Jyoti Se Jyoti Jale #19

In this life, who knows when anyone’s heart ever truly settled! And if, for a little while, it does, where does it stay! Just now it clung, just now it was uprooted.
This life is not the real life. If someone wishes to be deceived, let them be deceived — but for how long? Sooner or later there is awakening. One may go on pressing sand for oil — how long can he go on? There is no oil in sand; sooner or later, understanding dawns.
This life is not the real life. The real life waits — “Seek me.” That is why no one’s mind truly rests here. Try a thousand ways to fix it, it doesn’t fix. Try a thousand ways to entangle it, to bewitch it, it keeps breaking away. Has this never appeared to you? Some lack is always felt. And it is not that only the poor feel a lack; those who have everything feel an even greater lack. The day one has attained all that the world can give, that day the lack is felt most profoundly — even hopes crumble.
No one is more impoverished than the rich. The poor at least can hope for a little wealth; for the rich, even that hope is shattered. The poor man thinks: tomorrow there will be some money, a house, land, property; we will live comfortably; life will be found. The rich man has lost even that hope. There is wealth outside and the inner poverty stands exposed, untouched. The outer heap of wealth becomes the blackboard on which the poverty within is written large — as if someone writes with white chalk upon a black slate. Only if the slate is black does the white script show. On a white board it would not be seen.
The rich man sees his poverty. It is no accident that Buddha and Mahavira were princes. It is no accident that all the Hindu avatars were princes, all the Jain Tirthankaras were princes. They must have seen poverty — concentrated, intense. The lamp of hope from the world was utterly extinguished, for all that the world could offer — was. Then their eyes turned inward.
This lack is felt by all — from beggar to emperor. Only the beggar thinks: because I lack wealth, I feel lack; because I lack position, I feel lack. When I have position and wealth I shall be fulfilled.
In this world no one is ever fulfilled. Even an Alexander leaves empty-handed. Attain everything here — still the hands remain empty.
“In this garden of existence, my heart does not find its place.
God knows from whom we came separated, and thus arrived.”
Somewhere deep within, we still remember the primal source from which our coming happened. We have forgotten much; oblivion has grown deep; layer upon layer of the experiences of many births has gathered. Yet some faint whisper is still heard somewhere: this is not our home. We suppress that voice, for no other home is visible. And if you listen to that voice you will go mad. If you listen, how then will you live here?
The voice of religion arises in everyone within; people throttle it. It is hard to find upon this earth one who has not, at some time, had the insight that we are foreigners here. Our country is elsewhere. Our own native land is elsewhere. The very reason we feel so much sorrow is this: we have known bliss. We must have known it! Without knowing bliss, sorrow cannot be recognized. Without knowing bliss, even the search for bliss is impossible.
And here every person is seeking bliss. Whether along wrong roads or right, whether in the right directions or the wrong, each one seeks bliss. We search only for that which is lost. Surely it was ours, and slipped. It was in our hands and was lost. We have known it in some moments. Long intervals have passed, centuries perhaps, we have wandered in uncountable forms — our own original face is lost.
As though a man acts in one play, then in another, then in a third — and keeps acting in play after play — and one day, suddenly, remembers: Who am I? I have acted in so many dramas, worn so many forms, donned so many costumes that I can no longer recall what my true face is, what my original nature is.
By acting and acting, a man becomes the act. By posing and posing, a man becomes the pose. By deceiving and deceiving, we become the deception. By telling lies, we become lies. And lies are what we have spoken; deception is what we have dispensed; masks are what we have worn. Now our real face is unrecognizable — not even remembered. And yet, somewhere, a voice still trickles; somewhere a spring still flows.
Whenever you sit silently, you will feel this earth is not your true home. Therefore people fear to sit silently; they fear emptiness. They keep themselves entangled. They keep busy. If there is no real work, they take up useless work. The holiday comes — for which six days they had waited, “When the holiday comes, we will rest” — and then they pull out the car, open the clock, “Let’s repair this!” They find some busyness or other.
A man does not leave himself unoccupied, because the moment he is empty, the inner voice begins to be heard: What are you doing? What are you doing here? You do not even know who I am! What kind of life are you entangled in?
“There is the clamor of existence — but where is trust?
All seems like some false news that someone has spread.”
What we have taken to be life is like false news someone has let loose. Some day it proves to be a dream. And when death knocks at the door, the whole life proves a dream. Only those accept death with grace who have tasted the juice of real life. The name of that real life is Paramatma. Until the rain of Paramatma descends, you will remain thirsty. Until the shade of Paramatma is found, you will remain scorched — the sun’s blaze, the heat, the scramble of life. And until entry into the temple of Paramatma happens, the journey is a futile journey. Only that journey is meaningful which brings you to the temple.
The temple is our true home. Settle for nothing less.
People settle too quickly. People are like small children: a toy is enough to satisfy them. Give a child a wooden horse — Sundardas remembered it just yesterday — and he begins to prance! He starts arranging the wedding of dolls.
What are you doing? Look a little at life! You are arranging the marriage of dolls. You are mounted upon wooden horses. It is the tale of the chair! All wooden horses. Do you see any difference between a chair and a wooden horse? Yet what upheavals go on for the chair! How many upheavals have gone on! Sitting on the chair has the same swagger as that of a little boy bouncing on his wooden horse. Little boys climb the garbage mound and declare, “Look, there is no one higher than me.” Posts and wealth are also garbage mounds. Climb upon them and when you say, “No one is above me,” you do not know what foolishness you are uttering!
