Jas Panihar Dhare Sir Gagar #7

I remained as the reflection of your love
I endured the entire curse of your burning
Obedient, ever-mad, I became a distant shadow
The contracting little flicker of your strong life-breath
That belonging whose gaining is a futile toil
That endless possessiveness that cuts like death
Wrapped in the shawl of hope and trust, I set out
At the remnant edge of a broken age, I stood—become a story
Borne along on love’s forward-leaning restlessness, I drifted away
I remained as the reflection of your thirst
I lost the footprints of the search—love lost, and merit too
With the friend of dreams I once walked upon those paths
But now no door of destiny opens to me anywhere
Mortal and immortal both of mine were lost here
Beloved, the pride of your touch is my victory
In the body is imprisoned the music of eternal liberation
A living dream rose and crashed overnight
I remained as the body of your helplessness

Bhakti is the art of dissolving. Bhakti is the way to become a void. Bhakti is to empty oneself like a temple so that the image of the Divine may be enthroned. Only those who are empty can be bhaktas. Only those who are not can be bhaktas. The more one ‘is’, the more difficulty one will find in being joined to Paramatma.

Apart from ego there is neither ignorance nor sin on the path of bhakti. “I am”—this is the sin. “I am”—this is the ignorance. Therefore neither vows will work, nor fasting, nor pilgrimages, nor meritorious deeds. Only one thing will work: let me be effaced.

And the ‘I’ is so cunning it fills itself even with merit; it decks itself with worship and recitation; it strengthens itself with pilgrimages and vows. One who keeps alert about the ‘I’ will see one thing: by acts the ‘I’ does not die. Go then on pilgrimage, to Kashi or Kaba—it will not die by acts. Do merits, fasts—still, by acts the ‘I’ does not die, because in acts the sense of the doer is present. And where the sense of the doer is, there I am.

By non-doing the ‘I’ dies. By surrender the ‘I’ dies. In the feeling “I am helpless,” the ‘I’ meets its death. When the noose of helplessness encircles you, the ‘I’ gets hanged.

If you look rightly at life you will find—what have you done? What can you do? Things surely are happening. Whatever happens you quickly snatch and make it your deed. Love happened with someone, and you say, I loved. You convert happening into doing very quickly. And the moment you turn a happening into a doing, ego is manufactured. Turn doing back into happening—the key of bhakti is in your hand.

Do not say, I loved; do not say, I was angry; do not say, I did a merit. Do not say, I committed a sin. Say, it happened. Pay a little attention to this small change of language. “Anger happened through me”—then there remains no place for the ‘I’ to stand. “Love happened through me”—where is the ground for the ‘I’ to stand? You become a bamboo flute. Now whatever plays, Paramatma plays.

Therefore the bhakta neither calls himself sinner nor virtuous. For those who call themselves sinners are filled with one kind of ego; those who call themselves virtuous are filled with another kind.

And if one searches closely, the ego of the virtuous is larger than the ego of the sinner. Naturally—his chains are of gold, which can be called ornaments. The sinner’s chains are of ugly iron, rusted. He doesn’t want to show them, he wants to hide them. The virtuous wants to show even his chains, wants to exhibit: how much charity he gave, how many pujas he performed, how many yajnas and havans he got done—he keeps a count of all these. He survives in that count. Slowly the virtuous becomes so filled with ego that Paramatma becomes far—very far.

Paramatma is as far from you as your ego is strong. Paramatma is as near as your ego is weak. Weaken the ego.

I remained as the reflection of your love
I remained as the reflection of your thirst
A living dream rose and crashed overnight
I remained as the body of your helplessness

Become helpless. In helplessness is the descent of Paramatma. Become overcome. Cry, do call—yet in helplessness, in powerlessness, in the state of being without resource. The sigh that arises from a helpless heart becomes prayer.

This is the foundation stone of bhakti. Today’s sutras will be a great help in understanding this foundation.

First sutra:
Sahib, I behold your bridal couch.

Dhani Dharamdas is saying: Your bed, your sej, becomes visible to me. This entire existence is your bridal couch.

Only the blind do not see Paramatma. And when someone comes and asks, Where is God? he asks a very strange question. He should ask, Where are my eyes? But people ask, Where is God? They say, If God becomes visible we will believe. The blind man is saying, Let light become visible and I will believe. And until it is visible, I will not believe. The blind begins the journey with a wrong question.

And one who asks a wrong question will fall into the net of wrong answers. You asked, Where is God?—and you got trapped; trapped in the mischief of priest and pundit. He will tell you where God is. He will draw maps; he will create heaven and hell. He will fulfill your demand. In this world, ask for anything and someone will be found to supply it. Ask wrongly, and someone will be found to supply the wrong.

Therefore a right question is essential. Only right inquiry leads one day to truth.

What is right inquiry? Right inquiry is this: I do not have the eye that sees. Ask, Why does Paramatma not become visible to me? He is visible to Krishna, to Christ—why not to me? But instead of asking why he is not visible to me, you think Christ must have been mad. Those who see what is not must be mad. Only madmen see what is not.

In the West many books have been written about Jesus in which efforts are made to prove Jesus a neurotic, insane—because Jesus sees things that no one else sees. And what are the marks of a madman? A tree is visible to you; to Krishna the tree is not visible—not that the tree is not visible, but the tree is only a veil. That which is green within the tree is Paramatma. A flower is visible to you. Krishna too sees the flower, but not as a flower—he sees it as a symbol.

What is hidden within the flower—that which is crimson within the flower, that which blossoms within the flower—that is Paramatma. All blossoming is his, all colors are his, every expression is his. From stone to flower he is appearing in countless hues and forms.

You see waves; the knower, the seer, too sees waves—but sees the ocean hidden within the waves. You end with the waves. You ask, Where is the ocean? I see only waves upon waves—where is the ocean? And the knower says, Waves cannot be without the ocean.

All this is connected. The element that joins all this, the thread that strings all this together—that is Paramatma.

Sahib, I behold your bridal couch.

Dharamdas says: I see your prepared bed.

And for one who begins to see the bridal couch of Paramatma, a fountain of bliss arises in life. What more is needed? Then no matter how far the couch may be, the hour of union draws near. Far, yet not far.

From seeing this bridal couch two happenings begin. First—a surge of joy: Paramatma is. In moon and stars his glimpse is found. As rays he descends through the sun. In the gusts of wind it is his fragrance. In the eyes of people, that very gleam of eyes. On faces, that very beauty. In the laughter of children, that very laughter.

On one side joy rises—and on the other a deep pain of separation, that the couch is still far. I have not yet become a limb of that bed. I have not yet met the Beloved and lain upon that couch. Still a distance. Still a little gap. The ego has begun to melt, but has not yet vanished.

