Jagat Taraiya Bhor Ki #1

Until the strings tune themselves for a song,
for some new melody, a fresh rhythm to be born—
let anyone pluck them a thousand times,
no resonance will arise.

Until one has sipped the honey and gone mad,
until in the heart something rises again and again into a refrain—
let anyone stir the bees a thousand times,
no humming will happen.

Until restlessness awakens on its own,
until the fire to do something ignites within—
let anyone rouse a dead heart a thousand times,
no challenge will take flame.

Until the strings tune themselves for a song,
for some new melody, a fresh rhythm to be born—
let anyone pluck them a thousand times,
no resonance will arise.

A saint means: the one whose strings have been touched by the Divine. Saintliness means: whose veena is no longer silent; upon which the fingers of the Beloved have fallen. A saint means: the song one was born to sing has burst forth; the fragrance that the flower carried has taken to the winds. Saintliness means: you have become that which was your destiny. In the fulfillment of that destiny there is a natural bliss.

So long as the seed is a seed, it is anxious and pained. In being a seed itself lies the ache. To be a seed means: something has yet to become and has not yet become. To be a seed means: it must blossom and has not; it must spread and has not; it must be and is not yet. The seed means: the waiting continues; the road is long; the goal has not appeared.

Saintliness means: man has become what he was to be; no longer a seed—now a flower. The thousand-petaled lotus has bloomed; the joy is like the flower’s. What is the flower’s bliss? Nothing remains yet to be. Now there is nowhere to go. The journey is complete; repose has come. Now the possibility of stillness is there. For as long as there is somewhere to go, restlessness will remain. As long as there is something to become, planning will be needed. And as long as there is something to become, success-failure will dog one’s heels. Who knows whether it will happen or not! Doubts will encircle—countless doubts. The mind will waver; it will not come to rest. Which path to choose? What if I go astray! The path I choose—what if it proves to be no path at all! What I am doing—will it accord with destiny or not! And then doubt lives and burns within and fills one with melancholy.

Then, naturally, there are the pains of the path, the obstructions of the road. The greatest hindrance is that the seed cannot quite trust that it can become a flower. How could it? It has never happened before. How can there be trust about what has not yet been? That others became flowers does not prove that I will. The other seeds were other, different; my seed could be a pebble—maybe there is nothing within at all!

And there is no way for any seed to trust its future beforehand. Trust comes only with experience. A thousand doubts encircle the feet. Is there even a future? That toward which we are going—does it have any existence? What we seek to become—is it not perhaps the mind’s illusion? A dream we have dreamed? Some new mirage, some new maya we have erected? All this pricks like thorns, hurts like pain.

The flower’s joy is precisely this—that now there is nowhere to go; the future has ended. And the moment the future ends, the link with the past breaks as well. When there is nothing to become, who keeps memories of the past? We remember only because there is something to become; perhaps the past experience will come in handy. We store what is behind so it may be used for the road ahead, as a tool. When there is nowhere to go, when there is nothing to become, when the future is finished, in that very instant we are free of the past too. No need to carry the burden of memory anymore. The examination is over. No test remains. Then neither memory remains, nor the net of imagination. The energy that used to spread and scatter into past and future gathers entirely into the small instant of the present. In that urgency and intensity lies supreme bliss. In that moment the one called Satchitananda, the devotee’s Bhagwan, the knower’s Truth, Moksha—happens.

Saintliness means: the flower of a person’s life has blossomed. And when the flower blooms, fragrance must flow. And when the flower blooms, there must be celebration. Hence all saints have expressed their celebration in poetry. Those who did not write poetry—their speech too is poetry; even if they did not compose verse, even in prose they spoke, but the prose is brimming with verse. Buddha never composed a stanza—it makes no difference. Every single word is filled with nectar; every word is rapturous. Each word carries a rare poetry; each word is a lit lamp.

Before we enter Daya’s verses, a few things must be kept in mind.

First, saintliness is a festival, a great festival. No festival is greater. Life’s supreme hour has come. There will be dance, song, gratitude, thanksgiving. How one expresses it—this differs. Meera danced, Daya sang, Sahajo hummed, Chaitanya danced, Kabir composed pads, Buddha spoke; sometimes someone remained silent too—but even in that silence there is beauty.

You have seen the differences between silence and silence, haven’t you! Sometimes a person is silent only out of resentment—then there is anger in his silence. He is silent, yet not silent; by being silent he is expressing his fury. Someone else is silent in sadness. He is silent, yet still speaking. Every fiber says he is sad. The face says it, the eyes say it, the gestures say it. He rises—sad; he sits—sad. The air around him is heavy and burdened, as though a thousand weights press upon his chest. Another is silent simply because there is nothing to say—then his silence has a vacancy, a negation. You will sense that he is empty within, hence silent.

A pot makes no sound when empty, and a pot makes no sound when full. But fullness and emptiness are very different things. One man did not speak because there was nothing to say—you will feel a denial, an absence. And when someone did not speak because there was too much to say—how to say it? There was so much it could not be contained in words—he remained silent because speech was incapable, language weak, and what was to be said was vast and would not fit into words. The full pot—there is silence, but creative, affirmative. There is no negation, not a void—plenitude reigns. You will feel that this man carries no lack, but majesty.

This is what we have expressed by the word Ishwar. In the presence of such a person, the presence of God is felt. He is filled to the brim. He may be empty of himself, but he is filled with Paramatma. And in emptying oneself of oneself, no one is left empty! One is empty only when empty of the Divine. He has removed himself, and given space to the Divine. He has become the throne, and upon the throne the Divine sits. Such a person may even remain silent—but even in his silence there is supreme poetry. If you listen attentively, you will hear music in his silence. If you too become silent with eyes closed in his presence, a sweet resonance will be heard. With his rising and sitting waves will be felt—waves coming from far, very far. Taste him and you will find there is great nourishment in his presence—not negation.

If someone is silent because he is empty, you will return empty from his side—as if he has sucked you, exploited you, as if you have been robbed. You have often experienced this: go into a crowd and when you return it feels as though you are plundered, broken. Until you rest for a while you do not regain your balance. What happened? So many people filled with negation were there; everyone robbed, everyone pulled. When someone is like a hollow pit, your energy begins to flow into it.

Thus, from one who sits empty and silent, you will return desolated. And if someone sits full and silent, you will return filled. A little of his energy will enter your inner being. His rays will descend into your darkness. His fragrance will fill your nostrils. You will return thrilled, carrying a new raga, a new rhythm. The playing of his strings will set trembling the sleeping strings within you.

