Jharat Dashahun Dis Moti #17

The most fundamental thing to understand about religion is that there is no opposition between life and Paramatma. Not only is there no opposition—one reaches the temple of Paramatma only by ascending the steps of life. Life is an opportunity to search for Paramatma. Life itself is a glimpse—of Him—caught from a great distance, as when, from hundreds of miles away, the high Himalayan peaks, pressed under virgin snow, gleam in the morning sun. The distance is long, the journey great, the climb arduous; whether one arrives or not is uncertain; many walk, very few arrive. Yet what is seen from thousands of miles is still true, not a hallucination. It is far, not in the hand; it is only a faint glimpse—and if clouds gather it can be lost, if the sky opens and clears it appears again. Such is the relationship between life and Paramatma. Life is a glimpse of Paramatma. Let the clouds of thought gather, and He is lost; let the clouds of thought disperse, and He appears again.
So those who run away from life in order to attain Paramatma commit a basic mistake.
We are not to abandon life, we are to recognize it. The deeper the recognition of life, the nearer we are to Paramatma. Life is His shadow. A shadow, yes—but His shadow. And what a shadow! To receive even His shadow is much! To be graced by His shadow is great fortune! If He does not happen—so be it. To live even beneath His shadow is beyond our strength, beyond our worthiness. Life is His echo. But the one who truly grasps the echo will reach the original sound. Surely he will, for within the echo a bridge to the primal sound is concealed.
Look at life thus, and my vision may become intelligible to you. Because of the notion of renunciation that has been preached to you for centuries, a great error has occurred. There is nothing to renounce. One must attain Paramatma, yes—but there is nothing to lose. Paramatma is so vast that this life itself is contained in Him. You can find Him while living. You can remain as you are—and yet find Him.
I have heard the echo; I seek the sound.
Silence has found a voice—glory to love—
yet the thirst of the heart is not appeased;
I have found the note, today I seek the singing;
I have heard the echo; I seek the sound.
How will you ever seek the sound if you have not heard the echo? And if you cannot understand a single note, how will you grasp music? And if the moon’s reflection wavering in the lake fails to be recognized, how will you see the moon risen in the sky?
I have heard the echo; I seek the sound.
Whosoever understands life will inevitably seek Paramatma—inevitably. He cannot stop. And he who has not understood life, his quest for Paramatma is hollow, useless. In his Paramatma there is nothing—his Paramatma is only a notion, a concept. His God is what others have told him; not his own inner thirst, not a call from his vital depths. His God is not his prayer; it is a conditioning given by others. His God is borrowed.
People come to me saying, “We want to seek Paramatma.” I ask them, “Which Paramatma? Has any thirst arisen within you to know truth? Has any storm moved in your life-breath? Are you caught in some inner whirlwind that says: seek—stake everything? Or were you born in a Hindu house, a Muslim house, a Christian house, and heard stories that God is, that he created the world, and whoever attains Him gains only gain, and whoever does not will suffer only suffering; whoso attains goes to heaven, whoso does not will be consigned to hell—so, out of fear and temptation, from secondhand conditioning, from those who themselves do not know, you set out to search? Your search will be impotent. Your search will be breathless—a corpse. And how will you move a corpse? You may strap it up somehow, shove and push it a little, and then collapse. Do corpses ever travel? That is why so many appear religious in the world, yet where is religion?”
I have heard the echo; I seek the sound.
Silence has found a voice—glory to love—
yet the thirst of the heart is not appeased;
I have found the note, today I seek the singing;
I have heard the echo; I seek the sound.
You lie in my arms as surrender itself,
would that these bewildered hours grew longer;
I have found the body—today I seek the mind;
I have heard the echo; I seek the sound.
Your lips hold nectar—intoxicate me—
but fill my life-breath with contentment;
I have found honey—now I seek the drops of amrit;
I have heard the echo; I seek the sound.
I have come alive—and how beloved is living—
but before me lie heaps of corpses;
I have found life—now I seek the life-giving elixir;
I have heard the echo; I seek the sound.
This life is the echo of Paramatma. His shadow. Learn from it! Do not close your eyes—do not run away—do not be afraid. With this very shadow as support you can reach the source. There is no other way. No other method. All else is anomaly.
Honor life, revere it! Life is His gift. Even if you were not worthy, still the gift is yours. You are unworthy, and yet He has showered upon you—pearls raining from all ten directions. His pearls go on showering. You did not ask, and it is given. You do not yet know, and it is given. That which will take you centuries to recognize has already been given. Such a treasure—incalculable. Such depth—unfathomable. Such life—unknowable. The mystery of mysteries abides in your heart, throbs in your breathing. Where are you searching for Ram? In what temple? In what Kaaba, on what Kailash? Ram is seated within you. You too are a shadow of Ram. Catch hold of yourself, and Ram will be in your grasp. Know yourself, and Ram will be known.
