Jas Panihar Dhare Sir Gagar #1

If the true ones would rise, the path would move
Even if I grow weary, let the caravan move on
The moon and the sun are the elders’ footprints
Let them go dark if they must — at least let the wind keep moving
Governor of this city — is this even a city?
The mosques are shut; then let the tavern stay open
Bring spades, open the layers of the earth
Where am I buried? Let there be some finding out

The human being’s life has one problem — and one solution. A man’s life is not burdened with many problems, nor does it need many solutions. There is only one problem: Who am I? And there is only one solution: to receive the answer to that. Every other problem rises from this single root. This one question is the root.

And this question is a maze. Those who go in search of the answer rarely find it; they get lost in the tangle. For so many answers have been offered — and any answer supplied from the outside never works. The answer must arise from within, and yet outside there stands a whole procession of answers — each eager to become your answer. Each answer tries to seduce you, persuade you, convince you: I am your answer. Naturally, the one in whose heart the question has arisen starts grasping at any answer that floats by. It is said, a drowning man clutches at a straw. Though no one has ever been saved by straw, if a drowning man sees one, he grabs it.

In just that way you have grasped many straws. But clinging to straw will not save you. The boat is within you. From where the problem arose, there is the solution hidden. Enter the very heart of the problem and the solution will be found. If the question were within and the answer outside, everyone would have found it long ago. The question is within — and the answer is within. So only those who go within find it.

So first, keep this in your awareness: Who am I? Do not take the answer from the scriptures. If you do, you will wander forever. Who am I? The answer must be taken from your own being.

No borrowed answer will work. All borrowed answers are false — not because those who uttered them knew nothing, but because this answer is of such a kind that no one can hand it to anyone else.

I may know and yet I cannot give it to you. And if I try to give, in the very giving it becomes false. If you try to receive it, the receiving itself will be dishonest. This is an answer that has to be sought. In the seeking it is forged; in the search it is born.

Someone is Hindu, someone Muslim, someone Christian — why? Because you accepted some answer from the outside. Why are you a Muslim? Because you accepted some outside answer. Then neither Hindu nor Muslim is religious; nor Jain, nor Christian, nor Jew. Religious is the one who accepts no answer from the outside, who turns to the inner search, who says: The problem is mine, the solution must be found by me. The question rose in the breath of my own life — from that very source the answer must arise. Somewhere there it lies hidden. The one who goes toward his own answer receives the reply. The one who goes into his own question receives the reply.

But we are habituated to wandering outside. We seek everything outside. We seek wealth outside. We seek position outside. We seek the solution outside. Neither wealth is outside, nor position, nor solution. In truth, these are different names for Samadhi. Call it wealth — it is a name of Samadhi.

Today we begin to speak of a fakir whose name is Dhani Dharamdas. Dharamdas was a disciple of Kabir. He was very wealthy — he had amassed much wealth, had status and prestige. When he came to Kabir, Kabir called him simply ‘Dharamdas.’ Then one day the flower blossomed. The inner soul awakened. The Master’s blow did its work. And Dharamdas scattered all his wealth. That day Kabir said to him: Dhani Dharamdas! Now you have become wealthy. Now your eyes have turned inward. Now your search is no longer outside. Now your clutch on the outer has gone slack.

Wealth is within, position is within — because Paramatma is within. What higher position could there be than That? Hence it is called the supreme station — Parampada.

Samadhi is within. And Samadhi is the solution to all questions and problems. That is why it is called Samadhi — where all dissolves into solution. When the answer is found, everything falls into place. As water quivers into bloom when the lotus opens, so when the lotus opens in the lake, the whole lake blooms with it. When the answer takes birth within you, not only your soul blossoms — your body too flowers. Not only your center — your circumference as well.

All is attained when the answer is attained. As the water blooms when the lotus blooms. Then you become truly wealthy.

There is only one quest: Who am I? And only one nuisance: outside, cheap answers are available. Free of cost. With nothing at stake. But this great answer cannot be had without putting your very being at stake.

Yesterday a young sannyasin came to me — Anand Kabir, a thoughtful youth, from an eminent family. His grandfather is renowned, with hundreds of disciples, a follower of Pushtimarg. Kabir’s taking sannyas has created a commotion. The grandfather is eighty-four — a special person of a special sect. He tells Kabir: Let me die first, then you may take sannyas. Do whatever you want after my death, but not while I live — it hurts my prestige. Kabir asked me: What should I do? It has become a great obstacle. I told him: If after walking a path for eighty-four years a man’s attachment to prestige has not faded, then nothing has been gained. Go explain to your grandfather — you too should take sannyas!

Prestige! Name! Fame! Prestige is given by others — what value is there in that? The wise have called self-resting the true prestige: to be established in oneself. He whose being no longer wavers is established. Whom no gust of wind can shake, who has become unmoving, wave-less. Tempests may come, storms may come, yet no ripple rises within. And one who has come to know will grant freedom to others. Freedom is the inevitable fragrance of knowing. He will honor the other.

But outer answers are cheap. People cling to them all their lives. Nothing is resolved; the tangle remains what it was. Answers from outside are self-deception. Beware of them.

