Jagat Taraiya Bhor Ki #3

Someone should ask Shakeel: if this madness is not love, then what is it?
That we have become his who could never become ours.

On the quest for Paramatman, the path of love is the path of the mad. You can belong to the Divine, but the Divine will never be yours. For something to be yours, one thing is required: you must remain. Only if you remain can anything be called yours. But the one indispensable condition for finding Paramatman is that you dissolve. Only when you have vanished does the Divine reveal himself. You will not remain—only then will Paramatman be. So one thing is certain: you can be the Divine’s; the Divine will never be yours. You will not remain; then who will claim, who will say “mine”? If there is an “I,” there can be a “mine.” If the “I” itself does not remain, how can there be “mine”?

Thus on the path to God, the lover can only lose—again and again. Talk of gaining is useless. The wonder is this: in losing, you gain. There is only drowning—only drowning. To speak of reaching the shore is futile. The wonder is this: in this drowning lies the crossing. Right in midstream the bank is found. One needs the courage to disappear. And the first step in the courage to disappear is to lose the head—lose cleverness, lose cunning, lose calculation, account-keeping, and logic.

Therefore the way of love is the way of the intoxicated, of the wild-hearted, of the daring. On the path of knowledge even shopkeepers can go, for the arithmetic is neat and tidy. On the path of love only gamblers dare to walk, for everything must be lost and nothing is guaranteed to be gained. In truth, there is no gaining at all—only losing, losing, losing. The heart must be so vast that it can take defeat as victory, death as life, annihilation as arrival—only then does the door on the path of love open. For the “sensible,” love’s path is closed. Hence we can call love’s way the road to the tavern—the way of the drunkard.

Love is wine. The truth is, you search for other kinds of wines because you have not yet learned the science of distilling the wine of love. You must go to the tavern because the temple has not yet become your tavern. You drink wine from grapes because you have not yet gathered the capacity to drink the wine of the soul. You look for small, cheap oblivions because you have forgotten the language of the Ultimate Intoxication.

Paramatman is the Supreme Intoxication.

Today’s sutras are most wondrous! They are born right out of the devotee’s heart—as if the heart of the bhakta had blossomed. Each sutra is a petal of a lotus. Listen with care.

Prem magan jo sadhjan, tin gati kahi na jat.
Roye-roye gavat-hansat, daya atpati baat.

Atpati baat—an outlandish thing! “Atpati” means what does not fit in logic, does not lie within arithmetic, does not fall into the grip of calculation. “Atpati” means the reverse of what the head expects. If you wish to gain, you must lose; if you wish to arrive, you must disappear. If you wish to touch the shore, there is only one way—let your boat sink in the very middle. The reverse of reason.

That is why Kabir spoke in ulatbansis—upside-down verses. Ulatbansi means: life happens the way it does not happen in logic. Kabir says: the river caught fire! But fire does not catch in a river. If fire catches in a river, how will you put it out? Water quenches fire. A river cannot burst into flames—this is against arithmetic, against science, against the rules of logic. Yet Kabir says: in life this is precisely what is happening—the impossible is the very thing that is happening. Man is Paramatman, and he lives as a beggar—the river caught fire! Man is nectar itself, yet he trembles before death—the river caught fire! Man is indestructible, eternal, has always been and will always be; Paramatman himself abides within him; and still, for paltry trifles he whimpers, he grovels with a begging bowl—like an emperor begging alms with a bowl in hand. The river caught fire! What should not be, is. Where everything has gone so topsy-turvy, you cannot reach God through arithmetic. You must find a passage—one as outlandish as life has become. Only that will carry you out.

Consider “atpati” further. You see the sun rise each morning; no one doubts the sun. Do you ever meet people who say, “We believe in the sun”? No. Neither believers nor non-believers exist regarding the sun. The sun is; it lies in everyone’s experience. So neither theist nor atheist is needed. In relation to the world we are all fixed: it is—because it is within experience, before the eyes. The hand can touch, the ear can hear, the tongue can taste. The senses wrap it. Paramatman is not thus within the senses; neither can the eye see him, nor the hand touch, nor the ear hear. So the one who trusts in God appears most outlandish. Trust in the world is not atpati; it is arithmetical, logical. But trust in Paramatman is utterly atpati—trust in what you have not seen, not touched, not tasted! Only gamblers can do it—trust in the Unknown! It demands a rare courage.

To trust the sun requires no bravery. To trust God requires an extraordinary courage—a courage that can set aside the entire net of logic.

In our life there is but one door like this—our heart, and that door is love. Only in moments of love do you sometimes put aside the net of reason. When love happens with someone, you drop all accounting. You say, “Now that love has happened, what accounting?” You are ready to put everything on the line. Majnun put everything on the line—you too become Majnun. Thoughts no longer function. You say, “This is a matter of the heart; thinking must not come in between.”

A young man went to the father of his beloved and said, “Sir, I am eager to marry your daughter.” The father was a calculating man—as fathers should be. He examined the youth and asked, “What is the reason behind this desire to marry?” The youth replied, “Forgive me, there is no reason—love has happened. No reason at all.”

Love is not a reason. Love is that which bursts forth by breaking through the web of reasons. It is not within your power; you become helpless. The lover becomes overpowered—utterly overpowered, helpless. Something happens beyond his limits, beyond his control.

Even ordinary human love is beyond your control. Fall in love with a woman or a man—this too lies outside your control, outside your grasp, beyond your hold. It is larger than you. It surrounds you; you cannot surround it. Your fist becomes too small. Your fist cannot bind it; rather, it binds your fist. Then what to say of love for Paramatman! That is love of the Vast. It is love of the Infinite, an eternal attachment. When a ray of love for Paramatman descends into someone’s life, atpati things begin to happen—things that ordinarily should not happen.

Meera began to dance from village to village, she forgot all propriety. She was a princess from a royal house. She danced like a madwoman on roads, in crowded markets, in temples. The family must have been distressed. The cup of poison they sent was not sent out of hostility but out of “good sense”—note this. What reason for enmity? The cup was sent because Meera had become a shame for the family; better she die.