“At least from death I expect no such fraud as this.
Life — you have paid back deceit with deceit.”
What, other than deceits, has life given you? Deceits of many kinds. The deceits of childhood, then of youth, then of old age — deceits upon deceits. And the final deceit awaits — when you fall, and the breath will not return. The last deceit will be death.
Birth was a deceit, for birth gave you the delusion: you are the body. Your education was a deceit, for it gave you the delusion: you are the mind. And now the final deceit will come.
“With belts tightened, here all friends sit ready to depart.
Many have gone far ahead; the rest sit still prepared.”
What are you preparing for? All your preparations are preparations to die. Strange — life, and it passes in making ready to die! In life a man only dies — what else does he do? Each year passes in dying. But we are clever: when a year dies, we call it our birthday! One more year closer to death. You say birthday? Say death-day.
From the day a child is born, from that day he begins to die. Do not mistake this slow death for life. Life is something else. Nor is it far. A key is needed. Life is very near. What you are running after is far — very far — and when you reach, you will find it is not there, a mirage. But the real life is very close — closer than close. Even the word “close” is not right, for it still suggests distance. Real life is nearer than near — it is your inmost center. But we do not go there. We are eager to go everywhere else. Man is eager to go to the moon and the stars; he is not eager to go within. And only he who arrives within, to him the mysteries of the moon and the stars are revealed.
“If possible, O friends, by a hundred contrivances,
cut across this life.”
People are indeed cutting — cutting time, cutting life. Yet there is also a life that neither is cut nor can be cut. Unbroken. Unfragmented. Eternal. Beyond time. Not bound in the body. Not confined in the mind. And that consciousness already abides within you. That is what you are — Tat Tvam Asi! But go within.
As long as hope is outside, you will not go within. When the outer hope turns into hopelessness, then go within.
Buddha has a beloved saying: Blessed are they who are disheartened — whose life has turned utterly hopeless on the outside. Do not call it an ill day; call it a sacred day. The day you become completely hopeless outwardly, that day you will halt, you will stop; the running will cease. The energy that was getting dissipated in the world will gather, it will contract — the inner pilgrimage will begin.
“O wave of calamity! Give them too two or four light slaps;
some people still watch the storm from the shore.”
And there are some who read of the inner things in scriptures, hear them in good sermons, parrot them. But if you have watched the storm from the shore, you have not yet seen the storm. Only the one who has loosed his little boat into the storm has seen the storm. Only he who has wrestled the storm has known it.
“O wave of calamity! Give them too two or four light slaps;
some people still watch the storm from the shore.”
For how many births you have been sitting on the shore — looking, thinking, pondering! When will you begin the inner journey? Already it is very late. These are sutras for the inner journey. And Sundardas has pointed very deeply. Grasp it.
“Hamarae guru deenee ek jari.”
Our Master gave a single herb.
“What can I say — words do not come; it is filled with nectar.”
Its taste is of Amrit — of nectar. And now there is no way to say it. No one has ever been able to say it. Those who have it — they make you drink. Speech is only an invitation: Come and drink. The herb is not in the saying; the nectar is not in the word. Beware of words! Words mislead. Someone thinks the word “Ram” contains Ram; he wraps himself in the blanket of Ram’s name, sits writing “Ram-Ram, Ram-Ram,” or repeats “Ram-Ram, Ram-Ram.” The word is not the truth. The word is only a pointing finger.
Mulla Nasruddin’s wife had long been after him: “Everyone goes to the hills on holidays — some go south, some north, some east, some west. Others have even traveled abroad. There is not a single wretch in the neighborhood who hasn’t gone somewhere — only in our fate, nothing.”
One day Mulla came home angry and said, “Alright, I will make arrangements now!” He went out and returned shortly with a map. He spread it on the floor: “See, here is the Himalaya — travel! Here flows the Ganga — take a dip! Here is Gaurishankar...” Why go? Maps are available in the market. Only fools go there — he said — the clever manage with a map.
Remember, the map of the Himalaya is not the Himalaya. But do not laugh at Mulla — the joke is on you. This is exactly what you have done. Worship of scriptures goes on.
In Punjab I was a guest in a house. In the morning, going to brush my teeth, I passed a room where the Guru Granth Sahib was enthroned. In front of it a silver pot had been placed, and a twig for brushing. I asked, “What is this?” “No, no,” they said, “that is kept for the Guru Granth Sahib.”
The Guru Granth Sahib is brushing its teeth!
This is man’s madness. We offer delicacies to stone idols. Journeys are made upon maps. How much value we have given to words! And it is not that words cannot deceive. If you repeat a word again and again, it deceives you. Sit and imagine you are under a lemon tree. Lemons everywhere, fragrance of lemons — nothing else smells like it. Fill your nostrils with the scent of lemons. Now you pluck a large lemon. With a knife you cut it — the juice spurts like a fountain. You bring the lemon to your mouth and begin to suck it — and saliva begins to flow. There is no lemon, no tree — only talk — and saliva has begun to flow. The body believed the lie. The word “lemon” turned lemon. The body you may deceive — but deception is still deception.
Similarly, if people chant “Ram-Ram” like this repetition of “lemon-lemon,” a kind of saliva begins to flow. Do not mistake that saliva for Amrit-ras. Many have taken that saliva to be attainment.