Dhani Dharamdas was in just such a condition. He had wealth, position, prestige. Priests performed worship in his house. He had his own temple. He made many pilgrimages. Scripture recitations were held; all was comfortable; he kept company called satsang. Yet until he met Kabir, life was tasteless. No flower had opened in his life until he met Kabir. The very sight of Kabir created anxiety, stirred trouble; seeing Kabir, it became clear — I am empty, utterly empty. All these rituals, these rites, these priests and pundits have been of no use. All my worships have gone to water. What have I received? Seeing Kabir, he understood what receiving is; seeing one who had received, he knew what receiving means.

That is why people fear going to one who has found. For in his presence your own poverty and inner beggary may become too visible. People go to those as poor as themselves. There you feel no trouble, no anxiety, no sting.

Understand this a little: Ordinarily, people go to so-called saints to get consolation, not combustion. They say, we are not content — hence we go. We want comfort. We already have too much distress. But I tell you, when you come to a true sage, for the first time you will be filled with distress of the right kind. For the first time real concern will be born in your life. For the first time a whirlwind will rise. For the first time your eyes will open to the fact that all you have done till now was futile — and what is meaningful has not even begun. Naturally, your breath will tremble, your chest will quake. Then you will need heart to go further. But you will not be able to turn back either. Once your eyes have met those of a knower, you cannot return. Therefore people avert their eyes from the wise; they avoid their gaze. There is no difficulty in bowing at the feet of those who have nothing. But people tread carefully around the knowers. Getting attached to them is a hazardous bargain.

If, by going to a saint, you feel consoled, know this: he is no saint. Saints are not here to give consolation. With consolation you remain what you are — a little bandage, a little balm; the pain was there, now you forget it; the wound was there, now it’s covered; the anxieties were there, they are made to seem solved. In the presence of a real saint your anxieties, for the first time, come flooding up. For the first time your whole inner world of consolations collapses. You see yourself as a ruin. The wealth in your hands — trash. The knowledge you have — trash. Your character — worth two pennies. Your conduct, your prestige, your fame — without value. Naturally one feels afraid. But from that very fear, revolution begins.

At a saint’s feet you do not get consolation, you get a turning — a revolution. And when the revolution matures, one day consolation arrives too — but then it is no longer consolation; it is supreme contentment, inner fulfillment. It does not come as a gift from someone else. It blossoms from within when the lotus opens — and then all opens. It is not imposed from above.

Dhani Dharamdas was searching. He traveled to holy places, kept company with saints, collected consolations. Then, in Mathura, by fortune — though it felt like misfortune that day — he met Kabir. Kabir came like a storm and shook everything. The idol began to look like mere stone. The worship of the saguna became revealed as ignorance. Those rituals and sacrifices — blind beliefs. Kabir’s blow fell such that Dharamdas writhed. He fled Mathura, ran home. His home was in Bandhavgarh. But once a blow like Kabir’s has fallen, you cannot really escape. Wherever you run, Kabir will follow you. Wherever you go, his shadow will haunt your dreams. You have, for the first time, seen a man as a man should be — how will you forget? The restlessness grew. He still prayed, but the juice was gone, the enthusiasm was gone. He still set the plate in the temple, performed aarti, but there was no life in his hands. He listened to scripture, but now it became clear it was all rubbish. Others’ answers cannot be my answers.

Kabir’s blow made sleep impossible. He became sad, filled with concern. And another worry appeared: I ran away from a knower. I am weak, a coward. He had to return in search of Kabir. He went to Kashi and met him. He has sung the story of that meeting in his book Amarsukhnidhan. It is a lovely tale; Dharamdas’s words are worth understanding.

Dharamdas rejoiced in his heart
Once again that Man granted me his darshan

The one I had seen in Mathura — once again I beheld the same. The same light, the same bliss, the same dance.

Dharamdas rejoiced in his heart

He had left Mathura full of anxiety, agitated.

This happens here every day. Someone stumbles in by mistake and becomes upset. But the one who is disturbed today can be rejoicing tomorrow. The one who goes away agitated will return one day — he has to return. For one who goes away from here sick cannot be healed elsewhere.

He had to go to Kabir. He says: Dharamdas rejoiced in his heart! But this time, at the sight of Kabir, great joy arose. What had happened? Those four to six months spent as a fugitive from Kabir shook off all the dust. What Kabir had said grew into a lived truth. He had his own glimpse of it. Half the journey was done.

When the futile is seen as futile, it becomes easy to see the meaningful as meaningful. As long as you take the futile to be meaningful, the meaningful is hard to perceive. When you have believed the false to be true, the arrival of truth creates unease — because what you took to be true begins to fall apart. You invested in it for so many days — money, mind, time. Your vested interests grow around it. If a man has held one view for thirty years and suddenly hears something that makes those thirty years wrong, it takes great courage to accept that my thirty years went to waste. The mind resists; it tries to defend.

Through those months Dharamdas tried every way to defend himself. But Kabir’s blow had been such that the head had split open. The blow was heavy — everything became visible. What Kabir had said in Mathura proved itself: The idol is stone — whom are you worshiping? These priests and pundits you listen to are themselves two-penny hirelings. They themselves know nothing. They whisper into other people’s ears — but Existence has not yet whispered in their own. They guide others; they themselves have no path. No flower has blossomed in their hearts. They have no fragrance of their own. They are distributing truth while having no news of it. One by one, every point Kabir had made proved true over those six months. Half the work was done. Now Kabir’s words could no longer hurt; now they were cause for rejoicing.

