Hari Bolo Hari Bol #3

To forget would not have been so hard for a traveler gone far,
An invisible sting kept returning to instruct me.
From the sands of the past the garden of the heart kept getting seared—
Flowers blossomed, yet the wastes remained wastes.
Like a wound hidden under the lip lies the secret grief—
Someone could burn from the heat of intense feeling;
And by the hands of the idol one has made oneself,
One might suffer the punishment of sins never committed.
This thought now comes to me along with your name:
Is this collection of a few letters a scripture?
There is no Veda in the Veda, no Qur’an in the Qur’an. Amid heaps of words, where is the glimmer of the wordless?
This thought now comes to me along with your name:
Is this collection of a few letters a scripture?
These few playthings of words cannot be a holy book. But man has become entangled in the play of words. He has taken word for Truth. As if someone were to take the word ‘love’ as love itself, so the word ‘Paramatma’ has been taken for the Paramatma. The talk of experience has been forgotten; people remain caught in the meshes of thought. And thought is a vast net. Centuries of reflection and rumination stand behind those nets.
The greatest obstacle that can keep man from Paramatma is scripture. It will be hard to trust this at once, because we have been told again and again that it is through scripture that one reaches God. But I want to tell you: through scripture no one has ever reached Paramatma, nor can anyone reach. Yes—those who reach Paramatma, for them the meaning of scripture is revealed. But arriving comes first, the meaning of scripture unfolds later.
One who comes to know love, for him the meaning of the word ‘love’ is revealed. One who gets a glimpse of Paramatma, the word ‘Paramatma’ is no longer a word; it becomes concentrated remembrance of that glimpse. But one who has not experienced has only a bare word, an empty word. That dead word has no life. However sweet words may be—they are dead. Liberation is from the living. You are living—you will be liberated only through the living. Under the weight of words you can be crushed, not freed. By the burden of words you can become heavy, not weightless. The wall of scriptures will turn into a Great Wall of China around you. A great delusion will arise, because it will be talk of God and more talk of God. And in that very talk, God will be lost.
To forget would not have been so hard for a traveler gone far,
An invisible sting kept returning to instruct me.
Man would have utterly forgotten—completely forgotten. So many Vedas, so many Qur’ans, so many Bibles, so many Dhammapadas! Man would have forgotten, but a certain prick keeps arising within. No scripture is able to quench that sting. Trust that sting. Seek that thirst—provoke it, fan it, inflame it. Only that thirst can take you to Paramatma; otherwise you will be exploited in the hands of pundits.
All night the moon is in the sky, its picture forming in the lake—and you take a photograph of the lake. This is the condition of scripture. The moon is in the sky; a reflection appears in the lake; you photograph the lake, and what you catch is a reflection of the reflection. Where is the moon? The moon has been left far behind.
The moon was not even in the lake’s shadow; how will it be in your photograph? What you possess is a picture of a picture. Such is the situation with Paramatma. In some Mohammed the Qur’an descended—Paramatma flickered in the lake of Mohammed’s consciousness. Or in some Rishi the Veda descended—Paramatma flashed. Then when the Rishi spoke, it became the glimpse of a glimpse, the picture of a picture. And it does not stop there. When the words spoken by the Rishis reach you—what meaning will you take from them? The matter goes still farther away. Picture of a picture—and then you draw meanings from it. And you are blind. You have never seen the moon. You have only heard the word ‘moon’. You have no knowledge of the moon. Whatever meanings you draw from this picture will be yours—they will have no connection with the moon. And the wonder is that at the origin, there was indeed the moon. The picture is of the lake; in the lake was the image of the moon; the moon is. If you see the moon, then even in the picture you will recognize it.
Therefore I tell you: no one reaches Truth through scripture. But if one reaches Truth, then all scriptures become true. All scriptures become witnesses. And if this does not happen—if a direct experience of Paramatma does not occur in your life—then great difficulties arise.
Like a wound hidden under the lip lies the secret grief—
Someone could burn from the heat of intense feeling;
And by the hands of the idol one has made oneself,
One might suffer the punishment of sins never committed.
Then such a thing happens: with your own hands you make idols, and those idols punish you for sins you never did. Those idols are false; what is made by your hands cannot be true. You yourself are not yet true; by your hand, your brush, your chisel and hammer, the image of Truth cannot be made, the statue of Truth cannot be carved.
And by the hands of the idol one has made oneself—
Then before these idols made by your own hands you bow, and you receive punishments for sins you never even committed.
You have been instructed: this is sin, that is sin. So many sins have been put upon you that you begin to feel: I have done many sins. A sense of guilt arises within, and you bow before the idols of your own making, you pray, you ask forgiveness, you seek supports. This is a very deranged condition. What more could madness be?
Then you gather some words—collect them. Buddha spoke; he wrote nothing. Then people gathered the words. Mahavira spoke; the words were gathered. Mohammed spoke; the words were gathered. And those words you take to be scripture. If religion is to be sought, seek it in the vast expansion of Paramatma, in the boundless sky. Seek in this vastness. On trees are his signatures; on mountains his engravings. In rivers is a faint hint of him; in oceans his thunder. When clouds gather in the sky, listen closely—perhaps a Richa of the Veda might fall into your hands. When birds speak and the peacock dances, look with care—perhaps some grace of Krishna may ensnare you. When the cuckoo begins to sing, drown in her song—perhaps an Ayat of the Qur’an is descending. But do not go to seek him in man-made books. In the jungles of those very books people have gone astray.
Sundardas’ words today want to remind you of just this essential point.
“So the pundits came, they made you forget the Veda; they set up six rituals and quenched you.
They chanted evening hymns, enmeshed you in reading, robbed the lords and kings.”
Astonishing words! Whenever a flame of knowing is lit anywhere, whenever someone becomes enlightened, soon the pundits gather around him—swiftly they collect around him.