Here Paramatman is manifesting in Meera, and the family is anxious. Take it as a symbol. When a ray of the Divine descends into your heart, your “buddhi”—intellect—becomes anxious. The “household” is the intellect. The intellect is accounting. The intellect is the net of logic. When a ray of love enters your heart, give it some company; otherwise the intellect is very strong—it can kill, it can shut the door.

This has happened often—and to you as well. Sometimes something begins to take hold, and you are frightened; you quickly grip the intellect more tightly. You say, “What is this! How can I allow this!” People come to me and say, “While meditating there comes a moment when one feels like dancing, but something within grabs the feet as if chains suddenly fell. Just about to move—and one stops. Another thought arises: What are you doing? This is madness.”

The intellect is opposite to the heart. And to the intellect, love is madness. Those who obey the intellect find their lives emptied of love. In their lives the atpati does not happen. And where the outlandish does not happen, lotuses do not bloom. A lotus is the most atpati of things. Look—it blossoms in the mud! What could be more outlandish? In filth it blooms. So beautiful! It blossoms in ugly mud—therefore it is called pankaja. Pank means mud; pankaja is the lotus—born of mud. It blossoms where it should not. In truth, even if a lotus were to bloom in gold it would be a miracle; but blossoming in mud—what need is there to even call it a miracle! Even among diamonds it would be a marvel, for diamonds are dead; the lotus is alive. It blooms where there is nothing but stench and dirt—where you would pass holding a kerchief to your nose, there it blossoms, spreading an incomparable beauty and fragrance. Atpati indeed.

One day, within the mud of this body, Paramatman will bloom—atpati. In the very mire of lust the lotus of love will one day open—atpati. When I first said that one reaches Samadhi only through sex, people are still angry. “This is atpati, not right, it should not be said,” they argue. I am saying only this: the lotus blossoms in the mud—nothing more. I am bringing the symbol of mud and lotus onto the human plane. If the lotus could not bloom in mud, abandon all hope; it would never bloom. For you are nothing but mud. Everyone is nothing but mud. But in mud the lotus does bloom.

When Buddha became Buddha—what happened? The lotus bloomed in the mire.

You are still mud; the Buddha is the lotus. The difference shows today. But tomorrow when your lotus blooms, you too will become like Buddha. And once Buddha was also the same mud as you. When I say sex becomes Samadhi, mud becomes lotus, lust becomes Ram, I am saying that the atpati happens. It is not logical. If you had asked logicians whether the lotus can bloom in mud, they would have said, “Impossible! How could it be? Where is the lotus, where is the mud!” If you had never known that a lotus blossoms in mud—if you were born in a land where lotuses do not grow—and one day someone placed before you a heap of mud and beside it a cluster of lotuses, could you even imagine that this mud became these lotuses? Impossible! Atpati.

Prem magan jo sadhjan, tin gati kahi na jat.
Roye-roye gavat-hansat, daya atpati baat.

“Those who are absorbed in love—such sadhjan…” This word “sadh” is very sweet—and much distorted. If you look in dictionaries you will find sadhhu means great man, ascetic. But the precise meaning of sadh is simple, straight. One who is straightforward—so simple that there is no net of intellect and logic in his life. The intellect is tricky, crooked, cunning. It does something, shows something else; one thing is inside, another outside. The intellect is a great hypocrisy. One who is free of the intellect’s hypocrisy is sadhjan. What is within is without. No discrepancy between inner and outer. He says only what is. He is what he says. Taste him from any side—you will find the same flavor.

Buddha said: the sadhhu is like the taste of the ocean; taste it anywhere—it is salty. Day or night, morning or evening, dark or light, this shore or that—the same. The sadhhu is oceanic; a single taste.

The hypocrite has many tastes. He wears many masks; his own face is hidden. As need be, he dons a suitable mask.

Sadhhu means: one who has uncovered his face; as he is, so he is.

You have been taught the opposite. You think sadhhu means one who has done great sadhana—practices, disciplines. But sadhana implies he will no longer remain simple. Only the complicated need sadhana. Does the simple require practice? Children are sadhhu. What have they practiced? They are spontaneous. The spontaneous is the sadhhu. One who has “practiced” becomes something else. Practice means: something was inside, something else was imposed above it. Inside there was anger; outside he shows compassion. Inside there was lust; outside he displays brahmacharya. Inside, greed burned; outside he enacted renunciation. Inside one flame, outside another behavior. This is whom you call sadhhu!

Daya does not call such a one sadhhu. Her definition: “Prem magan jo sadhjan”—those who are immersed in love, who are simple in love, who dive into love, who are willing to descend into the madness of love—“tin gati kahi na jat”—their state cannot be described. Their steps stagger like the steps of a drunkard. Ecstasy is in every pore. In their rising and sitting there is a song. Breath by breath there is music.

And you will not find “consistency” in their lives—you will surely find music. Consistency belongs to those who have practiced a code of conduct. In a sadhhu’s life you will not find neat consistency; you will certainly find music. Every moment an incomparable music is playing. But you will not find that what he did yesterday he does today. Yesterday was yesterday, today is today. Today he will do what Paramatman prompts; he is not bound by yesterday. Therefore you cannot predict a sadhhu. You cannot say what he will do or say tomorrow. Only when tomorrow comes will you know. The sadhhu himself does not know what tomorrow will bring. Tomorrow, whatever the Divine will do through him, that will happen; whatever he shows, that he will see; as he makes him dance, so he will dance.

Sadhhu means: one who has surrendered himself into the hands of the Divine; who has stopped controlling his life on his own; who has become a mere instrument; who says, “As you wish!” If the leaf moves, it is because you moved it; if it does not, it is because you did not.

Sadhhu means: one who has dropped his own will and lives by the Lord’s will. Therefore “their state cannot be described.” The sadhhu’s ways become as atpati as the Divine’s ways. The sadhhu becomes a small form of the Divine. New flowers bloom every day. New songs arise each day. If you seek outer consistency you will not find it. Such consistency you can find in a “mahatma,” because he has clamped a mold upon his life. He is confined to his mold.

I have heard of Eknath. In one village there was an atheist who tormented everyone. They tried in every way to explain things to him; he would not understand. Not only that, he tried to convince the village that there is no God. People were troubled. They said, “Go to the great sadhhu who has descended—Eknath. Perhaps he alone can explain.”

