Jyoti Se Jyoti Jale #13

This is not a new question. It has been asked thousands of times—not only of me, but of all the Buddhas, of all the realized ones. The question is meaningful, yet the answer is both easy and difficult. Meaningful—because the awakened ones have been speaking for centuries. What do they wish to say? Why not say it straight? Why not say it so briefly it fits in a nutshell? Why not say it so that we easily understand?

The question is meaningful. But the answer is both easy and difficult. Easy—because one and the same answer has always been given, and I will give the same: the attempt is to say that which cannot be said. Easy enough—but is that even an answer? I want to say what cannot be said. And what cannot be said cannot, in fact, be said. Even so, the effort to say it cannot be abandoned.

A great Western thinker, Ludwig Wittgenstein, has said: That which cannot be said must not be said. Wittgenstein was a great thinker, a logician—and a mystic too. That which cannot be said, do not say. It sounds right; it sounds like a rule. But there is no essence in saying what can be said—go on saying it if you like; it is rubbish. The essence lies only in attempting to say what cannot be said, because only by that does man rise from the petty to the vast. Only by that do one’s eyes lift from the earth and set out on the journey of the sky. Only by that is one freed from the word and enters the void. Only by that does a door of possibility open—the transcendence of mind, the going beyond the mind. And there abides the Supreme Beloved. There abides That for which the search has been on: Satchidananda.

It cannot be said, yet in trying to say it thirst is awakened. Those who try to say it awaken thirst. They cannot say it; those who listen cannot truly hear it either—but in the very listening, thirst is born. The purpose of speaking and listening is to ignite thirst. And when thirst becomes intense, it becomes prayer; and when prayer becomes intense, it becomes the Divine.

So let me repeat: I want to say what cannot be said. And I know full well it cannot be said. Still, it must be said—so that you do not end with what can be said; so that you do not stop at the speakable but rise into the ineffable; so that you are not hemmed in by limits, but some connection is forged with the limitless.

The enlightened ones cannot actually say anything. Hence the famous Zen saying: “Buddha never spoke a single word.” Could anything be more untrue? And these very Zen monks are the ones who remember Buddha’s words every day and study his scriptures. Buddha spoke for forty years continuously. After his enlightenment, he did nothing else—morning he spoke, noon he spoke, evening he spoke—he just went on speaking. He spoke to countless people, ran from village to village speaking. The Zen monks know very well that Buddha spoke; they know it fully. But there is a different substance in what they say. They mean: Buddha spoke a great deal—but what did he in truth say? What had to be said remained unsaid. So whether he spoke or not—equal.

Understand my speaking in the same way. Only if my speaking kindles thirst within you does it have meaning. If my speaking kindles knowledge within you, you have missed. If I speak and you go away a bit more knowledgeable and say, “Well, I learned a few more things,” then the arrow has gone to waste; the arrow became a dud. If it strikes, even a wild shot is an arrow; if it does not strike, even an arrow becomes a wild shot. Then you came and you went—vainly you came, vainly you went. Your coming and going was an empty exercise. Let it not be that hearing me awakens knowledge; let it be that hearing me awakens meditation.

What is the difference? Let it churn your very life that there is something that cannot be said and cannot be heard, yet can be experienced—and I will experience it. Let such a resolve arise. Let such deep longing be born that I too will seek That which cannot be contained in words, which cannot be bound in the covers of scriptures—I will seek That; I will befriend the living.

God is not a doctrine. God is a truth. And not a truth crafted out of logical conclusions, but a truth known in the depths of the heart, a truth to be lived. A truth that ripens only within your love. A truth for which you must become pregnant. A truth you must nurture in your womb for nine months. How long those nine months will be cannot be said. It depends on you—how intensely you call, how ardent your thirst becomes. It depends on your urgency.

On the strength of a fragrance
I am living.
This fragrance, perhaps,
is of the primal environments
understood in the womb,
of dense, falling tresses,
of mango groves,
of the fresh clouds of Ashadh,
of leaves struck by rain,
of the clear water
of some lake,
of paddy fields,
of so many united voices;
and it is so dense
that amidst dust and smoke
it remains just as it is.
For years
I have been in cities of dust and smoke,
and yet it feels
as if I am in the flowing currents
of lotus and parijat.
Like the mood
of a freshly bathed body,
like the tenderness
of a caressed skin,
this fragrance
does not let me grow stale.
Verses surround and carry me,
now of the peepal, now of bamboo,
now of the shrub, now of the grass,
now very gently,
now a little forcefully,
now straight and simple,
now with a slight playfulness,
they draw me
into known and unknown currents—
even in the cities
of smoke and dust.
On the strength of this fragrance I live,
and I wish all
would live by it;
that even in cities of dust and smoke
all would drink this fragrance.
For I know
that in our earliest surroundings
everyone has drunk
these dense, intimate scents,
and yet, somehow,
forgetting them,
we have lived only dust and smoke.
So I have thought
that in whatever way possible
I will inscribe
not only upon the air,
but upon the highest stones
of the tallest buildings
in every city,
good and bad stones alike—
news of fragrance,
epitaphs of perfume:
that we all
are above dust and smoke
so long
as we are upon the earth.
A mela of agarwood and sandalwood
and rose and jasmine
we shall keep holding.
In the most intimate
moments of battle
we shall drown out
the reek of gunpowder.
In the clamor and anger
of the air
we shall sing,
and we shall sing: come,
if we must fill the air with smoke,
let it be the smoke of agarwood and sandalwood.
Awaken the fragrances already known,
of our old surroundings,
of dense, loosened hair,
of the mango forest,
of the clouds of Ashadh,
of leaves lashed by rain,
of the clear waters
of some lake,
of the paddy fields,
of the scented
and eternal harmonies in unison.
Our bodies
are no less than the trunks of trees;
in greenness
we are no less than the forests of the Vindhyas.
Come,
let us sink our roots
into the earth and into the sky.
Let us speak in the language of waterfalls,
infuse nectar into letters,
and all day long
into the streams of our actions.
And when evening comes
let our clear eyes, bright from the day,
sparkle among the stars
spread across the night sky.
This dream of mine
to spread and to stitch fragrance
must not remain mine alone—
this much I ask:
if I can rightly
plead the cause
of primal fragrances,
then I have truly found everything.
Then indeed
the boons given me
by my gods of words
will feel blessed,
unique to me.
Before I finally fall
I want to spread—
call it like this star,
call it like a mango forest,
call it like the clouds of Ashadh—
fragrance,
light,
and
fervor.
I want to spread—
call it like this star,
call it like a mango forest,
call it like the clouds of Ashadh.

