Jas Panihar Dhare Sir Gagar #9

Today's sutras are unprecedented. They are not for understanding by understanding; they are for understanding through un-knowing. Only the un-knowing will understand; the clever will miss. Understanding grasps the petty; un-knowing receives the vast.

Through knowledge the journey goes outward; through un-knowing it turns within. Knowledge can take you across in the world; on the path of the Self, knowledge becomes a barrier. There one needs an innocent heart, the feeling of small children.

Blessed is the one in whom that feeling arises. If it does not, seek it. These sutras are exquisite hints for a feeling heart. In them, the whole journey completes.

Without darshan I have gone mad.
I am going crazy without seeing You.

It is a wonder that man lives without seeing Paramatma—how does he manage to live? Not worthy of being lived for even a moment. The one who has not known Him—why does he go on living? It is worth pondering, it is astonishing. And the day you know Him, that very day you will not trust your memory—how did you live before this knowing? On what did you live? On what base? For what?

But until His darshan is received, we have no remembrance, no recollection, of what we can be. Until the seed breaks, how can it know the infinite possibilities hidden within it? Until the bird has flown, how can it know the delight of the sky, the bliss of release, the joy of freedom? Until love is tasted, how can one know the flavor of love?

Yes, if a single glimpse is received, then the madness begins. One glimpse, and a thirst arises—and such a thirst that cannot be quenched again.

In the nearness of the Sadguru, in His presence, at His side—sometimes what has happened within the Master flashes for a split second, like lightning, before the disciple. This is the secret of satsang.

Satsang is contagious. Not only diseases pass from one to another; health also passes. And not only the world catches on from one to another; truth also catches. Look a little at your life-process. Someone went to earn money; seeing him earn, you too began to chase money. Someone was feverish for position; his fever caught you, and you too ran after position.

Where do you learn? From whom do you learn? Whatever you know about life comes from around you; it comes through someone.

Satsang means: to be with one whose eyes are filled with Paramatma. To be near him is enough. Nothing else is needed. Sit by him, rise by him. Take this chance whenever it is given. For who can say in which moment your heart will be receptive, and in which moment what has happened in the Guru will leap into you? Sometimes you are open, sometimes closed. Sometimes you are ready to receive, sometimes not. Sometimes a thousand waves of thought surge in your mind—then, though sitting beside the Guru, you are far away. But sometimes such moments also come when there are no waves of thought, or very few—almost none. In that very moment, a few drops of what has overflowed in the Guru fall into your throat. In that very moment the light that has kindled within the Guru crosses your darkness, flashes like lightning.

Then, after that, the desire for darshan arises. Before that, darshan is mere talk. What you have not seen, have no experience of—how can you be thirsty for it? Until then all your worship and prayer is false. Until then your going to temples, mosques, gurudwaras is formal. A social rite—you fulfil it.

It will not happen through temples and mosques; search for the living temple. Not through stone walls; look where Paramatma is still throbbing. Peer into eyes in which God has peered; gaze into eyes that have gazed into Paramatma. Be in the company of such a one. In some fortunate moment, his divine intoxication will seize you too. In some blessed hour, like a whirlwind, a current of energy will surge around you. You will be caught in a storm—a storm that can carry you on the journey to the Infinite.

Then the longing for vision arises. Looking into the Guru’s eyes, the urge to look into Paramatma awakens. Then there is no rest. Then there is sweet derangement.

Without darshan I have gone mad.

Understand its meaning. It means the primary event has happened. A glimpse has been had. Now the longing for vision is there. A little taste has touched the lips; now there is a desire to drink more. Now it is impossible not to drink.

Test the relish of my longing to see—
Lift the veil from Your face, just once.

The bhakta says: Test my thirst. Try my yearning. See this eager flame burning in my very life-breath.

Test the relish of my longing to see—
Lift the veil from Your face, just once.

The devotee begins to challenge Paramatma—he coaxes, entreats, quarrels, calls out. Sometimes, angry, he grows silent and does not call. Sometimes he weeps; sometimes he turns his back. These are the moods of bhakti. As lovers quarrel, so the bhakta quarrels with God.

Did I not say—do not lift the veil from the mirror?
Look: the pale lights of dawn grow dim.

Did I not say—do not lift the veil from the mirror?
Look: the pale lights of dawn fade away.

In many ways he coaxes, challenges—that if Your glimpse is given, the moon and stars grow pale; if Your glimpse is given, the sun turns dark. Just lift the veil.

I crave that They lift the veil Themselves;
They wait that someone should insist.

Thus, between the finite and the Infinite, the drop and the ocean, much intimate talk goes on, much dialogue, much discussion.

The bhakta weeps—what else can he do? Tears alone can become prayer. What else does the bhakta possess?

Today in that assembly we rose, raising a storm;
We wept so much that They too were made to weep.

And until the bhakta begins to feel that answers to his tears are arriving—that as I weep here, Existence weeps there—until then he will not rest.

Without darshan I have gone mad.

Become mad in this way, and Paramatma is found. This price must be paid. Nothing is free here. People are ready to pay heavy prices for petty worldly things, but for Paramatma they are unwilling to pay anything.

People come to me and ask, “Where is God? We want to see.” I ask: “What are you ready to pay?” Regarding the price, they say, “We never thought about it. We just want to see—if He is.”