When the ego melts, Paramatma begins to be seen. When the ego is gone, you become one with Paramatma. Darshan—lift the veil and grant a glimpse—then take me as your own. First comes darshan, a little raising of the veil—“Grant me darshan, lift the curtain; then drown me in yourself. Then call me to your bed.”

Sahib, I behold your bridal couch.

Gather my glances, O Radiance
Lift the veil a little from your face

As soon as his glimpse begins to be received—at first it is received from behind the veil, through many veils.

Have you seen the Beloved hidden in a veil? She both appears and does not appear. Only a glimpse is given. But that glimpse gives birth to hope, stirs enthusiasm. The heart is set in motion; the veena begins to vibrate. Someone within starts humming. Spring has come!

Red turrets of the red palace—

That little glimpse of Paramatma through the veil makes the whole world red. Everything is filled with his redness.

Understand the symbol of red. Red is a very unique color. That is why for sannyas, ochre—saffron—has been chosen through the centuries. In these sutras the color of sannyas is being spoken of.

Red is the symbol of many things. First: of life—because it is the symbol of blood. Paramatma is life.

Red palace with red turrets, red glow upon the lattice—

Red bed with red bedding, a red fringe upon the door—

The red form of the Red Lord, red, red reflection everywhere—

Only redness is seen everywhere.

Dharamdas bows with folded hands: blessed are the feet of the Guru.

And the Guru who opened the eyes toward this redness—blessed are his feet. Kabir’s famous utterance echoes in the words of Kabir’s disciple, the wealthy Dharamdas:

The redness of my Red—wherever I look, all is red.
I went to see the redness; I too became red.

He who goes to behold this redness will be dyed by it. The moment you plunge into it, you become that.

So first, red is the symbol of life. For blood is life. In blood flows his very juice.

If you do not let blood flow, O gardener,
No flower will bloom in the rose-garden.

The red blood running through your arteries—that is Paramatma. The energy of life within you is his energy. When you ask, Where is God?—how strange a question! He is your heart-beat. He is running in your veins. He is speaking, he is listening, he is asking, “Where is Paramatma?” It is Paramatma who asks, Where is Paramatma!

If you do not let blood flow, O gardener,
No flower will bloom in the rose-garden.

Had Paramatma not poured himself into you, you would not have blossomed. You would not be. You would not even be here to ask. The question would not arise; there would be no inquiry, no inquirer.

Then red is also the color of youth; of freshness, of ripeness. Paramatma is ever young. Life never dies. Life never grows old. Waves are sometimes young, sometimes old, sometimes they die. The ocean is forever young, ever the same. The ocean is never child, never youth, never old—there is no age there.

Paramatma has no age. Time puts no limit on him. We are waves, so we come to be and then pass away. We cannot be forever as “we.” As the person you cannot be forever, but as Paramatma you are forever. The day you recognize the divinity within you, you will see—you were never a child, never a youth, never old, never did you die. Though death has come many times, you never died. And though you have taken birth many times, you were never born. You are unborn, immortal!

Red is the color of that youth.

Red is also the color of celebration. Paramatma is celebration. Those who have made their sadness the basis of God have not recognized him. If in your temples and mosques sit sad people, know it well: they are torn from the world, but not joined to God.

One who is joined to Paramatma should be more joyous than the worldly; must be. When those immersed in the petty appear so cheerful, what to say of the one joined to the vast! How to measure his joy? With what scales? All scales are too small. Here someone falls in love with a woman and becomes so intoxicated—yet you, in love with Paramatma, are not intoxicated? Sitting like a dead man?

Then you have made some wrong concept of God. You have not seen his redness. You are not acquainted. Paramatma is dance; Paramatma is festival.

This is my original insight I want to give you. I want my sannyasins to be dancing sannyasins, drunk with joy. Let their celebration surpass the worldly—only then are they sannyasins. The worldly drinks a little wine and looks so elated; you drink Paramatma—and you cannot be even as elated as a drunkard? You drink the Divine and walk cautiously? Your feet do not stagger? Then you have drunk a counterfeit God. You have drunk the God of books. Your meeting with the real God has not happened, no embrace; otherwise you would go mad with ecstasy—utterly intoxicated.

Red is the color of celebration. That is why flowers are symbols of festivity. Flowers are red.

Perhaps the season of spring is very near—
Every bud in my hem has begun to smile.

As spring draws near, every bud in the hem begins to smile. Who knows from where flowers long hidden appear! Flowers emerge from the soil—buried in the soil, hidden. They were waiting for the spring.

So too is the waiting for Paramatma. As Paramatma approaches, your ordinary life fills with fragrance, so many flowers blossom! Even you will not believe it when the first flowers begin to open. When the first dance comes, you will not believe your own feet—that these are my feet, and they are dancing! That this throat is singing! Since when did I learn to be a cuckoo? Since when did this peacock’s dance come to me?

You will not even remember. You never learned any of this. You never knew it—it awakens suddenly.

Perhaps the season of spring is very near—
Every bud in my hem has begun to smile.

Know then—only then—that religion is entering your life, when buds begin to open, when flowers start smiling, when redness begins to spread over you.

So red is the color of celebration, of spring, of flowers.

Then red is also the color of revolution. Communists chose it much later; sannyasins chose it thousands of years ago. And the communist revolution is no great revolution. In the materialist ideology of communism, a great revolution cannot be. If matter is all, there is no possibility of the enormous. If only mud is, what revolution? One arrangement of mud will become another arrangement of mud.

Revolution can truly happen only in a sannyasin’s life—who says that from stone to Paramatma is the possibility. If stone can become God, there can be revolution. If stone remains stone, what revolution? A little difference, a change of arrangement. Reform can happen; in communism there is possibility of reform—at most. That too not very precious—a nominal one.

There was revolution in Russia—Tsar went, a greater Tsar Stalin took his place. No revolution. One slavery left, another came. When one slavery goes and another comes, for a little while in the interval people feel relief—like when you carry a bier to the cremation ground and change shoulders. The load grows on one shoulder, you place it on the other. In moving from one shoulder to the other there is relief for a while, but then the other shoulder starts aching.

Just now you took Indira off this shoulder, now the other shoulder with Morarji begins to hurt. Where does revolution happen? Shoulders are changed. In between you become excited, delighted, as if revolution has come, all is done.

Nothing ever comes. There is only one revolution—and that religion knows: that you cease to be body, become Atman. That the world becomes sannyas. That in stone you begin to see Paramatma.

