Hari Bolo Hari Bol #7

A friend from New Delhi, Ratan Prakash, has written:
My beloved, my darling, my guide!
Even today your gathering must be adorned—
people must have come in wave after wave,
waiting to see you, to hear you.
This day too you must have arrived, bathed and bedecked,
hands slowly joined in greeting,
as the moon emerges from dark clouds.
There must have been a rain of blossoms, an ambrosial shower;
you must have opened the secrets of life and cosmos;
yet again a wall of heresy must have fallen—
that wall which blackened the centuries behind us.
Your balance must have weighed falsehood and truth;
those who keep shops in the name of God—
coffins for them must have been nailed shut.
Wandering souls must have found solace;
thirsts of many lifetimes you must have offered the goblet to;
revelers must have risen swaying from your tavern.
What did you say today—what did you say?
This is what the heart thinks, what the heart asks.
My beloved, my guide, my darling! Alas,
I am not there today, I am not there.
My beloved, my darling, my guide—
this is what the heart thinks, what the heart asks.

I am saying only one thing. My way is one, my utterance one—
pointing in a single direction. I am not saying new things each day.
I am saying the same thing, again and again.
Repeating one thing, and yet man's ears are deaf.
Man goes on missing.

And it is not only that I repeat one thing; that very one thing has forever been repeated.
All the Buddhas have voiced but one thing—‘Hari bolau, Hari bol.’
Everything is contained in that one statement: let the remembrance of I fall away and the remembrance of the Lord arise! Let I dissolve and He be! Let I step aside, let I not remain. Let me become a hollow bamboo, that his song may flow through me—let there be no obstruction. Let me not block the way like a stone. May his will be fulfilled! It is a single thing.

Perhaps it seems to you that each day I say new things. There is nothing new to say.
Truth is one, untruths are many.
If one must speak falsehoods they can be coined daily, for falsehoods can be manufactured. Man can create lies—endless in number; as diseases can be endless, while health is one.
Even health has no varieties, no names. If you say, “I am healthy,” no one can ask, “Which kind of health?” If you say, “I am ill,” naturally you will be asked, “Which illness? Consumption, T.B., or something else?” There are illnesses within illnesses, whole layers of disease. Health is one.

Lies are many; Truth is one. Lie means—man's invention. Truth means—that which is.
That which is—I am saying that each day, again and again. Perhaps the words change, the colors change, the style changes—but the essence is the same; the strike is the same. The arrow flies toward one and the same target—one pointing only.

Therefore Ratan Prakash, whether you are near or far, whether you sit here or do not sit here—there is no difference. Only one thing be remembered—‘Hari bolau, Hari bol.’ Then wherever you are, you are with me. To speak truly, one should say: this is not my gathering, it is His. Here I am not speaking, He is speaking. Because He is speaking there is some substance in the speaking. Because He is speaking there is some substance in the listening. Because He is speaking, by drinking this in there is a possibility of transformation.

Even today your gathering must be adorned—
It is His gathering, and it is ever adorned. This entire existence is His assembly. And in this whole existence one single tone is rising. But man is thunder-deaf. Man is so blind that one who stands before his eyes is not seen. Drums are being beaten upon his ears, and nothing is heard. As if man has resolved to miss; as if he has gripped a stubbornness. Perhaps there is a reason behind the stubbornness. Only one reason: if you see the Paramatma, you are effaced. You can survive only so long as you do not see the Paramatma. You cannot both be together. “Love's lane is narrow, two cannot enter.” Either you or Hari. Therefore people do not utter Hari. To utter is a costly bargain.

‘Hari bolau, Hari bol.’ When this utterance rises within you, you will no longer be. Only then can it rise. It can bloom only upon your ashes. And people do not wish to be effaced. Hence they hear and do not hear. They see and do not see.

But remember, until man is filled with the Paramatma, he is barren—like a tree on which no blossoms appear; like a womb in which a child is never born; like earth from which no sprout breaks; like a sun around which darkness gathers. Until there is Hari in a man's life there is no greenness, no verdure. Without Hari, there is nothing. Then collect potsherds if you like—ranks and reputations and certificates—trash and refuse. Whom are you deceiving? There is only one wealth. Without Him, man remains barren—remember it. Without Him, man is like a fired cartridge—looks like a cartridge, but has no soul. Only by the remembrance of the Paramatma do you become soul-full.

Day after day I am saying this: we have remained barren long enough—now turn green. Now give birth to the Lord within. We have remained empty long enough—now be filled. This lamp has remained extinguished long enough—now be aflame! Do not let this vast opportunity be missed for nothing. This I say each day. Therefore do not worry—

What did you say today—what did you say?
This is what the heart thinks, what the heart asks.
My beloved, my darling, my guide! Alas
I am not there today, I am not there.

Do you think those who are here will listen? Do you think that when you were here you listened? If you had heard, being in Delhi you could not be far. If you had heard, there would be no question of regret. Wherever you might be, you would belong to this assembly. You would sit in this tavern. You would drink this very wine. For this wine is not bound—by any pilgrimage, any temple, any place, any person, any scripture. The clouds of this wine encircle the whole existence. Wherever thirst is, there it pours. And wherever receptivity is, there this wine descends and fills the vessel.

Listen! Look! Open your eyes!
Often it happens: while sitting here, you do not listen; then when you go far away, remembrance arises. Man is very strange—he remembers the past, he imagines the future, he misses the present. He broods about what is no more. Now nothing can be done about that. What is gone is gone. What has not happened has not happened—your thinking will not do anything. Do not go on gathering the dust of futile memory. Or man thinks of the future—this should happen, that should happen.

What has not yet happened has not happened; by thinking, nothing ever has happened, nor will. What is to happen, will happen. It has no concern with your thinking.
It will happen whether you think or not. It is happening even now. It was happening when you were not. It will go on happening when you are no more. The future does not depend on you.

Man thinks of the past; man thinks of the future. Only one thing he keeps missing—the present. And the present is the doorway to the Paramatma. Only the present is. Past and future are not. One is imagination, one is memory. Existence belongs to the present.

So do not ask, Ratan Prakash, what is happening here. Wherever you are, wake up there. And see what is happening there. And you will find that everywhere Hari alone pervades. It is His inner resonance that is rising; His blossoms that are flowering; His springs that are bursting; His light that is flowing—stream upon stream, fountain upon fountain—everywhere only He. Wherever you are, be still there, thought-free—and you are included in the assembly! You are seated in His court!