What do I want to say?
Exactly what the monsoon clouds gathered in the sky say. Just so, the clouds of consciousness also gather.
What the blossomed lotus says. Just so, the flowers of life also bloom.
What the stars shining in the sky say. Just so, within each of you stars lie hidden, not yet alight; or if they have shone, you have turned your back on them.

Within you too lie the seeds of the lotus, not yet sprouted; or if they have sprouted, you have not tended them; or even if they have bloomed, you have not noticed—because you are not at home in yourself. You are always elsewhere, elsewhere, always elsewhere. You are never here; you are always there. Your mind is running, rushing, in a frenzy. Where would you have the presence to peer within and see how lotuses are there! Where would you have the presence to pause a little, to stop, and listen to the inner music?

The inner cuckoo sings as well. Within, too, there is a great chirping. The saints have called it the unstruck sound. There, the resonance of Om is going on—Ik Onkar Satnam! There, mantras are not to be recited; there, mantras resound of themselves. There, you need not make a prayer; there, prayer rises on its own.

But you must turn back, look, peer within. This is what I want to say. It is not the kind of saying that you will understand, write down in the notebook of your memory, and the matter will be over. No—if you do that, you will miss. The matter is complete only when what I have said you too will know—not as information, but as your knowing.

Become a witness to my experience—a firsthand knower. I wish that just as I say, “It is so,” one day you too can say, from your own experience, “Yes, it is so.”

I do not wish to arouse belief in you. I am not saying, trust in me. I say: take only a challenge from me. I call out: there is a peak to be crossed, to be climbed; without climbing it you will not become a soul-filled being. Take the challenge. There is an ocean to be swum; without crossing it, if you remain on this shore, you will remain in vain, you will be in vain. Cast off your boat—set out in search of that far, hidden shore. The journey is hard, rugged, fraught with mishaps; but only one who accepts the challenge of this very journey becomes a man of soul. Otherwise people remain flabby, remain impotent.

Just as the body can be impotent, so can the soul. And those who have not begun the search for God—their souls remain impotent. There is no strength in them, no edge in them, no keenness of life in them. Nor is there ever the feeling that we are blessed. Nor does it ever occur to bow and thank the Divine: how much You have given. How to bow, how to give thanks? If nothing has been received, what is there to thank for—to express gratitude for? People lodge complaints in their prayers. And prayer is only prayer when there is only gratitude, only thankfulness. But what to thank for? If something is received, then to thank is natural. I challenge you: it can be attained, and it lies within your reach. If it is within my reach, it is within yours. If it is within the reach of even one person, it is within your reach. If Buddha attained, you can attain. If Sundardas attained and became beautiful—supremely beautiful—you too can. If Kabir attained, or Nanak, then you too can. If in the whole history of humankind even one person has attained, then all humans have become entitled to attain. If one seed broke and became a flower, then all seeds have become entitled—whether they become or not is their affair. Whether they decide to become or not, that is their affair.

What is the fear, after all? Why does the seed not wish to become a flower? Only one fear: before becoming a tree, the seed must perish.

So I teach you to dissolve. I teach you to die voluntarily. For if you die voluntarily—as you are—you will become as you are meant to be.

What I say to you here day after day is not philosophy, not a system. These are living embers. If you have the courage to endure them, you will burn—and be new.

Today’s sutras.

Today’s sutras point in this very direction.

Seek the company of saints; abandon other devices.
So many have been carried across by entering into satsang.

Keep the company of saints.
“Saint” means: one who has attained. What has he attained? That his intrinsic possibility has become actuality—that he has attained. He has become what he could become, what he is in his ultimate flowering.

Mahavira has said: “Vatthu sahāvo dhammo.” The nature of a thing is its dharma. No one has offered a sweeter definition of dharma. Your innermost nature—just that. Simply to realize that.

When the seed breaks and becomes a tree and thousands of flowers bloom, do you think the seed has become something else? No—the seed has become what it could be. Those flowers were hidden within it—unseen, and now revealed; invisible, and now manifest; pressed into the void, and now unfolding into the full. So too your nature is still unmanifest, still lying latent. You have not refined it. You have not tended it. You have not nurtured it. You have not watered it. You have not manured it. You have not fenced it. You have not protected it. You have even forgotten what you can become. Like a diamond lying among stones begins to imagine: I too am a stone.