A saint is a celebration. Saintliness manifests in many forms. Some carved the statues of Khajuraho, some hewed the caves of Ajanta and Ellora, some danced, some composed songs, some remained silent. But one thing is certain—look deeply and you will find all expressed themselves in a rare poetry. What shape that poetry took, what color—this is another matter. Saints mostly sang; what they had to say, they sang. They did not merely say it—they hummed it. There is a difference.

When you speak prose, there is argument. When you speak verse, there is feeling. What needs to be proved does not get proven by verse. When something must be proven, prose must be used, for argument requires highly polished language—clear, neat, mathematical. But devotees, saints, have nothing to prove. Paramatma is their experience, not an inference; the proving is already complete, no evidence is to be gathered. A saint does not speak to prove that God is. When a saint speaks, he speaks not to prove but to express his attainment. He says: It has happened to me; I dance because of what has happened. If you understand the dance—good; if not—that is your misfortune!

A saint proves nothing. Hence in a saint’s language you will not find ‘therefore’. He does not say: The world exists, therefore there must be a God, for there must be a maker. What talk is this! To prove God by logic is a kind of atheism. It means God is smaller than logic; he can be proven by it. What can be proven by logic can also be disproven by logic.

Remember: a saint is no pundit. He is transported by feeling, he is devotional. He has known. How to make you know? He has tasted the marvelous. How to bring that good news to you? His eyes have opened; he has seen the light—the very light for which you have been yearning for lives. Now how should he tell you that light is? Should he argue, propound, convince your intellect?

No—this is not the saint’s work. And no one has ever convinced anyone’s intellect. The saint tickles your heart. He awakens your feeling. He says: Come, dance with me; sing with me. Drop the argument and reasoning; drink a little of my rasa—perhaps what has touched me will touch you too. No reason for it—but it may. I am a sinner like you, a human like you; my faults are like yours, my limitations like yours; not different, not special. As I am, so are you. Perhaps my doors opened and the Beloved entered, and your doors are shut so he cannot enter. Become like me! See, I dance—thus the doors open. You too open your doors. Perhaps if you taste a little, you will know.

So the saint’s work is not to explain, but to give a taste. Not to bring your intellect to agreement, but to color your feeling. It is a wholly different process. It is as if someone has drunk wine; he is intoxicated, swaying in ecstasy; you sit there dry, without rasa, a desert—you have never known an oasis in your life. What should he do? He dances to show you—perhaps seeing my dance, peering into my eyes, you will glimpse this ecstasy; if it could happen to me, why not to you? If I can sway in bliss, why not you?

Understand the difference.

The pundit explains: God is. The saint says: Ecstasy is. And when ecstasy arrives, the vision of God happens by itself. The pundit says: If you accept God, ecstasy may come. But how to accept God? Who does not want to accept! Who does not want to be intoxicated! But a strange condition has been set: first accept God, then ecstasy will come. There the hitch arises. How to accept what is not seen? How to accept what is not known? How to accept what you have never tasted? Thus those who accept—accept falsely.

The earth is filled with theists—false theists. They have accepted out of greed, that acceptance will bring bliss. It has not come. Lives have passed. They have worshipped in temples, placed flowers on stones, gone on pilgrimages, to Kaaba and Kashi; they have done all kinds of gimmickry, but somewhere the basic mistake remains: your belief is false. Belief arises out of experience, not before it. You are doing it the other way round. You are tying the oxen behind the cart. You drag, the cart does not move; the journey does not happen; and you are troubled—because your pundits have taught you that first believe, then you will know. The matter is upside down. Know, and belief happens.

Saints say: first know; do not rush into belief. How will you believe? If you believe it will be hypocrisy. It will be false. And at least toward God do not make a connection with falsehood. At least toward him be true. At least keep this truth in his direction: that only when we know, will we believe. How to believe forcibly? For the fear of hell? For the greed of heaven? Because we are not skilled at argument and someone overpowers us by logic—so we believe?

Have you seen? No one is ever persuaded by reasoning; at most you can silence someone. It may happen that you are more skilled in argument—you can shut another up. You can insist, and he cannot answer. But one who is silenced has not become satisfied. He is burning within, smoldering; he is seeking an argument better than yours; and even if he does not find one, still no transformation will happen in his life. This earth is full of false theists. Temples, mosques, gurdwaras—filled with false believers. They have believed. Saints say: belief will not do. Taste! The saint gives the taste. The nectar in which he himself is drowned—he lets it flow. Hence satsang is so emphasized.

What is the meaning of satsang? The saint has drunk the wine of the Divine; come, drink a little from the saint. Even if you mix your water in his clay cup and drink, you will be intoxicated, for in this cup the Divine wine has soaked in. If you simply sit near him, today or tomorrow you will begin to sway; a resonance will arise in the heart. That resonance is beyond logic—beyond intellect. Saintliness means: someone has tasted; some window has opened; some eye has known. Come near that eye. Make his eye your telescope. Look through his eye. This is the meaning of guru. A saint is one who has known. A guru is that saint through whom you have begun to taste; through whom you are beginning to know.

There is a Tibetan saying: if you must ask the way up the mountain, ask one who climbs it daily. Those who never went to the mountain, who always lived in the valley—even if they have studied many maps and know many scriptures—do not ask them, or you will be lost. Ask the postman who climbs and descends daily, carrying mail up and down. He may not be a great scholar; he may possess no maps—ask him.

Now this Dayabai is not some great knower—in the pundit’s sense. She is not a scholar of scriptures. Yet I have chosen to speak on her—leaving the scholars aside. Even her literacy is doubtful. But she has gone on that path, and returned; she knows the track. She has tasted much dust of the road. Walking and walking, journeying and journeying along that path, she has become empty of herself in every way. Now only the fragrance of that path remains. In these small pads that fragrance has been revealed.

There are three kinds of poets. First, those who glimpse the Divine in dream. Those we ordinarily call poets—Kalidas, Shakespeare, Milton, Ezra Pound; Sumitranandan Pant, Mahadevi. They have had a glimmer in sleep. They have not seen God awake; in sleep, half-asleep, a hint has touched their ears. That hint they bind into song. Still, there is sweetness in their song. In their lives there is no God; sometimes a little glimmer in the rose, an echo; sometimes in the moon and the stars; sometimes in the gurgling of a river or a cascade; sometimes in the great waves of the sea his form has flashed—but there has been no direct vision. All this happened in slumber. They are in a swoon. Yet their poetry carries rare rasa.

All poetry is of God—for all beauty is his. Poetry means praise of beauty: eulogy of beauty, celebration of beauty, description of beauty’s glory. Aesthetics is poetry—and all beauty belongs to him! These poets have glimpsed him here and there; traces of his footsteps they have found here and there—not awake, for to be awake they have done nothing. They have not cried to be awake; they have not thirsted to be awake. Only the devotee is awake.