Do not be a fugitive. Awake!
Gulal says:
“Satguru ghar par parli dhamari, horia main khelongi.”
Sweet words! He says:
“Satguru ghar par parli dhamari…”
The Satguru has entered my home amidst great festivity—drums and trumpets; with dance and song; like the coming of spring, laden with blossoms; like the arrival of music, swaying with notes.
“Satguru ghar par parli dhamari…”
And by home he means the soul—that alone is our home. This house of clay you have built is no home—it is a wayside inn. Today we lodge; tomorrow we depart. This body is also an inn—this birth we stay, next birth we go. Within this body the consciousness that is you—the Atman—is the real home. That which cannot be snatched—that is home. That which is beyond being taken away—that is home. That which is eternal, forever ours—from which we could not be separated even if we wished—that is home. It is that home for which we ache, the thirst of it, the search for it.
Gulal says, a miracle has happened:
“Satguru ghar par parli dhamari…”
The Satguru has entered my home with a mighty rejoicing. The Satguru could enter you as well—but you do not allow the entry. Gulal allowed it. You have barred your doors and windows. You do not even allow a ray of sun to enter. You do not allow even a little gust of wind to come in. You have hidden in your cave. Your house is not a dwelling—you have made it a grave. On all sides you have sealed everything shut.
With what bricks have you sealed your house, shuttered your doors and windows? Recognize those bricks: bricks of your thoughts, your doctrines, your borrowed knowledge, your scriptures. There are many kinds of bricks—for there are many factories that manufacture them. The Hindus have their bricks, their style; the Muslims have theirs, their style. And great quarreling over whose brick is the best! But the matter is this: no brick is good—for all bricks block the doorway. The doors have turned to walls. You are not blind—only your doors have become walls. And your heart is just as ready to dance with Paramatma as peacocks dance when the monsoon clouds gather in Ashadh. The cuckoo of your life also longs to call—but if only it had an opening. You do not give it a chance. You have snatched away all opportunity.
Gulal kept his heart open; therefore he could bow before his servant. Bulaki Ram was his servant, his cowherd. No one knew there was something to him—how would they? Until you are open, until by some moment your doors are found ajar, there is no recognition. Many reports came: “What sort of servant is this? He does nothing properly. He leaves the cattle to graze in the forest and sits beneath a tree with eyes closed, swaying. He is lazy. A shirker.” He was a thief of Ram, and people thought him a shirker of work. While he sat eyes closed and swayed, he was stealing Ram.
When the complaints became too many, one day Gulal said, “Today I will go.” He was a landlord—with a landlord’s arrogance. He arrived early in the morning. He saw and said, “People were right.” Bulaki Ram had been sent to sow the fields; the oxen with plow and yoke were standing to one side, and Bulaki Ram, beneath a tree, was lost in bliss—the rain of ecstasy pouring—plunder was on. Great anger arose. He went from behind and gave him a kick. Had he come from the front, perhaps he could not have kicked. Had he seen Bulaki Ram’s face, perhaps Ram’s face would have appeared. But from behind, on the back, he kicked. This is how we kick the back of Paramatma—always from behind. Face to face we might feel shame, a little embarrassment.
Bulaki Ram fell—but in the same ecstasy rose, touched Gulal’s feet, and with great gratitude thanked him again and again. For the first time, Gulal looked closely: “This is no ordinary man! I kicked him and he thanks me! And tears of bliss flow from his eyes.” Bulaki Ram said, “Blessed you are, master! What I could not do through years of effort, you have done with a single gesture. Surely the great Master sent you. He is my master, and you are my master. The Master must have sent you—without His bidding you would not have come. And what a kick! You have set Bulaki Ram on the path! There was a slight fault. Whenever I sat to meditate, one indulgence dragged me: I am poor; if one meal happens, that is much; and as you see, the whole world calls me lazy and shirker; I have no spare time—if any time is saved from this ecstasy, then I might do something. Whatever you give suffices to feed my children once a day. So a desire had arisen in me, an urge: someday I will invite sadhus to my house, call sanyasins, feed them a feast. I cannot do it; I have no such means. So each day when I sit to meditate, this very desire possesses me. In my mind I invite great saints: Come! All of you, come! I invite all to a meal. And what dishes I prepare in my mind, master!