The atheist went. Eknath was staying in a Shiva temple. When he arrived, he was shocked, bewildered. Though an atheist, he saw Eknath doing something he himself would not dare: he was resting with his feet propped upon Shankar’s image. The atheist did not believe in Shiva, yet his heart pounded: this man is strange indeed! Feet on Shiva! A supreme atheist! “Though I say there is no God, if someone were to ask me to kick Shankarji, my heart would pound—what if, after all! And this man lies utterly unperturbed!”

He asked, “Sir, what are you doing? I am an atheist, I came in search of theism. The villagers are fools—where have they sent me? What are you up to?”

Eknath said, “Wherever you place your feet, there He is. Wherever you rest your feet, they rest upon Him. Who else is there to support you? So there is no obstacle.”

The words were atpati, yet meaningful. If only the Divine is, where will you place your feet? Anywhere—and they are on Him. In every case, the feet rest on Him. Then what difference does it make if they rest on Shankar’s image?

The atheist thought, “The man is deep. Let me stay and see his conduct.”

He waited. Morning came, the sun rose high. He said, “Sir, I heard sadhhus rise at Brahma-muhurta—why are you still resting?”

Eknath said, “When the sadhhu rises—then it is Brahma-muhurta. It is not that sadhhus rise at Brahma-muhurta; rather, whenever the sadhhu rises, that is Brahma-muhurta. Who am I to interfere? When He wishes, one rises; when He wishes, one sleeps.”

Grasp it: “When He wishes, one rises.” He is seated within you. If it is not His wish to rise yet, who are you to rise? Such instrumentality—such total surrender! But the behavior of such a man cannot be made consistent.

Then Eknath rose. He begged alms, made flatbreads. They were ready; he was knocking off the ash when a dog came and ran away with a bread. The atheist watched. Eknath ran after the dog. The atheist thought, “This is too much! Just now he said the Divine is everywhere—and see how he runs after a dog!” He too ran to see what would happen. Eknath ran for miles, holding the pot of ghee. He caught the dog by the mouth and said, “Fool, how many times have I told you—until I smear it with ghee, never run off with the bread! How can Ram eat a bread without ghee? It doesn’t suit me.”

He snatched the bread from the dog, dipped it in ghee, and gave it back. “Ram, now eat with joy.”

A sadhhu’s conduct is simple—childlike. It is not the product of practiced discipline; it is the outflow of simplicity. It is not cultivated; it is spontaneous. And every moment a new surge. You cannot fix what a sadhhu will do. If you can predict behavior, it is mechanical. Yesterday he was this way, the day before too; today the same, tomorrow the same—dead. The sadhhu is alive; therefore his life is most atpati.

Prem magan jo sadhjan, tin gati kahi na jat.
Their state cannot be described, for there can be no prediction. No one knows what they will do; not even they know. Whatever happens, happens. If you already know what you will do tomorrow, your tomorrow is already dead. Not yet born—already gone. If you already know what you will do when someone insults you, you give no chance to God. You have decided beforehand. No—the insult should come, and then you say to God, “This man is insulting—now You do what You will.” Then each time something new arises. Then there will be no reactions in your life; there will be sensitivity. You will not behave like a machine. Now it is like this: someone presses a button—you get angry; another button—you are pleased. A simple push and the light turns on; another, the fan begins. You are mechanical. You are a slave. Anyone who knows your buttons becomes your master. He starts pressing them.

Have you seen? This is what people do. The wife knows which button to press in the husband; the husband knows which in the wife. Even children know which button to press in the father, and when. Beggars know when to press your button. If you are alone, the beggar will not ask; he sees the button will not work. But if you are standing in the market talking to four men, he will suddenly grab your feet. He knows—“in front of four people, honor is at stake; if he doesn’t give a coin, what will they think?” You want not to give; your mind feels like cracking his head, you are not giving out of compassion—you only want to escape the hassle. “What will these people say!” So you smile and hand a coin. The beggar knows you are not giving to him, you are depositing in your prestige. He is pressing your button.

If you examine yourself you will find you too keep pressing others’ buttons—and others keep pressing yours. For people are mechanical.

A sadhhu has no buttons; his state cannot be described. Press all you like—nothing happens. The sadhhu is awake. He no longer lives by a code of conduct; he lives in simplicity, naturalness.

Roye-roye gavat-hansat…
It is hard to speak of a sadhhu. Sometimes he weeps, sometimes he laughs—sometimes both together. Only in madmen do you see laughing and crying at once, for it is beyond logic. If someone is crying, we understand—he is sad. If someone is laughing—we understand—he is happy. But if someone both weeps and laughs, we stumble: if he is sad, let him only weep; if he is happy, let him only laugh—why both at once?

But such is the sadhhu’s condition: on one side, he looks at the world and weeps; on the other, he looks at the Divine and laughs. He stands at the threshold—between two doors. He sees unfathomable suffering, anguish, people writhing like insects—and he weeps. And he sees the Lord’s grace, the rain of bliss—and he laughs. He laughs and he weeps.

Roye-roye gavat-hansat, daya atpati baat.

So if you truly want to recognize a sadhhu, remember: the sadhhu is intoxicated, blissfully drunk—without drinking.

“All the drinkers call me a night-wandering rake without wine—
You, O ecstasy, have slandered me for free with your un-selfing.”

He sits as if drunk, without wine.

“Such is the state of your beauty, O Beloved—
There is no longer any distinction between awareness and ecstasy.”

He no longer knows what is sobriety and what is intoxication. They have mingled. Dualities dissolve into one another. So laughing and crying can go hand in hand. He can weep; he can sing.

We live by dividing life. We split everything. Here life, there death. Here joy, there sorrow. Here heaven, there hell. Here love, there hate. Here mine, there other. Here friend, there foe. We split everything. Life is undivided. The sadhhu does not split; he lives life’s non-division. Life is Advaita; the sadhhu lives it in its wholeness.

Life and death are not separate—you have made them so. The day you were born, that very day dying began. They are not separate. The first breath you took—that day the last breath’s beginning began. It is not that suddenly at seventy you will die. Does anything happen suddenly? It takes seventy years to die—slowly, slowly. Dying, dying, dying—you succeed in dying in seventy years.

Birth and death are like your right and left legs moving together; like the inhalation and the exhalation. If birth is the in-breath, death is the out-breath. They move together—two legs, two wings.