Have you ever considered a strange fact? The twenty-four Tirthankaras of the Jains are all Kshatriyas—not one Brahmin among them. But around every Tirthankara, their foremost disciples are all Brahmins. Mahavira’s eleven Ganadharas are all Brahmins. Mahavira is a Kshatriya. But around him the net that gathers is of Brahmins—of pundits. They are collecting Mahavira’s words. From these words they will run great shops, large businesses. And they did. It is with this net of words that they drowned Mahavira. Whenever a lamp is lit—some Kabir rises, some Nanak—soon the pundit grasps this much: the pundit is clever. He smells diamonds in these words. These words will sell; these will have use. They must be stored up.
“So the pundits came.” Whenever a Buddha came, the pundit came. Whenever any song descended into someone’s being, the sly and shrewd gathered.
“So the pundits came, they made you forget the Veda.”
And they made the Veda be forgotten. You think they are protectors of the Veda? A pundit and protector of the Veda? Then who would kill the Veda? Who has murdered the Veda? Pundits and priests. They have poured such meanings into the Veda that if the Rishis were to rise from their graves, they would beat their chests and weep. They packed Mahavira’s words with such meanings—skillfully, and so skillfully that you cannot even argue—very logically. The Vedic Rishis spoke from their own inner experience. The pundits spread logical nets over that experience. The Rishis only made proclamations; behind those proclamations there were no proofs. The pundits gathered proofs.
It may even be—many times it happens; it is man’s misfortune—that if you encounter a living Rishi of the Veda, perhaps his words will not be understood by you. He will not speak your language; he speaks the language of his own realm. He speaks from where he dwells—from that distance. The pundit speaks your language. He uses your logic and arithmetic. He knows what will appeal to you—he speaks that. The Rishi speaks only what is. The pundit speaks what will please you. He speaks keeping you in mind; therefore the pundit’s words are quickly understood. You miss the Rishis and fall into the clutches of pundits. And the pundit is the one who kills.
A thousand commentaries on Krishna’s Gita! Those are only the famous ones. The less famous are in the thousands more. And whichever commentary you read, it will seem: this one is right—this is what Krishna must have said. Everyone imposes his own interpretation upon Krishna. If you are an Advaitin, you will find Advaita in Krishna; if a Dvaitin, you will find Dvaita. If you are a devotee, you will find bhakti; and if you want karma, you will find karma. One thing is clear: in Krishna’s mirror you seek your own picture. You have nothing to do with Krishna’s picture. You seek what you already are. You seek supports for yourself, ornaments for yourself. You make your house stronger. You decorate your ego more; your adornment increases.
“So the pundits came, they made you forget the Veda.”
Commonly we think pundits protected the Veda. They destroyed it. They are responsible. Simple, straightforward folk, tranquil people, in whose minds waves of thought do not churn—such people can give birth to the Veda again; they are the true protectors. And there is only one way to protect: if you wish to protect the Veda, the Veda need not be protected—rather, within yourself cultivate that state of feeling out of which the Veda can be born again.
The Veda is born in meditation; it is buried and dies in mere knowledge. Keep clearly in mind the difference between meditation and knowledge. If you wish to become something, to attain, to recognize, to understand the secrets of life—insist on meditation, beware of second-hand knowledge.
“So the pundits came, they made you forget the Veda; they set up six rituals and quenched you.”
They created a vast net—shatkarmas, offerings, worship, recitations, havan! So much commotion that you can never cross beyond it. A child is born and the pundit grabs him by the neck. From birth to death, and even after death, the pundit pursues. He does not leave you. Even when you die, the pundit still holds your corpse. He will perform the third-day rites, then the thirteenth. Even after you’re gone, he clings. He will suck until the last breath—and even after the body is gone, he goes on sucking. And man gets caught in the net, because he knows nothing. What is Truth—he has no clue. So any lie, if proposed with system, wrapped in logic—if man does not accept it, what is he to do?
“So the pundits came, they made you forget the Veda; they set up six rituals and quenched you.”
They kept giving you satisfactions—tarpan upon tarpan. And where has anyone been satisfied? You remain as thirsty as ever.
From the sands of the past the garden of the heart kept getting seared—
Flowers blossomed, yet the wastes remained wastes.
Satisfactions go on, but no satisfaction is felt anywhere. Surely the flowers are false, because the desert remains a desert. You are dreaming. The pundits have taught you the art of dreaming.
“They chanted evening hymns, enmeshed you in reading, robbed the lords and kings.”
A grand arrangement the pundits have made. Evening hymns—bhajan, pujan, prayer, archana—and all false, all on the lips, not even up to the throat. As for the heart, don’t even mention it.
Have you seen pundits performing puja? Great yajnas—crores of rupees burned—and in their hearts no feeling of worship at all, no adoration. In their eyes no lamp of arati burns. No fragrance appears in their lives. Light incense and lamps in the temples, but until incense and lamps are lit in the temple of your mind, what use? Keep pouring ghee into fire.
People grasp the symbol like blind men. Ghee is the symbol of man’s ego. From milk comes curd, from curd comes butter, from butter comes ghee. Ghee is milk’s final refinement—its subtlest form. Ghee is the last flower. So too, the ego is the subtlest refinement of our life-energy. If anything is to be offered into fire—offer your ego; it is your most subtle form. Let your ego burn in the fire, and the yajna is complete. But for this yajna no pundit is needed in between, no broker required. The yajna of life you yourself can perform. You are the fire, you are the ghee to be offered, you are the priest, you are the sacrificer. You are all of it.
