Jharat Dashahun Dis Moti #3

Pearls are showering in all ten directions!
Only the eyes are lacking; the pearls are indeed showering. The ears are deaf, yet his veena is playing—eternal, never pausing for a single instant. This whole life is colored by his notes, drenched in his bliss, intoxicated by his celebration. And man is the one who has fallen outside this celebration. There is a reason too! For man alone can consciously rejoice in this celebration. Trees are included; plants, animals, birds; rivers, mountains, stars—they all are included in the celebration, but their inclusion is not of their own choice. Even if they wished, they could not step out of it. The celebration is compulsory for them. Human consciousness is free. There is the capacity to choose. If you wish, see: pearls showering in all ten directions. If you wish, do not see. But whether you wish or not, whether you see or not, the pearls go on showering.
If you see, you will fill your bag; if you do not see, you will remain bare and empty. If you see, you will be filled with gratitude. The feeling of gratitude is religion. If you see, you will drown in grace. Grace is prayer, worship, adoration. If you do not see, then there are complaints and grievances; doubt—thousands upon thousands of doubts. If you do not see, you will be pricked amidst thorns upon thorns. The blind find only thorns. And the deeper the eyes become, slowly even thorns turn into flowers. Without eyes, even flowers turn into thorns. It is all the play of your vision.
And you are not a plant, not an animal, not a bird; therefore you are not inevitably a limb of this celebration. There is an invitation—accept it if you like, refuse it if you like. If you can accept, a call begins to arise from the innermost core of your being. Then there is no need to go to temple or mosque, to church or gurdwara. Wherever you sit and that call arises—there is the temple, there the mosque, there the church, there the gurdwara.
Descend as the full moon!
Upon the tender tablet of feelings—
Pour the eternal colors!!
Descend as the full moon!!!
The lake of the body, scorched by the sun’s blaze,
Cascades of fire falling as streams;
Rest the lips of contentment upon your lips—
Quench the age’s thirst!
Descend as the full moon!!
Let free-breathing dissolve lifeless rule and yama;
Let the bewilderment of scent-forsaken breaths be calmed;
Let the toilsome sequence of thorns prove futile—
Fulfill the seeker, make him siddha!
Descend as the full moon!!
Let the hundred-petaled lotuses of sadhana open,
Let the rosy leaves of fragrance bud forth;
Life, star-bright, vow-radiant—
Move luminous!
Descend as the full moon!!
As soon as you begin to see, a call arises: descend day and night—descend as the full moon! And Paramatma descends—he is descending. Only the call is lacking; hence you cannot be joined.
Make these sutras of Gulal your very heart—
“Ko-u nahi kail more man kai bujhariya.”
No one could quench my mind. No one could extinguish the burning ember of my mind. No one could give the resolution of my mind. Nor can anyone give it. Yet we all live in the hope that someone will give. You will have to search. Resolution is found—certainly found—but through search, not on loan. Neither the Gita can give, nor the Koran; neither Buddha can give nor Mahavira; neither can I give, nor can anyone else. If only another could give, the matter would be so simple! There is no teaching in Dharma. Science can be taught, not Dharma. Because science can be handed to you by another—science is borrowed, stale. Dharma is forever fresh.
Once Albert Einstein discovered the theory of relativity, now no one needs to rediscover it—only a madman would try! Einstein discovered it, it became everyone’s. Now just understand a little, study a little—anyone who knows can explain, and the theory becomes yours. But what Buddha discovered does not become everyone’s in that way. Mahavira discovered—yet it does not become everyone’s. Jesus discovered, Mohammed discovered—still it does not become everyone’s. Kabir, Nanak, Gulal—countless luminous ones discovered it, found it; they were filled with the unstruck sound, Anahat. But there is a great helplessness: they can only call to you, invite you, challenge you—but the resolution of your own consciousness, you yourself will have to seek. This is the specialty of Dharma—its dignity and its glory—that it never becomes stale. Again and again it has to be discovered; it must be received fresh.
“Ko-u nahi kail more man kai bujhariya.”
Yet whenever someone sets out to search, he goes with the hope that someone will solve his mind’s problems, someone will remove his confusions, clear his obstructions; someone will wipe away his dilemmas, his doubts; someone will polish the mirror of his mind, someone will cut the veils from his eyes. It is natural—because in all other matters the advice of others suffices. If you fall ill, you go to the physician. He is an expert; he diagnoses your illness, prescribes the medicine; the matter is finished. You need not worry about the disease, the diagnosis, the remedy. In the outer world there are experts. A machine breaks—there are experts. Even if the expert does just a little!
I have heard: a very large automatic factory, newly installed, ran one day and the next day stopped. The owners tried hard, but no solution arose. The machines were new, ultra-modern, just recently invented. So they wired the manufacturer from whom the entire system had come. They said, “We can send an expert.” The expert came, cast one glance, and said, “My fee is ten thousand dollars.” The fee sounded a little high—ten thousand dollars means around a lakh of rupees! But the factory was shut; the daily loss was in lakhs. The owner agreed: “All right, fix it, take the ten thousand.” He did nothing much. He took a screwdriver and somewhere a screw was loose—he tightened it. The factory began to run. The owner was watching and said, “This is too much—ten thousand dollars for tightening a small screw!” The expert replied, “I am not charging for tightening a screw; I am charging for knowing where the screw was loose, for knowing where to tighten. Anyone could tighten a screw. But with anyone’s tightening, this mechanism would not have run. I’ve spent my life understanding this system—that is what I charge for. I also know that tightening a small screw is a two-penny job; to demand ten thousand for that would not seem right. But where to tighten, how much to tighten—that I know!”
In the outer world there are experts. But in the inner world there are no experts. In the inner world, no expert is of use.
Gulal says:
No one…
I went to many places, knocked on many doors…
“Ko-u nahi kail more man kai bujhariya.”
But no one could tell such a thing, no one could give such a counsel or suggestion that would end my mind’s dilemmas, my mind’s problems. That I would attain resolution. That I would be at peace. That my restlessness would be cut. That I would be free of the net of mind.
No one can do this.