Dharamdas rejoiced in his heart
Once again that Man granted me his darshan

The one from whom he had once fled in fear, he now approached again — rejoicing that Kabir gave him darshan. Kabir opened the same window again.

I pondered within my mind
His knowing is minted from the royal mint

This man has something. The coins are real, struck from the true mint. I have been dealing in counterfeit.

I pondered within my mind
He who boasts for two days is called a doer
None has fathomed his mystery

Today, for the first time, he looked at Kabir with love, with joy. The first time he must have looked with hesitation, with fear, keeping a distance, keeping a wall between — his beliefs, his biases, his concepts and doctrines — naturally there was a wall. He had seen Kabir through that wall. Today he looked with all those walls removed. In six months they fell away on their own.

If a true guru’s scent even reaches your ear, your hold on the false will not endure long. For a little while you can still deceive yourself — but only for a little while.

None has fathomed his mystery

For the first time he gazed to the brim. The Infinite stood before him. In this small body, a doorway to the Vast; a path opens to the Inconceivable.

Having said so much and pondering within,
Then Kabir looked toward him

What Kabir had said before — he had said. But a Master truly sets his gaze upon the disciple only when the disciple sits near him, rejoicing, over-brimming with love.

Junnaid has said: I was with my Master. For three years he did not even look toward me. I sat there, but he would not look. People came, conversations happened. I just sat. After three years he looked at me. I felt blessed. Then I sat three more years. Then, after three more years, he looked at me and smiled. I sat yet three more years. Then one day he touched me, placed his hand on my shoulder. Three more years passed; then he embraced me. Twelve years of sitting at the Master’s feet — and the hour of embrace arrives.

Then Kabir looked toward him

Understand this: when I say ‘the Master looked,’ I do not mean Kabir had kept his eyes closed the first time he saw Dharamdas, that Kabir had not seen him. He had seen him — with the outer eyes. But the Master has another eye. With that eye one sees only when the other is ready. That eye can enter you only when rejoicing opens the door within you. If inside you there are worries, anxieties, calculations of right and wrong, doubts standing guard, distrust and non-belief — the Master will not ‘waste’ that eye upon you. You have no need yet. When the need arises, that eye is placed within you. That glance is the real initiation. That is the joining with the Master. One glimmer of that eye — and the bond is formed; it never breaks thereafter.

Having said so much and pondering within,
Then Kabir looked toward him:
Come, Dharamdas, place your foot
Why do you peep from afar, timidly?

Come, Dharamdas — place your foot. The path is open. I am the path — place your foot.

Come, Dharamdas, place your foot
Now standing at a distance will not do. The first time Kabir had only demolished: Idolatry is wrong, ritual is wrong, prayer as you know it is wrong, scripture as you clutch it is wrong. He had refuted every image and concept of the saguna. This time he gave an invitation.

Come, Dharamdas, place your foot
Why peep from afar, so timid, so afraid!
Come near, come close. This coming-near is called satsang. Blessed are those whom the Master calls and says — come, Dharamdas, place your foot. Why peer from afar?

Say then — are you well? All is well?

Kabir speaks to Dharamdas:
Say, are you well? All is good?

We have long remembered your face

Do not think only the disciple seeks the Master. The Master seeks the disciple even more. The disciple’s search is blind, in the dark. He hardly knows what he seeks. The Master knows. The ancient Egyptian scriptures say: When the disciple is ready, the Master finds him. How can the disciple find? How will he recognize who the Master is? Even if he meets the Master, he will not be able to recognize him. A thousand obstacles and doubts will arise. I too say: the first step is taken by the Master, not the disciple. The first invitation comes from him.

Come, Dharamdas, place your foot
Why peer from afar, timidly?
Say — are you well, is all good?
We have long remembered your face

Kabir had seen Dharamdas in Mathura. That day Dharamdas could not recognize his Master, but the Master recognized his disciple. He must have seen the seed — the possibility of a tree, a day when flowers would open to the sky, his infinite potential. The Master had chosen him that day. Dharamdas did not know; how could he?

We have long remembered your face
We have recognized you, Dharamdas
Long have we waited to give you darshan
We shall speak much wisdom to you
And then you too shall recognize me

We have recognized you — now you recognize us. The Master recognizes first; then the disciple’s recognition becomes possible. The Master chooses first; then the disciple chooses.

Blessed, blessed — you have come again for darshan
Whosoever meets me shall not be lost for ages

Kabir says: Good — blessed it is that you came! Such respectful words these are. In the Master’s heart there is great respect for the disciple. If a so-called guru has no respect for the disciple, he is no guru at all; he has not understood. For what is the difference between disciple and Master? The difference is only on the disciple’s side — not on the Master’s. The Master knows: that which abides in me abides in him. In me it has awakened; in him it sleeps. But what difference do sleeping and waking make to the nature? The disciple feels the gap: I am where, and the Master where! I am full of darkness, the Master radiant. I have nothing, the Master has all. But the Master sees: what has flowered in me can flower in you — this very moment. It is your own treasure. There is no need to beg. No need to search elsewhere. Raise the curtain now — look within and receive now. Not even a moment’s delay is needed. Therefore the Master honors the disciple as much as the disciple honors the Master.