There is no fire in the word “fire,” no water in the word “water,” and no Ram in the word “Ram.” Though these words are meaningful, they are pointers, maps. The nectar flows only from the realization of the truth. But words are cheap; realization is costly.
“Easier it is to meet others, O cupbearer;
to meet one’s own being is most difficult.”
In this world you can meet anyone — that is easy. Only meeting oneself is difficult. What happens when you meet others? Exchange of words. Your dialogues, your talk, your conversation — exchange of words. If you go to meet yourself, all words must be dropped. There you will become wordless; only then you arrive. That is the difficulty. There, speech will be lost; you will be abole — unspeaking — only then you arrive.
That is the herb the Master gives — call it silence, call it dhyana. Whatever name you give, its taste is of wordlessness. All Masters have tried to snatch words from you, to remove Shastras from between; they have wanted to make you silent, to still you. Let all the waves of thought subside. Become wave-less. Let no ripple arise. Where your wavy consciousness becomes still, where the lake of your consciousness is silent — no ripple, no wave — there the Amrit-ras wells up. It is already flowing; you are so entangled in waves, so drowned in thought, that you have no leisure to taste, to see.
Paramatma abides within you, but you stand with your back turned. The greatest Great Wall between you and Paramatma is not made of stones, but of words. Whether your words are Hindu, Muslim, Sikh, Christian, or Jain — it does not matter — words are words. Whether you repeat “Ram-Ram” or “Namokar” — it does not matter. Before which stone you bow — it does not matter. From the same stone we make Buddha, from the same stone Mahavira, from the same stone Ganesh. Whose feet you touch — it does not matter; you are bowing before stone. And the irony is: from the same stone are made mosques with no idols — and there too people bow. They too bow before stone. And Kaaba is nothing but a great stone. And Muslims are under the delusion that they do not worship stones; they worship the greatest stone. No other religion has kissed a stone as much as they have kissed the stone of Kaaba. Millions kiss it every year. No stone is more slobbered upon. They set out against stones and are bound by a stone. They escape one stone, are shackled by another. But the delusion does not go.
What words you worship with deep reverence will not change anything. One has to become wordless. In wordlessness there is ecstasy — Amrit-ras.
“By the instrument of sober reason, such heresy cannot occur.
How then shall I take God’s name without drinking, O cupbearer?”
Only the intoxicated can take the name of God — the masts, the mad in ecstasy! Dry, head-heavy people may repeat God’s name — no fruit will come. The heart must be; the heart awakens only when thought’s waves come to a stop. Feeling is born when thought is silent. Feeling is Bhakti. The Master gives Bhakti to feeling — melts feeling into devotion. Then one day Bhakti itself becomes Bhagwan.
Understand: these are your states — the state of thought. In the company of the Master, thought is transformed into feeling. The word “tears” is transformed into real tears. Maps are converted into reality. Thoughts must turn into feeling. Then feeling is surrendered to Paramatma. Then there is no need to go to temple or mosque; wherever you are, you surrender — for Paramatma is everywhere. Where you bow, where you prostrate, there is the temple. Where someone sits quiet and silent, there a tirtha is created.
This is how tirthas were created. Then you forgot. You began worshipping the tirthas and forgot their essence. How were the tirthas born? Somewhere a Buddha sat silently beneath a tree; the stream of Amrit flowed — the tree became a tirtha. Now Buddhists come from all over the world to Bodhgaya to bow to that tree. See the madness? The essential point is lost. Sit under any tree; become as silent as Buddha — that very tree becomes the Bodhi tree. No need to go to Bodhgaya. The tree of Bodhgaya will do nothing to you. Buddha did not become Buddha because of the tree; because of Buddha the ordinary tree attained extraordinary glory. It is only a memory. Memories are sweet — but if you get entangled in them, you go astray.
“Hamarae guru deenee ek jari.”
What herb did he give by which the stream of nectar flowed? He gave silence. He gave meditation. He transformed the energy of thought into feeling; feeling into Bhakti; and Bhakti, of itself, becomes Bhagwan.
“This very life is trouble; this very life is delight.
This very life is reality; this very life is tale.”
The energy is the same. What you have, I have; what I have, all have. It is the same energy. With this same energy you can mold your misery, cast your hell. With this same energy the bricks of heaven are laid; with this same energy the steps to Moksha are raised. It is the same energy.
“This very life is trouble; this very life is delight.
This very life is reality; this very life is tale.”
This very life can end as a story — or this very life can manifest as truth. This very life can become bliss — or only a long tale of trouble.
“When I asked someone, ‘Is there anywhere a happy heart in this world?’
He wept, and only said, ‘So they say.’”
They say somewhere people are happy. Not seen, not heard with their own eyes; only a rumor.
“When I asked someone, ‘Is there anywhere a happy heart in this world?’
He wept, and only said, ‘So they say.’”
Rumors that there are happy ones. But who has seen?
When you meet someone truly blissful, who has distilled his life-energy into nectar, then hold his feet — he has the herb. What happened within him can be given to you. The same key can be handed. This is the meaning of Guru.
Guru means: one who has attained and is now at rest; nothing remains to be attained. In whose life no question remains; only answers. No problems — clouds of solution have gathered and poured; Samadhi has fruited. Take hold of his feet. Sit with him, commune. From him the key can be received. If you have to go into the mountains, ask the one who goes there. If you have to enter the forest, ask the one who passes through.