But the pundit cannot remind you of this. The pundit says: alone you are lost and will remain lost. Hold my hand; I will take you. And you never even look into his eyes to see what he has attained. You never probe his heart. You never even try to catch a fragrance from him. He is surrounded by the same greed, the same illusion, the same entanglements as you—perhaps even more. There is no discernible difference between you and him, and yet you fall into his whirlpool, because he has inflamed your greed and fanned your fear. These are the pundit’s weapons. On these two the exploitation has gone on; it goes on. Until you awaken from these two, the exploitation will continue. First he has given you fear—if you do not do this, you will fall into hell. “Your father has died—perform the thirteenth day. A year has passed—do the barsi.” In the name of the dead he exploits you. He frightens you: if the annual rites are not done, the debt to the father will not be repaid—you will rot for births upon births.
Man trembles. Man is already shaken; already weak. His legs are already trembling. And the pundit has understood that your legs tremble at the slightest touch. He has made subtle arrangements—he makes your legs shake. He has painted gruesome pictures of hell—burning flames; you’ll be thrown into them; you will rot. Who will take such a risk! A little expense—let us do the barsi too. Safety will be there. Then he tempts you—if you do this, such-and-such gains in heaven. Deep seductions. He has clamped man between these two. Between the two millstones man is ground.
“So the pundits came, they made you forget the Veda; they set up six rituals and quenched you.”
“They chanted evening hymns, enmeshed you in reading.”
The pundit does not untangle you—he tangles you. There’s no profit for him in untangling. The more you are entangled, the more he profits. That’s why you see: if the pundit is Muslim, the maulvi speaks in Arabic, quotes Arabic texts that you cannot grasp. If Hindu, he quotes Sanskrit. If Christian, he cites Hebrew and Aramaic. The language must not be understood by you—because the aim is to entangle, not to clarify.
If you read a translation of the Veda you will be startled: what is there in this Veda? Ninety-nine percent is rubbish. Diamonds are here and there. But when Sanskrit is cited, it goes beyond your comprehension.
You go to a doctor, he writes a prescription—if he wrote in Hindi or Marathi or Gujarati, you would understand yourself that a two-paisa thing is being billed for ten rupees! But Latin and Greek terms are used. You are impressed—a very high medicine! You walk away with the prescription delighted: the benefit is bound to be. And the doctor writes in such a way that no one but another doctor can read it. This too is an art—because it must be written so you cannot understand; otherwise you would look in a dictionary and see what is what. Truth is, the doctor writes so that one wonders if he himself will be able to read it later—he may have to strain again.
This scholarship is an old snare. Saints spoke in the language of the people. Sundardas spoke in the people’s tongue. When the Vedic Rishis spoke, Sanskrit was the language of the people. When Mahavira spoke, Prakrit was people’s language. Buddha spoke in Pali. But now the Buddhist monks, the pundits, still quote Pali. Now Pali is nobody’s language. Nor Prakrit. Nor Sanskrit anyone’s language. When Jesus spoke, Aramaic was the language of the people—so he spoke it.
Saints always speak the people’s tongue—so that people may understand. Not so that people may not understand. The pundit always speaks in that language which people do not understand. He labors for years to learn a language people don’t know—there lies his kingdom, his secret.
I heard a Sufi tale: a man from Turkey went to China. He was influential and used to explain lofty religious matters to the Chinese—but explained them in Turkish. When he spoke Turkish, people were spellbound. He was dramatic. He spoke with great gestures; tears would fall; sometimes he danced in ecstasy—but he spoke Turkish. Hundreds came, enraptured. Then it so happened that a group of ten or fifteen Turks arrived from Turkey, having heard that this man had become famous, had attained great knowledge, had realized God. They came to have his darshan. Now they all knew Turkish. When they heard him, they were astonished—there was no mention of religion at all. He was babbling nonsense. Yet people listened, intoxicated; the drama he did perfectly. The Turks were shocked. They caught him, thrashed him, drove him out of the town, saying: what are you doing? When he returned to his village, people asked: how was the journey?
He said: incredible! Until those Turks arrived, there was great delight, a great mystery was going on—those scoundrels spoiled everything.
The pundit has no longing to resolve—only to entangle. Listen to their language: it is used so that you feel some very profound thing is being said—yet nothing at all is being said. What is truly deep is always simple. What is truly precious is always natural and in the people’s tongue.
“They chanted evening hymns, enmeshed you in reading.”
Reading and reading they entangle people—they do not free them; because only by entangling can the business run. When people are entangled, they come asking.
People used to come to me with such questions as if they were deep spiritual inquiries. They were not—only the pundits’ tangles. A Jain might come and ask: explain the doctrine of nigoda. Have you ever heard the name? Outside the Jains no one knows what ‘nigoda’ is. I ask him: what use is nigoda to you? What do you want from nigoda? It cannot be your question; it is bookish—because no one else asks it. The whole world of millions—no one asks what nigoda is. A Hindu asks what anger is; a Muslim asks what anger is—how to be free of anger. Whether he lives in India or Pakistan—it doesn’t matter.
Only yesterday a friend from Pakistan asked me in the evening. His name is Firoz—he came full of love. He asked: I am very angry—give me some way for my anger. This is a real question—because it belongs to no sect. The Hindu is angry, the Muslim is angry, the Christian, the Jain, the Buddhist—all angry. Nigoda—what connection? These are book-words, and people sit upon them and think hard. Every religion is full of such webs of words. One has to come out of these nets.
Sundardas says:
“They chanted evening hymns, enmeshed you in reading, robbed the lords and kings.”
Not only the small were swindled—that was understandable—but even lords and kings, emperors, were cheated. And what is a great emperor but a great bandit? The pundit swindled even them. Whether Alexander, Napoleon, Nadir Shah, Chengiz Khan—even Hitler—no one escapes the pundit.
