Jas Panihar Dhare Sir Gagar #10

Divya! There is a difference—and not a small one, a vast difference, earth and sky apart. In wanting there is aggression. In thirst there is only thirst. Wanting goes out to search. Thirst waits. Wanting is active; thirst is passive. Wanting is masculine; thirst is feminine. In wanting there is, to a lesser or greater degree, violation. In thirst there is only eager waiting. Wanting means: “I will obtain it.” The emphasis is on “I,” on getting, on one’s own power—on the ego.

Thirst says: If you come to me, it is my good fortune. If you appear, I am blessed. In thirst the emphasis is not on “I.” In thirst, “You” is important, not “I.” Effort is not important; grace is important. If his grace descends, it happens. Wanting relies on oneself; thirst relies on him. That is why I say wanting becomes an obstacle. Those who set out to search for God actively—like aggressors, like the violent—never attain God. God is not found by searching; when you yourself are lost, he is found.

Kabir has said: Searching and searching, O friend, Kabir himself was lost. I was searching—searching and searching—and I got lost. And when I was lost, then the meeting happened.

In wanting, the “I” remains. Wanting is the extension of the “I.” Thirst is the extinguishing of the “I,” its erasing. Thirst says, I am not; You are. Wanting says, I will show the world that I am somebody. Wealth I acquired; meditation too I will get. Position I achieved; God too I will secure. Wanting wants to clench its fist around God. Wanting would lock even God in a safe, keep him as bank balance.

Thirst is only the opening of the heart. Come, if you will. If you do not come, I will weep—what else is there to do? If you come, I will dance. If you do not come, what complaint can I make? What merit do I have? Understand the difference. The difference is vast. Wanting says, How can you not meet me? We will plan, devise means, do yoga, chant, practice austerities, go on pilgrimages. Whatever can be done, we will do. We will fulfill all conditions, prove our worthiness. How can you not meet me? You will have to. Wanting says, My efforts will not go in vain. Effort bears fruit.

Wanting is the mood of self-exertion. Wanting does not truly acknowledge God; it makes even God into its object—just as once it made wealth an object, then position, then fame, so now God. Wanting is Alexander, off on a campaign of conquest, eager to plant its flag over the world.

Thirst is humble. What journey of conquest? The longing is to be defeated at his feet—so utterly defeated that nothing remains, to become empty in every way. Thirst knows how to disappear; wanting does not. Wanting is a way of stuffing the self.

If this distinction sinks in, you will not find contradiction in my words. I keep saying: If you desire, you will miss; if you search, you will never find. And yet I also say: total thirst is needed, deep yearning is needed. Without yearning, how will his descent happen? You have nowhere to go; open the doors and windows. Thirst does only this: it opens its doors and windows. When the sun comes, light will enter. When the wind blows, its waves will come inside. When God wishes to come, thirst says only this: You will not find me asleep. When you come, you will find me standing on the threshold.

Did not Dharamdas say it? Wait; stand; abide. Do not search—and find. Let there be such thirst that no one remains within who knows the thirst. Let there be only thirst, from this shore to that.

Not only the heart lies in pieces;
even the core is shattered into shreds.

Let every hair break off, let each breath ignite.

Who knows whether this is a sigh or what—
a kind of fire has come upon the tongue.

Prayers stuffed with empty words have no value. Let some fire come onto the tongue. Begin to burn within yourself, to writhe. The fire of separation is the one sacrifice worth performing. If you have to deceive the world, there are many sacrifices. If you want to call upon God, there is only one: become ablaze. Let a flame rise within you—so high that everything else burns away and only the flame remains.

A devotee weeps his pain, his separation. He sings his good fortune. Why? Pain, because God has not yet been met; good fortune, because at least the thirst has been granted. If thirst has come, half the union has already happened. The union is not yet, but separation has—what less is that? In this world, the truly unfortunate are those who do not even know separation. Union is a far-off matter. Union comes at the fulfillment of separation. More unfortunate are those in whose hearts there is no feeling of longing, who do not even sense that something is being lost.

For how long shall I restrain my tongue from pleading my state?
What have your ever-changing glances left undone?

A devotee presents his state—his arz-e-haal. He offers his pain, he weeps his separation. But in this there is not only sorrow. It is not mere complaint. Alongside, a song is joined, a mood of bliss as well. Bliss, because you have shown me such grace—what less than grace is it that you have given me thirst? Here there are millions who have no thirst at all. You have given me thirst—what more could I ask? If there is thirst, there will be a lake. If there is thirst, there will be fulfillment. If there is no thirst, what lake, what fulfillment?

Understand clearly the difference between the two. Avoid wanting; drown in thirst. Thirst takes you there; wanting leads you astray. Wanting is the world; thirst is prayer.

It is a question, and yet it is not. Something has been asked, and something has been said. It is Radha Mohammad’s question.

“Neither thought nor understood, neither learned nor known—
it came to me by itself: the heart attached itself.”

In this world, whatever is truly important comes by itself. Only the useless has to be learned. Universities teach the useless. There is no need to teach the meaningful.

Mathematics does not come without being taught; love comes without instruction. Logic requires teaching; trust descends untaught. Knowledge must be learned; devotion arrives unannounced. No one knows from which direction, or when like a flood it will come and sweep you away. What is essential in life is unlearned. If you seek the essential, understand this element of the unlearned.

A child is born—who teaches it to breathe? It has never breathed before. In the mother’s womb the child does not breathe on its own; it lives by the mother’s breath. After birth, the most crucial moments are those two or three when the child has not yet taken a breath. It has come out of the womb but has not yet inhaled. Who teaches it to breathe? Without that breath there will be no life—ever. From where does the breath come? How do the nostrils fill with life? Who blows it in? Do you ever wonder about these mysteries of life? No one teaches it. The child has never breathed before; there is no prior experience. And yet the event happens. For a moment the parents, the doctor, the nurses are all stunned: will this child cry, weep, scream—or not? That crying, that weeping and screaming, is simply the proof of breathing—the first device for breath. The baby’s first cry is its first way of breathing.

