Jharat Dashahun Dis Moti #15

The devotee has nothing to offer to God. Whatever is, is His. If you do not offer, you simply go on living in the illusion that it is mine. Nothing here is mine. When the ‘I’ itself has no existence, how can ‘mine’ exist? The ‘I’ is a lie, and the spread of that lie is called ‘mine’. The ‘I’ is the center of our ignorance, and ‘mine’ is the periphery of that center. Neither ‘mine’ is true, nor ‘I’ is true. Where both fall away, there worship is fulfilled. Then all is His. In the very moment you know that all is His, in that very moment you are freed of all anxieties. In that very moment the days of anguish are gone, the days of music arrive. That very day the night of sorrow ends, the sun of joy rises. That day the autumn disappears and spring begins to ripple and tremble all around. Pearls shower from all ten directions!
Spring is the symbol of celebration. Flowers bloom, birds sing, everything becomes green, everything brims over. As spring is outside, so spring happens within. And as autumn is outside, so autumn happens within. The only difference is this: the outer autumn and spring move by the law of destiny, in a cyclic chain, but the inner autumn and spring are not determined by fate. You are free: become autumn if you wish, become spring if you wish. Such is the freedom of consciousness. Such is its dignity and glory.
Yet it is unfortunate that most people choose to be autumn. There must be some profit in autumn; surely something is gained from it, otherwise so many would not go on erring! There is one gain in autumn—only one, and all other so‑called gains seem to arise from it—if there is autumn, the ego can survive. In suffering the ego survives. Suffering is the food of the ego. Therefore people choose to be miserable. They may say a thousand times that they wish to be happy, yet even in the pursuit of happiness they end up unhappy. In seeking happiness they fetch ever-new miseries. They set out on a journey towards happiness, but they arrive at the destination of sorrow. They say one thing, but something else happens. And what happens does not happen without cause; deep within the unconscious there is an urge for that very thing. On the surface is the talk of happiness; deep within we are searching for suffering. For without suffering, we will not be able to survive. If a flood of bliss comes, we will be swept away like refuse. In autumn the ego can stand. No leaves, no flowers, no birds, no songs—only a dry, barren tree stands, yet it can stand. But if spring comes—you are gone! Spring comes only when you are gone. Make room—spring arrives. Disappear—flowers bloom. Vanish—and fountains of song gush forth within you.
And there is nothing else to offer at the feet of the Paramatma—what else can we offer? What else do we have? Only ourselves can we lay down. Offer this ego, offer this asmitā, crucify this ‘I’—and the Beloved’s couch will be yours. Upon which cross lies the Beloved’s couch? Let this ego be crucified. Here, as the ego’s head falls, there dawn breaks. And the moment the ego goes, astonishingly, with it go all anxieties, all pains, all calamities, all torments. The very energy that was becoming torment becomes spring. The same energy that was sprouting thorns of sorrow within you turns into flowers. Energy is one—make of it what you will. The decision is yours. The right is yours.
The one who decides to live in autumn, I call worldly; the one who decides to live in spring, I call a sannyasin.
This ochre hue is the color of spring. It is the color of Vasant. It is not the color of gloom, it is the color of celebration. It is not a weeping color, it is a laughing color, a pealing, giggling color.
Keep spring in your awareness. Even in the name of God, people sit clutching autumn. Even in the name of God people sit in sadness; their heart-strings do not sing. In the name of God they become heavy, grave. Their laughter is lost. In the name of God they sit hardened; their softness, their sweetness is lost. If you look closely at your so‑called mahatmas in the name of God, you will find dry, barren trees in whom no leaves sprout any longer. But we are such fools that the fewer leaves on a tree, the more we worship it! We say, how detached! See the renunciation—it has even let go of leaves and flowers; it stands like a stump; an ascetic, a mahatma! You are calling stumps mahatmas! And when you worship stumps, if not today then tomorrow, you too will become stumps. As you worship, so you will become. We worship that which we want to become. We honor only whom we want to become like. Your honor is not without cause. You wish to visit the temple that you yourself wish to become.
Gulal calls you to spring. Let these love-soaked words, these nectar-filled words, sink into the heart. Drink them—do not try to understand. This is not a matter for intellect; it is the Unreachable, the Unseeable.
The mind, the bumblebee, plays in spring...
Spring is a festival. And when you understand and offer the ego, you become a bumblebee—dancing around the lotus of the Divine, humming your song; your life becomes a reverberation.
The mind, the bumblebee, plays in spring...
And spring has another meaning: Phag, Holi. Syringes of color begin to fly. Not only are you dyed; you begin dyeing others. Not only do you fill and soak in colors; you begin soaking others. How many did Buddha drench! How many did Mahavira drench! How many did he wet through and through! And Jesus, and Mohammed, and Kabir, and Nanak. They attained spring—yet the moment they attained it, they began to distribute spring. They filled their syringes and flung colors—even upon those who had never dreamt that spring would descend. They colored even those whose dreams had no quest for Truth, who had never once, even by mistake, taken the road to a temple. These pealing colors, these resonant songs called them too; became an invitation for them.
The mind, the bumblebee, plays in spring...
Gulal speaks his state: the days of weeping are gone, the night of autumn has passed, morning has come—and my mind has become a bumblebee, dancing around the Divine, playing in spring, playing Phag with the Divine.
...the unstruck resounds, cadence infinite.
And ever since I have dissolved, I hear the anahata nada.