I heard a story—perhaps only a story, but meaningful. A Jewish astrologer was famous in Germany. Jews were being killed, but this astrologer people feared to touch; his curses stuck. Several times word reached Hitler: what shall we do with this man? Hitler said: bring him to me. The astrologer was brought. Hitler asked: they say you know how to prophesy—tell me when I will die.
He looked at Hitler’s hand, studied the lines, did some calculations and said: two things I will say—one, you will die three days after I die. Now that is a complication. And I can also tell you the day on which you will die, if you wish.
Hitler was rattled, because the first answer protected the astrologer: if you kill him, you go in three days. He assigned doctors to keep him alive as long as possible. Then he asked: tell me the day too. The astrologer said: you will die on one of the Jews’ holy religious days. Which day? There are many. He said: don’t ask. Any day you die will become holy to the Jews.
Such is the pundit’s cunning—even the greatest killers bow before him.
“They chanted evening hymns, enmeshed you in reading, robbed the lords and kings.”
Great robbers—rulers—were also duped by the pundit.
“Yet they are called great; their pride does not leave them; they do not find Ram—the frauds.”
Sundardas says: one thing I learned at the feet of Dadu. In the glimpse of Ram I saw in Dadu’s eyes I understood this much: all these great pundits—Mahapundits—are great only in name. If you have even a little touchstone to test them, the touchstone is: see their ego.
“Yet they are called great; their pride does not leave them.”
Where there is ego there is no greatness. Ego is petty; it arises only in the petty. Ego means you know within that you are filled with inferiority. Ego is the device to escape inferiority.
Alfred Adler is worth understanding here. He says: wherever you find ego, if you search, you will find an inferiority complex. They know from within they are nothing. This worm of nothingness bites, pricks, pains. To escape, there is one way: announce around themselves and prove that they are very much. By wealth they prove they are great; by position they prove; if not, then by knowledge; if not even that, then by renunciation they prove they are great. Somehow they must prove it—because inside they know they are small.
One who knows within that he is of the very essence of God—who is small, who is great? One who knows ‘I am Paramatma’ has gone beyond small and great. No one is small, no one is big. One who has known God has known: I am God and all else also is God. The stone lying at the roadside is as much God. God may be sleeping deeply in the stone; in trees he is a little awake; in animals a little more; in men still more; in Buddhas fully awake. But these are differences of awakening. By nature, all existence is God-filled. Who is small, who great? What pride?
Therefore understand well: one who has known has neither pride nor humility. Keep that also in mind—humility is another mode of pride, a more subtle, cultured trick of ego. Do not think the humble man is egoless. He is full of ego—but polished. He has put etiquette upon his ego; he has placed flowers on it; he has sprinkled perfume over the festering wound, so its stink is hidden.
The humble man is as egoistic as the arrogant. In truth, one whose ego is gone is neither humble nor arrogant. One whose ego is gone—is not. There remains a pure emptiness, sheer being.
“Yet they are called great; their pride does not leave them; they do not find Ram—the frauds.”
They have found nothing of Ram—that much is certain. For if Ram is known, what pride, what humility? Both were only games of ego—two forms of the same. One ego says: no one greater than me. The other says: I am the dust of your feet—but still ‘I am’! And when someone says to you: I am the dust of your feet, look into his eyes carefully—he is saying: see my humility, now accept me! Now bow to me, salute me—I am the dust of your feet! He is really asking you to refuse—so that you will protest: no, no, you and the dust of my feet! He waits for this.
I heard: a fakir was dying. His disciples were gathered. One said: our Master—many scholars have we seen, but none had the scholarship, study, the capacity for contemplation as our Master. Today the earth will be emptied of knowledge.
Another said: knowledge yes, but what of renunciation—who has renounced as our Master? He left palaces, wealth, family—raised amidst flowers, he walked upon thorns. His renunciation is unparalleled.
A third said: his compassion, his love… And they went on praising. When all fell silent, when all praise was exhausted, the Master opened his eyes and said: speak a little of my humility too. You forgot my humility.
The one who reminds you of his humility—how can he be humble? One who is experiencing humility himself—how could he be humble?
“…they do not find Ram—the frauds.”
“I became Dadu’s disciple; delusions fell away; Sundar became unique in his play.”
Sundardas says: the moment I bowed at Dadu’s feet, the moment I accepted discipleship—everything happened. What does not happen by reading scriptures—happened. What does not happen through rituals—happened. What is not in the shatkarmas—descended. Neither reading gave anything, nor evening worship, nor yajna-havan. It happened by peering into the Guru’s eyes.
Become Dadu’s disciple…
Find someone living—only then, by joining with him can you taste life. The scripture is dead; seek the shasta—the living source from which scriptures arise. If you find Krishna, never leave his side. But do not roam with the Gita upon your head. If you find Nanak, become his shadow—but do not break your head upon the Guru Granth. If you find Kabir, drown in his ecstasy—then forget everything else; stake whatever must be staked. But becoming a Kabirpanthi and sitting with Kabir’s sakhi and sabad, analyzing—nothing will happen. When the sun rises, bow; and when night comes and the sun has gone, keep bowing to pictures of the sun—but they will not give light. Will a picture of a lamp give light? Hang a beautiful picture of a lamp in your room and see—when night falls you will know Sundardas speaks true. You need a living lamp.
Seek the Sadguru.
“I became Dadu’s disciple; delusions fell away…”
And if the Sadguru is found, delusion runs like darkness runs at the coming of light.
“Delusion fell away…”
It simply goes—you don’t have to push it. If you have to push it, it means you have not met the Sadguru.
Where Paramatma is still alive, still descending, flowing—where the spring has not run dry. Mostly people are sitting on the banks of rivers whose streams have long dried. Thirsty they sit. It is not that a stream never flowed there—once it did. Now only sand lies. Sit here births upon births; keep worshiping this river—but where is the river now? Seek again where streams run. And I tell you—even the greatest river, if its current does not flow—what use? And a small spring is enough for thirst. A tiny spring can bring delight.