In the same way, the day you cry out for the Divine, that cry is the first device for attaining the Divine. But it is not something of your doing. What will you do?

The child breathes; the journey of life has begun. The most important step has been taken—none more important will come later. And it was taken unlearned—no school, no training. It happened of itself. It is self-born—or say, it happened by the Divine. The word “Divine” means nothing more than this: that which happens by itself. What you do is man; what happens by itself is the Divine.

Then one day you fall in love. As one day life began, so one day love begins. That too is not learned; there are no schools for it. It also happens. And whatever is important in life keeps happening just like this.

You know—we sometimes say of a poet that he is “born a poet.” What does it mean? Only that poetry has happened to him of itself. The rest are rhymesters who have learned. You can learn a language, grammar, the rules of meter; how many syllables should be there and how many not—you can learn it all, yet remain a maker of rhymes. Poetry will not be born. The birth of poetry is inborn: if it happens, it happens; if it does not, it does not. By technique you may deceive the world, but you will not be able to deceive the Divine.

Search within and see how many things are happening unlearned. Wherever the unlearned is happening, there is the hand of the Divine. What happens by learning is man’s contrivance. From man’s contrivance machines can be made, not life. Man’s contrivance can produce dead things; the flow of life is not in human hands. The very flow of life is what we call religion—the current that holds all life together.

A German thinker once came to Ramana Maharshi and said, “I have come from far away to learn the truth. Teach me.” Ramana raised his eyes and looked at him. He was a man of few words. He said only this: “If you want to learn, go somewhere else. If you want to unlearn, stay.” Strange words: If you want to learn, go elsewhere; if you want to unlearn, if you want to forget even what you have learned, then remain here.

I say the same to you: the true guru is the one in whose presence your knowledge melts. Where your knowledge increases, there you will have found an instructor, a teacher—not a guru. If your information gets added to and you return having learned more, understand that there was a teacher. A teacher teaches; he gives education. A guru takes away. He removes what you have learned so that the unlearned element within you can become active again. It has been badly repressed by your learning. Your life-energy is so burdened by instruction it must be freed. Your knowledge sits on your chest like stones; it must be lifted. Scriptures have been loaded upon your living consciousness; they must be removed. As they come off, real wisdom will be born within you.

Knowledge comes from outside; wisdom arises from within. Knowledge is borrowed; wisdom is one’s own, intimate. Only what is one’s own is true.

So, Radha, all is happening just right.

“Neither thought nor understood, neither learned nor known—
it came to me by itself: the heart attached itself.”

Only the blind think. Those who have eyes do not think; they move. Thinking is the blind man’s stick; he gropes with it. One who sees, who opens his eyes and looks, does not walk with a stick and does not grope. He sees where the door is, and he goes out.

Thinking is no great virtue. The real secret is to move in life without thinking.

Two kinds of people come to me. One says, “I want to take sannyas—I will think it over.” They do not see me at all. Whoever says, “I will think it over,” sits before me with eyes closed. Then someone else comes, who sees me, and tears begin to flow from his eyes. He says, “If I am a vessel, give me sannyas.” He does not say, “I will take sannyas.” He says, “Give it to me. If I am worthy in your eyes, if I have any possibility, any future, give it to me.”

Where is the question of thinking it over? Thinking is the mark of a coward. The coward hesitates, thinks it over. Therefore thinkers accomplish little in the world. Where is the time to do? They are never free from thinking! And decisions never come from thinking. You will be surprised to know: all decisions are made in the heart. Thinking happens in the head. The head cannot decide, and the heart cannot think. The heart has eyes; the head has blindness. Owing to its blindness the head keeps on thinking. These are the two types of people.

And a third type also comes sometimes—one who puts me in a quandary. His heart says, “I am ready,” but his head says, “I will think it over.” Whom am I to heed—his heart or his mind? His heart is outstretched; his mind is hesitating. I, too, get into difficulty: whose voice should I honor? If I heed his heart, his mind refuses, says no. If I heed his mind, I do injustice to his heart—because the heart is asking, and the heart is what is valuable. The heart always knows how to say yes; the heart is a believer. The head is always a nonbeliever. Whoever seeks to be a believer through the head will never succeed.

Reason does not say yes; if ever it does, it is only from compulsion. Understand the difference: from compulsion. When reason can find nothing else, it says, “All right.” But it waits: “Tomorrow if I find an argument, I will return to no.”

The heart says yes—not from compulsion, but from wonder and gratitude. If ever the heart has to say no, it is out of compulsion—but even then in the hope that, “Today I must say no, but tomorrow, as soon as there is a way, the flower of my yes will bloom again.” The heart is faith. The heart needs no learning, no thinking, no knowing. The heart knows; therefore there is no need to know.

At the level of the heart you already know the Divine. All that is needed is to come down from the head to the heart. There, knowing is already happening—since the very first, from the beginning. Ignorance has never entered there. On your heart the light still shines; the lamp is still lit. Darkness is in the head, and you have taken up residence there. You have forgotten the lane of the heart. Bhakti means nothing else but this: rediscover the lane of the heart. Climb down from the head into the heart.

“Neither thought nor understood, neither learned nor known—
it came to me by itself: the heart attached itself.
Just cast a glance and reveal your radiance,
lest the whole world, drawn tight, crowd here.
Seals of fidelity are stamped upon my tongue;
my silence is telling the tale.”

Only silence can tell that tale. Words are impotent. They seem to speak, but they cannot say. Words have no wings with which to fly in that vast sky. There only the bird of emptiness flies; there only silence comes and goes; there only silence moves.

Remember, when love happens in your life, your tongue will begin to falter. The deeper love happens, the more the tongue will fall silent. As you come closer to the heart, you come closer to stillness. Speech goes farther and farther away. You begin to experience that there is something which has never been said and cannot be said—therefore it has never become stale.