All around is a crowd of the undeveloped. You must meet only this undeveloped crowd—these are your mothers and fathers, your brothers and sisters, your friends; this is the market, these are the shops. Millions upon millions of undeveloped people—seeds lying in piles. Amidst them, you too are a seed. If you remain entangled among these seeds, you will never remember what you can be. How would you remember? All are like you.

The truth is, every person thinks others are worse than he is. Hence people relish slander. There is a psychology to the flavor of slander: the other is worse, we are the good ones. Whenever someone maligns someone, you listen, entranced. You do not know what you are doing—you are drinking poison and killing yourself. Whenever you have listened to slander with relish, it means this feeling has arisen in your mind: then we are fine; as we are, we are fine. People are worse than we are. So-and-so robbed so much; he did so much black-marketing. So-and-so ran away with so-and-so’s wife. So-and-so is smuggling. News of slander comes from all sides—devils all. The more these pictures of devils dance before your eyes, the more, by comparison, you feel: I am a saintly man. I make small mistakes, but what of my mistakes? Here stand the great ones! I am nothing. I am fine as I am; and if I remain just as I am, that is enough.

Far from going ahead—you begin to feel settled where you are. The feeling arises to remain as you are. The challenge does not arise within you. How will it arise? It arises when you come to a Buddha or a siddha, where you see a flame burning, and in comparison your lamp appears extinguished. There is pain in that. To save themselves from this pain, people avoid the company of saints. They avoid it; they invent a thousand excuses. There is no end to the invention of excuses. As many as you want, you can find.

People come to me. Someone says, “The urge for sannyas is arising; but my daughter must be married first. Once she is married, I will be free.” Someone comes and says, “My son is married; let him get a job.” Another says, “The son has had children; the son is busy with work—his children’s care is in our hands. Let them grow a little.” One says this, one says that—people find uncountable excuses. As if death will wait for you—until all your problems are solved, until you say, “Yes, now I consent; now death may come”—then death will come! Do you know at what moment death will grip your throat? It will not ask whether your son is married or not; it will not ask whether your son has found a job. Death will not ask you anything; it will not take your permission. No death will come knocking at your door saying, “May I come in, sir?” Death just comes; it does not even knock. It passes through shut doors, through iron walls. It breaks through all protections. And when death comes, it comes in a single instant. It does not grant even a moment’s respite to make arrangements. If you were writing a line in your ledger, it does not give you the chance to complete it; it does not even give you the chance to put a period at the end.

But for growth—you postpone. You say, tomorrow. You say, the day after. You certainly must do it—and you keep searching for ifs and buts.

Sannyas—then what place is there for “but” and “however”? “But” and “however” are a man’s tricks. Either yes or no—where do buts fit in? Either you feel something is right and you do it, or you don’t feel it is right and you don’t do it. But man is dishonest. He wants to persuade himself: “The thing does seem right to me; I am so intelligent—how could it not seem right? Only, the circumstances aren’t suitable yet for me to take sannyas.” So he tacks on a but. Understand: whenever someone adds a “but,” politics has entered. “But–however” is the language of politics. The language of religion is straight and clear—yes or no.

People are afraid of the company of a saint; they are frightened. They find many excuses. But they don’t want to look at the real thing. The real thing is one fear: “If I go there, I may not remain as I am. There will be transformation. There is bound to be revolution.” To go to a saint is to go near fire; to go to a saint is to set out on a journey from which there is no return. Once your eyes meet a saint’s eyes, once your hand touches a saint’s hand, once a hint of a saint’s heart slips into your heart—then there is no way back. For birth after birth those eyes will follow you and call you. And for birth after birth that slight wave of inner music that reached you will churn you within.

Seek the company of saints; abandon other devices.
Sundardas says: Do this one thing and all is done—seek the company of saints. Sit with those who have attained, who are awake, and everything will happen. Could anything be simpler?

In this sense the scripture of devotion is unique. It discovered a unique process. What science calls a catalytic agent, devotion calls the company of saints—satsang. A catalytic agent means: there are events that occur only in the presence of something, while that “something” itself does not take part in the reaction—it is simply present. For example, if you want to make water by combining hydrogen and oxygen—no matter how much you try to combine them, water will not form until there is an electric spark. If electricity is present, water forms. And the wonder is: in the formation of water, electricity doesn’t itself become a part of the water; it is only present. Presence alone is enough. Nothing else needs to be done. By mere presence, something happens. Electricity is not incorporated into water’s composition; it has no share in it.

Science had to coin a word: catalytic agent. Until then, it was presumed that only those things that combine are necessary for an outcome. But science discovered that we must accept a factor that does not combine in the product and yet without whose presence the combination does not occur. Lightning flashes in the sky; by that flash, water forms in the clouds. The presence of electricity is necessary.

Satsang means exactly this: the presence of one who has awakened is necessary. In the presence of the awakened, something begins to happen within the sleeping. The awakened does nothing, remember. He does not pluck at the strings of your heart, does not push or pull you. He is simply awakened—and present near you. But the aura of his awakening, the radiance of his presence—something begins within you on its own.

Morning comes, the sun rises. The sun does not go around waking each bird: “Up now, sing the morning song, begin the dawn raga.” Birds rise by themselves. Merely by the sun’s advent—crimson spreads in the east and the birds arise! The presence of light starts doing something—tickling the throat, tuning the vocal cords by itself. Buds begin to open. Sunrays don’t go to each bud to pry it apart—it just opens. The whole earth wakes up.

