Jas Panihar Dhare Sir Gagar #11

A knot has formed, the Beloved will not speak to me.

On the path of love there is Love—and dearer still, the quarrel between devotee and Divine. Where love is, quarrel is also. Not only enemies fight; friends fight as well.

Fighting is not ugly in every case. Nor is peace always beautiful. Peace among enemies can be hideous; a quarrel between friends can be sweet, can be beautiful.

A lover’s fighting is an essential limb of love. The wise say: when lovers cease to fight, know that love has died. As long as they still clash, understand that love continues.

And each fight carries love to a new height. A new dimension, a new sky opens. After every quarrel love is refreshed, renewed, revived. Fighting shakes off the dust; the mirror gleams again. Lovers know the savor of the quarrel.

And the devotee and the Divine—this is the final drama of love; ultimate. Beyond it there is no love left. There the quarrel shows itself in a most extraordinary form.

A knot has formed, the Beloved will not speak to me.

Dhani Dharamdas says: A great knot has formed, a great quarrel has erupted, a deep estrangement. Paramatma is not speaking to me. He stands turned away. He is sulking. Understand this element of sulking rightly.

‘In your fighting, the state of your love became clear to me—
I never knew you loved me so much.’

Who even bothers to fight? Who thinks another worthy of fighting? Who takes such trouble—except where love is deep? Even your anger is only because you love. You scold your son; you do not scold just anyone. Because you have cherished the son.

In the West, a wind has blown these last thirty or forty years, and its consequences have been grave. Some thinkers began teaching: one should never be angry with one’s children. And it sounds right—anger should not be shown to children, for anger can wound. This is one face of anger. Anger does indeed wound—if it is cold. If anger is warm, ardent, it does not wound; it makes flowers bloom.

The idea seemed logical, and in the West parents stopped getting angry with their children. The outcome was disastrous. When anger disappeared, love went with it. Indifference entered. ‘All right, let him do what he wants. Let her become whatever she becomes.’ As anger died, love died in the West. The relationship between parents and children grew distant.

The father who never once struck his son—the son will never be able to forgive that father. But anger should be warm, alive; not cold. Cold anger is dangerous.

Understand this. The world has always said: anger is dangerous. I tell you: cold anger is dangerous; warm anger is not. Cold anger means: you attacked with indifference, you hurt through neglect. Cold anger means: there was no aura of love in the anger, no fragrance of love. Anger was loveless.

Hatred, neglect—through them too anger comes, but then anger has no beauty, only ugliness. Love too becomes incensed—and must be. The one who has cherished you, who has desired your good fortune—seeing you go astray, he will at times be displeased. If he truly loves, he will go to that length too, take on that much trouble.

In the West, between parents and children a distance, a ‘generation gap,’ was created—behind it lay this mistaken notion that parents must never be angry. And man has this habit: once he catches hold of an idea he pushes it to extremity, to its logical end.

I heard a psychologist’s story. A woman came to him about her son because the boy was creating great trouble, taking wrong paths, falling into bad habits. The psychologist said, ‘Do not get angry.’ So she came for advice: what then should I do? He said, ‘Simply do not get angry. Anger has grave consequences; knots will form in the child, he will become distorted, later great mental illnesses will arise. Do not get angry at all.’

The woman could not trust this. She asked, ‘Do you have a son? Can you honestly say you have never been angry with him, never raised your hand?’ The psychologist said, ‘If you must know the truth—the truth is, I never lift my hand against my son—except sometimes, in self-defense. In self-defense!’

In love even anger becomes glorified. Remember this alchemy: even soil joined with love turns to gold. But if you cut anger off, you will find you have severed love’s wings. The man who cannot be angry cannot love either.

This is why your so-called saints turn loveless. Because all their effort has been that anger should not happen—somehow to repress it. Anger is repressed; love is repressed along with it. In their garden, thorns no longer grow—but flowers do not grow either. What kind of bargain is this? Because of a few thorns, you forsake flowers—is this wisdom? Let a thousand thorns grow; if even one flower blossoms, the trouble is worth it.

And its supreme form appears between the devotee and Bhagwan, because there love reaches its last height, its last depth. There too quarrels arise—sometimes from the side of God, sometimes from the side of the devotee.

‘Wine for the stranger, a curt refusal for me?
Saqi, this favor of yours will not be forgotten.’

Sometimes the devotee feels: you shower everywhere, and only I am left thirsty?

‘Wine for the stranger, a curt refusal for me?
Saqi, this favor of yours will not be forgotten.’

We shall not forget—we cannot forget this.

‘Outwardly my lips are silent,
but there is a great clamor in the solitudes within.’

The devotee says: whether I speak or not, whether I remain silent—thinking it unseemly to quarrel with you, to say nothing—

‘Outwardly my lips are silent,
but there is a great clamor in the solitudes within.’

Ask my depths—there are great displeasures there, a great tumult.

This is natural. For what is the devotee’s longing, his ardent thirst? That Paramatma dwell in his heart. And this happens with great difficulty, sometimes only sometimes. For a fleeting moment it happens—and again is missed. Such longing, that everything has been staked upon it. And only now and then a ray comes—and before it can be grasped, it is gone. A glimpse appears; a window opens—and closes. If he does not grow angry, what should he do?

‘Stay tucked into my scarf’s fold, revolve within my gaze—
This alone is the longing I hold in my heart.’

The greater the longing, the greater the ardor, the deeper the moments of desolation too. What does a worldly man know of desolation? He has only desired the petty; even if he does not get it, his desolation will be petty. One who seeks wealth and fails—how vast can his desolation be? One who seeks office and misses—will his grief be great? That which he went to gain was small; had he gained it there would have been no great bliss; if he has not, there will be no great grief.

But one who goes to attain Paramatma—understand his difficulty, the turbulence of his road. His quest is immense. And the higher the peak you climb, the greater the fear of falling. If you fall, you fall into deep chasms. Those who walk the plain do not fall into abysses; only climbers of the summits fall.

