Jyoti Se Jyoti Jale #15

Dharma begins with the dissolution of man. As long as the person is there, Paramatma is not. No human being has ever had the vision of the Divine, nor will any human being ever have it. It is impossible. Hence the primary condition for vision is that the person must vanish, become empty, become a negation. Let the person recede, give way, and the arrival of Paramatma happens.
Just as darkness and light never meet, so man and Paramatma never meet. If darkness is, there is no light—and when light arrives, darkness is not.
Man is a darkness, because man is an ego. In spiritual terms ego and darkness are synonymous. Ego is the name of spiritual darkness. And where there is darkness, there is blindness—because in darkness nothing is seen, nothing is clear. Man lives groping, somehow struggling on—like a blind man walks. He sees nothing at all. From where we have come, we do not see. Where we go, we do not see. Why we have come, we do not see. Why we are, we do not see. And yet we must live. This is man’s irony, his anguish, his torment. Vision cannot happen until there is light. But the moment light is, darkness cannot remain.
Either Paramatma will be, or the person will be. So those who set out to seek Him must understand one thing well: only when you are ready to lose yourself will the search be fulfilled. If you protect yourself, your search is futile. The more you protect, the more impossible the search becomes. One condition will have to be fulfilled—the condition of dissolving!
Therefore I say to you: Blessed are those who are ready to vanish.
Spirituality is self-annihilation. To wipe yourself clean and erase yourself—so that no one remains within. Not even the faintest rustle of you. Not hidden in any corner, anywhere. In that very instant, the moment inner emptiness becomes total, the Full arrives. On one side emptiness becomes complete; on the other, the Whole comes—simultaneously, together, at once.
But man desires something else. Man wants to attain Paramatma and still remain himself. Man longs for the impossible. He wants darkness to remain and light to be as well; he wants the ego to be saved and Brahman-realization to happen. This cannot be. This is not the nature of things.
Do not ask for the unnatural, otherwise in the name of religion you will go on doing something else. Dharma is simply the process of effacing oneself, of melting oneself—not the process of making oneself, not the process of adorning oneself. Otherwise your virtue, your charity, your renunciation, your vows, fasts, disciplines—they will decorate you, make you heavier still. You will go farther from the Divine.
Often I have seen: the sinner is nearer to Him, the virtuous man is farther; the ignorant is nearer, the knowledgeable is farther; the indulgent is nearer, the renunciate is farther. This is the outcome, the conclusion of watching the lives of thousands. Because the ignorant has no stiffness. The ignorant says: I am ignorant—how will I know? How could I ever know? Great knowers are stuck; they cannot know—who am I? In this very helplessness lies his strength.
The sinner weeps. He owns no wealth but his tears. He can pray, but he has no claim of merit.
And what is prayer except tears? Prayer is organized weeping—dropping your tears at the feet of the Unknown! There can be no claim in prayer.
Therefore, often the sinner is closer than the virtuous. The virtuous is a claimant—“I have done so much!” He has accounts in his ledger. He has arithmetic on his side. He is not ready to bow. He comes to demand as one entitled.
Hence Jesus has rightly said: Those who are last shall be first, and those who are first shall remain last!
A word that sounds absurd to the mind, yet is full of meaning. The sinner becomes near; the virtuous, far.
Mind you, I am not telling you to sin. I am telling you: do good—but let no claim arise out of your virtue. I am not telling you to remain ignorant. I am saying: know—but do not let knowing become a claim. Let knowing not distort your innocence. Let knowledge not sit on your chest like a weight. Let knowledge not make you stiff.
Living is one thing,
drinking barrel after barrel of information is another.
Clever and schooled and literate—
wherever we looked,
we saw only these.
But living by what one truly knows—
not flowing by the body’s demands—
they were few.
Therefore, brother—learn, brother, study, brother—but do not strut.
Do not tie yourself in the noose of mere words.
Shastras are beautiful; they must not sit on your chest. Read the Gita as poetry. Hum the Vedas like songs. Let the Quran arise as music. But beware—let no claim of knowledge come. The claim of knowledge obstructs.
You will become barren
if you live too methodically,
if every word and step is weighed—
never saying what your heart truly feels,
hushing truth to sing false songs of love—
then I tell you, you will become barren.
The “knowers” become barren. No flowers or fruits grow in their lives. The virtuous become barren too. In your “great men” nothing remains but claims—a hollow swagger survives.
The true traveler on the path of Dharma will be as humble as a sinner, as innocent as the ignorant. Where the humility of the sinner and the innocence of the ignorant meet, the journey of dissolving begins. There your ice starts melting, you begin to flow; the sun rises, morning breaks. Soon you will find the sun has flooded the whole sky—and there is no trace of “you.”
One day it is found that Paramatma has surrounded you from every side—so much so that you are not. He is without and within; in every vein, every pore, in breath and in breath. When the devotee is lost, utterly lost, then the attainment of God happens.
Today’s sutra:
He acts, He destroys, He sustains forever—the beautiful, all-potent Ram.
These sutras are to erase you. These sutras are hints—how to disappear.
He acts, He destroys, He sustains forever—the beautiful, all-potent Ram.