We become like those we keep company with. Devotion calls this extraordinary process satsang, holy company. Sit near someone who is awake. Sit near one who is filled with love.

To those on other paths this seems strange. They say, “Without yoga how will anything happen? Do headstands, practice pranayama, shoulder-stands, do this and that—without yoga what will happen?” Someone else says, “Without austerity what will happen? Leave home, leave the door, go to the forest, stand naked in the sun, stand in the rain—without austerity what will happen?” Someone else says, “Fasting,” and others suggest other things.

But the devotees found a supremely scientific method. They say: satsang. Sundardas says: “Abandon other devices!” No other device is needed. Don’t torture the body in vain, don’t get entangled in useless complications. Do this one simple thing: wherever someone is awake, go there—that is the pilgrimage. Wherever light has dawned, move in that direction—and within you something will begin to happen which no amount of fasting and vows will accomplish.

How did fasting and such begin? In exactly this way—from a great misunderstanding, a logical mistake. Mahavira awakened; those who came near him began awakening. But when Mahavira departed, and only memory remained, people wondered, “What now?” They systematized what was happening around Mahavira. They observed how he stood, how he sat, what he ate, what he drank, how he walked, how he slept—wrote down every detail. They thought, “If we do exactly the same, we too will awaken.” But what happened around Mahavira was due to satsang. It was not because Mahavira was naked—otherwise it could not have happened with Krishna or Buddha, for they wore clothes. It was not because of his fasting—there have been saints where the same phenomenon happened without any fasting at all. It was not due to his austerities—standing in forests under sun and heat. It was because a lamp of meditation had been lit within Mahavira.

But the lamp of meditation is invisible except to those who plunge into satsang. Those who remain at a distance, calculating, reasoning, see only the outer.

Imagine: the sun rises, birds begin to sing. A blind man who cannot see the sunrise thinks, “What’s the matter?” He calculates, “What time is it?” Someone says, “It’s six o’clock.” He records, “At six o’clock, birds sing.” He will build such ledgers. All that accounting is false. Birds do not sing because the clock strikes six. Set your clock to six—they won’t sing. The sun must rise. It doesn’t matter what the clock says; it can even be broken. There need be no clock. And the sun need not even be visible—behind clouds is fine—its presence is enough. If morning comes, birds will sing.

Those who saw Mahavira recognized the lamp of meditation burning within; everything else was secondary. Secondary traits differ with each realized one. Janaka attained while sitting on a throne—do you think you will attain if you sit on a throne? Shall you first order a golden throne and then become realized? Madness. That was a coincidence. Buddha attained under the bodhi tree—do you think sitting under a peepal tree will make you a Buddha? Peepal and banyan trees are everywhere—sit! Many have sat. Nothing happens. Buddhahood arose then; it was a coincidence that he happened to be under that tree.

Mahavira wasn’t under any tree when it happened. He was squatting—not even in a “proper” yogic posture. People sit in padmasana, siddhasana. Squatting! What kind of posture is that? But Mahavira was an unselfconscious man—who knows what he was doing, squatting there. The Jain scriptures feel embarrassed to write “squatting,” so they invented a respectable name. Indians are unrivaled in inventing respectable names: they call it gaudohasana—the posture for milking a cow. Now, did Mahavira ever milk a cow? What has cow-milking to do with him? But “squatting” sounds awkward and raises doubts—what was Mahavira up to? Whether you squat or adopt gaudohasana—nothing in itself will bring meditation. Meditation has happened in all kinds of conditions: to those who fasted and to those who did not; to vegetarians and to non-vegetarians; to the young and the old; to the beautiful and the ugly; to men and to women; to the healthy and to the ailing.

Don’t worry about the incidental; catch the root. Devotees have caught the root and call it satsang—the company of the awakened. Wherever such a person is, don’t miss the chance; catch hold of his hem; become his shadow. As often as you get the chance to bathe in his presence, bathe. Those very dips will carry you across.

Seek the company of saints; abandon other devices.
Do you hear the courage in this? Sundardas says: “Abandon all devices.” Drop everything else. Hold the feet of a true guru.

Many have been liberated by coming into the company of the saints.
Whoever has ever been liberated has been liberated thus—through satsang. It is in satsang that remembrance begins, “What can I be?” Only near Buddhas does the memory of your own heights dawn: “These are my heights too. On these peaks I can also stand.” Only near Buddhas do you see that this blue sky is also yours. “Let me spread my wings, let me fly!”

Seeing Buddhas fly, your long-forgotten wings begin to quiver. Buddhas are just like you: the same facial features, the same getting up and sitting down, the same body—everything like you. And yet there is something unlike you—and there the revolution happens. Everything is like me—and within all that likeness there is something unlike me. Might that diamond be hidden in me too? There was a day when even they didn’t know it. Today I don’t know it.

Buddha said to his disciples: “As you are, such was I one day; and as I am, such you can be one day.”

Saints are doorkeepers of liberation—love them.
Saints stand guard at the gate of freedom. If love arises between you and them, they will open the gate for you.

Saints are doorkeepers of liberation—love them.
The key is in their hands, Sundar; they open the door.
Those who have attained stand at the gate. On one side, in body, they are with you; in soul, they are with the divine. They stand at the threshold. They can become the bridge between you and God. The veil between you and God isn’t big—thin, gossamer. It can be removed in a moment.