Guru means nothing else — in whose life Paramatma has happened. The Guru is witness that it can happen in your life too. And the key is not difficult. Once in hand, it is simple. Without the key, opening the lock is hard; with the key, what is easier than opening a lock? Insert the key — the lock opens. Without the key, you may go on hammering; the danger is that you may damage the lock so badly that when the key comes, it will not work.
Often this happens. In trying to open the lock without a key, people ruin it so much that even when the key is found, the lock cannot open. Before you begin to open it, sit with the one whose door has opened. Otherwise, there is danger.
Many come to me who, reading books, have tried something. They get into more confusion. From books the key cannot be received. The key is a living gift. It comes from the Shasta — the living Master — not from Shastra, the scripture. The scripture is a map. I can give you my books, but you will not get it from them. Although my books discuss it, still you will not get it from them. The key is discussed — how will the discussion give the key? It must be learned slowly, patiently, practiced, beside the one who has it.
Out of ego people look for methods in books. A book has one advantage: no one knows that you went to learn from someone. The book is at home; you read and you start doing. Often they get entangled and then come.
Just four days ago someone came who had been doing Vipassana. Three months — and sleep was lost. Now troubled. And if sleep is lost through Vipassana, no tranquilizer will work. It may dull you, but not bring sleep. Or you will have to take so much that the next day you cannot get up. They were in difficulty. Seeing them, I knew this is the byproduct. I asked, “You are doing Vipassana?” He said, “Yes, three months.” I said, “This is the fruit. From whom did you learn?”
Why is emphasis laid on Shasta, the living guide? Because for each person the key must be a little different. No two persons are alike. A book gives general principles — averages. Ask, “What is the average height in Poona?” Measure all, divide by the number — you get 4 feet 3½ inches. Now if you set out to find a man exactly 4 feet 3½ inches, perhaps you won’t find him. Someone is 5’10”, someone 5’9”, some child 3’, some other child 1’. You will find all sorts. That average height is mathematical; to search for it in existence is futile.
Similarly all principles are averages. Sutras are given — but each person’s lock is different. The Master must fashion a unique key to fit your lock. Not every key will work on your lock.
If someone practices Vipassana, it means attention to breath. Normally it is unnatural to attend to breath. Breath goes on; who notices it? Unless some trouble arises — difficulty of breathing, a heart attack, cough, cold — then attention goes to breath. When you are healthy, it is not noticed — nor should it be. Breath goes on twenty-four hours; if you notice it all the time, how will you notice anything else? Entangled there, you will be in trouble.
Vipassana means attention to breath. It is important — and dangerous if not done under right observation. If you attend to breath during the day, at night breath still goes on — you will remain bound to watching; and as long as you watch, sleep will not come. And if sleep does not come, you will think, “Alright, why not do Vipassana while lying?” That is what those gentlemen were doing: “Since sleep isn’t coming, let’s watch the breath.” And there will be peace, a certain pleasantness; but if sleep is lost, the body will suffer. Soon you will become ill, unhinged; madness is possible if sleep does not come for long. Rest is needed.
This is only the principle — watching breath. How much to watch — the Master decides. At what time — also the Master decides. He will say: forty minutes — not more at a stretch; or sixty — not more. After sixty minutes, leave it for sixty minutes. Morning or evening — when? This will differ for each. To watch after food or before? If you watch on a full stomach you may upset digestion. If you watch more than needed for you, awareness will come — but with it tension may come. If tension comes, the thing has gone wrong. Awareness should bring peace, not tension. This is just an example; all principles are like this. Their practical meaning is learned from the Guru.
“Hamarae guru deenee ek jari.
Kaha kahau, kachu kahat na aavai, Amrit-rasahi bhari.”
Once the Master gives the taste, speech naturally becomes difficult. By what language shall we speak of nectar? Our whole language lives and thrives within mortality. It is made for the realm of death. It has no power to reveal the Amrit. It is the dumb tasting jaggery — sweetness beyond speech. Language falls silent.
And remember: Amrit flows within only when you, as you now take yourself to be, dissolve — die. The one who dies at the Master’s feet, who surrenders, alone can taste the nectar.
“A small miracle this of his love:
I have died — and yet there is no feeling of dying.”
In the Master’s love, many miracles happen — this is a small one. Small, because your dying is a small thing. After that, what is revealed — Amrit — that is the great thing. Dying, you discover you have not died. For the first time you know what true life is. You die, yet there is no sense of dying. In the market we live and we do not know life; under the Master’s shade, death happens and there is no sense of death. In the market, in the name of life, in the end only death shakes your hand. In the Master’s refuge, with death the beginning is made — and you receive the Amrit. Those ready to efface themselves, only they attain.
“Ta ko maram sant-jan janat, vastu amol pari.”
Within you is such a priceless treasure lying, and you know it not.
“Ta ko maram sant-jan janat...”
Those who have awakened within, whose lamp is lit, who have looked within, who have dug within — they have found the treasure. To go within, you must become a little distant from the outside. To sit with the Divine, lessen attachment to the world.
“Go far from the whole world,
so that you may sit a little near to Him.”
And sit near to Him — “Upanishad” means: to sit near, near the Guru. “Upasana” means: to sit near — upa+asana. Even “upavasa” (fast) means: to dwell near — upa+vas. Call it Upasana, Upavasa, Satsang, Samagam, Upanishad — the birth of the Upanishads happened when those whose lamps were unlit sat near those whose lamps were lit. From flame to flame.