Such difference—then call it revolution. A word as precious as “revolution” is not meant for changing leaders. Tell Jayaprakash Narayan: do not use so precious a word for such trivialities. He says an “radical revolution” has happened. Not small—a root-level revolution! Not even the leaf has changed; perhaps some paint has been applied to the leaf. That too is washing off with time. A root-level revolution—!

There is only one revolution, I tell you again and again: here, in the inert, you begin to see the conscious. For you this world becomes filled with Paramatma, brims over.

Therefore sannyasins chose red long ago. It is the color of revolution because it is the color of fire. Fire burns and refines—fiery. Gold that passes through fire comes out purified, purest. He who passes through the red of Paramatma will be refined, become pure gold. This redness will burn—like fire burns. Burning is necessary; otherwise there is no refinement.

And red is also the color of wine—of abandon, of intoxication, of being drowned, of dissolution. Paramatma is wine, is madhushala. A temple that is not a madhushala is no temple—wrong people must have occupied it. It has been gripped by gloomy and sick souls. There the veena must sound; there the flute must rise in song; there the drum must be struck; there anklets must be tied to feet; there dances must happen and people must be intoxicated—so intoxicated that they are wholly lost: no memory of themselves, no sense left. When self-sense is lost, his sense dawns. As long as self-sense remains, his memory does not come.

All these are the symbols held in the color red. Red is the color of sannyas because it is the color of Paramatma.

Sahib, I behold your bridal couch—

Dharamdas says, I behold your sej—so unique. Red upon red.

Red turrets on the red palace, red door-panels—

Your bed is red, your bedding red—

A red fringe upon your doorway—

You too are red, and your face is red—

Only red everywhere I see—

Dharamdas bows with folded hands, blessed are the feet of the Guru.

Even in the supreme moment of experience he does not forget the Guru. He says, blessed my fortune that the Guru was found; he opened my eyes, brought me to the Lord, ignited this festival, let this stream of honey flow.

Without the Beloved I cannot sleep—

And when the bridal couch of Paramatma starts coming near, then nothing else will appeal to the mind. As soon as Paramatma begins to be seen, all other loves grow pale—worldly, ordinary; they lose their meaning. All the loves you have built have meaning only until the supreme love enters. The houses you have made look like homes only until the abode of the Divine is seen. With its appearing, your mansions become mud, your relations ordinary.

Remember, the bhakta does not say that you should leave home and run away. But what happens has to be described. As soon as a little experience of Paramatma begins, the things of this world become insipid—by comparison. Ask someone to hold cheap pebbles when a Kohinoor diamond is in his hand—how? One does not even have to leave; it all leaves by itself because the Vast is seen. He who leaves by effort will not be free; he whose grip loosens by vision alone truly lets go.

Understand the difference. One who leaves by effort—still there was meaning there; had there been none, why the effort? A man says, I have left everything—wealth, wife, children. And you see a glow of pride on his face at renunciation—know it, nothing is left. Now he enjoys, “See, no one is as great a renunciate as I. What a great deed I have accomplished!”

I once spoke to a muni. He said, Perhaps you do not know—I left lakhs, houses, everything. I said, It has not left you. Go back. He said, What do you mean? I said, People throw garbage outside every day; they do not announce in the newspapers that they have renounced so much garbage. You still remember after thirty years that there were lakhs? Those lakhs still have juice for you. They grip your consciousness still. You left, but they did not leave. Leaving is not an outer event, it is inner. When meaning is lost from a thing, it leaves by itself—even if you still sit beside it. Jewels may lie next to you; if they have lost meaning, the matter is over.

Have you watched how children entangle you? You take a small child on a journey—he carries his doll; it is dirty, oily, dusty—but he wants to carry it. Without it he cannot sleep. You explain a thousand times, It is a doll, don’t be silly, there is no need to sleep with it stuck to your chest. We sleep too. But he understands nothing. Without the doll he cannot sleep. At night he must have the doll.

Then one day the moment comes—he understands, a doll is a doll. When this dawns, tell him, Son, keep the doll safe, you will need it to sleep—he will laugh: Do you take me for a fool? The doll he would not leave—who knows when it got tossed into some corner, when it was thrown, he does not even remember. This is called “it left.”

When the Vast is seen, meaning falls out of the petty. Let no one tell you: first drop the pebbles, then diamonds will come. Those who told you so were wrong. First find the diamond—the pebbles will drop. First place your foot on the next step; let the new dimension descend; then there will be no difficulty in leaving the old. When the greater is found there is no trouble in leaving the lesser.

But with no glimpse of the greater, leaving the lesser is torment. Then to compensate you must erect an ego. That is why you honor renunciates. The honor is mere compensation: You have suffered so many wounds; in exchange, we give you respect.

When someone becomes a muni, a renunciate, you take out processions. What has he done? If the world is futile, he left nothing. If the world is meaningful, he erred by leaving. Between these two, at least one must be true. Why the procession? Yes, looking at him you might beat your chest: He left, and we fools still clutch! But why the procession? Did he do some glorious deed? He simply saw what was—where is the glory? Therefore that which he had wrongly held, fell from his hands.

It fell—note this—not that he left it. If you leave, wounds remain. If you leave by effort, hurt remains within; you will need salves and bandages to cover it. That salve society supplies: Worship them—they left wealth, position. Take them in procession, touch their feet, serve them. They are great renunciates.

Now this is another way of feeding ego. First they fed it by having lakhs; now they feed it by having left lakhs. And note, the second ego is subtler—and more dangerous. It is pure poison. In the first there was some impurity. If you drank the first you might not die.

I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin wanted to die. He bought poison, drank, and went to sleep. Many times in the night he opened his eyes—Still not dead? He turned sides, pinched himself: it hurt. Then still not dead? Morning came, the milkman knocked, the wife began making tea, children started running about. What is this? Still not dead! He ran to the poison seller: What is the matter? The man said, Brother, what can we do? There is adulteration in everything. Where today does one get pure poison?

Now even if one wants to die, one cannot. Neither live nor die—poison isn’t pure.

The poison in an ordinary man’s life is impure; in the life of the so-called renunciate it is pure. He has separated all impurities; only poison remains. His ego is very pious—such purity! His ego is very religious. Beware of it.

For the awakened, the world goes—and in its place renunciation does not come. Renunciation has no meaning then. In its place arises supreme enjoyment.

The bhakta is the supreme enjoyer—he enjoys Paramatma now. You enjoy the petty; he enjoys the Vast. You remain on the surface; he has gone to the depths. He has dived. You collect shells and pebbles on the shore; he has dived and is gathering diamonds, jewels, pearls.

