Hari Bolo Hari Bol #5

In whose presence the world of thought and verse was alive,
by whom the skies of reflection and action blushed crimson;
by whose light the moon and the stars were made green and fresh—
from whom the courage of love’s madness was forever young—
where have those longings fallen asleep, my friend?
those restless eyes, those waiting paths,
those sighs pressed down into the heart beneath the weight of composure,
those nights of waiting—long, dark, star-strewn—
those half-dream chambers of night, those velvet arms—
those were stories… somewhere they are lost, my friend!

The blood of spring is surging in the color of life;
the strings of the soul are tangling with ancient sorrows.
Come—let us go and set lamps alight in the beloved’s quarter;
there wait the tombs of the loves yet to come—
those loves which have already perished, my friend!

Here, whatever is, is lost. Here, whatever appears, appears only to be lost. Here friendship is lost, love is lost; wealth, position, prestige are lost. Nothing here is able to fill life; it only gives the illusion of fullness, offers assurance, proffers hope. But all hopes turn to dust, and all assurances prove false. And that which we take as truth and live by—today, tomorrow—proves to be a dream. To the one who sees this in time, a revolution happens within. Yet how few are so fortunate as to see it in time. Everyone sees it, but by the time it is seen, time is no longer in one’s hands. One sees it when nothing can be done—at the last hour; when the breath is breaking, it is seen; when everything is slipping from the hands, it is seen. But then there is no remedy.

The one who sees before time—meaning, before death—only in him Sannyas flowers. His life-journey takes on new meaning, new directions. If what we are amassing here is vain, then naturally our mad rush to accumulate begins to subside. You do not have to do it; it happens. The grip of our clinging loosens. You need not arrange some practice to loosen it. If what you hold is ash, how will you keep the fist clenched tight? When you believed it a diamond, you clenched the fist. When it starts to dawn that it is ash, the fist begins to open—easily, of itself. Thus Sannyas is easy, effortless.

Any Sannyas that must be organized, managed, practiced, struggled for—that Sannyas is false. Sannyas is not a discipline; it is a realization of the futility of life-as-you-know-it. If life is futile, to extract meaning from it is the miracle. Every day someone dies, yet you do not see your own death. Every day some bier is lifted, yet you think your wedding pipes will play forever. You see: someone is carried away and everything of his remains behind—and still you go on clinging, still you go on running, still you go on collecting the same things. Not only strangers die; is there a house anywhere in which death has not happened? You’ve heard the story of Buddha, have you not?

A woman named Kisa Gautami lost her only son. Her husband had already died; the boy was the sole support of her life. Suddenly he died: he slept at night and did not wake in the morning. No illness even; had there been illness she might have arranged treatment, done something, found some consolation at least. But no opportunity even for that. Kisa Gautami went mad with grief. Beating her breast, she wandered through the village carrying her boy’s corpse, crying: ‘Someone bring my son back to life!’ People tried to console her: ‘Mad woman, what has died has died; there is no way to bring him back. It has never happened.’ But the hope, the desire, would not leave her.

Someone said: ‘Buddha has come to the village; go to him. Perhaps by his blessing something may happen.’ She laid her son’s body at Buddha’s feet and pleaded: ‘Give life back to my boy. With your blessing, what cannot be? Just say once that my son will rise.’ Buddha said: ‘I will give him life—certainly I will—but first you must fulfill a condition. Go into the village and bring a few mustard seeds—but only from a house in which no death has ever occurred.’

Filled with attachment and hope, Kisa Gautami ran door to door. In that village of farmers every house had mustard seeds. ‘What kind of condition is this!’ she thought. But in her infatuation she did not see that the condition was impossible: ‘a house in which no death has occurred.’ Door to door she held out her begging bowl: ‘Give me some mustard seeds—only one condition: that in your house no death has occurred.’ ‘Kisa Gautami, you are mad,’ people said. ‘Death has occurred in every house. Death is life’s inevitability; no one can escape it.’ From the beggar’s hut to the palace gate she went; and by evening, it dawned upon her why Buddha had set such a condition—to show that death happens everywhere, to let her know beyond exception that death comes to all. Dying is life’s very nature. By evening, she returned empty-handed—and with opened eyes.

When she came back to Buddha’s feet she said: ‘Do not revive my son. Instead, do something so that before my death I may know what this life is. The boy has gone; and now I too will go, that is clear. Whoever is here will go. My morning’s curiosity is finished. Give me initiation. If death must be, let death be; but in the breath that remains, let me join myself to the Amrit, to that which once found is never lost. No more relations with the bubbles upon water. Let my bond be with the Eternal.’

Buddha said: ‘Therefore I sent you door to door—that your delusion might break.’

People live believing there will be some exception somewhere. There is no exception anywhere. The one who awakens in time is transformed. But we go on persuading ourselves: ‘Death will be tomorrow; today it has not yet happened. For now, let us live.’ In fact, we invert the reasoning and say: ‘Since death will be tomorrow, today let us live well: eat, drink, make merry—for tomorrow we die.’

