Jagat Taraiya Bhor Ki #9

A brown dawn is where I am;
A dusky night is where I am.
The sunbeams walk with a falter—
Only rain is where I am.

Every fragrant flower is a prisoner;
Free is steel where I am.
Mud without measure, moss beyond counting—
But no lattice of living water where I am.

People hesitate even as they open;
Love is unknown where I am.
All hide their eyes from the mirrors;
Every utterance is a lie where I am.

A song does not reach these wrinkled lips;
The song stays aristocratic where I am.

Such is the condition of man. There, falsehood is truth. There, the futile seems meaningful. And where lotuses were meant to bloom, there is nothing but mud and moss. Such is man’s condition. Living so long in darkness, we have begun to call darkness light. After all, to live, a man needs consolations. Call darkness darkness—restlessness arises. Call darkness light—darkness doesn’t become light because you said so, but the mind is soothed.

Man has forged great lies. Most people live leaning on lies. Truth is hard. The search for truth is hard. The road to truth is thorn-strewn—not because truth should be hard, but because we have become so accustomed to lies. For one who for lifetimes has known only the mire as everything, it even seems impossible to imagine that a lotus could be born from mud. And one who has lived only in night, whose eyes are used to the dark—if light were to arrive today, the eyes would refuse to open; they would smart and sting; now light itself would feel like pain.

Hence we hear so much talk of seeking God, and yet we do not seek. We hear so much talk of going within, and yet we do not go. Enlightened ones keep calling: Wake up!—but we do not wake. Even there we play a game of lies. We say: We will wake, certainly we will! We must wake—but how now, how today? Even there we have erected great philosophies of untruth. We say: There is the net of karmas from many births—we shall cut it. It will take time. Sadhana must be done, disciplines must be practiced. Vows and rules, pilgrimages and fasts must be observed. Do enough merit and sin will be erased—then perhaps the event will happen.

These are man’s devices for not changing. If you truly wish to change, the Lord’s prasad is available this very moment—right now.

When a ray of light enters a room of darkness, can darkness put up any barrier? Does darkness say, I am thousands of years old, millions of years old; how can I be cut away just because you arrived, O ray? I am no new darkness, not a child—I am ancient, primeval! You will come and collide, and births upon births will be needed to cut me down. No—darkness says nothing of the kind. Nor can it do anything of the kind. What strength does darkness have?

This is the art of the bhakta. This is the secret heart of devotion: I am darkness; I must have made mistakes, surely I have; I must have collided in the dark—yet I am darkness: this is my identity, my ego. If your ray descends, let it be cut now. By your grace, let it happen now.

Therefore devotion does not aspire to change one’s karmas; it calls for the Lord’s kripa.

Today’s sutras are sutras to summon that very prasad. They are unique sutras. But first understand this: the foundational ground of the bhakta is prasad, not effort. Effort is man’s; prasad is God’s. Effort is what comes from your doing, and prasad is what descends when you wait—not from doing. Effort is what you do—succeed or fail; prasad is that in which you are not, only God is. There is no possibility of failure.

Or see it like this. As I see it, effort is your world. The house you built, the shop you opened, the status you created—this is your effort. This is your striving. Without your doing, it would not have happened; you did it, hence it is.

The world is man’s effort, because the world is the expansion of man’s ego. And religion? Religion is not man’s effort. Religion is to grow tired of one’s efforts, bored, harassed. Even succeeding—what comes of it? A house is built; at most, it is an inn. Even if a house is made—do you ever truly have a home? It is a night’s halt; morning comes and you go on. Here even success proves to be failure. Here wealth only makes you more impoverished. Here fame, name, position—do they ever fill the inner heart, ever make it overflow? Here everything is a deception.

What man does by effort is maya. And what does not happen by human effort—that is God. So the bhakta’s fundamental understanding is: It will happen by calling; by longing; by prayer; by worship. And do not mistake prayer and worship for effort. People have made even these into an effort. They say: We are praying. Wrong. How will you do prayer? You can be in prayer, but you cannot do it. If you do it, you miss. If you do it, you arrive—and when you arrive, that is a different matter altogether.

Hence prayer has no formal rules, no formal words. Prayer is informal. It happens in a certain state of feeling. Sometimes it happens through tears—the words do not come. Sometimes it happens through dance—the tears do not descend. Sometimes it happens in a smile. Sometimes it happens with the hum of a song. And there is no fixed line that it must be the same song every day. What you hum every day becomes false. Let it arise; let it come; let it rise naturally of itself. Sit for a while, let whatever happens, happen. Sometimes you weep; sometimes you sing; sometimes you laugh; sometimes you dance; sometimes you do nothing—just sit silent. That is why Daya says: Now the bhakta laughs, now he weeps, now he sings—what a strange affair! Now he rises, now he sits, now he falls—falling and falling—what a strange affair!

They say when Moses saw God upon Mount Sinai, he fell seven times. The vision was so vast, the event so unprecedented—how could one not tremble? How could the roots not shake? Seven times he fell—fell and rose, fell and rose—seven times; only the eighth time could he stand, and even then his legs were trembling.

God is such a great happening that you will go mad. Your steps will falter and fall. You will become as if drunk. And this wine is not the kind that rises and then subsides. The wine pressed from grapes is false wine; it rises and it falls. The color that rises and washes out—we call that a crude dye. The color that rises and remains forever—we call that a fast dye. God is the fast wine. From grapes, we have fashioned a deception.

And you will be surprised to know—the man who discovered wine was a saint. His name was Dionysus, a Greek. He discovered wine. Strange indeed—that a saint discovered wine. Even now, in the monastery in Greece that bears Dionysus’ name, wine is brewed. Western thinkers rarely mention this fact—it sounds odd that a saint discovered wine. But to me, it fits. Only a saint could discover wine. He who has known the real alone can fashion the counterfeit. To make a counterfeit, you must know the real. You will print fake notes—but you must have seen the real, otherwise how will you find the pattern? To me this is plausible: a saint must have discovered it. Having seen the real, out of compassion for people he must have thought: These poor ones cannot reach the real; let me find a counterfeit for them. I see no obstacle in this; it seems markedly logical.