In the realm of Dharma there are no experts—there are enlightened ones. Sitting near them you can understand the hints. But understanding the hints you must do. Sitting near them, you can be colored in their color. But the coloring you must accept. Sitting near them, you can learn to walk. But walking you must do. Sitting near them, you can learn the art of lighting the lamp within. But the learning must be yours. Everything has to be done by you. The Sadguru is only a presence—whose presence awakens the sleeping elements within you. As when morning comes, flowers bloom. No sun goes and opens each flower one by one! Morning arrives and birds begin to sing. No sun goes to tickle each bird’s throat! Morning comes and those who slept all night begin to awaken. The sun does not go door to door knocking: “Get up, brother, morning has come—how long will you sleep?” No, in the presence of the sun something happens. But it happens only to those who are ready for it. Otherwise the sun may rise and yet many people go on sleeping. The truth is, some people only fall asleep when the sun rises—then they pull the blanket over and sleep more.
Winston Churchill said that once in his life he rose early in the morning. He had often heard, read, that the morning hour is very beautiful. He got up once—he usually rose at ten—and the misery he suffered, he never made that mistake again. He rose, but from the morning itself sleep began to stalk him—lifetime habits! He could not engage with anything; only nodding off. He reached the tea table early. He waited half an hour for tea. By then he was so irritated that the pleasure of tea was spoiled. To go to the office—war days, petrol was scarce, he had to go by bus—he went and stood at the bus stand half an hour too early; there was no one there. No bus, no queue—even the ticket-seller had not arrived. He grumbled for half an hour. He reached the office before the peon. He stood at the door when the peon came. He had to sit and inhale the dust and dirt as the office was cleaned. He was harassed all day, and all day he cursed all those who talk about rising in Brahmamuhurta. He said, “I have never known such misery.” He never made that mistake again.
There are people who, the moment the sun rises, feel sleepy. They can remain awake all night, but when the sun rises, to stay awake becomes difficult. Such people also reach satsang—and having been awake elsewhere, in satsang they sleep. Some even take satsang to mean: leave all worries and fall asleep! After all, what is there to do? At home there are worries—wife is eating one’s head, children create uproar; in office there are problems. In satsang—no trouble, no tangle—sit, and sleep descends!
There was a fakir, Bhikhan. He was speaking in a village—some village of Rajasthan; Bhikhan lived in Rajasthan. In the assembly, the town’s wealthiest man—Aso ji—was seated right in front. He kept nodding off. Bhikhan could not contain himself. He was not some petty priest to be afraid of wealth and status. His repeated dozing went beyond Bhikhan’s tolerance. Bhikhan said, “Aso ji, are you sleeping?” Aso ji opened his eyes and said, “No, no—not sleeping. I close my eyes and listen with deep attention.” Clever people always find a device. Bhikhan saw clearly that he was lying—because in meditation the head does not wobble like that. Such gusts of sleep came that he seemed about to topple. That does not happen in meditation. From his face it was evident—no meditation at all. A little later Aso ji nodded again. Bhikhan called out again, “Aso ji, are you sleeping?” Aso ji said, “No, no—what have you taken upon yourself! You do your work—speak—I am listening attentively! Do you want to defame me in the village? Once was fine, but again you ask the same—must you speak, that you are after me?”
A little later Aso ji again fell asleep. A third time Bhikhan called, “Aso ji, are you alive?” And Aso ji said, “No, no…”—he assumed it was the same old “Are you sleeping?” Bhikhan said, “Now you cannot deceive. You are certainly asleep—because this time I asked a different question, and you are giving the same answer! Yet in one sense your answer is right: one who sleeps is a corpse—where is he alive?”
If one sleeps in satsang, then even while sitting near the Sadguru one is not really sitting. If one remains closed in satsang, the sun may stand at the door and yet sleep continues. But remember—do not remain in the hope that someone else will solve your problems. Gulal’s word is important—very important. Keep it carefully adorned in your heart. Because this hope remains, hidden within, that someone else… Our whole pattern of thinking is like this. We want to shift everything onto the other. If there is a mistake, we shift it onto someone. There must be someone responsible for the error. We do not take responsibility upon ourselves. If there is entanglement in our life, it is because of other people. And when entanglement is caused by others, then others must solve it. Even if we tried, how would we solve it? We have learned how to shift—off our shoulders onto another’s. We all keep shifting. And this is the fundamental mistake.
No one is responsible except you. And the person I call religious is the one who totally takes the whole responsibility of his life upon himself. It is difficult. Difficult because shifting it onto another brings relief: it is not our fault—what can we do? Everywhere there are troublesome people— they keep entangling life. The husband shifts it onto the wife: because of her everything is messy. These very husbands have written the scriptures; they say, “Woman is the gate of hell.” You have to go to hell; you create your hell—and you call the woman the gate. If she is the gate, then do not pass through that gate—do not go by that path; who is compelling you?
“The world is the root of sorrow”—this is what the parrot-like pundits have been telling you. The world is not the root of sorrow. This is shifting. The root of sorrow is the ignorance hidden within you. The root of sorrow is the sleeping consciousness within you—not the world. And once you make the wrong decision that the world is the root of sorrow, then further wrong decisions will sprout from it. Then the meaning becomes: leave the world. Then your sannyas will become the renunciation of the world. From the first mistake, a second mistake is born. First, that the world is the root of sorrow—you accepted it; now in search of happiness you go by leaving the world. Neither was the world the root of sorrow, nor will happiness be attained by abandoning the world. The root of sorrow is your unconsciousness, your stupor. The root of happiness is there too. Awaken within, and there is happiness. Awaken within, and there is heaven. Remain asleep within, and there is hell.
Someone asked Mahavira, “How do you define a muni and a non-muni?” Mahavira did not give the kind of definition found in Jain scriptures or used by Jain monks. How could Mahavira define like that! Mahavira speaks from those lofty peaks where only truth can be spoken. He gave an explanation—perhaps none simpler, more direct, more clear, more precise—Mahavira said: “Asutta muniḥ”—one who is not asleep is a muni; “sutta amuniḥ”—and one who is asleep is a non-muni. The sleeping one is the unholy; the awakened one is the holy.
This is a statement to be weighed among diamonds.