Two arguments. Both accept death. One says: since death is tomorrow, think, understand, meditate, awaken today. The other says: since death is tomorrow, don’t waste time in meditation and prayer—enjoy, squeeze out as much taste as possible. Both proceed from the same premise: there is death. If there is death, what will you achieve by squeezing flavors? These brief tastes—how far will they carry you? A little intoxication, a little stupor; you will sleep a little longer. One more turn on the other side—a new pleasure means merely another turn. Pull the blanket over a little further, snatch another nap—but the sleep must break; morning must come.

Do not strike the instrument of pain tonight!
Days filled with sorrow are already past,
and who knows anything of tomorrow?
The boundaries of yesterday and tomorrow are rubbed out—
who knows if morning will even be?
Life is vanity—but tonight,
even godliness is possible—tonight!
Do not strike the instrument of pain!

Tomorrow is certain for no one. Morning may not come. At least tonight do not bring up the theme of pain; do not pluck the strings of sorrow. If tomorrow there is death, forget it; tonight sing some colorful songs.

Do not rehearse the tale of grief again,
do not sit in mourning for your fate.
Throw out tomorrow’s worry from your heart,
do not weep over the gone-by days.
Do not ask for the chronicles of sorrow,
do not ask for the long list of complaints.
Do not strike the instrument of pain—tonight!

Do not strike the instrument of pain; color the night somehow—drink wine, dance, sing.

What difference will it make?
Tomorrow death will come and mix everything with dust. Those moments you counted as ecstasy will prove mere forgetfulness. Man is afraid to see this truth. That is why religion is much talked about in the world, but truly religious people are few. People talk; they do not set out upon the journey. The only danger in setting out is that death must be accepted. And who wants to accept death?

The truth is, many of you believe ‘the Atman is immortal’ precisely because you do not wish to accept death. You hide behind the doctrine that the Atman is immortal. Because of that belief you are avoiding becoming religious. It will sound upside-down to you: you think ‘since I believe the soul is immortal, I am religious.’ I remind you: you do not believe the soul immortal because you are religious; you do not want to become religious, therefore you have believed the soul immortal. If there is no dying, then indulge, live it up.

Not only have you organized pleasures here; you have set up the same arrangements in heaven. Your Vaikuntha is not very different from here—just a little more refined, more colorful, more ornate. In your heaven are the echoes of your desires; the same songs of your cravings—polished, edited. Here the rose has a few thorns; there in your imagination you have removed the thorns and saved only the flowers. Here human life has pain and sorrow; there you have taken sorrow away and saved only pleasure. You have saved only day; you have cut out the night. You have saved only life; you have set death aside.

But I tell you: these are all deceptions. The pleasures of this world are tricks; your heaven’s pleasures are tricks too. The one who awakens from the trick of pleasure—that one knows, for the first time, what bliss is. Its name is Ananda. And that Ananda is neither here nor there—It is within you; that Ananda is you, that Satchidananda is you. The outer search will keep you wandering. Your world is outside, your heavens are outside. When will you come within?

When a man dies and we lift his bier, we chant: ‘Ram-naam sat hai’—the name of Ram is truth. In Bengal they say: ‘Hari bolo, Hari bolo.’ While alive, this man had to know for himself that the Name is true and all else untrue. Now others repeat it before the corpse; his own lips will not even tremble. And even the others are not saying it for themselves—remember this—they are saying it for the dead man: ‘Now it’s all over for you—Hari bolo! Farewell! Be freed of us; forgive us; go now, do not trouble us.’ They return home. They chanted for the corpse, not for themselves. And while alive, the dead man never called out.

He who, while living, calls—who remembers Hari—golden radiance descends upon his life; rays of the Eternal descend into his being.

If you would call Hari, call while you live. Only you can call—no one can call for you. This call cannot be borrowed. And if Hari is not called, life is wasted. You have lost the game of life if you have not called Hari.

To call Hari means only this: hidden within these layers of life lies a jewel—if found, you are an emperor; if not, you remain a beggar.

The season of joy has passed.
Far away a wedding-conch sounded—someone became utterly alone.
The season of joy has passed.

In the game called love’s destiny I have held live coals in my palms;
the dim moon and stars have rained darkness at every step;
in the city of anxiety today, a golden twilight has been stirred—
The season of joy has passed.

The breath turns to a dagger and snags; the eyes fill again and again.
In the melting furnace of gold my hopes have been scorched;
on the pyre of hopes a new sorrow dances—
The season of joy has passed.

The dream that lit fire by joining mountain and netherworld—
when eyes met the hostile script, my stretch of languor broke.
Now the mind wonders, left alone—why did I play with fire?
The season of joy has passed.

Far away a wedding-conch sounded—someone became utterly alone—
The season of joy has passed.

Everything is passing. That which flows—that which is not still—that river’s current: that is the meaning of the world. This current rushes on. You cannot descend into the same current twice. Everything slips through your grasp. You yourself are being swept away.

Now the mind wonders, left alone—why did I play with fire?
The season of joy has passed.