You have heard the lute—it is beautiful, sweet, alluring. But it is nothing compared to the lute resounding within you. You have seen the sunrise outside—beautiful, supremely beautiful, but nothing compared to the sun waiting within you to arise. You have seen lotuses blooming on lakes—attractive indeed! But the lotus blooming in the lake of your consciousness, the thousand-petaled lotus, is beyond compare. For all outer lotuses wither, but the inner lotus never withers. And the outer sunrise occurs and, in a while, sets; but when the inner sunrise occurs, it occurs forever. The outer spring comes and departs; when the inner spring comes, it comes forever. It is eternal. A sound is resounding within you. You are not playing it; no one is playing it; there is no player, yet the sound arises—it is your very nature. That sound we have called Omkara.
...the unstruck resounds, cadence infinite.
Infinite tones are rising within you. And the nada is boundless. It has no limit. It cannot be bound into any word. No musical instrument can translate it outwardly. Whenever a musician touches the summit of music, he only catches a faint glimpse—just a little glimpse! Like catching the moon in the lake’s reflection—such is it! The moon is not in the lake, only its reflection appears. Toss in a small pebble and the reflection is gone. If outer music can catch even this much of inner music as the lake catches of the moon—that itself is much. Our Tansen and our Baiju Bawra could only do this much. Yet even in that glimpse, how many are drowned! Even in that glimpse how many are filled with bliss! If only we could behold the moon itself, and not get entangled in its reflection!
Music conveys the message of the Divine from nearest to nearest. What words cannot say, music can; because music is sound, sound without meaning. There is joy in it, but no meaning; a celebration in it, but no meaning. There is nothing in music for the intellect to do. Hence the intellect is left tired. Music slips past the intellect and reaches the heart.
Music is the purest possibility, as far as the movement of the outer world that leads inward. But the day you hear the inner nada, all outer sounds will fade. The day you hear the inner nada, all outer music will seem mere noise and nothing else.
The mind, the bumblebee, plays in spring...
This is your laughter arriving.
Which honeyed month has come in these torn clouds?
It is your laughter that has arrived.
From the eyes two great tears
Of silent pain have flowed,
In sobs the citadels of sorrow—
How have they remained?
Like a bright arrow, a ray of the sun’s delight has come.
It is your laughter that has arrived.
Which honeyed month has come in these torn clouds?
It is your laughter that has arrived.
Ah, that cuckoo, who knows why
She cried tearing the heart?
An echo in the heart,
Fainting, fainting, hush, fell asleep.
Yet through this, today, how much nearer I have come to you!
It is your laughter that has arrived.
Which honeyed month has come in these torn clouds?
It is your laughter that has arrived.
For now we are torn clouds, beggars’ bowls—empty, void. Yet the Divine can laugh within us, can smile! And if He laughs, then showers will also be ours—pearls will rain from all ten directions—and a rain of jewels will fall upon us. Perhaps the rain is already happening. For when it happened around Gulal, it was not that it happened only around Gulal—it was already happening; Gulal simply saw it. Others were blind, they could not see. The Divine is laughing, but you have become so sad that you cannot attune to laughter. You have forgotten how to laugh. Even in laughter, what miserliness! You have forgotten to dance. You do not even remember the gestures of dance. You do not sing, you do not dance, you do not laugh—how will you relate to spring? You must become at least a little like spring. Only the similar can relate to the similar.
And this is sadhana: begin becoming a little like spring.
I tell my sannyasins here—morning and evening, every day—dance, sing, celebrate, because the Divine is!
There is one dance, one celebration, before attaining the Divine—that creates worthiness. And there is a celebration after attaining the Divine—that expresses gratitude, grace. The sannyasin dances before attaining, the siddha dances after attaining. But only a sannyasin can become a siddha. No one else can.
The lotus blossoms; a humming arises...
Gulal says: how the doors of wonder are opening! The lotus has blossomed within me. Where I had never found anything but darkness; where I had received nothing but ugliness—anger, hatred, enmity, jealousy, aversion, ego, craving, lust—where I had found nothing but stinking states, only refuse; where a heap of filth lay—what miracle has happened—‘the lotus blossoms; a humming arises.’ The flower has opened, the lotus has bloomed, and a hum resounds. Who is singing this song? Who is causing this lotus to bloom? Some invisible hand, not within grasp. But surely it exists, surely! Who is playing this vina? Some invisible hand.
...light sparkles and spreads.
Who is this that has kindled light within me? What lotus is this, that music hums around it and from its heart the flame arises? And this flame spreads; it sparkles and expands. It will not stop at me; it will go far, far. This news will spread, this fragrance will fly; the winds will carry it to the farthest horizon. This light will not be contained in me—it is greater than me; it will burst forth and flow out of me. It is like a flood; I am small; it will overflow me; it will reach many.
...light sparkles and spreads.
Blessed are we that this light cannot fit inside anyone. Otherwise Buddha would have remained silent. Otherwise the Quran would not have arisen from Mohammed, nor would Krishna have sung the Gita; and humanity would have been deprived of Kabir’s astonishing upside-down songs. The Baul fakirs would not have played the ektara; we would never have recognized their intoxication. These few have filled even our air with wine; they have intoxicated our very atmosphere. For when the inner event happens, it is so vast that your body cannot hold it, nor can your mind restrain it. It breaks all dams and flows.
Buds, lift this veil.
It is not dew—wash those tender feet
With my tears...
The bodiless breeze has come
Bearing the cuckoo’s note;
Today joy’s fragrance has become
The arrow of the Five.
How much mystery there is in the mind,
O small, delicate body!
The sky is drowned in your delightful hue,
Grave, profound.
In one wave of fragrant sound—
What are you? Speak a little.
Buds, lift this veil.