He did not say, “One who stands naked is a muni,” nor “One who fasts is a muni,” nor “One who renounces the world is a muni.” In two small words he condensed the essence of all the scriptures. Those two words became the Gangotri: asutta muniḥ. From there a Ganga can flow; your whole life can become the Ganga.

A first step taken in delusion, and the whole journey goes wrong. Among the fundamental mistakes we make is this: we keep shifting the responsibility onto others. Some blame fate, some the world, some the Creator, some destiny; “What to do, this is how the world is. Everyone suffers here; so do I.” This is how we console ourselves. The world has nothing to do with it. Here, on this very earth, Buddha lived in supreme bliss! Here Kabir lived dissolved in the Divine! And here you are—the same earth, the same body of clay, the same kind of people around you as around Kabir, Gulal, Bulleh Shah... The world has not changed; it is as it was. But people are clever; they say, “There was a Satya Yuga earlier.” When was this Satya Yuga? It is always “earlier.” Whenever you ask, it was earlier.

A six-thousand-year-old brick was found in Babylon with a little inscription: “Earlier was the Golden Age; now the world is utterly corrupt... the son does not listen to the father, the wife won’t obey the husband, morality has decayed, man has fallen greatly; we are passing through a dire crisis!” It reads like this morning’s editorial—six thousand years ago!

In China an even older relic was found—seven or eight thousand years old—writing on human skin. It’s unique. Preserved somehow with unknown chemicals, because human skin decays immediately. That too says, “Earlier was the Golden Age. Blessed were those ancient days when there was heaven on earth!” But when were those days? Do you think they were in Rama’s time? Then when was Ravana? When was Sita abducted? When did her own husband banish his pregnant wife to the forest? Do you think Krishna’s time was the Golden Age? Then when did the Mahabharata war happen? When was the Golden Age? It never existed; it’s only man’s imagination—an alibi to blame present conditions, imagining a beautiful past. Failing that, he imagines the future.

Satya Yuga is placed in the past, and the Golden Age in the future—what about now? “For now, we are helpless. Everything is hard now.” And whenever you live, this is how it will be: Satya Yuga in the past, Golden Age in the future—and you have to live now! You must find a path now. The path doesn’t appear because you keep pushing responsibility onto others. Satya Yuga happens inside the awakened one. Kali Yuga happens inside the asleep one. Satya Yuga and Kali Yuga are not outer, not matters of history—they are tales of your innermost being.

Gulal says it rightly:
No one has lit my mind’s lamp.
Door to door I went, knocking everywhere, stretched my begging bowl in countless places: “Someone quench my mind, untangle my knot, dispel my darkness, light my lamp; how to see the Lord, how to be free of bondage, when will pearls rain, when will that blessed hour arrive for me?” But no—no one could do anything.

From house to house, moment to moment, trembling and tottering, my body is a live ember.
My mind keeps blazing like a burning coal, and no one can quench this fire.

From house to house, moment to moment, trembling and tottering, my body is a live ember.
I see only fire within, burning every moment; I am like smoke rising, being consumed in my own fire. I folded my hands before many: “Let it rain, quench this fire, I don’t want to die burning!” But no one could do this. No one can. You will have to do it yourself.

Religion makes you a person. To be a person means: take the reins into your own hands. Buddha said: Appa Deepo Bhava—be a light unto yourself. Keep no expectations from others. Expectation is delusion; it will bring sorrow; today’s hope becomes tomorrow’s despair. And by then time may have slipped away. There are deceivers and the dishonest—under the name of religion more deception runs than under any other name, because religion is so mysterious that there’s much room for fraud. God is invisible; so anyone can claim to be His prophet.