But if you will think upon the funeral pyre, it will be too late; no means will be left to do anything. Call out now: Hari bolo, Hari bolo. Call now. Seek now. Dig now—prepare the well before the house catches fire. Do not think: when the house burns, then we will dig a well. Prepare it now. The fire is certain. The house in which you live is made to burn; it is fashioned for the flames, built for the pyre. It is its destiny; you cannot change that destiny. It is its intrinsic nature. Your ordinary house may or may not burn; but your body will certainly burn. This is so sure that there is not even scope for doubt. Do not believe in God, do not believe in the soul, do not believe in liberation—no need. Believe at least this much: that this body will be placed upon the pyre. From just that, revolution will arise.

These saffron robes you see on sannyasins—this is the color of the funeral fire. Sannyas means: before dying, we climb the pyre. We have accepted that we must ascend the pyre; we have donned the robe of fire so that it keeps reminding us we have mounted the flames. This body is already upon the pyre. Sooner or later—it makes no difference. Today or tomorrow, tomorrow or the day after. The sannyasin declares, before himself and before the world: I have entered the fire. I do not want to deny this fact; I want to make this fact the very center of my life. Around that center I will revolve the whole circle of my living.

What is the center of your life? For some, wealth; for some, status; for some, work; for some, greed; for some, attachment. But all these will be snatched away; they are not the real center. Make your life’s center something death cannot steal. Seize within yourself a ray that passes beyond death. Devotees have called that ray love; the wise have called it meditation. Two names for the same.

Today’s sutra:

Leaving the limit of Hindu, forsaking the path of Turk,
Sundardas recognized, naturally—there is but one: Ram, Allah.

A lovely utterance—filled with priceless meaning.

Leaving the limit of Hindu…
As long as there is limit, you cannot attain the limitless. As long as you are bound by boundaries, no relationship with the boundless is possible. If you are a Hindu, you cannot be religious; if you are a Muslim, you cannot be religious. You are limited. How will you link with the unlimited?

If the Ganga insists on remaining the Ganga, she will not meet the ocean. If she says, ‘I shall remain confined within my banks, preserve my personality; I am Ganga—how can I enter such a vast sea?’—if she insists on being Ganga, she will never merge. To enter the ocean she must decide first: ‘Now I am no more.’ She must drop her shores.

Whatever the boundary—every boundary imprisons man, binds him in chains. If you are a Hindu, you have donned one chain; a Christian, another chain. Why make yourself small? You set out to meet the Vast; why bind yourself to the petty? Indian or Chinese—you will miss. And even ‘Hindu’ is too broad for our minds; we demand narrower: Brahmin and Shudra. Even ‘Brahmin’ is too broad; then Kanauj Brahmin, Kokanastha, Deshastha—ever narrower. You make yourself smaller and smaller—

—and yet you set out to seek the unbounded! You wish to call out to the Divine—‘Hari bolo, Hari bolo!’ How will such a narrow call reach? To join the Vast, a vast heart must speak. Ironically, the Muslim scripture says God is limitless, and the Hindu scripture says the same. Both repeat it: ‘He is infinite.’ But repeating this, they do not remember to ask: when will we be limitless? If the Divine is limitless and you wish to join, then take on something of His color, His form, His way; let His wind blow within you.

People have become narrow—and as narrow as they become, so distant from the Divine. You are not only confined in the body; greater shackles are in your mind. You have decided even where you will bow: only in a mosque, only in a gurudwara. You set a boundary even for bowing!

Whose sky is this? Whose moon and stars? Whose trees, birds, people? Why set a limit to your bowing? Where you stand—there bow. Where you sit—there bow. Every speck of earth is His shrine. Every stone is the stone of Kaaba, every ghat the ghat of Kashi. Everywhere is Kailash. Walk there, live there, rise and fall there, die there. Break boundaries!

Sundardas speaks true:
Leaving the limit of Hindu…
Drop the limit and you will know. The moment the boundary is dropped, knowledge descends.
…forsaking the path of Turk.
And abandon the path of the Muslim too. The Divine is not to be found by a path.

Paths are for going outward; to go inward, there is no path. Roads join distant places; how will you make a road to That which is nearer than the nearest? If you walk, you wander. Be still. Let all paths go. Become apathic, unroaded. The Divine is not far that a road be required. He dwells in your innermost core. No road need be made—you are already there. Only open the eyes. Only awaken awareness. Only remember—‘Hari bolo, Hari bolo.’

Do you understand? It means: with remembrance alone it will happen. Surati—attentive recall—is enough. Man has not lost the Divine; if He were lost, that would be trouble indeed. Where would we search in this vast existence? We have barely reached the moon; the cosmos is immense. If we had spacecraft traveling at the speed of light—186,000 miles per second—and even if such a thing were possible (which it does not seem), it would still take forty years to reach the nearest star. And from there are stars more distant, and more distant still—such stars that to reach them would take billions upon billions of years. Where will man live that long? There are stars whose light left when Earth was formed and has not yet arrived; and stars whose light set forth before Earth existed and will arrive after Earth is gone. Their light will never meet Earth. How will we reach them—and beyond them the vastness goes on without end. If the Divine were lost, where would we seek Him? From whom would we ask His address? No—He is found because He was never lost. Bind this firmly in your heart: the Divine is found because He was never lost. He is already attained; thus He can be attained. Only remembrance is lost—not the Divine. The diamond lies in your pocket; you have forgotten. The spectacles sit upon your forehead and you search for them; the pen is tucked behind your ear and you look everywhere. This is the situation—forgetfulness.