So it may be you do not find a Guru like Buddha—not such a great river—but a small spring bubbling from the hillside is enough. For thirst, what difference between a big river and a little stream? If you want your lamp to be lit—will you wait for a forest fire? A small burning lamp is enough. Take yourself near it—and you will be lit.
“I became Dadu’s disciple; delusions fell away; Sundar became unique in his play.”
I became utterly different. I did not fall again into the pundits’ circle, nor become entangled in scripture and Veda. I became other.
In the proximity of a Sadguru, a certain uniqueness arises, a difference, an unrepeatability. ‘Sundar became unique in his play.’ And then the world becomes only a play. The one by whose side the world turns into a mere play, a performance—that one is Sadguru. Sitting near him all the heaviness of life departs; life becomes a drama. Nothing here is of ultimate value—if it is thus, it is fine; if otherwise, fine. A single glance into a Sadguru’s eyes is enough—better than reading the Vedas for a thousand years.
“May it be so that, with a soft smile upon the lips, my tears dissolve—
God grant that my tears be of use to someone.
Those who snuffed their lamps at the very beginning of the journey—
What clue will those ill-fated ones find of anyone?”
A single tear glistening from the Sadguru’s eye is greater than oceans of knowledge. A slight smile upon the Guru’s lips is more than all the discourses on bliss in the scriptures—it is living. That alone is value.
“Do not be deluded by sects; all of these I have seen; many have grabbed and gone astray.
Then the Sadguru called me; my ears that had gone astray he turned back, encircled me again.
That sun of the morning he made to rise; all darkness vanished.
I became Dadu’s disciple; delusions fell away; Sundar became unique in his play.”
Do not be deluded by isms—O madmen trapped in sectarian babble.
“I saw all of these; I knocked on every door and did not find God within. Many grasped these and went astray.”
“Then the Sadguru called me.” Sundardas says: my good fortune—that I heard the call of the Sadguru.
Sadgurus are always calling. There has never been a century or a time when Sadgurus were not on the earth. Of course there are always some—there must be. God has not forgotten this earth. His messengers are always present. His prophets never cease. The chain is continuous. Great effort is made to end it, because this chain goes against the pundits.
The Jains say: twenty-four Tirthankaras have happened—now enough. Why? Did God get exhausted at twenty-four? He must be very small to be exhausted so quickly. But there is a reason. If the door is kept open and Tirthankaras keep coming, the pundit is in difficulty. It is not clear which doctrines to hold on to, which to expound—because whenever a Tirthankara comes, he brings a new language, because people will have changed; he brings a new style, because the times have changed.
I cannot now say to you what Mahavira said twenty-five centuries ago. Even if Mahavira himself comes, he cannot repeat word for word what he once said. He is not a gramophone record. Twenty-five centuries have passed, man has changed; the winds are different; ways are different. Life’s foundations have shifted. These are different people; how much Ganges water has flowed!
You think Jesus will return and speak the same? If he did, who would listen? People would laugh—out of date.
You think Krishna will stand on M.G. Road and play the flute? He will ask: where are the cowherd boys? Where are the gopis? There are none. And if he seeks two or four gopis, he will fall into the hands of the police.
No—Krishna will have to take the color and mode of today. Those were other days, that world another. Now whose pot will he break? Where are the pots? Whose milk will he steal? Where is milk? Butter and sugar no longer serve. The world has changed—ever changing. But the Hindu pundit is obstructed. He says: close the door; the case becomes tidy. With one person, things remain tidy. With Mahavira, the Jains closed the door—no more Tirthankaras.
The Muslims say: the last Prophet has come—the last. So God has now broken relations with man? He no longer sends messages? He turned his back upon man? Only once he took notice and sent Mohammed? Or through Mohammed he sent his news, and now no more concern? This is dismal. Pitiful.
And the Christians say: Jesus is the only begotten son. God is strange indeed—believes in family planning in advance! One son! But one must keep it to one—because if a second comes and overturns the statements of the first, as he will have to, what will become of the pundit? The pundit wants tidiness, not confusion. If the doctrines are fixed, he remains their master. He does not wish doctrines to change. He wants frozen doctrines. So all close doors.
I tell you: his messengers have always come and will keep coming. Whenever you want to seek, somewhere a hand will meet yours to lead you to him. Seekers are needed; the messengers keep coming.
“Do not be deluded by sects; all of these I have seen; many have grabbed and gone astray.
Then the Sadguru called me; my ears that had gone astray he turned back, encircled me again.”
My ears that were entangled in vain talk, that had gone who knows where—he brought them back. He called me. The call always comes, but listeners are needed—those with courage, who are man enough to gamble much. God is not for free. One must pay with one’s whole life.
“Then the Sadguru called me; my ears that had gone astray he turned back, encircled me again.
That sun of the morning he made to rise; all darkness vanished.”
Like the rising of the sun the Sadguru rose. And as the sun rises and the night is erased and darkness goes, so within me dawn broke.
“That sun of the morning he made to rise; all darkness vanished.”
Then I did not have to do anything. I saw darkness destroyed of itself. This is the disciple’s good fortune, his glory. His incomparable experience—that he does not have to erase anything.
Mark this: if you still have to remove darkness, it means you have not yet met the Sadguru. And remember—darkness does not go by being pushed. Who has pushed away darkness?
Try it tonight: when darkness comes, get busy removing it. Do all yogasanas, push-ups, make noise, shout, shove it with your hands; if you have some knife or sword, wave it—and you will drop exhausted; darkness remains where it is.