God has never been said and cannot be said; therefore God has never become secondhand. Whenever anyone finds him, he is not a leftover. When Kabir found him—no leftovers. When Dhani Dharamdas found him—no leftovers. When I find him—no leftovers. When you find him—no leftovers. God is never stale. When he is found, he is fresh and new. No one’s lips have ever touched him. He has never come into words.

“My silence is telling the tale.”

Those who are with me—truly with me—their eyes slowly begin to fall silent. Slowly they begin to converse through their silence. When something is worthy of being said, it can only be said silently. Yet nothing remains hidden. When someone is brimming with love, how will you hide it? When a lamp is lit in the house, where will you hide the light? When a flower blossoms, where will you hide the fragrance? Fragrance says nothing, and yet it is known. Light says nothing, beats no drum, and yet it is known. When morning comes—whether the sun says anything or not—thousands upon thousands of birds begin to sing; thousands upon thousands of flowers open; thousands upon thousands of trays of worship are set.

“It does not remain hidden by hiding, that ardent face;
the rosy hue keeps spreading to the veil.”

If love happens, even the veil turns rosy. The face beneath the veil is rosy, and even the veil takes on a glow. The soul turns red.

“I went to see the redness and I, too, turned red;
the redness of my Beloved—wherever I look, it is red.”

Colored in the dye of that love, your soul flushes crimson, and even your body grows rosy.

“It does not remain hidden by hiding, that ardent face;
the rosy hue keeps spreading to the veil.”

So whether Radha speaks or not, remains forever silent, I still hear. Her veil has turned red.

“Becoming a gaze, he spreads over the heart;
now the taste of epiphany arrives.”

As the Divine overshadows you, a new spring, a new blossoming comes into life. There is no need to say anything. When spring arrives, what need is there to announce it? Spring issues no advertisements. When it comes, it comes in full flood—from every side, upon every tree, into every bird’s throat. How will you hide it? How will you veil the spring? The flame of love has been lit.

“You have lit the candle of love in the house of the heart—
but who comes to anyone’s help in this world?”

Now the real talk begins. Only the Divine comes to your aid; no one else. It is he who lights this candle. Once it is lit, words are not needed. This is a story of silence—told silently, heard silently. If words have any use, it is only this: to lead you toward silence.

I speak so much—and only so that you may fall silent. My condition is like Carlyle’s. They say Carlyle wrote fifty books in praise of silence. Still I say that even fifty are too few; fifty thousand would be too few. However much one writes in praise of silence, it is not enough. Such is the glory of silence.

Words have but one use. Kabir spoke, Krishna spoke, Christ, Mahavira, Moses, Mohammed—all spoke, but with one thing in mind: how to help you fall silent. Speaking is your disease; therefore one has to begin with speech. By speaking and speaking, one must take you to the unspeaking. The journey must begin from where you are.

Love’s path is difficult.

“Just cast a glance and reveal your radiance,
lest the whole world, drawn tight, crowd here.”

The lover is also afraid. When even a little glimpse of the Divine’s splendor begins to appear, there is a trembling. A single ray is so immense—what will it be to behold the whole sun? Before that vastness the hands and feet begin to shake; a shiver seizes you.

The lane of love is extremely narrow; two cannot fit within it.
Before the Divine, one has to be effaced. The very news of that effacement—the first message of dissolving—makes everything tremble.

Do reveal your radiance—but a little carefully.

There is much fear on the path of love. There is panic too—because love is death. And one who is not ready to die cannot be a lover. Blessed are those who set out on this journey of death.

He is the fool of fools
who does not fall for love’s beguilement.

In this world the greatest fool is the one who does not descend into love. In his life everything remains sand—desert upon desert! No oases are ever found there.

Even the ordinary love of life is an approach, a beginning toward the supreme love. To be “deceived” by love, to fall into love’s illusion—because love alone is truth. Love is so true that even its illusion is meaningful; and the world is so untrue that even if its illusion were absent, it would still be meaningless. However factual mathematics may appear, it takes you nowhere; and love, however illusory it may seem, still carries you.

Hold back a little your sidelong glances—
this poor heart is not fit to bear such blows.

One is afraid. The devotee first calls, invokes, yearns, weeps—and when the footfalls of the Divine are heard, when His voice draws near, he becomes frightened. When His gaze falls upon you, you tremble.

Hold back a little your sidelong glances—
this poor heart is not fit to bear such blows.

But by then it is already too late. Once the coming of the Divine has begun, there is no way to stop it. Once His footsteps are heard, run where you will—He will still find you. Hide as you may—He will still call you.

It can be, and it need not be. It depends on the person. In the case of Dhani Dharamdas, it is not—I can say that to you with certainty.

If you make that prayer, it will be a demand. The real decision rests on whose lips the words arise from. Words themselves carry no meaning; the lips do. Let the same words be spoken by Krishna—or by you—and see the difference. So many parrots are reciting the Gita! The words are the same and yet not the same, because the lips have changed. On Krishna’s lips those words were gold; on the lips of parrots and pundits the same words turn to ash, gather dust.

If you say, “Hear my petition; carry me across the ocean,” in it there will be asking. Because you have no taste yet of what “becoming” is. Talking of “the far shore” is just borrowed speech. You don’t even know precisely what you’re asking for. Perhaps if you knew exactly, you wouldn’t ask at all. You only picked up the phrase.

People come to me and say, “Bless us so there will be no more coming and going.” I ask them, “Do you know precisely what that means? As a drop merges into the ocean, so you will disappear. You will not remain. Absolutely not. Not even a trace. Nowhere in existence will there be any mark left of you.” Then they hesitate. I say, “Think again—do you really want this?” They reply, “We thought we would remain in heaven—or in liberation. You’re saying we won’t remain at all. Then this is better, staying here. If the outcome is total erasure, what’s so wrong with here?”