The second kind of poet is the devotee, the saint. He has not seen beauty—he has seen the Most Beautiful. He has not merely caught the echo—he has seen the source. Imagine someone singing on a mountain and the valleys echoing. Poets have heard the echoes; saints have seen the musician himself. Poets have caught the reverberations arising in the valleys, the reflections; saints have sat in the very court and caught the music at its source. Naturally, the power of their speech is unparalleled. The poet is more skillful in art, because poetry is his craft. The saint is not so skillful in craft; the art he never learned. In the literary sense the saint’s words may not be very poetic; in the sense of truth they are supreme poetry.

Then there is a third kind—neither saint nor poet; who knows only the poetics: figures of speech, meter. He rhymes by rule. He has neither seen the truth nor its shadow, but he knows linguistics and grammar—so he makes rhyme.

In the world, out of a hundred poets, ninety are rhymesters. Sometimes they make pleasing rhyme; they can charm the mind. But rhyme it is—without life within. No experience inside. Words arranged on the surface; meters set in place; rules of music and prosody observed. Of a hundred, ninety are rhymesters. Of the remaining ten, nine are poets, one is a saint.

Daya is one of those rare devotees and saints. We know little about her. Devotees leave little news of themselves. Singing the Divine’s song, they were so lost they found no time to leave their own news. A mere name remains. And even a name—is it anything special! Any name would do. One thing is known: she remembered the guru’s name; she sang the Beloved’s song and remembered the guru. Her guru was Charandas. Two women disciples—Sahajo and Daya. We have already spoken on Sahajo. Charandas said: like my two eyes.

Both served the guru their whole lives. If the guru is found, service is sadhana; nearness is enough. Whether some other practice was done—we have no news. But that is enough. If someone has found one, to be near is enough. Pass through a garden and your garments catch the fragrance of flowers. Stay near one who has known the Truth and your life breath receives the fragrance. Perfume floats and spreads. They must have pressed the guru’s feet, cooked his meals, brought his water—small, simple tasks they must have done.

There is little difference between the pads of the two. When the guru is one, what flows into both cannot be very different. They drank at the same ghat; tasted the same flavor. Both seem unlettered. Sometimes being unlettered is a good fortune. The learned cannot bow because of their learning. Learning gives birth to ego—I am something! How can I easily bend if I am learned! Unlettered, and from the same region where Meera came.

It often happens—if, in some region, a soul is born who has the vision of God, sparks are left behind; the air of that place becomes infectious. One wave raises another; alongside one wave, another awakens, then a third. Storms of saintliness come—sometimes storms come. As in the time of Buddha and Mahavira—a storm arose. Saintliness reached such heights as never before and never since—hundreds of thousands flowed toward saintliness, riding the whirlwind. One person’s becoming a saint is like the beginning of a chain reaction; as scientists say—a chain reaction. When one house catches fire, the whole neighborhood is in danger. Flames leap from one to the next, from the next to the next. A chain forms. If houses stand close, an entire village can burn to ash.

Saintliness happens likewise. In one heart the fire of the Divine is lit; a heart is ablaze with the Divine flame; the flames begin to leap—unseen flames—but whoever comes near, they leap upon him. From the same area as Meera came, Daya and Sahajo came. That region is blessed, for no other place has given birth to three women saints together.

Both their pads were born at the feet of the same guru; in both is the same color, the same raga. There are slight differences—differences of personality. They are so small that the first series I gave on Sahajo, I titled from a pad of Daya—Daya’s pad says:

“Without the lightning there is great light, without the clouds the showers fall.
My mind is enraptured there, Daya, beholding, beholding.”

The pads were Sahajo’s; I gave the name from Daya’s voice. This new series, which we begin today—the pads are Daya’s; the name I give from Sahajo’s voice:

“Jagat taraiya bhor ki, Sahajo thahrat nahin.
Jaise moti os ki, pani anjuli mahin.”

Like the last star of dawn that cannot linger. The world is the morning star! All stars have set; the moon set; the stars sank; the sun is about to rise; dawn has begun; the last star twinkles, twinkles—and goes. You cannot even see clearly—just now it was, and now it is not. A moment before it was; a moment after, dissolved. “Jagat taraiya bhor ki”—such is the world, like the star of dawn! Now it is, now it is not. Do not trust it too much. Seek that which is always—like the Pole Star, not like the dawn-star: the unmoving, eternal, Sanatana; that which always was, is, and will be—take refuge in that. Only by taking refuge in that will you cross beyond death.

But if someone catches hold of the morning stars—how long the joy! What you are trying to grasp is a bubble of water; you will not even grasp it before it bursts.

“Jagat taraiya bhor ki, Sahajo thahrat nahin.”
Try whatever you will to make it stay—it will not. And this is exactly what we are doing. The whole world is doing this. What all do we clutch! Relationships, attachments, love, husband-wife, sons-daughters, wealth, fame, position, prestige. “The world is the morning star.” Before you can even grasp it, it has gone. The time you lose in grasping it—that much time, it will pass. These waves are not to be held. The nature of the world is instability, restlessness. Here whoever tries to hold will be miserable.

Why are we unhappy? What is the root of our sorrow? Only this: we try to hold what does not stay—and we want it to stay. We want the impossible, thus we suffer. We trust water-bubbles; we build palaces on sand; we erect a mansion of playing-cards. A slight gust of wind—and all falls down. Then we weep, cry, scream; we are deeply pained. Then we say, what misfortune! There is no misfortune—only folly. Then we say, God is angry with us. No one is angry with you—it is your unknowing. If you build with playing-cards, will it not fall! The wonder is that it stood as long as you were building—this is enough. Often it doesn’t even get built before it falls. You must have built houses of cards in childhood—before you even complete them, they fall. Not even that a gust is needed; the builder’s hand itself touches, and it falls. Your own breath goes a little strong—and it falls. One card slips—and the mansion slips away.

“Jagat taraiya bhor ki, Sahajo thahrat nahin.”
He who sees thus stops building houses of cards, stops floating paper boats, does not raise buildings upon sand, gives up trusting dreams—only such a one will know the One who is forever. So long as your eyes are filled with the restless, you will not see the Eternal. The waves of the restless veil the Eternal. Curtain upon curtain of the restless, and all your energy is employed in holding it, in maintaining it. It is never maintained. It is made and made—and falls apart. Life after life, again and again, it has been so.

“Like the pearls of dew.” In the morning you see on the grass, on the leaves of trees, on lotus leaves—drops of dew glisten in the morning sun like pearls. What can pearls glisten like this! But stay far; do not go near, do not touch, do not gather them. Otherwise in your hand—“pani anjuli mahin”—only water in the hollow of your palms.