Who can remove darkness? Darkness cannot be removed; light can be brought. When light comes, darkness goes. And darkness cannot say even this: I cannot go now, I am ill, I need rest, I have just arrived—how can I go so soon? It cannot say: I have lived in this house for centuries; I am the master—today suddenly you arrive like a guest and want to be master? I will not leave so easily.
No—darkness can do nothing. Light appears—darkness is gone. In truth, to say ‘gone’ is not accurate. Darkness never was. If it were, there would be some tussle; it would resist, try to hide, raise a hue and cry, file a case in court—something. If it were, at least it would weep and beg: what is happening; why is my house being taken from me?
You have heard the old tale: once darkness went to God and said: your sun harasses me greatly. I have never harmed him, never stood in his way; but wherever I go he follows me. I have no peace. Tired I sleep at night, my rest barely begins when the sun returns. This is injustice. I have heard: there may be delay, but there is no darkness—yet the delay has become so great that this is darkness. Do something.
God called the sun and said: why are you behind my darkness? What has he done to you? The sun said: which darkness, what darkness? I have never met him. Call him before me so I may recognize him; then I will never trouble him again.
Several hundred million years have passed; the matter still lies in God’s file. It will remain there. It is a government file; it cannot be cleared. For God cannot place both together. They say: God is omnipotent. He is not—this shows it clearly. He cannot make sun and darkness stand side by side. How could he? If the sun is, darkness cannot be; if darkness is, the sun must not be. They cannot stand together. Darkness is not.
What then is darkness? Only the absence of light. It is not a presence of its own. Darkness has no positivity. It is only the other name for light’s non-being. Darkness is only a name; it has no existence. A negation. Therefore no one can do anything with darkness directly. If anything is to be done, it must be done with light. Understand this arithmetic well: if you would remove darkness, bring light. If you would bring darkness, remove light. You must do something with light. There is no direct way with darkness. Otherwise people would throw their darkness into the neighbor’s house. Nothing can be done with darkness itself.
What will this mean in the spiritual realm? It means: come near the light, light the lamp—darkness dissolves. Yet most people are busy removing darkness. They say: first we will remove anger, remove greed, remove illusion, remove lust—remove this and that. These are all darknesses. Light the lamp of meditation; light love and let affection burn within. Call to God, and as he comes—all dissolves.
These words are essential:
“I became Dadu’s disciple; delusions fell away; Sundar became unique in his play.
That sun of the morning he made to rise; all darkness vanished.”
If the eyes of the Sadguru meet yours, if the knot is tied and the round begun—everything happens. The sun rises; the night ends—without your doing a thing. Wherever such a miracle happens—there is Sadguru. This is the true miracle. To pull ashes from the palm is no miracle—that is jugglery. To pull Swiss watches from the air is trickery, not a miracle. There is only one miracle: through whose connection darkness vanishes; at whose touch the anxiety of life dissolves; whose nearness drenches life in a new color, a new mode, a new dance.
“I have perhaps seen your face before, somewhere—
For this very state has crossed my heart before.
I know not how many splendors preceded the splendors of yours—
It is you I have loved again and again before.”
When one meets the Sadguru, one realizes: it was this man we were seeking. It was his love we were wandering for, searching—how longlived has been the journey.
“It is you I have loved again and again before.”
And when, through the Sadguru, the experience of God happens, one knows: even in the guise of the Guru, we have loved only God. One who loves God—today or tomorrow—will find a Sadguru’s refuge, for there is no other bridge to him.
Only the Guru is the Gurudwara—the gateway to the Guru.
“From the beginning it is you alone; there is no other.”
And when the light dawns, when eyes open, when the inner flower blooms—what is experienced?
“From the beginning it is you alone—
There is no other.”
Unsayable, unreachable—beyond all telling.
One can neither speak it nor grasp it nor make another grasp it.
No description is possible.
“When my eyes met his, a single world remained.
When the gaze moved away, all around were wastelands.
He watched, smiling; we drank our tears.
He was listening; we could tell no tales.”
Speech is lost. One finds not a single word to say to God. Eyes remain open, breath held, heartbeat stilled.
“At the moment of dying he asked my condition—
The lips trembled—no answer could be told.”
How much the devotee prepares: I will say this, I will say that—as lovers prepare for the beloved. But when the meeting happens, speech is left stammering—for what is to be said is bigger than words. Neither can the devotee plead before God; nor, returning into the world, can he say to people—what to say? how to say?
Unsayable, unreachable.
However much one tries, one falters. The words of the greatest saints, the greatest Buddhas, are like the lisping of children. Very sweet indeed—but lisping. If you compare what they say with what they know.
Buddha was passing through a forest. Ananda asked: Bhante—may I ask a question? For days I have wished to ask—but shyness held me back. Have you told us all that you have known?
It was autumn; millions of dry leaves lay scattered, dancing in the wind. Buddha picked up a few leaves in his hand and asked: Ananda, do you see these leaves in my hand?
Ananda said: I do not see what you intend—what have these leaves to do with my question?
Buddha said: Do you see these leaves in my hand? How many are they? And do you see the dry leaves of this forest—how many? As many as the leaves in this forest—thus much is my knowing. And what I have told you is as many as these few leaves in my hand. I have said a little. A little I could say—all is incomplete. Notice also: I picked up dry leaves, for what I know is green—but when I say it, it dries. I could have picked green leaves—the trees are full of them—but I did not, because what I know is green, yet when it is said it dries. By the time it reaches you, it is a dry leaf; it cannot be contained in words.
Unsayable, unreachable.
And even if somehow some little is conveyed—the listener cannot grasp it. He understands according to himself. One day Ananda said: listening so long, surely now we understand what you say.
Buddha said: tonight I will answer you.
The night assembly ended; Ananda pressed Buddha’s feet as always. He asked: now may I hear the answer? Buddha said: did you notice? When the assembly was over, and I said: it is late, do your final practice and then sleep—you heard?