But what price will you pay? You are seeking the Supreme Beloved; whatever you have, you will have to give. Only if you become utterly dispossessed will you find Him. There surely comes a moment when your crying rises from every pore, and then tears fall from That Side too. Trees weep, the moon and stars weep. The answers to the questions that rise within you are hidden in this very universe. Existence is waiting; if you call, the answer will come. This existence is not indifferent to you.

This is the meaning of believing in God. It does not mean there is some old man sitting above running the world—that is children’s tale. Both theist and atheist are entangled in such stories. Children’s tales.

What is the essence of believing in God? Simply this: Existence is not indifferent to us. Existence has a taste for us; it is interested in us. It is eager for our growth. It is keen on our ultimate flowering. It wants to take us on the journey of supreme bliss.

Existence is not neutral towards us—that alone is the meaning of God. If we weep, a hand will arise from this Existence to wipe our tears. But you must know how to weep. False tears will not do. Hollow tears will not do. The tears of acting will not work.

Today in that assembly we rose, raising a storm;
We wept so much that They too were made to weep.

Then prayer is fulfilled. Then you have paid the price.

How many nights of separation my tears have flowed, O garden—
Ask the stars how much I have wept.

The moon and stars keep account. Existence keeps account of your tears—not of your fasts and rituals, but of your tears it surely keeps account. Not of your formal worship, nor of your trips to Kashi and Kaaba, but of your tears it surely takes note. For tears are of the soul. They are the true merit of your life.

One who learns to weep rightly cannot be kept hidden from God for long. He will be compelled to lift the veil.

He gambled with my inner eye—
At last, losing again and again, He broke into rain.

With these two small eyes the sky can be defeated. The tears of these two small eyes can render the sky’s rainfall pale.

Within your heart is hidden such a sun that all suns grow dim. And hidden within your heart is such a possibility of love that Paramatma is drawn all by Himself. But you must awaken and provoke your possibilities.

You lie like a stone. In this stoniness, God cannot be met. You have become too hard. Your heart—who knows since when—has ceased to throb. You do not tremble with awe. There is no mystery left in your life. Your mirror is so caked with dust that no reflection forms. Wipe away this dust. Only tears can wash it clean.

And see, this is no cheap affair. Wager! Stake! Danger! Because the day you behold Him, in that very seeing you will be effaced and die. You cannot see Him while remaining as you are. That is why only the mad can see Him. For the courage to erase oneself is not found in the clever—those shopkeepers who calculate.

A hundred times I looked this way and that
Before I dared one trembling glance at You.

As one approaches Him, a thousand fears grip. The greatest fear is this: I will be erased, I will be erased. Like a small earthen lamp—approaching the sun, it becomes utterly pale, a nothing. Whether it remains or not, what difference does it make?

Not that the lamp is extinguished—the lamp is still there, with the same small light—but before the sun, what is its value? What is its meaning?

Before Paramatma we become just so pale. So one who is even a little filled with ego avoids Him—he runs away, keeps distant, turns his back. The egoist becomes the atheist.

But I am not saying that you who call yourselves theists are theists. Rarely is anyone truly a theist. The world is populated by atheists and false theists. A real theist is rare.

The atheist is one who has turned his back—at least he is honest: he says, “There is no God.” The false theist—found everywhere: in markets, shops, houses, temples, mosques, gurudwaras—has also turned his back to God. But he is more cunning than the atheist. He has invented a false god and faces it, while keeping his back to the real.

The idols you have made in temples and mosques are toys of your hands. Little children marry their dolls; you marry Rama and Sita and take out processions. What difference? Will maturity ever dawn in your life? The idols you worship are made by your hands. Seek the One who made you. You worship what you have made; what you have made is false, artificial.

Call those idols sculpture—fine; but don’t call it religion. Those images may be dear, beautiful; but they belong to aesthetics, not to dharma. To be religious you must stand naked before That which is.

It requires great courage, great madness—the strength to be erased in every way, the daring. Often it will feel like turning back.

A hundred times I looked this way and that
Before I dared one trembling glance at You.

But that one glance—enough. In that single glance one world ends and another begins. In that very glance, this disappears and That is revealed. In that glance you suddenly find: no longer on this shore—you have come to the other.

Yet often there is pain. Often one trembles, is afraid. Every day those who go deep in meditation come and say the same: when the happening draws near, they begin to shake, “Now save me! Now I feel either I will go mad or I will die. Something is happening beyond my control.”

When Paramatma happens, it is beyond your control. How could it be within your control? You cannot clench a fist over Him. He comes like a flood. Of the Vast, there can only be a flood—not a drizzle but a downpour. He comes like a surging ocean—He will carry you away, and all that is yours.

Many times you will wonder: Why so? We thought God would come as a consolation. He comes as a great turning—not as consolation. We imagined that when God comes He will give us what we lack. But when He comes, He takes even what you have—because you do not know that you have been gathering junk. In that flood you will go too, and your rubbish will go.

If this is called trial, then what is torture?
Once I have become Yours, why this examination of me?

And the bhakta often thinks: if this is testing, then what is torment?

Once I belong to You, why this trial of me?

But to belong… that takes time.

We relinquish inch by inch. Few have the courage to drop all at once and leap. We relinquish in bits, moving an inch at a time, barely moving. That is why the test seems so long.

