Jyoti Se Jyoti Jale #21

A flood of darkness
unfathomable, shoreless
commotion without end
both banks drowned
foundations swept away
ledges collapsed
peaks and sandbanks
all leveled into one
lost were dusk and dawn
edges and ends erased
a grave, confused clangor of directions
Where, oh where, which way?

compact night
dense ego
wave, hooded like a serpent
immeasurable expanse
the spread of fear
a queue of ruin
upheaval annihilated
caught midstream!

crooked meshes of whirlpools
a crocodile’s leap
Hold, O hold!
untimely famine
the rhythm breaking
O, Mahakal!

Man is a night of the new moon. A dense darkness! And the one who ends while remaining merely a man never beholds the vision of light. It was not that there were no seeds of light in the darkness—there were! You arrived carrying the seed, but it never sprouted, never germinated. The lamp was to be lit, it did not light. This is man’s anguish.

Anguish has only one meaning: if you cannot become that for which you were born, there will be anguish. And if you do become that for which you were born, life will be music, a festival. Only when life becomes a festival does contentment dawn. Only when life becomes a festival is prayer possible—only then will you be able to give thanks!

Sundardas’ words are culminating in arati. Only when the arati is consummated in life itself can the words of arati be fulfilled; otherwise the words will be false, hypocrisy. Many people pray, but true prayer is rare, difficult. People’s prayer is asking, begging; not thanksgiving! And until prayer becomes thanksgiving, an outcry of grace, it remains false. But how is the outcry of grace to arise? The lamp has not been lit, the flower has not bloomed, the new moon remained a new moon, the full moon has not arrived! Far from the full moon, even the second day’s crescent has not risen in life. How to give thanks? To whom to give thanks? And even if you give thanks, how will it be true?

Prayer is the proclamation of fulfillment. Therefore do not waste time going to temples and mosques! Go within! One day prayer will arise—irresistibly! Even if you try to stop it, it will not stop. One day a fragrance will rise from within and pervade all horizons. One day a flame will be lit. That kindled flame is what we call prayer.

How will a darkened soul pray? Thus it is auspicious that today’s words, after this twenty-one day journey, conclude in worship: ‘How shall I perform arati, O Master, when you pervade all places?’ Where shall I wave the arati? In which direction shall I offer it? To which image, which form? All images are yours. All directions are yours. All forms are yours. There is nothing other than you. Then one’s very breath becomes arati. Then you do not have to perform arati—life becomes arati. Every heartbeat dissolves in his worship. Awake or asleep, the tones of prayer keep rising.

May it be so in your life as well. It can be so. If it does not happen, do not hold anyone other than yourself responsible. No one but you can prevent it from happening. Chains can be cast upon your body from the outside; but no one can chain your soul from the outside! You can be thrown into a prison; but only the body will be in prison, you are forever free. Freedom is your nature. Even lying chained and shackled within prison walls, you will roam the open sky. Your outer eyes can be gouged out, but there is no way to gouge out your inner eyes. Only if you yourself do not open them, that is another matter. If you yourself do not spread your wings and fly, that is another matter. If you choose to live and die a slave, that is another matter.

Remember this: in your great celebration, there is no obstacle other than you. And all the reasons you have collected are all deceptions. One says, for this reason I cannot arrive; another says, for that reason I cannot arrive! I want to remind you again and again: all reasons are pretenses, strategies of the mind. By finding reasons you feel at ease. You put the blame on others and feel released! But all those who have awakened and realized in this world, all who have experienced Paramatma here, their testimony is one: other than you, no one is preventing you. So drop all reasons. Abandon all false arguments, and pour all your life-energy into one resolve: to know by awakening, to turn life into a blazing light before you go.

But people are entangled in the nonessential.

The tasks that were essential,
I carefully set aside—
Someday, in tranquility,
with a concentrated mind,
with time,
with convenience,
I will accomplish them.

What was nonessential
I hurried to finish.
Now I look and see
life
has passed in the nonessential,
and all that was essential
waits for my next birth.

Do not let it be that on your deathbed you have to utter these words. This is exactly what happens—save but one in millions.

Reconsider life. You quickly settle the nonessential. You do not postpone the nonessential for tomorrow. For the essential you say, we will do it tomorrow, the day after—what is the hurry? Let us acquire wealth now, meditation later! Let us acquire position now—what is the hurry to attain Paramatma? The eternal is not expiring. If not in this life, then in the next. If not today, then tomorrow; if not in youth, then in old age! We will finish the trivial, and then do the meaningful.

But remember, the trivial is never finished. From one triviality, ten more snares of triviality arise. The trivial is never settled. Its chain is endless. A man entangled in triviality never finds such a moment when he can say: now all trivial tasks are done, now I shall do the essential! That path is delusion.