Between things
and me
a veil comes
and whenever
this veil comes,
they no longer truly appear to me—
and even if they appear,
it is like a hint,
like that fragrance of the earth within
which doesn’t reveal herself
until the rains fall.
And when
sometimes this curtain lifts,
then each and every thing
around me
reveals to me
its everything.
I go on looking at them
and
speaking with them,
opening them
and myself.

The rains fall. Suddenly you see, fragrance begins to rise from the earth! That fragrance was always there in the soil. The rain did not bring it. Hold water in your palm, smell it—no scent. Water brought no fragrance. It was in the earth; even the earth did not “know.” But rain falls and the scent rises. What is more beautiful than the fragrance rising from the earth with the first rains of Ashadh?

In satsang, when the first waft of fragrance begins to arise within you, then you realize what a treasure you’ve been carrying! You had no sense of it, not even a hint.

Saints are doorkeepers of liberation—love them.
The key is in their hands, Sundar; they open the door.
Praying to the formless God is difficult—because he is not visible; how to converse with one you cannot see? There seems to be no reply from “the other side.”

My difficulty is this
while speaking to you:
you are not visible.
And when one to whom we speak
is not seen,
the very enthusiasm to speak
cools down.
At least some sign should come
that what we say
is being heard or not,
and if heard,
then whether it pleases or displeases,
whether it has any effect
on the listener or not.
If somewhere you are the one
to whom I speak,
then do something to solve this:
when you feel I am saying something right,
suddenly make a laughing flower bloom
on the plant near me;
and when you feel I am going astray,
tell a bird of yours
to fly over my head
and chirp a little;
and when you feel
these are things I should not be saying,
then increase the sunlight
falling upon me.
Thus I will understand
your pleased or displeased,
or cautioning form.

How to converse with God? We keep speaking; empty sky listens; no reply comes; no way to know if our words reached, whether they had any effect, whether anyone is there at all.

Therefore prayer is almost impossible. But loving the true guru is possible—and that is the first step of prayer. First connect with one with whom connection is possible: one with whom you can converse, with whose eyes you can read the arising of feeling; whose eyes can reveal the impact your words made; whose hand can rest upon your head, whose blessing can fall upon you so that you know you have been heard. With whom a direct relationship is possible.

Loving the guru means: we have taken our first step toward God. For now, we will want God in form, with attributes. You can see it around the world: though the wise speak of the formless, temples still get built, images are installed. The worship of form doesn’t cease. There is a psychological reason: through talk of the formless, a human being does not feel related. He makes a stone image so there is at least someone to whom he can speak, around whom he can dance, before whom he can wave lamps and offer flowers and bow his head.

Man is gross; he needs something gross. But a stone image won’t help. If you look closely, it too does not answer. Its eyes are stony. The image hears nothing. No reply comes, nor can it.

The guru stands between the formless and the form. One part of him is form, one part formless. One hand is in yours, and one hand in God’s. You cannot see God’s hand, but if you hold the visible hand of the guru, then unknowingly, indirectly, your hand comes into God’s—because the guru’s hand is in God’s. The guru is the bridge.

Mother, father, brothers, kin—you can meet them all;
Sundar, son and wife—you can meet them too; but satsang is rare.
If there is anything most difficult and rare in this world, it is not the Kohinoor—it is satsang. There are many reasons. First difficulty: only one in millions seeks it. And of those millions who seek, one among many reaches it. Second difficulty: the witness, the one who has realized, does not speak the language of traditions and scriptures; his expression is original. Because of that, people don’t understand. People understand their scriptures and traditions.

Now, Krishna was not a “Hindu.” Buddha was not a “Buddhist.” Do you think Mohammed was a “Muslim”? Do you think Jesus was “Christian”? When Jesus spoke, the Jews were enraged—he was born in a Jewish home. They wanted him to reiterate the exact Jewish process and tradition. But whoever touches truth cannot repeat anybody’s tradition. His allegiance is to truth, not to tradition. His connection is direct with the divine. He does not speak “his own”; he speaks what God makes him speak. And the world changes, so God speaks in the language of the times. If Krishna were born now, do you think he would speak Sanskrit? He would speak your language. Sundardas spoke in your tongue. Kabir spoke in your tongue. But even in Kabir’s time, the pundit clung to Sanskrit. Jesus spoke Aramaic, the people’s language; the pundits spoke Hebrew. God speaks to you in your language, and God is ever new, eternally fresh—that is how he remains forever young and pure.

So the second difficulty: whenever the realized speaks, it matches no tradition. And you are all conditioned by traditions. You want truth to match your tradition. Only the dead match your tradition—pundits and priests do. This becomes a big obstacle. So how will you go to a saint? If you are a Jain, you will go to a Jain monk—one who walks your line, your groove. But those who walk grooves are dead. The wise do not walk grooves; they are not “line worshippers.” Those who walk your grooves are like you—a comfortable match—so you like them; they satisfy your ego.

Whenever knowledge descends, whenever someone is truly a saint, everyone becomes angry at him—except a few whose thirst is so intense that they are ready to drop tradition but not their thirst; for whom God is more valuable than tradition, truth more valuable than scripture. Very few such people will find. Most will keep circling around pundits and priests and perish there.