So the devotee knows heights and he knows depths. Sometimes he touches heaven, sometimes he plummets into hell. You have only heard the words ‘heaven’ and ‘hell.’ You have never touched heaven, never known hell. For you they are bare words, printed in dictionaries. The devotee experiences them. A moment ago he was soaring in heaven; a moment later he is in hell’s deep darkness. Feel his anguish. And the one who has tasted heaven—how tormenting becomes hell for him.

You live in suffering; you have never known joy. So you are habituated to sorrow, reconciled to it. Sorrow scarcely pricks you now. You have taken sorrow to be life. You say, ‘This is life; what other life is there?’

But one who has flown in the sky, who has known that flight is possible, that the earth falls far behind—one who has seen the freedom of open sky, who for a moment has conversed with moon and stars—when he falls back to earth, you cannot fathom his pain.

‘Feet tread the firmament for lovers of the path;
In the realm of love, miles of earth are nowhere to be found.’

The lovers’ feet begin to fall upon the sky—

‘In the realm of love, miles of earth are nowhere to be found.’

But when earth returns, you can only imagine that ache. In that very ache, the devotee grows displeased. In that ache, sometimes he flings the plate of worship aside, blows out the lamps of aarti, shuts the temple doors.

With Ramakrishna this happened again and again. Sometimes when he worshiped, he kept worshiping—morning came, and who knows when evening fell; and sometimes for two or four days the shutters remained closed, the temple unopened.

The temple was run by a committee; they had employed Ramakrishna as priest. It was a coincidence that a man like Ramakrishna was found—no, not a coincidence: the temple at Dakshineshwar had been built by a woman who was a Shudra—very wealthy—Rani Rasmani. She had the title of ‘Rani,’ but she was Shudra. No Brahmin would agree to serve as priest in her temple. Who would consent to worship in a Shudra’s temple? In a Shudra’s temple even God becomes Shudra! Gods depend on temples. In Brahmin temples, God is a Brahmin; in Shudra temples, God becomes Shudra. You make a mockery of God along with yourselves.

I lived many years in Jabalpur. During Ganesh festival, a procession is taken out. Every neighborhood prepares its own tableau of Ganesh; then all join the great procession. There is a rule: first comes the Brahmins’ neighborhood Ganesh, then the second, then the third… and last comes the Chamars’ neighborhood Ganesh.

Once it so happened that the Brahmins’ Ganesh was late. A Brahmin’s Ganesh—what hurry could there be? They are the contractors of ritual. But the procession could not be delayed; it had to finish by evening. The Chamars’ Ganesh had arrived first, so he went ahead. When the Brahmins’ Ganesh arrived, the Brahmins stopped the procession and said, ‘Move the Chamars’ Ganesh to the rear.’ Ganesh had become Chamar with the Chamars!

When Rani Rasmani built the temple, being a Shudra, what Brahmin would agree to worship? Only a true Brahmin could. Ramakrishna agreed. He was the priest at Dakshineshwar. His salary was eighteen rupees a month—then a substantial sum.

When Rani Rasmani and the committee learned, they said, ‘This is a strange man, a little mad. Sometimes he worships the entire day. Who told him to worship all day? Do it an hour in the morning, an hour in the evening—that completes the form. Sometimes, they reported, he worships from morning till evening, and even through the night. There are reports that sometimes he continues all night, never sleeping, dancing alone even when nobody is there to watch. And sometimes, for a couple of days, he locks the door.’

They called Ramakrishna and asked. He said: ‘Sometimes there is a quarrel; so I shut the door and say—Now stay there! Sit inside! Now no one will come to worship, no one will pray. I am displeased, I sulk. Sometimes He also sulks. Then I worship from morning till evening—yet not once does a smile come to those lips. I go on dancing, dancing. When He sulks, I sulk also. Sometimes such quarrels arise.’

People had never heard such a thing. ‘What are you saying?’ they asked. ‘Worship should be performed regularly.’ Ramakrishna replied: ‘If you want worship done by rule, employ another. Worship will happen out of feeling, not out of rule.’

Keep this in mind. One who worships out of feeling will at times be annoyed. He will say, ‘Sit there! Today no bath will be given. Stand! Today you will not be rocked to sleep—enough of the cradle.’

When it arises out of feeling, there is rasa—juice—in it; an incomparable rasa. When it arises out of feeling, that alone is true worship. And on the other side too, it happens the same way; this fire kindles from both ends.

A knot has formed, the Beloved will not speak to me.

Dhani Dharamdas says: A big knot has formed; the quarrel has grown. The Beloved does not speak; He stands with His back to me.

‘The world laughs when I weep;
When I laugh, tears come into my eyes.’

When the devotee weeps, the world laughs. They cannot comprehend what is happening, to whom is he speaking? Had you seen Ramakrishna talking before Kali you would have been startled. At most you could have said: the man is mad. The psychologist will say: his mind is deranged, a neurotic state, hysterical. You cannot grasp the inner element; you laugh.

‘The world laughs when I weep;
When I laugh, tears come into my eyes.’

Seeing you laugh, the devotee weeps all the more. He weeps seeing that you know nothing. You stand between him and Paramatma and you know it not. You are like fish in the ocean—living in the ocean, knowing nothing of the ocean.

Here there is quarrel—and there is waiting too. There is complaint—and there is yearning.

‘Perhaps one night, he may come—quietly, secretly…
When will that night of chance arrive?’

Paramatma does not appear to be coming. There is call, prayer, thirst—and from His side no answer, no response.

‘O Fosterer of bondsmen, I am that slave whose very servitude is deaf.
Whosoever I bow my head before—becomes God.’

‘Remain stuck in your pride. The one before whom I bow—becomes God.’

There are moments of union too—

‘Saying this, I could say nothing more:
I have a complaint against you.’

Those hours do arrive when there is face-to-face.