Saints alone could discover wine. Having tasted That, they must have thought: Let some taste at least come to man, in some way let taste be kindled. Today he will be caught in the false, but a circle has begun; tomorrow he will begin to seek the true. How long can he remain on wine? One day he will think: Let me find a wine that never goes down, that rises and rises and never subsides. That very day the journey to God will begin.

Without seeking the wine of God, bliss is not possible in life.

A fretfulness stirs somewhere in the dark;
The night too is sleepless—like me.
So helpless am I, so pained—
Perhaps there is no one like me in the world.
No one, perhaps ever, has
Lost life like me—
No one, perhaps ever, has washed away
Every joy in tears like me.

But this is everyone’s condition. You too must have felt sometimes, Who is as miserable as I? Who is so tormented, so troubled as I? It is not only you—everyone is afflicted thus. And everyone feels, Who is as miserable as I! But another’s sorrow we do not see—the wounds of his suffering hide in his innermost. We see only the outer adornment—inner wounds we cannot see; the inner ulcers do not show. Our own ulcers alone are visible to us.

People are laughing—and there is no reason for their laughter. They smile too. What to do? If they did not smile, would they go on weeping? So somehow they paste a smile upon themselves.

Around 1920, the great Russian thinker Maxim Gorky went to America. He was shown, everywhere, all the means of entertainment America had invented. No land has invented so many entertainments. The guide imagined Gorky would be impressed—and Gorky seemed impressed. After seeing it all, the guide waited eagerly—now Gorky would say something. A tear gathered in Gorky’s eye. The guide asked, Why are you so sad? Gorky said, Those who need so many means of entertainment just to live—surely they must be unhappy. They must be.

It is the unhappy who go to the cinema, the unhappy who go to the tavern, the unhappy who go to the circus, the unhappy who watch cricket matches—these are unhappy people. The unhappy need devices to distract themselves; they call these devices ‘entertainment’. The mind is restless, running—let it cling somewhere, any how, any where! The unhappy invent a thousand ways just to laugh a little while.

The happy are immersed in themselves. Entertainment is needed only by the unhappy. The happy lose their very mind—let alone entertainment. When there is no mind, who will be entertained? The happy are so absorbed, so enchanted in their own being; their very being is so sufficient that nothing more is needed. Such utter contentment and fulfillment.

The quest for God means only this: Let something happen so that I do not need to go outside myself to seek happiness. The word ‘God’ means only this: Let something happen so that I need not go outside myself for happiness; that my joy be found within me; that the spring of joy begin to flow from within.

And the moment such an hour dawns, the drop becomes the ocean; all boundaries dissolve. That day you are neither body nor mind; that day you are God Himself. The day the Lord descends into the devotee—the devotee becomes God.

And always remember the foundational stone of devotion: the bhakta does not say, I have done this, I kept this vow, I observed this rule, I fasted—therefore You must meet me. No—the bhakta never speaks thus. That is shopkeeping: I did this, so You must give me that. That is not the claim of love; it is a bargain. As if, if You do not, I’ll file a case in court: I have been fasting for so many days and still no fruit is given!

What you call the ascetic is trying to attain God by his own power. His power is but the proclamation of his ego. Hence in your so-called yogis, mahatmas, sadhus—you will find a great glow of pride on their faces, a haughtiness; a lamp of ego burns there.

The bhakta is humble. He says: By my doing, nothing happens; when it happens, it is by His doing. So where is pride, where is glory? The bhakta says: I have no claim, that I am worthy, that I am a fit vessel. The bhakta says only this: I know my unworthiness. Each day he lays his unfitness before Him and says: Such an unfit one am I; yet descend. For if You demand worthiness in me, it is beyond me. And if You demand worthiness, what prasad is that? I am as I am—bad or good, I am this. Accept me, own me.

The bhakta’s prayer rises in humility. Ego says forcefully: I have done so much. The bhakta says: My only strength is that You made me—and another strength I have is this: You will not have forgotten me, even if I forget You; my only strength is that You are my original source, I come from You. My strength is only this: I can call to You—because it is You who made me, for better or worse. Understand this attitude of the bhakta and Daya’s songs become unique.

If You are, a hundred ties bind me to the world;
If You are not—what is this world to me?

The bhakta says—

If You are, a hundred ties bind me to the world;
If You are not—what is this world to me?
Though a hundred storms surround,
Though the boat staggers without support,
On the strength of faiths I might row
And somehow reach the shore—
But if You are not in the boat,
What are shores and banks to me?

The bhakta says: Even if moksha be granted and You are not there—what will I do with it? Even if I find the farther shore and You are not there—what is the use? If I row this boat and do not find You in it, for what purpose shall I row?

If You are not in the boat,
What are shores and banks to me?
You are my sun and my moon,
Evening and morning, You my pole-star—
If You are not, who will banish
The darkness of my life?
If You are, all is bright;
If You are not—what is light to me?

Therefore the bhakta does not wait for kundalini to awaken, nor for the sahasrar to open, nor for light to dawn within. The bhakta says: You come; whatever follows in Your wake is fine. Beyond You I have no other longing. If I must remain in darkness with You—that is good. Without You, even to be in light is not good.

It is by You that springtime blossoms;
By You, moonlight grows bright.
If You are, beauty lives;
When Your voice rings, the raga resounds.
If You are adorned, the earth is adorned;
If You are not—what are ornaments to me?

Iron of the mind turns to gold
Since it touched Your touchstone;
Banging at Your door,
Sin turned into merit.
Banging at Your door,
Sin turned into merit.
Your doorway is my pilgrimage—
What are Kashi and Haridwar to me?

The bhakta says: The hassle of changing sin to merit—neither is it in my scope, nor can I. I only dash my head at Your door.

Iron of the mind turns to gold
Since it touched Your touchstone.

The bhakta says to God: You are the touchstone; touch me and I am gold. By my own doing I cannot be gold. By my own doing I have gone astray. By my own karma I have wandered. By my own doer-ship I have wandered.

Banging at Your door,
Sin turned into merit.
Your doorway is my pilgrimage—
What are Kashi and Haridwar to me?

Siddhis and powers—you alone are they;
All auspice springs from You.
If You dwell, heaven’s city dwells—
The wish-fulfilling tree’s shade every moment.
If You are not with me,
What is a right to heaven to me?