You feel embarrassed. If you are crying and laughter arises, you suppress it. “People will say I am mad!”

One of my teachers died. A dear man—big and burly, simple and naive. His face itself would make you laugh; such innocence. Call him “Bholanath” and he would get annoyed. Just writing “Bholanath” on the blackboard would be enough to upset him for an hour. His jumping, his anger, stick-thumping, his fat body sweating—

He died; the children went to his house. I stood close to his face. Seeing it, laughter rose in me. Tears too were falling. I tried hard to hold the laughter—it would not be fitting. Someone has died—and someone laughs! I was sad; I had pestered him most, and I suffered most. I had lost most; such joy I would never have again. I was attached to him, he to me. Just then his wife came and collapsed upon him, crying, “Alas, my Bholanath!” That did it—I could not hold back; all our school fun flashed—our calling him Bholanath; and now his own wife saying the very thing! If his soul were near, it would be leaping. I wept—and laughter burst out.

I was scolded harshly: “Never go to anyone’s funeral again!” I asked, “But why? Can both not happen together?” They said, “Stop your nonsense. When someone dies, weeping is proper; laughter is improper. To do both is outright madness.”

But watch little children. If a child laughs too much, slowly the laughter turns into crying. Village mothers say, “Don’t laugh too much, son—you will start crying,” because in a small child the division is not yet clear. He is still in non-duality. Laughter slowly becomes crying; crying becomes laughter. Opposites have not yet become opposites; everything is still connected. The sadhhu becomes connected again—childlike.

Hence Jesus said: Only those who become like little children shall enter my Father’s kingdom. Childlike.

So do not take sadhhu to mean ‘sadhak’—practitioner. Sadhhu means: one who has become a child again; innocent again.

“I have no sense of my own condition—
I have heard from others that I am distraught.”

The sadhhu is not even aware of his state; he becomes lost. As the Divine is untraceable, the sadhhu becomes untraceable. Connect with the untraceable—and you, too, will become untraceable. Connect with the Unknown—and you will become unknown.

“I have no sense of my own condition—
I have heard from others that I am distraught.”

It is from others that the sadhhu learns: “You laughed; you wept; you went mad; you were dancing in the street.” Only when people tell him does he come to know. For when he is in an act, he is wholly in it; he does not stand apart and watch. This is the difference between the path of witnessing and the path of bhakti. On the path of witnessing you always stand apart, across, observing; you remain the seer. Whatever happens, you stand away—untouched; you do not enter the event.

Bhakti means: do not stand away. Do not be the seer; be the enjoyer. Bhakti is to become the experiencer—immerse; let nothing in you remain untouched. Every hair should be drenched, absorbed. The act is complete only when your consciousness is completely dissolved in it. When you are not a seer but an enjoyer—so completely that you do not remain separate at all; only the enjoyment remains—that ultimate enjoyment is called bhakti. When you vanish in the act—when singing remains, but no singer; when dancing remains, but no dancer; when in the hymn only the hymn remains, and not the devotee—when the bhakta bows at the Lord’s feet and there is only bowing, not a watcher standing behind saying, “See, I am bowing!” If you are watching yourself bow, you have not bowed. Your ego remained; the body bent, you did not.

I have heard this: A fakir came to Bayazid. According to etiquette he bowed. He stood up and asked some questions. Bayazid said, “But bow first!” The man said, “I just bowed—and you say, ‘Bow’? Did you not see?” Bayazid replied, “Your body bowed; you did not. You bow.”

In Buddha’s life a story is told. An emperor came with flowers in one hand—out-of-season flowers—and jewels in the other. He thought, “If I offer jewels, perhaps Buddha will dislike it—what concern has he with jewels? Then I will offer flowers—those he will appreciate.” He went to offer the jewels. Buddha said, “Do not offer—drop them!” The emperor hesitated, for in offering there was pleasure—a joy of ego: “I have offered such precious jewels!” But Buddha said, “Drop them.” So, embarrassed before the crowd, he dropped them.

Then he moved to offer the flowers. Buddha again said, “Drop them.” He dropped them too. Then he was about to bow empty-handed when Buddha again said, “Drop!” The emperor stood still. “Are you in your senses? There is nothing left in my hands to drop.” Buddha said, “We were never speaking of what was in your hands. We speak of the one who was holding the hands—drop him. What good are dropping flowers and jewels? Drop yourself. You have brought these jewels to display—‘See how great an emperor I am, offering such valuables!’ Outwardly you offer, but inside you are stiff.”

When the bhakta bows, there is only bowing—not a bow-er. When the bhakta dances, there is only dance—not a dancer. The act remains; the doer is gone. The doer dissolves from every side. Only the enjoyment remains; the enjoyer dissolves into it. This absorption is simplicity. This absorption is surrender.

Roye-roye gavat-hansat, daya atpati baat.

Then if the Lord makes him laugh, he laughs; if he makes him weep, he weeps. He neither laughs on his own nor weeps on his own. Wherever the Lord leads, he goes. What He makes him do, he does; if He does not, he does not. He has dropped his will, abandoned his plans. Now he becomes an instrument in the Lord’s hands. Thus, it is all atpati.

Hariras mate je rahain, tinko mato agad.
Tribhuvan ki sampati daya, trin-sam janat sadh.

Hariras mate je rahain…
A most lovely saying: “Those who remain intoxicated with Hari-ras.” Those who have drunk the wine of Hari and become ecstatic—mind-drunken.

Hariras mate je rahain—
Those who have drunk the wine of Hari—no consciousness of their own remains, no sense of self is left.

Remember, as long as you retain remembrance of yourself, remembrance of the Lord will not descend. Two swords do not rest in one scabbard. As long as “I” is, the Lord is not. And when the Lord comes, He comes only when the “I” is gone.

Hariras mate je rahain—
Those who are drunk with Hari-ras…

tinko mato agad—
Their consciousness becomes bottomless, infinite! For the moment you surrender, your limits vanish. You are limited only because you are. The Lord is limitless.

Consider the Ganga—great river, yet bounded. When it falls into the ocean, limits are gone. Man is a small stream; when he pours into the ocean, boundaries disappear. A drop falls into the sea—no drop remains; it becomes the sea. It vanishes as a drop and becomes oceanic.