You too are the bud of the same lotus of which Gulal speaks. But lift the curtain a little! Meera says: open the knots of your veil.
Buds, lift this veil.
It is not dew...
No worry; wash the Divine’s feet with your tears. With tears alone, wash His feet.
The bodiless breeze has come
Bearing the cuckoo’s note—
This breeze moving around you holds invisible mysteries. It bears a cuckoo’s melody you have never heard—one not heard by outer ears.
Today joy’s fragrance has become
The arrow of the Five;
How much mystery in the mind,
O little delicate body!
This small body—yet secret upon secret is filled within it. This small body is like a tiny map of the whole existence; in this pind the brahmand is contained. As if a small chart of the entire cosmos!
The sky is drowned in your lovely hue,
Grave, profound.
In one wave of fragrant sound—
What are you? Speak a little.
Buds, lift this veil.
This veil can open only one way: ask yourself, Who am I? The deeper you inquire, the more you will find: I am not. I am not. One day this answer will stand before you—I am not. Yet something is. The name of that something is the Divine. No word can be given to it; it is wordless, ineffable.
Beholding and beholding, the heart became bliss...
And the day you have even a glimpse of That, you will dance.
Beholding and beholding, the heart became bliss...
Only by seeing will you be able to be blissful. Those who have seen have said much—that it is bliss, sat-chit-ananda. You listen, yet no thrill arises within you; no resonance trembles in your life; your lute does not begin to play; the lotus does not bloom; the fragrance does not fly; the lamp is not lit. By others’ sayings, this cannot be.
Beholding and beholding, the heart became bliss...
The day you behold, the day you recognize, the life-breath will be filled with bliss.
...then the mind, abuzz, fell into the snare.
Then you will fall into the snare of the Divine; then the betrothal happens; then for the first time you will know the bond of love. ‘Then the mind, abuzz, fell into the snare.’ This mind that ran and ran through the world will run no more. When the bumblebee finds the lotus, it settles. Even if the lotus closes, the bee does not fly. At night the lotus closes, and the bee closes within it. Seeing the lotus close, the bee does not flee. This is no prison now—this is his home; he has come home; what he was seeking has been found.
Wave upon wave flows the stream of light...
Then you will see within that wave upon wave of light is coming. And such a light as burns without fuel; hence it cannot be exhausted; wickless, oilless.
Wave upon wave flows the stream of light. With the lotus of Thy feet, my mind has mingled.
And into that wave you will go on dissolving; in that wave you will become the wave; only then will you meet the Divine’s feet. Until you melt, become fluid—right now you are too solid, a stone. So long as you remain like a rock, people say you are strong. A fluid person receives no respect in the world. One who flows as tears—you condemn him: what, a man, and you weep? We tell little boys: why are you crying like girls? Nature made no distinction in the eyes—woman or man, the same tear glands. As many tear glands in women’s eyes, so many in men’s. But men we do not permit to weep. Not men we make them, but harsh—parush—hard. We snatch even their tears from their eyes. And with tears, all moistness disappears from within; they dry up, become stumps.
And now women too have entered the contest. They too are determined—enough of weeping, now we will surpass men. Their eyes too are drying. Even there the tenderness is evaporating. Soon there too there will be no greenery. Soon the leaves will fall, flowers will not bloom. The days are near when women will also be called mahatmas! Earlier women could not become mahatmas, because they could not become so hard. People ask me: Buddha happened, Mahavira happened, Krishna, Jesus, Mohammed, Jalaluddin, Kabir, Farid—an endless line of saints—why did women not attain the rank of mahatma? Women remained fluid, simple, moist. And the mahatma you imagine is one who is hard, dry, barren.
The scriptures say a mahatma should be like dry wood. Why? Because wet wood smokes. If you burn wet wood, smoke rises; dry wood burns without smoke. But what shall we do with a mahatma—put him in the stove? Bake bread on him? Let there be flowers! But flowers do not bloom on dry wood. True, dry wood does not smoke—useful for the kitchen—but flowers do not bloom there.
Do we want to make the world a garden—or a stove?
For centuries hardness has been taught. Women could not become so hard, hence lagged behind. They could not attune with mahatmas. They would begin to weep, to sing, to laugh, to dance! A few reached, somehow—like Meera. She suffered much condemnation. The mahatmas could not be in favor of Meera—how could they? This dancing, this singing, this tambura, this abandon, this girlish frolic, this stream of tears—where is dispassion here? The eye should turn to stone.
I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin went to a shop to buy some things. The shopkeeper quoted a high price. Mulla said: double the price. The man said: whether double or triple, I sell only at this price. Mulla said: the shop across sells for half. The man said: then buy there. Mulla said: how can I, his stock is finished. The man said: when my stock is finished, I sell for one quarter—what is half!
So the haggling went on. At last the shopkeeper said: my head is bursting; do one thing—if you can tell me which of my eyes is real and which artificial, I will sell at half. Mulla looked carefully and said: your left eye is artificial. The shopkeeper was astonished—indeed the left was glass. Such was its craft that one could hardly tell. He said: Nasruddin, I am impressed! How did you know the left eye is false? Nasruddin said: there was a little compassion in it. It could not be real. The real one is utterly hard.
The true mahatma—utterly hard.
Meera had to endure many abuses, much insult. Her own family sent her the cup of poison—not out of enmity, but to save face.
If one or two like Meera have reached, it is despite men and their notions. But now women too are becoming hard. They too have suffered much. Now they feel that without hardness they cannot compete. If you must battle in the marketplace, in a throat-cutting competition, then you must sharpen your knives; harden the heart, for you will be cutting each other’s throats. This notion—that the mahatma should be like dry wood—has made the whole religion dry wood. No mahatma is such! These are sick minds whom you have called mahatma.