It is for this very reason that the tree of Buddhism was uprooted from this land. The story of Buddhism’s uprooting is a heavy stain on India. Perhaps you’ve never looked at it this way. In Buddha, India’s greatest genius flowered—and yet the river of his life could not run in India. In rejecting Buddha, India proved its own unfitness. What was Buddha’s fault? All kinds of things are tolerated here; why was Buddha not? Only this: he laid your things bare before you. He said, “You will not remain; in nirvana you do not remain. You will be utterly gone.” People went and asked, “The body will go, we know—but I will remain, the soul will remain, right?” Buddha said, “Even the soul does not remain, because what you call ‘soul’ isn’t soul at all; it is only your mind.”

People kept pressing, “Surely something remains!” And here Buddha was absolutely uncompromising: “Nothing remains.” This is a prayer for annihilation. Then people said, “What’s the point, then? Better to stay here—even with suffering. At least we are.” Just think: if you had to choose between two options.

Imagine you’re in a prison cell: chains on your hands, food no good—grit even in the greens; abusive treatment; kicks and blows; no freedom; a dark dungeon; no glimpse of the sun; the moon and the stars never seen; you can’t even tell if flowers bloom in the world outside. In that stinking, damp cell you live. If you are given two choices—either keep living that insulted, musty life or be hanged—what will you choose? You will choose the cell. You’ll say, “At least we’re alive. There is pain, yes—but at least we are.”

People sentenced to death file petitions to have it commuted to life imprisonment. No one wishes to be erased.

Do you understand what crossing the ocean of becoming means? Bhav means being, becoming. To cross the ocean of becoming is to enter non-being, to be free of being. Are you ready to be free of being? When you say, “Free me from coming and going,” you only mean, “Let there be no hassle of coming and going. Give me the wish-fulfilling tree so I can sit at ease.” But to end transmigration means you end. You are in the comings and goings; your very being lies between them. It is the process of coming-and-going that constitutes your being. When coming-and-going is gone, you are gone. You are made of that very ebb and flow. Transmigration is your existence.

And when Buddha spelled it out exactly as it is—with no whitewash at all, no sugar sprinkled on top, giving no nourishment to your illusions and deceptions—Buddhism was uprooted from this country. Its uprooting proved this land is irreligious. Shout all you want that India is religious; the departure of Buddhism stands as a permanent blot on your life. From the day Buddhism left, India became irreligious. You denied your greatest genius.

You worship two-penny pundits and priests who have no intrinsic worth, and you rejected the country’s greatest wisdom, its brightest flame! That flame had to seek refuge in other lands. Temples to that light were built elsewhere; you did not build them. Yet you raise temples to trifles. You set a stone by the roadside, smear it with vermilion, and a temple begins. But you did not build temples to Buddha. Why were you so afraid of him? What harm did he do to you? Yes—he did this: he refused to support your false longings. He pulled the ground out from under your feet.

So when you say, “Carry me across the ocean of becoming,” and file such a petition, I say: for you it will be a demand. But with Dhani Dharamdas, it is another matter. With him, there is no asking.

I say again and again: if desire is there, the obstruction remains—because desire is the world. Desire anything at all; it makes no difference. The moment there is desire, the world begins. In non-desiring is liberation. In desire is the world.

“The longing to behold became a veil to the beholding;
Eagerness kept saying, ‘Feast your fill on the Beloved’s face.’”
That very yearning to see becomes the veil to seeing.

“The longing to behold became a veil to the beholding;
Eagerness kept saying, ‘Feast your fill on the Beloved’s face.’”
Your urge to get becomes the obstacle. That is why I say: be thirsty for the Divine—do not desire the Divine. Desire carries ego; thirst is egoless. Desire is thought, craving; thirst is feeling, a climate of the heart.

Dhani Dharamdas speaks truly. Your question is also considered, apt.

“One desire still remains: the wish to renounce desire;
How then can I claim that I am free of desire?”
Even one wish remains—to be free of wishing. One desire remains—to be rid of desire.

“One desire still remains: the wish to renounce desire;
How then can I claim that I am free of desire?”
It is true. If even this prayer remains—“O Lord, let my wanting end; erase my wanting”—that too is a desire. That too will become an obstacle.

So remember this: what I have said is exactly so. Desire is the world. Therefore there can be no desire for liberation. Then what about Dhani Dharamdas? He too says, “Hear my petition; carry me across the ocean of becoming.” He uses the very words you use. There are no other words; all words are from the marketplace.

“Hear my petition; carry me across the ocean.” When Dharamdas says this—“Erase my being”—if that state has arisen from experience, from awakening toward life, from deep seeing, and if there is no hidden longing anywhere in it—to dwell in Vaikuntha, to abide in moksha—no other hankering at all, only a simple entreaty: “This being is all pain; nothing but pain. Take this being back”—then it is not a demand.

See the difference: when you want Vaikuntha, you are asking for pleasure; heaven—you are asking for pleasure. But when you simply see the suffering of life and say, “This suffering is futile,” you are not asking for pleasure, because it is precisely your demand for pleasure that created this world and its suffering. You sought pleasure—that is why you suffer. Now you do not seek pleasure. Now you only say, “I have seen this suffering. There is no essence in it. Take it back.” And behind this there is no condition, no “Give me something in return.” That is why, whenever anyone asked Buddha, “What will there be in your nirvana?” he would answer, “Cessation of suffering.” He never said, “An experience of pleasure.” He never said, “A realization of bliss.” He said, “Suffering will not be.” No more than that.

Buddha was a great scientist—saying exactly as much as is needed for the work to proceed, not a grain more. Because you are adept at making mountains out of words. Let a tiny word slip out, and you will make roads from it, bringing your whole world back again.

In the name of heaven, people have smuggled the world back in through the rear door. Look into the Puranas, the scriptures—at your fantasies of heaven. You will find all your cravings reflected there. Things have gone so far that what you would call pathological here is also desired there.