Without the Beloved I cannot sleep—

Once the glimpse of Paramatma begins, there is no sleep, no rest. For the first time the fire of separation is lit. For the first time you begin to understand what you were to become, and what you have become! What you were worthy to attain—your birthright—or say: your very nature’s right. To be Paramatma is our capacity. Whoever is satisfied with less—when he understands, he will weep. If not weeping, what else will he do? If not beat his chest, what else?

Tears flowed from my eyes—
But separation from pain did not happen.

He will weep. Tears will flow down—but these tears will not lessen the pain; they will increase it.

Tears flowed from my eyes—
But separation from pain did not happen.

The bhakta comes into a strange state:

I laugh all day, I weep all night—
God knows what has happened to me.

He laughs—because wherever he looks, that redness of my Red; everywhere Paramatma is visible. He weeps—because as yet I have not become red. Redness is everywhere; flowers are blooming everywhere; and seeing the flowers everywhere and the advent of spring everywhere, it pricks all the more that within me flowers have not bloomed.

Had flowers not been seen in anyone, it would be fine—this desert-like life would be fine; so is everyone else’s life. There was an acceptance, a consolation. Today it is visible that Paramatma has blossomed everywhere—what has happened to me? Why have I not blossomed? Where is my flower? What is my destiny?

I laugh all day, I weep all night—
God knows what has happened to me.

This cruel Beloved’s gaze does not depart from my heart—
Such is the way his glance has become linked.

Words most meaningful regarding Paramatma are the words of love. The love that occurs between man and woman—multiply it infinitely, then you may get some hint of the love that happens between human and Divine. In this world there is no other event from which one can take its measure.

This cruel Beloved’s gaze does not depart from my heart—
His glance pierces like an arrow. There is joy—that blessed am I that his arrow chose me; and there is pain—when will union be? Now even a moment’s distance cannot be borne.

Without the Beloved I cannot sleep—

Now thunder roars, now lightning flashes; from above he gives a peep.

Here in my life-clouds thunder, lightnings flash—and see the wonder: from above he gives his glimpse. On this side I weep torrent upon torrent, eyes fill with tears, thorns prick in my life, every hair burns in the fire of separation—and see the wonder—

Now thunder roars, now lightning flashes; from above he gives a peep.

And again and again his peeping happens. In the lightning it seems his own flash; in the thunder of clouds it seems his own voice, his own sound. In tears it seems he himself is flowing, and in the flames it seems he himself is blazing.

The moment he left, the taverns of memory opened—
Though I am far from him, I am still drunk.

Distance—and intoxication. Sometimes in this intoxication the bhakta even comes near. Sometimes weeping, weeping he comes close. There is no bridge better than tears. Let me repeat—there are no prayers better than tears. One who knows how to weep needs say nothing. One who can speak through the eyes need not use words.

When your tears begin to flow, you come close. Nothing brings you closer to Paramatma than tears: neither doctrines, nor scriptures, nor your parroted prayers, nor your verses, nor your hymns, nor your kirtan. Tears bring you closer than anything—because tears come straight from the heart. Words are learned, social. Tears make your heart tremble—that trembling brings you near to Paramatma. In that vibration your rhythm links with his. In that vibration you become with him.

Behold the miracle of my tears—
He came before me, smiling.

Learn to weep with an open heart and you will be astonished—no sooner do the eyes fill with tears than glimpses of the Divine begin to be seen in those very tears. Tears become mirrors.

Behold the miracle of my tears—
He came before me, smiling.

The more you can weep, the nearer you come. And remember—in this weeping there is sorrow and there is joy. It is a paradoxical state. We cannot say the tears are only of sorrow—if only of sorrow, the bhakta would be gloomy. We cannot say they are only of joy. They are between both. On one side is a heavy sorrow—why does it not happen more quickly? On the other a great blessedness—yet it is happening; I am arriving; I am coming near! That I have come so near—is this not enough?

Mother-in-law and sister-in-law are harsh in the house; day and night separation torments me.

Dharamdas has taken the symbol of mother-in-law and sister-in-law. Those who are “our own” become the obstacle between us and Paramatma. Those whom you have called yours become obstacles. And behind it is a cause—why? Because jealousy arises.

This quarrel of mother-in-law and daughter-in-law is very old. Why? Ask a psychologist—this quarrel will not end. Understand it, and you will understand another sutra. Through understanding this world we slowly understand God.

What is the quarrel of mother-in-law and daughter-in-law? A mother loved her son—kept him nine months in her womb. For years she served him, suffered all kinds of pains—did not sleep at night, sat awake when he was sick. Thousands of troubles came—she crossed them. Suddenly one day the son becomes the possession of another woman. Great jealousy is born.

A great jealousy arises in the mother: my son has become another woman’s? This is not much in the conscious—so do not ask a mother. It is not in her conscious; it is a part of her unconscious. In the unconscious it is. Now she sees in everything—the son is not as eager to meet her as he once was; how can he be? He once held her pall and roamed; now he cannot go round holding her pall—nor is it right. One day the mother’s pall has to be let go. A son who cannot let go is sick.

Now this son is eager to meet another woman, not the mother. If he meets, it is formal. He sits near for a while, exchanges a few words about weather and health. But a distance begins.

Understand the mother’s pain. This son was once so much her own that he was one with her. Then he was born—the first distance began. Then the doctor cut even the umbilical cord. Still, the son depended on the mother’s milk—from her breasts he was joined; she was his food and life. One day the milk stopped—he began to take his own food—another relation snapped.

This is a long story of relations snapping. The relation of mother and son is a story of relations snapping. Then one day he went to school. Then to the university. Then he stayed there. After years he comes home in holidays; sometimes a letter. And one day the last relation is snapped when another woman enters his life; that woman takes hold of him, occupies him completely.

There is a Russian saying: a mother takes twenty-five years to make her son wise; another woman takes not even five minutes to make him a fool. Twenty-five years to make him intelligent, five minutes to make him stupid!

The mother is hurt—her work undone. An unconscious jealousy is born; she cannot tolerate the daughter-in-law.

And in the daughter-in-law’s mind too, the mother is hard to tolerate—because she knows this son has been with the mother in a way he can never be with me. He cannot enter my womb; at most a symbol—his son can enter my womb, not he. The beloved wants him to drown in her the way once he was drowned in the mother—wholly one, one wave—no difference. The mother’s heart beat, he beat; her breath moved, his breath moved. The wife longs for the same.

Every wife longs thus. But this cannot be. It is impossible. And it was once possible—with someone. The daughter-in-law cannot forgive the mother; the mother cannot forgive the daughter-in-law—that is the quarrel.

Sisters too cannot forgive the brother’s bride—because the brother was theirs, wholly theirs. Today the right has gone—the exclusive right. Today the sisters know clearly that the brother belongs to another. Now the relation will be formal. All of the brother’s love flows toward his beloved.