A true mahatma will be spring!
Wave upon wave flows the stream of light...
Within him there will be dance of light. And not only within—when it is within, it will be without too. The light will spread.
...with the lotus of Thy feet, my mind has mingled.
There is no other way—become so fluid that as a river meets the ocean, so you can meet the Divine. But only if there is fluidity. If the river has frozen into stone-ice, it cannot merge with the ocean—even if it reaches the shore, a river frozen stiff cannot merge. The ocean will flow by the shore; the river will remain rigid in its stiffness. Do not freeze like ice—be fluid like water. The more fluid you can be, the more auspicious.
Having found you today, I am restless,
Surging with hopes.
Look at these stars—
They have doubled and trebled in the ripples.
Sound-waves sway and tremble,
On this shore and that—
As if the small motion of silent fragrance
Has spread through every garland.
It is moonlight—the silver dreams
Seem to have come true.
Jasmine peeps at the breeze
At every bower’s door.
Come, in our own shadow let us behold
The images of love’s union—
In a single glance there are two unions,
Behold, in your own garden.
On the strength of this union alone
I will bear mortality with joy.
The burden of mine-ness is lost
In a single tide of tears.
When the art of weeping is learned, tears carry the ego away...
The burden of mine-ness is lost
In a single tide of tears.
Having found you today, I am restless,
Surging with hopes.
Dance, let waves arise, be playful—like the ripples dancing on a lake.
Look at these stars—
They have doubled and trebled in the ripples.
You have seen it—one star in the sky; but in the river’s waves it becomes double, treble. It scatters in the ripples. When the moon rises in the sky and you look into the river—there is argent everywhere! When you dance, the Divine also doubles and trebles within you. The deeper your dance, the deeper the Divine within.
It neither comes nor goes; the jiva does not die...
Do not fall into useless panics. Do not fear hell; do not be lured by heaven.
It neither comes nor goes...
You have not come from anywhere, nor will you go anywhere. You have no birth, no death. You are eternal! And yet how you are frightened by such petty things! What fears have been seated in you! Priests have exploited your fright thoroughly. Your so‑called religions all stand upon fear. Your conception of God too stands upon fear. What relation can there be between God and fear! God is known through love. Through fear even God will look like a devil. Can you respect whom you fear? Can you love whom you fear? If you fear, given a chance, you will shoot Him; you will keep searching for the chance.
If you fear God, there will be no marriage of love between you and Him. And highest of all is love’s marriage. How will there be marriage through fear? Through fear the bond will break. Yet even here, in the world, we have woven bonds of fear. And we have carried this even to the Divine. People are tied in pairs—only because of fear! The wife thinks, where to go? The husband thinks, well, somehow I have gotten used to her troubles; why suffer someone else’s new troubles! Then there is public opinion, status, what will people say—so they stay tied. Keep fighting, but stay tied! Keep quarreling, but stay tied! They are afraid of each other.
Husband and wife fear one another. If you see a couple walking down the road, both sad and burdened, know they are married. And if you see a couple happy and joyous—know something is amiss! They cannot be married! The wife must be another’s, the husband another’s!
Mulla Nasruddin went to a film. An actor was acting marvelously. Mulla said: bravo! this is acting. He was declaring love—down on his knees... such scenes are abundant in Hindi films! Hindi films are astonishing; nowhere else does one break into song so often. At the slightest chance, singing begins! And from where do band and orchestra appear suddenly—who knows! In life it does not happen that sorrow arises and a sorrow-song starts with full accompaniment. Beloved has gone far, you call out—and instantly the instruments begin! Who plays those instruments? Great mysteries! This actor, kneeling, was professing love to a woman. Tears streaming down his face. Saying: without you I cannot live—not even a day, my breath will stop; if you are not mine, all is lost.
Mulla said to his wife: a skillful actor indeed. The wife said: do you know, the woman opposite him is his real wife. In life, she is his wife. Mulla said: then it is mind-blowing—then he is surely an actor! Who says such things to his own wife—that without you I shall die, I cannot live a moment without you! Between husband and wife such courtesies never arrive; reality runs in the opposite direction.
Mulla was ill. A doctor came to see him. He felt the pulse, the heartbeat, took the temperature, and said: it seems for at least thirty years some dangerous disease has been after you. Mulla said: speak softly, brother—she is sitting in the next room! And it has been exactly thirty years... You have done a wonder! By pulse-reading you... I have seen great physicians, but exactly thirty years... But hush! If she hears, more trouble will come.
Even here we have based all relations on fear. Parents frighten children, and think they will be respected. They threaten. And they expect respect. But that respect will be hollow, false. And as long as children are small and powerless, only then will they give it. The day power comes, they will take revenge. The day they become strong and the parents weak—one day parents grow old and weak; children become young—then these same children will torment them. Then the old cry: what has happened, Kaliyug has come! No Kaliyug has come—this is your own gift! In Satayug you did the same; and even now you do the same. When children were weak, you oppressed them; now you are weak, you are repaid; now the children oppress you.
We have perverted all relationships.
Teachers for centuries have beaten children, and expect respect—that the guru should be honored. It is much if these children do not beat the guru. What respect can there be? Nowadays they have started beating too, because they are no longer small. In primary school you can keep them quiet with a stick; in university they are of your age.