But Dhani Dharamdas must have truly been mad. This is work for the mad. Blessed are they. They staked everything—held back nothing. So long as you hold something back, that much wall remains. If you say, “Let me at least keep this—for emergency,” a wall remains. What you keep is precisely the wall between you and Paramatma.

Without darshan I have gone mad—O Guru, grant me the sight.

Dharamdas says: What more is there? I have gone mad. I have lost everything. Now, give me darshan!

Understand the pain of one who has staked all and still has not received the glimpse. You desire without staking anything. Even one who stakes all does not get it immediately. Even he must wait. Those waiting moments are the moments of shraddha—faith. Then faith wavers greatly. The mind raises a thousand doubts: I have staked everything and nothing is received. Neither of the house nor of the ghat—lost the world too, and no sign of nirvana. People were right to say I’d gone mad.

Without darshan I have gone mad—O Guru, grant me the sight.

One who has given all is in this state—

Ask the taste of failure from the heart of that man
Whose boat kept striking the shore, yet never moored.

Coming, coming—then struck the shore and was pushed back. The one who has staked all still has one thing left. You will be surprised. When I say he has staked all—what remains? If all is staked, nothing remains. And yet something does remain—some happenings will make it clear.

Rinzai was with his Master. He had staked all, left all—not just outwardly, but inwardly too. Even thoughts he had renounced. After six long years of meditation the moment came when he tasted inner emptiness. Nothing remained. Silence descended.

He ran to the Master, fell at his feet, “I have become shunya—empty.” The Master said, “Drop this too.”

Understand? He says, “I have become empty, I have left all.” The Master says, “Leave this too.” One more thing remained—the subtle feeling, “I have left all.” A faint, hidden, delicate trace of ego remained: I have renounced. This ‘I’ must go too. Not only must all be dropped, the feeling that all is dropped must also go. After everything is left, this last grip seizes you. This is the final bondage to the world.

And when one strikes the shore and is drawn back into the current, know his pain. One who has had a glimpse or two of Paramatma and then the distance grows—feel his anguish.

Everywhere there is darkness in this world of life—
As if we have passed through a blaze of light.

Have you seen? After intense brilliance, the darkness deepens. You are walking on the road; a car passes, its strong beam floods your eyes. There was darkness, yet you were walking and could see a little. But that car, after throwing its glare, leaves you in terrible darkness.

Only the bhakta knows the real darkness. You are accustomed to darkness, so you have a little light in your darkness. When the glimpse of God comes, the devotee becomes suddenly as if blind. Nothing here makes sense anymore. Not a moment seems worth staying. Not a breath seems worth taking.

They showed one glimpse from behind the curtain—
And left the longing to see even more aflame.

Then the eyes fill with yearning. The thirst to see grows even more.

Without darshan I have gone mad—O Guru, grant me the sight.

Standing, I watch for Your way—Sahib, come.

In this brief utterance, the entire scripture of prayer is contained.

Standing, I watch for Your way—Sahib, come.

If you grasp this one line, nothing remains to be known about bhakti. Understand it.

Standing—first thing: the bhakta must stand still. The running must stop. Running means: this to get, that to get; this to do, that to do. Rush and scramble. The world is filled with those who run. They go on running. They never stand still. Even when they sleep at night, their running continues. The body falls exhausted, but the mind runs on.

So long as there is desire, there is running. And note: even when you pray in the temple, your running continues. Your prayer is another mode of desire. There, too, you ask for something—“A new shop is opened, let it succeed; the son’s marriage to be arranged, find a girl; the boy has returned from university, let him find a job.” Hidden—whether spoken or not—desire remains. It strangles prayer at birth. Prayer is aborted. It is never born—desire has pressed its neck.

Desire means running. A desire-ridden mind rushes; a prayerful heart becomes still. In this world, to get things you must run; to find Paramatma you must be still. Remember this sutra. By running, you get objects; by stillness, you meet the Owner of objects. Running is the way of the world; stillness, the way of dharma. Run—and you will gain much in the world; but you will miss Paramatma. And if the whole world is gained, but not God—what is gained? If God is gained, all is gained; even if nothing else is, all is. That is why we have called beggars emperors and known emperors to be beggars.

Standing—the first element of prayer: be still. Ask for nothing. No thought, no desire.

Watching for Your way—asking is an attack. In prayer there is no attack—only watching, the watching of the way. As one who opens the door and waits for the Beloved. Only the way, only waiting.

Waiting is the second element of prayer. First: stillness—what Krishna called sthitapragya, whose intelligence has become steady, unmoving. Like a lamp in a windless house, whose flame does not flicker. So the life-energy is stilled.

Standing, I watch for Your way—

See the difference. There is no demand, only waiting. If You come—blessed. If You do not—no complaint. If You come—welcome. If You do not—I will go on waiting. If you have the patience for endless waiting, the event happens in this very moment. One who has patience possesses the magnet that draws Paramatma.

Standing, I watch for Your way—Sahib, come.

And the bhakta says: Where shall I go to seek You? You have no address. You are Vast. If I say “You are everywhere,” it is true; if I go to search, You are nowhere to be found. Where shall I come to seek You? I do not know Your address, Your name and house. I have never seen You before. Even if I meet You, how will I recognize You? How will I know, “Yes, it is You”? So I am helpless. Only if You come, it will be done.