‘Hari bolo, Hari bolo’ is just to remind you: if you call with all your heart, from every pore, in every breath, it will be done. Nothing else is required.

Leaving the limit of Hindu, forsaking the path of Turk,
Sundardas recognized, naturally…
The very day Hindu and Muslim were dropped—recognition arose easily. These were the hindrances. Now my words may trouble you: your Vedas stand in your way; your Gita, your Ramayana are in the way. Your Ram and Krishna stand in the way. The Quran stands in the way; your namaz, your mosque, your mullah stand in the way. For remembrance of Him, no intermediary is needed. The remembrance must arise directly. You need not go into any scripture; you must go into yourself. Not into the Shastra—into the Self.

Therefore I say: this utterance is wondrous—
Leaving the limit of Hindu, forsaking the path of Turk,
Sundardas recognized, naturally…
Recognition happened easily; only these stood between you and it. If one has fixed that God is only He who stands in the temple with bow and arrow—Ram alone is God—trouble will come. That very image will obstruct you from the Formless. Or another has decided God is He with the peacock plume and flute: then you are chasing imagination.

It is not that Krishna never was. He was. A wave rose, there was a dance; the flute sang—and the wave fell back. We called him Bhagavan because through him we glimpsed the ocean’s grandeur; through him we had a taste of the Vast. We said well. But if you place his idol in a temple and sit forever, you will miss. That is an idol of a wave—not of the ocean. The ocean has no idol. The ocean is vast. Recognize the ocean through the wave, and move on. Walk with the wave a little way—but do not sit worshiping the wave. Centuries have passed; now you worship the wave. Where is that wave? Long since it merged into the ocean, became one with the Vast. It was because they were one with the Vast that we called them Bhagavan: they had dropped selfhood; there was no ego. The body fell; within, they were already empty. As the body fell, the emptiness merged into Emptiness; sky disappeared into sky; the pot broke. What are you doing now? You worship the pot’s image—and that worship itself becomes your obstacle.

Buddha said: If even I stand in your path—draw your sword and cut me in two.

Recently a letter came to me from America. Somewhere I had quoted Buddha’s saying: If you meet me on the way, kill me. Someone wrote angrily: ‘Who are you to say such a thing—that if one meets Buddha, one should kill him?’ He did not know: it is not I who said it; Buddha himself said it. The man was furious: ‘How can anyone say such a thing?’ All the Buddhas have said it—and will always say it. If they cannot, they are not Buddhas. The Buddhas say: go beyond us; do not get stuck in us. We are doors—pass through. Do not sit at the door. We are bridges—cross over. Do not build your house upon the bridge. But you have built houses upon the bridge. You worship the doorway and forget that a door is for passing beyond. However beautiful the door—gold, silver, carved, studded with jewels—still its meaning is: pass through. Look at the open sky beyond; go onward.

Sundardas says:
He recognized, naturally—there is but one: Ram, Allah.
Recognition was effortless the day he ceased to be Hindu or Muslim. The moment the limit dropped, the limitless was known. There is no obstacle from the side of the Infinite—only from yours. You grip the limited; release it, and the limitless will flow. And all the names belong to That.
There is but one: Ram, Allah.
Then you will know: what is worshiped in the temple is That; what is worshiped in the mosque is That. With form, It is That; without form, It is That. Those who affirm God speak of Him; and Buddha, Mahavira—who do not affirm God—speak of Him too. Yes and No are both His shapes—He is beyond all shapes. But only when you go beyond limits, tasting the limitless, will you know this.

Here is the irony: get entangled in Ram, and he is the opposite of Allah; get entangled in Allah, and he is the opposite of Ram; in Krishna, the opposite of Ram; in Ram, the opposite of Krishna. Drop all entanglements and suddenly you will find they are names of one experience—different words, different tongues, distinct commentaries—one pointing.

So I tell you: the one who is Hindu is never religious; but the one who is religious knows—Hindu is true, Muslim is true, Christian is true, Jain is true, Buddhist is true. No one reaches Truth by being entangled in scriptures; but for the one who has reached, all scriptures are true. Therefore I speak on all scriptures—for this one reminder: ‘There is but one: Ram, Allah.’

And understand this word ‘sahaj’—natural, effortless.
Sundardas recognized, naturally…
Sahaj means: without effort, without practice, without discipline, without plan, without strain—of itself. As when morning comes, you open the door, pull back the curtain—and the light fills in. You do not have to bind light outside and drag it in; it comes of itself when the door opens. So too, if you drop the limit, the Divine will flood you. This is sahaj.

But we clutch our limits fiercely. The limit has become our very life. It is so valuable to us that we are ready to kill and be killed for it. Muslim is ready to cut the Hindu; Hindu is ready to cut the Muslim. Christian cuts Jew. Murder, in the name of religion. And whenever you kill, you kill Him. ‘There is but one: Ram, Allah.’ Whom are you killing? You think a Hindu, a Muslim—you are killing That. Whatever you destroy, your enterprise runs contrary to That—even when you use His very name to do it.