If the essential is to be done, do it now! Now—or never! If you must postpone, postpone the trivial. Anger comes—you act at once. Love arises—you leave it for tomorrow. You say, first I must earn money, first I must build prestige. Let love wait. When there is wealth, we will love too. When there is wealth, we will also meet friends; for now there is no time. But when anger arises, you do not postpone. Hatred arises—you at once sharpen the blade. Yes, if worship arises in the heart, you do not arrange the arati platter now, you do not light the lamps now—you keep postponing.

‘Tomorrow’ is man’s greatest enemy. Tomorrow has drowned man. Tomorrow has killed man. Learn the language of today. Beyond this moment, no other moment is yours. Whether there will be a next moment—there is no certainty. Do not rely on the next moment. Those who relied on it have been deceived—always deceived. And we all are sitting relying on that.

A sutra:

The saint moves toward the direction of Brahman, abandoning worldly dealings.

The words are simple and straight; the meaning is deep. Often it so happens that the words which seem immediately comprehensible carry such depth that we do not even remember to dive. Difficult words we think over—because they are difficult. Simple words we think we have understood. These words are so simple; if you dive into them, you will find the depth of the pacific ocean.

The saint moves toward the direction of Brahman…

What is the direction of Brahman? The sky has ten directions. None of these ten is the direction of Brahman. Go east, go west, Kashi or Kaba—none is the direction of Brahman. Go north, go south, Kailash or Rameshwaram—none is the direction of Brahman. Up or down—none is the direction of Brahman. The direction of Brahman is the eleventh direction. And the eleventh direction finds no mention in geography. It is not part of geography. The eleventh direction is: go within, go into yourself. Space is made of ten directions—you are the eleventh direction!

Moses’ famous injunctions are the Ten Commandments—as if each commandment fulfills a direction.

Jesus said to his disciples: I give you an eleventh commandment! It is the one that takes you into the eleventh direction. That commandment is unique. The disciples asked: An eleventh commandment? We have heard that all religion is encompassed in ten. Jesus said: Until you fulfill the eleventh, the ten cannot be fulfilled. He who fulfills the ten but leaves the eleventh—nothing will be fulfilled. And he who fulfills the eleventh, the ten are fulfilled by themselves. What is the eleventh commandment? Jesus said: Love is the eleventh commandment! Even on the final night, while departing, he said the same: I go, but do not forget what I have told you.

A disciple asked: You have said many things, which one do you want to remind us of?

Jesus said: That very eleventh commandment. As I have loved you, so you must love! Rather, do not say ‘love as a doing’—say ‘become love!’

He who goes within becomes love. He who goes within becomes prayer. Prayer is the very distillation of love. As fragrances are distilled from a thousand flowers, so from a thousand experiences of love the attar of prayer is pressed. And the one who has not loved—what on earth will he have to do with prayer? Often those who are incapable of love run to the temple and say they will pray. They have not yet loved; they have not learned even the ABC of love—and they set off to pray! Those who cannot walk on the ground are thinking of flying in the sky. They will fall—fall badly! They will break their bones. First learn to walk the earth!

Love this earth! The day your love for this earth becomes unconditional, you will find wings have grown; now you are capable of flying in the sky. Earth gifts wings only to those who pour all their love upon her. And the name of those wings is prayer. This earth belongs to Paramatma. Fill it with your love—and you will find: that very love begins to lift you into the sky! You set off on the journey to the Infinite!

But only he can love who goes within. You, when you love, go outward. Your love too is false love. You always love another. And the love that is done with another is only a pretext for love. Something else is hidden in it—lust is hidden, ambition is hidden, craving is hidden, attachment is hidden, greed is hidden, the ego of becoming the other’s master is hidden—thousands of things are hidden; only love is not in it.

Love has nothing to do with the other. Love is the outcome of a dive into one’s own innermost core. The love you have done—its story is very small:

Only so much is the story of someone’s love—
The moon rose in the sky, blossoming
the ocean’s tide came in, merging
just now the wave shimmered in moonlight
and suddenly again—known-unknown—
only so much is the story of someone’s love.

Countless draughts of darkness he keeps drinking
in the courtyard a single lamp keeps living
giving all to the morning ray
what remained—a trace of kohl—
only so much is the story of someone’s love.

On quivering leaves are beads of dew
from brimming eyes are beads of tears
with you I could share joy and sorrow—
this sum of ours, the rest not ours—
only so much is the story of someone’s love.

Your love, which you have called love, is not the love that Meera called love, that Kabir called love, that Sundardas called love. Your love is only in name. Behind it is something else, which is not love at all—jealousy, envy. Love and jealousy? Poison in nectar! A stench in a flower! Darkness dripping from a lamp instead of light!

No—there is another love, found as the inner journey deepens. That is a state of love—not a relation. Then you are love, you do not love. Love flows from you; in the ten directions it begins to flow. When the seed breaks in the eleventh direction, fragrance streams into the ten.

The saint moves toward the direction of Brahman, abandoning worldly dealings.

Love is the direction of Brahman. And love lies within the heart’s core. That priceless diamond—Sundardas said—lies within you. Walk in that direction!