“Just such a feast was going on when you kicked me. Everything had been served; only the yogurt remained. With the pot of curds I was about to serve when you kicked me. The pot fell, the curd spilled, the pot broke, the saints vanished—for it was all imagination—and in a single moment, with that imagination gone, the mind became thoughtless. There was just that one thought entangled. That too you shattered with your kick. How many times should I touch your feet!”
Gulal was beyond comprehension. He stared wide-eyed at his servant. Around him there was a radiance, as if music softly playing; a fragrance spread. Gulal fell at his feet, “O Sadguru, forgive me!” That day Bulaki Ram became Bullashah. And when the master became his disciple, many disciples gathered around Bullashah. But he kept saying all his life, “Whatever happened—whatever Gulal says—without that kick nothing would have happened. In that kick, Paramatma Himself kicked. He came through him.”
Now Gulal sings:
“Satguru ghar par parli dhamari,
…horia main khelongi.”
The Satguru arrived at our home with great rejoicing—he remembers Bullashah.
“…horia main khelongi.”
And what am I to do now? Play Holi? Orchestrate a festival of Phag? Fill my pichkari with colors? Spray colors? Scatter gulal? What else shall I do but celebrate!
“Juth juth sakhiyan sab nikrin, parli gyan kai mari.”
I am not alone. “In flocks my friends—sakhis—are coming.” The disciple becomes the sakhi—the beloved companion. The ultimate state of discipleship is the state of the sakhi. The guru ceases to be a person—only then is he a guru. The person dissolves; only the symbol of Paramatma remains. And Paramatma alone is the one Purusha; all the rest are sakhis. And unless there is such surrender, such love, such intimacy, discipleship is not born. So Gulal says rightly: “In flocks my sakhis have set out.” Not I alone to play Holi—crowds and crowds of sakhis are arriving.
Around Bullashah gathered a great crowd of mad ones, intoxicated ones. When the flame is lit, the moths arrive. With Bullashah there was festival upon festival, dense dances, rich songs, showers of amrit.
“Juth juth sakhiyan sab nikrin, parli gyan kai mari.”
What has happened to them? Knowledge has created a tempest in their lives. Not bookish knowledge—that cannot stir a storm. Dust may gather, smoke may rise—but no celebration. The mirror only becomes dirtier. People memorize the Quran, the Gita—so many sit memorizing! What will happen by rote? Parrots can do that. You are human—do not insult yourself so. And in my sight, parrots sometimes show more wit than your pundits—these hollow ritualists.
A lady bought a parrot—very religious lady. The parrot was delightful. But the seller warned, “Be careful. The parrot has kept bad company—dusht-sang. Sometimes it says improper things. Do not take offense; it is only a parrot—no intention behind the words.” The parrot was so lovely that she took it anyway. Every Monday the pundit would come for rituals—some pompous priest. Lest the parrot blurt indecencies and offend him, whenever the pundit entered she would throw a blanket over the cage. The parrot learned: blanket means pundit—so keep quiet. One Monday the pundit came; then again on Tuesday he came unexpectedly. She hurried and covered the cage. From inside the parrot cried, “Arrey, you rascal! Today is Tuesday! You’ve come again, you pompous pandit! You don’t even know the day!”
Even the parrot knows Monday is followed by Tuesday—not Monday again. But the pundit does not know even that much. He repeats dead words. Ask him, “Is God?” He says, “He is.” Not a shred of experience, not a grain of realization—no encounter, no recognition—yet he says, “He is.” Shake him and inquire a little—and you will be shocked: he is utterly ignorant, only repeating mechanically. What you say he will echo.
One parrot teaches another parrot. Such people only repeat.
Why has the human genius become so lost? Wherever pundits have influence, genius declines. If India has lagged behind in genius, the greatest cause is the dominance of pundits. Until we are free of them, the genius of India cannot be free. They are parrots—and make others parrots. They chant “Ram, Ram” and make others chant. They know nothing happens by it. All their lives they have chanted and nothing has happened. And we also know that Valmiki attained Ram even by chanting “Mara, Mara”—and these do not attain by “Ram, Ram.” Why? In Valmiki’s chant there was heart, not pedantry. In theirs only a sterile intellect—no communion of heart.
Knowledge does not come from pundits, nor from scriptures. It comes only from those who are awake—whose life-lamp is lit—whose breath has become a torch. Go to them with your extinguished lamp and it will catch flame. Beware of those whose own lamps are out—they may snuff out whatever little light you have. Keep your distance. Keep your lamp beside their lamp all your life—it will not ignite. Two extinguished lamps, no matter how close, do nothing. And you know your pundits, your maulvis, your priests—there is nothing in their lives. Often you will find their lives more miserable than yours. They are adept in words, in quotations.