The same hindrance arises, larger, in the love of Paramatma. For when someone becomes eager for the love of Paramatma, then whoever has been loved feels jealousy toward Paramatma. Therefore in the world, as long as you are not in love with God, there is one kind of convenience. The day you fall in love with Paramatma, if you are a woman your husband will obstruct; if a man, your wife will obstruct; your sons will obstruct—because they will all feel a new disturbance has begun. And the love of Paramatma is such that it will draw your entire life-consciousness—everyone will be deprived. The streams of love flowing toward them will begin to cease.

This creates panic. That is why the whole house opposes when someone in the house becomes truly religious. Many excuses are found, but the fundamental reason is this.

Here, when someone comes and takes sannyas, then obstruction begins. His wife comes weeping. I tell her: he is not leaving home. My sannyas is not the sannyas of leaving—it is not cowardly; it is not escapist. He will remain at home as he was—no difference will come. But she says, No—the difference has already come. How can you say no difference will come? Even if he does not leave home, a difference has come. This ochre color between us creates a difference. To see your mala on his neck makes me restless. He is no longer mine; he has become yours.

I understand. The obstacle is there; she is right.

Now I know he sits beside me but thinks of you—keeps turning over what you said. He may be at the shop, but his mind is no longer there. What have you done!

So wife will obstruct, husband will obstruct, friends will obstruct. Understand this: as soon as you begin to become otherwise than them, they will all obstruct. Because they cannot tolerate that suddenly there should come into your life a thread that throws all their relations into disarray. That is the meaning:

Mother-in-law and sister-in-law are harsh in the house;
Day and night separation torments me.

Harsh have become the mother-in-law and sister-in-law—everyone around me has become harsh. Since your bridal couch became visible and I began to move toward you, the people of the world have become hard toward me.

And in creating this state the so-called religious have had a hand. For centuries they gripped a life-denying notion of sannyas. A great fear has arisen in people’s minds. The very word sannyas has become terrifying. It has lost sweetness; it has lost juice. The word has a certain hostility to the world; a condemnation of the world.

Therefore people are alarmed, startled. They say, formal religion is fine: sometimes go to the temple, sometimes touch the feet of a sadhu, sometimes do a puja—this is fine. But if you take authentic interest in religion, people oppose. Take inauthentic interest, that’s fine—sometimes give alms, no harm; drop a few coins in the temple, no harm; sometimes on Sunday go to church, no one objects.

In truth, for the Sunday church, the wife sends the husband: Go, you must. The father sends the son: Go, you should. The husband tells the wife: You should go. Everyone should. That is a social formality, a social convention—not the real religion. From fear of real religion, people have made a fake—where there is no danger. A religion from which one can return “as is.”

Therefore whenever a Buddha, a Kabir, a Nanak comes into the world, obstruction begins—because he breaks this false, formal religion and begins to give the real.

But the religious also had a hand. Those who, following Buddha, became sannyasins—think of their homes. Wives and children became orphans. Thousands of families were ruined. Those who, following Mahavira, became sannyasins—think of their families too. And the great joke: the followers of Mahavira, stepping with care lest an ant die—come after murdering their own children, cutting the necks of their wives!

These are “non-violent”! These munis sitting in temples are great violent ones. Ahimsa has not even touched them. Those who, following Buddha—thousands, not a few—became sannyasins, bhikkhus—who will write the story of their families? Who will speak of them? What befell them? Children begged, wives became prostitutes—no one speaks of it, because who will speak? The stain would fall on Buddha, on Mahavira. No one raises it.

An important history lies untouched. Someone must touch it: Where did the children go? Did they die? Live? Beg? What did the wives do—prostitution, or suicide? Who bears the burden? And these, lest an ant die, walk blowing each step! Strange.

Often we keep accounts of small things and forget the big. Therefore I am beginning a new sannyas—never before on earth—a purely inward transformation while all outer remains as it is. Yet the old fear persists; the word is old.

A young man took sannyas while I was a guest at Sohan’s house. His mother came—heavy-set, wailing, and created a great tumult. She rolled on the floor. I said, Listen! This sannyas is not running away from home. She said, I don’t want to hear anything—take back the mala; he is my only son. I said, He is your only one; I am not taking him. She would not listen: I will die. And she kept rolling.

Her rolling too I understand. Hidden in it are a thousand years of pain. The word sannyas itself has become poisonous. I am not angry with her. Seeing her roll I thought of Buddha and Mahavira—how many women’s rolling, how many dreadful tales are hidden! She refuses to listen; the word is enough. Its associations have become so distorted.

It is like sitting in a cinema and someone shouts, Fire!—everyone runs. Who checks to see whether there is fire or a prankster shouted? The word “fire” is such—the word itself panics. Sannyas! There sits Bhootmal in the back—he has been thinking for days to take sannyas, but the wife says, Sannyas?—and fear arises. In my sannyas there is fear?—which does not break you, which joins you.

But when Dharamdas spoke these words, sannyas was of breaking. There would have been even more obstacles.

Mother-in-law and sister-in-law are harsh in the house;
Day and night separation torments me.

Becoming a yogini I roam forest to forest—no one tells me the way.

Where has not the tale of the Beloved’s beauty reached?
Where has the gossip of my frenzy not gone?

As soon as you begin to go mad in Paramatma, rumors begin to fly.

Where has not the tale of the Beloved’s beauty reached?
Where has the gossip of my frenzy not gone?

News starts reaching everywhere. Passersby ask, Brother, what happened? Is your mind alright? What madness has seized you? Even those who never spoke to you, who took no interest in you, come to advise. If you do not understand me, take sannyas and see—strangers on the road will stop you: What has happened to you?

And a great paradox—these same people touch the feet of sannyasins, go to saints. Strange! If you fear sannyas so much, stop going to sannyasins. But another fear is there—what if sannyas be right?

So they find a compromise: We will never take sannyas; you have taken—good. We will touch your feet. We will get some merit, some leftovers. We will save ourselves from sannyas; you have taken—very good. By touching their feet a kind of proxy sannyas—Look at our feeling! The feeling is good. Just a little lack of courage—sometime, we will do it. If not this life, the next.

And they have been touching the feet of mahatmas for many lives. They have become “foot-dasas”! But no revolution happens in their life.

Becoming a yogini I roam from forest to forest—no one tells me the way.

Here, if someone knows, let him tell! Those whom you think know—when you begin to seek, you find they do not.