Without the Paramatma, man is barren. How to not remain barren—this one thing I am saying to you again and again.

So many years have fallen like shooting stars,
no moon could be born into my lap.
For years I stared at the skies with unblinking eyes—
no one could take away the burden of my grief.
A land that can sprout no plant—
by rule such land is left alone.
Daily in the house I heard the same refrain, the same noise:
when a branch dries, it must be broken.
Lift me in your arms, do not leave me desolate;
arrange me in the lines of your hands.
In return for your grace take my youth—
all have consigned me to the verdict of fate.
One, two, three—how long can one keep counting?
Countless breaths are fragrant upon my breast.
There is no song upon my lips, no lament—
people bite their fingers in wonder that I still live.
How many hands have groped my loneliness—
no firefly, no pearl, no star was found.
How many swings have rocked my desires—
no support came for the motherhood asleep in my heart.
Yesterday I was silent, today too I am silent—
no storm has visited my surroundings.
How many desires have perished for a single longing—
though I lost my home, no guest ever came.
So many years have fallen like shooting stars.

As a woman remains barren, her womb does not fill, no moon descends into her lap—so it is with you until Hari descends into your lap, the moon of Hari into your heart. Understand, nothing has yet happened. The real is yet to happen. Seek, search! Do not stop, do not sit. Awaken the dissatisfaction, awaken the thirst for Him. Awaken a fierce flame—that I will attain Him; that without attaining Him I shall not go; that I will stake everything, if I must die I will die, I will save nothing. Only then may someone be able to say: ‘Hari bolau, Hari bol.’

And with Hari spoken upon your lips, thousands upon thousands of lotuses begin to bloom in your life. This is the one thing I say day after day. And not I alone—this is the one thing that has been said day after day: by Krishna, by Buddha, by Mohammed, by Nanak, by Kabir, by Dadu, by Sundardas. Only this one thing has been said. There is nothing else to say.

Upon hearing this one thing, all is heard. Upon understanding this one thing, all is understood. And if you miss this one, however much you may know—your knowing is worth two coppers. However much you may have heard or read—know that you have been deceiving yourself. Only when there is Hari-darshan, Hari-meeting, is there adornment in life, is there festival in life.

Listen to this sutra:

Sundardas calls out, speaking while beating the drum.
Beat the drum and say it. Yet man is such that idle talk, even whispered, he will hear; meaningful truths, even shouted, he will not. He does not wish to hear. And what you do not wish to hear, even if said with drums, will not be heard.

Jesus said to his disciples: go, climb to the rooftops. Beat the drum. Cry out that I have come—perhaps in the ears of a thousand, one or two may hear.

For forty years Buddha explained, morning and evening—explained and explained. How few drank water from his well! Those who drank—their thirst was quenched forever. But innumerable people decided not to drink; to remain thirsty. What is the reason behind man's decision? There must be some great reason. After all, what hindrance is there in the remembrance of God? The willingness to pay the price is lacking. And the price is not such as offering two flowers or a few coins. What trash is it that you go and offer God! Until you have offered yourself, nothing has been offered. Offer nothing else. All other offerings are an insult to God. To offer is to offer yourself. What madness is this—to offer a few coins! And often those coins are counterfeit. And even those few coins are offered with the calculation of how many more will be gained in return. Offered in compulsion.

A little boy was given two four-anna coins by his mother who said: today is Krishna-janmashtami. Keep one and offer one at Krishna’s temple.
The child was delighted, tossing those shining coins in his hand, on his way to the temple. One slipped, fell upon the road, rolled and went into the gutter. His heart sank. But he was a human child! He looked up at the sky and said: Lord Krishna, sir! Your four-anna coin has been offered. And since you are all-pervading, how shall I ever find it? That one is yours.

What is worthless, what is already slipping from our grasp, what is of no use to us—that is what we go and offer. Whom are you deceiving? Your coins do not work there. Even coins of one land do not work in another; how will this world’s currency work in that world? Think a little! But people are very clever.

A man died. He had said to his three friends that after I die, in memory of me for life, place an offering upon my corpse. One of them was a Parsi—simple, straightforward—he placed a hundred-rupee note. The second was a Gujarati—clever! He saw a hundred-rupee note—these hundred rupees would be wasted. He placed a thousand-rupee note, and pocketed the hundred. Thousand-rupee notes no longer circulate. He said: brother, nine hundred from my side.
The third was a Marwari. He took that note away and left a cheque. Now the dead will not come to cash it, nor any trouble.

People devise all means to deceive the other world too. And when a Marwari relates himself to the beyond, he relates in his fashion; he brings his cunning there too. And here all are Marwaris. It has nothing to do with Marwar; wherever there is cunning, there is Marwari; wherever there is dishonesty, there is Marwari; wherever there is miserliness, there is Marwari. Who is not a Marwari here! And you have extended your cleverness up to the Paramatma.

No; it will not do to offer anything else. You must offer yourself. Only a few have that courage. Only such men attain.

Religion is not the path of the timid, the coward—it is the path of the brave, the audacious.

Today’s sayings are very sweet. Each line is such that even if you pay the price, it cannot be fully paid.

Abandon all crookedness; untie the knot of the heart.
Why delay, why procrastinate—Hari bolau, Hari bol.

Sundardas says: enough delay has already happened—why delay further? Morning turns toward evening. They say: the one who loses his way in the morning, if he returns by evening, is not called lost. But now even evening is nearing, and you have still not returned home! Truth is—how many mornings have turned to evenings, how many births to deaths—and still you revolve in the same circle, like an ox tied to a mill. So much postponement has already occurred. Do not postpone further. Do not say “tomorrow.” Now—today! Now—this very moment.

Why delay, why procrastinate—
Just look, why are you delaying?
We are great experts at delaying. We are clever at putting things off till tomorrow. Have you seen our mathematics? What is futile we do now; what is meaningful we put off till tomorrow. If someone gets angry with you, you do not say, “I will respond tomorrow.” The moment someone angers you, you flare up—instantaneously! Your anger is cash. You fill with fire at once. But if love arises, you say: tomorrow. If compassion arises: tomorrow. If charity arises: tomorrow. Anger—now, greed—now, violence—now. Compassion—tomorrow.