Sundardas says: Neither are you doing anything, nor have you ever done anything. All is His doing. You have sat for free on the throne of the doer. Doership is food for the ego—“I did this, I did that!” The more a man spreads his doing, the more he stiffens. The one who has done nothing, who has nothing to claim—“I did this”—his ego is that small. The expansion of doership is the swelling of ego. You wrote a book, you built a temple, you fasted, you renounced your home, you raised a great palace, you amassed wealth—you did something, and the ego filled up! Cut it from the root.
He acts, He destroys, He sustains forever—the beautiful, all-potent Ram.
Sundardas says: The doer is He, the destroyer is He. He creates, He dissolves, He cares. Do not come in between. Ram is completely capable. There is no lack that requires you to do anything. The same thing has been said in different ways by different fakirs.
The python serves no master, the birds do no job.
Said Das Malook: Ram is the giver of all.
Malook says: Just look with open eyes! The python lies where it lies, yet its food arrives. Birds go to no employment office, yet they are fed, and they live. Do they live less than you? The truth is, they live more than you. Man lives least upon the earth. He could live if he were free from “doing and arranging.” But he finds no time free from doing—how will he live? First collect provisions, then live. While collecting, life is spent. Man says: “Let me gather wealth today; tomorrow I will live. Let me build a house today; tomorrow I will dwell.” Tomorrow never comes. While the house is being built, the day of going comes. Whose house has ever been fully finished? All must leave it incomplete. Whose journey is ever complete? All must get up halfway.
Do you not see, every day people fall and die! Do you think their work was finished? Their houses complete? Their shop finally established? Do you think the day had come when they could begin to live? It had not.
Hence the pain in death is not because of death. The pain of death is because life was spent in arranging; you never lived—and now death has arrived. Life was in your hands, but you did not live, being busy gathering means; now there is no time left.
Consider a man forever preparing for a journey—tying bundles, packing chests—only preparing, never setting out; and just when preparation is nearly done, the hour of death arrives. Your life is like this. You make arrangements. People say: “Work hard today, tomorrow we will enjoy!” But today how can we enjoy? Today we must work, then tomorrow something will be left to enjoy. Tomorrow the same, and the day after too. Because whenever a day arrives, it arrives like “today.” And you have cultivated a habit of postponing to tomorrow. You keep putting off—until one day death comes.
Man lives the least upon the earth, and arranges the most for living. Watch the animals and birds a little, learn from them!
Someone asked Jesus: What is the essence of your message? You will be surprised at his answer. Jesus said: Ask the birds, ask the plants, ask the fish. Just look at life with attention—my message will be understood. Do you see the lilies in the field? They neither toil nor spin, yet Solomon in all his glory was not clothed like one of these. The lilies stand poor in the fields. They have no wealth, no rank, no prestige; nothing. But do you see their beauty! Ask them! Ask the birds, ask the fish!
What is Jesus saying? He is saying: Open your eyes and look at nature. All of nature is living. Plants live more than you, drink more sap than you. Man keeps drying up. And what is the root of his drying? He has stiffened into the belief that things happen by his doing, that only if he does will anything happen.
You were in your mother’s womb for nine months—who fed you? In the womb you could not even breathe—who breathed for you? How did you grow there? Who kept making you grow? On whose support did you rest? You were utterly helpless—who brought you forth from the womb? And before you arrived, the mother’s breasts were filled with milk—who filled them?
As before your arrival all arrangements for you were being made—some invisible hand was taking care of you. “Hand” is a symbol. Some invisible law—that law’s very name is Dharma—was holding you. In the language of love, that law is called Paramatma. We have given Him four hands—so He can support you from all four directions. We have given Him a thousand hands—so that, with thousands of people, no hand is ever entangled somewhere else when another needs one!
Yesterday I was reading a poem. Behold how people see! The poet had written: “Cheating began from the start—He made four hands for Himself, and gave two to man. Deceit from the beginning! Self-interest from the start. Even God is selfish!” A significant symbol has been turned into a cause for criticism: He made four for Himself and gave two to man.
His hands are for you. The day your hands too become for Him, that very day the union happens. His thousand hands are for you; your two hands are not for Him. You have stood apart in your own pride. Yet you are not separate—your pride is delusion. No human being can live alone. It is an error to see man as an isolated individual. Man is a relationship—not a person.
And what do I mean by saying man is a relationship? If breath does not come, you are finished. You need the ocean of life-air all around to live. If the sun does not come, you are finished. You need the life-giving rays from the sun to live. Without water, you are finished. You need sky, winds, sun, moon-stars, water, earth. Only when all are there do you live. Among all these you are merely a relationship—a junction, a confluence of the five elements. Within this confluence there is something which itself is not a confluence. That we have called Paramatma. That is not “you.” You are only a composite—earth, sky, air, fire.
But within you there is one who is not you. To know that, you must become a non-person—utterly; only then will the door of possibility open.
Form?
“Mine,” said the earth.
Color?
“I give it,” said the ray.
Flavor?
“I shower it on all,” said the cloud.
Breath?
“Do you not know me?” said the wind.
Too much familiarity breeds disregard.
Word?
Word?
A limited wave
of the vast ocean of sound
that struck the throat and broke—
that which you piece together in many ways,
said the sky.
Synthesis?
Aggregation?
“Am I just a collection?”
“No,” said the Unknown.
You—who took the name “I”—
are not the collection but the collector;
were you mere collection,
you would not be so frightened,
nor raise such questions.