I have heard of a valuable thinker of the last century—Ingersoll. Whenever he rose to speak, people were puzzled by his gesture: he would make a sign in the air with his finger before and after speaking. When asked, he would only smile. On his deathbed they said, “Now tell us—what did you do with your finger?” He said, “I drew inverted commas—so it was clear that nothing was mine; all quotations. I can tell you now—death is near—what can you do to me? My life is done. I always wanted to say it, but my trade would have collapsed.”
At least he had that honesty—to draw inverted commas in the air. Your pundits do not have even that. They fall into the delusion that they themselves are speaking. They forget that Krishna’s word cannot be theirs until Krishna’s consciousness is attained, that Buddha’s word cannot be theirs until Buddhahood flowers in them. Only when the same fragrance is released, the same flame lit, can what they say be true. And whenever such truth happens, the phenomenon occurs: “Juth juth sakhiyan sab nikrin.” From who knows where hidden people come—faraway they come, singing and dancing. How does the news spread? As when a flower blossoms and the bees—miles away—know and arrive. Scientists have studied bees—they have a language. Not many words, but at least four. When a bee discovers a flower, she does not hoard it like a miser—claiming it as hers. She does not even touch the flower. First she rushes to the hive—miles away—and dances. The dance is a word. If the flower has bloomed to the east, she dances one way; to the west, another; to the south, a third; to the north, a fourth. By dancing she gives direction. Then she flies—and the hive follows.
When a person discovers the Satguru, what else can he do? He dances—and by his dance gives the news: north, south, east, west—where!
“Juth juth sakhiyan sab nikrin, parli gyan kai mari.”
Knowledge’s uproar has begun at the Satguru’s feet. This is the true yajna. Fire-altar is not to be built outside, but within your breath. Burning ghee and grain will do nothing but waste. Millions of rupees of clarified butter and grain are burned each year, and crowds of fools think they are doing some great deed! The inner altar must be prepared—and if you must burn, then burn what is within: trash of mind—bookish knowledge, words, thoughts, doctrines. Reduce all to ash so that you become wordless, silent, shunya. In that shunya the Purna descends. And before the Purna arrives, the Satguru appears—with great festivity.
“Satguru ghar par parli dhamari, horia main khelongi.
Juth juth sakhiyan sab nikrin, parli gyan kai mari.”
“Apne piy sang hori khelun, log det sab gari.”
The relation of guru and disciple is of love. It is a love-betrothal—there is none greater. It is not like the relationship of student and teacher—that is a two-penny affair, intellectual. Guru-shishya is of the heart—beyond argument. The guru does not convince the disciple with logic that “what I say is right.” The guru is seen—and the disciple knows it is true. Sitting near him, it is proved. Words need not be said—yet they reach. It is fragrance, it is music—and only love can hear it.
“I play Holi with my Beloved—and people abuse me.” People have always been so. They will not play, nor let others play. They suffer when they see someone in abandon. If someone sings, they fling abuses—what else can they give, poor fellows; only that is within them. Do not be angry—pardon them. Thorns grow on babul—will you grow lotuses there? People’s hearts have become babul—thorn-pricked, in pain, living in hell. When they see another in bliss, their jealousy erupts and abuse spills out.
This is the story of centuries. Today too it is so. It will remain so—because the greater part of humanity has chosen to live in suffering. Some even find pleasure in pain. Take away their suffering and they will be distressed. They have taken chains as ornaments, prison as home. Their delusions are amazing. They have taken dreams as reality. When they see someone waking, their disquiet becomes unbearable; his presence does not suit them. They will abuse.
So when you are abused—smile. Know: this is the old rule—Raghu’s line—“the Raghuvanshi way has always been this.” This is nothing new. If they do not abuse—be a little surprised; perhaps someone has thrown a blanket over them! If they do abuse, all is in order—with history.
“I am harming no one; I play Holi with my Beloved.” Yet see how people labor to abuse! With the same effort they could compose their own song; with the same effort their life could become a celebration; their flute could sound. But people are strange. They have no taste for their own flute—and oppose another’s. Each wants others to remain as miserable as himself. Seeing the miserable, he feels consoled: “Good—all are like me.” Seeing a happy one, a doubt arises: then who is right? If he is right, I am wrong. But no one wants to admit, “I am wrong.” Ego is offended. You have often noticed—in argument, even when you know you are wrong, still you stick to your position. “We will break but not bend; perish, but not retreat.” The question is not right or wrong; it is “my” standpoint. So when you see someone in bliss, you are pained: who is right? And you have an easier path—since the crowd is like you, not like him—you say: the crowd cannot be wrong. How can millions be wrong?