Hariras mate je rahain, tinko mato agad.
Those who have been drunk in the rasa of the Lord, their state of awareness becomes unfathomable.

Omar Khayyam, in his Rubaiyat, speaks of this very Hari-ras. But Fitzgerald, who translated him into English, did not understand. He thought it was about wine. Thus great injustice was done to the Sufi Omar Khayyam. People thought he spoke of wine, taverns, the cup-bearer. So you will see wine-houses named “Omar Khayyam” or “Rubaiyat.” Omar spoke of Hari-ras. He was a Sufi fakir; he never sipped worldly wine, never went to taverns. Yet in pictures he sits with a flagon in hand. That flagon is another; that wine is Hari-ras. Saints in this world have always suffered injustice, but none as much as Omar. His translations in every language go astray. Fitzgerald was a great poet, he added moons to Omar—but the heart of it he spoiled. Where was the talk of love’s rasa, of Hari-ras! It became talk of wine-houses.

Still, the symbol of wine is important. Important because what happens in wine on a small scale, happens in the Divine on a vast scale.

Hariras mate je rahain, tinko mato agad.
Tribhuvan ki sampati daya, trin-sam janat sadh.

And the sadhhu—the simple one—knows the wealth of the three worlds as straw. Why? Do not misunderstand as people have made you misunderstand. They tell you: consider the world’s wealth as straw. This sutra is not saying “consider.” It says: the sadhhu “knows” it as straw. It is not about thinking; it is about knowing. You keep the gold and repeat, “It is dust.” How will you believe it? You repeat “dust” because you know it is gold. Before a clod of earth you do not repeat “dust!” You know the difference—yet you try to deny it. You want to convince yourself it is dust, “There is nothing in it; today it is, tomorrow gone. All splendor will lie abandoned when the nomad moves on.” Yet you know there is splendor, and if you could, you would take it with you. You will be pained at departure.

You are convincing yourself. Note it well: the sadhhu is not one who “thinks” gold is dust; he is one who “knows” it as dust. What is the difference between knowing and thinking? Thinking is borrowed. You are calling others’ knowing your own. It is stale, worth two pennies. With it you can create a false conduct—you will be a hypocrite, not a sadhhu.

How does the sadhhu know it as straw? His art of knowing is different. Until you taste the wealth of Paramatman, the wealth of this world can never become straw. How will it? Know the greater, and the lesser becomes small.

You know the story of Akbar. He drew a line and said, “Make it shorter without touching it.” Courtiers exhausted themselves. Birbal came and drew a longer line beside it. Without touching, the first line became smaller.

You have been told: consider worldly wealth as dust. I do not say so—nor does Daya. The knowers have never said it; they cannot—for how can a knower speak such foolishness? Ninety-nine out of your hundred “mahatmas” are as unknowing as you—sometimes more so.

Draw the big line first; you need not touch the small. Experience a little of the Lord’s wealth; the whole wealth of the world becomes straw. Imagine a man carrying a colored stone in his hand. In the sun it sparkles; he thinks it precious. If he were to receive a diamond—Kohinoor—he would no longer think the sparkling pebble valuable. He would not have to “renounce” it; he would forget it. It would slip from his hand without a thought. Will he hold the diamond or the pebble? The fist must empty; space must be made.

I say: seek the Divine—do not leave the world. The day a ray of the Lord descends, the world begins to fall away. That is why I have not given my sannyasins any process of “world-renunciation.” Sannyas is not leaving; it is not renunciation; it is not escape. Sannyas is an invitation to the Lord. Sannyas is calling the Guest: “Come! I will wait, worship, pray, remember—come!” The day the Lord comes, the great line is drawn—endless, shoreless. This little line of the world fades and disappears; you do not even notice when. Later you will not be able to claim, “I renounced,” for what claim? You never did—what is there to claim? Therefore, if someone boasts of renunciation, know he has missed. If he says, “I gave up lakhs,” know his counting of lakhs is still on. If he says, “See how much I left!” know the big line has not yet come. He is still struggling with the small line, trying to shorten it by touching it. That line does not shrink so easily. You may even wipe it off; it does not go. Until the greater descends, the petty does not vanish.

Can you remove darkness from a room until light arrives? How? You can wrestle, or you can close your eyes and “assume” it is gone. Open your eyes—you will find it again. Let light come; then darkness does not remain.

The world is darkness; Paramatman is light. Seek light; do not fight the dark.

Hariras mate je rahain, tinko mato agad.
Dive into the wine of Hari! Drink to your marrow. Let every pore be drunk with ecstasy.

Tribhuvan ki sampati daya, trin-sam janat sadh.
He knows so—not assumes. Assumption is feeble, impotent. It is directly experienced that all this is vain. When it is known as vain, the grasp loosens. You do not have to let go; it lets go—like a dry leaf silently falling from the tree. Thus the world disappears. You will not go around announcing, “I renounced.” Others may say, “How great your renunciation!” You will be surprised: “What renunciation?”

A man told Ramakrishna one day, “You are a great renunciate.” Ramakrishna laughed: “This is rich! I thought you the great renunciate.” The man said, “You are joking! You never joke. What are you saying? I a renunciate? I am worldly, soaked in the world—gathering shards day and night. And you call me renunciate?” Ramakrishna said, “Certainly—you are the renunciate. Do not mistake me for a renunciate—I enjoy the Supreme Lord; how could I be renunciate? You gather shards, having abandoned God—your renunciation is great. You are the true Paramhansa! I am an ordinary enjoyer—enjoying God. What have I left? I dropped a penny and found a diamond—will you call that renunciation? You abandoned the diamond and picked up a pebble—that is great renunciation indeed.”

The worldly man is the great renunciate. He gathers trash, sorting through refuse. If ever jewels appear among the junk, he pushes them aside: “Away!” If ever meditation arises within, he throws it away: “Not now! First gather wealth.” If ever sannyas raises its head, he pushes it away: “Not now—life is long, there is much to do, much to prove.” If ever Ram’s remembrance begins to stir, a wave comes, you quickly shake yourself clear: “Dangerous—do not get entangled!”

In a life where renunciation truly happens, the person does not even know it.

“I have no awareness—perhaps you know—
People say you have ruined me.”