Within you there sits a witness to this entire collection—who is not earth, not sky, not fire. A dwelling of consciousness abides in you. But in that consciousness there is absolutely no ego. You are not there as a person; that consciousness is Satchidananda. My consciousness and your consciousness are not separate. The consciousness in all of us is one. Our bodies differ, the Atman is one. Our speech differs, our emptiness is one. When we speak, we differ; our tongues are many. When we are silent, silence is not many.
Here are people who know many languages—almost the languages of the whole world. When they speak, they are different. But if all sit silently—still, quiet—will German silence be different from Japanese silence? Will Indian silence be different from Chinese? Silence is one.
Within, beyond word, form, and color, something else is. Beyond the known, something is. That is called Paramatma. He is the doer, the destroyer, the receiver, the giver. The whole play is His. You come in the way for nothing. And by your coming, a great mischief happens—not to Him, but you are deprived of life.
Dharma is to live life in its vastness. You remain petty. Dharma is to live as the ocean; you remain a mere drop. You bind yourself within limits. You build your own prisons. You are so skilled at building walls that you raise wall upon wall. You are so fond of walls—first you raise them: this is India, separate from China, separate from Afghanistan. Then within India: this is Hindu, that Muslim. Then within Hindu: a thousand boundaries—Brahmin, Shudra. Then within Brahmin: who is Kanyakubja, who this, who that—Chaturvedi, Trivedi, Dwivedi. More and more boundaries. And what are you doing? You are becoming smaller. At last, what remains of you? A hollow ego—empty of content.
Become vast! Break boundaries! You are not a Brahmin, not a Shudra, not a Hindu, not a Muslim. Not Indian, not Afghan. Drop boundaries—break limits—rise beyond! The more vast you become, the nearer you come to the Divine.
Why do you fear vastness? Because there is one danger in vastness—the ego cannot survive. If one wants to save ego, one must erect boundaries. If you are a Brahmin, you can strut; if a Hindu, you can strut. If neither Hindu nor Brahmin, neither Muslim nor Christian, neither Indian nor Pakistani—on what will you strut? What base will pride have?
To break this base, the first sutra:
He acts, He destroys, He sustains forever—the beautiful, all-potent Ram.
Distinct from all, yet in all is His abode.
He sits within all, and yet sits apart. He is not earth, not fire, not air; within all, and yet utterly distinct. The seer of all, the witness of all. You go to a play, yet forget that you went to see. You go to a film—nothing happens on the screen; you know well it is only a blank screen. A play of light and shadow. And yet your eyes moisten, tears come, you laugh. A very exciting scene appears—you spring in your chair, sit bolt upright. You laugh, you cry, you rejoice, you grieve—though you know nothing is on the screen, only light and shadow.
You forget you are a seer even in a play—what wonder then if you forget in the great drama of life! This is a vast stage. A colossal acting goes on. All are actors; each has donned a disguise. One is a king, one a beggar; one a man, one a woman—many colors, many forms. But within, the one formless sits. When all curtains fall, you will be startled—you will see there was no division.
Those who recognize this non-division amidst the play are called jivan-mukta—liberated while alive. Only the one liberated in life is free in death. One not liberated while living will not know liberation in death; he must return to life. He has not learned the lesson. He must come back to the same class.
Life is a school. What is the single lesson to learn? That all here is acting—and within us sits the seer who only sees.
Distinct from all, yet in all is His abode.
This is the art of Maya—He Himself, the stainless King.
He fashioned this Maya full of forms and colors, created this great drama—and He Himself stands apart, watching, Niranjan. Not involved at all. No color sticks to Him. Colors fly everywhere—the festival of Holi is on, gulal is flung. Then you go home, bathe, and all is clean. You cannot be colored—you are Niranjan. When you became a husband, even then what is within did not become a husband. When you became old, what is within did not age. When you lost, what is within did not lose. These are outer events—Holi’s colors. Play with them, fling colors—but within sits the stainless One.
This is the art of Maya—He Himself, the stainless King.
See how beauty arises—and then, in a moment, disappears!
What a wondrous world He made! In an instant things arise, in an instant they disperse. Yet we are blind; we cling to the ephemeral, we cry and scream. We fall in love with bubbles—then when bubbles burst, we are hurt.
See how beauty arises—and then, at once, vanishes.
Everything vanishes at once; what delay is there? It rises like a dream and dissolves. How many came, how many went! We too are here, we too shall go. After us others will come and go. Centuries later no one will even know that you once were. Dust returns to dust, water to water.
Yet how much clamour you create now! How much weight you carry! All will vanish, and you sit anxious: “The rains have come—may the house not fall!” All will fall. Someone said a small thing and you are so hurt you cannot sleep. Neither you will remain, nor he. How many have lived on this earth—fought, quarreled, cut and beat, and departed! Do you remember any? Do you think you are the first to be abused? Those who were abused, insulted, who fought—where are they? If you search the earth today, can you tell which dust belonged to the victor and which to the defeated, which to Alexander and which to the slave? Dust is dust. Ash is ash.
Where all rises and falls, we cling to tiny things with fierce grip. In that very grip we suffer. And whoever grasps at waves will be miserable—waves cannot be held. If you clutch the momentary, you will be restless; your clutch cannot make the transient eternal. Yet our impossible effort continues—to make the fleeting permanent. Where change alone is the truth, we want to arrest, to fix. But nothing stays. Hence our sorrow, our torment. Today there is wealth, tomorrow it will be gone. You want to hold—“It must remain.” Today you are successful, tomorrow you will fail. Today a garland of victory adorns your neck; tomorrow the flowers will wither. The same garland will be around another’s neck. Then you will suffer.