And remember, what is left for tomorrow is left forever. In truth, tomorrow is our trick for abandoning while maintaining self-respect—“I have not abandoned it; I will do it tomorrow.” Thus the mind remains consoled. It is to be done tomorrow. If not today, no matter—we will do it tomorrow. Tomorrow never comes. Daily we defer to tomorrow. What is futile we go on doing. Reverse this process. Say “tomorrow” to the futile. Say “today” to the meaningful. What you do not intend to do, postpone to tomorrow. What you do intend to do, do today.

Gurdjieff’s father was dying—old. He called his son near. He said: I have nothing else to give you, only a small sutra that my father had given to me. It changed my life. My father was illiterate, I too am illiterate. We have not much to give. But this sutra in my life was like a shower of gold, fragrant besides. Keep it in mind.
Gurdjieff was only nine. The father said: perhaps you will not understand now, but remember it—later it will serve you. Use it later. But remember it now. A small sutra. Gurdjieff later said that small sutra changed my whole life. What was it? This: if someone insults you, ask for twenty-four hours’ time before responding. Say: give me twenty-four hours. I will think, I will consider, and after twenty-four hours I will answer. What is the hurry? Perhaps within twenty-four hours it will be seen that what he said was right. If someone calls you a thief in the market, ninety-nine times out of a hundred he is right. On this earth it is hard to find a person who is not a thief in some sense. If you think for twenty-four hours perhaps it will seem: he said rightly—where is the insult? Where the wrong? I should go and thank him. Or it may be that you are among those who are not thieves; then you will laugh: what a futile thing he said! He knows nothing. You will laugh. Why anger? What does not apply to you—why be angry? As if it had not been said to you at all. It has nothing to do with you.
There are only two possibilities: either the truth of what was said becomes visible, or its untruth. If it is true, go and thank him; if it is false, go and say: brother, this does not fit me. I sought it within. It does not resonate with me. It does not apply. But where is the quarrel?
Gurdjieff said: I lived by this sutra—no quarrel occurred with anyone. And when I asked anyone for twenty-four hours’ time, he too was startled. And when after twenty-four hours I went and thanked him, tears fell from his eyes. Or when I went and said, Forgive me brother, this does not apply to me—I thought deeply; your words I attended to as much as possible—forgive me, they do not apply; what can I do?—even then the man was amazed.
No one ever asks for time to be angry. For wrongdoing, no one asks for time. We perform what we wish to perform at once.

A psychologist advised a man who complained: no one in my office works—I am exhausted telling them again and again. The psychologist said: hang placards in every room, on every desk—let people become aware: whatever is to be done, do it now. Do not postpone. He had them made—beautiful lines whose essence was: do not delay; do now. Do not pile up files; do not be lazy; who knows about tomorrow—tomorrow is death.
After some days the psychologist asked: any change? The man was furious. He said: change? The very day I hung the first placard, the cashier ran away with the safe—“What is to be done tomorrow, do today; what is to be done today, do now!” My secretary ran away with my typist. And the gatekeeper punched me. When I asked why, he said: you yourself hung the placard—this I always wanted to do; I used to restrain myself. Since you have put the board up, and the boss himself says do what you want to do now—
If someone said to you, do it now—just think, what would you do? What thoughts would arise? The same thoughts will arise—man wants to do the bad immediately, delays the good; in truth, he does not want to do the good.

Why delay, why procrastinate—
Delay no more. Sundardas says: if you are to call upon Hari, then call now. Do not say: tomorrow.

Abandon all crookedness—
What is the greatest evil in life? Crookedness—twistedness—trickery. At least between the Paramatma and yourself let no crookedness enter. At least with Him be clean. At least before Him be naked. Before Him be guileless. Open your heart as you are. Do not hide from Him. Do not be estranged from Him.

Abandon all crookedness—
If you drop this one crookedness, all other evils drop by themselves. On the foundation of this one evil stand all evils. In your cleverness you think you can deceive Existence too. You have made many arrangements for deception. To avoid real worship you have invented false worship. To escape the real God you have installed idols in temples. To avoid real Truth you have become entangled in scriptures—caught hold of words.
With whom are you playing these tricks? Think. To whom are these deceptions given? In the end all deceits are given only to Him, for He resides in all. Whenever you deceive anyone, you deceive the Paramatma. Whom will you deceive? There is none other than Him. Drop this crookedness. Drop this cleverness. Become simple. Become spontaneous. As you are, be so. Drop this doubleness.

Man is one thing within, another without. Between the two the gap is so wide that at times you yourself are deceived: who are you? Because of this deception you cannot even recognize yourself. If you ask, “Who am I?” no answer comes—for under the name of “I” you have put on so many masks—how will you suddenly recognize which is your real face?
Zen sages say: if a man recognizes his real face, nothing else remains to be done. The real face—that which you had before birth, and will have again after death. Recognizing that real face means all the false faces put on in between are removed, shifted aside.
How many false faces have you stuck upon yourself! Ever reflected? Not one or two—thousands. All day you change faces. One face before the wife, another before the beloved; one before the boss, another before the servant.

Mulla Nasruddin’s wife was dying, counting her last breaths. She opened her eyes and said: Nasruddin, you love me, don’t you? Love is so rare in this world that people live asking this, die asking this: you love me, don’t you? How scant must love be! Every woman is asking in a thousand ways: you still love me, don’t you? Every man too is asking in a thousand ways. Nasruddin let a large tear fall—he must have been ready. He said: without you I cannot live. You ask of love? If you die, I die.
Then the wife became unconscious. The doctor came; seeing Nasruddin’s wet eyes, he was moved. He said: I am sorry that your wife must pass away untimely—we can do nothing. What could be done has been done. I must tell you—though it breaks my heart seeing you—that your wife is a guest only three or four hours more.
Do you know what Nasruddin said? Doctor, do not grieve needlessly. I will endure three or four hours more. I have endured all my life; three or four hours more I will endure. You need not be sad.
Just now he was dying for his wife; now that she is unconscious the face has changed—inside he is pleased, feeling a freedom: one entanglement gone, one net cut, now I am free; now I can chase other women.