In Baghdad, a man was caught after announcing, “I am God’s prophet sent after Muhammad, because Muhammad’s book is very old now. A revised edition of the Quran is needed.” Muslims could not tolerate this. They are rigidly doctrinaire: “There is one Allah, and one prophet—Muhammad. None else.” Improvement in the Quran!

He was dragged to the Caliph’s court. The Caliph, enraged, said, “Tie him to a pillar in the prison. Beat him. Keep him hungry and thirsty for seven days. I’ll come after seven days. If he comes to his senses—good!”

Seven days later the Caliph came. The man was reduced to skin and bone. No food, no water; the beating continued; no sleep; chained to a pillar. The Caliph asked, “Well, what do you think now? Some sense?” He said, “Certainly! When I was leaving God’s court, He told me, ‘My prophets suffer greatly.’ You have proved I truly am His prophet. Sometimes I had doubts; even those are gone. His prophets always suffer like this.” The Caliph was startled; he had not expected this result. He was even more startled because from another pillar a man shouted, “This fellow is an absolute liar!” The Caliph asked, “How do you know?” He said, “How wouldn’t I know? I am the one who sent Muhammad! And I never sent this man! A few days ago they caught me. I had announced that I myself am the Creator of the universe; I made this creation; I sent the tirthankaras and prophets and avatars. And this man is lying through and through. I never sent this rascal! I don’t even recognize his face. I’m not even sure I personally made him; the servants must have. His face doesn’t look familiar!”

Under religion’s name you can announce anything. There’s no way to conclusively refute such announcements. If you claim, “I made the world,” no one can prove you didn’t. How? Neither can you prove you did; nor can they prove you didn’t. Under the name of religion, imaginations can flourish. The only valid proof is this: only that person truly has religion in his life in whose presence, sitting and moving with him, you start finding the clues by which you can quench your inner fire.

A true master does not give consolation; he gives hints—pointers by which you can discover the truth hidden within. A true master does not give you truth—truth cannot be given; there is no transfer of truth. It is not an object to be handed over or stolen or seized. Truth is a knowing. Sitting near an enflamed presence, it dawns on you, “Ah, I too can be like this!” Beside a kindled one, a surge rises within you: “This is not impossible; it is possible. If such a flame can burn in bone, flesh and marrow, then I too, made of bone, flesh and marrow, can kindle this flame!” This trust arises near a true master. That trust is enough. Then the real search begins. This is shraddha. Note well: shraddha does not mean faith in God—how can you have faith in one you have not known, seen, recognized, of whom you have no address? If you take faith in such a God, it is the falsehood of falsehoods. Will such falsehood lead you to truth? Shraddha is not faith in the Gita, Quran, or Vedas. Who knows if the Vedas are merely the words of very skillful people who themselves never knew? There are thousands of beautiful books, but not born of knowers—born of those skilled at writing and thinking, masters of words. How will you be certain the Vedas flowed from the known? There can be no proof that the Quran arose from those who knew. You’d have to believe—and that very believing is the beginning of dishonesty. A seeker of truth does not enter such beliefs.

Then what is shraddha?
Shraddha means: near a true master you gain faith in yourself. The true master is one who gives you faith in yourself; whose very presence strikes a chord in you; unknown melodies awaken; some seed breaks open and begins to sprout. Coming to trust yourself—that is religion. “I too can know God, I too can know truth, I too can attain liberation. If Buddha, Kabir, Gulal attained—what fault is mine? If those like me attained, I too can.”

Buddha too wandered in darkness once; then found the light. Today you wander in darkness; tomorrow you can find light. Those who wandered in darkness—it is they who attained the light. The blind have found eyes; the deaf have heard the nectar-sound. We too are deaf, we too are blind; there is no cause for fear, anxiety, or despair—for one who gains this trust. A true master can give just this much trust.

Sur, man, muni—all are roaring, each in their turn.
So much babble everywhere; everyone is speaking—sadhus, saints, mahatmas—sur, man, muni—roaring. And you have the habit of believing that the louder one speaks, pounding the table, must be telling the truth. Here, those who shout are assumed truthful. If someone speaks softly, you think, “He’s scared himself; what truth will he speak!” And in whispers people misunderstand altogether.

Mulla Nasruddin caught a cold and cough; his voice wouldn’t come out. He knocked on the doctor’s door. The doctor’s wife opened. Mulla whispered, “Is the doctor home?” She said, “He’s out. Quick—come inside!” Whispering is risky; who knows what people will understand! “You came at the right time! Come like this more often!”

A law professor was giving his final advice to the graduates about to begin practice: “My last message to you. If the law is on your side, quote the law books—enough. If the law is not on your side, speak as loudly as you can—forget the books. And if the law is totally against you, then mere speaking won’t do—bang the table! Jump around; create a ruckus! If the law favors you, speak gently, it’ll do. But if it’s against you, don’t speak softly; then everything depends on your racket. Then the magistrate will be impressed by your commotion.”