What does Sundardas point to? See all—cling to nothing. Let what comes, come; let what goes, go.
The Jewish fakir, Zusya’s son, died. Zusya danced as he escorted him to the cremation ground. People thought, “He has gone mad.” They suspected before that Zusya was mad. In the temple when he prayed, others had to leave, because he would leap about—tables and chairs toppled, things broke. Was this prayer or madness? But the truth was—when he drowned in prayer, he was no longer himself. Then whatever God did, happened. People ran out of the temple, lest anyone get in his way and be caught in trouble. A great force would descend in him—he could defeat a crowd alone. Many tried to hold him; a whole crowd would be overpowered. “He is mad,” they thought.
Often, the wise seem crazy. When knowledge floods, a kind of divine madness comes.
And when he went to bid farewell to his dead son—young and gone—and began to dance, people said: “Mad—we knew.” But he was saying to God: “You gave me a gift; today You took it back. As best I could, I cared for it. If there was any mistake, forgive me. But You considered me worthy enough to entrust me with this treasure for these days—let me at least give thanks! Therefore I dance. You deemed me worthy! You sent one of Your beloveds to me for a while. I am happy that I return him as You sent him—not damaged at all. And happy that not even a trace of attachment clings to me. Yet it is not that while he was with me I failed to care.”
People knew—Zusya loved his son deeply. Few fathers love so. He cherished him. But inside that love was a Niranjan-ness, a witnessing. It was God’s gift—so he loved; but he entertained no insistence on holding. What of mine? What is one’s own?
See how beauty arises—and then, in a moment, disappears.
Here things keep forming and falling apart. A bubble rises on water and is gone. Watch the arising, watch the dissolving. Watch with delight—but remember you are the watcher.
Your visage is beautiful—who could describe it?
Hearing your Word, the whole world is enchanted, O Sundar.
Sundardas says: When I knew the witness, I recognized Your face. That is His face. Do not seek Him in statues. You will not find Him there. His “image” is hidden within you. His visage is the witnessing. If you wish to see His face—be a witness. Whether good or bad, whether fair days or ill; success or failure; pleasure, pain, life, death—whatever comes, watch it dispassionately. You will recognize His face, for He is witness-form.
Your countenance is wondrous—
When I withdrew the sense of doership and sank into witnessing, I knew Your face. And Your face is wondrous! What a marvel—that so near You sit, and yet You seem millions of miles away! And wondrous—that You have no color, no form—yet You are! Your face is wondrous—no mirror can reflect it, no painter has captured it.
Your visage is beautiful—who could describe it?
To this day, no one has been able to describe Him.
You want to make me into the meaning of words?
No—that is not possible, never;
Do not compel me
to be locked in the shells of waves.
The mantra is itself the seer.
To put a question mark upon its fullness—
is that not to defeat its sanctity?
Do not take from the free-hearted bird
its sky;
Do not pluck the experience of ages
in a single moment.
Am I not a complete, knowing moment—
whom you, pitiless, dissect again and again into the three times,
shattering the dignity of the Unmanifest by making it manifest?
He is the Unmanifest. Do not fragment His dignity by expressing Him. He is like the sky. You cannot enclose Him in your fists.
Do not compel me
to be locked in the shells of waves.
You cannot imprison the ocean’s waves in shells. If you do, they will no longer be ocean-waves. You cannot capture this vast sky in your fist. As the fist tightens, the sky slips out. Paramatma is as fluid as quicksilver. Try to seize—and you will not hold Him.
To bind You in words—
I will not dare.
With Your very limbs
You have written a song—
melting, rhythmic,
silent yet sonorous,
juicy with color,
fragrant with cadence.
Before it,
my arrangement of words—
though full of meaning—
within the limit of my capacity—
will seem but a new poem,
without rhythm,
squeezed of sap,
dry, crude.
O mind-swan,
butter-soft,
when I wish to hear Your song again,
I will not seek help from my familiar words.
I will plug my ears,
close my mouth,
fasten wings to my eyelids,
cross the sky of time,
reach the shore of the Milky Lake,
step down upon Your bank,
behold You,
and from my eyes
let fall liquid pearl-drops.
Words cannot say Him. No picture can be drawn of Him.
Have you seen a dancer dance? How will you describe her dance in words? It is difficult.
With Your very limbs
You have written a song—
melting, rhythmic,
silent yet sonorous,
juicy with color,
fragrant with cadence.
Before it,
my arrangement of words—
though full of meaning—
within the limit of my capacity—
will seem but a new poem,
without rhythm,
squeezed dry,
crude.
It is not that man has not tried to express Him. All scriptures are the outcome of that effort. But who has ever said Him? Words are too small, too petty. All attempts to bring the Vast into words have failed and will fail. Man will never be capable.
Your visage is beautiful—who could describe it?
Hearing Your Word, the whole world is enchanted, O Sundar.
Yet if one dives within, one can see.
O mind-swan,
butter-soft—
when I wish to hear Your song again,
I will not seek help from my familiar words.
I will plug my ears,
close my mouth,
fasten wings to my eyelids,
cross the sky of time,
reach the shore of the Milky Lake,
step down upon Your bank,
behold You,
and from my eyes
let fall liquid pearl-drops.