Awaken—and recognition is sahaj. Only one thing to do: drop the limit.

This is my teaching: drop the limit. Here I teach only this: drop the limit. Thus among my sannyasins are Hindus, Muslims, Christians, Jews, Buddhists, Jains—but their limits have gone. Those identities are mere memory now, past—like a snake sliding out of its old skin and leaving the slough behind. Only religiosity remains; only the longing to seek Truth remains—a pure yearning—a flame: to know What Is. Then it happens, sahaj.

‘Mine, mine,’ they keep saying—see the folly of man.
Later you will repent—Hari bolo, Hari bolo.

‘Mine’ with such insistence—‘my religion, my book, my idol, my doctrine, my philosophy!’ Don’t waste time. Do not wander in such empty errors. Look into the eyes of one who has called Hari—whose being has recognized Hari. Sundardas recognized, naturally. If by grace you meet such a one—look into his eyes, where recognition has ripened without effort.

But you go to those who are themselves still practicing—one sits in postures, one stands on his head, one fasts. They have not yet found; their practice is still on. And by practice alone, no one has ever found. The Divine is already given—why stand on your head? Is He mad, that he will grant Himself only when you invert yourself? If that were so, He would have created you upside-down from the start. Why this mistake? He is not so crazed that He will be found when you starve. If He wanted you starving, He would not have given hunger; He would have made only fasting. The Divine is not something you get by hunger and thirst. What are you doing? This is not about doing at all; it is about remembering.

Yet when you meet a doer, you are impressed. A man lies in fast for a month—you bow. Another sleeps on thorns—you bow. Another dries his body standing under the blazing sun—you fall at his feet. What has act to do with finding God? Do you think there is more God in a dry tree than in a green one? What arithmetic is this? If anything, there will be more in the green—what will be in the dry? Dryness means the Divine energy is gone from the sap. Your so-called holy men sit dull and dead. Their joy is gone. You at least have a little joy—even if illusory. Their transient joy is gone too; they sit like corpses. But until a holy man becomes completely dead, you will not worship him—for then he still looks too much like you. As long as he eats, sleeps, wears clothes, is ordinary—you are not impressed. Your self-contempt is astonishing. You cannot accept that the Divine can be within you; thus you cannot accept it in someone who resembles you. Something eccentric is needed: someone standing on his head—ah, that is different. One fasting—different. One fled to the forest—different. This is not special—merely deranged.

The Divine pervades the ordinary. This whole world is filled with Him. Who taught you He is not in you? And if you accept that He is not in you, how will you remember Him? If you think: ‘Not in me; I must perform deeds, attain achievements, gain siddhis—then I will get Him’—you will go on missing. The Divine is found sahaj—not by siddhis. He is already given; remembrance alone reveals Him.

Behold the effect of passion for seeing—
roses keep bursting forth; just look at the shade of that door.
Even those not so foolish as to throw away their lives—
O feeble ones, O sermon-makers—look at the path itself.
He is He—but you will fall in love even with me;
just once, look into the eyes of my Beloved.

If you come near one who has attained sahaj, forget the Divine—you will receive all by looking into his eyes.
He is He—but you will fall in love even with me.
Love will arise in you; prayer will sprout in your heart; a spring of wine will begin to flow within.
Just once, look into the eyes of my Beloved.
He who has seen the Beloved—if you look into his eyes, a hint of the Beloved will reach you.

The Divine is present within you; you need only a waker, a caller. Someone’s singing awakens the sleeping song in you. It is said: if a master vina-player plays, and another vina lies nearby, unplucked—it too begins to sound. The waves from the music stir the strings of the silent instrument. Just so, between guru and disciple: one vina is already resonant; your vina is whole, but unplayed. Near the one whose vina sings, your strings begin to tremble; tears of joy long-hidden begin to flow. Have you watched a dancer? Did your feet not begin to throb? With music’s intoxication, did your head not sway? Hearing the drum, did your hands not find the beat? So it is: sit near the one in whom the inner drum resounds, and your hands will begin to beat time. Where this beating happens, Satsang is happening.

He is He—but you will fall in love even with me;
just once, look into the eyes of my Beloved.
They who do not even now rend their collars in ecstasy—
look into their livers, into their courage.
They have made the hem of sorrow a blooming garden;
come one day, see the artistry of an ancient heart.
The horizon of grief glitters like the dawn;
Faiz, look upon the shine of these tear-filled eyes.

Just once, behold a wet eye—then even the night’s darkness will gleam like morning. Find an eye made moist by the Divine. Because realization is not the result of practice but of sahaj remembrance—it happens in Satsang.

Sundardas happened by looking into Dadu’s eyes. He was very young—perhaps therefore it happened. The ego and stiffness had not sprouted yet. He was seven. A little child—guileless, innocent. He must have looked into Dadu’s eyes—eyes brimming with the Beloved’s wine—and he must have swayed. Dadu’s vina sounding—some note began to shimmer within the child. Dadu’s dance—this one too began to dance. Dadu’s drum—and the boy could not hold back; he bowed—at seven.