These matters have nothing to do with logic. If you think through logic, you will miss. They are trans-logical. Taste a little—arrange a plate for worship; light a few lamps; sometimes drown, weep, smile. Sometimes tie a knot with the Infinite. If you must be betrothed, be betrothed only to That. If you must take seven rounds, take them only with That. All other marriages are false, expedient. If you wed That, only then will the melody of the Eternal begin to hum for the first time in your life; then will your veena be played; then will the sleeping nada within awaken.

The devotee says: ‘Suppose someone is peeved with you—
How will you make him up?
I ask you only!’

‘Suppose someone is peeved with you—
How will you placate him?’

Sometimes he fears—

‘What if, in making up what is broken,
I break it the more?’

All such seasons come. All bhavas, all gestures of the heart arise. The shastra of bhakti is vast. The shastra of jnana is one-sided; the shastra of bhakti is many-sided; it has many facets.

Intellect knows only one gait—the gait of argument. The heart knows many gaits. It knows how to fly, how to leap. It knows the art of bringing light into the dark. It knows the alchemy of turning poison into nectar.

These few days we have spent with Dharamdas—so sweet. The journey was honeyed. With a guide like Dhani Dharamdas the journey could not be otherwise. But only those will have descended into it who have set their intellect aside.

A knot has formed, the Beloved will not speak to me.

‘Wealth and dominion go with no one; in vain have I made enmity with the world.’

Dhani Dharamdas says: Now I begin to see why my Beloved has sulked with me! He has sulked because I squandered my love on the paltry, and entangled it there. There is impurity in my love.

‘Wealth and dominion go with no one…’

Neither wealth will go nor rank will go nor prestige will go—yet upon these I invested my love. In their company my love grew sullied. My love has no freshness of flowers, no wings of birds, no warmth of the sun’s ray. Bound to the mean, it became mean.

Remember, this is love’s fundamental sutra: whatsoever you fasten your love to, your love becomes like that—and not only your love, you too become like that, for love is your very Atman.

He who has fastened love to wealth—look at his face. It wears the same worn look that old notes carry, rubbed thin by long handling; the same ugly sheen that comes on a coin from overuse settles upon his features. Look closely.

The man who has pursued rank, who climbs by placing his feet on others’ shoulders, who has made ladders of human beings—you will find hardness upon his face, stoniness. Even when he laughs, his laughter looks false.

Politicians laugh—do you see their laughter? How false it appears! When Morarji Desai laughs—have you seen that? One feels he must have practiced hard. It scarcely goes deeper than the lips. Even upon the lips it appears dragged there with effort. The face is stone. To travel the road of rank, that much stone is needed; otherwise you cannot go.

For the journey to rank, ego is required. Ego breaks all the tender strings within a man. It makes him insensate. Ego dries up all the sources of love within. Ego knows only one thing—higher, higher, higher. And ego knows only to take, not to give. Ego is greed.

Dharamdas says: I know why you have sulked—you have sulked because my love is impure, because I fastened love to the wrong thing. The shadow of the wrong has fallen upon my love.

‘Wealth and dominion go with no one…’

Now I see that none of this will go with me. Yet I wasted much time on it.

‘…and in vain I made enmity with the world.’

And while you sulked and turned away, for the sake of this very wealth and dominion I made enemies of the entire world. Remember, when you are mad after wealth, all who are mad after wealth become your enemies and you theirs. When you are mad for position, all who are mad for position are your enemies and you theirs.

In politics there is no friendship. Friendship is a show; enmity is the truth. And do not think that only the opposition are enemies; they are expected to be. The ones closest to a politician are as much enemies—because they too run for the same post. Politics cannot know friendship. Friendship is known only to Dharma. And if even in Dharma there is no friendship, know it is politics then—a race for position, a pilgrimage of ego.

Dharamdas says: I took on a double trouble. On one side you sat displeased because I loved the wrong; on the other I made enemies of all, for they too were filled with longing for the wrong.

Take another point to heart: when you are filled with longing for the wrong, there is competition; when you are filled with longing for the right, there is none. Why? Because the wrong is limited, the right has no limit; therefore in the right there is no threat. If you attain God, it does not mean I will not be able to attain. Your attainment does not hinder mine. The truth is, if you attain, it eases my attainment; trust arises—if one could find, I can find.

But in wealth the matter is otherwise. If you have it, I miss. If I have it, you miss. One man becoming rich necessitates thousands becoming poor. But one man becoming meditative does not necessitate thousands being left empty of meditation. The truth is, one man’s meditation opens the path for thousands.

Why did people gather around Buddha? Why around Mahavira? Why did they come from far to Kabir and Nanak? Because meditation was attained. Meditation is such a wealth that if one gets it, the way opens for all. It is not so with other wealth.

If someone is to be Prime Minister—only one can be. In a country of six hundred million, one Prime Minister! Then certainly there will be strangling and snatching—knives from the front, knives from the back—because only one can arrive. One man must make enemies of six hundred million to become Prime Minister.

Hence friendship has been lost in this world. Friendship cannot be here. We fill children with the poison of ambition from childhood. The little boy goes to school and you begin injecting the poison. You say to him: come first in your class. Do you know what you are saying? You are saying: the thirty children with you are enemies. You must come first. Their parents too have told them to come first. You are setting thirty children at war. You have started politics.

Your entire pedagogy is a limb of politics. You distort every child. And then the politicians come to the universities to preach that students should not engage in politics. And your education is nothing but the extension of politics.

When will that blessed day come when children can truly be friends at school? Only when there is no ambition. When schools teach such things that one person’s gain is not another’s loss—when they teach meditation, teach love, teach Paramatma—then there will be no hindrance.

Dhani Dharamdas says: I took on a double trouble. Here I angered you because I loved the petty; my love became unworthy of you; you turned your back. I call—and you do not look. A knot has formed between us. And there, I made enemies of the world.