Blessed, blessed — you have come again
You have come! I waited, I kept watch. Whosoever meets me shall not be lost for ages. Once you meet me, do not merely come — become one, so that separation is no longer possible.

And so it was. Dharamdas never returned. He never looked back. Only cowards look back. The courageous look ahead. From there itself he gave everything away. He did not even return home to give it. What was the need? From there he sent word: Distribute it all. Let whoever needs take it. Tell the whole village: whoever wants, take what you will. He did not go back even to enjoy the pleasure of giving. For even in giving the ego swells — I am giving so much. If he had gone to relish that, a little ego would have thickened again. He would have accepted the value of wealth by going to distribute it — as if it were something precious to hand out. But wealth had lost all value. The moment his eyes met Kabir’s, everything was attained. He must have sent his attendants back: Go, I am gone. You return and share everything out. Settle it as it is. I will not be coming.

When Kabir says: Whosoever meets me shall not be lost for ages — then even this little separation I will not endure. Thereafter Dharamdas remained Kabir’s shadow. Among Kabir’s disciples who attained Samadhi, Dharamdas was one. And the day he gave everything away, Kabir called him Dhani Dharamdas.

There is a wealth outside, by which no one becomes wealthy — only a beggar. And there is the wealth within — by which one becomes truly wealthy. What is wealth? That which increases by sharing. What decreases by sharing is not wealth. This inner wealth is such that the more you share, the more it grows. Therefore Kabir called him Dhani — he had found the inexhaustible treasure, the wealth of all wealths.

Where disciple and Master meet, there Paramatma reveals Himself. In that moment of meeting, God manifests. Have you seen? When lover and beloved meet, a momentary pleasure of union arises; when disciple and Master meet — it too is the meeting of lover and beloved, in a wholly different dimension — then Samadhi flowers. When lovers meet, biological life appears, a child is born. Where disciple and Master meet, God is born — the source of life reveals itself.

By giving all away Dharamdas became wealthy. His utterances are incomparable. Today we begin the journey through them:

When the Guru is found, he is a dweller of the Unreachable.

Agam means: where the mind has no reach. As far as the mind can go, there is no need of a Master; there your mind itself is your master. Where mind fails, tires, stops, balks — from there the Master is needed. That is why the clever are often deprived of the Master. They live in the delusion that their mind will serve always. They think the journey ends where the mind reaches; beyond it, nothing is. When a man says, There is no God — what is he saying? He is saying: He lies outside my mind. And whatever lies outside my mind — how can it be? Whatever lies inside my mind is all that is. My mind is the criterion of existence.

This is utter foolishness. Mind is not the criterion of reality. In life you know many things beyond mind — love, for instance. You fall in love with some woman or some man — there is nothing logical in it. The cleverest man goes mad in love just as the stupidest does. There is no difference. Hence the wise call love blind. The rational call love irrational. But love is — you cannot deny it. It lies beyond the mind — and yet it is. The mind cannot grasp it — and yet it is. The mind cannot define it — and yet it is. Prayer is the same, only higher. So is Paramatma. They are loftier forms of love. There, mind has no movement. Such people have been called residents of the Unreachable — Agam.

When one begins to feel: Wherever my mind can take me, existence does not end there; it stretches beyond — then the need for a Master is felt. Let me take the hand of one who has gone further. I am not an enemy of mind. Where the mind leads, go along with it. But when mind says, Here is my boundary, do not stop there; beyond lies the essential, the valuable, the Ultimate.

When the Guru is found, he is a dweller of the Unreachable.

When you meet one who dwells in that beyond, then know — the Master is found. It is not that all he says is against the mind; it is beyond the mind — it may look contrary only because it is beyond.

Kabir’s utterances are not opposed to reason. He is a highly rational being. Few saints on this earth have had such a luminous logic. Kabir is utterly lucid. He does not speak what cannot be borne by the mind. But he does not stop there. He takes you with the mind as far as it can go, and when it ends he says: Now leap — into the beyond of mind. What is beyond the mind is not against it — only ahead of it.

Mind has a boundary; existence is boundless. Mind is small — a tiny skull. How much can fit in there? That even as much as we understand is possible is itself a miracle. If, in a person’s words and in his presence, you glimpse something of the yonder, take hold of him. He has a secret. Learn that secret.

When the Guru is found, he is a dweller of the Unreachable.

Set your heart upon his lotus feet; when the Satguru is found, he is deathless.

Here, all are subject to death. In that sense, even Kabir is mortal. But when, filled with discipleship, you sit at the Master’s feet, look into his eyes in silence, then it becomes visible: the body is mortal, but within it dwells the deathless nectar. He in whom you glimpse that nectar — he is your Master.

How do you choose your master? Born in a Jain home — so a Jain monk is your guru? You do not glimpse nectar, you know nothing of the beyond, yet by conditioning you’ve been taught: This should be so; and he is doing that — not eating at night, filtering water — so he is guru! What standards are these? By what petty measures do you choose your teacher? Born Brahmin — so a Brahmin guru; born Muslim — so a Muslim guru. Is it so easy to find a guru?