Third and greatest difficulty: saints are already rare; then their originality and revolutionary quality become an additional hurdle. And even if you reach them, you must die, dissolve, surrender—nothing less will do. No compromise is possible. You cannot tell him, “A little bit.” Either this shore or the other. Such courage, such audacity exists in very few souls. Cowards keep worshipping in temples and mosques; only a few brave ones sit before rare saints, disappear, and are born anew. Through death comes resurrection. The throne is attained—but after the cross. The cross is the ladder to the throne.

They have uprooted the dwellings of pride, jealousy, and ego;
Sundar, such are the saints of whom the scriptures speak.
Who is a saint? One who has demolished the abode of pride, envy, and ego. Where is their foundation? In the “I-sense.” “I am”—this is the root of all pride, envy, ego, lust, anger, greed. A saint is one in whom the “I” is not, in whom “Thou” has dawned. The saint says, “I am not; Thou art.” This is why sometimes the language of saints sounds shocking. Krishna says, “Abandon all dharmas and come to me alone.” What could sound more egotistical? If someone told you, “Abandon everything—come into my refuge; I will save you,” it would sound like sheer ego. But it is not ego—Krishna as ego has vanished; he is not. It is God speaking. When Krishna says, “Abandon all and come to me alone,” Krishna is not; the One speaks: “Come into the refuge of Me, the One.” Krishna is a medium; his lips, tongue, throat are being used—Krishna is not speaking.

When Jesus says, “I am the Way, I am the Truth,” do you think he speaks of Jesus? Jesus has gone, long gone—become a story, history. It is God speaking: “I am the Way, I am the Truth.” But our problem is that inside us it is the “I” that speaks; the same word “I” is used by the saints. When Mansoor said, “Ana’l Haq—I am the Truth,” Muslims were enraged: “How can a man call himself the Truth, God?” They hanged him, killed him. Even as he died, Mansoor laughed. Someone asked from the crowd, “Why do you laugh?” Mansoor said, “I laugh because the one you are killing died long ago. I am not. You are killing the dead, you fools! I have long since gone. Only That remains.”

The Upanishads say, “Aham Brahmasmi—I am Brahman.” They are compelled to use the word “I,” but this “I” holds no one within—only God.

They have uprooted the dwellings of pride, jealousy, and ego;
Sundar, such are the saints of whom the scriptures speak.
Sundardas says: The scriptures are full of talk of such saints. You worship scriptures, while scriptures say: “Seek the saints! Seek the true guru! Go where God has freshly descended, where it is yet morning, where the sun has just risen—bow there.” But you keep pictures of the sun that once rose. Thousands of years ago—sitting with their photographs.

Lord Rama stands with a bow—that is a picture of a sun that rose thousands of years ago. You bow to that. Whom are you deceiving? Try deceiving a bird: take a picture of a rising sun before it; it won’t sing. Try deceiving a flower: take the most beautiful picture of the sun to it; it won’t open. Whom are you deceiving? Only man can be deceived—he is astonishing; he is so skilled he deceives himself.

There is a story from Emperor Solomon’s life. A learned woman came to test him—his fame as a wise man had spread everywhere. In India we still say, “Don’t try to be a big Suleiman,” not even knowing to whom we refer. The woman came holding flowers in each hand. She stood in court and asked, “Tell me, which flowers are real, which artificial?” Solomon hesitated. They looked identical. It was possible both were real—or both fake—or one each. Some great craftsman had made the fakes.

He said, “One moment. Open the doors and windows; the light is a bit dim. I am old; my eyes don’t see well. Let’s have more light.” All the doors were opened. There was a beautiful garden around the palace. A moment later he declared, “In your left hand, the flowers are real; in your right, fake.” The woman was amazed; the courtiers were amazed. “How did you know?” He said, “Since you ask, I will tell you. I waited for a bee to fly in from the garden—only she can test. A bee came; I watched which flowers she sat upon. Those are real. You can deceive a man, not a bee.”

The scriptures speak of living saints—and you cling to scriptures! Your condition is like sitting on a timetable instead of in the train—you will reach nowhere. And Indian timetables are useless anyway. A man once argued with a stationmaster, “Every train is late—three hours, seven, fourteen. Why even print a timetable?” The stationmaster said, “Without the timetable how would we know how late a train is? That’s why we print it.” These timetables—you sit on them for lifetimes—nothing will happen.

Search somewhere. God still rises like the sun still rises. Why clutch old pictures of the sun? They are dear, fine; there is no quarrel with them—they are pictures of God—but pictures nonetheless.

The scripture of devotion says: connect with the living, and the revolution will happen.

Their coming brings no elation; their going brings no sorrow.
Sundar, such saints are one among millions.
A saint is one to whom success or failure, honor or insult—coming or going—makes no difference; one in whom success and failure, life and death, are equal; in whom such non-duality is established—such saints are one in millions. If you find one, you are blessed. If you find one, do everything to not lose their company.

Comfort-giving, cool-hearted; eyes that cool by sight.
How will you recognize a saint when you reach him? We are blind, deaf; our sensitivity has grown weak. How will we know? The signs are given:

Comfort-giving, cool-hearted…
In whose presence the heart grows cool and waves of well-being arise; in whose presence sorrow is forgotten; in whose presence the world is forgotten for a while and you feel you belong to another country.

Comfort-giving, cool-hearted; eyes that cool by sight.
The one whose mere glance cools your eyes; whose speech raises music within; in whose presence you cannot remain as you were—your wings begin to fly to heights you never knew even in dreams; in whose presence new doorways open. Then you have recognized.