We are astonished. But modern psychology’s newest researches say: if children are not spoiled—we spoil them; we have lovely names for it: education, religious education, etc.—if they are left unspoiled, if their innocence is preserved, this world would become beautiful, as it ought to be. But we are busy. Child is born—our arrangements start. The priest arrives. Baptism begins. Circumcision begins. Bind him quickly; load him with our structures. Make him Hindu, Muslim, Christian. Do not leave him a human being—man as man seems a danger. Drag him to temple, to mosque. Before he might awaken, put him to sleep. Teach him to memorize scripture—Ramayana, Gita—stuff him with mechanical memory before any awareness dawns. Turn him into a parrot. This is not teaching dharma—this is the very reason adharma fills the earth. No child can be taught religion; he is born with religion. If we do not destroy it—if we do not meddle—if we only support what is hidden in him to reveal itself—this earth will be full of beauty. But we cannot bear that. Parents seize the chance to shape the child into their ambitions. What the father could not become, he will make the son become. He wanted wealth—he failed; now he will mount the son’s chest as the demon of ambition. ‘Son, do what I could not.’

I have heard: a man was dying. A troublesome man. His four sons gathered. The father said: ‘One last wish—fulfill it and my soul will be at peace. Will you?’ The three elders kept silent; they knew their father well—he would put them in some mess. All his life he had. The youngest said: ‘Tell me. I will do what I can.’ The father whispered in his ear: ‘When I die—I am anyway dead—cut my body in pieces and throw them into the houses of the neighborhood, and file a report with the police. They will all be dragged in chains to the station—my soul will find peace. I have had quarrels with them all my life—let me see their manacles as I die. I will be dead; for me the matter is over. Don’t worry—cut and scatter me; get them all trapped.’

This is what people do more subtly. When you make your child a Hindu, what are you doing? Hindus and Muslims have been fighting. You set the child against. You teach enmity. You refuse to let earth become a place of love. When you tell him to memorize a book, you yourself were a borrower—and you are making him borrowed too.

The Divine is sahaj. Children can reach Him more easily than the old. The child is new, close to the Source. He has not gone far; he can be reminded. People come to me and say: ‘You give sannyas even to little children—this is not right.’ I tell them: children are nearest. In the old there is so much rubbish to clear. The child is like a mirror—no dust yet. Turn him toward the Divine—save him from becoming Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jain, Buddhist; let him be simply human—then he can move beyond boundaries easily, because he has not yet been bound. Perhaps that is why, near Dadu, Sundardas was transformed at seven.

Jesus said: Until you become like small children, you will not know God—you will not. Become like children again. But people go on saying ‘mine, mine.’

‘Mine, mine,’ they keep saying—see the folly of man.
Later you will repent—Hari bolo, Hari bolo.

Drop this ‘mine, mine.’ What mine, what yours? All is His. The claim of mine is the claim of ego. Drop it—and the fragrance of Satsang will begin to fill your life.

Then we become rivals of spring.
Who knows for whom today we wept.
It was—but not so vain—
today we lost something out of life.

Let one go far from the whole world
who sits just a little close to You.

When morning broke, upon the sky
fell the spray of Your blushing cheek;
when night spread, upon the face of the world
fell the cascade of Your curls.

Sit just a little near the Divine—and you go far from the world. Sit just a little close.

When morning broke, upon the sky
fell the spray of Your blushing cheek.
Then His glimpse is everywhere. Dawn’s blush across the sky becomes the color of His cheek.

When night spread, upon the face of the world
fell the cascade of Your curls.
The night’s darkness seems like His hair falling upon the earth; as if He has gathered the world into His veil. The one who comes a little close—his angles of vision change, his ways of seeing, his processes of experience transform. Then flowers do not bloom—He blooms. Clouds do not gather—He gathers. The cuckoo does not call—He calls. People do not walk—He walks. So many colors, so many forms—the whole world becomes a festival.

You gather rupees in heaps—square ones and round.
All of them went away empty-handed—Hari bolo, Hari bolo.

What are you doing here? People gather rupees—then of two kinds, square and round.
You gather rupees…
And all who gathered went away empty-handed. Empty you come; empty you go. Truly, the fist is clenched when a child is born; and when a man dies, the hand opens. Perhaps you even brought something—and lost that too.
All went away empty-handed—Hari bolo, Hari bolo.

Do not delay. Remember Him, whose remembrance fills the hands—and not the hands only, but the very life. There is only one wealth: that of Truth, that of Samadhi. There is no other. Do not be deceived.

Seeing all the bustle, we believe there’s great joy.
But Time suddenly takes away—Hari bolo, Hari bolo.

There is great bustle in the world—hurry and scurry everywhere. People walk and walk—and fall. One falls; another near him keeps on walking. You do not awake to the fallen. You even use their corpses as steps. ‘Good,’ you think, ‘a rival is gone—now I will gather more.’ You will even empty the dead man’s pocket. You will not see his death. Your race goes on.

Seeing the stir, we believe there’s great celebration.
But it is only belief. Where is joy? Even when you play the band, where is joy? Your shehnai does not sing—she sobs. Even your laughter is glued on the lips—like lipstick: a symbol of your life. The redness does not arise from within—it is painted on. Soon perhaps a spray will be invented—spritz, and laughter appears.

