seen Dadu’s singing, no other song satisfies. Artificial songs—songs whose words are borrowed and stale, on the lips only, not touching the heart, neither their own nor another’s.
“Offer lifeless worship,”
He saw Dadu worship—Ramakrishna offering bhog: whoever has seen that, all other rituals fade. Ramakrishna first tasted himself—standing with the platter in the temple, he tasted. The trustees objected: in which scripture is it written that one eats first and then offers to God? Everywhere it is written: first offer to God, then eat. Ramakrishna said: keep your scriptures—and here is your job. When my mother fed me, she tasted first. I learned from her. This is not a matter of scripture—it is a matter of love.
“The power of love is such—where there is love, what need of rules?”
My mother tasted first—to see if it was tasty enough to give the child. Am I worse than her, to offer without tasting? To offer bhog without flavor? That will not happen.
You may call this no worship—but if you have seen Ramakrishna offering, then temples fade—because there you will find a flame, a mood of joy, a stream of love flowing.
At times Ramakrishna’s worship would last all day. It began in the morning and continued into night. Those who came in the morning went; those who came at noon went; those who came in the evening went—the worship went on. The trustees asked: are you in your senses? There must be a rule for everything. And at times he locked the temple for two or three days—no worship at all. Ramakrishna said: when the mood is there—when it comes from within—I worship. When it is not there, I lock the door: now stay inside—that is enough worship for now; stay there. But whatever happens, happens from the heart—only then is it true.
“Affirm falsehood, lead astray.
They finger the rosary, paint the tilak—how will they attain without the Guru, O fool?”
People count the rosary—and Dadu sends them: go see—people turn the rosary, and inside the world turns.
They paint the tilak—but that tilak is like a woman’s cosmetic—without value: ego, status, pride.
“Without the Guru, how will the fool ever find the way?”
Going place to place one thing became clear to Sundar: without the Guru, no path is found. These people go without a Guru—this is their obstruction. They read the scriptures, but where is the shasta—the one who pours meaning into the shastra? They perform worship, but where is the Beloved whose meeting makes worship alive? They finger the rosary, but where is the one whose every breath turns the rosary of ‘Say Hari, say Hari’?
“Without the Guru, how will the fool ever find the way?”
“Gaila” has two meanings—path and fool. Both are apt here: without the Guru, the fool does not attain; without the Guru, the path is not found.
In truth the path can be shown only by one who has found it—one who has reached the peak; only his call can draw you out of your dark forests.
“Dadu’s disciple—delusion dispelled—Sundar became separate—he played.”
He went everywhere.
“These do not please the bhakta; they point to distance; they go to the tirtha and return.”
He returned again and again—back to the Master. He had tasted.
“Dadu’s disciple,”
The Guru was found; discipleship was tasted.
“Delusion dispelled,”
The Master shattered all delusions—he sent him everywhere, even to Kashi for eighteen years, to break them.
“Sundar became separate—he played.”
Gradually everything became clear to Sundar: without the Guru, the rest of the world is play—a game. Play as much as you like—play knowingly, play with witnessing.
“Sundar became separate—he played.”
Know one thing: you are separate, distinct—other. If even this is understood, everything is understood. If witnessing is understood, all is understood.
Do not live as a enjoyer or a doer—live as a seer. And through love, this miracle happens—that you become a seer.
“The power of love is such—where there is love, what need of rules?
Sundar says: this is only a matter of love.”
Enough for today.