“Like the pearls of dew—only water in the cupped hands.”
If you go to gather, to collect, to fill your safe, your hands will hold only water—no pearls. The pearls were an illusion. And this world is exactly like someone trying to fill his fist with water—slipping and slipping away, flowing from the hand.

We give these pads of Daya this name—“The world is the morning star.” The wise have said great things, but sweeter than this—“Jagat taraiya bhor ki”—what could be simpler! All scriptures, long discourses—are contained in this little saying.

It is mentioned in Buddha’s life that seeing the last star of dawn set, he attained nirvana. Perhaps in that moment his inner mood was the same as when Sahajo wrote: “Jagat taraiya bhor ki.” Seated with eyes open beneath the Bodhi tree, the last star was sinking—sinking—sinking—it was gone. Here the star sank; there, within, something sank with it. All that he had thought to be himself ended with that star. In one instant a fire blazed forth, a lamp was lit. Buddha did not say this, but if he were to meet Sahajo he would surely agree with this pad: “The world is the morning star, Sahajo—it does not stay; like the pearls of dew—only water in the palms.” Seeing that morning star set, the entire nature of the world became clear to Buddha. Here there is nothing to hold, nothing to take in hand. He who understands the fickle nature of the world becomes free of it. And the one who understands the fickleness of the world alone can lift his eyes toward the Divine. All these things are joined.

Why is it so,
why is it so—
life passes searching,
the heart’s friend is never found.
Without a touch,
the heart’s blossom—
seasons pass and pass—
never blooms.
A mind that laughs on the surface
weeps within.
Why is it so,
why is it so?
How long will this impossibility
keep happening?
When will hands clasp hands
in steadfast love?
When will the eyes’ language
be understood by eyes?
When will the path of truth
not be thorn-strewn?
Why, in longing to gain,
does the mind always lose something?
Why is it so,
why is it so?
Life passes searching,
the heart’s friend is never found.
Without a touch,
the heart’s blossom—
seasons pass and pass—
never blooms.
Why is it so,
why is it so!

The cause is simple. We try to stop that whose nature is not to stop, that which will go—will go—whose very nature is to go. We try to hold that which cannot be held—whose very nature is to elude. As if someone tries to hold mercury—and the mercury scatters; you run after the mercury and it scatters more. Just so we chase the world. But we have not lifted our eyes toward that which is ever-present—standing beyond all our play; within us, without us, before whose eyes the whole play unfolds—the witness. We have not gazed upon that Paramatma. Hence the heart’s friend is not found. You have deemed many to be the heart’s friend—but found where? Many times you believed: the heart’s friend is found—again and again, he is lost.

How many friendships you made; how many loves; how many knots of attachment tied—and each time you lost; each time melancholy came to hand—yet you did not wake. Still you keep the hope that perhaps somewhere else, someone will be found; search a little more, search a little more! Hope does not die. Experience says this will not be found, but hope keeps winning over experience. Hope goes on weaving new dreams. He who awakens from hope, awakens from the world—and is freed.

No—the heart’s friend is not found here; the inward blossom does not bloom here. For it can only bloom in the touch of the Supreme. Seasons will come and go, and your inner flower will not bloom. It blooms only when one season arrives—the season of Paramatma. That alone is spring for it; all else is fall. Wait as long as you will—sooner or later you must return. The wise returns quickly; the foolish delays. The wise learns from little experience; the foolish repeats the same mistakes again and again—and slowly becomes habituated to mistakes; instead of awakening, he becomes adept in making them; he goes on doing more and more; becomes a specialist.

Wake up; do not repeat mistakes. What you have done and seen yields no fruit—do not go on beating your head saying, why is it so, why is it so! It is so by a clear law. If you try to walk through a wall, your head will break. Why is it so? Go through the door—there is a door. All these saints speak of that very door.

“Haribhajate lage nahin, kaal-byal dukh-jhal.
Taten Ram sambhaliye, Daya chhod jag-jal.”

This net of the world—you have tried hard to manage it; nothing got managed! How many times you cast the net—and no fish was caught. You sit by the shore life after life, sad, tired; again and again you weave the same net; again and again you throw the same net; the fish never gets caught.

Jesus said: a fisherman was fishing at dawn. Jesus placed his hand on his shoulder and said: Look at me. How long will you keep catching these useless fish? Come after me; I will show you how to catch the real fish. The fisherman looked into Jesus’ eyes—strange, unfamiliar man has come and placed his hand, yet he left his net there and followed Jesus. His brother cried, Where are you going?—his brother was in the boat, fishing too—Where are you going? He said: We have thrown the net, a lifetime now; even when fish were caught, what was caught! Mostly they were not; sometimes they were—but nothing was truly gained. We remain empty. I see in this man’s eyes—his words inspire trust. No harm; we have nothing to lose anyway. Perhaps I will gain; if not, no harm—I go.

All saints are placing a hand on your shoulder and saying only this: how long will you go on casting this net?

“Taten Ram sambhaliye, Daya chhod jag-jal.”
This net you have thrown many times; sometimes something got caught; sometimes not. But if you look closely, always you came up empty—nothing of real value was caught. What got caught was valueless: a little wealth, some position, a bit of prestige—but what is the worth? All positions and prestige, all wealth will be left behind. You will not be owner of them—you are not. They were here before you; they will be here after you. Positions will remain here; you will go. And you will go as empty-handed as you came.

“Haribhajate lage nahin, kaal-byal dukh-jhal.”
Daya says: if you remember God, life’s pains, life’s burning torches—all will be cooled. Then nothing can burn you. Right now everything burns you. What you call life is not life—it is the funeral pyre. You burn in every way. Sometimes you burn in anxiety; sometimes you burn in the pyre—but you are burning. Sometimes the pyre is very evident; sometimes hidden—sometimes visible, sometimes invisible—but burning goes on. Have you ever known showers of nectar? A moment when the heart did not burn—when the burn was utterly quiet? Sometimes it burns fast; sometimes slowly. Sometimes scars remain; sometimes not. But have you ever known a moment of peace, a moment of bliss? Has that door ever opened? Never.

“Haribhajate lage nahin.”
It becomes available only to the one who remembers the Beloved.

What is the meaning of remembering God?

If a man believes he ends in himself, he will remain in sorrow and end in sorrow. If a seed believes: this is all, what I am, that is the end—it will never flower. A seed must transcend itself, go beyond itself. And when man begins to go beyond himself, that is the remembrance of the Divine.