Look at your faces—how twisted you have become. You say one thing, you think another, you do a third. Hard to locate who you are.
Psychologists say the greatest problem before man in this century is precisely this. They have given it a special name—identity crisis. A man cannot find who he is. How was this crisis born? Because you have made so many pictures of yourself, that now you are tangled in them. Was your true face the one shown to your boss, or the one you showed to your servant?
See how quickly people change! Your servant comes and stands before you—how you stiffen up, like Alexander! You look at him as though he were some insect. And just then your boss arrives and you melt, your tail begins to wag; you slip into flattery.
If you wish to see changing faces, go to Delhi. There you will see wonders. Whoever comes into power, the flatterers flatter him. Those who yesterday licked others’ boots now shout them down; those whom yesterday they shouted down, today they hail. See the liquidity of their faces! With the same absorption they say it. They must wag their tails before power—no loyalty, no soul, no self-respect. When the wind changes, they change. The same sycophants! You will find them flattering everyone.
Those you see gathered near Indira, you will see gathered near Morarji. Go to Delhi—sometimes one must go to see miracles. They have no faces. If after life someone asks them, “Who are you?” they will not be able to recall. They changed faces so many times, so often—ready at once to change.
But you do the same, on small scales. What happens in Delhi is on a big scale; it is your magnified image. You do it within your limits—the same in quality, only a difference in quantity.

Abandon all crookedness; untie the knot of the heart.
Sundardas says: only if you drop crookedness will the knot of your heart open; through this crookedness it is tied. Be as you are. Declare yourself as you are—bad, then bad; good, then good. Not a grain otherwise. Suddenly you will find the heart has become simple as a child—innocent, pure. And in that pure heart the Paramatma descends. ‘Hari bolau, Hari bol.’ Only such a pure heart can call to God. As you are, you cannot even call.

I have heard: when Mulla Nasruddin himself came to die, he folded his hands toward the sky and said: O God! O Devil! Save me! The mullah standing by said: Nasruddin! What are you saying? What blasphemy! People pray to God to save them, not to Satan. Why take the Devil’s name? He said: At the moment of death I do not want to take a risk. Who knows in whose hands I will fall? Better to pray to both. And who knows who the real master is? If I find out later, after death, it will be too late.
This lifetime’s trickery man cannot drop even in the last moment. Better to massage both God’s foot with one hand and the Devil’s with the other. Who knows who is the real master? Who knows in whose hands one will fall? Who knows whom one may face later? This is the sign of the clever, the politician. But such clever men lose the heart.
The more clever you become, the more your heart breaks. All children are born with guileless hearts. By the time they die, their hearts are so stuffed with guile that no space remains for the Paramatma.
Drop this guile. Become of one taste. If you are to call him, then at least settle on one face—the natural face.

Abandon all crookedness; untie the knot of the heart.
Why delay, why procrastinate—Hari bolau, Hari bol.

And as this cup of the heart becomes clean, guileless, not slanted—so does your capacity increase.

As deep as the heart,
so deep the cup;
as intoxicating the heart,
so intoxicating the wine;
as sensitive the heart,
so beautiful the cupbearer;
as one is truly a rasika,
so raptureful the tavern.

All depends on you. And once your cup fills with the wine of the Paramatma, this world becomes other—this very world; everything remains the same, and yet nothing remains the same.

Wherever I look
I behold the cupbearer;
wherever I look
I behold the tavern.
Every face turns
into the face of the cupbearer—
whatever stands before the eyes,
within the eyes is the tavern.

Cleanse the vessel of the heart—make it simple, of one taste.

Entering within the heart, churn the inner being.
And if any search is to be made, it is to be made there—seated within the heart. Sit deeply there. These external postures will not help—these yogasanas will not do. Adopt the posture there—within the heart’s softness, its simplicity—dive there.

Entering within the heart, churn the inner being.
The churning is to be done there. There the nectar is hidden, but you never go there—you keep running outside. You do not enter within. You have assumed that perhaps there is nothing within; everything is outside.
Outside is nothing. Beyond dust, nothing ever came into anyone’s hands. Within is the Master! Within is your royalty; within your empire; within your emperor! But to go within your heart must be straight and simple—else you will wander and miss. Do not make a riddle of your heart. That you have already done. You have made it into a senseless puzzle.

Entering within the heart, churn the inner being.
Whose are you? Who is yours?—Hari bolau, Hari bol.

There are not two here—who can belong to whom? Here there is only the Paramatma.

Wherever I look I behold the cupbearer,
whatever stands before my eyes,
within my eyes is the tavern.

The dream of union—where? The sweetness of the sight—where?
It is blessing enough if a glimpse of you be granted.
Endurance, patience—everything is possible,
but first, the wretch—let my heart at least become my own heart.
Ah, the life of that ill-starred lover, friend—
for whom even dying in your love becomes difficult.

Only one thing has to happen, only one thing has to be done—
Endurance, patience—everything is possible, but first
let this wretched heart at least become my heart.
Your heart is not even yours—and you set out to conquer the world. You are not master of yourself, and yet you bind intentions to be master of the world. Let mastery first happen within. And one who becomes his own master has no concern with owning the world. Understand this sutra.

Mansvid says: one who is not master of himself seeks compensation by becoming master of others. One who is inwardly impoverished accumulates wealth outside, to feel some satisfaction—if not within, then without. One who suffers from inferiority inside embarks upon the journey of status; he descends into politics; he climbs the ladders of office; to sit upon big thrones; to show at least outwardly that he is something—for inwardly he is nothing.
One who begins to experience inner truth has no concern with status. Even if he stands like a beggar by the roadside, you will sense the grace of an emperor in him. He may be poor, yet you will see within him a wealth that none can snatch. Even within the body you will glimpse a light shining—no light of this earth; from beyond it comes.

Entering within the heart, churn the inner being.
Whose are you? Who is yours?—Hari bolau, Hari bol.

If you have any true relationship, it is only one—your bond with Hari. You forged all other ties and suffered in them. Now bind with Him; once you bond there, all other bonds pale by themselves.

Once the heart is attached to you,
worldly desires turn stale—
then nothing else delights.

What is yours is with you—seek within yourself.
Where are you wandering seeking with your begging bowl? From whom are you asking?
What is yours is with you—seek within yourself.
If you must seek, seek within. The Paramatma has sent you with all riches—no lack at all. He has sent you complete. How could the work of God be incomplete? If from His hands you are fashioned, how can you be unfinished?
And there is great wonder—religious folk go on saying: God created the world, made man, made beasts and birds; yet they fail to grasp: if all is from His hand, it must be perfect. From the Perfect only the perfect can come. But we seem very imperfect. Perhaps He has hidden the diamonds carefully within us—and diamonds are to be kept safe! You too do not keep your diamonds outside near the trash. You keep them in the innermost chamber of the house, the safest; you dig a pit there—the more precious the gem, the deeper the pit—so it cannot be stolen or lost.
Your supreme treasure is kept within your deepest well. Descend there.