I have heard: in America there is a factory that makes a special spray—for old cars. Spray it inside, and the smell of a new car fills it. It worked so well that new-car makers now spray their new cars with it—because the scent is better than a real new car. Falsehood spreads like this. Falsehood succeeds because this life is false. Here falsehood sits on thrones; truth is crucified. There is cacophony—so naturally you think there is joy; everyone appears to laugh, to be decorated. But look into their lives—it is all outside.

When you leave the house, decked in the mirror—that is not your real face. The real faces were left inside. When a guest arrives and you show him your face—that is not the real face. Inside perhaps you think, ‘What devil has come’, while you say: ‘Welcome! Be seated. Guest is god!’ Inside you would like to wring his neck. Outside you say: ‘So happy to see you!’ Inside: ‘What a day—met this wretch first thing!’ Inside one thing, outside another. Look into your own life—you will know everyone’s. You laugh when laughter does not come; you show love when there is none. You deceive others; others deceive you. Noise everywhere.

But this bustle will remain here; it will not go with you. Death will lift you out of the crowd—and no one will object. This hullabaloo will continue as before.

When will the pain of heart pause—when will the night be over?
We heard He would come; we heard there would be dawn.
When will life become blood and tears turn to pearls?
When will your hearing ever reach my tearful eyes?
When will the springtime glisten, when will the tavern be drunk?
When will morning be poetry, when will evening be vision?

It never happens. You keep asking, thinking—never happens.
We heard He would come; we heard there would be dawn.
You only hear talk. Morning does not come outside—there is night upon night outside, the new-moon night. Morning is within—there, only morning is. Here you keep hearing: ‘Just a little more—then all will be well. A little more wealth; a higher post—then…’ It never happens.

No good deed did we do—we got busy in bundles of fuss.
Here success goes to the wrongdoer. And the amazing thing: once someone succeeds, people say: ‘Whatever he did—good.’ Success stamps all evils as good. He who reaches the chair is right—till he falls; then he is wrong. The same tongues that sang praises shout slogans against him. Those who waved flags of welcome wave black flags. The very same people. The world writes its histories anew with each shift of power. While Stalin ruled, he rewrote Russia’s history, erased his enemies from pictures and pages. While he lived, his praises rang like Vedic hymns from the communists. After his death they dug him out from the place of honor and buried him in an ordinary grave; scrubbed his name. So it goes. The one in power is right; the one out, wrong. The jungle’s rule: might makes right.

Where is the space to do good? The one who meditates does not make news. Kill—and you are in the papers. Steal—your name is known. Sit at home and meditate—no one cares. Whether you lived or not—no news.

People create commotion and climb the stairs of commotion. See today—those in power reached there by commotion; those who wish to replace them must create more commotion, till it becomes more trouble to sit in power than the joy of it. Only then do they budge. Here people live by fuss; where is the chance to do good?

In the end all must go—leaving all.
Hari bolo, Hari bolo.

Before that, call out to Hari. Invite Him.

Twisting their moustaches, they strut; puffed up, they parade.
Soon they will be a heap of ash—Hari bolo, Hari bolo.

In time—before you turn to ashes—call Him. Join yourself to the Amrit. Wed Him now.

But people go around twisting their moustaches! One in this style, one in that. Even those without moustaches twist them. One will twist with money, another with position, another with knowledge, another with prestige—but twist they must.

I have heard a Rajasthani tale: a lord in a village—moustaches waxed. Not only that—no one else in the village was allowed to twist theirs. The order: everyone must keep their moustache drooping down. A new merchant came—he too had a mind to curl his moustache. He had wealth; at home he was a lord. He set out with moustache curled—intolerable to the village chief. ‘Lower your moustache,’ he said. ‘Only one moustache can be curled in this village. Two swords cannot stay in one scabbard.’ The merchant was clever. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘let us settle it—but first, let me go home to tidy up—why punish wife and children for a little moustache? I might die. You too go and set your home in order; think of your family before you die for a curl.’ The argument appealed to the chief. He went and killed his family and returned. The merchant came back with his moustache lowered. ‘I thought,’ he said, ‘why all this fuss for a little moustache?’ Now see: whose moustache stands higher? Sometimes by lowering, people curl it even higher. Even humility can be a way of moustache-twirling: ‘We are the dust of your feet.’ Do not look at the surface. People glue their moustaches stiff so that even a wind will not bend them.

You will see: this is what people are doing—in different ways. The policeman on the road will show you whose moustache rules; the ticket seller at the station, the clerk at the office—all twist their moustaches. Everyone is after everyone.

Twisting their moustaches, they strut; puffed up, they parade.
Soon they will be a heap of ash—Hari bolo, Hari bolo.

Before you become a pile of ash, call out to Hari; bind yourself to Him.

How long will dreams flicker only as dreams?
Fatigue of night—pain rising—
iron sleep weighing down the lids;
dew upon the cold window glass—
stars like old stains.
The taunt of a single night upon the mirror—
sleep scatters from the eyes;
in chilly gusts that footfall still remains—
it halts within the heart’s stir.
The night does not pass—yet it will pass;
and the world of your dreams, O friend,
will be buried under time’s dust.