‘If I had known my Beloved would sulk,
I would not have set my love upon the world in vain.’

He says: If I had known you would be offended, you would sulk, turn away—I would never have placed my love upon the world.

But such knowing comes only by placing it. Without placing, how can you know? Where the pits are in this life, you know only by falling.

Someone comes to me saying, ‘I have fallen in love with a woman.’ I say: fall. I give full support—fall. My blessing: the sooner you fall, the sooner you wake. Do not delay. For only by falling into the pits do you learn where they are.

Someone says, ‘I have fallen in love with a man.’ I say: go. One must pass through this hell. Perhaps out of regard for your feelings I do not say so bluntly that it is hell; out of regard, I say it is heaven—go.

But I hope only this—that through pain you will experience. Only through wandering will you understand one day that here, all loves are pits; no love brings fulfillment.

Then one day, Dharamdas’s word will make sense: loving the petty has made love itself petty. Now how to raise it to the Vast? This very mind which I laid at some man’s feet, at some woman’s feet—this very consciousness that ran after a harlot, that lusted after rank, that lay awake nights thinking, ‘I must not miss this election’—how to place this same consciousness at Paramatma’s feet? It is no longer fit. It has been placed in so many places—at so many feet—that it is no longer worthy of those Supreme Feet.

In this very pain the mind is washed. In this very crying, in these very tears, it becomes clean—again fit for Paramatma. All the filth that this world deposits upon you—if you can truly weep, the devotee says, it will wash away.

The renunciate says: renounce. The yogi says: practice yoga. But the devotee says the most effortless thing: fill your eyes with tears. For in practicing yoga it may happen that ego becomes strong—often it does. Look at your ‘holy men’—you will not see anyone so puffed with conceit. See their stiff pride. He is religious, a Mahatma; he walks arrogantly. He has done so much yoga, so much austerity, so many vows. If he does not strut, what should he do? He has gathered enough merit.

But all that wealth is a clay pot. The wealth of sin is worthless—and the wealth of merit is also worthless; for merit strengthens ego too. And wherever ego grows strong, hidden sin lurks. Remember this. The devotee says: before Him, weep. Before Him, be poor from all sides. Uncover yourself, stand naked. Show your wounds. If you will not show your wounds to the Supreme Physician, to whom will you show them?

In His presence, if you open yourself as you are—good and bad—then in that very opening health is born. You will find the wounds healing. Your tears will purify you. There is no Ganga more purifying than tears. Those without tears may go to the Ganga; those with tears—the Ganga is in them.

‘If I had known my Beloved would sulk,
I would not have set my love upon the world in vain.

Night and day I long to lie with my Beloved;
The drowsy eyes slipped—and He slipped out of the house.’

He speaks of a supreme experience: sometimes union too occurs. It is not that the knot remains forever. Sometimes priceless moments come when companionship is joined, when the Beloved is met. But then I nod off; my eyes close. And as soon as my eyes close, He leaves the house. He dwells only in the wakeful mind.

Paramatma can abide only in a wakeful consciousness, not in a sleeping one. When you are awake, you find Him near. When you sleep, He goes far. The moment stupor enters, the bond with God breaks; as soon as it lifts, the bond is joined.

Surati is needed—surati meaning awareness. The word comes from Buddha’s smriti. Buddha laid great stress upon samma sati—right remembrance. Live with precise awareness. Buddha’s smriti, slowly in the saints’ mouths, became surati. Surati means: inner light, wakefulness.

You are asleep even when you rise in the morning, do your work, go to market, run your shop—your sleep does not break. What sleep? The sleep of self-forgetfulness. You remember everything but yourself. You see others; only yourself you do not see. Your eyes look outward; they do not turn within—how can they see you? You remain peering outside; you never grope within. From where will awareness come?

Dhani Dharamdas says:

‘Night and day I long to sleep with my Beloved…’

I wanted that when You come, I may lie with You day and night, remain with You, become Your shadow, become one with You. But there is a great difficulty—

‘…The drowsy eyes slipped—He left the house.’

The moment my eyes droop, You are absent.

Wakefulness is the condition for the presence of Paramatma. Awareness is the condition for God’s being. Call it dhyan—use any name you like—but only in the temple of dhyan does God abide. He sits only upon the throne of dhyan. There is no dearer image for it than dhyan.

‘As the water-bearer carries the pitcher upon her head—
surati does not slip, though she chats with all.’

This is the definition of dhyan—simple, clear, subtle. The entire soul of dhyan is contained in it.

‘As the water-bearer carries the pitcher upon her head…’

Have you seen village women returning from the well with their pitchers on their heads? They do not support it with hands; they gossip and sing, laugh and tease; they meet someone on the path and chat; they talk with their companions—yet a vigilance remains within that the pitcher is on the head.

You have perhaps heard a famous story. A young sannyasin lived in his guru’s ashram for years, but dhyan did not happen. The guru said: ‘Go to the emperor of this land—perhaps there you will learn.’ The youth said: ‘Having lived by a supremely wise guru, I could not learn—how will I learn from a worldly emperor?’ The guru said: ‘Obey me. You did not obey me till now—that is why you did not learn. Even now you are not obeying. Go.’

When the guru insisted, he went unwillingly, thinking: what could I find here? He thought, ‘I can teach this emperor myself. So many days I have studied the Vedas, the Upanishads are by heart, the Gita is memorized—I shall teach him.’

He reached the emperor. Being a saint from a distant forest ashram, he was taken in at once. And he was shocked. His assumptions stood confirmed; he thought, ‘My guru knows nothing; he lives in the forest, unaware of the world.’ The emperor sat in court; wine was flowing; a courtesan danced. The sannyasin said: ‘Forgive me. My guru insisted, so I came. I will return at once, for I do not wish to stand in such a sinful place.’

The emperor said: ‘You have come—great grace. Your guru sent you; I know him. If he sent you, there is a reason. Since you have come, stay the night; in the morning we will speak at leisure and then my chariot will take you back.’ The youth, tired, thought, ‘Let me sleep tonight; I will return in the morning.’ But he could not sleep.