I was a university student. Daily at three in the morning I would get up and go to bathe. It was dark. I entered the bathroom—my bathroom was fixed; out of fear no one entered it. And at three there would be no one anyway. That day I saw a gentleman bathing there. I grabbed him by the neck and threw him out: do you know, at three no one can enter here. He protested, so I gave him a thump. It was dark; I did not see who he was! In the morning I learned he was a new lecturer in philosophy. The Vice Chancellor called me: this is not right—you pushed out a teacher and thumped him. I said: which teacher? A lad was bathing. He said: not a lad, Sir, a lecturer. New. I said: in the dark, who sees who! At three in Brahmamuhurta, who is teacher, who student—all are equal. In Brahmamuhurta only Brahman is seen! The one who hit is Brahman, the one who is hit is Brahman!
In universities students are grown. How will they fear professors, and why? So in exams they bring knives; they plant the knife on the table, then begin to cheat. Seeing the knife the invigilator looks away. Who will invite trouble!
Guru-disciple relation—upon fear. Parents-children—upon fear. Husband-wife—upon fear. You have erected all relations upon fear. And the final relation—at least have mercy upon that—should not be erected upon fear: the relation of the individual and the Divine! But even that you have placed upon fear—burn in hell... Now let those fear hell who will. Nowadays none fear hell. People ask: first prove hell—where is it? Has anyone returned? And when it comes, we will see. And a clever man who has found tricks here will find them there too. In heaven you will be rewarded—this fear and greed are the two sides of one coin. You take people to be children! Peppermints in heaven, beatings in hell!
Thus the relation between man and God has ended.
Gulal wants to tell you: there is no need to fear. All the saints tell you the same.
It neither comes nor goes; the jiva does not die...
You have not come, nor will you go. You are an indispensable part of existence. You are a portion of the Divine! What hell, what heaven! If there is a heaven, it is within you; if there is a hell, it is within you. It is your psychology, not a geography.
...thrill upon thrill, drink the nectar.
Gulal says: drop this fear and greed—and then dance, sing, and drink the amrit.
Unreachable, unseeable, the Unnamed Lord...
That Divine is agam—unattainable; agamy—cannot be grasped. Even if you understand, you cannot understand. It is not a two‑plus‑two‑is‑four proposition. It is a mystery. The more you understand, the more you will find there is yet more to understand. The more you understand, the more you will exclaim: ah, nothing understood! Not even a drop—and the ocean stands before me! Remember, in this world only fools live in the delusion that it can be understood. The wise say: nothing can be understood. This matter is so vast. This existence is to be seen in wonder and awe. Do not look through the stiffness of knowledge—your knowledge is a hindrance; look in the innocence of unknowing. Look like a small child. You know nothing. The Gita may be memorized, the Quran on your tongue—yet you know nothing. And you will never bind the Divine within the confines of knowing. You cannot weigh Him on any scale, nor test Him on any touchstone. There is no measure by which He can be measured. Immeasurable. Beyond logic. Unreachable. Unseeable. Not visible to these eyes.
Yet you persist in trying to see with these eyes.
To see with these eyes you have made idols. Then staring at those idols you try to see the same with closed eyes. People think this is sadhana. First they look at Ganesh outside, then close their eyes and try to see Ganesh inside. A few days trying thus and you will begin to see Ganesh even with closed eyes. Ganesh’s figure is of such a kind that even if you try to escape, you won’t—close your eyes and he appears! Or Hanuman in his red loincloth—close your eyes and he will appear. Anything you gaze at outwardly with great focus for long—then you close your eyes, its after-image remains; it begins to appear within.
Thus Buddha said: as long as anything appears within you, know that meditation has not yet happened. Whether Ram appears, Krishna, Buddha, Mahavira—if anything appears within, know that meditation is incomplete. You are still wandering outside. It is not something the eye can see.
Therefore all idols are false; all idols are toys. Distract children—fine; but elders too are caught in idols. Ramleelas are staged! The wedding procession of Ram and Sita goes forth! People join as wedding guests. Children marry their dolls; you enact the marriage of Ram and Sita. The same game—only on a larger scale: more noise, greater crowd, a religious color applied—but the matter is the same. Your idols, your rituals, all are external. And the Divine is the name of your innermost.
Unreachable, unseeable, the Unnamed Lord...
No one can make Him a target, nor does He become anyone’s target. He is alaksya, alakh—beyond aim and mark.
Understand the word alaksya.
Never even by mistake think that the Divine is to be attained. Because if you arouse within yourself the lust to attain God, that very lust becomes the hindrance. God is attained, but the lust to attain God is the hindrance. Then how is God attained? When all your lusts have withered away—including the lust for God. When no desire to attain anything remains within you—then instantly His anahata nada resounds; His sun rises. Then light begins to surge within. God is not the target of desire. He cannot be. God is the experience that dawns in desirelessness.
Therefore Buddha never spoke of God. He only said: I will tell you how desire drops. When desire falls, the rest happens by itself. Do not ask further. Because the moment you ask, you err. If told that God is, immediately the lust to get Him arises. If told that He is bliss, then desire is even more excited. If told He is amrit and by attaining Him you too become immortal, your very life will be filled with greed—must have it fast, must attain it!
If you go to attain God through desire, you will go on missing; because you will never settle into that quiet state—desire will keep you agitated, afflicted, restless. Desire will never allow you to be still in the present; it will always chase you into the future, entangle you in webs of imagination.
Unreachable, unseeable, the Unnamed Lord...
The Lord of this world, the Master, can neither be made the target of your desire, nor made an object of your eyes, nor a subject for the intellect.
...seen by these eyes, I became sheltered.
But there is another eye—the inner one; not these eyes. Another way of seeing by which objects are not seen, but consciousness is experienced. Seeing is only a manner of speaking—it is experienced.