He has said something further of great import: he has not told you to leave the world, he has told you to leave worldly dealings. There is a great difference. Where will you go by leaving the world? Wherever you go, the world is. Go to the Himalayas—there is the world. Sit in a cave—there is the world. The same air, the same sun, the same moon and stars will be there. And if you go from here to the Himalayas, you will at least be the same one who was here. What was within you here will ripple there as well. If here you were attached to your house, there you will become attached to a tree under which you sit. Quarrels happen in the forest too. A sadhu lives under a tree for two or four years—he claims it as his property. If another sadhu comes to camp there, he will say: Move! Go on! This tree is mine! This cave is mine!

I lived for years in Jabalpur. There is a place in the hills, Gupteshwar. Behind Gupteshwar in a cave a sadhu had lived for years. The cave was dear! One day I too went and sat there. The sadhu had gone out to bathe; when he returned he said, How are you sitting here? This cave is mine!

I asked him: Why did you leave home if the cave has become ‘mine’? The house was mine—you left it and came; now you say the cave is mine!

Palaces can be left—no difference; attachment binds to a loincloth: This loincloth is mine!

He was an intelligent man; his eyes filled with tears. He said: Forgive me! This word ‘mine’ will not go. You are right. I have left all, but this ‘mine’ does not go.

It will not go by leaving the world. It will go by dropping worldly dealings! That is a very unique thing—to drop worldly dealings. ‘Mine-yours’ is worldly dealing. It is makeshift. Here who belongs to whom? Who is one’s own, who the other? It is a fair of four days; in the fair we have met. Friendships are made, enmities are made. Someone has become own, someone other. All this is dealing. Recognize it as dealing and be free of it. He who takes it as truth gets entangled. Take it as dealing only. If it is dealing, there is no problem.

On the road there is a rule: keep left—that is dealing. There is no religion in keeping left, that by keeping left you will reach heaven. In America the dealing is: keep right!

Mulla Nasruddin wanted to go to America—very eager. Who wouldn’t be eager! He had a churidar pajama stitched, and all! Achkan and Gandhi cap—quite ready. Then one day he came, very depressed. He said he would not go.

I asked: What happened? All preparations complete—why not go now? He said: No, I will not. There is a big hassle. In America one has to drive on the right. I went to Poona and tried driving on the right—got into great trouble. I do not want such trouble.

In Poona, if you drive on the right you will get into trouble. He said: In half an hour I got into such fixes that it became a danger to life. I was thinking to spend two or three months in America; I would not return alive in two or three months.

Now left or right are matters of dealing. Both work. There is no principle in it—only dealing. Wife, husband, sons, mother, father, brothers, kin—all are dealings. When you take them as principles, as if they have a transcendental value, then you get into trouble.

Money is dealing. Those paper notes—there is nothing in them, only an agreement that we have given them value. Overnight you saw thousand-rupee notes become worthless! When that happens to the thousand, what to say of five and ten!

It was an agreement; the government broke it: we are no longer willing. Being only an agreement, the notes turned into paper; people threw them on the streets; some rolled cigarettes; some spread them as mats and ate snacks. What else to do! Until yesterday they were valuable; they were distributed, became children’s toys.

The values we give to things in the world are only values of agreement. We determined they have value; so they have value. We can determine they do not; the values end. The value lies in our determining. The value lies in our believing. Belief itself is value.

To abandon worldly dealings means: everything here is mere dealing. Nothing here is ultimate. You need not go anywhere leaving the world. Wherever you are, remain there; only see dealing as dealing and fulfill it as dealing. You will be amazed: dealings keep being fulfilled, and you remain outside them. As an actor acts: someone becomes Rama and takes bow and arrow; someone becomes Lakshman, someone Sita. But it is all dealing. For the time Rama is Rama. The curtain will fall; the thing is over. The curtain rose—Rama and Ravana fought mightily. The curtain fell—both sit behind and sip tea. That is all. It is a matter of the curtain rising and falling.

If Lord Rama is seized by the delusion that he has become Rama—though the curtain has fallen—if he walks about carrying bow and arrow, there will be trouble; he will have to be kept in a madhouse; he will need treatment. The play became expensive.

This is your condition—you are in a play, but the play has become expensive.

In a village a Ramleela was being performed. Lakshman is lying unconscious. Hanuman has gone to fetch the sanjeevani herb. He returns—stage mechanics. Suspended by a rope, bearing a paper mountain, he is coming in when the pulley jams. The audience is clapping and whistling and Hanuman is hanging. The pulley stuck. He neither moves nor descends. Now things are going awry. Rama keeps saying: O Hanuman, where are you? He keeps repeating his lines; what else can he do! Until Hanuman comes, he looks to the sky and says: O Hanuman, where are you? And Hanuman is right there in front. Where have you gone? You are late; Lakshman’s life is in danger—Hanuman, come quickly, bring the herb!