Someone said to Bernard Shaw about some matter; Shaw replied with a smile: “I ask, how can millions be right? Truth belongs to the rare one. If so many accept it, it must be false—otherwise so many could not accept it. A Buddha occurs once in a while, a Kabir once in a while, a Nanak once in a while; the crowd is of fools—herd-walkers.” Do not say: “So many believe—how can it be wrong?” But our ego is comforted: so many believe as we do; it must be right. Then we label the blissful one mad, deranged—or a hypocrite pretending to be blissful.
But what harm is he doing you? Even if he pretends to be blissful, he harms no one. Pretending joy is better than pretending misery. If he sings, he harms no one. If he dances, he harms no one. If he plays Holi with his Beloved, scattering gulal—what harm to you? Ah, but the dust he raises—how it irks you!
See what we have done to Holi! Gulal flies less; dust more. Hardly anyone throws colors now—coal tar is thrown! Dung is mixed and smeared. Such is the intellect! The festival of spring is celebrated with filth from drains.
I was once in Raipur. Holi was near. A gentleman across the street was laying bricks in his drain. I asked, “What are you doing?” He said, “Holi is coming—we are damming it up; collecting muck—to dunk people in it.”
Raipur’s filth is unmatched. People believe in non-discrimination—they relieve themselves anywhere—no difference between street and latrine—Advaita! Vedantins! From my home to the college—about a mile and a half—I would be shocked: people squatting everywhere. And there he was blocking his drain—digging a pit—“Holi is coming!”
People have turned spring’s festival, the festival of joy, into mud-throwing. On Holi they hurl abuse—saved up all year—and vent it. They wanted to curse many, but could not; on Holi they do it openly. The festival of song fell into abuse; the festival of color into drains. Whatever comes to man’s hand he perverts. Even if he touches gold, it becomes dust. Holi is our most beautiful festival—of color, of ecstasy, of singing and dancing, of drums and ankle-bells. All that is lost. People now shout the foulest obscenities and smear each other with the foulest filth—and call it Holi.
Even if they use color, they do it with malice—the color only a pretext to torture you. They buy such dyes that no amount of washing can remove. In this land everything’s color is cheap—only Holi’s color is fast. Where it comes from, no one knows! No cloth has fast color, but for Holi they find the most indelible.
“I play Holi with my Beloved—and people abuse me.
Now I play, my mind supremely drunk—my shame is shed.”
He says: my modesty is gone; I have lost “what will people say.” Let them abuse—there is no restlessness. To whom could restlessness happen? The mind to whom it happened has drowned. The ego you could wound is no more.
“Now I play, my mind supremely drunk—my shame is shed.”
Monsoon dusk is showering colors!
Far off is seen that palace of color—turquoise eaves,
walls of gold, arched ruby doorways;
as it passes it peeks—this monsoon dusk!
Monsoon dusk is showering colors!
In sapphire sky, clouds of many colors,
sometimes the void is filled with rainbow hues;
that bow’s ribbon flutters—monsoon dusk!
Monsoon dusk is showering colors!
Here violet, there amaranth, there umber, there ash-grey,
with red and gold a hundred shades tint the evening sky;
in these colors my mind is drenched—monsoon dusk!
Monsoon dusk is showering colors!
My life-birds dive and dive into colors;
a hundred shades of dusk fill my limbs;
today sky and mind both flash—monsoon dusk!
Monsoon dusk is showering colors!
Once drowned, what worry remains? Who abuses, who throws stones, who insults—meaningless. The ego within, for whose sake all this had meaning, is gone.
To be a disciple, one must drop “what will people say.” Otherwise it binds you to the crowd. The mechanism of social shame is designed to keep you tied to the herd: “Do not leave the royal road—the crowd’s way. Walk where all walk, whether it reaches anywhere or not. If all fall in a ditch, you also fall—but remain with them. Do not become solitary. Do not take a footpath of your own.” But religion is a footpath—not a highway.
Each person, one day, must leave the crowd. Only when you leave the crowd do you first reveal the capacity to be with Paramatma. People have made the crowd into God, into religion. A Christian goes to church every Sunday—why? You think it has to do with Christ? No—it is to keep the Christian crowd pleased. If he does not go, they will object: “Why not? Are you an atheist? Have you forgotten Jesus?” Who wants such hassle? And these very people are needed for a thousand things—marriages for the children, commerce in the market, daily dependencies. Who will risk it? Better to spend an hour in church. So people go to temples, mosques—not for God or truth—but out of fear of the crowd. And the crowd does create trouble. The smaller the village, the more trouble—because everyone knows everyone.