The bhakta will say to God: “People are amazing—they say I am ruined, I renounced, I left everything, I became foolish, my head went wrong.”

“I have no awareness—perhaps you know—
People say you have ruined me.”

“Perhaps you know, for I do not know what has happened—what passed, how it passed. I am intoxicated.”

“People say you have ruined me.”

Kahun dharat pag parat kahun, umagi ghat sab deh.
Daya magan harirup mein, din-din adhik saneh.

Kahun dharat, pag parat kahun—
Such is the devotee’s state. He places his foot somewhere and it falls somewhere else. He sets off for one place, arrives at another. He is no longer in his own control; he is in God’s control. As long as you are in control, there is ego. Ego is the name of your control. The day you lay your ownership at His feet—“Now You manage; Thy will be done”—then wherever the foot falls, as it falls! You do not even manage your steps.

Kahun dharat pag parat kahun…
Such intoxication! The Vast has descended into your tiny courtyard—will you not be drunk? Into your sorrowful life a river of joy begins to flow; in your desert of despair the stream of Hari-ras runs, the oasis arrives—will you not dance? Will your feet then place themselves consciously? Will your feet know where they land?

Kahun dharat pag parat kahun, umagi ghat sab deh.
A wondrous phrase—“umagi ghat sab deh”—every limb swells with delight, with festival. The Vast has arrived! The Beloved is at home! Light has entered the dark. Where there was only death, life dances.

Umagi ghat sab deh—
Every pore is thrilled, dancing. Every hair is filled with music. The heart’s veena is sounding. There is surge, enthusiasm, celebration.

The bhakta’s life is a life of celebration.

In the name of religion, a great gloom has descended. Temples, mosques, churches have grown desolate. The dance, color, and song have been lost. “Mahatmas” sit upon your chest like heavy rocks.

Religion’s true form is exultant. It is not stony; it is like flowers. Not sad, but full of surge and festivity.

An old sannyasi came to see me. He said, “What is this? What kind of ashram is this? People are dancing, thrilled, joyous, as if intoxicated. One should be serious. A seeker of Truth must be serious. Truth is a serious matter.”

I told him, “We are not seeking Truth here—we are seeking the Lord. The word ‘truth’ is itself heavy. It has become dry, desert-like.

See the difference: ‘search for Truth’—it sounds like spinning a logical web, applying intellect, banging your head. ‘Search for the Lord, the Beloved, the Supreme Friend’—that is another thing. Philosophers seek Truth; the religious seek the Lord. Philosophers call God ‘Truth’—and they make even God sad. The religious call Truth ‘the Beloved,’ ‘the Friend,’ they weave a bond of love. This is not a relation of logic—it is of love, of devotion, of attachment.”

Umagi ghat sab deh—
When both mind and body dance—bound in one surge. And note, Daya says “the whole body overflows.” Not that only your soul will dance—that is also a partial view, opposed to the body. When the soul dances, the mind will dance; when the mind dances, the body will dance. Your totality will dance. When the Lord comes, not only the soul receives wealth, the mind too becomes unfathomable—

tinko mato agad.
And when He comes, your body is sanctified, becomes divine—you become divya-dehi. Upon His advent everything turns to gold; everything becomes nectar. Flowers bloom, and even the thorns bloom.

Kahun dharat pag parat kahun, umagi ghat sab deh.
Daya magan harirup mein, din-din adhik saneh.

And as he bathes more and more in Hari’s form—“day by day, more love.” Love arises more and more.

This is the hallmark of a religious person—an ever-flowing stream of love from him. This alone is the touchstone of whether someone is religious. As your affection, as your love grows—so that you begin to give love causelessly, unconditionally—to those who need it and those who do not; to those who have asked and those who have not; you go and fill people’s bags with love; you spill your love as you walk; you give to the known and the unknown; you give without reason, without accounting—“with both hands, bail it out”—when you begin to bail…

Kabir said: as when water fills a boat, one must bail with both hands; so when love fills your heart—“doe hath ulichiye—this alone is the work of saints.”

When love begins to stream from you, and love flows and you become a temple from which endless rivers of love flow—know then that the Lord has descended. His arrival is not proclaimed by statements like “I have met God,” but by how much love flows through your life, by how much your life moves on the path of love.

But here things are upside down. For thousands of years, in the name of religion, the pundits and priests have made such havoc—we call that one a “mahatma” whose stream of love has dried up, who has become like a piece of wood, dry timber—light him and not even smoke arises, for there is no moisture left. We call him “arrived.” But he seems to have arrived somewhere else—not to God. For God is drenched in rasa, while these “mahatmas” are rasa-less; God is overflowing with rasa!

Just imagine, if the world were run by such “mahatmas,” what would happen! Would flowers bloom? No. Would trees be green? No. Would a man love a woman? No. Would a mother love her child? No. Would a friend live and die for a friend? No. If in the hands of “mahatmas,” life would become mechanical, and one thing would be missing—love. Love would be gone.

Therefore Gurdjieff said that the so-called “mahatmas” of the world seem contrary to God, for God is overflowing—with moons and stars, stones and mountains, in all directions, in endless forms. God is a dancer, a singer, a lover! When religion grows in your life, this is what happens.

Daya magan harirup mein, din-din adhik saneh.
This is the sign; consider this the touchstone. If day by day, step by step, your love increases—know you are moving toward the Lord, you are on the right path. If love decreases—know you are slipping, wandering. As when you approach a garden, coolness comes. The air begins to carry fragrance. Even if you cannot yet see the garden, you know from the fragrant, cool breeze—the direction is right, we are nearing. Likewise, when love begins to surge within—“umagi ghat sab deh”—and every moment your affection grows, and you begin to give it without conditions—not bartering but donating—then know you are drawing near to the Lord; the temple is not far—perhaps you are already upon the steps.

Hansi gavat rovat utht, giri-giri parat adhir.
Pai hariras chasako daya, sahai kathin tan pir.

Take this verse to heart:

Hansi gavat rovat utht, giri-giri parat adhir.
He who thirsts for the Lord laughs, sings, weeps; he rises, falls, grows impatient. He rejoices—some rain has begun; and he is restless—when will the downpour come? He is satisfied—a ray has come; and dissatisfied, profoundly so—never so dissatisfied before! When there was no ray, he did not know; now, having tasted a ray, when will the whole sun be found? When will there be union with the great Sun?