The audience is clapping. Hanuman is in a fix—what to do now? The manager climbed up, tried to release the rope; it would not. So he cut it. Hanuman crashed down with the mountain. When such a sudden thing happens, who remembers he is Hanuman! Rama said: Good that you came—but where is the herb? Hanuman said: To hell with the herb! First tell me—who cut the rope?

This much is dealing on the surface; underneath, you know you are not Hanuman; what Hanuman, what herb! His knee is hurt. Tell me first—who cut the rope! First the essential, the real matter should be settled.

You need not run away from how life is moving on the surface. Only let the conviction become dense that worldly affairs are only dealings—and they drop. There is nothing to leave. If there is nothing to hold, what will you drop? If there were something to hold, you could drop it. There is nothing to hold! Recognizing this is sannyas.

Therefore I do not tell my sannyasins to run away leaving anything. Wife, child, job, market, shop—all are dealings. Remain untouched. Remain aloof. Keep settling all. Settle it joyfully. What Paramatma has given, fulfill it. Do not be a deserter. The deserter rejects the gift of Paramatma. The deserter insists on having his way. He maligns the gift of Paramatma.

Deserters are not saints. Sainthood is not as cheap as a deserter makes it. Sainthood is a great inner revolution. And inner revolution means: whatever is happening on the outside is all worldly dealing; within I am unattached, separate, apart, only a witness, only a seer. He who becomes the seer—without leaving—the world drops from him. And he who remains the doer, even if he flees, the world does not drop; he remains the doer.

The saint moves toward the direction of Brahman, abandoning worldly dealings.

He walks a straight path, and the world condemns him.

Astonishingly, whenever someone walks straight in this world, the whole world condemns him. Why does this mishap occur? The reason is clear. People in the world walk crookedly. The one who walks straight creates a problem for them. If this man is right, then we are all wrong. And no one is willing to accept that he is wrong. The most crooked walker thinks his gait is straight. The liar thinks there is no one more truthful than he! If you speak truth among liars, you will be in trouble. They will not tolerate you. You experience this daily; you need not be a great saint. In an office, if you work where no one works—no one works in any Indian office—those who work cannot survive. People lounge with feet stretched, shuffle files from here to there.

In one office a man’s table was always free of files. Everyone was amazed: he finishes all the work; on others’ tables the files only pile up. The more files on one’s table, the more important he feels: so much work! They do not want to finish files; they collect them. Someone asked him: Brother, how do you get everything done? We even take work home, and still it is not finished; we work till midnight, yet not finished—how do you finish? Your table is always clean; no file remains.

He said: There is a trick. Imagine in the secretariat thousands are working. I always write: send to Bhai Das Bhai. In a city like Bombay, with thousands working, there must be at least one Bhai Das Bhai. It cannot be that Bombay has no Bhai Das Bhai. Send it to Bhai Das Bhai’s table—write only that—and send. The file never returns—where it goes, God knows! There must be some Bhai Das Bhai.

By coincidence the man said: Sir, I am Bhai Das Bhai! That is why I wondered why files keep piling on my table. Who is it who keeps sending: Send to Bhai Das Bhai!

In offices no one works. A file goes from one table to another, circling from here to there—just circling. If a worker arrives, everyone turns against him; because his working exposes them as idlers. And no one tolerates that.

Mulla Nasruddin worked in an office. I asked: Don’t you ever take a day off? He said: No, I cannot ever take a day off.

Why? He said: If I took a day off, they would discover that the work goes on without me. In truth, I am not needed there. So I cannot take leave; because if I took leave, they would know. For now I sit with legs stretched, wear a heavy look, keep a furrowed brow. If anyone comes, I look busy. If nothing else, I twist papers. I sign my own name repeatedly. There is no work; but if I take leave, how long will it take for them to know that this man has no work at all?

Where no one works, if you work, people get angry. Where all live by lying, if you speak truth, you will explode their hypocrisy. Among the blind, do not announce your eye; otherwise the blind will catch you and gouge it out. Among the deaf do not say you hear music.

This is the saint’s difficulty—not in odd instances; in the entire process of life he begins to walk straight. And here almost everyone is walking crooked. No one here walks straight. The very way we have been taught to walk is crooked.

For example, as soon as a child is born we tell him: become like Buddha, become like Krishna, become like Rama—the crookedness begins. Meaning: we will never allow this child to be what he was born to be. The crookedness begins.

No person in the world can be like another; in trying, he will become crooked. In the effort he becomes a hypocrite. How will you be Rama? Rama happened once; he does not happen again. The circumstances do not recur. Think: to be Rama you need a Ravana, a Sita, an old Dasharatha who marries in old age. Travel by chariots, not cars. The wheel of the chariot comes off, his young wife, seeing it fall, inserts her finger as a pin—when all this uproar is, then Rama will be again. Such uproar cannot be!

Do you think a person falls suddenly from the sky? He has a context. One day you suddenly pick up your bow and arrows, people will think some tribal is going to the Republic Day parade in Delhi. Even they are not tribal then. They watch films and smoke cigarettes. But for the parade they don loincloths and carry bows and arrows.