He should be a dweller of the beyond — whether Hindu, Muslim, or Christian — what difference does it make? Brahmin or shudra — what difference? He should be a possessor of nectar. From whose eyes you hear the chime of nectar; into whose eyes you gaze and feel something eternal there. In the beginning, it will only seem so — a slight taste, a faint glimmer. Move on the strength of that glimpse, and gradually the experience will deepen.

Set your heart upon his lotus feet.

The scriptures call a Master’s feet lotuses. Why? Because the thousand-petaled lotus has opened in his head — the sahasrar. Yogis speak of seven chakras. The first is the muladhar — from which sexual energy rises, where desire springs. Most people live there and die there. The last chakra is the sahasrar. When the sexual energy rises and rises to its ultimate height, the lotus opens in the sky of your consciousness. Lotus is a symbol: as from muck the lotus blooms, so sexual energy is like mud; from this mud a mysterious force rises and blossoms on your awareness like a lotus — the thousand-petaled lotus. ‘Thousand’ is only an indicator — petals beyond counting: the lotus of the Infinite, the lotus of the Unreachable.

One in whose consciousness that lotus of the beyond has opened — even his feet, if you take hold of them, you are blessed. Why? Because when the ultimate has blossomed, the first has blossomed too. Understand this: you are a unity. What happens in your consciousness spreads through your whole being. If your awareness is whirling around lust, then even if someone touches your head he is touching lust — your head is impure. In your head obscene thoughts revolve; your head is not worthy of touch. When the lotus of Rama, of love, of God, blooms in one’s consciousness, even his feet carry that awakening. Touching his feet, you will hear the whisper of the Divine.

One point: you are indivisible. In lust, you are wholly lust; in Rama, you are wholly Rama. Another: the disciple can only bow at the feet — for he has to receive. To receive, one must bow. The more you bow, the more you will be filled. To accept, to take in — you have to bend.

Set your heart upon his lotus feet; the Satguru is deathless.

Take even his cooled leftovers as Prasad.

If even the crumbs of the Master’s leavings fall to you, they are Prasad.

Take his cooled leftovers — and the eighty-four is cut.

Seet-prasadi means: even the Master’s remnants are nectar. Whatever nectar has been touched becomes nectar.

These are symbols — very lovely symbols born only in this land, for only here has the flight to such heights been taken. A Westerner cannot understand why one should bow at someone’s feet. Because he does not know: there is an art of bowing — certain treasures are found only by bowing.

Some treasures are gotten by fighting: wealth, position, prestige — you must struggle for these. If you bow you will not get them. You need a will, you need ego, you need aggression, you need violence. If you go about bowing in the marketplace, you will be crushed. There you must maintain your swagger. Even if you have not a penny, walk as if millions lie in your bank; that works. Even if you have nothing within, let no one know; let Diwali glow outside though there is bankruptcy within. The world runs by outer show.

Banks lend to those who do not need loans. Those who need are refused. It’s a strange world. The manager seeks out the man who doesn’t need money and urges: Please take some. The one in need pursues the manager — gets nothing. Who gives to the needy? So the worldly wise never show their poverty in the bazaar. If you do, you are finished. You cannot survive. There you must stand upon your pride. Let no whisper reach anyone that your condition is bad. There, even if you have nothing, you must display. Even if the telephone is not connected in your office, bring a dummy set and place it on the desk. The line is not needed as much as the look of it. Never talk in thousands — talk in lakhs. Though you have only coppers at home, speak of lakhs. The market stands upon ego.

There is another world where these very things become obstacles. Go to the Master and flaunt your knowledge — you will miss. The Master does not look at what you display — he looks at what you are. You cannot hide from his gaze. His eyes are transparent — X-rays. He sees within. He sees you are empty and poor. Your bankruptcy is visible. The lamps you carry in your hands are borrowed — borrowed oil, borrowed wicks, borrowed light. You cannot deceive the Master with these lamps. There, fall at his feet. Declare your poverty. The declaration of your poverty is the proof of your wealth to come. Go to the Master like a hollow — so that he can fill you. Do not go in the pride of being full, for then there is no room to fill. The one who goes puffed up misses. The one who goes poor, a beggar, saying, I have nothing; I am an empty vessel — fill me, the one who bows...

And if even a morsel of the Master’s leftover falls into your hand — take his seet-prasadi! That is Prasad. Whatever has been touched by the Master’s lips — that is Prasad. What the Master speaks is Prasad. Keep it with care — it is treasure. Many times it will seem of no use to you. If not today, tomorrow it will be. The Master is preparing you for the ultimate journey. Who can say what will be needed when? If the Master has spoken it, it is of use. Do not keep your own accounts: If it suits me, I will keep it; if not, I will discard it. If you rely on your own reckoning, you will miss. Your mind cannot understand these matters. Even if the Master strikes, accept it as grace. The blow too is for your good. Be naked before the Master. Leave everything open. Hide nothing, save nothing. If you receive even his leftovers — his seet-prasadi — accept it. Let it become your food. Let it nourish you. Then the eighty-four is cut!