The bhakta does not long for heaven, nor for moksha, nor Vaikuntha, nor bliss, nor amrit, nor truth. The bhakta longs only to enthrone the Supreme Beloved in his heart. And the bhakta speaks with a certain shrewdness—for with Him, everything else arrives.

Jesus has a famous saying: Seek ye first the Kingdom of God, and all else shall be added unto you. First find the Lord, and all the rest will follow on their own. If you busy yourself seeking all else—you will miss that too, and you will miss God as well.

In his so-called lack of sense, the bhakta is truly wise; while the so-called knower, the pundit, the priest, the yogi, the mahatma—in their cleverness they are gravely unwise. They seek the petty, the futile. The bhakta seeks the source. He invites the emperor into his house—the ministers, attendants, guards, the army—everyone comes along by themselves. He does not go about inviting each one: ministers, grandees, gatekeepers, commanders—he cares not. He invites only God. He draws the foundational base, the rest follows. Hence I say, in the bhakta’s foolishness lies great wisdom.

Listen to Daya’s word—

How are You pleased, O Lord? How shall I call You, Master?
When the wave of mercy rises, only then am I under Your shelter.

How are You pleased, O Lord…

The bhakta says: I wish to please You; tell me the art by which You are pleased, for I know nothing. You Yourself say how to call You—what is Your Name, Your address? For if I search Your address, I will surely err. I err in whatever I do. I am skilled only in doing wrong. For lifetimes I have arranged and adorned what is futile and false. How shall I adorn You? How shall I call You?

He says: You Yourself tell me how You will be pleased. Shall we hear this sweet word?

How are You pleased, O Lord? How shall I call You, Master?
When the wave of Your grace surges, only then am I sheltered.

When the wave of Your grace moves toward me—drown me in that wave of mercy; let Your compassion descend, Your kindness… only then am I no longer orphaned. Without that, I am an orphan, a wandering traveler—no news of destination, no knowledge of the path—and a very ancient habit of the wrong.

Ponder this—meditate on it. All that you have done so far has turned out wrong. See it. You hoarded wealth—it turned out wrong. Now even if you renounce wealth, it will still be wrong. Because it is you who are wrong; whatever you touch becomes wrong. As the touchstone turns iron into gold, your touch turns gold into iron. Wherever you touch—dust.

You hoarded wealth for the sake of ego: I shall show the world who I am—how rich! Now wealth has proved futile—you gathered and found no essence. Now again you want to show the world: I shall renounce and show who I am! You may leave wealth, renounce it, stand naked in the streets—but the old disease remains. The name of the disease has changed; the disease has not. Its form has shifted; the disease has not. And the second disease is more dangerous than the first, for it is subtler.

Hence the rich man’s illness is visible to all—even the blind can see he is mad. But the renunciate’s illness is seen only by very deep eyes; otherwise, it remains unseen. The same madness has taken a new direction.

Whatever you have done so far… till now you were mad for lust; now you have taken a vow of brahmacharya and sit clamped down from all sides—there will be no difference. With your kind of understanding, whatever you do will miss.

I have heard: One night Mulla Nasruddin and a drunk friend staggered out of the tavern—midnight, deserted streets. At a crossroads both halted. Mulla’s friend said: Man, what a beautiful woman! pointing to the traffic light. Mulla looked carefully and said: A piece! A rare piece! Not a woman—an apsara! Look at the glow on her face, the radiance! I am amazed this beauty was hidden in Poona! Wait here. I’ll go and lay a charm on her. And for ten minutes he went and talked with the beauty in many ways. When he returned the drunk asked: How did it go? Any progress? Mulla said: Not bad. All else is fine—she is an extraordinary beauty—but she seems dumb. Doesn’t say a word. But no worry—she agrees; she keeps winking.

When a man is drunk, without awareness, whatever meanings he draws will issue from his intoxication. His interpretations too will arise from his unconsciousness. If you are unconscious—whether you hoard wealth or renounce it, whether you build a home or flee to the forests—little will change. Does unconsciousness break so easily?

Therefore the bhakta says: Where is it in my power! I am powerless.

How are You pleased, O Lord? How shall I call You, Master?
When the wave of mercy rises, only then am I sheltered.

By my doing, nothing will happen. By my doing, I am orphaned—and shall remain so. Now You do something.

So the bhakta only petitions, only surrenders. He lays his ego at the Lord’s feet. Great courage is needed—great courage! For the mind says, If I did something, perhaps it would happen. If I did this or that, changed the method, the arithmetic—perhaps it would happen. Note the difference: Your methods and arithmetic you can change—but how will you change yourself? You are the changer—and the one to be changed. How will you change yourself? It is as if a man tries to lift himself by tugging at his own shoelaces.

The bhakta’s statement carries great force: If You lift me, I am lifted.

When the wave of mercy rises…

If I keep trying to lift myself by my shoelaces, nothing will happen. I am the lifter and I am the lifted—this cannot work. You lift me.

And the centuries’ experience of bhaktas is this: God lifts you—if you drop yourself totally. But ‘totally’—that is the condition. If you hold back even a grain—Alright, if He lifts me, good; if not, then I’ll lift myself by my shoelaces. If He doesn’t, we won’t sit forever; we’ll lift ourselves. We’ll make ourselves our own patrons. Since You did not do it, we’ll do it.

If even this tiniest craving remains, there is no relation with God. If you miss God, it is not because of God, but because of your dishonest heart. Somewhere hidden within, the thought remains: If it doesn’t happen, I am there. You have not lost trust in yourself—and devotion means precisely this: to lose all trust in oneself; then trust in God arrives. You still trust yourself; births of suffering have not emptied you of this trust.

People come to me and say: A lack of self-confidence, hence devotion does not happen. A lack of self-confidence—and devotion does not happen! I say: It is precisely from a lack of self-confidence that devotion happens. ‘Self-confidence’ means: I am enough; there is no need for You. If you truly see that you lack self-confidence, you are at a wondrous door—open it. Fall completely. Say: I have no trust in myself; I have no confidence in myself. I have tried to lift myself many times—each time I failed; defeat after defeat! What trust? Everywhere I went I found walls—no door till now.