“Raze-hasti raz hai jab tak koi mahram na ho;
Khul gaya jis dam to mahram ke siwa kuchh bhi nahin.”
The secret of existence remains a secret until there is a mahram — a knower. The moment the secret opens, everything else vanishes like a shadow — only the knower remains. Now the seer is; the seen is not. Now the viewer alone is; the view dissolves.
There are only two kinds of people: those we call worldly — in precise spiritual terms, it means those for whom the seer is hidden and the seen is everything. What is seen is all; the seer is forgotten. The other kind — the spiritual, the sannyasin — for them the seen has become meaningless; the Seer alone is all.
“Ta ko maram sant-jan janat, vastu amol pari!”
Let the seen vanish and the Seer be known — you have found the empire within, the wealth of Moksha. And it is not something new you have acquired; it was lying within you for births. You brought it with you — your sustenance, given by God, kept within you — food for the whole journey, inexhaustible.
“Yaaten mohi piyari lagati, laikari sis dhari.”
When the Master gave me this medicine, it was so dear I placed it upon my head. He who places the Master’s word upon his head — who accepts with grateful heart, with deep reverence, who bows — only in his life are the keys attained. In him the nectar of the herb begins to flow.
Until you can take it in bowing, the nectar will not flow within you. Some stand stiff: “Alright, if anything happens, show it! Prove it!” Those who will think and argue — they will miss. They are thirsty; the river flows before them. But they stand rigid, will not cup their hands — for to extend hands before anyone is against their pride. They will not bend. The river will not come up to your throat; you must bend, you must make a bowl of your hands, you must bow before the river. Then the river is ready to quench you.
Therefore in the lands of the East where the supreme principle of Guru was sought — in the West there is nothing like the Guru. In this sense the West is deprived. At most there is a teacher, a student — but no Guru. Even the language has no word for Guru. The exchange of information between teacher and pupil — that happens. But this is not an exchange of information. Between Guru and disciple there is a great difference. The teacher gives information, maps, data. The Guru does not give information; he pours his experience, he pours his very life; he pours himself. This gift is utterly different. The student need not bow to the teacher. Thus in the West there arose no custom of touching the feet — bowing before someone. Why should a student bow? He pays a fee and receives information; the matter ends. But here, such a thing will not do. There is an essential condition to drink existential knowing: bowing. “Shishya” means one who has bowed; who is willing to surrender.
“Yaaten mohi piyari lagati, laikari sis dhari.
Man-bhujang aru panch nagani, soonghat turat mari.”
And a miracle happened. As soon as I bowed, as I placed the Guru upon my head, spread the carpets of my eyelashes and opened the gates of my heart and said, “Come!” — I raised no question, no doubt — from the deepest breath I said only one thing: Yes! The moment I said it, the miracle happened.
“Man-bhujang aru panch nagani, soonghat turat mari.”
As soon as the fragrance of the Guru reached within me, as I consented to the Guru’s word, became silent, still, meditative, set upon the inner journey, placing my hand in his hand — even if he gave poison, I drank it as nectar — the snake of mind, and the five she-serpents of the senses who danced around the mind — they died at once.
Learn the art of bowing. In bowing the ego dies. Ego is the spine of mind; when it breaks, the mind collapses. And the one who bows allows the Master’s life-energy to flow within him. When that flood comes, all the junk is washed away as in the rains.
“Man-bhujang aru panch nagani, soonghat turat mari.
Dayani ek khat sab jag kou, sau bhi dekh dari.”
And that witch who devours the whole world — which witch? Self-ignorance. Avidya. In the Buddha’s tongue: Trishna — craving. Not knowing “Who am I?” — that is the bewitchment. Not knowing, we go door to door begging: maybe here I will find, maybe there. As soon as the mind becomes clear and still, remembrance flashes: Who am I — Atma-bodh. The witch is self-ignorance; from it arise desires, cravings — its fruits and flowers. When the Master’s current enters, when his flame lights your extinguished lamp, within everything shines; darkness departs.
“Dayani ek khat sab jag kou, sau bhi dekh dari.”
The witch flees.
“Trividha vikar tap tani bhagi...
Durmati sakal hari.”
The threefold afflictions — upon body, mind and soul — the nets spread over you — in a single instant they break. In that same instant all wrong-mindedness departs, as darkness departs when a lamp is lit.
“Ta ko gun suni meech palai, aur kavan bapuri.”
Sundardas says: Now I wonder — where did the poor thing go? Eyes closed, it fled so fast that even when I search I cannot find it. If you light a lamp and start searching for the darkness, will you find it? In just that way, when the lamp of self-knowing is lit, where is Avidya?
But remember, let me remind you again: often you are full of ignorance and you think secondhand knowledge will dispel it. You memorize the Vedas, the Koran, the Bible. You fill yourself with knowledge — ignorance will not go. This knowledge is junk. It is like hanging pictures of lamps on the walls of a dark house; no light comes from that. Whom are you deceiving?