Everything in life arises in context. Outside context, not even a leaf is born, not even a flower blooms. And for a flower like Rama to bloom, the whole world of Rama must reappear. How will you be Rama? How will you be Buddha? Buddha did not drop from the sky without context. Buddhas grow in the earth, and the earth’s arrangement never repeats exactly. Shuddhodana will never be again; Yashodhara will not be again. Kingdoms are gone; democracies have come. Kings will not be. There is no way for a Buddha like that now!

Thus, no person in this world is a repetition! And good that it is so, otherwise carbon copies would be roaming. People would be false. You were born to be you. But hardly are you born before parents begin: become something else; teachers begin; priests and gurus begin. You become crooked. Simplicity can remain only if you want to be what you were born to be. When you do not budge an inch from your ownness, then you are simple. If you budge, you become crafty, hypocritical—one thing on the surface, another within. Conflict arises inside. You will speak one thing, do another. Everything inside will tangle. Your clarity will end.

Sainthood is born when a person accepts his ownness.

A Jewish fakir, Zusya, was dying. An elder of the village said to him: Zusya, your whole life you did topsy-turvy things—people thought so. In himself he was utterly straight; such straightness is rare. Now at least ask God for forgiveness. Now remember Moses because he will save you. We have never seen you pray to Moses—now pray. Tell him: I am coming, take care of me. Intercede for me with God; save me. You are my protector!

Zusya opened his eyes and said: Stop this talk. When I go before God he will not ask me: Zusya, why were you not Moses? He will ask only: Zusya, why were you not Zusya? What have I to do with Moses? He made me as myself. Let me reach him as that. Let his will be fulfilled. If I am a simple blade of grass, then let me be that and bloom before him. He did not make me a rose; had he made me, I would have been one. He did not make me a lotus; had he made me, I would have been one. Let me reach him as I am, in full bloom. A blade of grass—then a blade of grass—let me blossom at his feet.

Do you think God will ask a grass-flower why he did not become a rose? Or ask a rose why he did not become a lotus? What madness! But this is what makes man crooked. It makes him deceitful. He puts on masks. He becomes not simple, not straight. How can he? He suppresses himself and dons what he is not.

The saint moves toward the direction of Brahman, abandoning worldly dealings.

He walks a straight path, and the world condemns him.

But the world condemns them. Always the world has condemned the saints. Yes, once they die, the world worships them; while living, it condemns them. Because while alive, saints create trouble. Their way, their style of life exposes your falsity. Their prayer, their worship turns your temples into hypocrisy. Their direct relation with God, their simple speech, their guileless conduct, the earthy fragrance rising from their life—exposes the stench in all of you.

You do not want people better than yourselves around you. It hurts the ego. They say the camel does not go near the mountains; perhaps that is why it remains in the desert. If it does not go near, it will never know it is small. A fundamental trait of the human mind is that each wants to live among those smaller than himself; among the small he appears great. Each collects around himself a circle of petty people. Among them he appears great. Is this a way to be great?

If you want to be great, befriend the great. If you want to rise, go to those who have risen. If you want the height of the mountains, keep the company of mountains. But people fear the company of mountains. There they discover how small they are. This wounds the heart. No one wants to accept smallness. Ego lives by thinking itself big.

Hence the saints are slandered—because suddenly they stand among you like a mountain; like Gauri Shankar’s peak, snow-clad, they rise into the sky. In the sun’s rays their form shines—their beauty, their simplicity, their ease. You all are annoyed. The crowd becomes ready to bring the mountain down.

Socrates was given poison for this reason: his mere presence began to irk the Athenians. Socrates made the entire city aware that you all are false. Anyone who spoke to Socrates immediately felt: I am false. Such was his process. His questions were such that he would quickly reveal your lie to you. He would ask: Do you believe in God? Generally a man says: Yes, I believe, I also worship.

He would ask: Have you seen?

Trouble begins.

You say: No, my father told me.

Did your father see?

You say: His father told him.

Did he see?

He begins to pull the ground from under your feet. Who knows if someone there lied? If none ever saw? If it is only a rumor? How have you based your life on a God you have never experienced? Your prayer is false. Now do not go to the temple, otherwise you are a hypocrite.

You are afraid. Next day you will avoid the temple lest Socrates meets you on the way and says: You are a hypocrite. And you have no means to prove you are not. The court said to Socrates: We can pardon you. Give us your word that you will be quiet—that you will not trouble people, will not stand in streets and lanes and prick them. If you leave off this speaking of truth, the court can free you; you can live.

Socrates said: If I do not speak truth, what is the point of living? That is my very work. If people are angered, that is their mistake. Let them also seek truth. I want only to set them on the quest for truth!

Such a man cannot be tolerated. Socrates had to be killed by poison. We have done this to all the true ones. Mahavira stood naked. Nakedness has its own bliss, its ease, its beauty. Except man, no creature hides itself in clothes. Have you ever felt that looking at animals you think: they are naked? Do you feel something unseemly, obscene? When a man is naked, why do you feel obscenity and shame? Man has hidden himself so much that now even removing clothes feels wrong.