When Buddha began the journey he went to many gurus. Whichever guru he went to, he surrendered to that guru’s feet with utmost devotion. His search and his resolve were unparalleled. He had truly set out to seek—prepared to wager his whole life. It was not lukewarm; it was flaming. Whatever each guru said, he did. And each guru in the end asked forgiveness: Pardon me. Truly I do not know. What I had heard here and there I told you. If this does not work, seek another.

When he went to gurus he found—even among gurus, the guru is rare. As long as you do not seek, you have no trouble.

Think—you pass the bazaar every day. You do not have to buy diamonds—why worry which shop sells real diamonds and which sells paste? Whether all are real or all are fake—you never considered it. You never bought, nor are you going to. Why worry? Your eyes do not even turn toward the diamond shops.

The day you must buy, the question arises. That day you will consider—Which is real, which fake? You will show it to a jeweler, get it tested. Then you will be surprised that many shops sell only stones. And on those that sell real, most are stones—diamonds few; for the buyer rarely comes. Who has the touchstone for diamonds?

Becoming a yogini I roam forest to forest—

Dhani Dharamdas says: I wander village to village, jungle to jungle. Wherever news is that someone has news, I go—but no one tells me the way. No one points the lane, the path, the gate to me.

A feeling has arisen—Paramatma is everywhere—but from where to catch hold? From which direction to plunge? From which bank to leap? Which ghat is mine—that if I step down, I cross to the other shore? The other shore is visible. The faith is there that there is another shore—but which ghat to make my ford?

He grants grace upon our state
When we ourselves have no news of our state.

But when someone as a woman of separation, as a yogini, begs, knocks door after door with a begging bowl—Someone tell me where my Beloved is! Glimpses come, sounds are heard, but from which direction—nothing settles. Where to go, how to search, how to meet? When someone wanders thus in separation, wanders—and a moment comes, the last—utterly disappointed, helpless—

He grants grace upon our state
When we ourselves have no news of our state.

In that moment the grace of Paramatma showers. There is no method for attaining Paramatma—separation, a weeping heart, a calling soul, a readiness to stake all. Knock a thousand doors—then his door arrives. Not that his door is far—but by knocking a thousand doors, it comes.

A Sufi sat beneath a tree. A young man came and asked: I seek a guru—where shall I look? And if I find him, how will I recognize him? The Sufi gave some signs: He will sit beneath such a tree, wear such clothes, have such eyes. Go search—you will find him.

The youth searched and searched—thirty years. He became old, exhausted, defeated—There is no guru, no God—he never found anyone. Utterly hopeless he returned to his village. Tired, he sat beneath the same tree. He was startled—it was the same tree the old man had described. And the old man looked just the same. He held his feet: You have done the limit! You ruined my whole life. I had asked you—if you were my guru, why didn’t you say so?

The old man said: Had you not wandered thirty years, you could not have recognized me. I was here—the guru was here, but where was the disciple? These thirty years made you a disciple. You went door to door, got bruised, became helpless; your ego fell. Ego had kept you blind. That day too it was this tree—I had defined it. This very tree.

The youth said, I remember—it was this tree. You sat here. And I... I described myself to you. I know no other guru. I described myself. But you heard and trudged off—then one thing was certain: you were still blind. Thirty years of blows opened your eyes. Now you can recognize.

Leave your worry; hear of mine—I waited thirty years for you. Think how old I have become. You, while young, wandered. How have I held back my breath waiting that you might return—and who else would fulfill the definition I gave?

Becoming a yogini I roam forest to forest—no one tells me the way.

Dharamdas bows with folded hands: some say near, some say far.

Some say Paramatma is very near, some say very far. Some say he is with form, some say formless. Some say he has a shape, some say shapeless. The matter becomes entangled, not resolved. No one gives me news; instead, discussion about doctrines begins.

And Dharamdas knows the distance is not great—for his redness is visible all around. In his sun we are standing, bathing in his light. His breath runs as life within us. His blood flows in us. Not far.

In truth, to call him far is wrong; to call him near is also wrong—for he is nearer than near. You are he. So he who says far, says wrong; he who says near, says wrong.

For “near” too is a word of distance. Nearness is also a kind of distance. However near, distance remains. Distance in “far” is a lot; in “near” a little—but still distance. And in a little distance too, one can miss.

Even across a small gap there are hazards—
Saki, take care for me; saki, take care.

Even in a small gap, one can fall. In a single step one may stumble. One step wrong and all is wrong; one step right and all is right.

Therefore nearer-than-near is also far; further-than-far is not too far. If the vision is right, the leap is right, the journey is completed in a single step. In truth, he is neither far nor near—he is within you. You are he.

Until someone gives this news, the Guru has not been found.

Grant the gift of bhakti, O Guru, God of gods.

Let me not forget your lotus feet; let me serve your feet.

I will not do pilgrimages and fasts; nor worship temples.

I will keep my eyes fixed only on you; none other is mine.

Eight siddhis and nine niddhis, and dwellings in heaven—
None of these do I ask for, my all-powerful giver.

Happiness, wealth, family, riches, beautiful consort—
May not the wish for these arise even in a dream, by your oath, O Guru.

Dharamdas’s plea—O Lord, hear it. Grant me darshan, lift the veil; make me your own.

Searching and searching, the door of the Guru arrived. Dharamdas sought many, many gurus—and found Kabir.

He who seeks, finds. Though seeking is full of difficulty. Along the way there are many deceptions, many shops of deception. Naturally—wherever genuine coins are, counterfeit coins are too. The counterfeit runs by the support of the genuine. If there were no genuine, the counterfeit would not be. The genuine must be for the fake to circulate.

And a law of economics is: whenever your pocket has both genuine and counterfeit, you try to spend the counterfeit first—naturally. The genuine will pass anytime; better to pass the fake quickly.

So when counterfeit coins run in the market, the genuine hide. Counterfeit circulates. This is natural. You must have seen: you have two notes of ten—one fake, one real. Wherever you go you quickly offer the fake and keep the real hidden. What’s the hurry with the real? Anytime it will work. First pass off the fake.

Mulla Nasruddin came to me one day: Today I did three good deeds. Which? First, I gave a beggar one rupee in alms. One rupee? I said. That’s why it’s worth telling—the full rupee. The second good deed? The second: the fake ten-rupee note I had been carrying—I gave him that, and told him to give me nine back. The third? The third is that he too was pleased and I too pleased. He got one; my fake ten passed. I got nine, he got one. Both got something. Both were happy.

When you have a fake, you become eager to pass it first. In the market fakes circulate; the genuine hides.

Often on other planes of life too this is true. Priests and pundits circulate. Two-bit people move. Because they fulfill your desires. The true Guru does not fulfill your desires; he breaks them.