These are not outer signs—note this well—not things like standing in the sun, lying on a bed of thorns, keeping long fasts. Anyone can do circus tricks. Such things are done by those whose heads have gone wrong.

Why lie on thorns? Isn’t the world already enough of a bed of thorns? And there are tricks: your back has places where there is no sensation. Ask a doctor. Tell a child to prick your back many times with a needle—you will be surprised: at some spots you will feel it; at others not at all. If on those insensitive points the thorns are placed, you can sleep on a bed of thorns comfortably. It’s a circus trick—no value.

Fasting is similar. Know this: you might never fast again if you understood. I don’t oppose fasts done for medical reasons—those are fine. If the body needs rest, fast. But there is no religious value. It may have health benefits. Those who do long religious fasts don’t know what they do: they eat meat—of their own body. Why else does a kilo of weight disappear daily? Where has it gone? You’ve digested it—your body’s own flesh.

The body has emergency systems; nature arranged so that if food is unavailable for weeks you don’t die. A healthy person can live three months without food; after the seventh day the body begins digesting its own stores—your flesh. Hence the difficulty of fasting is only the first seven days; after that a new system takes over. After three weeks, there is no desire for food—because the new mechanism suffices. A woman here, Vandana, fasted because some unknowing person told her fasting helps meditation. Now her hunger is gone; if she tries to eat, she vomits. The body has engaged the alternate mechanism and throws out food.

So don’t imagine fasting has some spiritual value. You are simply tapping an emergency system—costly and harmful. These are not the signs Sundardas lists.

Comfort-giving, cool-hearted; eyes that cool by sight.
Sundar, such saints speak words like nectar.
From whose speech you taste a hint of nectar; whose words give the tongue the flavor of immortality. Here everything is death-bound; the world is ringed with death. In this dark new-moon of death, if from someone’s words you begin to see lamps of nectar flicker—even far away, tiny flames—know then that you have come to feet where surrender must happen.

Forgiving, patient; truth, compassion, contentment;
Sundar, such saints are fearless and free of anger.
Where you sense forgiveness. You will be surprised—around so-called holy men there is no forgiveness. They warn: “If you sin, you will rot in hell.” Where is forgiveness? Terrible punishments are arranged—as if those who arranged them were of cruel temperament. They describe hell with relish; they frighten people so much that they tremble.

A Christian pastor said: “In hell you will burn in fire; you will be thrown into freezing nights of ice. Your teeth will chatter.” An old woman stood up: “But I have no teeth.” The pastor was not to be defeated: “Be quiet. Teeth will be given—but they will chatter. There is no escape from chattering.” They will give dentures to chatter in ice! Worms will eat you; water will be before you and you will not be able to drink; for eternity this misery will be inflicted. And your sins? You smoked a cigarette; you gambled on Diwali. Your sins are so small, and the punishments imagined by pundits so vast.

What are sins? At most human errors—small, natural. Where these human errors are forgiven, know a saint has descended. Where, sitting, you feel assured: “I am not a sinner; I am not bad; I won’t rot in hell; God is merciful”—where you glimpse that God is Rahman, Rahim, compassionate—how can punishment be there? God and punishment cannot go together. If hell exists, then there is no God; if God exists, there cannot be hell. Where you get a glimpse of this; where his eyes hold respect for you. In the eyes of so-called saints there is condemnation: “You sinner, great sinner! You will rot unless you obey us.” And what they ask of you is such that obeying it you will rot here. So what should a poor person do—rot here or there? He thinks, “Let me rot later; we’ll see then. Perhaps there will be some way to bribe, some advocate to save us.” If there is a hell, all lawyers will be there. One day God and the Devil quarreled: the wall between heaven and hell was crumbling; neither would repair it. Finally God said, “Repair it, or I will sue.” The Devil laughed: “Sue! Where will you get a lawyer? They’re all on my side.”

So man postpones to tomorrow. And these so-called saints leave no option: “Rot here or rot there.” They condemn your every act: your love is sin, your life is sin, the way you sit is sin. You see Terapanthi monks with cloth over their noses—as if breathing is sin. There is no end to “sins.” Cloth over the mouth so warm breath doesn’t kill tiny flying insects—otherwise you’re “stuck.” But you will drink water; however much you filter, there are organisms. However much you cover, the air has microbes. Digambar Jains don’t bathe—for fear of killing water-beings. They begin to stink. They don’t brush—rinsing kills organisms. Will you let man live? No rinsing, no bathing, no eating—you want people to commit suicide? But suicide is a sin—then your teeth will chatter! They leave no way out. They are determined to make your teeth chatter—here or there.

These are not the signs of realized ones.

Forgiving, patient; truth, compassion, contentment;
Sundar, such saints are fearless and free of anger.
There is no anger, no impatience, no discontent. There is compassion, tenderness, mercy. Truth rains there; whoever comes under that rain has his throat made cool.

Home and forest are alike; detached from all.
To saints, home and forest are the same. They don’t choose forest in opposition to home. They are equanimous. “Udaas” means neutral—not sad. Ud+aas: without expectation, no demands, no hopes. Wherever they are, it is fine; as they are, it is fine.

Sundar, saints have no desire for life or death.
They have no hankering for life, nor for death. Many long for death: “O Lord, when shall I be freed from life?” They think they say something religious. They beg for death. No—the saint asks nothing, neither life nor death. Give life—fine. Give death—fine. Whatever comes is accepted.