See the fun: one side, man keeps hiding in clothes; then he buys magazines like Playboy to look at naked women, or goes to the movies to see naked scenes. See the inversion! First he hides; then having hidden, curiosity arises: what is concealed beneath the clothes? The more hidden a thing is, the more the urge to uncover.

There are still some tribals on earth who live naked. Show them a Playboy—they will laugh: What is the matter? What is there in this? If nothing is hidden, what is there to reveal! You will be surprised to know that your priests have a hand in the existence of magazines like Playboy. They are responsible for the sale of nude pictures and films. And they are, on the surface, opposed to them. The great fun is: apparently the priests oppose these, saying such things should not be. Because of their prohibition there is juice in these things. From prohibition arises allure.

I lived for a time in Raipur. A lawyer lived near me. Raipur is still somewhat rustic. People urinate anywhere, defecate anywhere. People were urinating on his wall. Being a lawyer, he had on his wall painted in big letters: Urinating here is prohibited. Since he wrote it, the place became a urinal. I sat with him one day. He said: We are greatly troubled—what to do now? We even wrote that it is prohibited, and the situation got worse.

I said: Write there: Urinating here is compulsory.

He said: What will happen?

I said: Just write.

He said: Then more will do it if it is compulsory?

I said: No one will—write it. As soon as people feel it is compulsory, they will say: Are we someone’s servants or slaves? You wrote ‘prohibited’. A man passing on his business, on reading it, suddenly thinks: then let me! People must be urinating here; otherwise why would anyone write it!

In Bhopal I was sitting in a house; inside the drawing room was written: Spitting paan here is prohibited. I said: Are you mad? It means that here people spit. He said: They do—hence we wrote. But no one reads this either. People still spit. Bhopal has its own custom. People chew paan and spit right there.

Put up a sign—what difference does it make? It only proves such acts are done there. The more prohibitions you impose, the greater the problem.

A film arrives in the town: Adults only. Little kids go, buy two-anna mustaches, stick them on—but they must see! If for adults only, children’s curiosity is piqued—there must be some fun! Something worth seeing!

Where there is prohibition, there is invitation.

The presence of saints puts you in difficulty. Mahavira stood naked—you were troubled. He was utterly innocent—like a child—stood like a child. But he troubled all who wore clothes. He was driven away, expelled from towns, beaten. People did all possible misbehavior—and now they worship! Know this: such worship arises from a sense of guilt. When you have misbehaved with someone too much—ultimately killed him—then a great guilt arises in you: What have we done! This was not right. To evade guilt you build a temple, make a statue, and worship.

A gentleman’s father died. I had known them for years. While the father lived he did nothing but misbehave with him—even beat him. Now the father died; he had a statue made. He sent word: I have had a statue made of my father—please come inaugurate it. I said: I know you well—you used to beat him. People do not usually beat fathers. Even if they feel like, they refrain. Now you have made a statue—why? Now repentance pricks: I did not do right. How to fill this? Make a statue!

In Bombay a friend’s wife died. She died by drinking poison—because while she lived he went from one woman to another. He is a rich man; has the means. When she died he hung her pictures all over and sat like a renunciate. His sister came to me and said: My brother says he will never marry; never! He brings flowers to the photo with tears.

I went to meet him. I said: Stop this nonsense! How did she die? Tell me. Why did she die? Now you place flowers! What are you pretending? Now you feel guilty.

Man is like this. Now you give respect; now you say you will never marry. Whom are you deceiving?

This is how we have done for centuries. Such is man’s habit.

He walks a straight path, and the world condemns him.

The saint walks straight, and the world condemns him. Because his straight walking makes your gait look crooked. Where all walk drunk and stagger, if someone walks without staggering, all the drunk will be offended: you too stagger—walk as all do!

You have seen: people get annoyed at small things. If everyone dresses one way and you do not, people get annoyed. They say: Be as everyone is. All cut hair this way—so should you. All sit and stand in this way—so should you!

People do not tolerate a different man, because his difference creates doubt in them: perhaps we are wrong! People want all to be like them; then the belief remains: when so many are like us, we must be right—so much company—how can we be wrong? How can so many be wrong?

George Bernard Shaw said something wonderful: Whatever many people believe, assume it cannot be right; how can so many be right?

The common man’s notion is: how can so many be wrong? Therefore we consent to the crowd. We always go with the crowd. Wherever the crowd goes, we proceed. The saint leaves the crowd’s path and walks alone. His walking alone begins to trouble us. His presence begins to irk. We find a thousand rationalizations to condemn him. And there is nothing that cannot be rationalized. Everything can be made to look logical—pseudo-logic—rationalizations; they look like logic.

Beware of rationalizations! First look into why you want to prove thus. What is the cause? Where is the hurt? Why are you agitated? Where is the unease? Might it be that this man’s presence wounded my ego, shook my beliefs, and I am now trying to regain balance by gathering these arguments?