When the Quran arose, in the Arab lands homosexual relations were widely prevalent—still are. Men were avid for love with beautiful youths, as with beautiful women. This is a distortion, a diseased condition. But as the Quran was being revealed, it seems some lustful one managed to insert this too: in heaven there will of course be celestial maidens—beautiful women—and there will also be beautiful boys. Your sicknesses have even reached heaven. You project to that realm the very diseases of this earth. People were mad for wine here; so paradise is arranged with wine as well. What you want here, you want there. Thus, when you say, “Hear my petition; carry me across,” what you really mean is, “O Lord, now give me heaven. Enough of this. Look at my worthiness—so virtuous, so charitable, so many fasts and vows! Now give me heaven. This world no longer suits me. Find me a place worthy of me.”

But when Dhani Dharamdas says, “Hear my petition; carry me across,” he is only saying, “I have seen it all. Desire is suffering. My sole entreaty—call it a petition if you like, but it is a humble entreaty—is this: I have seen it all; there is no essence. Now dissolve me. Let my clay return to clay; let my sky merge into sky. Scatter me. As you once composed me, now let me be decomposed. Let me not remain.”

Everything depends on how you take these words. I know Dhani Dharamdas; on his behalf I can assure you there is no hidden desire there. The same thing takes very different interpretations.

“I wished to build a house in the garden,
But the lightnings would not allow it.”
That is one vision. Another vision:

“O lightnings, keep pouring down your light;
We are searching for our nest.”
One vision says: “I wanted to make a home in the blossom-laden grove—spring had come—build a nest. But the lightnings would not permit it. We build the nest; they burn it down.”

Another says: “O lightnings, keep shining, keep giving light. We are seeking our dwelling!”

The same lightning can be an enemy—or a friend. It depends on how you see.

One person longs for pleasure and therefore begs, “Free me from the ocean of becoming; carry me across.” Another has come to see suffering—clear, unalloyed suffering—and says, “Carry me across the ocean of becoming.”

Between the two, the difference is vast. Do not lean too much on the word; the word is the same. Look closely at the person standing behind the word. Meaning resides in the person, not in the word. Not in the word—in the lips—meaning resides.

I have been watching her eyes here. The question is authentic. Her whole being has been squeezed into her eyes. That is how it happens.
When the longing to behold Him awakens, the devotee becomes all eyes. When the longing to hear Him awakens, the devotee becomes all ears. Nothing less will do. When one wants to see Him, the whole life-energy turns into eyes. The more intense the urge to see, the more you will find eyes and only eyes spreading within. The body becomes eyes, the mind becomes eyes, the soul becomes eyes.

“They say, ‘Why should anyone keep looking at us all the time?’
But the yearning gaze keeps insisting: keep on looking.
Let me have just a glimpse—and again the yearning gaze insists: keep on looking.”

Haven’t you heard? Dhani Dharmdas said: now even at night there is no sleep; the eyelids stay open, for who knows when your vision might happen! When might you arrive? How can I sleep? How can the eyelids even blink? Lest it so happen that I am asleep and the Beloved of my life arrives—that would be a great misfortune.

And this is exactly what is happening. People sleep, and the Divine comes. The Divine comes every day—comes in countless ways, in countless colors and forms. Other than Him there is no one. It is He who comes. But you are asleep. Your eyes are closed. And even the eyes that seem to be open are not truly open. They too see only what they desire.

You must have noticed: a cobbler sits by the roadside; he does not look at people’s faces—he looks only at their shoes. He has eyes, just like yours, yet he keeps looking at shoes. A tailor does not look at your face—he looks at your clothes. His eyes have taken on a particular specialization. He sees only what he seeks, what he is looking for.

Remember: we see only what our thirst is for. If you go to buy diamonds, the diamond shop will stand out to you in the market. If you did not go to buy diamonds, you pass right by the shop. It’s not that you don’t see it—of course the eyes see it—but where is the awareness? If someone asks you, “What exactly is written on that shop’s signboard?”—and you’ve passed that way for years—you won’t be able to tell. “What color is the board?” You’ll say, “I do pass that way, but I never paid attention; I’ve seen it, yet I never took note.”

Bayazid was in his master’s house. The master had a vast ashram, and to reach the master’s chamber Bayazid had to pass through a large hall. He stayed with his master for twelve years. One day the master, with Bayazid sitting nearby, said, “Go, in the hall you passed through there’s a book on the shelf—bring it.” Bayazid said, “Since you say so, I’ll go—but I have never seen it.” The master said, “This is too much! You’ve been coming here for twelve years, passing through that room every day—ten times a day—and you haven’t seen the books on the shelf?” Bayazid said, “I come to you. My gaze remains entangled in you. What concern have I with a shelf? Whether there are books or not—what concern? Surely my eyes must have looked, yet still I have not seen. I’ll go now and bring it after looking.”

The master said, “No need to go. I asked only to know whether you see anything else when you come here. You see nothing else. Then the supreme hour of your experience is near.”

We see what we seek. When you are lustful, women appear to you; if you are a woman, men appear to you. When you are not lustful, no question arises; you don’t even notice whether a woman or a man passed by.

Buddha was sitting in the forest. Some youths had brought a courtesan from the city into the forest. It was a moonlit night, the full-moon night. They wanted to revel. They drank heavily. They stripped the courtesan naked. But they were so drunk that the woman, frightened by their ways, ran away. Around four in the morning a cool breeze blew; they were bare and exposed, and the breeze brought them a little to their senses. They remembered: we brought a courtesan—where did she go? They started looking for her. Her clothes were lying there—she had run away naked. “Where would a naked woman go? She must be nearby.”

They went out to search for her, but did not find her—instead, they found Buddha under a tree, meditating. Seeing him meditating, they asked: “O monk, we brought a courtesan. She was naked. We got drunk and lost ourselves. She must have passed this way, for this is the only path. Do you recall? A naked courtesan—very beautiful. And can a naked woman pass in front of a man and the man not see!”

Buddha said, “Someone did pass by, but whether it was a woman or a man is hard to say. Someone did pass by—whether beautiful or not, that too is hard to say. Someone did pass by, for I heard the sound of footsteps; I saw a form move before my eyes. But whether that one was naked or clothed—that is difficult to say.”