...seen by these eyes, I became sheltered.
And the day you experience Him within, that day you are sheltered; before that, you are an orphan.
I stayed in a village. A building was being constructed opposite. I asked: what is being built? They said: an orphanage. I said: you are building it in vain. The whole earth is an orphanage; what need of yet another? An orphanage within an orphanage! Better, build a ‘shelter-home’. A place for those who are sheltered. They said: we do not understand your meaning. Then I told them this saying of Gulal:
Unreachable, unseeable, the Unnamed Lord. Seen by these eyes, I became sheltered.
He alone is sheltered who has known, recognized, realized, imbibed the Divine; who has been embraced by the Divine; who has dissolved into it, and allowed it to dissolve into him; who has kept no division, who has become nondual. Only then are you sheltered. Only in joining with the Master are you no more orphaned.
Says Gulal: my longing is fulfilled...
Gulal says: my hope is fulfilled; my deep thirst is quenched.
...I conquered death and took abode in light.
I have conquered death, and my abode is in light. In that light which never goes out. In that light which is the very life of this world, the very being of existence.
Come, my mind, let us go to Hari’s abode.
He calls you too: come, you also come. I have reached—now beloved, you also come! Come, let us go to Hari’s abode. Call your own mind too—‘Come, my mind, let us go to Hari’s abode.’
Advance, advance, plant the step of trust!
Do not ruminate, trembling with worldly fear!
On the feet of faith in the flame,
Cross life and death, the ocean vast,
Upon the heads of waves of joy and sorrow
Set your steps and cross the bhava-sagar.
Advance—advance—plant the step of trust!
What is life? Why, what the cause of world?
Sin and virtue, sorrow and joy?
Vain logic! This world is beyond the world—
Wave after wave grows hard for intellect—
Cross over—plant the step of trust!
The life-path is dark and solitary;
One little ray removes the gloom of becoming.
If atom of trust fill the heart,
Mountains and oceans will give you way.
Advance—plant the immortal step of trust!
Come, my mind, let us go to Hari’s abode.
But how will you go? Fear arises, dread. To go to the far shore you must leave this shore. And on this shore—with how many desires, how many cravings—we have built our little houses. Even if houses of playing cards, they are called houses! The very name deceives us. On this shore we have sown seeds of many hopes—harvest has not yet been reaped—how to go to that shore? And then, that shore—is there any shore or not? We cannot see it. It is agam, agocara, alakh. Our eyes cannot see that far shore. Between is midstream, a storm, tempests. Fear will come. Dread will come. But this dread remains only until reverence arises within. A single atom of shraddha is enough, and all fear is dissolved.
Where to find shraddha? It is not sold in the bazaar, not found in the market. But if a revolution has happened in someone’s life—if within someone wave upon wave light flows—by sitting near him it is found; it is found through satsang, through company. Apart from satsang there is no taste of shraddha.
Remember, shraddha does not mean belief. You take belief to mean: accepted. Parents say—though they do not know; priests say—though they do not know; those who do not know themselves are planting belief in you. Their belief is false, hollow. Yours will be even more false and hollow. Theirs is borrowed; yours will be borrowed. Shraddha is cash, not credit.
Where will you get cash shraddha?
Only at the feet of a living guru. Only beside an awakened master is there a way. Go to a garden and the fragrance will settle into your clothes. Similarly, sit in true company where amrit drizzles, where pearls are raining—if even one pearl falls into your hand, the work is done! Then all fear disappears. Then the courage to enter the unknown is born. With such courage you can say to yourself: ‘Come, my mind, let us go to Hari’s abode.’
Forward, forward, forward!
That past is gone—
For whom do you linger?
What is left behind—
Its juice you have sipped!
Having attained a new thirst unending,
Learn new lessons—forward!
Forward, forward, forward!
Ahead is darkness; behind
The redness of the setting sun;
Step by step an indelible curtain
Of night is falling on it.
All those scenes are seen;
Ahead lie the mysteries.
Forward, forward, forward!
By falling you will learn to stand;
You will be stuck, you will go astray;
Only then will you be steady—
When wandering and forgetting.
Rise—you will go on rising,
Climbing higher and higher—forward!
Forward, forward, forward!
Do not fear falling. Do not fear wandering. Do not fear mistakes. He who never errs, never learns. He who fears falling, never rises. The one afraid some mistake may be made is dead while alive; he will be afraid to lift his foot. It is good that little children do not fear that by walking they may fall—otherwise no one would ever walk. Children get up and begin to walk. Parents try to stop them—child, you will fall! Children do not listen. They fall; knees get bruised; they rise again; they walk at last. If children were as frightened as you, and sat lest they get hurt, they would remain dung‑Ganesh forever. Nothing would happen in their lives.
To set out on the quest of the unknown is a new birth. Do not fear—mistakes will happen. Only do not repeat the same mistake—this much is enough. Make new mistakes every day, so that you can learn anew every day. And wander too. Without wandering you will never find the right path. There is only one way to recognize the right path—wander all the paths. When you know which are wrong, only then will you recognize the right.
Those who come to me, I ask them: where else have you gone? I tell them: first go elsewhere; knock at other doors. For to recognize the right door you must have recognized many wrong doors. Otherwise you will not recognize. You will not understand the value either. What I am saying will not become your shraddha. Be cheated many places—do not fear. Being deceived is an inevitable process of life. Become entangled in many false webs—what is there to fear! False is false—the web cannot last long. Today it will fall, or tomorrow, or the day after. And whenever you come out of falsity, you will come more mature, wiser, more skilled, with a finer taste for life. Those who come to me after wandering far and wide—their color and manner are different! Those who come straight the first time—their manner is ordinary, their hue crude. My experience too is: this life is an opportunity—wander far, there is no harm; you can always return to the right path. But the recognition of the true does not come without recognizing the false.