In the morning the emperor asked, ‘Did you sleep well?’ He said, ‘You jest. Look at my eyes—red and swollen. You jest indeed.’ The emperor asked: ‘What happened?’ The youth said: ‘How could I sleep? The bed was beautiful, deep sleep could have come—but above my chest hung a naked sword, tied by a raw thread. I could not forget it. Even with closed eyes I saw it. I remained fearful—when it might fall. I tried to take it down but it hung too high. A fine joke!’

The emperor said: ‘As the sword remained in your remembrance the entire night, so if for twenty-four hours remembrance of oneself remains, then dhyan will be. Now you may go.’

Dhyan means: self-awareness remains.

The water-bearer brings water, talks with all, but inwardly remembrance remains: the pitcher is on the head, let it not fall. She holds it, maintains it, guards it. ‘As the water-bearer carries the pitcher upon her head—surati does not slip, though she chats with all.’ Not for a single instant does she forget. She speaks with all, yet in the very depth of speech surati remains.

When such remembrance of yourself is there, God will not turn His back upon you.

A knot has formed, the Beloved will not speak to me.

‘Night and day I long to sleep with my Beloved…’

Union does happen, a glimpse comes for a moment; a hope is born that now I will stay with Him, sleep and rise with Him—

‘…The drowsy eyes slipped—He left the house.’

But just as I grow drowsy, He is gone—and I do not even know when.

‘There was a light within the heart—now it is no more;
He left, and snuffed the lamp of longing.’

With His going, all is darkness. In His presence there is light; in His absence, darkness. Hence the Upanishads sing: Tamso ma jyotirgamaya—lead us from darkness to light! The Quran says: God is Light. The Bible says the same; the Veda says the same. All have identified God with light. Why? Because where God is, there is radiance. An aura burns within you—without wick, without oil, a lamp burns within.

But the moment your remembrance slips, the moment surati goes, God goes. Even if you do not worry about God; if you maintain surati alone, God will worry about you.

This is why there are paths that do not concern themselves with God—only with surati. God comes of His own accord. Buddha never insisted on ‘believing’ in God. He said: how will you believe? Until you have seen, how can you believe? A thousand doubts will arise; the mind will weave nets of arguments. Only if you see will you be able to believe. Therefore, do not speak of Him. Do what you can do.

You can awaken surati. You can bring awareness. When the light of dhyan comes, you will suddenly find—God has come. You need not even seek.

‘The one in whose remembrance I am lost—
Has he any remembrance of me?
For me, this alone is the great question.’

No, there is no need to worry. If you are lost in His remembrance, if that remembrance becomes your continuity, then drop concern. He will come of Himself, spontaneously.

From this you will understand why Buddha, Mahavira, Patanjali, Kapila—these rishis did not find it necessary to posit Ishwara—and yet they were not atheists. They did not posit God, and they were not non-believers. Because they accepted the fundamental—surati. God is its consequence.

There are two ways to ‘find’ God—one false, one true. The false: first believe in God, then seek. The true: first seek, then believe. One who believes first, then seeks—what will he seek? What remains to seek? He will only encounter the reflection of his own belief. The mind will begin to dream what it has posited.

If you believe in Krishna, slowly Krishna’s image will grow dense within—and you will ‘see’ Krishna in your imagination. That is not the real experience of God. Or if you believe in Rama, the bow-bearing Rama will stand in the mind—but this is the play of imagination.

The real God is not bow-bearing, nor wearing a peacock plume. The real God is an ineffable experience—no form, no color, no attribute. The real God is known only when your consciousness is void of all assumptions.

In surati the mind becomes empty of all assumptions. Apply yourself to awakening. Walk with awareness; rise with awareness.

Sufi fakirs would often take disciples to mountain edges to teach this. They would make them walk such paths that if you were unconscious even for a moment, you would fall into the gorge. You had to walk with watchfulness. And when you walk so, the fakir says: let this very awareness be maintained through life.

Have you seen—if someone suddenly runs up with a dagger to your chest, at that instant all thought is lost. Then what happens, when all thought is lost? A peculiar awareness dawns. The danger will not allow you to remain drowsy; awareness comes.

There is a famous Zen tale—useful regarding surati. An emperor sent his son to a master: learn dhyan. ‘I am old,’ said the father, ‘and I have learned that wealth is futile. Who knows this more than I, the emperor? I do not want to leave you with mere wealth and rank; I want to see you joined to dhyan while I live.’

A wonderful father—only such a one is truly father. There is no greater treasure a father can give than this. Your son, if he begins to meditate, you start creating obstacles; you fear he might get entangled. ‘Study! Going to the cinema is fine, listening to music is fine—but do not become entangled in meditation.’ You fear that path is the pathless one; he might be lost.

People come to me, their fathers behind them. ‘Our son is coming here—please stop him somehow. He should not get entangled. He has to live in the world. He is newly married. He just got a job. What need of meditation now? Meditation is for old age.’

A young man took sannyas. His father, seventy-five, came and said, ‘You do not do right—giving sannyas to youths! Take it back; he will listen only to you.’ I said, ‘All right, I will take his back. Will you take sannyas? Your age is seventy-five—take sannyas and I will release him in exchange.’ He said: ‘I will have to think.’ I said: ‘Then I too will have to think. You say sannyas is for old age—you are already old. If you are honest, you take sannyas; I will release him.’ He has not returned. People make excuses, postpone.

That father sent his son to learn dhyan and said, ‘Hurry—apply your whole effort, for I am old. I want to die seeing the glimmer of dhyan in your eyes.’

He was sent to the greatest master of the land. The son was surprised, for that master did not teach dhyan at all; he was renowned for the art of the sword. The son wondered: he teaches swordsmanship—and I am being sent to learn dhyan? But father sends—he must be right.