What is yours is with you—seek within yourself.
A mustard-seed is not reduced, a sesame not increased—Hari bolau, Hari bol.

This one sutra is the essence of all scriptures. Your inner wealth neither decreases nor increases.
A mustard-seed is not reduced, a sesame not increased—
As it is, so it remains. As it is, so it has always been. You are perfect and will remain perfect. Nothing is to be added, nothing to be subtracted.
People think: spiritual development must be done. You are fooling yourself! There is no spiritual development. When spiritual experience happens, it is seen: development and such are webs of imagination. “A mustard-seed is not reduced, a sesame not increased.” What development? Ten rupees can become twenty; ten lakhs can become twenty. A thousand people honor you; two thousand may. There can be increase there. But the Paramatma within—He is as much as He is—the whole.
Therefore the Upanishads say: from that Full, take away the Full, yet the Full remains. Do not assume He is received in pieces—more to one, less to another. You all have received the Whole, whole.
Consider it like this—the matter is beyond understanding but perhaps it will become clearer. Look at the full moon in the night, the night of fullness. There are thousands of rivers, lakes, ponds, seas—reflections will form in all, and each is full—no reflection is partial. In the great ocean the reflection is not greater; in the roadside rain-puddle the reflected moon is not smaller. The moon is one. The waters are many—small, large—but what is reflected is equally full.
Just so the Paramatma is reflected equally in all—in Krishna, in Buddha, in Christ, and in you. In the beautiful body, in the healthy body, in the sick body, in the poor, in the rich, in the wise, in the foolish—equally. Its remembrance is enough. There is no spiritual development. Spirituality is remembrance only—‘Hari bolau, Hari bol.’ Just this awakening of remembrance; an inward awareness—who am I?—and instantly the whole kingdom becomes available—what you never found through seeking, comes unsought.

What is yours is with you—seek within yourself.
Whatever you obtain outside is not yours, therefore it will be snatched away. Whatever you obtain outside, you obtain by snatching from others. It will be snatched from you as well. Even if somehow you keep it your whole life, death will snatch it. Whatever is yours outside has never truly been yours—ever alien. But that which is truly yours is with you—its flames will not be burned by the funeral pyre.
Seek within yourself.

Sometimes taking me along, sometimes walking beside me,
he suddenly changed—and changed my whole life.
Whomever you favored must have been fortunate;
my longings melted and flowed into my tears.
Your wounded-heart devotee seeks your tresses and face—
those same pale gold dawns, those dusky twilights.
One has become a flower, another a moon, another a star—
those lamps that died, burned in your assembly.
Friends, for God's sake—search with me too—
he is hidden somewhere here, altering the course of my grief.
May that free laughter of yours soil no one’s heart—
this is a city of mirrors, even to breathe take care.
Friends, for God's sake—search with me too—
he is hidden somewhere here, altering the course of my grief.

The Paramatma is not far, not hidden afar—hidden here—hidden within you.
What is yours is with you—seek within yourself.
A mustard-seed is not reduced, a sesame not increased—Hari bolau, Hari bol.

Sundardas calls out, speaking while beating the drum.
If you can awaken, then awaken—Hari bolau, Hari bol.

It is only this much, this little: “If you can awaken, then awaken.” Nothing more. Spirituality is not practice—it is awareness; not exercise—it is remembrance. Nowhere to go, nothing to become—only to break the sleep; only to open the eyes. “If you can awaken, then awaken.”
Why does Sundardas say, “speaking while beating the drum”? Because man does not want awareness. Man says: let me sleep a little more, let me turn once more to the other side; there is much hurry just now—let me sleep a little more.

I was speaking in a city. A friend sat right in front listening. I saw tears flowing from his eyes. Suddenly he stood up. If someone else had stood, I would not have noticed. Seeing that stream of tears, and the vibration of his heart, and his feeling—his rising ended the assembly for me; as if I was speaking only for him; as if I was speaking only to him. The rest were deaf, asleep. But with him my wave had connected, my feeling had joined; his breath beat with mine; his heart throbbed with mine. Why did he rise?
I could not continue. I asked: what happened? His wife too sat there. She brought me a slip saying he has written this: “To bear you is impossible. If I listen to you more, my life will be thrown into disorder. So I am going. I do not want to hear more. I have a wife, children, a fragile household. If I hear more, I will not be able to return home.”
When man comes near awakening, a thousand fears arise.
I did not leave him so. I went to his home—“speaking while beating the drum.” If one must beat the drum, then if someone runs away, we will not let him run. Seeing me at his house he was startled. He said: How have you come? I said: the matter was left half, it must be completed.
And I said: do not be afraid; I do not wish to separate you from your wife. I do wish to join you with the Paramatma, not separate you from your wife. And is God so weak that if a wife stands in between your relationship with Him breaks? Those who made such a God must themselves be weak; their God is weak. I do not wish to break you from your children either; I only wish to remind you: these children are not yours—they are God’s. Only so much: that this wife is not your property; the Paramatma dwells in her—respect her. Do not walk with “mine” and “yours.” All is His.

What is yours is with you—seek within yourself.
Whose are you? Who is yours?—Hari bolau, Hari bol.
A mustard-seed is not reduced, a sesame not increased—
speaking while beating the drum.
If you can awaken, then awaken—Hari bolau, Hari bol.