Reflect on this. The ascetic moves by self-confidence; the yogi moves by self-confidence; the knower moves by self-confidence. His path is of will. The bhakta surrenders. He says: I am not—so what to trust in? I am a hollow zero. Let Your ‘one’ come before me—then I have worth; without You I am worthless.

When the wave of mercy rises, only then am I sheltered.

Without You I am a mere zero—of no value. Place a one before a zero—it becomes ten. Place another zero—it becomes a hundred; a third—one thousand. See, placing one before the zero, what value the zero gains—equal to nine! The one is one; with zero it becomes ten. The zero has gained the worth of nine. If God joins to your zero—you become priceless. Your worth becomes beyond accounting; all ledgers fail. Whoever is joined with God, who places his zero behind God—the matter is finished. Your value is only value—beyond reckoning. You have come into contact with the touchstone.

The river of becoming is fearsome—by what means do I cross to the other shore?
O Master, this is my petition—listen again and again.

The bhakta says: I can petition, I can submit my plea; I can cry, I can call. These tears are all I have. There is no vision in my eyes—only tears. I lay my tears at Your feet—wash Your feet with them.

The river of becoming is fearsome…

This world is frightening, for here there has been nothing but missing—missing and sliding, falling and falling. Rising never happens here. Blow upon blow, pain upon pain—and still the dreams will not leave us.

I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin said to his psychiatrist: Doctor, every night I dream only one dream—fishing. Small fish, big fish, fish of every color and kind—but always fish and fish. All night, every night. It’s becoming a worry.

The doctor said: It is something to worry about. But Nasruddin, the thing is that by day you think only about fish. What you think through the day swims through your dreams at night. Do this: Before sleep, think about beautiful women—why get stuck on fish! Fall asleep steeped in images of beautiful women. Then surely your dreams will change. Very likely, instead of fish, apsaras will appear in your dreams.

Hearing this, Mulla rose in anger and shouted: What! And lose my fish?

They are fish of dream—but even to drop them we panic: ‘Lose my fish?’ You have nothing but dreams.

People ask me: Why don’t you tell your sannyasins to leave the world? I say: These are dream-fish—where will you go by leaving them? What is there in the world to leave? If there were something to leave, then there would be something to attain. Grasp this: If in the world there is something worthy of renouncing—then that same reality is also worthy of attaining. I say: What is there to leave? The world is only notions—mere notions.

See Mulla’s indignation: ‘What—lose my fish?’ He rushed to the door. The doctor called: At least pay my fee for the advice. Mulla said: Who took your advice, you dunce? If I had taken it, I would have paid.

Even to leave dreams, the insistence is fierce!

Look within carefully: other than dreams, what is your world? You have taken someone as wife, someone as husband—accepted by belief. Accepted—so be it.

A gentleman is greatly troubled by his wife. Who is not? But he is simple-hearted and admits it. Whenever he comes he weeps the same refrain—wife. I said: Change your lament now. Weep for God—how long will you weep for your wife? He is wealthy, well-provided. I said: If so, give half your wealth to your wife—be free. How can there be freedom? Are you in favor of divorce? This is a bond of lifetimes.

I said: Were you born with your wife? A bond of lifetimes! Are you twins?

He said: No, not twins—but we took seven rounds. I said: Bring your wife, I’ll have you take seven reverse rounds—untie them. For twenty years I have known you—always weeping. There are better things to weep for. Your eyes are swollen with weeping—wife, wife! Neither weeping nor washing will bring anything. If only you had wept thus for God—God would have come.

I do not tell you to leave the world and run away. What is there to leave? Know only this: all are assumptions. ‘Wife’ is an assumption, ‘husband’ is an assumption; brother-sister, father-son—all assumptions. You accepted, and it is okay. But it is nothing more. Shop, market, fame, position—all assumptions. A dream. The world is an open-eyed dream. Do not give it too much value. Do not take it as reality. It is neither worth grasping nor worth leaving. It is not—so what will you grasp, what will you leave? It is to be awakened from—grasp that.

But how will you awaken? You are practiced only in sleeping. Lifetimes you have distilled only the drugs of sleep.

So Daya says rightly: The river of becoming is fearsome. Much sorrow has been found. Everywhere is fear. Wherever I go, I fall. Nets everywhere, snares everywhere. Fall into hate—snares; fall into love—snares. Anger—snares; compassion—snares. Run a shop—snare; sit in an ashram—snare. Snares upon snares.

The river of becoming is fearsome—by what means do I cross?
Daya asks: No method appears to me. My cleverness is shattered. My trust in myself is gone. Until now I ran on that trust, thinking one day a path will appear, a door will appear—but no, by my doing it does not happen. The day you truly realize: By my doing it doesn’t happen, it will not happen—the day this pierces your life like an arrow, the feeling that rises within is prayer. Then call Him Allah or Ram or Krishna—it matters not. All names are His then. Name Him or not—wherever you bow, your head bows at His feet. Wherever you sit—pilgrimage begins there.

O Master, this is my petition—listen again and again.

Daya says: I can petition—submit pleas. Hear them; if not, I will submit them again and again. I have no other means. I will repeat them for lifetimes: Hear my plea.

O Master, this is my petition—listen again and again.

Bhaktas and saints have used the word ‘Sahib’ sweetly—calling God ‘Sahib’.

O Master, this is my petition—listen again and again.

You are the Lord, Master of the three worlds—make these thieves vacate.
Listen to this prayer of Daya, Your dependent slave.

You are Thakur, Master of all worlds, You are Sahib—and I have become the residence of thieves. Make these thieves vacate! In my body there dwell only robbers, treacheries; enemies. I have fed my enemies. I have watered those who destroy me. I have distilled poisons. I am self-destructive.

You are Thakur, Master of the three worlds—make these thieves vacate.

And here I am—nothing but thieves in this body: lust, anger, greed, attachment, delusion, envy—all robbers are seated. This is my wealth. On the strength of this shall I say, Come? What worthiness have I? I lean only on Your compassion. I have no fitness. I am unfit in every way—fit not at all. No knowledge, no meditation—nothing. These are thieves within me. Understand my pain; do not look for my worthiness.

Listen to this plea of Daya, Your dependent slave.

I can only plead. I am Your servant, dependent. I am Yours—however I am. Hear my plea.