When you wish to know Him, close your eyes, shut your ears. Let speech fall away. Let words depart. Let the mind be empty. And instantly His anahat–nad is heard. His formless form reveals itself. His Nirakar envelops you. The inexpressible rains in your life as sap, awakens as cadence. He can be heard, He can be seen. His Voice can be heard within.
The saints called this inner Voice “Shabd.” Shabd does not mean the words you use. Shabd means: not your word—His. It has been called the sound of Omkara. If you become silent, He speaks. If you become utterly still, within that stillness the subtle tones can be caught.
The waves of His music are present even now. But your uproar is too much—like someone softly playing a flute in a market. Who will hear?
Where there is great noise, the flute’s notes are lost. But if one wants to hear, and becomes silent even in the marketplace, then even there he can catch the tiny, soft notes of the flute. Your attention must move—gathered, in a single direction.
He who turns within finds—His visage, His image, His Voice, the scripture of scriptures. Bathing in that note alone comes purity. One bathes in that note—and virtue happens. That is the real Ganga. What should one do?
Whenever the moment came
when I was beaten, beaten, beaten—
I called You!
You came,
You smiled,
You kept looking at me—
and I found support.
Whenever the moment came
when I was beaten, beaten, beaten—
I called You.
Lose—and call Him!
Whenever the moment came
when I was beaten, beaten, beaten—
I called You.
You came,
You smiled,
You kept looking at me—
and I found support.
Call Him by losing. Not with the strut of virtue, not with the strut of knowledge—call with the awareness of ignorance, with the feeling of sin. Call helplessly. In that very call all your noise will vanish. That call is prayer.
But remember—prayer happens only when you call after losing. No stiffness, no claim, no complaint, no desire, no demand. Only this much: I am here—far in a foreign land, and beyond You I have no support. I have tried everything—nothing happens. Now I call You.
As if someone were drowning in the ocean and called—call, beaten.
Hearing His Word, the whole world is enchanted.
Whoever has heard His Voice, the Shabd—Ek Omkar Satnam—whoever has heard that One Omkar is enchanted. He becomes His forever.
Have you seen snakes dance before a piper? That is nothing. When the inner flute sounds and you hear, the dance that arises is eternal. It breaks all boundaries of time and space. Once it begins, it has no end. Beginning there is; end, none.
My Beloved, You are One—there is no other.
Let His face once flash within, His reflection arise within—
My Beloved, You are One—there is no other.
Then He alone is dear, and none else. All scenes fade and depart. One feeling remains, constant.
Why are You hidden—why do You not manifest?
Sundardas says: I ask You—just as You have revealed Yourself to me, why do You not reveal Yourself to all? Why sit hidden?
Paramatma is not sitting hidden—we sit with closed eyes. We make a sly taunt at Him. He is present, manifest; we are blind. There is no veil upon Him—we have veiled our eyes. How will meeting happen?
Have you noticed—if someone talks to you wearing dark glasses, it is difficult. Politicians often wear them. Rajagopalachari wore dark glasses—day and night. He was modern India’s Chanakya. If a man, wearing dark glasses, speaks with you, you feel some hindrance. You cannot see his eyes. Without seeing eyes, how will you know if he speaks truth? The eyes do not lie. The lips lie—the lips are under control. The eyes are not. That is why diplomats keep their eyes hidden. But then it is hard to talk; there is an obstruction. If the dark glasses come off, talk becomes easy.
Paramatma wants to speak with you, but your eyes wear a very dark glass. He is not hidden—your eyes wear the spectacles of darkness. And you cling to darkness as your property. You have taken ego to be your own. As long as you take ego as your own, His voice cannot be heard. Even if you hear, you will misinterpret.
Why are You hidden—why do You not manifest?
Such is Your sovereignty—no one can know it.
When someone sees the Master, he recognizes: O Master—
Such is Your sovereignty—no one can know it.
Hidden within. The whole existence is Yours. You bloom the flowers, You raise the suns. You create, You dissolve.
He acts, He destroys, He sustains forever—the beautiful, all-potent Ram.
And yet no one gets wind of You; no one hears that You are making such a vast arrangement. People do tiny arrangements—and raise a clamour, band and loudspeaker blaring. They arrange “nonstop kirtan”—and we get “keerantan,” not kirtan. They themselves do not sleep, nor let the neighborhood sleep. At the slightest thing, people create a ruckus. You orchestrate a vast marvel—and no one knows!
Lao Tzu’s famous saying: If a true emperor is truly an emperor, people do not even know that he is. His very presence is unknown. A little lower, and people know he does everything. A little lower, and people complain he does wrong too. Still lower, and people are ready to kill him—revolts and revolutions arise.
Paramatma’s sovereignty is such that it does not show. In truth, one needs to display sovereignty only when one doubts it oneself—then one must declare it, else who will believe? When there is no doubt, there is no need to announce.
So the truly great—when you go to them, you do not feel small; you feel great too. The false great—near them you always feel diminished; they are eager to make you small. Only by making you small can they remain big. The sign of true greatness: in the presence of such a one, you will not even notice that he is special; he will lift you with him—to his heights. He will grant you dignity, respect, honor.
Paramatma has lifted this entire existence to height. The smallest has as much regard as the greatest. A drop of dew matters as much as the great ocean.
How many times the thought arose:
If the world is an ocean,
what am I but a tiny drop?