Some lawyers’ job is to create commotion. They roar like lions. Whenever a lawyer roars like a lion, know the law is not on his side. If it were, no need to roar; no need for such labor. But if it’s not, he must compensate for the lack.

Gulal chooses his words beautifully: “Sur, man, muni—roaring!” But, he says, “I returned empty-handed from everywhere. These shouters, noise-makers, doctrinaires, debaters of syllogisms, spinners of arguments and counterarguments—nothing came of them. My ember did not go out; my inner lamp did not ignite; no rain of pearls fell within; the same pebbles and stones remained; their knowledge served me not.”

A true master is one on whose side existence stands. He does not speak from scripture; he speaks from experience. Though all scriptures do stand with his experience—they must, for truth is one. When the true master is found, revolution begins in your life.

A night of silver,
a face of gold;
the season has come
to be drenched and to drench!
to be drenched and to drench!

Flakes of soaring notes,
songs become shepherds,
roaming through alleys—
squares resound;
a beat falls on the heart,
strings of sorrowed anklets ring;
the season has come
to lose one’s “own-ness”!
to be drenched and to drench!!

Past and future join,
intoxicating moments return;
ecstasy breaks
the treaties of restraint;
sipping the wine of blossoms,
carrying a carefree sway;
the season has come
to wash off shame and shyness!
to be drenched and to drench!!

Bud-bodies split,
fragrance-sparks scatter,
the Malaya breeze keeps
flicking the perfumed veil;
sleeping forests awake,
rays wash their faces;
the season has come
to string garlands!
to be drenched and to drench!!

Find a true master and understand—
the season has come
to be drenched and to drench!
Do not return undrenched, unsoaked. Be soaked through and through.

A beat has fallen on the heart,
strings of sorrowed anklets ring;
the season has come
to lose one’s “own-ness”!
to be drenched and to drench!!

If somewhere a true master is found, dive in! Dare to lose yourself! Put the ego aside—that’s the only obstacle. One who can set the ego aside becomes a disciple. One who can drop it totally is joined to the master. Ego is the wall in between. And whenever a beat strikes your depths—when, in someone’s presence, a tune begins to hum in you—not that your logic is satisfied (logic belongs to the intellect; of little worth), nor that your arithmetic fits (figuring is child’s play; no depth)—but if a beat falls within, a resonance rises in your depths, a dance begins—then do not miss! Understand—

the season has come
to lose one’s “own-ness”!
to be drenched and to drench!!

The mind will fear. The ego will hesitate. It will invent a thousand cautions: “Beware!”

I see it daily—new people arrive—especially Indians—and I’m amazed! They come to listen; I join my hands in greeting; they cannot even return the greeting. Hundreds here fold their hands, yet they sit stiff like stone—as if by folding their hands they might lose something. I don’t expect them to greet first; I greet first. Yet even to reply is done with miserliness. What will they understand? What will they hear! Bowing is far away; soaking is far away; they stand guarded lest a drizzle might fall on them. They stay at the outer edge so they can run if danger threatens—ready to flee.

Never was this country so pitiable.

From the West people come, with no tradition of folded hands, no habit of bowing their heads; yet they fold their hands, they bow. And Indians—what conceit, what pride, what stiffness! Perhaps they can recite four couplets from the Ramayana—so the swagger! Perhaps they are Brahmins—so the swagger! Now even the lowliest strut—Shudras are now “Harijan”—so why fold hands! They see this morning Satsang, this dawn, these silent ones... Many do not even understand the language I speak, yet they sit in silence, they drink. If not the language, the feeling. The essence is feeling, not words. The real question is to be with the true master. Indians come—I am astonished! One gets up, another gets up—as if they came only to leave! Why come at all, why suffer needlessly!

There is a delusion in the Indian mind. Scripture, heard words, the priest’s lines have sat inside for centuries whispering, “We already know; what is there to hear?” You missed Buddha, you missed Mahavira, you missed Kabir—you will keep missing. When they are gone, you become owners of their words, memorize them. While they are present, you stand stiff. That is why in this land so many glorious beings happened, yet the land did not become glorious; it remained poor and miserable in every way.

Gulal says it right:
Sur, man, muni—roaring, each in turn.
All make you dance; none helps you attain...
Caught in the circuits of priests and parroted pundits, they’ll make you dance much—yet you’ll gain nothing. They haven’t gained themselves. Why do you get pleased with them? Because they know the craft. The craft is simple: they tell you what you want to hear. They prop your beliefs. They don’t snatch your ego; they strengthen it. “You are great. You are Hindu, Muslim, Christian; you are specially blessed; from countless merits you were born in this holy land.” Your ego swells.

What holy land! Which merits! No fragrance of merit anywhere. Yet you puff up, pleased. They give you the consolations you seek—not truth. Truth wounds, shakes; it is a gale, a storm, it will blow up your dust, drop your dry leaves. If you are too stiff, great trees fall in their arrogance; when storm comes, grass survives—because grass knows the art of bending. It does not fight the storm; it moves with it; it uses it. When the storm has passed, the grass stands again—fresher than before. The big tree stands rigid—and falls; it cannot rise again.