And remember, this is the declaration of the bhaktas: when you are ready, He comes. Man does not go to God; God comes to man. The flower does not travel to the sun; the sun comes. The sun-ray journeys from infinity and opens the flower. If the flower had to travel to the sun, it would be impossible. When would it reach? How? If the flower left on a journey to the sun it would be uprooted, severed from its roots—dead before arriving.

Therefore I tell you: even the going to search for God contains ego. You simply call so that He may come. Abide where you are. To be still means: when He comes, you will be found at home. Often it happens: Paramatma comes, but you are not home.

Understand this. Wherever you are, you are not there. You sit in the temple turning your rosary, but where are you? Your mind is at the shop, balancing ledgers, doing business. Nor are you at the shop—if you were, He would come there; He is not afraid of your shop. When you are at the shop, perhaps you are at home, quarreling with your wife. When you are with your wife, He can come there too. God has no quarrel with your wife—He is no escapist sannyasin. But when you speak to your wife, where are you? In some cinema.

Wherever you are, you are not there—that’s the joke. And God can only find you where you are. Stillness means: wherever you are, be there. When you eat, be wholly present with eating. When at the shop, be wholly present. When in the temple, be wholly present.

And one whose full awareness can be present anywhere no longer needs to go to a temple. Where he is, there is a temple. Where his feet fall, a pilgrimage place is born. Wherever he sits cross-legged, there a temple stands. His presence is the temple.

Standing, I watch for Your way—Sahib, come.

You come; I watch the road.

And the last thing about this sutra: whenever the bhaktas have said something deep, they have spoken of themselves in the feminine—“Without darshan I have gone mad—I am mad.” Dhani Dharamdas says this; it is not Meera speaking. If Meera said, “I am gone mad,” it would fit. Dhani Dharamdas says: “Without darshan I have gone mad—I am mad.”

Standing, I watch for Your way—I am watching Your road—Sahib, come. My Master, come.

The mood of the devotee is feminine. As a woman waits for the man, so the bhakta waits for God. The man goes in search; the woman does not initiate in love—the man initiates. Even if the woman loves, it is against her grace and dignity to pursue. She waits—for that auspicious moment when the man will propose. It is part of feminine modesty. And that modesty is beautiful.

The woman is non-aggressive; the man is aggressive. The man goes searching; the woman watches the way. The woman is receptive—she is womb, she receives, and whatever enters the woman becomes alive.

The bhakta says: Call to Paramatma as a woman yearns to be filled with child. Let God become your womb; let Him impregnate you. Make space within. Invite Him: Enter me, be my Guest. Become the host; let Him be the Guest.

Standing, I watch for Your way—Sahib, come.

The lamp is silent—
But someone’s heart is burning.

Do not think this sitting empty is merely sitting empty.

The lamp is silent—
But someone’s heart is burning.

Come as far as the glow can be sensed.

A call so quiet, quiet—hard to bind in words, only an echo rising in the heart. Not gross, but subtle.

Show us such compassion—reveal Your own image.

A chamber inlaid with jewels, a diamond set in the door—
The lock and the key are of love; O Guru, open and show.

This utterance is so wondrous that, besides Dhani Dharamdas, I have hardly found its like. You will be amazed. If you simply read it, you will not grasp it.

The lock and the key are of love; O Guru, open and show.

Dharamdas says: The lock is love and the key is love. Your life became entangled through love, and it will be resolved through love. Astonishing words. Love entangled, love will untangle. Love wrongly directed creates bondage; rightly directed creates freedom.

What is the misery of one in love with wealth? Love is the misery—not wealth. What can wealth do? It is dead. If you want to leave wealth, it will not chase you, won’t plead, “Where are you going, leaving me?” It won’t sue you in court. Wealth has not caught you; the issue is not wealth.

If you are entangled in worldly love, do not abuse the world. The tangle is your love. People fight the world, declaring, “We will renounce it.” Go where you will; what difference does it make? Wherever you go, your love will reconstruct itself.

I know people who left home and family, ran to forests, sat there—and fell in love with disciples just as they were once attached to sons and daughters. If a disciple dies, they weep as for a son. What has changed? If a disciple betrays, they grieve as if a son had betrayed—“Traitor!” The love for their house becomes love for an ashram. What difference?

A friend of mine had a passion for building houses. He built many—his own and others’. A single hobby—house-building. Later he took sannyas. Ten years after, I happened to pass near where he lived as a renunciate. I told my driver, “We’ll take a detour of ten miles; I want to see his condition. Surely he is building houses.” The driver said, “What do you mean? He is a sannyasin.” I said, “What difference?”

We arrived. In broad noon he stood with an umbrella, supervising construction. I asked, “Why trouble yourself?” “This is not a house,” he said, “I am building an ashram.”

What difference whether you build a house or an ashram? The obsession with building is the same. None can escape this way; love is the entanglement.

In this world, love is hell and love is heaven. Love is suffering and love is joy. Love is fall and love is rise. In this small utterance Dharamdas has said all—“The lock and the key are of love.”

The lock is love—through which you are caught, doors are shut, no outlet found, prison is made, chains are on hands and feet. And the key is also love—by which all opens. Entangled by love, you will be freed by love.