And those called “great”—
are they more than a little drop?
But before my eyes,
this metaphor does not last long—
the ocean disappears;
only drops remain,
comparing themselves—
one becoming “big,”
proud in bigness;
one feeling small,
ashamed.
O my ever-playful consciousness—
keep me ever
on the shore of the world’s sea,
so I may see myself
relative to the ocean—
see every point—
not greater than any,
not lesser than any—
moist, fluid, ordinary,
equal with all,
offering to all
sensitivity, affection, honor!
In His eyes, there is no difference between ocean and drop. Here, if one drop is slightly big, it struts before smaller drops; it makes them feel small. That is pettiness.
Such is Your sovereignty—no one can know it.
He lets no one know. People strut. The doer is You—people think they do. Yet You do not say: “What are you saying? I did it!” You let them strut. Such is Your sovereignty. This is the true form of Your majesty.
In Lao Tzu’s words: The true emperor does it himself, but the people think we did it—and he rejoices.
The true Sadguru does much, but allows the disciples to feel they are doing it. It should not be known! True sovereignty has no exhibition in the marketplace.
Such is Your sovereignty—no one can know it.
Sundar, You see and hear all—and are not implicated in anything.
Words do not reach there—there, neither knowing nor meditation.
Words do not reach there. Knowledge does not reach there. Only love reaches there. Not knowledge—love. Not even meditation reaches there. As long as there is meditation, you have not reached. Upon reaching, meditation too departs. And the state where meditation departs—that is called Samadhi.
Remember—Samadhi is not the state of knowing. In Samadhi, neither a knower remains nor a known; no subject, no object; no seer, no seen. In meditation there are two: the meditator and the object of meditation—there is duality. In knowledge too there is duality: someone knows, something is known.
Sundardas says: There, neither knowledge reaches nor meditation. Only love reaches—Priti.
Sometimes,
when I
grow silent,
I find
silence opens me
to untouched depths,
speaks to me
to the full stop.
When all within you becomes silent, the Full speaks. And only in love does all become silent. Love is a state of silence. Love does not need to speak. Love conveys without words. When two are in love, to sit together in silence is enough. Talking is needed only when silence becomes awkward. Lovers sit silent, hand in hand, for hours. Silence suffices. Love flows in silence—only in silence.
Thus the devotee sits silent before God. He sings sometimes, but even his singing is not to say anything. He weeps sometimes, but even his tears say nothing—because words do not reach there.
Words do not reach there—there, neither knowledge nor meditation.
Saying and saying thus I have said; now Sundar is bewildered.
A very lovely thing! Sundar says: Saying so much, I have said it—and now I am bewildered: why did I say? Words do not reach there.
Saying and saying thus I have said; now Sundar is bewildered.
I am astonished—why did I keep speaking?
All the Buddhas have felt this. They know it cannot be said—and they say. Daily they say; morning they say, evening they say; sitting and rising they say—and they know it cannot be said. Why do they speak? Its purpose is not to say Him—it is to let those who have no hint at all, at least the whisper enter their ears. Let a sign fall that such a thing is. Such is Your sovereignty! Even if only the word falls into the ear and is not understood—
He acts, He destroys, He sustains forever—the beautiful, all-potent Ram—
it will remain like a seed. When it will work, none can tell.
And then—“Saying and saying thus I have said”—Sundardas says: even the one who was speaking within me is no longer there—now only You are. You must have made me speak—therefore I am bewildered: what is this? Who spoke within me and called me? As You will!
Saying and saying thus I have said; now Sundar is bewildered.
“No wish for praise, no care for reward;
if there is no meaning in my verses—so be it.”
Understand Ghalib’s words: “No longing for praise; no concern for reward. And if my verses have no meaning—so be it.” Even if there is no meaning, still someone is singing, something rises within beyond my control. Someone has strummed the strings—songs will arise. Let there be no praise, no reward—not even meaning perceived by anyone—still, it is a compulsion.
Saying and saying thus I have said; now Sundar is bewildered.
A doll of salt goes into the ocean to measure its depth.
Sundar—measuring not found—dissolved and disappeared.
Sundar says: My situation is like that salt-doll who went to measure the sea. I too set out to fathom You. O my Master! Such is Your sovereignty! I went to find: Who are You, what are You, where are You? My fate was the same as the doll of salt. I was lost. Now You are found—when I am not.
You have come today—
after so many days, today—
come!
So many days I watched for You,
so many days I counted Your day.
So many days, silent, with love from my lips—
so many days, with total absorption, I listened to Your praise.
The path changed from where to where—
where I used to wait.
Days went, came, went, came—many.
What shall I say—how many monsoons, autumns, springs were lost.
So much I counted Your virtues
that I became only Your praise.
Today, when I am no more—
You have come today—
after so many days, today—
come!
Paramatma comes only when the devotee, singing His virtues, gets dissolved in the singing.
A doll of salt goes into the ocean to measure its depth.
Sundar—measuring not found—dissolved and disappeared.
Your depth was not found—I myself was lost. A fine bargain indeed! I went to gain—and You remain as unfathomable as before; as mysterious as ever; as unknown and unknowable. And this bargain is blessed—I was lost in the middle! You did not come into grasp, and I too slipped from my hand. But this is the hour of bliss—for this is how He enters within you.
You have come today—
after so many days, today—
come!
So many days I watched for You,
so many days I counted Your day.