Truth is a storm, not a balm; it is surgery. If you seek consolation, you will surely fall into some trap. They will say what you want to hear. You want someone to assure you that even after death you won’t die. Priests declare: “The soul is immortal.” I am not saying the soul is not immortal; I am saying: immortality has to be known. The priest’s saying does not make the soul immortal. But you hear and rejoice: “Fine; if only the body goes, let it. I shall remain!” This “I,” this ego stays saved; you are pleased, you agree to dance their dances. “Offer here, light lamps, do arati”—you agree, because they first did your arati. “You are immortal; you have little to do—just rituals; your sins will be washed; His grace is boundless; He will cut all sins.” Then they make you dance: “Recite Hanuman Chalisa; repeat the Gita; memorize it.”

They make all dance; none attains—dying with their mouths busy babbling.
Thus, mouth to mouth, babbling on, they die themselves and drown you too.

But this time, listen, O foolish men—do not be born again!
Gulal pleads: this time, wake up! So you need not be born again; need not again tangle in this net, this darkness.

Says Gulal: blessed be the true master; he ferries across the unfathomable ocean of becoming.
This ocean is impassable—but with a true master, the impossible becomes possible. If someone has crossed, and his presence becomes proof for you that “the other shore” exists, a new ray begins in your life. You are no longer what you were; you begin to be what you can be.

The fire of life
flares to the horizon!
Wind-stirred delight,
liquid joy brims.
Fairs of fragrance—
everywhere, all around.
The flower is wed to its honey!
The honey-master scents the air!
The horizons flare!

Bud-candles flicker,
bees’ sweet insistence,
on the lips of the season
ghazals of revelry—
Jai Jaivanti, Vihag!
Raga-filled throats sing!
The horizons flare!

The day the true master is found, spring arrives.
The fire of life
flares to the horizon!
Delight spreads on every side.

Wind-stirred delight,
liquid joy brims.
Fairs of fragrance—
everywhere, all around.
The flower is wed to its honey!
When the master is met, it happens as though
the flower is wed to its honey!
The honey-master scents the air!
The horizons flare!

You are yet a bud; you can become a flower. You are yet a seed; you can become a tree. A seed, seeing a tree, gains trust in its own possibility. Otherwise man assumes himself to be only what he is—he cannot even imagine being more.

Bud-candles flicker,
bees’ sweet insistence,
on the lips of the season
ghazals of revelry—
Jai Jaivanti, Vihag!
Raga-filled throats sing!
The horizons flare!

Who is a true master? How will you recognize him? The old yet ever-new question: in this crowd of gurus and guru-doms, how to recognize the true one?

A few pointers can help.

First: the false master fulfills your expectations. The true one turns your expectations to dust. The false master supports your beliefs. The true one dismantles them—because your mind lives on beliefs; if beliefs collapse, the mind collapses; and when the mind collapses, consciousness awakens. The false guru is traditional, antiquarian, a line-tracer; he sings your past, because your ego lives in the past—the greater your past, the greater your ego. The true master shreds your past: “There is no past; what is gone is gone. What has not come has not come.”

He will root you in the present. The devices for this are called prayer and meditation. Prayer is not folding hands and talking to God; it is to bow in love—to this existence—be moistened, be tender. Meditation is not muttering “Ram Ram”; it is becoming empty, becoming nothing. The final meaning of love and meditation is one: to vanish, to be zero.

A true master teaches the art of vanishing; of becoming empty. The false master fills you with information; the true one takes your information away and fills you with wonder—by removing the known. The false master carries the smell of books—like a pressed, dried flower in a book: no fragrance, no life—only an appearance of a flower. The true master is a blooming flower—roots in the earth, leaves dancing. He is a living happening. He stands without supports. If the Vedas, Quran, Bible vanish, nothing of the true master is lost. But the false master’s life is in them—he is a parrot. Parrots have more sense than pundits.

I’ve heard: a pundit went to buy a parrot famed for chanting the Gayatri and the Navkar mantra. Its pronunciation was perfect. He asked the shopkeeper, “Will it chant by signal?” The shopkeeper said, “See the thin black thread on its left leg? Tug it slightly—it will chant the Gayatri. On the right leg is a similar thread—tug it, it will chant the Navkar.” The pundit asked, “What if I pull both together?” The parrot said, “You fool! If you pull both, I’ll fall down!”

Even parrots have a little more sense. The pundit-parrot has no aura of truth around him. If you look with open eyes, it is not hard to distinguish the false from the true. Sitting with a true master, something starts happening in your heart; your eyes may moisten; you may become helpless...

Yesterday, Meera sitting here began to weep. She tried hard to stop; I was watching—she tried every way, but couldn’t. She is sensible; she worried, “What will people say?” She knew she was interrupting my speaking. Later she wrote: “Forgive me, I became helpless. The more I tried to stop, the harder it got!” With a true master the strings of your heart dance on their own. You don’t return with knowledge; you return with a fragrance.

But this time, listen, O foolish men—do not be born again!
Says Gulal: blessed be the true master; he ferries across the unfathomable ocean of becoming.
God dwells in the body—where else to go?

Where are you going to seek?
God dwells in the body—where else to go?
Sitting at home, I met Raghuvir.

Lao Tzu said: To realize truth, you need not even leave your room. By “room” he means the body. There is nowhere to go—truth abides within. Search there!