Neither wife nor children are to be abandoned—where is the question of renouncing? Renouncing could be only if there were something of your own. When nothing is yours, what will you renounce?
Therefore I say: those who think they have renounced—have not. They have not understood. Even in renunciation they keep the old assumption—that it was theirs.
An acquaintance of mine—whenever he met me, he said: I kicked lakhs aside. I asked: when did you kick? He said: thirty years ago. I said: then the kick did not land. Thirty years have passed; why remember the lakhs now? If the kick had landed, why remember now? Before, you thought you had lakhs; now you think you have renounced lakhs. They were not yours—how did you renounce? This is madness.
It is like two opium-eaters, high, lying under a tree. One opened his eyes: I feel like buying the whole world. The other said: Feel as you like, but I am not inclined to sell. The world belongs to no one—feel like buying if you wish; when we decide to sell! We have no wish to sell.
Some say “ours,” others say “we renounced”—the enjoyer is deluded, but your renunciate is doubly deluded.
Nothing is to be dropped; only to know that nothing is in our grasp. How will you drop? To drop, first it must have been in your grip—this must be admitted; that it was mine; only then can it be renounced. Here, nothing is mine.
“Whose are you? Who is yours?” Therefore I do not tell my sannyasin to run away from wife. She is not yours anyway—where will you run? If you run you will remain in the same delusion—that she was mine. Running is not needed—waking is. “If you can awaken, then awaken.” Only see that here no one is “mine,” no one “not mine.” With that vision, where you are, all happens. As you are, all is attained. “A mustard-seed is not reduced, a sesame not increased.”

In the pangs of separation from my Beloved I have gone mad.
When awareness awakens, separation awakens. The remembrance arises that what is truly mine has been lost; what is not mine I have called mine. Awakening brings the recall of one’s own nature—my source, my origin; for the original source is the final goal. The Ganges is born of the ocean and merges into the ocean. One’s origin is one’s destination.
When you awaken, you begin to ask: how did separation happen? How did I move far from the Paramatma? How did I turn my back? How did I become adverse?
In the pangs of separation from my Beloved I have gone mad.
The color of this separation is the color of sannyas. One who is filled with this separation will experience yoga. Separation means: how I am torn from God. One who sees rightly how he is torn—joins; in the very seeing is the union. Nothing to do. The day you understand why you do not see the sun—it is because your back is turned—you turn at once. Just this much. And the sun is always before your eyes. Turn your back, and you do not see. Or your face is toward the sun but your eyes are closed—still you do not see. Once it is understood: I open my eyes, the sun is in front.
Paramatma is ever before you. Only your eyes are closed. Through tears of separation the eyes open.
In the pangs of separation from my Beloved I have gone mad.

Whenever saints speak of His separation, at once they experience themselves in a feminine mode; for the depth of separation the feminine heart knows. When the depth of separation is known, immediately the male dissolves within; only the feminine remains—then only one male remains: the Paramatma.
In the pangs of separation from my Beloved I have gone mad.

Yesterday someone asked: “Will you leave me mad?” That is precisely what is being arranged here. Those who come healthy are made mad. If they go mad, the work is done—mad with separation. And mad it is—why? Because if you seek wealth, all see it, hence it is not madness. All know the value of wealth; common language, common experience—no madness. Seek the Paramatma and people ask: have you gone mad? Where is God? You will not be able to show him. You will not be able to explain. People will say: what illusion? What fantasy? Where is God? Show first; then seek, then sacrifice your life. If He is—well then we too will sacrifice. But show!
You will look mad. Where all seek wealth, you seek meditation—you will look mad. Where all are going one way, you go the other—naturally the crowd will say: what has happened to you? Have you no sense? Where the whole world goes, you go opposite?
The jest is: he who goes straight here will appear upside down, for the crowd goes upside down. He who is truly healthy appears mad, for here the mad are held to be healthy. The gatherer of money is deemed right; the one walking the path of position is deemed right, for parents teach this, schools teach this, colleges, universities teach this—ambition; to be first.
Jesus said: beware—the first will be the last. And I tell you: those who can dare to be last here will be first in my Lord’s kingdom. But to dare to be last is madness here.

Lao Tzu said: whenever I go to an assembly I sit at the very last place, where none can push me further back. Those who sit in front can be pushed away, for there is competition for the front, struggle.
Lao Tzu says: I sit where people leave their shoes; there no one ever moves me—I sit with ease; there is no fear. What fear for the last man? Beyond the last there is no last. But one who decides to be last appears mad where all run to be first—one poison grips all: how to be first?

In Mexico there is a tiny village in the mountains—seven hundred people, and all are blind. A unique village. All children are born with sight but within three or four months go blind. A particular kind of bee lives there whose sting blinds; they are there in great number; there is no way to avoid them, for all are blind. A hundred years ago the first man with sight entered that tribe, a scientist, to study. He was amazed—a village of seven hundred, all blind; for centuries none had sight. Somehow life limps along—some vegetables, some farming—great difficulty. He fell in love with a girl there. The villagers said: one condition—we will marry you, but you will have to pluck out your eyes. We cannot accept that a man with eyes is healthy. Where seven hundred are blind, where forever only blind people have been, a man with eyes must be judged unhealthy—something is wrong.
Think: if suddenly a man was born with three eyes, you would take him to the hospital to have the third removed. If intelligent, you would operate; if foolish, you would worship: perhaps Shiva’s incarnation. But none would accept it as normal—some abnormality.
The people of the tribe said: we agree to marry, but you will have to lose your eyes. The scientist fled—it was dangerous. He said: to lose my eyes! And how to explain to these mad people that blindness is not health. Where the crowd is blind, difficulty arises.

Gibran tells a famous tale: a witch came to a village, cast a spell and threw something into a well—whoever drank it would go mad. The village had two wells—one for the people, one for the king. All had to drink from the village well; by evening all were mad except the king, his vizier and queen. They were delighted—thanking God that their well was safe; by evening they discovered their mistake. As all went mad, a rumor surged: the king has lost his mind. Naturally. People gathered at the palace—“the king is mad”—some leaders cried: we will change the king, we cannot endure a mad king. The king’s soldiers were mad too; his guards were mad; they joined the crowd. Now the king knew the truth—that they were mad—but what to do? He said to his old vizier—trembling—what do I do? We know with certainty we are right—they are wrong—but this is a crowd. Any remedy? The vizier said: do one thing—I will keep them engaged; you go drink from their well. There is no other way.
The king went, drank, and returned, dancing naked. The whole village celebrated that night—their beloved king’s mind had become all right. They rejoiced.
Whatever the crowd does seems right. If you walk otherwise, they will deem you mad. So one who goes the religious path must be prepared: when people call you mad, quietly listen and understand; from their side they speak rightly.

In the pangs of separation from my Beloved I have gone mad.
And as separation grows, restlessness grows, tears grow; sorrow and anguish grow; the flames rise.

“I have seen their displeasure many times,
but somehow this time the disturbance is different.”