Do not think this means you sit and chant Ram-Ram, or you put on the shawl of Ram; the matter is not so cheap! Remembering God means: you begin to go beyond yourself; you lift your eyes above yourself. The seed begins to seek the flower—the flower is not yet—but could be. The flame of the lamp rises toward the sky, toward the sun—the journey begins; the sprout breaks, the plant rises—it moves on heaven’s journey. So long as you think: I am as I am, a human being—and that ends the matter—then within you there is no door that opens beyond you. You are a house without a door. A man without a door is miserable—shut up in a prison.

To accept God does not mean someone sits in the sky running the world—do not fall into such childishness. To accept God means—if you understand rightly, only this: I do not end in myself; more is possible than me. Let me repeat: more is possible than me. This perimeter is not the final perimeter of my existence. I can be greater. I can be vast. I can expand, I can expand—remembering this is Harismaran.

“Harismaran” is merely a symbol. When a man sits absorbed in the name of the Beloved—what is he saying? He is calling to his own future; he is calling to his own possibility. What I am—for now I am a seed, but I remember the flower. Let remembrance of you become my journey. I will move; I will not sit anymore. I will travel. I must search; I must find the goal. What will sitting do? One who becomes spiritually discontent is the religious person. To be content in the worldly is the mark of a religious man—and to be discontent in the spiritual.

Right now the condition is reversed. You are very discontent in the worldly: you have money—still not enough. A house—too small. A car—old, from the junkyard; you want a new, proper one. The safe is too small. Status—but no satisfaction; you want something bigger. Right now you are discontent with the world. And the great joke: utterly content with yourself. Nothing to do within. Outside is discontent—you want a larger safe, a new car, a bigger house, more wealth, a better wife, a better husband—such things. You expand things—not yourself.

This is the difference between the worldly and the spiritual. You expand the world; the spiritual expands himself. You are completely satisfied with yourself; you are happy to be as you are; you have no concern that you could be otherwise; that within you the descent of a Buddha could happen; that within you Mahavira could be born; that within you Jesus could be born. No—this does not concern you. You are very discontent with the petty; utterly un-discontent with the vast.

Remember: let the dissatisfaction now invested in objects be turned inward, and the contentment you have with yourself be placed outside—then you are religious. This little shift is needed. Outward—contentment. The house is small? So be it. Life is four days long—what difference does it make whether you live in a small house or a large one. Four days; manage. Outside is a night’s inn; morning—one must move on. No need to be too bothered. To be content with it is the religious man’s mark. If you must be discontent, let it be in the inner journey—that is the great journey, long, eternal. There the search for truth is to be made. Pour all dissatisfaction within—and project contentment outward. Do only this much, and you have become a sannyasin, religious, spiritual.

“Haribhajate lage nahin, kaal-byal dukh-jhal.”
He who remembers the Beloved—remembering the Beloved means: one who moves toward becoming the Beloved. First there must be remembrance of what you are to become. Have you understood the science of thought? You build a house—first a thought arises: build a house. A plan forms, imagination spreads its net; perhaps you even take paper and make a rough sketch: a house like this. Then you go to an architect—to arrange it more systematically. The house will be built someday—but first it is built in thought; first in remembrance. Whatever you see happening in the world—first it has happened in thought; then it happens in reality. First it occurs in mind; then in truth. “Harismaran” means: you have begun the inner journey. Now you say: I must become permeated with the Beloved; take the plunge; I have seen the world—“the world is the morning star”—now I must move that way. Now you write letters; the goal is far, but you begin sending messages.

“Such forgetting—no letter even sent;
The rains have gone;
season of union passed.
The deep cloud—dark as my mind desired—
But the pitcher stayed empty,
not a drop came to the lips;
Quenched thirst with thirst.
Such forgetting—no letter even sent.
Every morning I sent the cranes,
traced the courtyard again and again;
At times in darkness, at times in light—
I strewn dust on path after path;
All the world laughed at me—
Such forgetting—no letter even sent.”

Harismaran means: you begin to write letters. Paramatma is far; as yet even his chariot is not seen; not even the dust rising on the path of his chariot is seen. For now the Divine is a dream, just a thought, a wave—a wave that what I am is not enough; where I am there is no peace, no bliss; where I am there is no place yet to rest; I must journey. Are you satisfied with yourself? Truly? Would you not wish that something happen within you—that a lamp be lit, a raga begin, a flower bloom, a fragrance spread? If the longing for the flower, the fragrance, the lamp arises, then you have begun to write; you have begun to send letters. You have remembered.

“Haribhajate lage nahin”—
The remembrance of Hari has arisen. You remember the home from which you came, from which you were sent. This is a foreign land. Before birth you were not here; after death you will not remain here. When you begin to remember your home—whence I came, what is my source, what is my origin; where was I before birth, in what vast milky ocean I slept; after death where will I be, in which ocean will my river fall; where I was before birth and where I will be after death—who is that; when that remembrance arises, transformation begins. Your eyes begin to turn within. Your eyelids begin to droop outward and the gaze turns inward.

Even now you will remain in the world—but like one who lives abroad and who has remembered his home. He stays, he works, goes to the shop, to the market, to the office, does all; husband, wife, children—takes care of all. All is fine. But now within has arisen a memory, an indomitable remembrance—someone pulls. Your real heart begins to go within. Outside, only in name. Inside the greater streams of life begin to gather. Energy begins to organize. And remember: where we come from, there we go. The river comes from the ocean—rises into the sky, becomes cloud, rains on the Himalaya, becomes river, runs back to the ocean. Origin is the end. We go where we come from. Where we were before birth, there we are after death. In that primal source is the Eternal; there is rest. Here is running, hustle, bustle.

“Such forgetting—no letter even sent;
The rains have gone;
season of union passed.
The deep cloud—dark as my mind desired—
But the pitcher stayed empty,
not a drop came to the lips;
Quenched thirst with thirst.
Such forgetting—no letter even sent.”

This is your state. You quench thirst with thirst. Not a single drop of water is there. You persuade the mind. Persuade as much as you wish—it does not understand. Has thirst ever been quenched by thirst! One pleasure is not fulfilled before you create another desire. Why? Because if one desire remains unfulfilled and melancholy comes, the mind must be engaged somewhere. If not, what will you do? You quickly create another desire. “Quenched thirst with thirst.” One desire was giving pain—you brought another. Have you seen—if you have a pain and a greater pain arrives, the lesser is forgotten. Imagine you have a headache and you go to a doctor and say: My head aches badly, the head is splitting. He says: Wait, the head can keep, let me check the heart. He listens to your heartbeat and says: Why bother about the head—there is a possibility of a heart attack! Instantly your headache is utterly cured—you will forget you even have a head, let alone a headache!

What happened?