People do not come here. They speak all kinds of slander. If you say: Why don’t you come? they say: If we go there we will be hypnotized. A great fun! They will not come, and they have found a trick: if we go there we are hypnotized. Whoever goes there begins to speak in his favor. Therefore we cannot come there. Case closed. From outside they will condemn, without knowing, without understanding. First understand something. Before concluding, examine properly! Try some experiment! What is happening here? Enter a little. Taste a little!

But they say: If we taste, we too will be hypnotized! If we savor, we too will go mad! We will remain outside and condemn!

This is great dishonesty. If my ochre-robed sannyasins say something to them, they say: You are already on his side; we will not accept your word. We need an impartial man. Who is impartial?—the one who has never come here! He who has not set foot here is impartial! He who has come becomes partisan!

What a strange logic! It means an eyewitness is not a witness; the one who was not present—his testimony will be accepted because he was not there. What court accepts this? But such things run in people’s minds.

The saint speaks the true tale, speaks no falsehood.

The saint simply says it as it is.

The saint speaks the true tale, speaks no falsehood.

Though the world comes to unsteady him, he never wavers.

The world tries hard to make you sway as it sways; speak as it speaks; sit and rise as it sits and rises; do not attempt to be different. Your difference unseats us. Your difference robs us of our security. Your difference makes our ground tremble. Be like us.

But one who has tasted truth may give up his life, but will not consent to lie.

Whatever are the doings of the world, those the saint drops.

He drops all acts born of worldliness. What are worldly acts? Those filled with ambition. The saint leaves ambition.

What is the race of the world? To get ahead of the other! The saint says: We are happy to be behind.

Jesus said: Those who are behind shall be foremost in the kingdom of God; and those here who are foremost—beware—will be behind in the kingdom.

The saint says: We are happy behind; we will not run. We will not compete. We will not enter any contest. Because you are you and I am I—where is the reason to compete? You are such, I am such—where is the reason to compete?

The saint accepts his situation as it is. Where there is no competition, there is no vengeance. The saint stands outside politics. Politics is the world of ambition, of rivalry—drag the other down and seat oneself upon the chair, by any means.

Politics is the race to climb the chair. The saint is he who says: Wherever I sit, there is my throne.

A fakir went to an assembly. A pundit was speaking. The fakir sat at the back, as fakirs do—at the place where people had left their shoes. But his presence, his aura—those near him turned to face him. They found it awkward to have their backs to him; they turned their faces. Seeing his dear form, the music and fragrance dripping from him, others also turned. Little by little, all backs turned to the pundit, all faces to the fakir. The pundit became nervous. He said to the fakir: Please come here, to the seat! The fakir said: Wherever we sit, that is the seat. We do not sit on seats; wherever we sit becomes the seat.

There is such a state of life—that wherever you are, you are sovereign. A saint begging is more majestic than emperors. Emperors sitting on thrones are beggars—still asking: more, more, more…

A Sufi, Bayazid, was visited by an emperor who offered thousands of gold coins. Bayazid said: May I ask one thing? Give this to some poor man. The emperor said: You are utterly poor. I have heard that for days you fast, have no food. I brought this so that when needed you will not starve. I have great reverence for you.

No, said the fakir: Give it to some poor man. I say, listen to me—give it to the poor. The emperor said: Then to which poor man shall I give it? You tell me. As you wish! The fakir said: Better you keep it—because there is no one in this village poorer than you. You have so much, yet the race for more has not ended—this is poverty.

Swami Ramtirtha used to tell: There was a fakir in a village. People offered money; it kept collecting. When he was near death, a lot had amassed. He said: Before dying, this must be settled. People kept dropping; now it is much. It should be given to some poor man. Many poor came, claiming: we are poor, none poorer—give to us. He said: Wait—let the greatest poor come. One day the emperor’s procession passed. He said: Stop! Take all this money. The emperor said: I heard you wanted to give to some poor man.

The fakir said: I was waiting for the poor. I awaited your path. There are other poor in this village—but none poorer than you. You have so much, yet no peace; still you are restless—more! Your poverty will never end. Take it! Perhaps you will get some relief, perhaps a night or two you might sleep in ease. Take it! I have heard you do not sleep nights.

Thus the fakir drops the world’s very foundation—ambition.

Whatever are the doings of the world, those the saint drops.

He drops pretense. He drops false conduct. As he is, so he reveals himself. The saint keeps no veils between himself and Paramatma. If he is bad, he is bad; if good, he is good—both are his. He hides nothing.

What can the world say? It sets obstacles before his feet.

Even the dignity of the Vedas, the saint forsakes.