He reached the master. ‘My father is old,’ he said, ‘he told me to learn quickly. How long will it take?’ The master replied: ‘If you must have a limit, return now. This matter is such that sometimes it happens in a moment; sometimes years take. It cannot be predicted. It depends on you—how much you labor. Infinite patience will be needed. Either go now or leave all to me; there is no middle.’

The father had said, ‘Do not return until you learn.’ So he bowed. ‘Good,’ said the master, ‘begin sweeping the ashram.’

His heart sank. First, this man teaches swordsmanship—sent to learn dhyan!—and now he says sweep. A prince—and sweeping—how will dhyan come from sweeping?

But the father had sent him; he had surrendered. He began to sweep—sleepily, as you would, lost in a thousand thoughts. The master came from behind and struck him with a wooden sword—struck from behind! A heavy blow. He stood shocked—what is this? ‘Are you in your senses?’ he asked. ‘Why did you hit me?’ The master said, ‘Now this will go on every day. You will have to be careful. Keep alert. It will happen anytime, anywhere. This is your dhyan lesson.’

Difficulties began—but the path formed out of them. He never knew when the master would attack; his steps were so soft they made no sound. The youth would be sweeping, eating, reading—the master would come from this side or that and strike. Blow upon blow, wound upon wound. The sword was wood, but still hurt.

Slowly he had to maintain awareness; there was no other way. He would read—and keep an ear for the master’s coming. ‘As the water-bearer carries the pitcher upon her head…’ Now he swept—but who knows when the master might appear. In three months, no matter how softly the master came, he would turn and stand; it became difficult to strike him. To find him unalert became impossible.

One night, asleep, the master attacked; he sat up at once. ‘This is a bit much,’ he said. ‘Will you not let me sleep either?’ The master replied, ‘Now the second lesson begins. By day you have ripened; now you must ripen at night.’

But the disciple had begun to understand. In three months he had suffered much—but what blossomed was unparalleled. A peace never known before; such silence—thoughts vanished as darkness vanishes before a lamp. When dhyan arises, thoughts disappear. No desires, no wants, no worries; there was simply no space for them—awareness was continuous. He could not say, ‘Do not harass me.’ He agreed.

Night attacks began. An old man, he would come eight or ten times each night. The youth’s body filled with bruises over three months—but the work bore fruit. By three months’ end, as soon as the master’s foot entered the room, his eyes opened. ‘Enough, Master,’ he would say, ‘I am awake. Do not take unnecessary trouble.’

After three months, the master threw away the wooden sword and took up a real one. ‘Now you will kill me,’ said the youth. ‘The wooden hurt but healed; this real sword!’ The master said, ‘Now you know even in sleep it has happened. Do not fear.’ And he had begun to trust. In the first three months he had found deep peace; in the second three, the first fragrance of bliss began—a breeze of ananda, as if spring had arrived, flowers opening.

With the real sword, the vigilance grew keener. For three months the master chased him with a real sword, but not once could he strike. After three months, the master sat beneath a tree reading. The youth thought: this old man has tormented me nine months—though the result is immense, not to be had in nine births—but still, he torments me. Let me attack him once—see if he is as alert.

He only thought it while sweeping—and the old man said, ‘Listen, I am old—do not do such a thing.’ He was startled. ‘I did nothing,’ he said. ‘You thought,’ replied the master—that is enough. ‘You began to hear my footsteps in your sleep; one day you will even hear the footfall of thought entering you. A thought came—enough. Do not take the trouble of attacking an old man.’

The youth fell at the master’s feet. The last moment of dhyan—that is Samadhi. That day, for the first time in his life, he tasted Samadhi.

‘As the water-bearer carries the pitcher upon her head—
surati does not slip, though she chats with all.’

Walk, sit, rise in such a manner that awareness remains. There is no need for someone to chase you with a sword—death already does so. Is that not enough? Remember that alone, and awareness will settle. He who remembers death clearly becomes filled with vigilance.

That is why people do not even talk of death. Such a central event—and people avoid the topic. Even at the cremation ground they talk of other things.

As a child I had the habit—if someone died, I went to the cremation ground. People knew—if I was not seen for some hours, look at the cremation ground. But there I would be amazed. I went to see death; for if death is seen clearly, dhyan happens easily. But there I would see people chatting politics, market gossip. The pyre burned, and they turned their backs and chattered. The chatter is a device to avoid seeing the burning body.

The worldly man avoids death; the sannyasin remembers it. One who remembers will awaken; and one who awakens—Paramatma is attained.

‘With folded hands Dharamdas prays—by fortune one finds Sahib Kabir.’

Dharamdas says: Kabir Sahib was found—this living form of God was found. By fortune I found him. He taught me—‘As the water-bearer…’ He awakened me. Great fortune indeed. In this world, the most blessed is the one who finds the Guru.

‘Sahib, grant me your darshan; O ocean of compassion, shower your grace.
As in the heart of the papihā only the water of Swati abides, no other water pleases—so apart from You, nothing now pleases me.’

Like the chātak, whose heart holds only the water of Swati, and no other water appeals, so apart from You nothing appeals. Now the whole world is tasteless.

‘The day has passed, evening has come—what now?
The sun’s life is over—what now?’

People do not think of the beyond; they keep themselves beguiled in the sun. But the sun’s life ends. The day passes; evening falls. Youth is now; tomorrow old age. Life is now; tomorrow death. Before death knocks at your door, reflect a bit. Is there anything here that will bring fulfillment? Is there any water that will quench? You have drunk from so many ghats—nowhere were you satisfied. You returned from each place with your thirst intact, more despondent.

In this world there is no water that quenches. When will the chātak be born in your heart? When will the longing for Swati arise? When will you call upon Paramatma? After so many unfulfillments, do your delusions still not break?

‘In the papihā’s heart Swati abides; no other water pleases.’