In my view, until small villages disappear, there will not be true freedom. I am against small villages—because everyone spies on everyone: “Where are you going? Why? Where were you sitting?” The great city at least has this blessing: nobody knows who is doing what. In Bombay—your neighbors may not even know who you are. The rush is such that no one looks.
What great revolutions could not achieve, small things did. The railway, for instance—no revolutionary thing. But in a train you must eat over a twenty-four-hour journey. Who sits beside you—who knows? He may be Jagjivan Ram—you cannot ask, “Are you untouchable?” He would be offended. And you must eat. You buy something—who knows who is selling: Hindu or Muslim? Before the Partition there were even separate stalls: “Hindu water,” “Muslim water.” But now who can know? You have to drink. The compartment is crowded—everyone is touching everyone. Who knows who is untouchable? And if there is an untouchable, be sure he will touch most—why should he miss the chance! He will elbow from all sides.
The railway brought revolution. Great cities brought freedom. People do not know where you go. Sunday morning you leave home; they think you went to church; you enjoy a matinee. You return with a devout look—“Three hours in church!”
In small towns, “hookka-pani band”—boycott—could ruin a man. No one would invite him home; shopkeepers would refuse service; barbers would not cut his hair—life became impossible until he bowed and begged forgiveness. In cities, there are no virgin girls to feed first; and who is a Brahmin—no one knows. Yesterday Verma, today Sharma—who can check?
When I was a professor, people would ask why I had grown a beard—because people do not. In Banaras, on Nanak Jayanti, I spoke to the Sikh community. As I stepped down, a sardar asked, “Sardarji, why have you cut your hair?” That made sense! Everywhere they ask why I grew a beard; you ask why I cut my hair! Whatever you do, someone will question it. In a small place everything is questioned—you must live as others live.
Freedom’s flow came with the disappearance of the small village, the rise of the big city—even though the crowd is bigger there, freedom from the crowd becomes possible. Who has the time to pry into you?
In the name of religion, social coercion has always been strong. It still is—wherever it can be maintained. The easiest trick was to fill people with shame: “You are sinners, irreligious, hell-bound. Why did you not come to temple, mosque, church? Why have you stopped the Satyanarayan story? Why do you not appear at Hanuman’s shrine?”
Only one who can drop this shame can be a disciple: “I will live from within. I have lived outwardly long enough, by your rules long enough; now I will live by my own light—howsoever small. If I have no light, I will grope in the dark—but I will live by myself. Perhaps by groping, sight will begin. I will not follow others.” Otherwise people hold each other’s hands and walk—no one knows where the one in front is going.
Mulla Nasruddin went to the mosque to pray. His shirt was tucked into his pajama at the back. The man behind saw, found it crude, and freed it; Mulla felt a tug. He thought, “What is this?” But to ask would seem irreligious. So he tugged the shirt of the man in front. He thought, “Perhaps it is a rule here,” and tugged the next. The one ahead turned and said, “Why are you pulling my shirt?” He said, “Don’t ask me—ask the one behind. I don’t know. Mine was pulled, so I pulled yours.”
People live by imitation.
I experience this daily. When one person does something, the next imitates. A few days ago a gentleman came; he rubbed his head vigorously on my feet. I could see those behind watching carefully—they too would rub. They did. When four people do it, the fifth must, otherwise he looks bad.
Once in Bombay, at Mridula’s house, a friend sat with me. A minister and his secretary were to visit. I told my friend, “As soon as they enter, touch my feet and put a hundred-rupee note there.” He asked, “Why?” I said, “Watch—we will extract two hundred from them.” He did it. The minister immediately bowed and placed a hundred. The secretary had to follow. When they left, I returned my friend’s hundred. “The other two hundred were not really yours—they gave it only out of imitation.”
These are your leaders! Anyone can make fools of them. Watch yourself. Do you do what you do from awareness, or just by copying others?
Live awake. Your life is your own—live it with authenticity. Then, no matter how they condemn you—do not worry. Their condemnation will become flowers—do not be afraid.
“Satt sukrit saun hori khelun, santan ki balihaari.”
Gulal says: I must have accumulated great merit through many past lives—otherwise how would I not fear public shame? The natural mind trembles. It must be past grace, past virtue.
“Satt sukrit saun hori khelun…”
Only then could I join this great celebration—Bullashah’s festival—dive into this intoxication, scatter this color, cast this gulal. It is my good fortune—and the compassion of the saints.
“Keh Gulal, priya hori khelain—hum kulvanti nari.”