In China there was an emperor who wanted to have the seal of his kingdom made. He loved roosters — strutting in pride, raising their combs, crowing as if, “If I do not crow, the sun will not rise.” He desired the picture of a splendid rooster — but so alive it would be living. Many artists made paintings. The prize was great. The emperor liked many pictures; but his old master painter, the judge, kept rejecting them: not this, not this. Years passed. The emperor said, “It will never be made. So many beautiful paintings come and you say no. What is your criterion? When will you say yes?” He said, “I will show you today.”
He placed all the rooster paintings in a room and brought in a living rooster. It paid no attention to the paintings. He said, “Until this rooster pays attention, until it stops, until it is afraid another rooster is there — until then, the picture is not true.”
Finally the picture came which he accepted. The emperor wanted to see the test. The picture was placed inside; the rooster was brought to the threshold — it stopped there, saw the picture, and tried to flee. It would not come in. The old painter said, “Now I accept it — the picture is alive; the rooster has certified it.”
It is possible that even a rooster be deceived by a painting. But darkness will not be deceived by a picture. Man can be deceived; then what of a rooster! Darkness cannot be deceived. Hang the picture of the sun — still darkness will not flee. Only light itself makes darkness go.
In the name of knowledge you have hung pictures.
Beautiful pictures indeed — Upanishads’ lovely sayings, the words of the Guru Granth, the Dhammapada. Wonderful — uttered by the knowers. Yet words are words. Even if a knower says “lamp,” it is still the word “lamp” — it will not give light. You must go to a burning lamp.
Religions die the very day the glory of the Shastra becomes greater than the glory of the Guru. Sikhism died the day they put a full stop with the Guru Granth and said, “Now there will be no Guru; the Granth will be the Guru.” That day Sikhism died. Until then it was alive. When the Guru was replaced by the book, it died. While there were Tirthankaras among the Jains, it was alive. When the Jains said, “The twenty-fourth Tirthankara is final; there will be no twenty-fifth; we shall manage with books,” from that day, the light went out — darkness ever since. The Muslims said, “Muhammad is the last prophet; there will be none after” — from that day darkness fell. If you would keep the light alive, you must accept that Gurus will continue to come, Tirthankaras will continue, Avatars will continue — lamps keep getting lit. Your refusal doesn’t extinguish them; only you are deprived, only you miss.
“Ta ko gun suni meech palai...”
As soon as the lamp shines, Durmati — wrong mind — flees. Where ignorance goes, who knows? Sundardas says, “Aur kavan bapuri — where did the poor thing go?” I search and do not find.
And before the light we speak of, the light of this sun is nothing. Before the lamp we speak of, thousands of suns are pale.
“The first ray of the sun is delightful —
but nowhere as heart-captivating as your glance.”
When the Guru’s glance enters, behind it the glance of Paramatma slips into you. Hence the Guru is called God — revered with such honor.
Kabir said: “Guru and Govind both stand — whose feet shall I touch?” Great awkwardness: both are before me; whose feet shall I bow to first? Such honor, such reverence! “If I touch God’s feet first, the Guru may be disrespected — on this ray alone I found the sun. Through this door the Divine appeared. By this hand I have been led to the endless journey.”
“Nisbasar nahin tahi bisarat, pal chhin aadh ghari.
Sundardas bhayo ghat niravish, sabahi vyadhi tari.”
Now — “day and night I cannot forget him — not for a moment, not for half a moment.” Now remembrance remains. Now the awareness is awake.
“We thought ‘Mir’ was a lover only in that instant —
when hearing your name he became restless.”
A lover remembers; a devotee is filled with remembrance.
“Patience is hard; longing is frantic.
What to do in love — what not to do?”
Great difficulty for the bhakta — what to do, what not to do.
“Patience is hard; longing is frantic.”
The yearning cries: more, more. The experience says: dive more, call more, remember more. The more the nectar flows, the more the thirst for nectar arises. Even if you wish to forget, you cannot. As yet, even if you want to remember, you forget.
Have you seen? Sit alone for a minute or two — “I will remember the Lord.” A minute or two is far; even for a few seconds you cannot — other memories flood in. The mind runs in associations. You sit, close your eyes, think to remember God — Goddas the jeweler’s shop comes to mind, and the debt you owe. You shake yourself, again remember God — something else comes. The mind runs here and there.
Gurdjieff told his disciples: put a watch before you; keep your eyes on the second hand. Hold only this in mind: I am watching the second hand; I am watching; I am watching. If you can keep it for one full minute — sixty seconds — you are fortunate. Often not even sixty seconds can a new disciple manage. Try it — you will be astonished. Such a frail memory! For five to seven seconds, at most, and you are gone; something else has come. Seeing the watch, how many crocodiles of thought arise! When you remember again, you will find the second hand has moved many seconds — during which you were lost. A single cloud covered the mind. Without the touch of the Guru — of the philosopher’s stone — how will you remember day and night? Even a few seconds is hard.
“Once the mind tried to forget you,
A hundred times frenzy showed me your image.”
But if the touch comes, then even if intellect tries to forget, it is of no use.
“Once the mind tried to forget you,
A hundred times frenzy showed me your image.”
Then a kind of blessed madness arises and keeps showing the image. Intellect says, “Stop this; there is still much to do in the world — gather wealth, position; why get entangled in the Lord’s name now; you are young — these are for old age.” But then nothing helps. Once a living Master has looked into your eyes and once you have bowed before him; if a little of his life-energy has flowed into you, if some rubbish has been cleared and a glimpse given — then the matter is settled. Wish to forget — you cannot.
“Breath by breath, a sigh; gaze by gaze, a pang.