So many days, with love, silently from my lips,
so many days, with total absorption, I listened to Your praise.
The path changed from where to where—
where I used to wait.
Days went, came, went, came—many.
What shall I say—how many monsoons, autumns, springs were lost.
So much I counted Your virtues
that I became only Your praise.
Today, when I am no more—
You have come today—
after so many days, today—
come!
He comes only then.
I live in the hope of Hari’s darshan.
Therefore, those who long to attain Him—be ready to vanish. Union is not cheaper than this. This price must be paid. And it is no great price, because what are you? What do you have to lose? A delusion. You are a shadow, a dream. A heap of earth and water. Even if this is lost, nothing is lost. Lose yourself—and you will lose nothing. By saving yourself, you have lost all; by losing yourself—you will gain all.
I live in the hope of Hari’s darshan.
When shall I see my life-beloved? Both my eyes are dying of thirst.
Let prayer become such that the eyes become burning embers—the flames of thirst.
When shall I see my life-beloved—
my life’s beloved—when will He come?
—both my eyes are dying of thirst.
The eyes grow dim, begin to die, their light fading—watching His path.
O tearful vision—what shall I say of this tale of love?
A lamp is lit to be extinguished; a flower blooms to wither.
I roamed the horizons with my lamp of love;
You had gone far to amuse Yourself in the sky.
Those flower-like moments now rest upon the delicate shoulders of memory—
which lovingly You had entrusted to this madman at the start.
To be annihilated together would at least be a celebration;
this lonely burning is not right—someone advise the moth.
We are burning anyway. We are already laid upon the pyre. Our life is only flame.
Learn the art of burning! If you must burn, burn with Him, for Him.
To be annihilated together would be a celebration—
burning with Him, for Him, an ecstasy happens.
To be annihilated together would be a celebration;
this lonely burning is not right—someone advise the moth.
This solitary burning has no essence. Merge your flame in His flame—burn with Him.
O tearful vision—what shall I say of this tale of love?
A lamp is lit to be extinguished; a flower blooms to wither.
All these flowers will wither. All these lamps will go out. Death is certain. Offer this flower at His feet. Offer this lamp into His ocean. And you will find—offered, the flower becomes immortal, it will not wither; and the lamp, given nirvana in His ocean, becomes eternal—its flame will not be put out: without wick, without oil—it will burn, and keep burning.
I live in the hope of Hari’s darshan.
When shall I see my life-beloved? Both my eyes are dying of thirst.
Not for a moment do I forget—remembering Him with every breath.
When in inhalation, exhalation—coming breath, going breath—His remembrance is absorbed.
When not for a moment do I forget—
and when one cannot forget, even if one tries to forget one cannot; even when trying to forget, only His remembrance comes—
The story of the night of sorrow is long;
shortly—You ruined me.
Perhaps my heart has some kinship with Your beauty;
for when the pain rose, why did I remember You?
All twenty-four hours, remembrance will rise, and pain too. And the pain is sweet—beloved pain. In His separation is great joy; in the world’s union, great sorrow. You may be successful in the world—nothing is gained. You may fail with Him—and all is gained.
Friend, how much longer?
Shall the peacock dance without clouds?
Friend, how much longer?
The earth is mute,
the sky is deaf;
at the door of doubt
sits faith.
Will mornings sleep
in the houses of nights?
Friend, how much longer?
On the path the python
has gripped the villages;
the fawn-feet tremble
like frightened deer.
The lips’ silence
has stolen the songs.
Friend, how much longer?
Deep within the head
sits a heavy thirst;
from the bank
the waves say sadly—
we and you are bound
by the string of fate.
Friend, how much longer?
Shall the peacock dance without clouds?
Friend, how much longer?
Let remembrance grow dense moment by moment—be absorbed in every breath!
A famous event from the life of Sheikh Farid: He would go to the river to bathe. A seeker asked on the way: “How to find God?” Farid said: “Come with me to the river. As far as I can, I will show you while bathing; if not, then afterwards on the steps I will explain.” The man was afraid—“Show while bathing?” Perhaps he is mad! Then he thought—fakirs speak mysteriously, there must be meaning. He went. Both stepped into the river. As soon as the seeker took a dip, Farid climbed upon his head, pressed him down—did not let him rise. Farid was a strong, ecstatic fakir. The seeker—like seekers are—likely a philosopher, thin from worry. But when life is at stake, even a thin man gains strength. It was life and death. He exerted his whole strength. In the end he threw Farid off. As he came out—face flushed, eyes red with anger—Farid asked: “Understood? Did you receive the answer?”
The man said: “What answer? Is this an answer? I suspected earlier—you seem a murderer. People think you are a great saint!”
Farid said: “We will talk later—first tell me, before you forget—when I held you under water, how many thoughts were there in you?”
He said: “How many thoughts! Is that a time to think? Only one thought—how to get a single breath!”
Farid asked: “And how long did even that thought last?”
The man said: “Not long. Even it did not remain a thought; it spread through every hair and pore. Then my whole being became only this: how to get one breath. It was not a question to sit and solve—life and death it was. My entire strength went into it—not that I used it, it just poured.”
Farid said: “That is my answer. The day the longing to attain God arises like that—like a drowning man’s lust for a single breath—”
And consider—death is pressing you under the water. Death rides your chest. You are in death’s grip. Her claw upon your throat grows deeper every day. Death will wring you out. Death comes nearer daily. Whenever a bier passes, it is your bier. Whenever a pyre burns, it is your pyre. Today you carry someone to the burning ground—tomorrow someone will carry you. Think a little.