Ananda said: you say this every night; we all know that the final practice is to sit in meditation and sleep in meditation.
Buddha said: yes—but tonight a thief was present, and a courtesan. When I said: it is late—do your final work and then sleep—the courtesan started: rightly said; night has advanced; time for my business—I have listened long enough, I will go to my work. The thief too started: rightly said; Buddha reminded me well. I was forgetting in these sweet words—Buddha is amazing: mindful even of my being a thief; he calls: now, brother, the night is late—go do your work.
The thief went to steal; the courtesan opened her shop; the monks meditated.
Buddha said: you understand according to yourself. I speak according to me; you understand according to you—between us a great gap arises. You will understand as I speak only when you become as I am. Without being a Buddha you cannot understand Buddha; without being Krishna you cannot understand Krishna. Only in that state of consciousness does its speech and its secret open.
Unsayable, unreachable—beyond description.
“No form, no line; neither white nor black.
Yet your taste is ever one, Ramji, Ramji.”
There is no form, no outline. Neither white nor black. Yet its flavor is one—its rasa is one. Through centuries, those who have known—countless—have found one taste. Though there is no form, color, line—no picture can be drawn, no statue made; all statues are false—for he is formless. All colors are false—he is colorless. No description—but still, the rasa is one. Whether it is Mira or Mahavira or Mohammed—the taste is one. And when his nectar rains, the satisfaction is one.
“Your taste is ever one, Ramji, Ramji.”
“At first you yourself created primal Maya—
And then, multiplying it through the three gunas, you spread it out.
From the five elements came form and name.
Yet your taste is ever one, Ramji, Ramji.”
When one knows, he experiences that the world is not contrary to God. Those who say so are ignorant. The world is his expansion—not his opposite.
“At first you yourself created primal Maya—
Then you expanded it by the three gunas.
From the five elements came form and name.”
But amid all, you stand as the one rasa. Around you Maya spreads—rich colors, myriad forms—and still you are formless and colorless. Around you great waves of raga surge, yet you are vitaraga—beyond attachment.
At the center is dispassion; at the periphery, rich color and passion. Not opposition—complementarity. Without the world, God is incomplete; without God, the world is incomplete. Without the world, God is a center without circumference—a sea without waves—dead. Without God, the world is madness—only waves and more waves, no harmony. Without God, the world is meaningless; without the world, God is a void silence. Understand well.
Without the world, God is like a veena whose strings have not been plucked—no sound has arisen. Look at a veena lying there, unplayed—sad, dead. It becomes alive when strings are touched.
The world is God’s music. But if only the world is, without God—then it is not music; for there is needed a uniting element to hold all together—the musician to hold the notes. Else they scatter—there is noise, not music.
Therefore those who deny God are left with the question: what is the meaning of life? Without God, meaning cannot stand. Life becomes meaningless. After Nietzsche declared in the West that God is dead, the great question remained: what is the meaning of man’s life? If God is dead, meaning is dead. Why live? Albert Camus declared: there is only one serious philosophical question—suicide. Why should we live? Why not commit suicide? What is the point? What is to be gained? Where to reach? If there is no destination, what is this rushing? If there is no goal, why run?
Without God, the world is insanity—a tale told by an idiot—beginning anywhere, things happening in the middle, no end—no sense. And if God is alone, the veena lies—no music. Alone, music becomes dissonance; alone, the veena is dead.
Therefore God and the world are not opposites—they complement each other. They are joined in exchange; without each other they are incomplete. If God is Purusha, the world is Prakriti—his Maya. If God is Krishna, the world is Radha. If God stands at the center of the circle, the world dances round about. All the rasas flow, but God is the one rasa. Waves rise—the sea remains still.
“Wandering in the world, they find no shore—
In all three worlds the sun of death blazes.”
Those who do not see you—wander endlessly; they find no end to the world. A circle has no end. Draw a circle on the ground and keep walking to find its end—you will never find it. The world is like the bull of the oilpress—going round and round. It seems you are just about to arrive—now, now—but arrival never happens; journey goes on. You are in a circle; where will you go?
And everywhere—the sun of death burns. On the periphery lies no ambrosia. Ambrosia is at the center. At the periphery are only waves—born and dying—rising and falling.
“Everywhere in the three worlds—hell, earth, or heaven—death reigns.”
“This human body is attained by great fortune.”
This human form is obtained after a long journey—there are many bodies: of animals, birds, trees. But in the human there is one special quality—freedom. Man is a crossroads. A peacock is born a peacock and will die a peacock. A fixed destiny. A dog is born a dog and dies a dog. You cannot tell a dog to be a little less dog. But a man—you can say: be a little more human. Dogs are equally dogs—neither more nor less. But man—one is more man, one less. Men are not born as man—they are born as possibilities. Then one must actualize. Man must build himself. One becomes a Chengiz Khan; another a Gautama Buddha. One descends into great sin; another experiences great virtue. One goes mad; one is liberated. Man is wondrous. Nowhere else is there such freedom. Freedom is the only treasure of worth.
Thus Sundardas is right:
“This human body is attained by great fortune.”
By great fortunes, long journeys, deep longings, long waiting—this body has come. Do not squander it. What is that which, if attained, will not be squandered? If in this body you know only death—you have wasted it. If in this body you know the deathless—you have attained. In this body both are present. Its periphery, its form and color—is Maya. The body is made of five elements—and within it sits Paramatma—right at the center, vitaraga. You may bind yourself to the periphery, believing ‘I am body’—then you wander. Or awaken and know ‘I am witness’—then you arrive.
“Your taste is ever one, Ramji, Ramji.”
Within you that one taste abides.