Difficulties seem to increase. The solution does not come at once.
Old solutions fall away; new problems arise. Samadhi is not gained cheaply. First all old solutions fall away and all becomes problem upon problem. One is surrounded by darkness—then the light arrives.
“I have seen their displeasure many times,
but somehow this time the disturbance is different.”

When the Lord’s remembrance begins, wounds open in the heart; a dagger pierces.

“I had forgotten you, but after an age
I recalled you— and the wound rose again.”

Even after lifetimes the wound rises; the heart aches; the heart turns into a wound—pain flows. Now without meeting, a single moment becomes impossible. Hence the devotee seems mad—he weeps, falls, rolls. His tears and sighs none can understand. But when he arrives, he knows those days were indispensable—he gives thanks. Without those days of sorrow, these days of joy could not have come.

“Let every reality become metaphor,
let the prayers of the unbelievers become the prayer.
Who will plead with healers for a cure
when pain itself becomes the life-giver?
If love remains in the heart it brings disgrace;
if it reaches the lips it becomes a secret.
I wait for the taste
until the limit of coquetry is reached.”

When the devotee arrives he begins to feel—ah! Without that night of separation this sunrise of union could not be. So the true Master teaches his disciples: when pain arises, do not cure it. Pray that pain become boundless—let it grow.

“Let every reality become metaphor,
let the prayers of the unbelievers become the prayer.
Who will plead with healers—
when pain becomes the life-giver?”

Such separation tormented Nanak. One night the papiha cried—“Pi kaha? Where is the Beloved?” And Nanak wept: “Pi kaha? Where is the Beloved?” His mother came—he was young: now sleep! What is this—“Pi kaha? Pi kaha?” Nanak said: the papiha has not tired; how can I tire? The papiha has not fallen silent; how can I? I have a contest with the papiha—if it calls, I too will call. Until the papiha stops, I will not stop. Perhaps the papiha too bound himself by a vow to Nanak—“What do you think?” Morning brought trouble at home—people thought he had gone mad; the physician was called. He took Nanak’s pulse. Nanak laughed: this illness is not of the kind you can cure—this is beyond your medicine.

“Who will plead with healers
when pain becomes life-giving?”

Pain on the path to the Lord is no pain—it is condensed bliss—so dense it appears as pain.

Cool, soft, fragrant breezes please me not, O mad one.
Nothing pleases anymore—the cool breeze from the Malaya hills—
Cool, soft, fragrant breezes please me not, O mad one.
One to whom the Lord’s remembrance has come—nothing else pleases; only that remembrance—“Hari bolau, Hari bol.”

“For ages I have taken wounds upon my heart—
oh, if only you had but asked after me in passing!
When the mountain of grief falls on Asar,
only then does the heart find ease, little by little.”
Time passes; tears flow; experience ripens only by experience.

Cool, soft, fragrant breezes please me not, O mad one.

“Do not ask me how great is my waiting for you—
for from the day when I have not waited for you,
I have seen your image in unknown springs—
on my lips, in your hair, at your shore.”

Often the devotee decides: enough—what complication have I taken up! What mess! This pain has no end. He weeps and the night darkens further; no ray of dawn appears. Many times he thinks: forget it! But forgetting is no longer possible. The more you try to forget, the more remembrance deepens. “Hari bolau, Hari bol.” The more you seek escape, the more you are surrounded.

Now do not blame me—if I should fall into a well, O mad one.
Sundardas says: my state is such that if I fall into a well, do not blame me—blame Him!
In these lines he has employed the figure of yamak—one word bearing many meanings.

“In the pangs of separation from my Beloved I have gone mad”—
there, “bawari” means: mad.

“Cool, soft, fragrant breezes please me not, O mad one”—
there “bawari” means: breeze.

“Now do not blame me—if I should fall into a well, O mad one”—
there “bawari” means: well.

“O Hari, Sundar, on all four sides the bee-like separation encircles me”—
there “bawari” means: bhanwari, the bee.

He says: if I fall into a well, such is my state. But I know that even in the well He will not leave me. He surrounds me still—He has encircled me as a bee encloses itself in the lotus—sits within, and the petals close from all sides.

O Hari, Sundar, on all four sides the bee-like separation encircles me with skill.
He has encircled me so—so deftly, so skilfully—that now there is no way to go. Wherever I go, there He is. Whomever I look at—He.

“Fresh in memory, O rose-hued cupbearer,
those days perfumed by the reflection of the Beloved’s face;
that hour that blossomed like a flower in his sight,
that hour of hope beating like a heart.
Hope awoke that sorrow’s fate might turn;
a night parched with longing turned at last;
the sleepless stars of pain sank and drowned—
now the fate of eager eyes will shine.
From this rooftop will rise the sun of your beauty;
from that bower will burst the henna-tinted ray;
from this door will flow the quicksilver of your pace;
on this path will flush the twilight of your cloak.
And then there were the burning days of separation,
when in the cares of heart and soul the cry was forgotten;
night after night that black weight pressed the heart down;
each morning’s flame struck the breast like an arrow.
In loneliness I remembered you in a thousand ways—
my wounded heart sought a thousand shelters;
sometimes I placed the morning breeze upon my eyes;
sometimes I wound my arms round the neck of the moon.”

Such are the devotee’s gestures. One moment he thinks to drown and die—living holds no value; union will not be; the world is lost, God nowhere to be found—let me drown, let me end; life has become impossible. But he also understands: “O Hari, Sundar, on all four sides separation has encircled me with skill.” He has surrounded me well—there is no escape even in death—He will encircle me even in death.
The devotee will die only in God. He will burn only in God—fire His, pyre His—everything His. Now there is no way to depart from God. And rays of hope break, thousands upon thousands.

Hope awoke that sorrow’s fate might turn—
It seems dawn is done; the birds call; a ray breaks.

Hope awoke that sorrow’s fate might turn—
my destiny awakens—night is ending, morning arrives—dawn has come.
The night parched with longing has at last passed;
the sleepless stars of pain have drowned;
now the fate of eager eyes will shine.
The moment of my fortune is coming; the moment of my grace approaches; now—now—
From this rooftop the sun of your beauty will rise;
from that bower the henna-tinted ray of your hand will burst forth.
From this door the quicksilver of your gait will flow;
on this road the twilight of your robe will flush—the sense: now you are arriving…
And then again those burning days of separation—
when in the anxieties of heart and soul the cry is forgotten;
night after night the black weight sits on the heart;
each morning’s flame pierces the breast like an arrow.
When hope is born, all those days of sorrow are forgotten; the devotee swings between pain and hope, despair and hope.