God dwells in the body—where else to go?
Turn within a little. We rush outside every hour. We believe the faster we run, the sooner we arrive. It never occurs that no one has ever arrived outside. Many ran; all fell—into the grave. Where did Alexander arrive? Napoleon? Where will you? Our mind says, “If we aren’t arriving, we are too slow. Run faster! This is a competitive world—jostle hard, step on shoulders, make stairs of heads—but climb! Reach Delhi!” And what will you do there? There is Rajghat—many lie there.

Running outside brings nothing but death. But because everyone is running, you too run. The crowd has a contagion. If a crowd runs, you run, without first asking, “Where? Why?” In a mob of a few hundred burning a mosque or temple, you join in. “Hinduism is in danger!” “Islam is in danger!” If they are, let them be! Would the absence of Islam deprive you? Of Hinduism? What good has their presence done? Yet the shout goes up, and you go. Alone the idea wouldn’t even occur. Psychologists say: a crowd has its own mind. Ask a Muslim who burned a temple, “Could you have done this alone?” “No.” Ask a Hindu who burned a mosque, “Alone?” “No.” But the crowd was doing it.

We have become joiners. Wherever the crowd goes, we go. And the whole crowd goes outward—Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jain, Buddhist—all outward. A child learns by imitation. He does what the father does. All are “going somewhere” outside. No one tells where. “You’ll know when you grow up.” And by then he is such a fool he does not even ask where he is going. He tells his children the same: “Don’t worry; when you grow, you’ll know.”

No one knows where we’re going; why we hoard wealth, status, prestige. What will we get? Even if the whole world knows your name—what then? What will you gain? And what you seek lives within the seeker. Come—let’s contemplate that! Let’s seek That!

Come, let us again contemplate
moon-faced evenings,
and sun-faced mornings!
The private dealings
cannot be told,
yet without telling
they cannot remain untold;
Come, let us reweave
verses of hints,
and walk the seven steps again!
and sun-faced mornings!!

Let our roving glances
be bound end to end,
let mountain-like ambitions
be fulfilled without striving,
Come, let us melt
the stones of separation,
and the unknown dark!
and walk the seven steps again!!

In intertwined breaths
let the primal scent return,
in Dushyanti raptures
let Shakuntala’s meters fill,
Come, let us awaken
the sleeping brilliances of sound,
and thicken the forest of song!
and walk the seven steps again!!

Come, let us again contemplate
moon-faced evenings,
and sun-faced mornings!
The moon is within, the sun is within. All the sky is within you. The immensity within is “Ram.”

God dwells in the body—where else to go?
Brother, where are you headed? says Gulal. The farther you go from yourself, the farther you go from Ram. Come within, return!
Sitting at home, I met Raghuvir.
I tell you: sitting right at home, the Supreme is met. No journeys, not even an inch.

Yogis and renunciates don countless disguises...
One smeared in ash, one with tilaks and marks, one standing on the head, one twisting the body—what has this to do with Ram? Why harass Him? When you stand on your head, what must pass upon Ram within! When you fast, whom are you starving? Ram. When you sleep on thorns, whom do you make to lie? Why these needless torments? Yet the world worships such show; the ego is gratified.

Yogis and renunciates don countless disguises...
The costumes and antics of yogis would amaze you—folly upon folly. Though each folly began from some deep truth. Like the ear-split Kanphata yogis of Gorakh. Gorakh said: “Tear the inner eardrums so you can hear me!” He meant: don’t be stone-deaf to the inner; listen! They tore the outer ears instead.

In Delhi I stayed with a devotee who said, “I’ve invited a great saint to meet you—remarkable!” “What is his special quality?” “He’s staunch in his loincloth!” Indeed, it was tied so tight—what must Ram inside be enduring! Brahmacharya reduced to a tight loincloth.

All kinds of absurdities. And some amazing stunts. In my village a yogi extorted money by terrifying people. He wore only a loincloth, carried a chain and a big stone tied to it. He stood before a house: “Give five, ten rupees!” If not, he created a scene, undid his loincloth, tied the chain to his genitals, and lifted the stone. A crowd gathered; women and children—people begged, “Here, take five rupees—do this elsewhere!” “This is nothing,” he’d say, “I can pull a moving car!”

If you wish to see yogi spectacles, go to the Kumbh. They all collect there. Your mind will be much entertained.

Yogis and renunciates don countless disguises,
yet do not counsel their own minds.
They do every disturbance—one thing they do not: resolve their own mind, go beyond it.

They worship stones; they meditate on water...
They paint stones—the Sun-salutation happens to the sun—and begin worship. Any stone, paint it saffron—Hanuman appears; worship begins!

A Sufi master gifted his donkey to a disciple before leaving for the Kaaba. The disciple thought, “This is the master’s donkey—not ordinary!” He served it; it died—too much service. He built a tomb for it, sat there weeping. Villagers saw, thought it must be a saint’s tomb; they offered flowers and coins. Collections grew; he built a shrine; forgot the donkey. People made vows; by the arithmetic of chance, half are fulfilled—those fulfilled return with gifts; those not fulfilled seek another donkey’s grave. When thousands testify, newcomers are hypnotized: “So many vows fulfilled—mine too will be!” Meanwhile the master returned from the Kaaba. The disciple fell at his feet: “Forgive me! But, Master, the donkey you gave was miraculous—people’s vows are fulfilled! And whether theirs are or not, my fortune has opened—money showers from all ten directions!” The master said, “Don’t worry; that donkey was indeed miraculous. Its mother too was! In our village we built a tomb for its mother—we’re enjoying the proceeds. It’s hereditary!”