Let it become clear to you that life is encircled by death, this life is momentary, death surrounds on all sides—and this life’s defeat is certain. Before it is defeated, another life must be known. Before this life is extinguished by death, a flame of eternal life must be found.
Not for a moment do I forget—remembering with every breath.
At home and outside I find no rest, day and night am sad.
Thinking thus, my friend,
my blood and flesh have dried.
All has withered—body is mere bone and frame. The fleshly ornaments have dried.
How will one live in separation? The pain of separation torments every nerve.
How to live this life? Here there is no life. Life is with the Beloved. And the wonder—such is Your sovereignty!—that You sit within. You are nearer than near—and we take You as farther than far. We worry and fret for nothing—
He acts, He destroys, He sustains forever—the beautiful, all-potent Ram—
and You do all.
Our condition is like this: a king was returning from the hunt to his palace. On the way he saw an old woodcutter, completely exhausted, carrying his bundle of sticks. Pity arose. He seated him in his golden chariot. The old man was embarrassed. The king said, “Sit—do not fear.” But to sit in a golden chariot! He said, “No, no, Majesty—how can I?” Finally the king had to command, “Climb in, old man, or I’ll have your neck cut!” He climbed, but even seated, he kept his bundle of sticks on his head. The chariot rolled. The king asked, “Why not put the bundle down?” He said, “No, lord, it is enough that You seated me—should I also place my bundle’s weight upon Your chariot? No—this I cannot.”
You sit, the bundle on your head—the weight falls on the chariot anyway. He who keeps us alive, who runs our breath—the weight is on Him. You sit needlessly burdened. Put this bundle down.
He acts, He destroys, He sustains forever—the beautiful, all-potent Ram.
Distinct from all, yet in all is His abode.
He does everything. Do not worry. Become free of care.
Only the devotee knows the flavor of being carefree.
In today’s world, worry is everywhere. Do you see the cause? One only: devotion is lost, trust is lost, the link with the Divine is lost. Even now we sit in His chariot. But earlier the devotees would sit and put their bundles down. We too sit in His chariot—but we do not even acknowledge the chariot. How will we put the bundle down? We hold it on our heads. In the West even more than in the East, anxiety is dense, because in the West the relationship with God is even more broken. Only he can be carefree who clearly senses: the Master handles all. I will do as He bids—if He raises me, I rise; if He seats me, I sit; if He makes me walk, I walk. I do not need to carry my load. He who moves the moon and stars—will He not move my tiny life?
The moment this small insight deepens, a revolution happens; rest descends, a pause arrives. Anxiety departs. The clouds of worry disperse; the sun of carefreeness rises.
Only the carefree can taste life’s juice. Worry eats you—becomes your pyre. Only the one without burden can dance—with trees, under stars, in the sunrays, with birds. Only he can dance who is weightless.
Paramatma is the process of making man weightless.
Dharma is the science of making man carefree. As Dharma has been lost, man has become ill and diseased. Now his chest holds nothing but disorders. He is hollowed out. No one else is responsible. Try living like this—
When the sky is overcast and fearsome,
when shivers awaken again and again in your heart,
when the earth slips from beneath your feet,
when the whole world around seems to sob—
in such a time, sing alone and see;
let your voice cover the storms and see.
By opening your throat to song, all becomes possible;
howl turns to birdsong.
In the inert and the conscious, sprouts of tone burst and spread,
and upon that, swaras burst, laden, breaking and pouring.
There has never been a dawn so wrong
that in its evening there was no birdsong.
In such a time—sing alone and see.
The world is irreligious. Now if you must sing, you must sing alone.
When the sky is overcast and fearsome—
and never has it seemed so fearsome as today.
When shivers awaken again and again in your heart—
and man trembles. He is worried and tormented.
When shivers awaken again and again in your heart;
when the sky is overcast and fearsome;
when the earth slips from beneath your feet—
Look closely—the soil beneath your feet is indeed slipping; your mansions were built on sand; all are about to fall.
When the whole world around seems to sob—
Listen—hearts are wounded; minds and lives in pain. Who today is happy? In whose throat is a song? Whose feet dance? Who celebrates? Those days have gone—of festivity and rasa and color. Now man seems to count his last breaths, lying on his deathbed.
When the sky is overcast and fearsome,
when shivers awaken again and again in your heart,
when the earth slips from beneath your feet,
when the whole world around seems to sob—
in such a time, sing alone and see;
let your voice cover the storms and see.
Let a little flavor of devotion surge. Remember the Lord a little. Look within a little. If the touch of witnessing happens, revolution happens—heaven descends upon this very earth. In this very body Buddhahood incarnates—here, now. In this very clay-body, the vision of nectar is; in this death-filled world, the lamp of the Eternal is lit.
Raise this note. Awaken this song. Do not go without awakening it—do not go without singing it. Otherwise, what answer will you give to the Lord? How will you stand before Him?
Before death comes, let trust come into life. Before death knocks at your door, let the knocking of Paramatma be heard in your breath.
At any cost, the search for the Divine is essential—everything else is futile.
Jesus is right: Even if you gain the whole world, if you lose your soul, what have you gained? And if you gain your soul and lose all else, you have lost nothing.
Enough for today.