Once it begins to dawn that though everything is here, nothing is fulfilling—wealth comes and poverty within remains; rank comes and inner smallness does not leave. However much you adorn the outer, death stands within.

‘A life untouched by your smile—
is no less than any hell.’

Until Paramatma is included in your being, until His smile becomes a part of your life, know you are in hell. However you deceive yourself, however you decorate hell, nothing will change—you waste your time and life.

‘As the crow rides the ship—and nowhere else comes to mind.’

In former days those who traveled by ship carried birds with them. The birds served as a test. If the bird was released and did not return, land must be near. If it returned, land was not near.

Columbus traveled three months seeking India and by mistake reached America. After three months the food was gone; only three days’ rations remained. The ninety men with him were panicking: death alone lies ahead; no land in sight—they fell into the trap of this madman. People considered him mad, for he held that the earth is round; none believed it then. It appears flat. He said: if it is round, wherever we go, if we keep going, we shall return to where we began. That is what round means.

He said: there is no fear of losing our way; if we find India, good; if not, we shall circle back home. Some brave ones agreed to go; a slightly offbeat queen gave him funds. But people believed he would not return; families wept and bade final farewell.

Now it felt certain to those ninety: he is mad. ‘Let us turn back,’ they said. They decided: if he did not agree to return by morning, they would throw him into the sea and sail back.

He overheard their plotting at night. In the morning he said: ‘You are right; I shall jump into the sea myself; you turn back. But understand: you have food for three days; the return journey is three months. You will die. There is no way back now. Listen to me—I tell you we shall reach land in three days because the doves I released yesterday did not return. Land must be near.’

This sutra recalls those old sea journeys.

‘As the bird rides the ship and nowhere else comes to mind…’

When the bird circles and nowhere familiar appears, only water, water—it returns to the ship.

So says Dhani Dharamdas: in this world I have seen nothing but death. You alone are my ship. Nanak said: The Name is the ship. O Paramatma, apart from You there is no support. You alone are Life; all else is death. One joined to God joins Maha-life. One who lives without God dips in the ocean of death—born and dying, dying and born; this continues. He sinks and rises, rises and sinks; the process is endless.

Board the ship. The ship is available—always available. Paramatma is not unavailable for even a moment; only you must consent. Our condition is like this: the sun rises and we stand with eyes shut, saying the world is dark. Open your eyes. The light of God pours everywhere.

‘I entreat again and again—hear my plea.
Lift me from the ocean of becoming—make me Your own.’

‘There are longings and desires, pains and delights—
A hundred tumults of life—and yet, alone.’

All is there—and still you are alone. Look. There is wife, husband, children, mother, father, sons and daughters, relatives and friends—everything.

‘There are longings and desires, pains and delights…’

There is happiness and sorrow, conveniences and inconveniences, success and failure, fame and infamy—

‘There are longings and desires, pains and delights—
A hundred tumults of life—and yet, alone.’

Great noise, great tumult, the spectacle goes on—and still you are alone. When will it become visible that I am alone? Without Paramatma you will remain alone. Only by joining with Him does loneliness dissolve.

‘Lift me from the ocean of becoming—make me Your own.’

When will you pray: take me out of this ocean of life and death, from this process of birth and demise—this bhavsagar—bhava meaning being-and-not-being? Draw me out—make me Your own.

‘All is well, I am well, I wish all well;
There is a longing in my heart—for union I long.’

Let but one longing remain in you: I long for union.

And unknowingly you seek only Him everywhere. When you fall in love with a woman or a man, you seek only Him for a moment. In seeking rank, whom do you seek? Grasping life, what are you grasping? You think that way you will find nectar. In seeking office you think: this way I will go beyond death; wealth will make me safe. But apart from Him there is no other way.

‘In this cosmos of beauty, apart from the mirror,
No rival to You was ever born.’

There is none here like Him. There are mirrors—sometimes glimpses flash in them.

‘In this cosmos of beauty, apart from the mirror,
No rival to You was ever born.’

How long will you seek in mirrors? Now begin seeking the Original.

‘The mansions grow cool with dew; the sky is overcast.’

One who gazes toward Him like the chātak, who waits for Swati, who calls in meditation—‘Where are You, Beloved? Where are You?’—who cries like the papihā—

In Nanak’s life there is a mention: one night he was calling and calling to God. Past midnight, his mother came and said: ‘Enough—sleep now; how long will this bhajan go on?’ Nanak said: ‘Do not say that. Do not stop me. Listen: in the mango grove outside, the papihā is calling—“Where is my Beloved? Where?” Listen! I am in contest with him. Until he falls silent, I shall not fall silent.’

That very night revolution happened in Nanak’s life. Compete with the papihā. ‘If he does not tire,’ said Nanak, ‘why should I? As long as his song goes on, why should mine cease? I am not less than the papihā.’

And one who becomes a papihā—crying and crying—staking everything upon the call—he surely finds the Beloved. This is the import of the sutra.

‘When dew begins to drip in the inner palace, the sky grows clouded;
Sometimes it thunders, sometimes lightning flashes—
Waves arise whose splendor defies all telling.’

When one becomes the chātak, in the empty palace the dew begins to fall—amrita rains.

‘When dew begins to drip in the inner palace, the sky grows clouded…’

The anahad nada resounds; amrita rains. As clouds thunder, so the Omkar thunders within—Ek Omkar Satnam. And as rain falls and the hungry, thirsty earth is satisfied, so amrita showers within; your hungry and thirsty being, starved across births, is satisfied.

‘When dew begins to drip in the inner palace, the sky grows clouded…
Sometimes it thunders, sometimes lightning flashes—
Waves arise whose splendor defies all telling.’

Such a wave of intoxication comes that its beauty cannot be described. There is sound, there is light; amrita is raining.

‘Such waves arise—beauty beyond all telling.’

Such intoxication, such ecstasy comes that one is drowned, absorbed. It cannot be described.

‘From the silent palace amrita rains—
Love and bliss are born; the sadhu bathes in it.’