A bigger pain suppresses a smaller pain. A greater anxiety suppresses a lesser. A larger melancholy suppresses the littler. This is your technique. When there is one sorrow, to forget it what do you do? You create a bigger sorrow. You had a small entanglement—you brought a bigger one; the smaller got forgotten; now you are trapped in the larger. After a while even in this you tire; then you take on an even larger entanglement. Man keeps spreading his entanglements. This is what Daya calls “jag-jal”—the net of the world.

“Quenched thirst with thirst.” How can thirst quench thirst! Are you mad? Not a drop has touched your lips, and the season goes by; the opportunity of life is slipping away.

“Haribhajate lage nahin, kaal-byal dukh-jhal.
Taten Ram sambhaliye, Daya chhod jag-jal.”

Therefore, change the current of your dissatisfaction—“Taten Ram sambhaliye.” Now take a little remembrance of the Beloved. Hold that by holding which all will be held. Remember the one who is your source. Let the remembrance of your original nature—its thirst, its urgency—arise in you, the longing—“Taten Ram sambhaliye.”

So be mindful: do not conclude from the devotees’ words that merely chanting Ram-Ram will do it. Chanting Ram-Ram is a part of a great process. If the great process arises within you, chanting Ram-Ram is meaningful. If not, it is futile. Think of it like this: you press the button and the electricity comes on. Do not think that you can bring a button from the market, stick it on the wall, press it—and the light will come! Behind the button is a vast network.

An extraordinary man lived, T. E. Lawrence. He lived in Arabia and served the Arabs. He was English, a man of great courage, but he fell in love with the Arabs and spent his whole life there. Once there was a great world exhibition in France. He took ten or twelve Arab friends to show them—see the world a little! Why live only in the desert! But he was surprised—they showed no interest in any exhibit. The moment they entered the bathroom, they would not come out! Their only delight—the bathroom! Many times he asked: What do you do so long—hours! Thirsty men of water. They would sit under the shower or lie in the tub. Nothing else attracted them. He tried to take them to see the exhibition—they would quickly say, Let’s go back.

When the day of departure came, baggage was loaded on the cars—and he saw the ten or twelve Arabs were missing. Where are they? He feared they might have gone again to the bathroom. He went up—indeed, they had all entered. Someone was trying to open the shower, someone the taps. They would not open! He asked: What are you doing? They said: We thought at least we should take these with us—it will be great fun! If these taps remained in Arabia, we would fit them into our house!

They did not know that the tap and the shower are only the visible end; behind is a vast flow of pipes, connected to a distant reservoir. The tap is the last end. So is Ram-Ram—a tap. Do not think that you sit and chant Ram-Ram—place the tap—and bathe! It will not do. Behind it is a whole background of consciousness—a long arrangement.

The first point of that arrangement is: you are not content with yourself. The second: you are content with the world as it is—so be it. And now you are not content with your inner state. All your aspirations, desires, longings begin to flow into one current—the inward. Carry it to the Vast. Seek the Infinite. For the limited the death will wipe it out today or tomorrow. The body will break. You have seen others’ biers carried—one day yours will be carried. You have seen others’ pyres—one day you too will burn. The body’s limit will go. Before you break upon the finite, recognize the Infinite. Otherwise the season will pass thus; the moment will come and go and you will not have recognized; the heart’s friend will not be found; the lotus of the heart will not bloom.

Recognize the Infinite. The call to know the Infinite—that call is the Name of Hari. The Nameless is to be known. For now you think your given name is you. Names—what have they to do with you! Any name could be given. All names are borrowed. You came without a name; you will go without a name. Before the hour of going comes, recognize the Nameless. We have called that Nameless ‘Hari’. Something we must call the Nameless—otherwise how to call! So—Hari.

‘Hari’ is a beloved word. It means: the thief. The one who steals. He who steals your heart. There are no people like the Hindus. Many names for God have been given around the world—but Hari!—this is Hindu art. And it is true: love is a kind of theft. He will steal your heart completely. One day you will find that you remain—but the heart is gone. Where the heart used to be, Hari sits! He has taken possession of all; taken all away. He will leave nothing; he will drink it all, every drop.

A Sufi fakir’s house was entered by thieves at night. The fakir was lying on his blanket—the only blanket. He watched—they worked hard; what would they find? They gathered some broken pots and bits. Tied them up; as they were leaving, the fakir too joined them. They said, Why are you coming—where are you going? They were a little afraid—why has this man followed? He said: Well, now that you are taking everything, I thought I should come too. Where will you leave me? As I lay here, so I will lie there; it costs you nothing. The thieves at once put back his things: Baba, take your belongings; there is nothing here anyway, and who will take the trouble of you!

When Hari steals you away he leaves nothing—he takes you too. And what else do you have to be stolen! So when Hari begins to take your heart, remember this Sufi—go along: Baba, take me too! Now you are taking the rest—my thoughts, feelings—fine; take me too. What will I do here? But Hari takes the whole—when he steals, he steals all. He leaves nothing.

“Haribhajate lage nahin, kaal-byal dukh-jhal.
Taten Ram sambhaliye, Daya chhod jag-jal.”

“Je jan Hari sumiran vimukh, taasun mukhahu na bol.”

Daya says: I will not speak to those who are turned away from the remembrance of Hari. What use speaking to them? They will not understand. They will understand the opposite.

“Je jan Hari sumiran vimukh, taasun mukhahu na bol.”
And she says: You too—do not waste your head with them. They are turned away—let them be. If Hari cannot make them understand, will you! They deny God—then they will deny you too! They are stubborn—let them be.

“Je jan Hari sumiran vimukh …”
My experience is the same. Only those who are facing toward the Beloved can understand. For this understanding is not one that can be forced. Only when longing arises within you does understanding happen. If you listen to me with sympathy, with deep love, with devotion—then what I say will rain in you like nectar. If you listen with opposition, closed, quarrelsome—then what I say will prick you like thorns.

The saints’ words are thorns to those still entangled in the world. They will say: What talk is this! “The world is the morning star!” We are standing in elections—and this world is the morning star! Do not tell our voters that the world is the morning star! Let us reach Delhi first—then say what you will. First let us achieve our goal. The one who still delights in the world will find these words poisonous. One mad after the world finds even the word Ram bitter. It pours poison into his ear. Remember—it depends on you. If you are filled with poison within, then even a sweet word like ‘Ram’ becomes poison inside. If your cup is already filled with poison, nectar cannot be poured into it.

“Je jan Hari sumiran vimukh …”
Those who have not yet remembered the Beloved, in whose lives not the slightest remembrance has arisen, who have not even seen that there is something like the Beloved to be sought—those still intoxicated with the world—say nothing to them. They are asleep—do not break their dream; they will be angry.