We play Holi—people think we have gone astray; ask us and we say: for the first time we are truly virtuous—truly of our lineage. We have found our own house, our birthright. When you join with the saints, you realize: for the first time you are alive, joined to your own kind. Until now, all were strangers with whom you played at being “your own”—and the play broke again and again. A hundred times you built—and it collapsed.
“Phagun samay sohaavan ho, nar khelahu avsar jaye.”
When you find the saints, when the Satguru is met—know: Phagun has arrived in your life. Now do not miss it. Play Holi.
“…nar khelahu avsar jaye.”
Play—because the opportunity is slipping from your hands, each day. Do not come to regret it in the end.
I have nothing left to offer you now!
Where is the milk of my childhood,
and where the drains of the world?
Who could have saved it
from being tainted by that mixing?
If I had had it
to wash your feet,
I would not be ashamed—
but now, what have I left to offer you?
In youth’s monsoon,
when whatever I wanted could pour,
my celestial wine
was sucked up by the cups of clay.
Had you come then,
I would have drunk you in, drenched,
sanctified in your nectar—
but fate has woven otherwise.
Now I have nothing left to offer you!
Now, in life’s dusk,
there is water in my eyes—
in which glints the night’s doubt,
the harsh tale of the day—
a lotus-bud on mire,
or a mirage music on desert—the one
that cannot return,
what is the sense of it now?
What have I left to offer you!
Mud and swamp—near you—
I would have come, ashamed;
but the mind’s lotus too
dries and withers before your face.
Dry or fresh, impure or pure—
none could touch you—
still, let me be consoled:
my voice goes with you,
leaving my songs at your door,
what else could human bring?
What have I left to offer you now!
Let it not happen that in the final moment the remembrance comes—and nothing remains to offer. While there is time—while Phagun is here—while energy and life remain—surrender now.
“Phagun samay sohaavan ho, nar khelahu avsar jaye.”
“This body is a sand-temple; man is deceived, wrapped in Maya’s flames.”
This body is only a house of sand—gone any moment. Do not waste your time because of it.
“As water in cupped hands diminishes—
it cannot be held.”
“Do a little evil—gang up and oppress—build even a city—what will come of it?”
“The mind is tyrant and strong—
what you sow you will reap.”
Sow thorns and you must reap thorns. Spread poison and poison will return. Hurl abuse and abuse will come back. The world returns what you give. Give song, and song returns.
“Keh Gulal, hum baandhal ho—khaat hain Ram-dohay.”
Gulal says: I am bound—I am His slave—bound in His love. Even when I eat, it is by invoking Ram. Nothing of my own remains. No doership is left. Ego is gone. As He keeps me, so it is. What He does, that I do.
The work you had me do, I have done;
whatever you had me say, I have said.
This was your drama;
you chose the players—
though many among them
carried their own stubborn tunes.
I offered myself to you,
make of me what you will—
The work you had me do, I have done;
whatever you had me say, I have said.
How could I say that the role
you wrote for me was wrong?
Nothing ever hides from you,
anywhere, any time.
When you said: in acting, he is great
who touches heaven through his part—
hope bound us all,
and all our pride fell away.
The work you had me do, I have done;
whatever you had me say, I have said.
Leave yourself to Paramatma as a hollow bamboo flute. Whatever song He plays—let it flow. Remove yourself, efface yourself. This is the meaning of discipleship—of surrender. Do not be entangled in clay games. Do not build houses of sand. Those who built them repented. They will fall. That they stood as long as they did—that is the miracle. A gust of wind—and they are gone.
—and with a chest armored like vajra,
the sharp truth,
today
I have accepted:
my dreams—
all shattered.
But this swift life—
this is not its end.
There is much to walk,
much to endure, to see.
Had these dreams been made of clay,
broken, melted back into earth,
I would have kept my heart at peace—
for in earth’s creative-resurrection
I have great trust:
it never sits idle even for a moment—
it will rise again.
Had these dreams been made of flowers,
fallen, withered,
I would have smiled at a poet’s naiveté,
kept my mind at peace:
in every flower there is seed,
in every seed the promise of flower—
what if it dried today,
it will sprout again,
blossom again.
Had these dreams been made of gold,
broken or deformed—
why regret?
Gold is so true to its element—
no blows of time can harm it;
I would throw it in fire,
purify it,
cast it anew.
But what shall I do—
my dreams were glass.
A celestial heat shaped them,
a magic adorned and colored them;
in the rays of imagination
they glittered and flashed—
not made to break.
But they broke—
and I must swallow this
razor-sharp harsh truth with my eyes—
nothing can be done.