But only he can bathe who has practiced like the chātak. Only he who has gathered such dhyan—‘as the water-bearer carries the pitcher…’—only he is called a sadhu.

Sadhu means: one who has become simple; one who has tuned his mind toward That; who has turned away from kama and turned his face toward Rama. One who has turned his back to the world and his face to God—like the chātak—‘Where are You, Beloved?’

‘From the silent palace amrita rains—
Love and bliss are born; the sadhu bathes in it.’

Then two flowers bloom in the sadhu’s life: love and bliss.

Bliss is for oneself—an inner flower; his breath is filled with its fragrance. And when that fragrance touches others’ nostrils, they experience love.

Remember this. A sadhu has two signs: inwardly, supreme ananda. But you cannot go within him; only he knows, or those like him. Yet you will see one thing around him—love. What has happened within, a few drops fall upon you too.

Where you experience both love and bliss—know the temple is near. Know you have come close to the pilgrimage.

Where there is neither love nor bliss; where instead of love there is only hate, only hardness; where instead of love there is only your condemnation; where you are declared sinners; where hell is arranged for you; where inwardly there is no bliss, only ego—get away. Flee quickly, for you have come to an un-saint.

Among your so-called saints, ninety-nine out of a hundred are not sadhus—because there is neither bliss nor love.

‘From the silent palace amrita rains—
Love and bliss are born; the sadhu bathes in it.’

‘The door has opened, darkness is dispelled—
Blessed the Satguru who made me see.’

Now the doors have opened. If you keep calling, they open—this assurance is sure. Behind this testimony stand Buddha and Mahavira, Krishna and Kabir, Mohammed and Mansur—a long line of majestic beings—who all declare: the assurance is certain; it happens without exception. Only call—call with your whole being.

‘The door has opened, darkness is dispelled—
Blessed the Satguru who made me see.’

In that very moment you will thank your Satguru. You will know you gave nothing. In the name of surrender, what had you to give? When you placed your head at his feet, what was there in it but straw? What did you give? But what you received—its worth cannot be measured.

‘With folded hands Dharamdas prays—
He remains absorbed at the Satguru’s feet.’

In that moment your head does not merely rest at the feet—it becomes one with them, dissolves, merges. The Satguru’s feet and your head are no longer two.

‘Heed the Satguru’s teaching—return, O mad ones.’

Return, O mad ones, return home. Return.

‘Heed the Satguru’s teaching—return, O mad ones.
Rise and go to your own land—this is the good counsel.’

Now seek your home. Now return.

‘Rise and go to your own land—this is the good counsel.’

If the Satguru is found, the opportunity arrives to return home—because someone has arrived who shows the way. Do not miss it.

First, finding the Satguru is hard; and if you do, you are so skilled at missing. You say, ‘Tomorrow.’ You say, ‘What is the hurry? I am young; let me taste life a little more; indulge a little more; death is not yet at the door.’ You are skilled at postponing.

‘Heed the Satguru’s teaching—return, O mad ones.
Rise and go to your own land—this is the good counsel.’

Do not miss this chance.

‘We have conveyed the message—of your Beloved.’

Dhani Dharamdas says: I have delivered the message to you—the message of your Beloved.

‘Without understanding, the task of your life will not be accomplished.’

Now understand. If you understand, your life’s work will be fulfilled—completion will come; your sorrow will end; your hell will end; your melancholy will vanish; Samadhi will bloom.

‘Age after age I have come—speaking and making you understand.’

A very lovely saying. Dhani Dharamdas says: those who came before and spoke—they too were we.

Gurus are not separate. Colors differ, manners differ, voices differ, styles differ—but the Guru is not many. Did not Krishna say: ‘I will come whenever needed—sambhavami yuge yuge’? People wait for Krishna to descend—with peacock plume and flute; you are mistaken. Whoever knows Truth—that is Krishna.

Jesus said: I will come again. Christians wait. Whoever knows Truth—that is Jesus.

Buddha said: I will come as Maitreya. Whoever is your friend—and who is friend? One who leads you to your own land—that is Buddha.

Dharamdas speaks rightly—

‘Age after age I have come—speaking and making you understand.’

Do not take it to mean the same person returns. In many persons the same Truth returns; in many pots the same water is poured; in many eyes the same light falls. Persons change—Truth does not. Truth is one; expressions are many. On many veenas the same song is sung again and again. Due to the veenas, small differences arise, but the song is the same, the rhythm the same, the meter the same.

‘Age after age I have come—speaking and making you understand.’

Those who came before, those who will come later, and those who are here now—all are strung upon one thread. The beads differ; the thread is one. Krishna and Christ are strung on the same thread; Mohammed and Mahavira; Zarathustra and Jesus—strung on the same thread.

Therefore do not sit in these foolish waitings—that when Krishna comes, then you will awaken. This too is your trick to avoid. Do not wait for Jesus to come before you awake.

The earth is never empty of God. Somewhere, some lamp burns. Those with eyes find it and cross over; the blind sit waiting, losing the chance.

‘Age after age I have come—speaking and making you understand.
Without understanding, you will fall into the mouth of death.’

Again and again this has been said: if you do not understand Truth, you will continue to fall into death’s mouth. Have you not suffered enough? Is your heart not filled with sorrow yet? Do you desire more? Understand.

These sutras of Dharamdas—if they take root in your heart—they will carry you flying toward the sky, so that your feet never again touch earth. But do not sit merely to think about them; they have nothing to do with thought. They are not ideas; Dharamdas has poured his heart before you, scattered his wealth before you. Pick it up, savor it, live it.

‘Heed the Satguru’s teaching—return, O mad ones.
Rise and go to your own land—this is the good counsel.
We have conveyed the message—of your Beloved.
Without understanding, the task of your life will not be accomplished.
Age after age I have come—speaking and making you understand.
Without understanding, you will fall into the mouth of death.’

Enough for today.