“Rama-roop mein jo padyo, taason antar khol.”
Says Daya—one who has fallen into the form of Ram—who has begun to immerse; who has opened his heart’s door toward him—“Rama-roop mein jo padyo, taason antar khol”—only with him open the inner. These are very inner matters.

People come to me and ask: Why not allow everyone to come here? There is access here only for those in whom the search has certainly arisen. Why should everyone have access! This is no spectacle. For curiosity there is no purpose here. This is not a lecture; the inner is opened. Here access is for those ready and willing to open their inner being. Only if heart can meet heart is there use in coming—otherwise your time is wasted; my effort too. And you will go away irritated, saying: What kind of talk is this! Why not explain something useful!

Even when you go to saints you go for your own purposes. People come and say: Give me your blessing. At least tell me, for what are you asking blessing? They say: You know everything. Yet tell me exactly—because later I will get trapped! If the blessing lands, I too am responsible. They say: There is a court case—long pending; settle it now. For a court case you have come to me! And your so-called saints do this—those you call saints. A court case—they bless; you want to win an election—they bless; illness—they give an amulet.

Know this: one who helps you in the world cannot be a saint. He is part of your marketplace. He is a shopkeeper of religion—more skillful than you. You sell visible goods; he sells the invisible. And because it is invisible, you cannot grasp it. Beware of him.

A saint will shake you awake. He will strike you. With a saint you will smart. Many times you will be angry. Many times you will want to run. You will fear going near a saint. To go to a saint means: change, transformation.

“Rama-roop mein jo padyo, taason antar khol.”
Only before such a one can the heart be opened; heart-talk can be spoken only to one fallen in love with the form of Ram—“Rama-roop mein jo padyo!” One in whom the beauty of the Divine has begun to dawn—Ram-roop; in whom an unprecedented thirst is stirring; who says: Fine—what is here is fine, but there is no cause for contentment. If this is all, there is no meaning in living. Rise every morning, go to the office, return in the evening, eat and drink, sleep; again morning, again office—if this is all, life is meaningless. Something more is needed. Some supreme meaning. Some luminous realm. Some new expansion of consciousness, a new sky.

If this is all—this crawling upon the earth, morning and evening—this insect-life—if this is all, living is vain. One to whom this has become clear—“taason antar khol”—to him speak the heart’s word; open the knot of the heart. Place your diamond before him. This is what saints do—not discourses. The diamond they have found they open before you. But your eyes will see that diamond only if you have seen that there is no diamond in the world—only clay. If still you see diamonds among pebbles, better that the diamond not be opened before you—you will take it too to be a pebble.

If the discernment of the diamond has come, you have become a connoisseur—“Rama-roop mein jo padyo, taason antar khol.” In whose life the waiting for the Beloved has been born—speak to him; open the heart to him; bare everything before him. Call him into your innermost temple. Say: Come within; be my guest. What has happened in me—see, test, recognize; taste it; drink it. This too can happen in you.

“One kachnar tree—
waiting and—
beloved,
just one kachnar tree.
Keep the doors open—
they will come bearing banners of fragrance,
clouds of color,
bridges of immortal smiles—
one gentle dawn—
waiting and—
beloved,
just one gentle dawn.
Guard the flame—
keep the lamp alive,
endure the night like tuberose—
silent, silent—
one jewel-eyed glance—
waiting and—
beloved,
just one jewel-eyed glance.
Beloved,
just one kachnar tree—
waiting and.
Keep the doors open—
Guard the flame—
keep the lamp alive!”

The saint calls you into his heart and says: Come, see what has happened within me. Then for you the work is only waiting. Now you need only a little waiting, and what happened in me can happen in you—for as you are flesh, bone, marrow, so am I; as you are laden with limits, so am I; as you wandered in darkness, so did I. The lamp has happened within me; you are heir to it. Where you stood yesterday, there I stood; where I stand today, tomorrow you can stand—just a little waiting.

Keep the doors open—
They will come bearing banners of fragrance,
clouds of color,
bridges of immortal smiles—
one gentle dawn—
waiting and,
Guard the flame—
keep the lamp alive—
endure the night like tuberose—
silent, silent—
one jewel-eyed glance—
waiting and.

After meeting a saint, waiting becomes easy—very easy. There is no pain in waiting. Waiting becomes sweet—because now trust arises, faith arises. People ask me: what is the definition of a saint? I say: one in whose presence faith is born in your life—that is a saint. In whose presence your waiting becomes effortless—that is a saint. Near whom you feel—it will happen—surely it will happen—it will happen indeed. Sooner or later is another matter, but it will be. Its happening is certain. Today or tomorrow. Now you can endure with patience. No longer is there doubt. A saint means: one in whose presence your doubts fall away.

“Ramnam ke let hi, paatak jhurain anek.”
Says Daya: “Ramnam ke let hi”—in whose life there has come deep waiting, remembrance, recall—and in whose innermost the Name of Ram begins to resound; within who sways in the rasa of Ram, who has fallen into Ram’s form, Ram’s love—

“Ramnam ke let hi, paatak jhurain anek.”
All sins burn away with the taking of the name. Be mindful—you have taken the name too—and your sins have not burned. Then know: you have not taken the name. You have mouthed it, outwardly—but you have not taken it. You have not staked your life; the arrow has not pierced. You have taken it transactionally. People said taking it brings benefit—so you took it. But there is no quest in you. You are not in love; you are not mad.

“Ramnam ke let hi, paatak jhurain anek.”
All sins burn—so they should. There is no reason for sin to remain. As the lamp lights and darkness vanishes, so with the birth of the remembrance of the Name of Ram—the world is gone; gone all that was done in the world. All was a dream. All was darkness.

“Re nar Hari ke nam ko, rakho man mein tek.”
Tek means: do anything—speak, rise or sit, walk or not, eat or sleep—but let the Name of Ram remain as the refrain. Let that be what you rest upon. Do not let that tek slip.

“Re nar Hari ke nam ko, rakho man mein tek.”
In songs you see—a line is repeated; it is called the refrain—tek. The same line returns again and again. Let Ram’s name become the tek. Do anything—shop, market, household—but behind it all let the tek of Ram’s name remain; let his remembrance come. See the son—but let remembrance of him come. See the wife—but let remembrance of him come. Wash the husband’s feet—but let it be his feet you wash. Feed the guest—but let his remembrance come. From every side let his window open—this is the tek’s meaning.