With the true Guru there is death; with the fake Guru, consolation. The true Guru will efface you—for only then can union with Paramatma be. The fake Guru gives you all kinds of assurances: Don’t be afraid. Give alms here, perform yajna there, do this hawan—everything will be alright. Don’t worry; I will worry. I will write a letter to God—kept as record.

I was a guest in a house in Surat. I heard there of a Muslim sect whose head lives in Surat—they give letters to people stating, This man has given one lakh rupees. This letter remains on record. When he dies the letter is placed in his grave so he may show it to God.

What a joke! Letters are being written to God by those who know nothing of God. This man lives in the hope that the letter of one lakh is with him; he will show it to God. The bill of exchange is in hand; all work will be settled. And in this hope he does nothing else—why meditate? why pray? why seek Kabir? He has found his guru—cheaply. Both are pleased—the guru got a lakh; the disciple thinks the other world is settled. Both are happy.

Cheap gurus do not change you. Cheap gurus do not wound you. Cheap gurus apply ointments. Cheap gurus make you forget your wounds. They say, All will be well—it is a matter of time. They say, All is well. You are bearing the karma of past lives—it’s over. They say, The soul is immortal—do not fear death. They say, There is great compassion in God—he will forgive all. Do not worry. Make a pilgrimage, do the hajj.

These things do not change you; they bring no revolution. But when you meet the true Guru, every fiber of you will be changed. Your soul will be recast. You will be forged anew. Certainly, before you are made anew, you will be broken.

Therefore people run from the true Guru. They avoid him. He does not support you. He who supports you will not benefit you—remember. He wants to loot something from you—therefore he supports. He has some interest. He wants to please you. He has nothing to do with religion—under the name of religion he runs a kind of politics.

Weeping, weeping, Dharamdas sought. He who continues to seek will one day find. He who does not settle for consolation will find the truth. One day he found Kabir. What did he pray for?

Grant the gift of bhakti, O Guru—

Ask nothing else—bhakti! Give me the heart of a devotee. The heart of a devotee means:

Give grief or joy—the destiny is in your hand;
Whatever your will, let that be my will now.

Bhakta means: I let go of myself. Where you take me—there! If to hell, that is my heaven because you lead me there. I have no personal demand now—Grant me the gift of bhakti.

So falling at Kabir’s feet, Dharamdas said: I ask for nothing else—give me the heart of a bhakta. Give me that heart which moves by the gesture of Paramatma. Give me that heart from which ego departs.

Grant the gift of bhakti, O Guru—God of gods.

He called the Guru “God of gods”—for through the Guru Paramatma is found. Therefore his glory is even greater than God’s. He becomes the bridge. Through him one reaches Paramatma. Through his eye transformations begin. Therefore “God of gods.”

Grant the gift of bhakti, O Guru—God of gods.

Let me not forget your lotus feet; let me serve your feet.

Just grant me this remembrance—that I never forget your lotus feet. Let me never forget.

Let me not forget your lotus feet; let me serve your feet.

I will not do pilgrimages and fasts; nor worship temples.

I have done much—pilgrimages and fasts. It was while doing pilgrimages that I met Kabir—in Mathura I met Kabir.

I will not do pilgrimages and fasts; nor temple-worship.

Now no more worship of stones in temples.

Who knocked at the tavern’s door at this odd hour?
Perhaps some wanderer from temple or Kaaba.

Who knocked at the door of the madhushala? The tavern-keeper thought: I should open—lest it be some poor wanderer from temple or mosque.

When Dharamdas came before Kabir, he was just such a man—a wanderer from temple and mosque. Who knows how many pujas, how many recitations! He was very wealthy; had many resources. Did great yajnas—blew lakhs in yajnas.

Who knocked at the tavern’s door at this odd hour?
Perhaps some wanderer from temple or Kaaba.

Remember—your temples and mosques lead you astray—because temples and mosques are not alive now; they are dead. A temple is alive when a true Guru is there.

Certainly Girnar was once alive; Kaba was once alive; Kashi was once alive. But places are not alive. What difference is there between the soil of Poona and of Kashi? The earth is one—connected. But when Buddha arrived in Kashi, Kashi became a tirtha.

Near Kashi, in Sarnath, Buddha gave his first discourse; in that moment Sarnath was a tirtha—only then. When that sun descended on Sarnath, when Buddha’s eyes fell on Sarnath, when his feet touched Sarnath, it became a tirtha. Since then, worship has gone on in vain. Now there is a temple; priests sit, bhikshus sit; people come from distant lands.

Certainly Bodh Gaya was a tirtha—when Buddha’s Samadhi flowered. But since then the matter is barren. The Samadhi is not; the one in whom Samadhi flowered is not. The flower that bloomed is gone. The bird has flown; only the cage lies—you worship the cage. Worship as much as you like—but from the cage nothing now happens.

So Dharamdas says rightly:

I will not do pilgrimages and fasts; nor temple-worship.

I will keep my eyes fixed only on you; none other is mine.

He says: Grant only this—that you be visible to me, and I go on seeing you, go on seeing. For in seeing you, I will have the vision of the One whose redness I see everywhere but cannot find the ghat.

Eight siddhis and nine niddhis, and the dwellings of heaven—
These I do not ask for, my almighty giver.

You can give all—but I ask for nothing. You are the all-powerful giver. If you wish, what can you not give? But I do not ask. I want no yogic powers, no riddhis, no niddhis.

A deception of desire was proved—
What I thought was the joy of worship.

I bowed in many temples, performed many yajnas and havans. I thought it was devotion and prayer—but it was all false. Those were desires for comfort in another world—the expansion of the same world.

Your heaven is only an expansion of your world. What do you ask there? The same that you ask here. There you want beautiful women—apsaras, Urvashis. There you want wealth—gold palaces, roads paved with diamonds. There you want kalpavrikshas—sit beneath them and every wish fulfilled.

What is your paradise? The spread of your desire. There too you want streams of wine. There is no difference. Your dream is the same—you have not changed.

A deception of desire was proved—
What I thought was the joy of worship.

It was all deception—only the trick of desire; its new flight, its new device to catch me again. Therefore—

I will not do pilgrimages and fasts; nor temple-worship.

I will keep my eyes fixed only on you; none other is mine.

By looking at the Guru, something happens. Therefore satsang is much praised. By looking and looking, it happens—why? Because by looking and listening, by sitting near, such moments come when thought within you falls silent. And where thought falls silent, the door opens.

Eight siddhis and nine niddhis, and heaven’s dwellings—
These I do not ask for, my almighty giver.

Happiness, wealth, family, riches, beautiful spouse—
May no wish arise even in dream—by your oath, O Guru.