Have you ever thought? Is there anything within you that is always one taste—ever the same? That alone is Paramatma. Your love changes—not one taste. Now love, now hate. The one for whom you were ready to die—this same one you may be ready to kill. Compassion turns to anger; anger to compassion. These keep changing—they are not one taste. Is there something that never changes? At night you sleep; the day is forgotten. Who was your wife in the day—does not arise in the night. Poor or rich, Hindu or Muslim—you do not know. In the morning you wake, night is forgotten—who you had become in the night—emperor in golden palaces with fair maidens—gone. Again you are here. Day changes at night; night changes by day.
But you have one thing—the witness—that never changes. The same witness sees the bazaar by day, the dreams by night. The same one sees anger arise, compassion arise. The same sees love, the same hate. The same sees pleasure, the same pain. The same sees youth, the same old age. Within you is a witnessing element—the drashta—the capacity to be aware. That is one taste. Catch hold of that one taste; let yourself dissolve in it—and you will find Ramji. For Ramji’s nature is one rasa.
“Your taste is ever one, Ramji, Ramji.”
“In all ten directions—you alone prevail.
Who can praise you? There is no merit, no sin.”
In all ten directions—and in all beings—you alone are. Who will praise whom? Inside me you are; outside me you are. There is neither merit nor sin here. In sin—you; in merit—you; all is your play.
“Slave Sundar says: grant me rest.
Your taste is ever one, Ramji, Ramji.”
What he asks is wondrous—rest. He says: I ask nothing else—grant rest. I am tired—circling on the periphery. I am tired of being the bull of the oilpress; I ask nothing else. I do not ask for moksha—but rest itself is moksha. I do not ask for heaven—rest itself is heaven. I do not ask for bliss—for from rest, bliss follows as a shadow follows you.
‘Vishram’—rest—is a lovely word. It means: no more running. Do not make me run any more. I have run and run—and nothing was attained. Now let me be still. Let me sit down. Only this prayer—that I may be taught to sit. Take back this habit of running. I no longer wish to be a wave. No more new forms, new disguises, new roles in the dramas. Give me leisure. Give me rest. Drown me in yourself. Do not send me outward to the periphery. You are one rasa—make me one rasa.
Our experience of the world is nothing but pains, troubles, anxieties, afflictions—what else?
How many lamps are extinguished, how many are lit—
Yet, with the resolve of life, people go on walking.
From the caravan’s moving to the caravan’s stopping—
There are no destinations, friends—only routes that change.
Every wave is a storm, every wave a shore—
How many drown, how many escape.
Bosoms of seas and boats of life—
Darkness emerges, light is exhaled.
One spring arrives, one spring departs—
Buds smile, flowers wring their hands.
How many lamps are extinguished, how many lit—
Yet, with the resolve of life, people go on walking.
Here lamps keep burning and being blown out. People are born and die. Each day someone is born; each day someone dies. Somewhere the shehnai sounds; somewhere the bier is lifted. You see it. It will happen to you. But when another’s bier is lifted you do not allow the thought to arise: today or tomorrow, mine will be lifted. Every time—it is your bier that goes. Yet you live in the illusion: others die; I never die. I shall live on.
A man became a hundred years old. Journalists came to interview him—rare is such age. They spoke; as they were leaving they said: we pray to the Lord that next year too we shall have your darshan. The old man said: I see no reason why not—you all seem quite young. They were baffled; they wanted to say something else.
One mustered the courage: we mean—you are very old; who knows if we will meet next year. The old man said: fear not—my experience of a hundred years is that if I have not died so far, in one year how will I die? I have survived a hundred—what are two, four, ten years?
Another story: a man of ninety went to the insurance office. They were in difficulty; no one of that age had come to be insured. They said: after this age we do not insure. He wanted to insure for lakhs. He said: you are foolish—you know nothing of business. Check your statistics: after ninety, very few die. He is right—few live to ninety; how will they die? But he is saying: after ninety, very few die—why are you afraid?
Everyone thinks: I will live, forever. And this world understands nothing. Even as you die, the world does not understand you are dying. All are dying—yet people reassure each other: all well? Very well. One looks at the other and smiles. All hide their tears. All stand ready to die.
I read these lines of a dancing girl:
There was a dancer—at whom and how many did she throw glances?
Her eyes turned to stone; no harmony remained in her graces.
She staggered, and from all sides a cry arose:
“Who else, at this height of art, has gone but you?”
She fell upon the marble floor; rising, she bent; with dry lips she asked for water.
She cupped her hands—and the onlookers carefully said:
“This too is a style of dance—Allah, Allah!”
Her hands remained outstretched; her lips were sealed.
A dancer suddenly moved from some side; the curtain fell—and the worshipers of art thundered:
“Why has the dance ended? Time still remained!”
A dancer is dancing. Dancing and dancing she has grown tired—life has become old. Making gestures to so many—how many can one gesture to? Alone she was; the desiring were many. One day she staggers—weakness, death approaches. She staggers—and from all sides the cry: what grace! They thought it was a mode of intoxication, of seduction. She falls on marble; rises; bends; with dry lips asks for water. She takes water in cupped hands—and the spectators say: this too is a style of dance—Allah, Allah! Her hands remain extended; her lips are sealed. A dancer from some direction suddenly moves; the curtain falls—and the worshipers roar: why has the dance ended? Time still remained!
Time always remains. The curtain falls in the middle. Time is never completed. Man always dies in the middle. Who completes his work before dying? Who finishes his word? Who puts a full stop, and then dies? The run is always on; it is still on.
Sundardas says: grant me rest. Enough now—have seen enough. This is my only prayer—what else shall I ask of you? Absorb me back into yourself.
This very prayer is what is called release from coming and going, or moksha—call it what you will. Let this prayer arise within you; now seek only this.
Find rest, and you find Ram.
Find Ram, and you find rest.
Enough for today.