Pai hariras chasako daya, sahai kathin tan pir.
But once the taste of Hari-ras is taken, once that sip is drunk—then no matter how much the pain, how the separation burns, no matter how every pore cries and writhes—one cannot return. Many times the devotee thinks to turn back. You may not understand this. Many times he thinks to turn back, because joy is there, but along with joy comes a great pain.

Consider the story of the ninety-nine—it happens in spirituality too. A king’s barber earned one rupee a day—enough for a month then. He lived in revelry. He would give feasts, the village called him generous. One rupee was a great thing. He would massage the king in the morning—an hour’s work—and revel the rest of the day: cards, chess, songs, and at night the drum. The king grew envious of his joy. “I have everything, yet not so joyous; he has nothing, yet what joy!” The vizier said, “No secret—we can fix it.” From the next day, the barber began to “improve”—that is, to worsen. In five to seven days he dried up. The king asked, “What is the matter? You are withering; no games at night, no drums.” He said, “If you ask, I must tell. I am trapped in the circle of ninety-nine. Someone threw a pouch in my house with ninety-nine coins. I thought, if I save one rupee today, it will be a hundred—only a day’s matter. No sweets, no milk, no games—just a day. I saved it. Then came the thought: if I keep saving, I will soon be rich. A hundred became a hundred and one—let me make it more. And in this calculation, all joy is ruined.”

What happens in the worldly life happens in the spiritual. When the first ray of God descends, you know for the first time what you have been losing all along. What you called life was no life; today, for the first time, life is known. A great longing arises: how to have the Whole! The taste has come—the chaska. Daya uses the exact word: chasaka—addiction. Now along with rasa, a great pain arises—when more, and more, and the Whole? “If such a tiny ray makes me so drunk, if one sip fills me with such joy—when will I be drowned?”

In these hours great obstacles come. Many times the devotee thinks, “Let us return! This pain is too much; I cannot bear even a moment’s waiting.”

“There was never once the power to renounce love—
But the thought of renouncing love came again and again.”

The thought comes: drop this entanglement, leave this intoxication of love. But courage never comes to truly leave.

The thought comes again and again—but not the act. Sometimes it feels as if on love’s path there are stations where one is to renounce love itself. Many times it feels, “Run away; return to the old days—they were better. In darkness we were lost—yet at least there was no knowing, no struggle, no restlessness. Not this day-and-night weeping, this ceaseless waiting, this one single anxiety.”

“There was never once the power to renounce love—
But the thought of renouncing love came again and again.”

The blind man lived in darkness without trouble. Then his eyes began to heal a little—everything is hazy. Because he sees hazily, he also sees darkness. Earlier, even darkness he could not see. Remember, the blind do not see darkness; to see even darkness you need eyes. You close your eyes and see darkness because your eyes work. The blind see neither darkness nor light. When his eyes begin to heal, a difficult time arrives—everything is dim, and in that dimness the longing burns: when will it be clear?

But though the thought comes a hundred thousand times, returning cannot happen. Many times the devotee sits, having “left” it all, closing the doors—and again, he opens them.

“There are many faithful ones—let there be one beautiful too;
Come, today let us talk again of that unfaithful Beloved.”

Many times he decides: leave it—it is hard. “What misfortune brought me to this path! Those worldly men are better—living in their fun—shop to home, courts and cases, the world runs.” They know nothing. “What ill-fate made me know! What addiction took hold of me!”

Satsang is a chaska—an addiction. Many times you will run. Many times you will drop it. But you will not be able to drop it.

“When all are fulfilled, you are thirsty;
When the world smiles, you are sad.”

Once a glimpse of the Beloved’s beauty has been had, nowhere else is there beauty. Entangle yourself as you will—you cannot. Again and again, you will sing, pray, remember.

“Only two times were difficult in my whole life—
Before Your coming, and after Your going.”

But this too is known only when a ray has come—when you hear His footfall. Then you know that before this, too, it was all pain, without essence; we lived in vain. And now—now a great pain has arrived.

“Only two times were difficult—
Before Your coming, and after Your going.”

Slowly the door opens; slowly the light clarifies.

“The sorrow of Your separation has saved me from all else—
Now no other calamity can come near.”

Gradually, only one remembrance remains—the Divine. Only the fire of His separation remains. Then a thousand calamities fall away; one alone remains. Thousand troubles—of wealth, position, prestige—fall away; one obsession remains. From that obsession there is no return.

Pai hariras chasako daya, sahai kathin tan pir.

Virah-jval upaji hiye, Ram-sanehi aay.
Now a flame burns in the heart—the fire of longing.

Virah-jval upaji hiye, Ram-sanehi aay—
“O my Ram-Beloved, come!” Such a blaze burns—let the rain come; let His cloud arrive and cool all.

Virah-jval upaji hiye, Ram-sanehi aay.
Manmohan mohan saral, tum dekhan da chaay.

Only one desire remains—tum dekhan da chaay—the longing to see You. Everything gathers in the eyes; the whole being becomes waiting. The devotee’s entire energy turns into prayer and waiting.

“The world’s tyrannies and my own faithfulness—I remember none of that now—
I remember nothing now but love.”

One madness alone remains—a deep madness—an ecstasy you cannot explain to anyone. Yes, when two mad lovers meet, they understand. That is why Daya says: do not share your heart with the “Ram-vimukh”—those turned away from Ram; open it before the “Ram-sanehi”—those in love with Ram. Only they can understand this pain.

Virah-jval upaji hiye, Ram-sanehi aay.
Manmohan mohan saral, tum dekhan da chaay.

The devotee’s eyes remain fixed. Slowly, all energy becomes eyes. The very moment your whole energy becomes eyes, the Event happens.

“Once it was but the eyes between us—
Now the talk has reached the heart.
What yesterday was hidden in the heart—
Now, bound in sound, reaches the lips.
Once I see you, I cannot not see—
Your form will not unbind from my eyes.
I would sing your perfect image—
But no raga will abide upon my tongue.
It seems a hum has fallen into my heart—
As if love’s bride has mounted the bridal palanquin,
And the bearers of dreams have lifted
The golden palanquin toward the Beloved’s abode.
With vermilioned feet and mehndi’d hands,
Love knocks at the mind’s door.
Once it was but the eyes between us—
Now the talk has reached the heart.”