Hence bhakti is the science of love. It teaches how to prevent love from becoming a lock, and how to forge love into a key. How can the key be cast from love? It can. If love turns in the right direction—flows upwards, towards what is higher than yourself. Flowing towards the Guru, it becomes shraddha; flowing towards Paramatma, it becomes bhakti—the ultimate.

Lift your eyes to the summit. Your eyes are caught in pits and ditches. Ramakrishna used to say: even when the kite soars in the sky, its eyes remain fixed below on the pile of rubbish—where a scrap of meat or a dead mouse lies. The kite flies in the sky, but its gaze is on the garbage heap.

Even when you sit in the temple, where are your eyes? On the heap, where some dead mouse lies. You sit to read the Gita or the Quran, but where are your eyes? Watch the gaze. The gaze should rise to the sky. How few look up to the sky! Their eyes are stuck to the earth. Their necks are stiff; they cannot look up. They go on staring down. If one night the stars suddenly vanished, you would not even know—until the newspaper told you. You go on with eyes nailed to the ground. You have stopped looking up.

When love looks upwards, it becomes a key. When it looks downwards, it becomes a lock. All the trouble of this world is due to love—and those who have gone beyond sailed by the boat of love.

This is important—because it hints: in the problem lies the solution. In the question lies the answer. If the disease is understood rightly, the remedy is found.

Therefore I call bhakti the easy union—sahajyog. Someone sits cross-legged practicing pranayama and headstands—ask him: “Is it because you lacked headstands that you got entangled, and by headstands you will be freed? Will pranayama set you free? Is it for lack of pranayama that you are entangled?” Look to the cause. What is the cause of your entanglement? That cause must be addressed.

You are entangled by love. Standing on your head will do nothing. Whether on your feet or head—you remain you. What difference? Do not fall into meaningless drills and exercises.

Thus the bhaktas have said: They have no interest in japa, tapas, tantra or mantra or yoga. Their interest is in one central element—how to set the element of love in the right direction. How this energy of love can be freed from the world and fly into the sky. How it can be released from earth and open its wings in the heavens.

A chamber inlaid with jewels, a diamond set in the door—

And Dhani Dharamdas says: You have given such a lovely life—

A chamber inlaid with jewels, a diamond set in the door—

Such a precious life You have given.

The lock and the key are of love; O Guru, open and show.

But we have made it a lock. Now show us how to make it a key.

It needs utmost awareness—only then can the key of love be made. In unawareness, in stupor, in unconsciousness, love only becomes a lock, and you get more entangled—like the spider spins a web out of itself and sometimes gets caught in it. You spin the web of love and get entangled, and life is spent in it.

The quest that runs in the harem and the temple—
The light of that radiance is in my own heart-house.

He whom they worship in temples and mosques is hidden within you.

The light of that radiance is in my own heart-house—
The same lamp burns within you, but around it the darkness created by your abuse of love, your violence to love, your ignorance regarding love—because of that, there is darkness. Show me the path to pass through this wall of darkness.

The servant forgot devotion—

Dhani Dharamdas says: I am full of a thousand errors. I forgot Your service. The servant forgot devotion.

But You are compassion itself. You are the Forgiver. However great my mistakes, Your compassion is greater.

This is the trust of the bhakta. Only by such trust can one embark on this journey. Without it, one cannot. My sins are many—but Your compassion is greater. However great my sins can be—how great can they be? I am small.

Think. What sins can you commit? Even your sin has limits. Paramatma’s compassion has none. Before His boundless mercy, your small, petty, two-penny sins—what value have they?

Bertrand Russell wrote in his autobiography: “I think over how many sins I have committed. If I confessed in the harshest court, perhaps I would be sentenced to four or five years. And if I added the sins I only imagined and were they punishable, another five years—ten years in all. Shall I be roasted in hell for eternity for this small heap of sins?”

Christians say: eternal hell. That must have been added by Christians—not from Jesus. Jesus said: God is love, compassion. So love cannot do that. That is the limit. That is injustice. However many sins, eternal hell is certainly a crime. Punishment is disproportionate.

Your sins are finite; punishment should be finite. Finite sins—and infinite punishment, for eternity! Even if you put Hitler in hell for eternity, it is injustice.

How could such a thought arise in the loving heart of God? This is the trust of the bhakta. Note the difference. The yogi, the renunciate, the dispassionate trusts thus: “I have sinned; I will compensate with merit. I will balance the scales.”

But in this, ego announces itself. No refuge is asked of God. The renunciate will not ask for God’s help. To ask seems demeaning to him. “I will do it. I sinned, I shall do merit. I did wrong, I will do right.”

The bhakta’s trust is this: Whatever I do will go wrong. I am wrong. Whatever arises from me will be of my wrongness. Even my merit will become sin. If I attempt good, it will turn ill. This ‘I’ poisons everything. This ego throws its venom on all—even on virtue. What can come of me?

So the bhakta says: I trust in Your great compassion.

The servant forgot devotion; You are the Forgiver.

“Notice the effect of my sigh.
They will come—see my steadied heart.”

The bhakta says: “Do not worry, I will weep. I have forgotten devotion; prayer I do not know—but see the effect of my sigh. A sigh can arise. The sigh rising from my heart is my prayer.”

“Notice the effect of my sigh—
They will come; you will see me hold my heart.”

I will weep; I will call. I trust Their compassion.