There will be no more returns. One who has seized the Master does not return again and again. He is spared this wheel — the agony of birth and death, the long journey through hells. Ego drives these travels — these eighty-four lakh wombs, this coming and going through hells — ego is the fire that burns in hells.

You have heard that in hell fires burn and you are burned there — where does that fire’s fuel come from? You carry it with you. Your ego is that fuel. The truth is, you need not go to hell to burn — you are burning now. As long as there is ego, there is burning, pain, sorrow.

To hold the Master’s feet means: ego surrendered. What else does surrender mean but this — Not I, but Thou. One has been found before whom we can say: Not I, but Thou. Abide Thou in my heart. I withdraw. I empty the throne; come, sit.

Why seat the Master upon the heart’s throne? For one reason only: so that ego may fall. The Master does not sit there. He does not fill your throne. He is only a device — a means for your ego to drop. The moment ego falls, you will find not the Master on the throne but God. Hence the Master is called Bhagwan. You invite the Master — and God comes. The Master never sits there. And if some ‘master’ does sit upon your throne, the eighty-four begins again. That one is no Master, who sits upon your throne. He is only a device to drop the ego. The moment ego is gone, the Master does not sit there — God enters.

Buddha used the word upaya — a device. To place your head at the Master’s feet does not mean his feet take residence in your heart. In the very attempt to enthrone him, ego slips away. The instant ego leaves, Paramatma enters.

Kabir has said: Guru and Govind stand together; whose feet shall I touch first?

As ego goes, they stand together before you — Guru and Govind. Blessed is the Guru who points toward Govind and says: Now seat Him. My work is done. My work was like a medicine. Your disease was ego; I was the remedy; here is health. Govind has come. The disease is gone; let the medicine go too. What will you do with medicine now? Now perfect health descends — embrace that. The Master frees from the world and unites with the Divine. The journey of countless births ends suddenly — and another journey begins: of the Infinite, of the Unreachable.

Nectar-drops begin to drip within the vessel when one bows to the sainted.

As soon as you bow, you will find nectar dripping within your vessel. Remain stiff — you remain full of poison. Stiffness breeds poison. Hence the ego-filled are always unhappy.

Nectar drips within the vessel! The one who bows finds nectar dripping within. This is the drink of the saints — their lassi, their sweetness. This is their wine.

Dharamdas prays with folded hands: Let the essence-word abide in the mind.

Dharamdas says: With hands folded I pray, in just this way I found — you also find. This was the path by which I arrived — you too arrive.

Let the essence-word abide in the mind.

What is the Saar Shabd — the essence-word? Allow the resonance of one who has known, who has attained, to enter you. Leave all doors open for it. Invite its rays, drink them in. Drink the Guru. Digest the Guru. Let the essence-word dwell in the mind.

And as you allow the Master to settle within, and allow his voice to echo in you, you will be amazed. What miracle occurs? As the Master’s word begins to enter you unimpeded, the word that has slept within you for lives awakens.

Imagine: you are asleep. I come and say, ‘Wake up.’ What happens within? Not my word works — it only startles. In that startling, your own capacity to awaken stirs. The power to wake is within you. You will awaken. The Master’s word only resounds the sleeping word within you. His presence fills you with remembrance of the God asleep within. Again and again he throws you upon yourself — he strikes, he soothes, he does not allow you to flee. He does everything to quicken the seed of consciousness within you into sprout.

Dharamdas prays with folded hands: Let the essence-word abide in the mind.

Such is the nectar of the Name, brother.

Naam-ras is such that when it falls into you, the Rama asleep within awakes.

Such is the nectar of the Name, brother.

First it burns as it moves forward — and then behind, all turns green.

A very lovely saying. If you dive into this nectar, at first it burns you — afterwards it greens you. First it nails you to a cross — and on that very cross the throne is fashioned. First it kills — and in that very death a new birth arises: first it burns, then it greens.

So do not flee the Master in fear, for first he will burn you.

That is what happened in Mathura. When Dharamdas met Kabir — first it burned. Kabir poured fire upon him: All is hypocrisy — your worship, your rituals, your temple and your idols and your scriptures — all hypocrisy! Fire must have rained. One who has lived all his life in idol worship, who has installed God in the temple with ceremony, who has kept scriptures upon his head — to hear this shocks and burns, wounds are made. For six months that burning remained. And then when he went to Kabir:

Dharamdas rejoiced in his heart
Once again that Man gave me darshan

Then joy arose, bliss arose. Then all became green. This unique process: first it dries and burns; when you are utterly dry, new leaves and flowers sprout. One must be freed from the old for the new to be born. Otherwise nothing happens. You are crushed under the past — drop that ash of the past and the hidden ember will appear.

Blessed is the tree whose root is cut — and fruit appears.

In Mathura he thought Kabir had cut his roots — the roots of religion. Those who first come to me think I am cutting the roots of religion. This is the destruction of religion, they say.

Blessed is the tree whose root is cut — and fruit appears.

He first thought the root was cut; now, Dharamdas sees — fruit has appeared. This is the secret of life. Here too the tree of life is such: one who cuts the original root — jiveshna, the craving to live — he tastes freedom. The desire to live — to live and live forever, never to die; to remain, and remain — this basic craving is the root. Because of this very root you die and die again. You want to live — and because of desire you die again and again. One who cuts this root, this jiveshna, dies no more. He becomes nectar.