The world washes its sins in Mother Ganga;
Sundar, the Ganga longs to flow at the saints’ feet.
People go to the Ganges to wash sins—but think of poor Ganga—how many sins she must be gathering! She longs for the saints’ feet—to bathe there. Wherever the saints’ feet fall, there a pilgrimage is born. Where saints sit, a temple arises. Why go to temples? They are only news that once a saint sat there. Why go to pilgrimages? They are footprints of saints. Don’t worship footprints—seek living feet, still walking.

Serving the saints, Sundar, God himself is pleased.
A sweet saying: Whoever serves the saints—God himself is pleased. Because the saints are his, his representatives, his gates.

If you dote on someone’s son, the father rejoices.
Just so, whoever serves the saints becomes dear to God.

Note something interesting: there are two conceptions of service in the world. One, the Christian idea: serve the sick, the diseased, the lepers. Good—noble—ethical. But our idea of service is different: serve the siddha, the saint, the one who has attained—a Buddha. That is why I often say Gandhi was ninety-nine percent Christian; his idea of service was Christian—serve the sick. Good and worthy, but not religious in the ultimate sense. Religion begins when you serve one who has arrived. You can massage a leper’s feet—that is ethical and admirable—but you won’t attain God through that. If you press a Buddha’s feet, energy will flow from his feet into you. From a leper’s feet, what energy will flow? A little of your energy may flow into him—good for him, but no more; even an atheist can do that. Our notion is: hold the feet from which the Ganga descends, through whom God flows—so that a ripple of God may reach you.

“Remember God, O foolish one; remember God; give up attachment to your maiden home.
One day the bridegroom will send for you; there will be separation.”
Remember God, take the saints’ feet, seek satsang. This house which you call your home is not your true home; it is like a maiden’s parental house. A young girl must leave her mother’s house. Soon the bridegroom will come; the wedding party will arrive; you will have to go. This house will be left.

So is this world—our mother’s house. Earth is our mother. The Beloved will come; in death the Beloved himself comes—only we do not recognize him, we are blind. The same hand is extended; we are terrified. We have clung to this house as our own. But this is a wayside inn; stay a while and learn a few lessons. Ripen here—but prepare for that home.

“Remember God, O foolish one; remember God.
Abandon attachment to your maiden home.
When the one who takes you comes,
there will be separation one day.”
Keep one thing remembered: you must go from here. Then life changes. You do not cling to things tightly. You use the world, but you remain the master, not the slave.

“Do your own work while youth remains.”
While you are young, unripe, you must stay here and ripen. When you are fully ripe, there is no need to remain or return.

“Meet some man who has met the Supreme—heed his counsel.”
Prepare yourself—by someone’s counsel—so that when the Supreme Person comes to take you, he chooses you, embraces you, accepts you.

“Until you mature,
guard yourself.
Cast not a desirous glance upon any body.”
Till your maturity—till inner perfection—guard yourself as a young maiden guards her chastity for her beloved; it cannot be given to all and sundry.

“Until you mature,
guard yourself.
Cast not a desirous glance upon any body.”
Until your Beloved comes, cast no eye on others. There is nothing here worthy of attachment. Attach only to the Beloved, or to those beloved of the Beloved if he is not yet visible.

“This youth is for the Beloved—keep it well preserved.”
The inner flower blooming—this wondrous energy rising—belongs at his feet. Offer it only there.

“This youth is for the Beloved—keep it well preserved.”
Guard it well.

“Do not abandon your own house to set others’ houses on fire.”
Do not let this life-energy spill outward. Treat it as treasure. If it goes outward, it becomes fire. People have turned life into hell by letting energy spill. When it flows outward it is fire that burns others; when it flows inward it becomes light. The deeper it moves within, the more profound the light.

Silently bear the inner heat;
do not cast it into words.
Cool it—
in the river of service,
by the peak of seva,
till it reaches the ocean of love.
Let it descend,
spread,
ripen,
flower into waves of light.
Forget yourself in its billows.
Heat is light—
do not burn in it;
use it to see.
Do not merely walk—
animate the inert around you;
in varied moods and colors,
let the moonbeam
adorn it on the full moon.
Let it sing on the waves,
upon swaying boats,
upon the shore of this land,
at the invitation of far lands.
Renounce—
let the inner heat,
rightly handled,
be light within
and light without.
Do not burn in it;
use it to see.
Do not merely walk—
animate the inert around you.
Wed this heat
to devotion!

This inner heat—this fire—if joined with trust and devotion, becomes light. An incomparable radiance arises. That state is called Buddhahood.

By this method you go beyond body and mind;
both worlds are crossed.
If you guard your life-energy thus, by this method body and mind are transcended; this world and the next are transcended—you go beyond the dual. Non-duality is nirvana. Going beyond the two is liberation.

Sundar, then supreme joy plays—you become the Beloved’s beloved.
In that nirvana is the union with the Beloved—the marriage with the Beloved—dissolving into the Beloved.

Sundar, then supreme joy plays—you become the Beloved’s beloved.
Energy is in your hands—burn if you wish, or awaken if you wish. The sutras are direct and simple. But find living feet! Don’t be stuck with footprints. Living feet are needed.

Sometimes people come close and still go astray. Be alert. Take great care. Life is an art; those who live it rightly attain God.

Enough for today.