If this continues a few more days — what then?”
Then the intellect begins to caution: “Beware — what are you doing? You are becoming mad. If this goes on, what will happen?” But then there is no escape. The intellect tires and becomes quiet.
“It seems even that time was spent with you —
that we never actually spent with you.”
Then whether remembrance is there or not, whether outwardly you do other work or not —
“It seems even that time was spent with you —
that we never actually spent with you.”
Sit in the market, at the shop — and you are in the temple. Whether you try to remember or not, remembrance flows ceaselessly — the undercurrent goes on. Above, work proceeds, the acting goes on; below, the remembrance of the Divine keeps sliding.
“I spent the whole night saying: now he will come.
O tear-brimmed eyes, hold still a little; O heart and liver, hold!”
His mention, his longing, his remembrance.
“How precious time has become these days.”
When remembrance thickens, for the first time your time becomes valuable.
“His mention, his longing, his remembrance —
How precious time has become these days.”
Until remembrance of the Divine settles within you, whatever you do is futile. Wake as soon as you can.
“For the heart, this has become the very message of life —
All my frenzies have condensed into your Name.”
Until all your longings condense into his Name — let remembrance be woven into breath and heartbeat. The moment your breaths and beats are offered to him, rise towards him — in that very moment the happening happens.
“Nisbasar nahin tahi bisarat, pal chhin aadh ghari.
Sundardas bhayo ghat niravish, sabahi vyadhi tari.”
In this very remembrance — remembering and remembering — the pot that till yesterday was filled with poison has become poisonless. By remembrance alone the poison is gone; nectar has filled.
“This very life is trouble; this very life is delight.
This very life is reality; this very life is tale.”
All is in your hands. Alone, in darkness — take his hand; set out upon the path of light. Alone you are weak, a nothing. With him, all is possible — the impossible too. Join yourself to Paramatma; that is our root. As soon as we are joined, what happens to the tree happens to us: when the roots grip the earth, the tree grows green, flowers bloom, fruits come. And what of a tree uprooted and propped against a wall? If man does not remember God, he is a man uprooted. No fruits, no flowers — only stench, only rot, only mud.
“Sundardas bhayo ghat niravish, sabahi vyadhi tari.”
What is our disease? We are feverish — running, racing: this may be obtained, that may be obtained. Nothing is ever obtained. Never was. Never will be. Only delirium. Have you seen a patient in delirium? He feels his cot is flying, he is climbing clouds. But when the fever subsides, neither the cot flew nor he climbed clouds — only delirium.
“What is life? A constant longing, an unending agitation.
Each step I set faster than the last.”
Life is a permanent thirst; run on! A desire. A ceaseless restlessness — not yet, a little faster and it will happen; not yet, a little faster and perhaps.
“What is life? A constant longing, an unending agitation.
Each step I set faster than the last.”
Thus fever increases; in this fever, this race, this speed, one day we fall into our grave. Dying in fever, we are born in fever again. Dying unconscious, we enter some unconscious womb; born again — the same journey resumes; the same ABC of trouble begins again.
Awake! Do not waste life thus. This same life-energy can become supreme liberation, supreme bliss.
“Dekho maai, aaj bhalo din lagat.”
May such a day come to you that you can say:
“Look, mother — today seems an auspicious day!”
Which is the auspicious hour?
“The season of rain has come; sitting, I sing Malhar.
Clouds of the Name of Ram have gathered; churning, they pour nectar.
Coolness has entered body and mind; the burns of defilement are gone.
For which cause I wandered in separation, waking night after night —
Sundardas — the Compassionate Lord has given that very thing I asked for.”
What I had sought for births uncounted — I received. What I had wanted in endless forms — I received. The thirsty earth is quenched. The clouds came and showered.
“Look, mother — today seems an auspicious day.”
And yet the day is the same as yesterday — but today it seems auspicious. Place your hand in the hand of God and even hell becomes heaven in that instant. Sit alone in heaven without God — and you will be in hell.
“Look, mother — today seems an auspicious day.
The season of rain has come...”
The hour of rain has arrived; clouds have gathered — thirst will be no more.
“Sitting, I sing Malhar.”
Now sit and sing the raga of Malhar. Now the veena is tuned. Now the unstruck sound is raised. Now sing, now dance. The same energy that became anger — has become song. The same that became lust — has become Ram. The same scramble of life — has become music.
“Sitting, I sing Malhar.”
The rain-clouds mass; greet them with Malhar. Sing, dance, hum — the hour of blessedness has come.
“Clouds of the Name of Ram have gathered...”
Which clouds have thickened? The clouds of the Name of Ram.
This is a pointer to a very inner happening. Understand. One kind of remembrance of Ram is yours — you do it; it is not of great worth. There is a moment when you are utterly silent, utterly still — you do not even chant “Ram,” for even japa is thought; you are in Ajapa — beyond chanting, beyond the mind’s babble. The mind is a babbler; if it does not abuse, it repeats a mantra. Let it all go; not a line of babble remains. Now there is no utterance within. Ajapa has come. The mind is silent. In that very moment —
“Clouds of the Name of Ram have gathered...”
Then you do not call the mantra; the mantra rains upon you. The Om resounds on its own. You are the hearer, the witness. It happens, the sound — Nad — resounds. In silence it is heard, caught. While your mind is noisy with hubbub, it cannot be heard; the music is subtle.