It looks like an upside-down statement — but many truths of life are paradoxical. Run after wealth and you remain poor; turn your back to wealth — Dhani Dharamdas! You become wealthy. Chase respect and you harvest insult; become indifferent — and respect comes. Life is very strange: Bina maange moti mile; maange mile na choon — without asking, pearls are granted; by asking, not even flour. Those who have everything — you will find they have nothing; and some who have nothing have all. You meet emperors among beggars — and beggars among emperors.

Who attained life’s supreme experience? Those who renounced the craving for life: a Buddha, a Mahavira, a Kabir, a Nanak. Abandoning the craving, they attained the supreme life. What flowers in their being never blooms in an Alexander or a Tamerlane or a Nadir Shah! What blossoms in Buddha never blossoms in Adolf Hitler. And the wonder is — Hitler wants to live, to live always; Buddha says, If death comes this moment, I am ready — not a moment’s delay. The one who is thus ready for death has nectar trembling in his eyes. The one who fears death — how does he live? He dies every day — the coward dies a thousand deaths.

Blessed is the tree whose root is cut — and fruit appears.

The root of the tree of life is attachment, jiveshna. Cut it — and the fruit of liberation appears.

At first it is very bitter, very sour, very dense — such is its taste, brother.

From his own experience Dharamdas says: when first I tasted, it was very bitter. In Mathura, it was very bitter.

At first it is very bitter, very sour, very dense — such is its taste, brother.

When the Satguru is met, keep in mind: at first it tastes bitter. Beware of what feels sweet at the beginning, for that sweetness is a lure. It wants to trap you. That sweetness is fabricated. The real fruit is bitter at first.

The knower’s word tastes bitter. His word pulls the ground from under your feet. You were walking smoothly — he throws you into confusion. Everything was going nicely — and he creates difficulty. You regret having heard him: What ill-fated moment led me to this man! It would have been better not to have gone. What kind of satsang is this — that even day-and-night peace is gone? You used to visit the mosque, read the Quran, go to the temple, donate a few coins — all went smoothly. The world was fine, the next world managed. Feed a Brahmin, perform a Satyanarayan katha — it was a cheap religion, convenient.

And now this: Satyanarayan katha will do nothing; feeding a Brahmin will do nothing; many so-called Brahmins are no Brahmins at all — find one who knows Brahman, then you have met a Brahmin. No one becomes a Brahmin by birth in a Brahmin home. This is troublesome. Where to find a true Brahmin, a knower of Brahman? The ground slips from under your feet — so it tastes bitter.

This happens here daily. People come and say: We came for consolation; the few consolations we had left were broken too. We thought all was fine — a little further on this path and it would be fine. But our foundations are uprooted. You shook our base. Now we can never be at ease again. Even if we go to the temple, there will be a tremor: What am I doing? There is no essence here. There will be no enthusiasm. You have destroyed our religion; and your religion — who knows how far it is, what it is, whether we can reach it or not.

At first it is very bitter, very sour, very dense — such is its taste, brother.

Practice, practice — and practice ripens; only the intoxicated can eat that fruit.

But if one continues to practice, practice ripens the practitioner. Then it is sheer nectar. Only the ‘amli’ — the intoxicated in love for Truth — can eat it, one who is ready to pay any price, who says: To seek Truth, if I must lose all, I am willing; I will save nothing. Only he can taste that fruit.

Why is the fruit of truth bitter at first? In itself it is not. You have been habituated to the taste of untruth. Habit makes even poison seem sweet. The first time you drink alcohol it tastes acrid. You wonder why people drink it at all. Mulla Nasruddin drank; his wife, as all wives do with drunkards, tried to dissuade him. She lectured and lectured. One day she tried another plan. When Mulla went to the tavern, she followed. He was drinking merrily with his companions. She sat at the table. Mulla was nervous — his veiled wife in the tavern! She said: Today I will drink too. She said it to shock him. She didn’t know about mixing with soda. She gulped raw liquor as if it were water — and grimaced: This is poison! Mulla said: And you thought we were enjoying ourselves here? Now you know it is hard stuff!

The first time liquor tastes bitter; keep drinking and even liquor grows sweet. You have swallowed untruth for lives. Untruth is poison — but by practice it has become flavorful. And when untruth tastes sweet, truth will taste bitter — for truth is the very opposite. Hence, at first, truth tastes bitter. Hence Kabir seems harsh; hence the Master pierces like an arrow. It is the result of your bad habits — nothing else.

The first cigarette brings cough and tears; keep at it and the cough stops, the tears stop — then you cannot do without. Habit forms even to poison. Then poison seems sweet.

For lives you have practiced untruth. When truth first strikes your ear, you will not find it appealing. You have become accustomed to stench; fragrance does not register. Noise has become your habit; silence feels cutting. You are trained in words; the wordless frightens. The crowd is your comfort; you cannot sit alone. You must have the crowd.

At first it is very bitter, very sour, very dense — such is its taste, brother.

Practice, practice — and practice ripens; only the intoxicated can eat that fruit.