No restraint, no sadhana; no pilgrimage, vow, or alms.
I live on the mother’s trust—like a naive child.

In these two small lines lies the entire essence of devotion. Narada wrote many aphorisms on bhakti—this is their essence: No restraint, no sadhana. Daya says: I do not know what restraint is. I know un-restraint. I have no acquaintance with yoga—only bhoga I know. I have experience of wandering astray; I know nothing of arriving.

No restraint, no sadhana…

And in the name of sadhana nothing happens. I try—and it slips from my hands. Many times I have tried—it does not happen.

No restraint, no sadhana…

So there is neither the pride of sadhana nor the swagger of restraint.

No pilgrimage, vow, or alms.

Nor have I given alms—for what do I have to give? Cowries. Even if I give them—what alms is that? Cowries are cowries; let there be treasure—then alms can be.

Alms are given by the few—by a Buddha, a Mahavira, a Krishna, a Christ. You call them ‘great in alms’—but you should not. To your eyes they seem great givers because a man gives a lakh of rupees—you call him a great giver. Because to you rupees have value—so the ‘great giver’. If you knew that rupees are shards—would you still say ‘great giver’? What alms are these? Is there alms in garbage? It was never yours—how are you giving it?

A Zen fakir was visited by a rich man who placed a sack of gold coins before him—A thousand gold coins I bring. The fakir said: Fine. And as if he had not heard, said nothing more. The rich man, having brought a thousand gold coins, expected thanks and praise: Much obliged, great kindness—you are most generous. The fakir said nothing—did not even look at the sack. The rich man said: Sir, do you understand how much a thousand gold coins are worth? A man can scarcely gather them. The fakir said: What do you want—thanks? If you want thanks, take your bag and leave—go on the road. For one who wants thanks, money is worthless—this has not yet been seen. And I will not take a man’s money who wants thanks. Pick it up.

The rich man faltered: No, no, nothing of the sort. I have already given it in alms.

Then the fakir said: Take back your word—‘already given in alms’. You cannot give in alms what is not yours. In alms there is the claim: it was mine. Before you came, gold was on earth; after you go, it will remain. You did not bring it; you will not take it. How can it be yours? Stop this nonsense—or pick up the sack. For how is gold yours? It belongs to Him whose it is.

This entire world belongs to the One. We come empty-handed—and go empty-handed. The saying goes: We come with clenched fists and go with open hands. A child is born with fists closed; an old man dies with hands open. Even the little we bring—we lose.

What is yours? How will you give alms? The bhakta knows: What is mine that I might give? What power have I that I may take vows? For a vow carries the arrogant strut of ego: I have taken the vow of brahmacharya, of non-violence, of truth. The swagger: I have taken so many vows; I am a holder of vows! But your swagger is the very barrier to meeting Him.

No restraint, no sadhana; no pilgrimage, vow, or alms.
I live on the mother’s trust—like a naive child.

Daya says: I am as a small child—who lives on the mother’s trust. I live on Your trust. If You do—something happens; if You do not—Your will. I shall submit my plea again and again; that is all I can do. That is my reach: I will call and call—someday You will hear! Someday compassion will rise! Someday the ‘wave of mercy’ will surge!

‘Grant me one more life before I die’—such is the longing of the bhakta.

Grant me one more life before I die,
For this was no life at all.
You played me well—
Seated in a body, You deceived me.
A child asks for a car; we hand him a toy car—
He is delighted, winds the key, sets it rolling.

If you take this life as life—you mistook the toy car for a car. There is no journey in it.

Grant me one more life before I die—
Till now life has passed in trying to live,
Without ever living it.
In countless alternatives my resolves
Passed without fulfillment.
Sometimes circumstances, sometimes states of mind,
Broke me daily.
Listening to convenience, I often
Turned my face from mute truth.

There is no ‘my-ness’ left in me;
My own mind has not shaped me.
Return this silk, these gems and garments—
Give me a mirror.

Do you hear?

Return this silk, these gems and garments—
Give me a mirror.
Grant me one more life before I die.

Give me a mirror in which I may be seen without layers.
Give me courage—to write what I see, as it is.
Let me not compose life’s epic in dew-washed meters.
Whenever molten iron challenges me,
Let me not turn my back and escape.

Give me the strength to say what is—as it is.
Give me the strength to know what is—as it is.
Give me the strength to live what is—as it is.
Enough lies.
Return this silk, these gems and garments—
Give me a mirror so I may see myself.

Let me not run, not turn my back,
Not flee.
I have written too many false epics—let me write no more.
Let me not compose life’s epic in dew-washed meters.
Too many dreams have been had;
Let me now write life’s epic with truth.

Whenever molten iron challenges me,
Let me not turn my back and escape.

I have enjoyed fame enough—my possibility is not there;
Let not my longing for fruit remain barren.
Let me not fall as seed before I become.
Only this, only this assurance—
Grant me one more life before I die.

Return this silk, these gems and garments—
Give me a mirror.

The bhakta says: Give me the mirror by which I can see myself. Become such a mirror that in You I see myself. I will go on calling—like a little child, guileless—‘Like a naive child, living on the mother’s trust.’

Understand the child’s state. Nine months the child dwells in the mother’s womb—no news of himself, no worry of hunger or thirst, no responsibilities. Carefree—everything happens. So does the bhakta come to live. This whole existence becomes the mother’s womb for the bhakta. He says: I live in God—what worry now? He has surrounded me on all sides—what anxiety now? His breezes, His moon and stars, His sun, His trees, His people—His earth, His sky! Surrounded on all sides by Him! Existence becomes a womb, and the bhakta dissolves into it carefree.

Like a naive child living on the mother’s trust.

Even if the child errs a hundred thousand times, the mother never abandons him.
She puts him to her breast, takes him in her lap—day by day love doubles.

Whenever the child errs, the mother caresses him, draws him near, takes him on her lap with love.

Jesus said: God is like a shepherd who, returning at dusk with his sheep, finds that of a hundred, ninety-nine have come home; one is lost in the forest. Leaving the ninety-nine, he runs into the forest, calls out through distant valleys, gropes in the night’s darkness, risks his life. Finding the lost sheep, he brings it back—know how he brings it? Upon his shoulder.

So Jesus said: God is the shepherd.