They said, “You astonish us. Such a beautiful naked woman passes right in front of you—what were you doing?” Buddha said, “Had she passed ten years earlier, I would have gone right after her. I wouldn’t be sitting here—you wouldn’t find me here! In those days, while I was still a man, a woman appeared to me. Now I am no longer the body—so who is man, who is woman? So long as I was a man, a woman could appear. Since I am no longer a man, how can a woman appear? A woman appears to a man—to a lustful man. It is not the passing of a woman that makes her appear to you; it is the passing of lust within you that makes her appear. You see only what your craving is.”

Saroj’s eyes have become brimming with energy. All the energy has gathered there. This is auspicious. These are the signs. Growing in this way, one day one attains His supreme experience, His vision. When such eyes are present, nothing more is needed—do not worry.

“And what more does the drinker need of a cupbearer?
You are here; the glass is here, the ewer and the goblet.”

The readiness is happening. Soon the ecstasy will be supreme.

“Whose glance was that dagger—
what is the point of saying now?
The one who has shattered my heart into pieces—has shattered it indeed.”

Saroj is being swept away. Thus must everyone flow. Learn from one another. Catch one another’s waves. Sit together and speak of the Divine. Sit together and be intoxicated. Share in each other’s intoxication. This is why I have sent you on the journey of sannyas. I have dyed you in one color so that within, too, a single color may arise. The outer color is only outer—do not be satisfied with it. It is only a beginning, not the end.

Meet one another; speak of love. Sing! Dance! Weep! Drown in one another. If someone goes a little ahead, go ahead with them. I want a blaze of sannyasins so powerful that a newcomer, like a straw, is drawn and subsumed into it.

“Be within my heart like dear friends,
in my eyes like tears—
stay near me like the fragrance to the flower.”

This is everyone’s longing: that just as fragrance surrounds a flower, so may the Divine surround us. He does. Only we lack sensitivity. We have gone numb; our skin has grown thick.

The Divine is near. We do not experience it. Melt a little. Become fluid. The moment you melt, the experience begins.

Birth and death are not separate. Birth is one aspect; death is the other. What is found in birth is found in death as well.

What is death?
Truly, it is a riddle;
life is death’s companion.
They are together. What is gained in life is not lost in death. If it is lost in death, that only proves it was never truly gained in life—one had only been deceived into believing so. Wealth gained in life is lost in death—that was a deception. The naive call it an asset; the wise call it a calamity. The ignorant call it wealth; the knowing call it a misfortune—because a whole life was squandered in earning it, and then death came and all was gone.

Meditation is wealth. Devotion is wealth. If you have earned them, you have earned them; death cannot snatch them away.

Nainam chindanti shastrani, nainam dahati pavakah.
Then you have attained that which weapons cannot cleave and fire cannot burn.

Those who have joined with me in love will find me just as close in death. In truth, a little closer—because right now the body is a slight barrier. Then even that barrier is gone. Then there remains no reason for two souls not to meet. We meet from behind the body. It is like shaking hands while wearing a glove: the hand is behind the glove. Then death comes, the glove falls. Now hand meets hand. Now soul meets soul.

Life’s journey will not end;
death only changes the road.
The journey has been moving on and will go on. If, in this journey, you find something that death cannot take, then you have truly earned; you do not go empty-handed.

This much I can say, Saroj: don’t worry. Wealth has begun to come into your hands; it will only grow. This is a wealth that keeps on increasing.

I keep watching what is happening within each person. Silently, I keep watching what is happening. That is my responsibility; it came to me from the day I initiate you into sannyas. From that day my gaze follows you.
I cannot say this for those who are not sannyasins. For those who did not have even the courage to go mad with me, who did not have the courage to bear the world’s laughter for my sake when the world mocks—certainly the world will mock; people will call you mad, say your mind is deranged—for such people my effort is futile. Those who lack that much courage will not even be able to receive, even if I wish to give. But those who have taken sannyas, who have accepted the “trouble” of being mad with me—my gaze does indeed follow them. Taru is right.

If you have tried to understand me rightly, truly listened, then many things will begin to happen without your having to do anything. To see something exactly is already to become that.

Taru says, “I remember the day you spoke of the river-and-boat conjunction. That day I saw it break.” I was saying that day that all relationships in this world are a river-boat conjunction. The river can be without the boat; the boat can be without the river. There is no inevitability. In the same way, mother, father, wife, brother, kinsman—and ultimately even the guru—are river-and-boat conjunctions. All such chance meetings will break. Therefore, the person who does not have the courage to be alone will fall into misery. Courage to be alone is needed. And I am not telling you to abandon any relationship and run away. It is enough to know that these relationships are merely nominal. There is only one relationship that never breaks: with the Divine. That is not a river-boat conjunction.

The world is nothing more than this:
a few days still to pass, and a few that have passed.
Here everything is being erased—lines drawn on water.

O candle, why do you weep at dawn?
A little wax remains—let that, too, be spent.

Soon enough everything will break. The game made here is erased again and again. And I am not even telling you to erase this game. Just know it as a game, and the matter is finished. Many times it happens that, watching a play, you become so engrossed that you forget it is a play. You must have seen people weeping in the cinema hall, even found yourself weeping. And you know full well—only you forget—that there is nothing on the screen; the screen is blank. Only a play of light and shadow is going on there. Even so, a poignant scene, a tragic moment, and you begin to weep. Later you will laugh at yourself. And if, all of a sudden, the lights come on in the theater, you quickly wipe your tears so no one notices. People will say, “How foolish!” The darkness of the cinema hall is a great ally—it lets people weep, laugh, be delighted, be frightened—go through everything. And each time, somewhere within, you still know well enough that the screen is empty.

To the person who sees clearly that the world is but a play of light and shadow, and that all here is a river-boat conjunction, I am not telling you to go anywhere—then sit and enjoy the movie! It makes no difference. But then there will be no tears, neither joy nor sorrow. The outer will no longer affect you. And when the outer no longer affects you, the inner awakens. When all outer impacts cease, all energy gathers within. That very energy becomes the basis for the journey to the Divine. To go to That, energy is needed; riding that energy, one can travel.