But keep practicing — when habit can make poison taste sweet, nectar will certainly be sweet. Practice simply means: you will drop the habit of poison; the illusion that poison is sweet will vanish. That day the taste of nectar is known for the first time — that taste is liberation.

Those who merely sniff it go mad — those who drink it, die.

Lovely words. Dhani says: Those who only smell this rasa of truth go mad. Because what you call sanity is a kind of madness. What is your sanity? Gather money and die — and take none with you. Spend a life gathering what you cannot carry beyond death — is this sanity? In gathering it you never slept peacefully, never rested; life was spoiled, and all you gathered lay behind. This you call sense? People call this sanity.

So when Dharamdas gave his wealth away, people said: He has gone mad. The market said: He’s finished. He used to do bhajan, kirtan — it was all fine. Then he got entangled with Kabir — hypnotized by him — and went mad. People always say: We knew it from the beginning! He went to fairs and temples and to what he called satsang with wrong people. Now he is ruined. He has struck his own foot with an axe.

The worldly will call sannyasins mad. And sannyasins will call the worldly mad. And if you ponder deeply, you will see: the worldly are mad. For the sannyasin gathers what remains even in death — meditation, not money; attention is his treasure. He does not collect status; he collects love — love is his status. He does not stockpile the trivial; he prepares the vessel to receive God. He purifies himself so that when God pours, he is ready. He does only what is essential. Imagine you go to the seashore — there lie diamonds and there lie pebbles. You pick pebbles; the sannyasin picks diamonds. You will call him mad because you think your pebbles are diamonds. He will call you mad because he knows what the diamond is.

Remember also: the sannyasin knows the world too; you do not know sannyas. His word has greater weight. He has known both. Like a young man and an old one: we honor the old because he has known youth and old age; the young know only youth. So we honor the sannyasin over the worldly — his experience is of this world and that, of outer and inner.

Practice, practice — and practice ripens; only the intoxicated can eat that fruit.

Those who merely sniff it go mad — those who drink it, die.

To go mad in meditation is to attain the ultimate intelligence. To die in meditation is the beginning of immortal life. The cross is rebirth.

Those who merely sniff it go mad — those who drink it, die.

Therefore I say — I teach death. Only through death will you know life.

He who drinks the nectar of the Name — his head vanishes from his trunk.

Whosoever drinks Naam-ras finds suddenly that the body remains but the head is gone. Head gone — meaning: ego gone. No more stiffness. The head is your stiffness.

He who drinks the nectar of the Name — his head vanishes from his trunk.

In this connection, remember Kabir’s meditation experiment for his disciples. It is significant and useful for you. He told them: Stand before a mirror. Look at your head in the mirror and create a single inner feeling: I have no head. This head that appears — is not. It is a hallucination. Go deep into this feeling: the head is illusion, not there. I have no head. With two, four, six months of steady practice, you will be astonished — one day in the mirror, the head will not appear. You will be frightened.

If you do not believe me, ask Swabhav sitting there behind. I gave him this experiment. One day great panic arose — the head was gone. If you stand before the mirror and the head does not appear, you will panic — What has happened! Now I am mad. The family will say: He is finished. He has gone insane.

But once you see that the head is not, a supreme peace descends. All becomes silent within. Then there is no stiffness.

That is why we place the head at the Master’s feet: Take my ego. I am tired. Remove my ego. The head has to be lost — only those who dare to lose it become sannyasins.

Those who merely sniff it go mad — those who drink it, die.

He who drinks the nectar of the Name — his head vanishes from his trunk.

He alone attains the saints’ panacea whose knowledge is illumined.

Dharamdas has drunk and been filled to overflowing — let some slave come and drink from me too.

He alone attains the saints’ panacea whose knowledge is illumined.

One must have the courage to be mad in the world’s eyes, the audacity to lay down one’s head. Only then is that supreme medicine attained — javarish: the panacea, the Samadhi in which all diseases disappear; hence it is called the medicine.

He alone attains the saints’ panacea whose knowledge is illumined.

When this Samadhi flowers, this supreme remedy descends, this Sanjivani arrives — there is light. That light is called knowing. Knowing does not come from scripture. When the lamp of Samadhi is lit within, the light that arises is knowledge — illumination.

Knowing is not information; it is experience. What you ordinarily call knowledge is like an account of light told to a blind man, or music described to the deaf — it has no value. Let the blind man’s eyes open — then there is light. And only experience is knowing. Therefore I told you at first: there is one question — Who am I? And one answer. But the answer is within you, and you look outside, hence you do not find it.

Dharamdas says: I have drunk and am overflowing. Let some servant come and drink from me too.

I am overflowing, brimming, spilling over. If someone else has the courage, let him also come and drink from me.

But one must be ready to be the servant of God. Ownership does not work there. Will-power does not work there — surrender works. There, victory lies in bowing; victory lies in defeat. You have heard it said often: In love, defeat is victory. And with God there is the supreme love — there is the supreme defeat. There you will lose utterly; become the poorest of the poor; lose everything; fall at His feet empty. There victory blossoms.

Dharamdas has drunk and is overflowing — let some humble servant come and drink too.

For those among you ready to be servants, this is the invitation.

These words of Dharamdas can become a cause of revolution in your life. Listen to them awake, with the heart, in deep absorption.

Enough for today.