Krishnamurti is right: to know the insubstantial as insubstantial is the only way to know the substantial. To recognize the false as false is the touchstone for recognizing the true.
Come, my mind, let us go to Hari’s abode. There, the Name arises endlessly, in its own form.
There the Omkara resounds eternally. There it is always spring. There is only one season—spring; none other. There it is celebration upon celebration.
Gorakh, Datt, and Shukadeva went...
He counts many saints, with small distinctions that are significant.
Gorakh, Datt, Shukadeva—went.
For Gorakh, for Datt, for Shukadeva, he uses the word ‘went’. Gorakh was a great yogi. From his very name the phrase ‘Gorakh-dhandha’ came. He devised so many processes, so many complex methods, that the ordinary man is entangled. Far from being solved, he is entangled. Thus the phrase arose: what Gorakh-dhandha have you gotten into? We do not even remember that unknowingly we use the name of a great man—Gorakh. In every other way we have forgotten him; only the phrase remains.
But the phrase was not born without cause. Gorakh discovered more methods than anyone in India ever did. A great scientist—he reached through constant effort. Hence the word used: went—by effort, by labor.
...Tulsidas, Surdas, became; and Jayadeva.
Tulsidas, Surdas, Jayadeva did not go—they became. They sang and became. They became by singing his praises. No techniques, no yogas, no austerities; by singing, singing, they drowned—and became that which they sang; became That. In singing, they became.
Namdev, Raidas—the servants...
Namdev and Raidas practiced dāsya-bhava, the feeling of servanthood. Surrender. As Gorakh practiced sankalp—resolve—so Namdev and Raidas surrendered. Left all to Him: Thy will be done. Kept nothing in their own hands. Not that we will do, we will go, we will arrive—no. They said: what capacity have we! Left all at His feet.
Namdev, Raidas—the servants. There, Das Kabir’s hope was fulfilled.
Kabir too stands in that lineage—the lineage of supreme servants. Hence again and again he calls himself: ‘Das Kabir!’ He says it with great relish, great joy. Nowhere in the world has the word ‘servant’ received such honor—because the world has not understood the secret of dāsya.
Sannyasins come to me from all lands. When I give them names, sometimes I give a name that includes ‘das’. I explain: das means slave, servant. What to do? There is no word in English as sweet as ‘das’. They listen, and then write to me: what kind of name have you given us! Slave, servant—it makes us very uneasy. Can you not give a nicer name? There is no nicer name than das. It is very difficult to find a better. But in any western language this word cannot be translated; there, ‘slave’ is only in a material sense, and slavery is not good. Their irritation is not surprising. In the West ‘slave’ means—what are you saying! Slavery was abolished long ago, and you still give ‘slave’ as a name! It hurts deeply.
They do not know the glory of das. If you are forced to become a slave, it is one thing; if you make yourself a slave with your own hands, it is utterly different. Under compulsion it is insulting; with your own will, there is no honor greater.
...There, Das Kabir’s hope was fulfilled.
And whoever became a servant—his hope has always been fulfilled. Whether the path of resolve reaches or not—because the path of resolve is like the edge of a sword. The possibility of arriving is small; the possibility of falling and being cut is greater. It is like a tightrope walker. He may arrive—but the possibility of falling is greater. In resolve is danger—the abyss of ego. If resolve is the rope, beneath it is the chasm of ego. One who resolves—his asmitā will swell: I am doing something; see how much sadhana I have done, how much austerity, yoga, vows, fasts. The danger is that the ‘I’ may grow fat. On the path of resolve you must remember: let resolve deepen, but let the ‘I’ not become strong. Let not resolve feed the ‘I’; otherwise the path of arriving will become the path of losing. The ladder by which you thought you would climb will become the cause of your fall. But for the servant there is no danger. He surrenders the ego at the very first step. On the path of resolve, ego is the last thing to be dropped; on the path of surrender, ego is the first. The whole disease is given up first—the danger ends. Hence the servant’s path is sweet; his hope is fulfilled. Therefore Gulal is right:
...There, Das Kabir’s hope was fulfilled.
Whoever went there as a servant—his hope was fulfilled, always fulfilled.
Ramananda there has taken abode...
Ramananda has taken abode there. He has entered into the Lord. He has made the Lord his home. The Lord has become his temple.
Ramananda is a bhakta. The bhakta enters into the heart of God like an arrow. Between the bhakta and Bhagavan no distance remains. Hence the word ‘abode’—‘Ramananda there has taken abode.’
...Dhanna, Sena, and Krishnadas.
Similarly, Dhanna Bhagat reached there, Sena the barber reached, Krishnadas reached—by being bhaktas, soaked in love—drowned.
Chaturbhuj, Nanak, and countless saints...
Chaturbhuj, Nanak, and numberless saints—how did they arrive? In the same way—‘Das Maluka, by the way of the simple.’ Like Maluk Das—sahaj bani—the natural, the effortless. Doing nothing—neither resolve nor surrender. Das Maluka is unique. He says: if you surrender, even there doing will creep in; and where doing creeps in, resolve has entered. Das Maluka’s grasp is deep. He says:
The python does no service, the bird does no work;
Das Maluka has said—Ram is the giver of all.