With the intoxication of your eyes you robbed me at my threshold—
what did you see, in what manner, with what gesture!
With the intoxication of your eyes you robbed me at my threshold.
You stole me; you stole my heart. This word “Hari” is sweet—it means the one who steals—who steals your heart. Many thieves in this world, but none can steal; it only seems so. The true thief is found only when you meet Hari.
With the intoxication of your eyes you robbed me at my threshold.
With a little gesture of your eyes you stole my heart away.
You never came again—not at my door, not at my threshold.
And now so long has passed; again your darshan did not happen. At times the devotee has glimpses—even amidst pain grace showers: in the midst of separation a ray breaks, and dance arises, and ecstasy comes. Then days pass—no trace. Then one begins to doubt oneself—did it really happen? Was it a dream? A fancy? Some web of mind? Some hypnosis?

With the intoxication of your eyes you robbed me at my threshold.
You never came again—not at my door, not at my threshold.

The fire of separation entering within burns the body.
O Hari, Sundar, the woman of separation is in pain—no counsels do her any good.

The same yamak continues.
“With the intoxication of your eyes you robbed me”—“dehari”—your eyes, “dehari”—threshold—word-play.
“You never came again—not at my door, not at my threshold”—“dehari,” dehali—threshold; you did not return at my door, you did not appear at my threshold; you kindled the fire and left—no trace.
“The fire of separation entering within burns the body”—burned in such a way that now the whole body is aflame.
“O Hari, Sundar, the woman of separation is in pain—no counsels do her any good.” Her state is such that however many teachings you give, discourses of scripture and knowledge—no help; now only He will do. Nothing less will fill the heart.

“The breezes are brimming with sighs;
clouds are sunk in sadness.
Evening has settled upon the world of love;
the horizons of life are clad in mourning.
In my breast a hundred thousand desires stir;
in my eyes a hundred thousand pleas tremble.
Your cruelties sleep in the lap of indifference—
my faithfulness too;
yet even so, O my innocent killer,
my prayers love you.”

The devotee says: you have killed me—
yet even so, O my innocent killer,
my prayers love you.
And what has he received?
Your cruelties sleep in the lap of indifference—
my faithfulness too.
You keep tormenting, and my devotion.
This too is the devotee’s test. Only he who passes this test is worthy of God. He is not given free—one must pay the price—great price.

“Seeing the end of the journey, I weep;
seeing broken wings, I weep;
I weep that my sighs may have effect;
then I weep seeing the effect of my sighs.”

The devotee goes on weeping; weeping becomes his prayer—he weeps, he calls. Then seeing the futility of weeping—he weeps again—nothing happened; tears came and went; his image does not appear in the eyes.

The night is hard to pass—alone upon the bed.
The night is hard to pass—alone upon the bed;
for her whose Beloved is not with her, the bed of separation burns.
Bound in the chain of separation, she burns utterly.
O Hari, Sundar, the sorrow is boundless—no medicament do I desire.

The night is hard to pass—alone upon the bed—“sej ri,” the bed.
When the Beloved is not with those for whom the Beloved has become all, who have seen a glimpse, “se jari”—they burn. Not a bed but a pyre—flames.
Bound in the chain of separation, she burns utterly.
O Hari, Sundar, though the sorrow is boundless, I ask for no medicine. Give me no herb. The sorrow is boundless—but let there be no remedy. You alone come—You are the remedy.

“Not a single bud looked at me with full eyes;
I passed by—spring made me sad.
I was sleeping in the bedchamber of some memory—
caravans of dawn woke me and went.
I will never forget your nights of separation—
all my life my joy was found in those very nights.
Hold a little while, O grief of the world—
someone is calling me to step down from the rooftop.
Today again there came a wave of playful breeze—
it told me tales from here and there.”

Pain continues; flames rise; yet in between, drops of nectar sprinkle—gusts of breeze. God burns you to refine you—like putting gold into fire. Clay no one puts into fire. Blessed are those thrown into the fire of separation—they have been chosen; they are fortunate. Later, when attainment happens, you will give thanks.

I will never forget your nights of separation—
bliss came to me through those very nights all my life.
Looking back you will find even the waiting was sweet. The pain too was fortune—not a curse, a blessing. For only through that process is the Lord reached.
Much rubbish is gathered in man; it must burn. Much filth has accumulated; it must be cut. We took that filth to be our soul; hence when it is cut, it pains. As you are, you are wrong—you must be broken; you must be cut; many blows will be struck upon you. With chisel and hammer the Paramatma will break your limbs—only then will your true image appear. In this pain the devotee often thinks—let me go back; the old days were good, everything fine; what madness is this? But there is no way to return. One who has set forth toward God—there is no turning back.

“Sometimes my heart is so agitated by your name;
my whole temperament becomes upset.
O heart, who is granted the grace of such tumult?
Only sometimes does such relief arrive in life.
In the fury of passion with the flood of pain
your image flowed into my tears.
Even staying near you, my heart was not content—
sometimes such calamity passed over me.
Neither was I myself aware nor had I thought of you—
thus too the night of separation has passed sometimes.
O friend, despite my renunciation of love
I have felt your need—sometimes.”

Sometimes the devotee swears: enough—no more; I will return; I will not call your name again. O friend, despite renouncing love—he even renounces love and prayer—yet again remembrance returns—dense, and he sets out again.
Many halts come where you will wish to turn back—be alert. The greater the pain, remember—the nearer the dawn. The darker the night, the nearer the morning. Those who have reached the morning say: only the fortunate are granted such pain. Blessed ones!

If Sundardas’s sutras spark even a tiny ember in your heart, if a little flame leaps up, only then will you understand them. My explaining will not suffice. Their meaning will be revealed by your experience. They are not theoretical words; they are soaked in experience. Only by experience can they be understood.

Abandon all crookedness; untie the knot of the heart.
Why delay, why procrastinate—Hari bolau, Hari bol.

Entering within the heart, churn the inner being.
Whose are you? Who is yours?—Hari bolau, Hari bol.

What is yours is with you—seek within yourself.
A mustard-seed is not reduced, a sesame not increased—Hari bolau, Hari bol.

Sundardas calls out, speaking while beating the drum.
If you can awaken, then awaken—Hari bolau, Hari bol.

That is all for today.