The servant forgot devotion; You are the Forgiver.

Hear Dharamdas’s plea—carry me across.

Now take me to That Shore. Carry me across. You do it; You are the Doer. You sent me here; You take me back. Such total surrender is bhakti.

I rely only on Your song—deathless One.

This is the trust—this is shraddha. Nothing of doing is added to it.

Do not misunderstand: the bhakta is not without virtue. Do not fall into that mistake. I do not say the bhakta does not do merit. Only, the sense of doer is not there.

And what merit will your renunciate do? The sense of doer destroys all merit and turns it to sin. The bhakta acts—but he does not rely on action. He does not say, “By my doing I will be liberated.” It is by my doing that I am bound.

I rely only on Your song—deathless One.

I have only this trust: I will sing Your song—Your praise, Your glory.

“And what thing shall I sacrifice to You?
My heart is Yours, my life is Yours.”

All is Yours—heart and life. Even to think I will offer something to You—that too is ego. Tvadīyam vastu Govinda tubhyam eva samarpayet—“Your thing, O Govinda, I offer to You”—but even that is silly. To offer to You what is already Yours? What You gave, I offer back? Even there is a mistake. I am Your offering already.

“And what thing shall I sacrifice to You?
My heart is Yours, my life is Yours.”

I rely only on Your song—deathless One.

I will do no pilgrimages or fasts; I will not read the Vedas in Kashi.

This does not mean the bhakta does not go to Kashi. Understand, or you will err. He goes with joy—but not with the thought that going to Kashi will do something. Kabir lived his whole life in Kashi. This utterance was certainly written in Kashi. For Dhani Dharamdas sat at Kabir’s feet, and Kabir lived in Kashi. This was written in Kashi.

And you know the story? When Kabir was dying, lying on his deathbed, suddenly he opened his eyes and said to his disciples, “Take me out of Kashi.” They were shocked: “What are you saying? People come to die in Kashi—Kashi Karvat! You lived here all your life; where will you go now?” Kabir said: “To Maghar.”

Maghar—a small village near Kashi. The saying: whoever dies in Maghar is reborn a donkey. And whoever dies in Kashi goes straight to heaven. “Take me to Maghar. If I die in Kashi and go to heaven, where is His grace? What’s the point? That becomes a legal matter. A dog dies, a donkey dies—they go too. Take me to Maghar.”

They resisted. Kabir was stubborn—they had to take him. He died in Maghar. He said: “If I die in Maghar and go to the heavenly abode—then it is His grace.”

So it is not that the bhakta doesn’t go to Kashi—but he does not rely on Kashi to take him to heaven. Nor is it that he does not fast—but he doesn’t rely on fasting. If he fasts, the reasons are different: sometimes for health, sometimes to cure illness, sometimes to purify prayer. Sometimes he forgets to eat in his singing and the fast happens—this is true fasting.

Even the word upavas means this. Not starvation. We have two words. Anshan—hunger-strike—means you decide not to eat though hunger persists. That is anshan. Politicians’ “fasts” are anshan—not upavas. Do not use the sacred word upavas for political hunger-strikes—whether by Morarji Desai or anyone else. It is coercion.

Look into the word upavas. Anshan is a decision: “Today I will not eat.” Upavas means: being near Him. Being so absorbed in His nearness that food is forgotten, mealtime passes. You are drowned in His absorption; the body is forgotten—that is upavas. Not by effort—arising spontaneously.

Your lover comes home—do you notice? Often it happens: when the beloved comes, hunger vanishes. Who cares for food! Love fills the belly. You forget—that is upavas. If the Beloved comes and food is not remembered, I will call that upavas.

So when the remembrance of God becomes intense, His music plays within, sometimes the bhakta fasts. But he makes no announcement, nor counts it among his merits. He may visit Kashi—beautiful; he may go to Kaaba—beautiful. But his trust is one: I rely only on Your song—deathless One. He does not add other supports. This single boat is enough—he does not keep many little boats, many methods. Only those do who lack trust, saying, “Do this also, do that also.”

I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin was near death. He opened his eyes, folded his hands, “O Allah, be gracious.” Then he looked down and said, “O Satan, be gracious.” His wife said, “Are you mad? Fevered? In your last moment you remember Satan?” He said, “Foolish woman, who knows in the last moment who will come in handy? Better take both names. Whoever comes—I can say, ‘I took Your name.’ I don’t want the hassle of choosing one and landing in the other’s hands. I’ll remember both.”

This is a politician’s approach—diplomacy. “Do this also, and that also.” No trust there. The bhakta has one trust—

I rely only on Your song—deathless One.

I will do no pilgrimages or fasts; I will not read the Vedas in Kashi.

They were reading the Vedas in Kashi. What were they doing at Kabir’s? Kabir is the Veda. The Veda is not a book. But Dhani Dharamdas says: I will not read the book. If the Sadguru is found, who cares for a book! If the living Veda is found, who cares for dead scriptures! If the Guru is found, who worries about the Guru-Grantha! When the Gurus ceased among the Sikhs, only then the Granth remained in hand. While Gurus lived, what was the value of a book? A book has value only when a living experience-giver cannot be found. But the living is the Veda; the Guru is the true Guru-Grantha.

I will do no pilgrimages or fasts; I will not read the Vedas in Kashi.