I must tread over them—
feet slicing, bleeding—
with a vajra in my chest,
for the feet cannot be armored.
Human patience will go on—
stumbling, stumbling, stumbling.
—and with a chest armored like vajra,
the sharp truth,
today
I have accepted:
my dreams—
all shattered.
But this swift life—
this is not its end.
There is much to walk,
much to endure, to see.
Dreams will break. They are glass toys—once broken, forever broken. But you keep forging new dreams instead of awakening to truth. There are two kinds of people in the world: those who, before one dream has even broken, begin to manufacture another; and those who look straight into truth—harsh, sharp, bitter—that all dreams shatter, and stop making new ones—and begin the search for truth. The one who enquires into truth is religious.
“Who knows the Holi of Hari’s Name?”
Only he will know the joy of meeting Paramatma—playing colors with Him—dancing with Him. Who else can?
“Who knows the Holi of Hari’s Name?”
“Chaurasi mein ram rah pooran, tihur khel bano ri.”
You are immersed in the eighty-four—countless entanglements. For lives upon lives you have drowned in the trivial—layer upon layer of dreams. You are so enmeshed that your life has become a pointless game. No one else is responsible—you are.
“Ghoom ghoom ke phirat daso disi, kaaran nahi chhuto ri.”
You have wandered in all ten directions. What have you not done? What is left undone? What have you attained—what fruit? And you have not yet recognized the cause of all this frenzy. The cause is simple: instead of looking within, you look without—from one dream to another.
The saints say: there are eighty-four crore dreams—these “yonis,” births, are dreams. One dream breaks—another is woven.
You must have heard the story. A mouse was distressed—afraid of the cat. He began to worship—people worship out of fear. Your God is nothing but fear. The mouse’s God was also such. Hanuman was pleased—after all, the mouse is His vehicle. He asked, “What do you want?” “Make me a cat.” He became a cat—and dogs chased him. “Make me a dog.” He became a dog—then wolves and lions threatened. “Make me a lion.” He became a lion—hunters with guns pursued. In the end he said, “One last boon—make me a mouse again.” He returned to where he started—and the cat still tormented him. Again he wondered how to recite the Hanuman Chalisa!
Such are our rounds. To escape one thing we do another—and new troubles begin. The poor man wants to be rich; becomes rich—and new complications begin. Then he wants to renounce—this is all maya; better to go to a cave. But the cave has its own troubles: no electricity; lions roaring at night at the door. Then he remembers the comforts of home: soft bed, warm blankets. Tea in the morning—who will bring it now? Blow the stove yourself. I once tried to make tea—once in my life. The stove would not light—so much water flowed from my eyes that I thought: with this much effort I could have attained devotion! The stove did not light; I drank cold tea, modern style—mixed milk and water and sat at the door hoping someone would come to make tea.
Wherever you go, you will find its kind of trouble. So people change dream for dream.
You have changed many. Do not lose this Phagun too. How many such Phaguns have you lost!
“Ghoom ghoom ke phirat daso disi—kaaran nahi chhuto ri.”
“One thing did not arise: love of truth; and you never found satsang.”
And because that never arose, you never sat with those who had awakened—never sought their company. Even when an occasion came, you slipped away—afraid some word might enter your ear and cause a revolution in your life.
“Kehai Gulal, adham bho praanee—avre avari gaho ri.”
What all did you do—and the one thing to do you never did! You chased the upside-down. Gather wealth, status, ritual—yet never satsang. Why not? Because the longing for truth had not arisen, the understanding that dreams are futile had not dawned.
Satsang is possible only when a deep, consuming thirst—mumuksha—arises. When it becomes impossible to live without truth—even for a moment—then there is no difficulty.
It never happens that awakened ones are absent from the earth. They are always here. Paramatma never falls into despair; somewhere He keeps lamps burning—embers glowing—for those who wish to kindle their lamp. If the thirst is within you, the Satguru will surely appear—and not in a small way: “Satguru ghar par parli dhamari”—with great rejoicing. “Horia main khelongi!” But your preparation must be ready—to play Holi.
Satsang means: between guru and disciple, pichkaris of love are in play; colors of love are being thrown. All other bargains are broken—for love is no bargain, no business, no condition. Each gives himself unconditionally. The disciple gives himself wholly to the guru—and the guru sits ready to lavish himself wholly.
“Kehai Gulal, adham bho praanee—avre avari gaho ri.”
You did all sorts of things—but missed the one thing worth doing. Therefore Phagun was missed; Holi never arrived in your life; you remained a stone. Had satsang happened, the stone would have become alive. Pearls would have rained—pearls pouring from all ten directions.
Enough for today.