Little by little, all your energy stirs around one center: to obtain, to see, to meet. And when no other voice remains within you, no obstruction remains to union. Until union happens, know that longing is not yet complete; thirst is still divided, other thirsts still remain. As long as your list contains other things to get, and God is but one among many, union will not be. When your entire energy is unified into a single longing—that longing is called abhipsa—consuming yearning.

Today our desires are many—wealth, position, love, prestige, this and that, a big house—a thousand desires. We are scattered. Our horses pull in different directions. When all horses are yoked in one direction, and there is one single longing—to attain the Lord—

Jesus said: Seek first the Kingdom; all else will be added unto you. Chase the many—you will miss even the one. “He who attains the One, attains all.” What prestige remains to gain after God? What position? What wealth? In attaining God, all is attained.

Kag udavat kar thake, nain niharat baat.
Prem-sindhu mein man paryo, na nikasan ko ghat.

There is no way to return. The river has fallen into the ocean—how can it flow back?

Kag udavat kar thake…
“Kag”—crows—symbolic of the thoughts that flock in the sky of your mind; uninvited, they arrive, cawing. In Bombay where Krishnamurti speaks, all the crows of India gather. They love it there. It is hard to hear him; they caw so much. But his insistence: let them caw—and you listen… Such is the mind. Crows caw. You call out to the Lord; the crows keep cawing. Every thought is a crow—uninvited, discordant, noisy, a rabble, a nuisance, without music.

Kag udavat kar thake—
Daya says, “I am watching—my hands are tired shooing them away. Lest any crow cause me to miss—you come, and a thought makes a screen, and you pass unseen—so I keep driving them off.”

Nain niharat baat—
The eyes are fixed on the path—eyelids spread like a carpet—waiting. The eyes are growing weary; the hands are tired.

Prem-sindhu mein man paryo—
The mind has fallen into the ocean of love—

Na nikasan ko ghat—
And there is no shore by which to get out. “You have entangled me well,” she complains. “No way back is left.”

This is the lover’s complaint. Many times the bhakta complains—only the bhakta can. Others do not even have the courage. The bhakta sometimes quarrels, gets angry. Sometimes he says, “Enough—no more worship!” For every limit has a limit.

Only the lover has such courage; for love is courage. The lover knows—such impudence will be forgiven. The pundit cannot dare; the priest cannot dare.

Ramakrishna would sometimes worship in the temple—and sometimes not. And when he did, it was unusual: sometimes for hours, sometimes finished in minutes. Sometimes the day passed. Another oddity: he would first taste the offerings himself, then offer them to the Lord. Complaints reached the trustees; they summoned him. “There must be rules.”

Ramakrishna said, “Have you ever heard of love and rule going together? Where there are rules, where is love? Where there is love, how can rules stand? The two do not walk together. If you want rules, find a priest. I am a lover. I will worship—but not by rules. When my heart does not want to, should I lie? Stand there and do false worship? And when I am angry, how can I worship? I will not. Let the Lord stand at the door; let Him suffer as I suffer. The doors will remain closed; let Him yearn—let Him remember as I remember. And as for tasting—my mother also tasted before feeding me. I cannot offer without tasting; perhaps it is not worthy—let me test.” If you want rules, find a priest.”

Ramakrishna was the true priest—this is another state of feeling. Many times the bhakta complains, gets angry. After all, there is a limit.

“Let it not be that this pain becomes a pain without remedy—
Let it not be that You, too, cannot heal.”

The devotee says, “This pain is growing.”

“Let it not be that this pain becomes incurable—
That You too cannot cure it.”

“Do not entangle me and then say, ‘There is no medicine.’ Returning has become impossible. The taste of that wine—the chaska of Hari-ras—has caught me. Na nikasan ko ghat—no exit. You have entangled me well!”

Thus the bhakta sometimes quarrels. When a love-filled quarrel happens, it is a form of prayer. If you do not have the courage to quarrel with God, you do not yet know bhakti. If you cannot fight with the Beloved, your love is weak. Love is so strong it passes through a thousand fights and survives. What fight can break it? In truth, after each fight it appears deeper, more polished. The bhakta gets angry—and he also reconciles. And if the bhakta truly becomes angry, God too pacifies him.

Such moments come when your anger is truly authentic, your prayer real, your impatience genuine, and your heart a burning flame. Then the Event happens; the rain comes.

This world is not indifferent to you. Existence is not unconcerned with you. It is as eager for you as you become eager for it. Take this sutra: if it seems that existence is indifferent, it only means you have not yet taken delight in existence. You stand far; existence stands far. You come close; existence comes close. You hum—and existence hums. You throw your arms around its neck; existence embraces you. As much courage as you muster, that much you will find the answer rising from the other side. Existence is not without answer. This is the whole scripture of bhakti: existence contains the answer. If you call, the answer comes. If it does not, know—there is some lack in your call.

“O one with thirsty lips—arouse such thirst
That this dark rain-cloud cannot depart without shedding rain.
It has thundered and rained a hundred times upon the earth,
Malhars have rung in streets and squares—
But whenever I meet you, passing by,
I see only empty pitchers in your arms.
All are fulfilled—yet you are thirsty;
The world is laughing—yet you are sad.
The song of ‘Beloved’ quivers in the cuckoo’s throat,
Krishna plays the flute of drizzle,
It is the hour of union; the earth embraces the sky—
Why then is your lamp flickering out on the terrace?
You are absent-minded, when the groves resound;
You are poor, when gold showers.
O you who shame the moon—light such a lamp
That tears falling become stars that smile.
O one with thirsty lips—arouse such thirst
That this dark rain-cloud cannot depart without shedding rain.”

Rain does fall. It fell upon Daya, upon Sahajo, upon Meera. Why would it not fall upon you? Rain has fallen; it will fall again. Thirst is needed—deep thirst. The day your thirst is complete, that very completeness becomes the rain-cloud. Thirst and cloud are not two. The day your call is total, with all your life in it, the day you put everything at stake in your call—holding nothing back—on that very day the Divine manifests.

Enough for today.