People say, ‘Time does not pass.’
The night does not pass—yet it will pass;
and the world of your dreams, O friend,
will be buried under time’s dust.

Soon all will be destroyed. Tomorrow has no guarantee. You may not be. Call today.

They have gazed only at hell—believing hearsay fables.
They have drowned in the black current—Hari bolo, Hari bolo.

What fantasies ensnare people! That wealth will bring something—sheer fantasy. It brought nothing to anyone—how will it to you? There is nothing in it. That position will bring something—fantasy. Sit upon the highest chair—you remain you; ignorance remains, pain remains. Likely grows worse—for a post brings troubles. No one lets you sit easily there. A hundred hands pull at your legs and chair. How will joy come from position, wealth, fame?

They have made life a hell by hearsay fables.
They have drowned in the dark current—Hari bolo, Hari bolo.

This life’s current is dark—because it ends in death. In that pitch-black night, call out to Hari; light lamps of remembrance. Kindle a little flame.

Wealth, estate, herds beyond count—
all gone; women laughing in sport—
all gone somewhere without a trace—Hari bolo, Hari bolo.

All will be taken—wealth, lands, horses, elephants. Even these beautiful women, these faces of love—gone. Where did they vanish? So many beauties have lived upon this earth—Cleopatra, Mumtaz Mahal. So many—dust to dust. But man does not wish to see—it frightens him. What of his dreams then?

Sometimes from your lips’ smile
I hear spring’s footsteps;
from the whispered speech of your eyes
I see a fountain fall.
When poise flashes upon the sky of you,
like an arrow from a tensed bow it flies;
hearing the cool, sweet murmur of your body’s language,
the pride of my hearing breaks.
In the scented speech—flowers’ smiles;
in the drunken pace—the flowing of breezes;
perhaps it will change autumn’s very notion,
O spring’s beloved—your rose-robed youth.

We fall under the spell of beauty and youth—and we forget these are old dreams, seen a thousand times. Lovers have loved and burned and perished. If you must love, love the Divine. When love is joined there, you move beyond change—and wherever there is change, there is suffering. Beyond change—there is peace.

But youth is youth; even in old age people live on memories of youth. Eyes dim, body breaks, the grave nears—one foot in, the other about to—but still the memory clings. Psychologists say: at death, in ninety-nine of a hundred minds, the thought of lust is present. Those who have sought the inner life fully agree. How could it be otherwise? All life long that thought was the most important; at death it peaks. And because lust occupies the mind at death, immediately a new birth in some womb is taken—because the journey of lust begins again. If at death the thought is of Ram—not of lust—there is liberation; no return to the filth of the womb; no cycle again. But one cannot take the name of Ram at the end unless one’s whole life has been soaked in it.

Sometimes behind the veils of my feeling
someone’s memory smiles like a bride;
from the bliss and light-soaked airs
comes the warmth of someone’s breath.
In the brain and soul, the lamps of Zamzam blaze;
in imagination, marble buds bloom;
in the quenched eyes spreads again
those shy paths, those bashful lanes—
where someone, with oh-so-attentive eyes,
once scattered rainbow upon my breast;
where the spring-kind giver poured
color into the crystal of my autumn-fate.
That lovely dream-world is ruined now;
yet upon the smoldering mind the past still works—
no longer those hearts, nor those heart-storms;
life is still and silent—but even so…

But even so—note it—man, even at dying, is lost in dreams. He lives in dreams and dies in dreams. When will you awaken? He who does not awaken—lives in vain, dies in vain.

Calling themselves great lords, they boast and brag.
Men of might return to dust—Hari bolo, Hari bolo.

The brave and the coward, rich and poor, successful and failed—all fall alike. Death makes no distinctions—death is the great socialist, the ultimate egalitarian. Do not entangle yourself in petty concerns—‘How will I become rich? How will I become brave?’ Attend to the one thing: ‘I am outside—how will I turn within? My eyes look without—how will they turn inward?’

Such is the fate of the world—yet you still strain.
Will you know only when you die? Hari bolo, Hari bolo.

Just look carefully. So many have died, so many are dying. Recognize it: this is the arrangement of the world—whoever is born will die. Everything here returns to dust. And still you strain to escape this law: perhaps I will make it where Alexander did not! Will you know only when you die? Then you will miss—the chance gone. Before the bird pecks the field bare—Hari bolo, Hari bolo.

Before death knocks at the door, make the Immortal your guest. Then death does not come—or if it comes, it is not yours. The body will fall—it must; it is not you. Color and form will fall and fade; you remain, forever. Death can be conquered by calling the Immortal. And the Immortal is not far—it is within your reach. You are the vessel of Amrit—Amritasya putrah. Stretch your hand within—you will find the cup of nectar. One sip—one remembrance—one upward glance toward Hari…

Leaving the limit of Hindu, forsaking the path of Turk,
Sundardas recognized, naturally—there is but one: Ram, Allah.

Once you know the One whom Ram and Allah name—your journey is complete. You are home. Then only bliss—only peace—only silence—only music—and a drunkenness that never breaks, a sweet unselfing in which the lamp of awareness still burns. An incomparable experience—its name is Samadhi.

Hari bolo, Hari bolo.

Enough for today.