Only then will you dwell in him for twenty-four hours. Otherwise you will go to the temple for five minutes, hum the name, and run—hurry, thousands of other tasks are there. If the Name of Ram too is one task among a thousand, it will never deepen. Let the Name of Ram become the tek of all tasks—the inner of all tasks. You go to market, but go as if you will meet ‘customers Ram’. You go to shop—but ‘customers Ram’ will come. Kabir would go thus. They say when Kabir went to sell his cloth he walked dancing in Kashi. People would say, What joy in such an ordinary task—going to sell cloth! He said: Ram will come—he must be watching for Kabir the weaver; he is late today. Selling to a customer he would say: Ram, keep it with care—woven with great effort. “Finely, finely I have woven the cloth.” Woven with great love—with Ram’s name—keep it with care. So woven that it serves you all your life; serves your children too.

Let Ram become the tek. Kabir weaves and Ram—whether the thread goes crosswise or lengthwise—Ram in every thread. Let Ram become a humming—like breath goes, like the heart beats.

“Re nar Hari ke nam ko, rakho man mein tek.”

“Narayan ke nam bin, nar nar nar ja chitt.”
This is what I have been saying all along. Until the remembrance of the Beloved comes, man is nothing but man; and if within man there is nothing but man—then there is nothing. Think: if only you are within you—what is there?

“Narayan ke nam bin, nar nar nar ja chitt.”
Man and man—only man fills your head; nothing else. Only you—you and your mind and your mind. Hence you are meaningless. Meaning comes from beyond—from afar—from above. You are meaningless. Meaning will never be within you; meaning always comes from beyond.

Have you seen? A woman cooks—if she cooks for herself, there is no joy in her cooking. She cooks—fine; must be done. But when her beloved returns after years—then there is a thrill; she dances; she hums. In her cooking today there is a different rasa—today there is meaning. Today, beyond her, someone else has joined the process. When a woman becomes a mother, a new fragrance comes into her life—not ordinary. A woman is a woman. As soon as a son is born to her, a meaning has come into her life. Now there is purpose. A man lives for himself—fine; then he falls in love—now his gait changes; now there is lustre on his face. Something beyond himself has been joined.

And these are small things—hardly the beyond. Very small. But you do not end at your own perimeter; another perimeter has joined you—the meaning comes. A painter paints. While he paints there is meaning in his life. The beauty he is creating—he pours himself upon it. He is making something greater than himself. The painter will die; the painting will remain. The sculptor shapes a statue—of Buddha; he will die, but the statue will live for centuries. Something greater than himself is being joined. Whenever you allow the beyond to enter you, fragrance of meaning comes into your life.

These are small things. Paramatma is the greatest event. The day the ocean of the Divine joins the drop of your small water—on that day an infinite meaning, infinite sky, infinite space comes into your life. You expand. There is then no boundary. Boundaries bring sorrow; the boundaryless brings bliss. Where there is a boundary—there is prison, there rise walls. Where there is no boundary—and with joining the Divine there remains no boundary—there is bliss.

“Narayan ke nam bin, nar nar nar ja chitt.”
“Deen bhaye bilalat hain …”
And so long as within you there is only man and nothing else—“Deen bhaye bilalat hain”—you are a beggar, who will keep crying and pleading. “Maya-basi na thit”—and in that trouble, in this crying, in this poverty, in this beggarhood, your mind will never be steady. From door to door you will wander begging.

“Deen bhaye bilalat hain, maya-basi na thit.”
So long as maya sits in the heart, you are a beggar; your mind will never be steady, never peaceful; it will not find repose or rest. All repose is in the Divine; all rest is in the Divine. You see—in this country, where God is sought, the place is called ashram. Ashram means: where there is rest. Where there is stopping, peace; where the mind will be steady. If you are bound to the changing, you will keep crying and pleading. Join with the Eternal. If you must go around, tie the knot, wed—Kabir says—wed the bridegroom Ram. Why these little brides and little bridegrooms! Let the great wedding be.

“Deen bhaye bilalat hain, maya-basi na thit.”

“The heart’s ease is in the remembrance of Ram;
Life’s purpose is in his Name.”

The heart’s ease is in the remembrance of Ram.

You will come to ease only when you come into the remembrance of Ram.

Life’s purpose is in his Name.

Meaning arises in this life by being joined to him—not before.

Remember—life is an opportunity to wed with the Divine. Do not die a bachelor.

“In the desert’s mirage life keeps wandering;
Those moons that rose on the horizon—what became of them?”

Otherwise you will sink just like stars that rise on the horizon and sink—rising meaninglessly and setting meaninglessly. Flowers blossom today, tomorrow wither.

“In the desert’s mirage life keeps wandering.”

In this desert of life—life wanders thus: flowers bloom, wither, fall. You are born, you die; then born, then die. It goes on. Risen, sunk; risen, sunk. Dawn, dusk—so it goes. How long—how long will you go on rising and sinking thus? Join a connection with the Divine—and you rise forever. Then there is only sunrise; never a setting.

And sooner or later, that intoxication which today gives you meaning—will be snatched away. In childhood there are certain intoxications—youth takes them away. In youth there are others—old age takes them away. In old age some meagre intoxications remain—death takes them too. In childhood great intoxications—this I will become, that I will become.

Mulla Nasruddin told me: When I was little I swore I would be a millionaire. I asked: Then what happened? He said: When I turned eighteen I saw that instead of fulfilling the oath, dropping it was easier. A millionaire!—better to change the oath.

In childhood everyone dreams—who knows what all of becoming. Youth snatches them. Then youth gives other dreams—fills you with the intoxication of love. Old age snatches them. Then in old age some few intoxications remain—respect, honor—death snatches them. Here intoxication is daily snatched. The wise is he who does not wait for death; who sees beforehand. Wisdom is to see the future. To see the past is no wisdom—what wisdom is there in understanding what has already happened! The one who sees what is to come—who sees beforehand, who awakens before time.

“Alas, the time when without drinking I was intoxicated;
Alas, this time that even drinking I am not tipsy.”

Such a time comes in life—once you were intoxicated without drinking—youth was there, the wine was in the blood; then comes a time when even drinking, you are not intoxicated. Before such a time comes, drop these intoxicants. I do not say only drop—for I tell you there is one great intoxication that never fades: the intoxication of drinking the Divine. That is what Daya calls: “Rama-roop mein je padyo.” There is a drunkenness that, once it comes, never leaves; a masti that, once it comes, never goes; a tipsiness that is eternal.

In these small pads of Daya we shall try to find that masti. But keep in mind the first sutra—

“Jagat taraiya bhor ki, Sahajo thahrat nahin.
Jaise moti os ki, pani anjuli mahin.”

This first step—that the world is vain, without substance. Then we can take the second step—what is substance? what is meaningful? Recognizing the false as false is the first step toward the true.

That is enough for today.