Even if the child errs a hundred thousand times—the mother never abandons him.

However much the son errs—the mother forgives.

She puts him to her breast, takes him in her lap—day by day love doubles.

Have you noticed? A mother loves the son who is more troublesome, who creates a ruckus in the neighborhood. The more mistakes he makes, the more the mother’s love flows toward him.

At the Sufi Ba Yazid’s ashram there were hundreds of seekers. A new seeker arrived—he created much turmoil. He was a thief, drank, gambled—had many ‘virtues’. At last all the disciples complained—Ba Yazid’s own things went missing. But Ba Yazid kept saying: Fine, we shall see. At last the limit came—the disciples gathered: This is too much. What is this? Why keep him here? Why not send him away?

Ba Yazid said: Listen, you are all good. Even if you go, you will find God somehow. But if he misses me—if I send him away—he has no chance. If he troubles you so much, you can go. But with him, our pact is sealed—now I must remain. And think: Apart from me, who will accept him? Suppose he is a thief, a drunk, a gambler—and my own things go missing too; he spares me not. But if God bears with him and I do not—God will never forgive me. Has God stopped his breath? Does God’s sun refuse to shine upon him? The moon and stars are not withheld. If God bears him—who am I to stand in the way? It is His will; His world. And what is mine—what will he steal? You may go—but I cannot bid him leave. If I bid you farewell, I can say to God: They were all good; they would have found You anyway. But if I send him away, what face shall I show when He asks: Where did you send him? Where is he? How did you let him go?

Even if the child errs a hundred thousand times, the mother never abandons him.

So Daya says: You are the source; from You we have come; we are Your children. Yes, we have erred much—this is true. Only errors have happened, nothing else—this is also true. All this is admitted. But does a mother abandon her child for this? Does she cease to be a mother? Therefore we petition: Master, hear our plea—again and again.

The ‘chakai’ bird rejoices at tomorrow’s dawn—
O Moon of Braj, do not turn even a moment from Daya’s eyes.

This is the prayer—no greater demand. Like the rain-bird that fixes its gaze upon the cloud—no great demand.

Do not turn even a moment from Daya’s eyes, O Moon of Braj.

Do not be away from my sight even for a moment—this is all I ask. No great treasure—not moksha, not heaven.

The bhakta asks for nothing. He says: Only let me not forget You. Let me remain in remembrance of You. Understand this difference: the knower falls short—for he asks for something. He says: I want bliss, I want moksha, I want merit, I want eternal life—want and want. The bhakta says: I want nothing; only do not let me forget You. Let me be in hell—no worry; let Your remembrance remain. Let the wires of my prayer remain tied to You—this is enough.

Do not turn even a moment from Daya’s eyes, O Moon of Braj.

On You alone I lean—
As the chakor leans upon the moon.

Upon You alone I stand; my eyes are fixed on You. You are my light; You my life; You my liberation.

On You alone I lean—
As the chakor upon the moon.

With whom else shall I quarrel now,
O Enchanter, son of Nanda?

A lovely line. Daya says: Now with whom shall I quarrel? With whom shall I bicker?

On You alone I lean—
As the chakor upon the moon.

With whom else shall I quarrel now,
O Enchanter, Nanda’s child?

Now I will quarrel only with You. You alone are—there is nothing else. If it must be—let the quarrel be with You; let dispute be with You; complaint be with You.

Understand the difference: You too complain; the bhakta too complains. But in your complaint there is no prayer. In the bhakta’s complaint, there is prayer. You go to God to ask something, to complain—This is like this, it should be like that…

The great Western thinker Emerson said: The essence of man’s prayers is only this: people go to God and say that two and two should not make four. You have stolen—there should be no punishment. You have sinned—there should be no suffering. Man’s prayers are that what should be—should not be. Let something else be, what you want should be. You want the arrangement changed.

Your prayer is desire. Your complaint is filled with anger. The bhakta too sometimes complains—but his complaint is full of love. Hear these words: With whom else shall I quarrel now… There is none other than You—You alone are. If I fight, it will be with You; if I love, it will be with You. If I am charmed, it will be by You; if I get annoyed, it will be with You.

On You alone I lean…

Now everything rests on You. Like the chakor fixed on the moon, my eyes are fixed on You. Now do not be angry.

There is yet another unique verse. Maitreya-ji, for some reason, did not include it among Daya’s songs. Perhaps he thought it quarrelsome and left it. He chose; he must have thought this a ‘troublesome’ song. But I cannot leave it—I relish the quarrel. The verse is:

The worst of sinners have crossed over—without delay.
Would it cost Nanda anything, O Lord, to ferry me now?

Hear it—what a delightful thing!

The worst of sinners have crossed—without delay.
Would it cost Nanda’s capital anything,
If our turn came now, O Lord?

Such courage! Would anything be lost from the Father’s treasury?

Would it cost Nanda anything—O Lord, our turn now!

Only we are being held back—while the great sinners have crossed! Only a bhakta can say this—only one whose heart holds nothing but love has this courage.

And another line—Maitreya-ji left this too:

How long has this poor one been calling—listen, O Lord, to this cry.
Do You hear only the high-pitched?
Or have You forgotten Your ancient renown?

I have been calling so long—do You hear not? Do You hear only those who cry from on high? Have You forgotten Your ancient fame—Your promise: sambhavami yuge-yuge, yadaa yadaa hi dharmasya—whenever dharma declines, in age after age I come? Have You forgotten Your big talk? Only I am tangled here.

Do You hear only the high-pitched—are Your ears failing?

Only a bhakta can speak thus—and these words are sweet indeed.

Have You forgotten Your renowned glory?

‘Renown’—Your famed name till now. Have You sunk Your reputation? Great was Your name—that You ferry sinners across, the Ferryman of ferrymen! Why then this obstruction in my case? Greater sinners than I have crossed.

Would it cost Nanda anything—O Lord, our turn now!

On You alone I lean—
As the chakor upon the moon.
With whom else shall I quarrel now,
O Enchanter, Nanda’s child?

This is the quarrel—the sweet quarrel of love.