He is—even surrender, what is there to do! All is His. Giving Him what is His—feel some shame! Maluka says: blush a little! Giving His own to Him! It is His—finished! What is there to give and take?
One practices resolve. Another, its opposite, surrenders. Maluk Das says: where are we to do anything? Only He is. Therefore he says:
The python does no service, the bird does no work;
Das Maluka has said—Ram is the giver of all.
He is the Master. Do not raise the matter of doing at all! So Maluk Das lay wrapped in his shawl. He found in a way no one ever did—effortlessly. He says: the Divine is already found; you are deluded that you have lost, that you have strayed. You have not gone far, nor can you—even if you wish you cannot go far. There is no way to be separate from Him. Therefore do not raise the useless talk of becoming one. Do not take oaths: I shall be one. These oaths reveal the delusion that you are separate. Do not say: I leave all at His feet. That only means you think it is yours and you are leaving it—showing great kindness to Him.
Das Maluka is astonishing.
...Das Maluka, by the way of the simple.
Nothing done—neither resolve nor surrender—the thing is done.
Yaridas and Kesodas are there...
Yari is there, Kesodas is there—they all went as Maluk Das went.
...Satguru Bulla is near the feet.
Gulal’s Satguru is Bulla. At the end, he remembers him. He says: ‘Satguru Bulla is near the feet.’ The Satguru Bulla is closest to the Divine’s feet. The bhakta wants nothing else—only to be near the feet. If the feet are found, all is found. What remains to be found? Rest the head at the feet—everything is attained. Gulal says: my Satguru is Bulla; I found him most near his feet. Gulal held Bulla’s feet; Bulla holds the Divine’s feet. Thus, indirectly, even Gulal’s hands have the Divine’s feet. The same energy began to flow; the same wave upon wave of light.
Says Gulal: how shall I frame it?
Gulal says: how shall I say it—how shall I frame the matter? When I frame it, it spoils; I want to speak, but cannot.
Says Gulal: how shall I frame it?
In what crafted way shall I speak so that you understand?
...let the dust of the saints’ feet settle on your head.
Only this I can say: if ever you meet a saint, let the dust of his feet settle upon your head. That is enough. If you can do just this much, all else will happen. Pearls will begin to shower from all ten directions! Pearls will shower.
Cling to the feet of a saint; the saint clings to the Divine’s feet—unwittingly you have grasped the feet of God. Slowly, the saint will vanish; only the Divine’s feet will remain in your hands. The saint’s existence is double—on one side like us, on the other like the Divine. Visible, of flesh and bone as we, and from the other side the Invisible—alakh, agocara. God is not visible; how to catch Him? But the saint can be seen. Saints are the manifest form of the Divine. Hence we called saints avatars. Avatar means nothing else.
Drop these miseries that there are only ten avatars, or only twenty‑four. Wherever the inner lamp is lit, there the Divine descends. Avatars are infinite—have been and will be. Even here we are miserly—we do not allow even God to spread; we shrink Him too.
Ask the Muslims—they say: there is only one Prophet. One Allah and one His Prophet. If two prophets exist—some difficulty will arise! If two prophets, the Muslim is troubled—whom to follow? Doubts arise; he is thrown into confusion. He fears his prophet will be halved because another has appeared. As though being a prophet were some capital—if two, then divided; if ten, capital finished! If only one, the whole wealth is with him. Madness! Is God’s wealth such that it is divided by sharing?
Ask the Christians—they say: only one son of God—only begotten. This is strange! Then what—did God adopt birth control? After one son? And even birth control allows two; not one. At least two are permitted. He stopped at one! What difficulty came after? Did He become very disappointed with Jesus? Did He knock His head and say—enough—never again!
Christians insist—only begotten son—lest another claim arise. If there are many, God’s inheritance will be divided. Cases will go to court. The Christians will get a smaller share; now they have all in their grasp.
On this side are the Hindus—they say there are ten avatars. Earlier they said ten; gradually courage increased—they made it twenty‑four. They were forced. The Jains said: twenty‑four tirthankaras; the Buddhists said: twenty‑four Buddhas. The Hindus thought: shall we remain behind? The others have gone ahead—ours ten, theirs twenty‑four! They quickly made it twenty‑four too.
But say to a Jain: the twenty‑fifth tirthankara—and he will be angry. There are only twenty‑four. Why does it stick at twenty‑four? What magic is in that number? Can God not count beyond it? What is the matter? Like in villages—one counts to ten, then begins again at one; there are ten fingers, so one counts to ten. But what of God—has He only twenty‑four fingers? He counts only to twenty‑four and then begins again?
These are our miserlinesses. God has nothing to do with them. I tell you: His avatars are infinite; His tirthankaras infinite; His prophets infinite. And all are His sons. He who knows that he is His son—that one is a tirthankara, a prophet, an avatar. He who does not know—still he is His son—he has not yet known; he is not yet a tirthankara, not yet an avatar. But the day he knows—even now, if he knows—just now—peers within, searches within—he becomes a tirthankara now, a prophet now, an avatar now.
The word avatar is very lovely; it means: descent—the above descends below. When you are prepared within—‘let the dust of the saint’s feet settle on your head’—when at the feet of a saint you annihilate your head, when you become nothing—then there is an avatāra within you. God descends—like rays descends from the sky; like moonlight descends; like nectar rains from the stars—so the Divine descends within you. Pearls shower from all ten directions!
Gulal is right: ‘Says Gulal: how shall I frame it?’ How shall I say it! The matter is straight, clear, simple—yet it does not fit into words; it slips from them. The matter is only this much: ‘Let the dust of the saint’s feet settle on your head.’
Enough for today.