I know no yantras, mantras, or charms; day and night I wander in divine udasi.

Dhani Dharamdas says: I will not read the Vedas, perform pilgrimages or vows, nor practice charms—these are small, petty things. One trust in Your song—Ek Omkar Satnam—one is enough; two are unnecessary. Two means duality—doubt within. Cunning people arrange for everything.

I was once a guest in a house. At 4 a.m. I had to catch a train. The owner told his driver, “Bring the car to the porch at three.” Then I saw him tell a rickshaw-walla, “You also come at three.” I wondered—for when the car comes, why a rickshaw? Then I heard him tell his servant, “You also be present—if needed carry the luggage on your head. The station is near.” I asked, “What is this?” He said, “Trust no one. This driver—I know him—he’ll be drunk. Three or six—who knows? If you wake him, he curses. He is listening now, but at three—no one knows. The rickshaw-walla is number two—better, but who knows? Sometimes he comes, sometimes not. The servant—you have seen—never on time.” “What’s the use then?” I asked. “No use; but one arranges everything. In the end, I am there; I will take you.” And that’s what happened—none of the three came; he took me.

I told him: “See, their unreliability is also because they hear you have multiple arrangements. The driver thinks, ‘Someone else will come.’ The rickshaw-walla thinks, ‘Why get up at three in the cold? Either the car or the servant will manage.’ You are the cause of this mess. Neither you trust them, nor they you. No place for trust.”

Dhani Dharamdas is right:

I rely only on Your song—deathless One.

What greater thing is there to hold? The last thing has been grasped; beyond this nothing remains.

I know no yantras, mantras, or charms; day and night I wander in udasi.

This word udasi needs understanding. Its original meaning is like upavas. Upavas means: near Him. Ud-asin—seated near Him. Satsang. But its meaning has changed over time; now udasi means gloomy, dejected. There is a reason. Those who were drowned in God became indifferent to the world; having found the Supreme Wealth, their grip on worldly wealth loosened. Having seen the Imperishable, nothing here seemed worth seeing.

People saw them and thought, “They are sad.” But the truth was: they were not sad—they had found the Supreme Treasure. They had attained supreme enjoyment. One who finds diamonds—why would he be interested in pebbles? He grows indifferent to pebbles. You feel he is gloomy with pebbles—because to you pebbles are diamonds. You clasp them to your breast; he walks away.

Buddha leaves the palace. His charioteer says, “What are you doing? The whole world strives to enter palaces—and you leave? Why are you so sad? What tragedy?” Buddha says, “I am not sad; I am out in search of Truth.”

Understand the distinction. Udasi’s root meaning was “seated near” the Divine. His back turns to the bazaar. You cannot face both directions at once. Face the world—your back is to God. Face God—your back is to the world. That’s enough. No need to flee—only the back turns.

There is also the lover’s udasi. Those whose lives are filled with love—when their beloved is with them, they rejoice; when not, they are udas—yearning.

Only one who has known ecstasy can be udas.

Dharamdas says: I have had a glimpse of You. Through the Guru, I saw. Not yet directly. I am asking for the direct. I wait for the direct—

Standing, I watch for Your way—Sahib, come.

Without darshan I have gone mad.

I know no yantras, mantras, or charms; day and night I wander in udasi.

And since that one glimpse in the Guru, there is no rest; there is unrest; I roam day and night—udasi. Again, he uses feminine words.

We neither go to idols nor wander to Kaaba;
Where You place Your feet, there we strike our heads.

This is our life; this is our devotion—
He is named, and our head bows.

Within this very vessel dwells the butcher; greed has hung its mat.

Dharamdas petitions with folded hands—servant at the Satguru’s feet.

Within this very vessel dwells the butcher—again the same truth: “The lock and the key are of love.” Love becomes the lock; love becomes the key. In this very pot, Paramatma dwells; and in this very pot dwells the slayer of Paramatma. We are both—devil and God. We are both—darkness and light.

Mahavira said: None is a greater friend to you than you, and none a greater enemy. Both dwell together. To say “both dwell” is not exact—when your life-energy flows in the wrong direction, that same energy is the butcher; when it flows rightly, that same is the Beloved. No difference—the energy is the same. Poison becomes nectar; drinking needs to be learned. Nectar becomes poison if drunk wrongly.

Within this very vessel dwells the butcher; greed has hung its mat.

Dharamdas petitions with folded hands—servant at the Satguru’s feet.

Now grant me darshan, O Kabir.

“Kabir” has two meanings. One: Kabir is Dharamdas’s Guru. Two: among the hundred beautiful Names of God in Sufism is “Kabir”—the Vast, the Immense. Kabir means the Great.

When Kabir died, a quarrel arose: Hindu or Muslim? Who should cremate? Who should bury? Disciples are always eager about burning and burying. No one is eager to live and walk like him—but eager to burn and bury! That’s a way to get rid of him.