Life is but of two days; it is not to last forever.
We ourselves are travelers, and the world is an inn.

Understand—and it is done. Doing is for the uncomprehending. Understand—and it is done. Those among you who are truly gifted will be liberated simply by listening. Those who are not so gifted will have to do something—that is a lack of capacity.

Mahavira said there are two fords to reach the Divine—shravaka and sadhu—or four: shravaka-shravika, sadhu-sadhvi. Shravaka means: one who knows by hearing; one who, hearing the guru’s word—hears here, and it happens there. Sadhu means: one who hears and then practices. The sadhu is number two. But the irony is that the doer has “won,” and the sadhu sits above—and tells the shravaka he is lower. In truth, now the shravaka is no longer a shravaka, and the sadhu is no longer a sadhu. The original meaning of shravaka was precisely this: one for whom it happens simply by hearing. Buddha said the same.

Buddha had a shravaka, Vimalakirti. His stories are very beautiful. He remained a householder; he never left home, never left his wife, never left his shop. And even Buddha’s great bodhisattvas—Sariputra, Moggallayana, Mahakashyapa—such eminently gifted monks—were afraid of Vimalakirti.

Once Vimalakirti fell ill, and Buddha said to Sariputra, “Go and ask after Vimalakirti—what illness, what has happened? Ask his welfare and bring me word.” Sariputra said, “If you say so, I will go—but I do not wish to go. Forgive me; send someone else if possible. If you command, I will go, but I would rather not.” Buddha asked, “Why?” Sariputra said, “Just seeing Vimalakirti, my wits scatter. My tongue ties. He raises such questions! Once I was speaking in an assembly and Vimalakirti arrived. His arrival itself created such a difficulty; as soon as he sat down, I began to speak all awry—such is his presence. And then he stood up in the middle and asked, ‘Sariputra, if truth cannot be spoken, why are you speaking?’ He put me to shame. One cannot argue with him; his logic is razor-sharp.”

Buddha then said to Moggallayana, “You go.” Moggallayana said, “If you command, I must. But it would be better if someone else went. I was fasting, and Vimalakirti came and said, ‘Man is neither body nor soul—who is fasting? For what are you fasting?’ Seeing him, sweat breaks out on me.” Only one disciple, Manjushri, agreed to go—even he went hesitantly. No one was willing; so he went. Manjushri was the most brilliant among Buddha’s monks, yet even he was put in difficulty.

They were right to be afraid, because speaking of anything with him was perilous. His insight was so keen—he had become a Buddha simply by listening to Buddha. He had never “done” anything; the need to do never arose. Buddha spoke here, he understood there—and it was done.

When Manjushri went—naturally, when you go to see an ill person—you ask, “Vimalakirti, are you unwell?” He opened his eyes and said, “The whole world is unwell. Have you not heard Buddha, O simpleton? Buddha says: birth is suffering, life is suffering, death is suffering—everything is suffering. And you come here to ask who is ill? Are you healthy?”

Even to go and ask such a one after his health is difficult! But Vimalakirti was a shravaka—he awakened merely by hearing. He must have been of extraordinary capacity.

Those truly gifted among you will awaken by hearing; by seeing me, by sitting with me, they will awaken. Those who are not gifted will have to do. Doing will polish their capacity a little, give it an edge; it will take some time.

“The day you spoke of the river-boat conjunction, the world dropped.” It should drop just so.

“And when on your birthday you gazed at this devotee with unwavering eyes, from then on my infatuation with you dropped.” It should drop just so.

If attachment to me arises in you, that is only attachment in a new guise. Remember, love is not attachment. Where there is attachment, where is love? Love is a far greater thing; it belongs to another realm. In attachment there is the urge to grasp; in love there is no desire. In love the feeling is: as it is, so it is good. What is, is beautiful; what will be, will be beautiful—such is the trust.

There is no trust in attachment; there is great suspicion. Attachment says, “Let me hold on—lest my beloved slip away; lest my beloved begin to love someone else; lest I fall from my beloved’s eyes. Let me hold, bind, encircle on all sides!” In this way lovers build prisons around each other—forge chains.

The day a husband adorns his wife with jewelry, he does not adorn her—he puts chains upon her. The day a wife touches her husband’s feet, she does not touch his feet—she grabs his neck. There is attachment there; there is claim. Love is not attachment. Love is a state without attachment—therefore it is pure.

Between guru and disciple there is love; if even a trace of attachment enters there, the journey toward the Divine will become difficult. There is love—unprecedented love—there is blessedness, gratitude—but no attachment.

Understand it rightly if you can: I have often said the guru-disciple relationship is the highest relationship in this world. Now let me also tell you why it is the highest: precisely because it is a merely nominal relationship. What “relationship” is there? It is a non-relationship. In that non-relationship lies all the juice. Therefore I define the true guru as one who one day frees you from the world—and then one day frees you from himself as well. Only then will you reach the Divine. Otherwise, you loosen the world and get bound to the guru. And often in this world there are “gurus”—one should not call them gurus, but they are so called—who will entangle you, take possession of you, put new chains upon you in the name of religion.

A guru is one who snatches away all your chains and does not himself become a chain.

I have no grief at your separation;
in the world of my thought, you are near me.

What grief of separation? What fear of being apart? In the world of my thought, you are near me. And then, gradually, you are not only near in the world of thought—there is a spiritual oneness. Union happens.

Where the disciple and the guru meet, there is the manifestation of the Divine. Where both, becoming empty, merge into each other, there the lamp of the Whole is lit.

Bhajan is the offering of feeling. Bhajan is not a fixed, formal routine; it is the unbounded offering of feeling. Bhajan is an aarti performed by the heart—not with outer instruments, but with inner ones. Bhajan is the song of thirst.