Dharamdas says: Swearing by you, I say—even in dream no wish arises. Let alone waking. I have seen enough.

And note well—he who has seen, he is liberated. He who has seen—wealth he has seen—becomes free of wealth. He who has seen lust becomes free of lust. He who has not tasted is not free. The world is the device for liberation.

I repeat, because such a statement you may not have considered: the world is the way to moksha. The world is the method of freedom—because what you see here, you are freed of. Until you see, bondage remains.

Therefore I say: Whatever is to be enjoyed, enjoy it—otherwise you will not be free. If lust grips your mind, do not fear, enter into it. Lust is given by Paramatma; this world is given by Paramatma. There is some deep purpose behind it. Enter forgetful of all accounts—and one day you will find: I saw—and gained nothing. Hands smeared with ash. The day this is experienced, that day you are free of lust. That day lust ends within and Ram begins. Then even in dream no desire arises.

Otherwise what you suppress in the day will arise in dreams. Freud said much later: a dream is the reflection of what was suppressed in the day. Dharamdas said it long before: “Even in dreams no desire arises.”

Have you seen? The day you fast, at night only feasts run in dreams. Invitations to royal palaces. Eating and eating.

Ask the Jains what they do in Paryushan. They fast all day, they feast all night—in dreams. They plan: somehow these ten days will pass—the first has passed, nine remain; two passed, eight remain—passing. All day they sit in the temple to keep themselves occupied so food is not remembered. But at night—what will you do?

Mahatma Gandhi strove all his life for brahmacharya—yet it did not settle. Why? Because it was forced. But he was honest—he did not lie. Till the end he said: even in dreams lust comes. If lust comes in dream, it clearly means it is repressed in waking. In dream your control is removed—no awareness. Then it rises.

Therefore if you want to see someone’s goodness, see him when drunk—then he is real. Often a drunk man is the real man. When he is in his senses he is fake. Do not trust what he says in his suit and tie, going in order—do not trust it. But if he says something after wine—note it.

Gurdjieff would do this regularly—when new disciples came he would pour so much wine into them that they became senseless and babbled nonsense. That nonsense is the real thing. He had it all noted: This is what lies suppressed within them—this is what I must fight.

Freud’s psychoanalysis is only this: if your dreams are known, all is known. And this is a big joke—you are so dishonest in waking that to know your reality one must go to your dreams. Dreams are false—yet there your reality is found. Waking is true—yet you have become so false there that you cannot be caught directly.

So years pass—the patient lies on Freud’s couch and narrates dreams. While narrating, the therapist catches some threads: where the problem is.

For instance, a man is a sadhu—it seems—and says, I want no position, etc. But at night he dreams of flying in the sky: higher and higher. It is a symbol—by day he did not go to Delhi, by night he went; he soared—became President. Rising to heights.

You cannot deny the dream. By day you are loyal to your wife—but at night you run with the neighbor’s woman. That is the truth. Wives are more realistic—they listen at night to what you mumble: What are you saying, whose name? They put stock in dreams—if you smiled at night, they suspect you were with some woman. They ask: Why were you smiling? Because no one smiles with his wife. Watch a couple walking—if they look depressed, battered—know they are husband and wife. If the man looks lively—know he goes with another’s wife.

I once rode a train. In my compartment a lady was seated by a gentleman. He came at every station. I asked her: Who is he? She said: My husband. How long have you been married? She was about forty. Seven or eight years, she said. Do not lie to me, I said—after seven or eight years this does not happen. At every station he brought bhajias, rasgullas, ice cream—this is not a husband’s state. If he is your husband of seven or eight years, once he slipped away here, it’s not certain he’d return next station—perhaps at the last station he’d be found—or not. She said: You see correctly—he is not my husband, he is my lover. Then everything is correct, I said.

Your dreams are your daytime repressed diseases. A wise one has no dreams—and should have none. That is a sign, a symptom of Samadhi—when dreams do not come. If nothing is repressed, how can dreams come? The dream comes of repression. The more the dreams, the more ill your mind. When no dream comes, it means you live your life awake—you repress nothing.

Dhani Dharamdas says:

May not the wish arise even in dream, by your oath, O Guru.

By your oath I swear—no wish to go to heaven even in a dream; to attain Vaikuntha not even in a dream.

Dharamdas’s plea, O Lord, hear it.

Grant darshan, lift the veil; make me your own.

He says: Open the door for me. O Guru, be a Gurudwara for me. Open the door; remove the curtain. I have no other desire. I only want to see what is hidden within you. I know in you I will find the ghat.

Grant darshan, lift the veil; make me your own.

Only this I wish—that you lift your veil, open your temple doors, and take me into yourself.

And all the desires that arose, were quenched;
One desire to be quenched now remains in our heart.

This is the core-sutra of bhakti.

And all the desires that arose, were quenched;
One desire to be quenched now remains in our heart.

Be effaced. Efface yourself—and you will be. Lose yourself—and you will find yourself. And when, effaced, you find—then you will be astonished that what you took as misfortune was fortune.

You tried to efface me—
My fortune that your cruelties bore fruit for me.

At first, when the Guru breaks you, it seems he is harsh—he is being cruel. But upon whom it is done—blessed is he.

You tried to efface me—
My fortune that your cruelties bore fruit for me.

In the end it is known that the Guru’s compassion was his harshness. He will cut off your head; he will tear your ego into pieces, shred it. He will take away your cleverness. Your doctrines, your scriptures—he will reduce them to ash. He must end your mind. You must be effaced—for only then the way opens for Paramatma to come.

The bhakta is one who, living, desires only him—and, dying, desires only him.

Eager to see; even after annihilation I hope—O breeze,
Carry my ash, scattering it, into the lane of the Beloved.

Even when effaced, his one prayer remains: the ash left from me—carry it, O winds, into the street of my Beloved.

Eager to see; even after annihilation I hope—O breeze,
Carry my ash, scattering it, into the lane of the Beloved.

Living, the bhakta lives for Paramatma; dying, he dies for Paramatma. His life is his; his death is his. The path of bhakti is easy—and difficult. Easy, because love is simple, natural. Difficult, because cutting the ego is so hard.

The greatest difficulty in the world is this—how to lose the ‘I’? How to desire to be effaced? How to long to be annihilated?

The world is the longing to be—to become: I should be, be great, important, famous, wealthy. The world is myriad forms of the longing to be. The day, in all being, you find nothing happens—vainly you draw lines on water; before you draw, they vanish—that day you say: Having become and become, nothing happened; let me try non-being. Only one thing remains—to see what happens if I am not. The day this arises in you, that day you begin to come near to Paramatma.

Blessed are those in whom arises the longing to be effaced.

Enough for today.