Stones are worshiped, water is worshiped. Whom are you making bow before the stone? Where all are you taking Ram—to drill Him in bows and bends!

They gather dust and call it flour—
a lifetime of dust in your hands, but you think it’s food. Stones and soil cannot nourish or satisfy.

Hope and craving are never stilled...
When will you do the real work—still craving, stop the rush of desire, drop the hope of the future?

Hope and craving are never stilled; body reeling, drunk on duality.
“Drunk on duality”—a beautiful phrase. English has “schizophrenia”—exactly this: split in two. Almost all are in this state—laughing now, crying next; loving now, lifting the club next. “Without you I cannot live”—then, “Without killing you I cannot live.” Drunk on duality, the body reels.

They chase house to house for public worship,
longing to be revered—
not to know God. “Let people worship me, honor me, call me saint, mahatma.” For this they roam door to door, clanking cymbals.

For hell they barter heaven.
Seeking the ego’s worship, you fall in hell. Ego-emptiness is heaven; ego-fullness is hell.

Gods, men, sages, and avatars—
without God’s remembrance, none crosses over.
Remember: unless remembrance of the Divine rises in every breath, you will keep wandering. Worship stones, go to the Ganga, Kashi, Kaaba—no benefit. Let remembrance rise from every pore.

I have come impoverished
to your door.
The river of pain floods,
the embankments of mind collapse.
Wherever I look
helplessness spreads its robe,
and all the consolations fail.
I have become a blade on the stream
at your door.

In the cradle of tears
sorrow rocked me,
moist hands of memory
patted me to sleep;
with lullabies awaken
poor suckling dreams.
I am a speck of dust
at your door.

So full of words,
my voice is choked.
If you can, read yourself
the story of my petitions.
Drowning in sobs
sing the plaintive songs.
I am a long invitation
at your door.

God is everywhere; once seen within, He is at every door and in every leaf. But the first glimpse must be within. That glimpse comes only one way: Divine remembrance. It must not be formal—“I do five minutes with the rosary; I keep an eye on the clock.” No. It must be full of life, delight, intoxication—forgetting time—every pore dancing, hair thrilled, heart brimming—then it is remembrance.

This is possible. No big obstacle. Only turn the same energy that runs outward, inward. The moment it turns, remembrance begins—because with the taste of Ram, celebration begins.

Look—again have come
the days of meeting, my love!
Days of meeting, my love!

Swarms of bees return,
the garden hums,
perfumed deer-fawns
bring the musk-treasure.
Some fair, some dusky,
flowers turn mad.
Look—again have come
the days of blossoming, my love!
Days of meeting, my love!

Yamas and niyamas sway,
mantras grow sweet,
in every particle of spring
ambrosial sap is stirred,
shell-like eyelids
spill intoxicating dreams.
Again have come
the days of vows’ wounds reopening, my love!
Days of meeting, my love!

Breaths grow warm,
bring embers,
eager arms
tighten to clasp sandalwood body,
limb to limb Kamadeva
plays water-music.
Again have come
the days of torn hearts mending, my love—
days of meeting, my love!

Return within, and the moment of union arrives. Once the glimpse falls of the One seated within, the whole world fills with His presence.

Calling again and again, He keeps summoning—
but you must listen. You are entangled in bustle and race—who will hear?

And thus, again and again, you fall into hell—into misery.

But this time, brother, understand—
how many times you’ve erred; now wake up. Don’t repeat it.

The term will pass, and nothing will be gained.
Miss this human birth and it will be hard again. This is the appointed time—use it—for once the term passes, nothing can be had. In no other womb can God be found. Man is the crossroads—from here paths lead everywhere. Choose the round of eighty-four lakh wombs—or the path to God.

Know Ram as your own constant joy—
and, says Gulal, else your abode will be Yama’s realm.
Revolution can happen. Bow—to the Divine—within.

As for my body—it is clay,
if you will, You can make it gold.
Parched lips so thirsty,
thirst deepening each moment.
Even my shadow slips away;
the noonday of separation mounts.
From every pore leap
sparks of burning sighs.
As for my mind—it is fire;
if you will, You can make it sandal.

The bough of my life
has been trapped in thorns;
suddenly upon my longings
the world’s autumn fell.
An untimely wind blew
that yellowed the buds of desire.
As for my garden—it is dry;
if you will, You can make it Nandan.

Even the melody of breath
seems lost;
countless tries I made,
no raga stirs.
Even with slides and pulls
the tuning does not set.
As for my veena—it is broken;
if you will, You can make it quiver.

What is mine on this earth?
Only Your shadow.
Moon and stars, grass and leaf—
only Your play.
Words are Yours, meanings Yours,
and over the voice
Your lordship.
As for my every letter—they decay;
if You will, You can make them worship.

Bow. Bow within. Within is the Kaaba, within is Kailash. Bow within, and revolution happens—mud turns to gold; the dry garden becomes Nandan; the broken veena fills with unheard ragas.

As for my every letter—they decay;
if You will, You can make them worship.

Enough for today.