Have you seen—lovers quarrel often! And quarrel increases the juice of love; it does not diminish it. Psychologists say that when husband and wife, lovers, stop quarrelling, understand—love is finished; peace has arrived. As long as quarrel continues, love is alive. Quarrel simply means attachment is there. Without attachment, what quarrel? You don’t quarrel with everyone. If your wife presses you to stop smoking or to stop drinking, it is because there is attachment, love—hence quarrel persists. Small skirmishes happen; but each deepens love. Quarrel is proof that there is still a longing for how you might be—that there is a desire to shape you, beautify you.

Quarrel is not necessarily enmity. Friends quarrel too—and then there is a taste in it. And here this is the ultimate love; beyond this there is no love. Bhakti is total love. So the bhakta quarrels with God. Only the bhakta has this courage. The knower is afraid—for his relation is a bargain. He thinks: What if He gets angry? The bhakta says: If You must be angry—be angry. For the bhakta knows You will understand; if Existence does not understand—who will? The bhakta knows even this I say is said out of love. In this quarrel there is no enmity—there is a deep friendship, a deep affection.

On You alone I lean—
As the chakor upon the moon.
With whom else shall I quarrel now,
O Enchanter, Nanda’s child?

Though in life we were parted many times,
The scenes that lived in the eyes did not fade.
My whole ego melts
And flows only toward You.
Whatever joys are familiar to me—
Each has some link with You.

The dreams we thought together—
Among countless strangers they alone are my own.
When all the clamour quiets,
Only then I hear Your voice.
What You loved most,
Among colors, that is the one I choose.
Wherever Your gaze once paused,
Evening lost its way again and again on those paths.

Whatever picture I see anywhere—
Your reflection descends.
Whichever word I hear—
Only Your name arises.
Scent in the breath, spark in the mind—
Every pore, every life in me is indebted to You!

The bhakta says: Whatever picture I see anywhere, Your reflection descends. Whatever word I hear—only Your name emerges. Every name becomes His; every form becomes His. All existence fills with His wave. The bhakta lives in a unique realm—where there is prayer, there is love, there is complaint, there is a sweet quarrel; sulking and cajoling; turning away and being wooed.

From the outside, the bhakta will certainly seem mad. Therefore those who have seen only from the outside could not understand the bhakta. There is only one way to understand the bhakta—become a bhakta. There is no other way. This taste is inner—if it touches you, it is yours. Standing outside, nothing will make sense. Therefore those who have studied bhaktas from outside—studied, not experienced—whatever they said about bhaktas is wrong. Ask psychologists about Meera, about Daya, about Sahajo—they will say these women are deranged, diseased.

But I tell you: If these women are diseased, then this disease is better than your health. If they are mad, this madness is a million times better than your cleverness. Abandon cleverness—purchase this madness. For that psychologist who calls them mad—look at him: no juice in his life, no radiance, no peace, no music. Life is dry—a desert; no oasis anywhere. In these bhaktas’ lives there are flowers upon flowers, greenness upon greenness, cascades upon cascades. If bhakti is to be madness—fine, be mad.

Bhakti has gradually vanished from the world—because people have begun to place too much trust in what outsiders say. Love too has vanished. Whatever was supreme is vanishing. What is futile remains. And then if your life loses meaning—what surprise? Everything is being stolen from you. A net of logic is destroying life’s wealth. The greatest of these treasures is bhakti; all others are lesser. For bhakti means relationship with God—a relationship of raga. Only such raga can bring color to your life. ‘Raga’ means color. Only that relationship can bring dance to your life; can bring flowers to bloom within.

Therefore Your Name’s glory is boundless—
As a tiny spark sets a dense forest aflame.

Daya says: I know the glory of Your Name is boundless.

Therefore Your Name’s glory is boundless.
Like a little spark that
Turns a dense forest into ash—
Let even such a small ember of Your Name fall within me,
And all my darkness will burn, my inner forest be consumed;
All my sins, my karmas, my endless mistakes through countless ages—
All burned. Let a tiny ember of Your grace fall upon me.

So the bhakta waits.

Bhakti means love. Bhakti means waiting.

Take a few steps in this direction. Merely understanding Daya’s words will not do. If they kindle a little thirst in your life—enough. Take two, four steps that way. Dare to be mad. If you cannot go mad for the Lord’s Name—you will not attain Him. To go mad means only this: I am ready to lose everything—even my cleverness.

What I call sannyas is just such a state of madness and ecstasy. My sannyas is not the old renunciation—no breaking with life, but a joining with it; not dispassion, but supreme raga; not escapism, but sinking roots deeply into life. For life is God’s—where to flee? And if you flee His creation, you flee God indirectly. To praise His creation is to praise Him. To praise the song is to praise the singer; to praise the sculpture is to praise the sculptor. To condemn the sculpture is to condemn the sculptor.

Therefore I say: This world is His. In every hair of this world, He is present. Be thrilled, expand, become vast. Take off the limits of your cleverness—and suddenly you will find the wonder: How did we miss God so long? He was so close, so near. To attain God—there is no miracle; the miracle is that we miss Him. That should not be. It is as Kabir said: I laugh seeing the fish thirsty in the ocean. This is laughable—being thirsty in God’s ocean. We are His very waves—and we are thirsty. The fish is born in the sea, lives in the sea, disappears in the sea—she is a wave of the sea. If a fish is thirsty in the sea—you will laugh. We are those fish—in the sea, and thirsty.

An old Hindu tale: A fish heard the word ‘ocean’ and grew curious: Where is the ocean? She began to seek, traveled far, asked other fish: Where is the ocean? They said: We have heard of it, it’s in the scriptures, the sages speak of it—but we are ordinary fish; who knows where it is? Perhaps it used to be—who knows if it is now? Or it may be that it is only talk—of poets, of dreamers! We have never seen the ocean.

The fish became anxious—and all the while she is in the ocean, as are those she asks. How can the ocean be known? You need distance from the ocean. The only way for the fish to know the ocean is if a fisherman catches her and throws her onto the shore—thrashing on the sand, she will know the ocean. The fish can be thrown onto the shore—but God has no shore; no fisherman can throw us out. Wherever we are—we are in God. For this reason we miss Him.

By your logic, thought, search—you will not find Him. Lose yourself—and you will find Him. Bhakti is the formula of losing.

Would that I were not a musk-deer—
Why then would my feet wander day and night?