They had to decide: Hindu or Muslim? For a saint, such a thing cannot be decided. Kabir confounded all. The name “Kabir” itself—Arabic—bothered Hindus. They invented legends. No one invents stories as beautifully as Hindus—masters of myth. One tale: “Kabir” was really “Kar-vir”—born of the hand. Guru Ramananda went at dawn to bathe; a widow touched his feet; in ecstasy he blessed, “Be ever auspicious, become pregnant.” The widow stood frozen: “What are you saying? I am a widow—how can I be auspicious? If not auspicious, how can I be pregnant?” Ramananda must have been in a fix—but a boon given must be fulfilled, so a miracle: she conceived, and Kabir was born. As the hand was raised, by the hand’s boon—“Kar-vir,” child of the hand. But this is false. Kabir is Arabic—and a lovely name. Why spoil it into “Kar-vir”? O Vast! And Kabir was vast; he knew the Vast. Whoever knows the Vast becomes vast. Whoever knows God becomes God. You become what you know—“Knowing You, I become You.”

Dharamdas says: Now grant me darshan, O Kabir.

He says: “O Kabir, through my Guru I have seen You. Through that window I saw You. Now give me direct darshan, O Vast. Enter directly into my eyes. Without darshan I have gone mad.”

A hundred hopes bind to a single glance—
So do not look at me with such love!

Until now, I have seen You through Kabir; but a hundred hopes bind to a single glance. Through Kabir You peered at me. How many hopes rose within me! How many flowers of expectation have bloomed.

Now give me direct darshan. No more medium. Kabir gave the glimpse, awakened longing; now I want to drink at Your lake myself.

By Your darshan, sins are cut away; the body becomes pure.

This is the experience of the bhakta. This is his trust: I rely only on Your song—deathless One. From that trust, this experience springs: By Your darshan, sins are cut—not by my cutting. When You appear, lotuses of merit bloom everywhere. When You appear, the darkness of sin vanishes at once.

By Your darshan, sins are cut; the body becomes pure.

Not only the soul—even the body becomes pure. One glimpse of You, and all becomes clean, all sacred.

Now grant me darshan, O Kabir.

Now let such darshan happen. Until now, a ray descended; now let the whole sun be encountered. Now take me into Yourself, and enter wholly into me.

How can I complain, how can I sigh—
Having made me Yours, You hide Your eyes.

You made me Yours; through Kabir You cast Your shadow on me; You enticed me; and now You avert Your gaze.

Having made me Yours, You hide Your eyes—
How can I complain, how can I sigh?

The swan receives ambrosial food; the pudding is the music of the Word.

A priceless utterance—weigh it in diamonds.

The swan receives ambrosial food; the pudding is the music of the Word.

In the moment You peer into me, the touch of the touchstone happens—Paramatma has been called the touchstone whose touch turns iron to gold. In that moment of Your alchemy, the hidden swan within me receives the food of nectar. In that moment my true nourishment is given. In that moment my hunger ends. In that moment, fulfillment rains down.

The pudding is the music of the Word—the sound of the Name arises, the resonance of Omkar. There is nothing as sweet. That is the real kheer.

What Nanak, Kabir, Dadu called the Naam—“Nanak, the Naam is the boat.” What is this boat of the Naam? The Vedas called it Omkar—Pranava. Within you a sound resounds, a veena plays every moment—but you are so filled with noise you cannot hear it. A flute in a marketplace—who will hear? Greater noise still rages within you. That soft inner sound—your very life of life; without it you cannot be; that which is you—the Sabda, the Omkar, the Naam.

Dharamdas says: The pudding is the music of the Word. From that resonance I have tasted the sweetest taste—the taste of nectar. The swan receives ambrosial food!

Wherever I look—there Your yellow silk;
For garment You wear the immense sky.

When Your glimpse falls into my eyes, the whole world becomes Your pitambar.

Wherever I look—there Your yellow silk; for garment, the sky itself.

All these colors are Yours. All these flowers are Yours. All these moons and stars are Yours. The entire sky is Your garment.

Wherever I look—there Your yellow silk; for garment You wear the sky.

Hear Dharamdas’s plea, O Lord—
Let the swan fly to its mark.

No more crumbs of glimpse—no more occasional feeding, tantalizing. Now carry me across completely. Drown me so that I do not remain. Each time Your darshan happens, it feels like the first time—

As if my eyes had never seen You,
So it seems each time I behold You.

Each time, the feeling: never before—first time. Then certainly the madness grows, the thirst deepens, every hair burns; each heartbeat fills with one longing and one call: Now drown me, now erase me; take me into Yourself or enter wholly into me. Until the drop falls into the ocean and becomes the ocean, this madness remains.

Without darshan I have gone mad—O Guru, grant me the sight.

Now no more delay.

Standing, I watch for Your way—Sahib, come.

Show such compassion—reveal Your own image.

A chamber inlaid with jewels, a diamond set in the door.

The lock and the key are of love; O Guru, open and show.

The servant forgot devotion; You are the Forgiver.

Hear Dharamdas’s plea—carry me across the ocean of becoming.

I rely only on Your song—deathless One.

I will do no pilgrimages or fasts; I will not read the Vedas in Kashi.

I know no yantras, mantras, or charms; day and night I wander in udasi.

Within this very vessel dwells the butcher; greed has hung its mat.

Dharamdas petitions with folded hands—servant at the Satguru’s feet.

Now grant me darshan, O Kabir.

By Your darshan, sins are cut; the body becomes pure.

The swan receives ambrosial food; the pudding is the music of the Word.

Wherever I look—there Your yellow silk; for garment You wear the sky.

Hear Dharamdas’s plea, O Lord—let the swan fly to its mark.

Enough for today.