“Clouds of the Name of Ram have gathered...”
It means: you are not doing remembrance now. You are an empty bowl, a void. When you sit as an empty bowl, the rain of the Name happens; the clouds of the Name gather. Samadhi showers. As clouds gather in the sky and rain upon the earth, so in the sky of the Infinite gather the clouds of Samadhi. Buddha called that Samadhi “Megha Samadhi” — the cloud-Samadhi.
“Clouds of the Name of Ram have gathered — churning, they pour nectar.”
Such a juice rains — every drop is stewed in nectar, each drop brimming with Amrit.
“Hamarae guru deenee ek jari.
Kaha kahau, kachu kahat na aavai, Amrit-rasahi bhari.”
“Coolness has entered body and mind...”
Everything is cool. When the inner is void, all becomes cool. The heat and blaze of mind and body, the agitations, frenzies, unrests, the desires, cravings, urges — all subside. All these are fevers.
“Coolness has entered body and mind; the burns of defilement are gone.”
Those who have known speak of two kinds of Samadhi — Sabija and Nirbija. What comes through the effort of man is Sabija — the seeds remain; and if seed remains there is danger — one day they sprout. Man’s effort does not cross over Sabija. Nirbija Samadhi is where even the seeds are burnt — that happens only by His grace; when He showers.
“The burns of defilement are gone.”
The seeds burnt — now they cannot sprout.
“For which cause we wandered in separation...”
For this we wandered through births.
“For which cause we woke night after night...”
For this we labored, rising, waking — and did not find.
“Sundardas — the Compassionate Lord has given that very thing I asked.”
Not by our seeking and striving, but today — only by the grace of Paramatma.
The devotee’s experience is this: not by effort — by Prasad. This does not mean: do not make effort. Make every effort. When your effort is total and you fall exhausted, in that moment Prasad showers.
“Look, mother — today seems an auspicious day.”
Remember the word “Prasad.” In the scripture of Bhakti, Prasad is the central experience. Prasad means: not by our striving, but by His compassion, His grace. He is Rahim, Rahman.
“Why should I shrink my heart counting my sins?
I have heard — there is no measure to Your mercy.”
The devotee says: Why should I count my sins? I have done many. But what is their worth before Your compassion? Your mercy is measureless.
“Why should I shrink my heart counting my sins?
I have heard — there is no measure to Your mercy.”
However many sins I have done, however much rubbish I have heaped — when Your flood comes — “I have heard — Your mercy has no account” — You will wash away all.
Understand the difference. The yogi says: we must strive; each bad action must be countered by a good one. The bad with the good, and then Siddhi will happen. The bhakta says: if we go on countering sin with merit, Siddhi may never come — our sins are so many; and the one by whom so many sins have been done — how will he do merit? In his merit the shadow of sin will fall; in his merit the poison of sin will be mixed.
One has stolen, exploited, amassed wealth; then is frightened: “To cancel the sin of this money, let’s build a temple.” A temple can be raised from sin? Or let’s give charity with stolen money — can charity arise from theft?
A wrathful man vows: I will not be angry. Even in his vow is anger — he vows in anger. Understand this.
Man is ignorant. Whatever he does will bear the shadow of his ignorance. How will merit be born from us? The bhakta says: whatever we do will be sin — because the ego remains: I did. My fast, my vow, my renunciation. And ego is poison.
No — by our doing nothing will happen. We are helpless. It will happen by His doing — His will fulfilled. We can only leave ourselves in His current, in His flow — to drown where He drowns, to be raised where He raises. In such surrender, the rain of Prasad descends.
Thus the bhakta sinks — and rises. He falls helpless — and supreme help arrives. He staggers in unknowing — and attains a sobriety that outshines the knowing of the knowers.
“I often seem lost in love —
or say it this way: I have begun to come to my senses.”
In his intoxication is the lamp of awareness. In his tottering is deep mindfulness. In his fall is rising.
The bhakta is a paradox. Without seeking, he attains. Without trying to attain, he attains.
“For which cause we wandered in separation...”
For which we wandered through births — and did not attain.
“For which cause we woke night after night.”
For which we made many efforts — and did not attain.
“Sundardas — the Compassionate Lord has given that very thing I asked.”
What I asked — all has been given. All attained.
“Look, mother — today seems an auspicious day.”
May such an auspicious day come to you. It can come — today can be that day, for all days are auspicious. The day you awaken is auspicious. The day the ego surrenders, Prasad showers.
“Look, mother — today seems an auspicious day.
The season of rain has come; sitting, I sing Malhar.”
As yet you have not sung your Malhar. You have not awakened your music. You have not danced. How could you dance? For what? No cause is visible — no blessed hour has come. Without finding God, no one can truly dance. That is the difference.
Meera danced — having found God she danced. The dancers dance — but their dance and Meera’s are different. The dancers’ dance is outer, for some motive, under some lure. There may be art, but not their soul. Meera danced from the soul — she danced because she had found. Overwhelmed, gratitude arose — the feeling of thankfulness.
“Look, mother — today seems an auspicious day.
The season of rain has come; sitting, I sing Malhar.
Clouds of the Name of Ram have gathered; churning, they pour nectar.
Coolness has entered body and mind; the burns of defilement are gone.
For which cause we wandered in separation, waking night after night —
Sundardas — the Compassionate Lord has given that very thing I asked.”
Enough for today.