In the musk-deer’s navel dwells the fragrance—he runs seeking it. ‘Musk rests in the navel’—but the scent seems to come from outside. How to know it is within? The nostrils open outward—the fragrance flows out and returns, filling the nostrils. The musk-deer runs mad.

Would that I were not a musk-deer—
Why then would my feet wander day and night?
If I had been a flower blooming somewhere,
I would not bear this curse of thirst.

Fragrance is in me too—but how vain—
Like wind it keeps me restless every moment.
Fragrance is in me too—but how vain—
Like wind it keeps me restless every moment.
Enchanted by self-delighting mantras,
I follow after my very self.

How many shores have I crossed,
And yet this sand does not end.
No track of a water-source is found—
And the sun never sets.

How shall I bear this double torment?
How long shall I beg shade for refuge?
This hour is so helpless, so without recourse;
Dream-struck consciousness lies near death.

Poisonous frustration will bite me—
Like a serpent it will coil and crush me.
How long can I live thus,
Licking the dew-drops of my ego?

Alas, what has happened to me?
What unseen touch has brushed me?

My breath returns—to depart again?
Have clouds come—to call me?
Who can tell me—
Is this my birth anew, or my death?

The musk-deer roams—seeking the fragrance hidden within. He runs and runs. The journey cannot end—how could it? He grows tired and falls.

Alas, what has happened to me?
What unseen touch has brushed me?
My breath returns—to depart again?
Have clouds come—to call me?
Who can tell me—
Is this my birth anew, or my death?

Wandering and wandering—you come near death. And we cannot know whether death is death—or the dawn of a new birth. If life itself we did not know—how will we know death? Missing life, missing death—this is certain. Life lasted seventy years and we could not awaken; death happens in a moment—how will we awaken then? Again and again you are born—and again and again you miss: you missed life, you missed death. And that which you seek—

Would that I were not a musk-deer—
Why then would my feet wander day and night?

—that musk is within you.

God is not only outside. God is the joining of the outside and inside. That Consciousness you seek—its ray is hidden within you. Catch hold there.

There are two ways. One is the seeker’s way: catch hold there—labor, effort. It is unlikely you will succeed. Once in a hundred, someone arrives by effort—and only he, who has the art of making effort without allowing ego to arise. That is rare—a Mahavira, a Buddha. The danger is that with effort, ego arises. Only the adept arrives by effort—the one who makes effort and yet does not allow ego to come in: egoless effort. Then one may reach. But that is a hassle. Effort itself is hard—making it egoless is harder. It is like attempting to turn poison into nectar. Effort and ego are like bitter gourd laced with neem—doubly bitter.

Most people have attained truth by prasad. For with prasad there is this convenience: ego cannot stand up there. You are not the doer—God is the doer. The danger of effort is not on the path of prasad.

Daya speaks of the path of prasad. Place yourself in the Lord’s hands. Let His will be done. Become an instrument.

Therefore Your Name’s glory is boundless—
Like a small spark that turns a dense forest into ash.

Let a small spark fall upon me, O Lord—let me burn like a forest and become ash. The moment the bhakta burns and becomes ash—empties, becomes zero, vanishes—that very moment the bhakta becomes God. The bhakta’s death is God’s birth in the bhakta. The bhakta’s death is God’s advent. Bhakti is the lesson of dying—for love is the lesson of dying. Only those who can die know love. Only those who are prepared for the Great Death know bhakti.

Be prepared—this can happen. Until it does, you are orphaned—and will remain orphaned. It can happen; it is very near. Open your doors and God will enter—like sunrays arrive when doors open, like fresh winds flow in when doors open. Do not sit with doors closed—sway, dance, hum. Offer gratitude to life. If you can be grateful for what has arrived—what has arrived is enough. What is—is much. Be grateful for what is—and more will arrive. Gratitude will bring more and more. As you grow grateful, your scale grows heavy. As you grow grateful, you become a vessel, and the Lord’s prasad begins to fill you.

But the entire path of bhakti is the path of the heart. Only those succeed here who are adept at going mad. Only those succeed who can weep and laugh with all their heart. Only those succeed who are unafraid to drink the wine of God. For after drinking that wine you will be unconscious—you will have no control over your life. Then when He moves you, you move; when He lifts you, you rise. And yet—He moves and lifts with such joy; life moves and rises with such delight. Now life is only sorrow; then it is only bliss. Your fear is only that you will lose control.

The one thing that obstructs the path of bhakti is this fear: I will go beyond my control; I will no longer be my own master.

If you would enthrone God as Master—you cannot remain your own master.

O Master, this is my petition…

If you would make Him Sahib—you must resign your own sahibhood. If you would make Him Master—you must step down from the throne. Step down! The moment you step down you will find—He was seated there; only because you sat, you did not see. Step down, bow before the throne—and you will behold His boundless light, His infinite radiance, His prasad filling you from every side.

Ramakrishna used to say: You paddle your oars needlessly. Hoist the sail! Put down the oars. His winds are blowing. They will carry your boat to the farther shore.

Bhakti is hoisting the sail; jnana is rowing the oars. With oars—you must labor. The sail fills with God’s winds—and the boat moves, without your doing anything.

Surrender—and unfurl the sail. Your doing has yielded nothing. Drop your trust in yourself. Walk with His feet. See with His eyes. Live in His way. Beat with His heart.

These sutras of Daya are unique—they can bring revolution to your life.

Like a small spark that turns a dense forest into ash—
If even one ember of these enters you, your darkness can be destroyed.

Whenever I have liked myself,
Only Your remembrance has come to me.
Whenever a new song was born on my lips,
Why did Your voice come to me then?
Whenever I stole the moon,
Only Your remembrance has come to me.

You are witness to my nights aching for creation;
You are the firmness in my working hands.
Whenever I have conquered time,
Only Your remembrance has come to me.

Whenever I have liked myself,
Only Your remembrance has come to me.

Once you drop the ego—you will be amazed. Even when you see yourself in the mirror—that alone will be seen. Forget others; in everyone else you will see Him—but even in your own reflection you will see only Him. Close your eyes and peer within—you will see Him. You walk—your footsteps are His. You sing—He hums. You dance—He dances. Once the ego is gone—His energy is your energy. Once ego is gone—His life is your life.

Enough for today.