What is a human being to do? Helpless, powerless. Where God is—unknown. Bhajan is sometimes weeping, sometimes smiling: smiling for all that He has done; and weeping for that which is about to happen and has not yet happened. Gratitude for what has been, and prayer for what is to be. That you are alive is His grace—give thanks for this. That you are still bound to the body is your suffering—may there be release from this body. That you are still bound in becoming—that is your pain. The petition: carry me across the ocean of becoming.

And the devotee’s faith is this: by my doing, nothing will happen. By my doing, nothing has ever happened. In truth, I am not. So, if You do it, something can happen.

The knower does not sing bhajan. The renunciate does not sing bhajan. He will not sing—how could he? The renunciate practices austerity; the knower hoards knowledge; the votary observes vows. All of them believe that by their doing, it will happen. “We will accomplish it by doing.”

What austerity should the devotee do? What mantra should he repeat? The devotee only does bhajan. Bhajan means remembrance. He says, If You do it, it will be. When You do it, then it will be. Until then, we will wait.

Have you seen the farmers in the villages? When the fierce summer winds blow and the ground, scorched, begins to crack, and the trees begin to dry, have you seen their eyes gazing at the sky—When will Ashadh come? When will the monsoon clouds gather? Have you seen their eyes looking to the heavens? That is bhajan. In just that way the devotee looks toward the sky—waiting. When will the monsoon clouds gather in the inner sky? When will Ghanshyam be beheld? When will the rains come?

The farmer too says nothing—he looks at the sky. What is there to say? His eyes are saying everything. The devotee too says nothing—what is there to say? What is there that God does not know, that needs to be said? His eyes are saying it all; his heart is saying it all. Yet sometimes this feeling breaks forth in song; sometimes it expresses itself in rare, unique colors; sometimes it flows as tears; sometimes anklets tie themselves to the feet and the devotee dances; sometimes he plucks the veena.

But this must be informal. Not learned and taught. Not beaten thin. Not a rutted routine. It should not be the line-bound habit that, having learned one bhajan, you grind it out every day. Nothing will come of that.

There is a tale: Moses, the Jewish prophet, was passing through a forest. He saw a man praying, and he was startled. He had seen many who prayed, but this one was praying in a very strange way. He was a poor man—a shepherd. And a shepherd’s prayer was a shepherd’s prayer; it arose from his own heart. He was saying, O Lord, if I could meet You, I would bathe You so well; I would massage You in such a way that if lice and the like have gotten onto Your body, I would wash them all away. Moses was astonished—this is the limit! What is this man saying, as if God had not bathed! And he is talking about His lice and such things! And I will wash Your feet so clean that even if there are sores, I will heal them. No one can massage as I can. I will also cook food for You. And at night I will make Your bed.

At last Moses could not contain himself; he stepped in between. He said, Listen, you fool! What are you saying? What kind of prayer is this? First learn how to pray. The man was poor; he fell at Moses’ feet. He said, I do not know; I am neither schooled nor learned. Please teach me. So Moses explained to him the regulated prayer that seemed proper to him—prayer as the Jews do it—this way and that way.

He asked again, Look, I will forget; tell me once more. Then, as Moses, having taught him the second time, was leaving, the man ran after him and said, Just once—once more. Because I will forget; these are difficult words. And if I make a mistake—then great harm will be done. Till now I was ignorant; whatever I did, I did. But now, now mistakes will not be tolerated. Now I shall be in trouble. Where will I find you?

That prayer was mine—there was no hindrance in it. Every day I would make it up afresh; I would do whatever needed to be done. But now I must proceed by a rule.

When Moses, very pleased at having taught him the third time, went on his way, he heard from the sky a great, solemn thunder. God was very angry. And God said, Listen! I sent you into the world to bring to Me those who have strayed from Me—but you are leading astray those who were already with Me. Go back and beg forgiveness from that man. He alone in that region knows how to pray. Look at his feeling! Look at his love! You have spoiled everything. Now he will keep repeating your paltry, borrowed words. Now prayer will never happen. Go, fall at his feet, and ask his pardon. And henceforth, be careful—do not ruin any of my devotees in this way.

This story is most wondrous. What the shepherd was doing was bhajan; Moses spoiled his bhajan. Bhajan is not a method. Bhajan is an informal conversation with God; a dialogue with the Vast, a heart-to-heart. And let it be exactly what your own heart feels. Sometimes silence—then silence. If speaking arises, then speak. If song arises, then sing. If dance arises, then dance. Remember Him—by any pretext at all. But whatever you do must be yours, intimate and personal. Let it bear your signature. All prayers that carry your signature arrive; those that are borrowed, stale, keep wandering around here. If your prayers have not been heard, the sole reason is this: you learned prayer from someone. In the very learning, the mistake happens.

I neither thought nor pondered nor studied nor knew;
of itself, my heart fell in love.
Prayer, bhajan: the heart falling in love of itself.
Seals of fidelity are set upon my tongue;
my silence is telling the tale.
Sometimes it becomes silence. Bhajan is divine intoxication.

You have asked: ‘The bhakta saints have sung greatly of the glory of bhajan—what is bhajan?’
Perhaps you want me to give you a set, fixed bhajan—“this is bhajan.” I have not come here to separate you from God. I will not commit Moses’ mistake. I have come here to join you. I want you to be joined. I give you freedom. Sitting in your aloneness, do whatever comes in your own joy. Only let there be His remembrance—by any pretext, fine. Everything else is only a pretext; remembrance is the real thing. Sweeping the floor and remembering Him—and sweeping becomes bhajan. Cooking food and remembering Him—and cooking becomes bhajan. Walking along the road and remembering Him—and walking becomes bhajan.

Kabir has said: My walking to and fro—let that be circumambulation! My eating and drinking—let that be service! What I eat and drink too is an offering laid before Him. Where else is there to go? Bhajan is a simple, natural life in which the remembrance of the Divine quivers. Let the remembrance keep shimmering. Then what you do matters very little. In that doing, the light of the Divine keeps burning within.

Every act can be bhajan; it is a matter of feeling.

That’s all for today.