The injunctions of the Vedas, the shastras—the saint leaves them. The Vedas say: Do thus—perform yajna, perform havan. The saint says: All madness. The scriptures say: Behave thus. The saint says: I will act from within, not according to any shastra. My scripture is within. My Veda is within. My book is my soul. I will read the Quran there; I will birth the Upanishad there. I will go within! I will hear God’s voice directly! If the rishis heard God’s voice—where did they hear? They went within and heard there. If rishis went within and verses were born—I too am made of bone and flesh as they were; I too will go within and hear the voice. If God spoke to them, he will speak to me. His compassion is boundless. He did not speak and then fall silent. He cares for me as much as for them. If God descended upon Muhammad as the Quran, he will descend upon me too.

The name of this trust is religion: that God has not abandoned man; that God has not lost hope in man; that you are not without support; that the Master is still as much at work behind you as ever. As he shaped Muhammad, so will he shape you. Search within—faithfully, steadfastly. The saint lives by the inner Veda, the inner Quran, the inner Bible.

Even the dignity of the Vedas, the saint forsakes—

as the gopis forsook all and surrendered to Krishna.

As the gopis left all—Vedas, shastras, Qurans, Puranas—and danced around Krishna—so within you sits Krishna. Within you dwells Paramatma—dance around him. Like the gopis, pour your all at his feet.

Trusting only in Rama, entertaining no doubt.

The saint has only one trust—not in scripture, not in society—only in Rama.

Trusting only in Rama, entertaining no doubt.

In his life there is no doubt; there is trust.

Says Sundar with a true mind, he does not heed the world.

He does not heed the world; he heeds the one who sits within. He obeys no other—he obeys himself. The saint is a declaration of individuality. The saint is rebellion. The saint is the most audacious man in the world. But only those who have such courage are worthy of attaining Paramatma. He stakes everything.

You remember God too—but casually.

When some fresh calamity befalls, O Hafiz,
a habit I have: I remember God.

A habit—no devotion, no trust, no experience, no taste—just a habit. A habit—and for Paramatma? You will miss. Out of habit you go to the temple. Out of habit you bow. I see it daily here—the two are different. Some bow in love; others only out of habit. When one bows in love, there is his thrill, his delight, his joy, his ah!—and when one bows from habit, there is no expression on his face, no juice in his eyes; he does not know what he does. A kind of drill. He is habituated. If any sadhu stands, bow down. Whoever it is—bow down. The bow is mechanical—no surrender, no consciousness, no awareness.

Come swiftly to me, my Beloved!

Those who dare to listen to the inner voice—gradually, as the savor grows, drop by drop—within them a great thirst flames up.

Come swiftly to me, my Beloved!

Then only one longing arises within—fiery—When will my beloved meet me!

Now I have learned what it means for the heart to be entered;
we had thought love was play and laughter.

People think: to seek God is play—it is not; the heart catches fire.

Now I have learned what it means for the heart to be entered;
we had thought love was play and laughter.

Yet when heart meets heart, love colors all.
The difficulty is only that the heart is so hard to find.

We are so entangled in outer trades we do not even know there is such a thing as a heart within. Do not ask doctors about the heart. What they call a heart attack is not an attack of the heart. Something happens to the lungs. An attack of the heart befalls only a devotee. Only the fortunate get a heart attack. What you call a heart attack is not of the heart. You know only the pump that drives breath, this throb you take as heart—the bellows that keeps the body going, breath in and out, purifying blood—you take this as heart? This is not heart. The heart belongs to the fortunate. Those who have a heart do not take long to meet God. The heart’s attack—understand it as God’s attack. He comes—then it occurs. Behind the physical heart there is a spiritual heart. Behind this dhak-dhak, another sound is hidden.

I do not know if it is he himself or his love—
from very near, from within, a restless call keeps coming.

When you begin to listen, you will know: from within, very near, from the heart itself, his call comes. The day this heart is discovered—that day surrender begins.

Now then, O restless heart, God be your guardian;
we have done all we could in love to protect you.

Until then you had to protect it; the day the heart is found, you can say: Now God be your guard.

Now then, O restless heart, God be your guardian—
we have done what we could.

Stir trust and the rest God accomplishes.

What is love? What is the effect of love?

Your making me helpless, my becoming helpless!

Bow just a little; search a little within!

What is love? What is the effect of love?

Your making me helpless, my becoming helpless!

Come swiftly to me, my Beloved!

I wander distraught in the pain of your separation!

Day and night I remain sad—for your sake.

Butcher-like this separation comes to slaughter me.

Within this cage it twists my heart—
like a washerman wringing water from cloth.

We are not acquainted with love, but—
it feels as if someone is kneading the heart.

Whom shall I call to? Without you, my Love—

What passes upon the heart in love, do not ask, friend;
it is the intimate secret of love—let it remain a secret!

This cannot be said to anyone. It can be submitted only to Him—for to whom else to say? None here have loved. None here have known passion. People here love money—or at most bodies. They have not glimpsed the soul. How to speak of light to the blind? Only to those who have seen can it be said. Hence the meaning of satsang: where you can speak the heart’s matters; where someone tells you his heart’s tale; where heart meets heart and a dialogue happens; where communion is possible. Among drinkers one can speak of intoxication. Do not speak of your love, your prayer, in the marketplace. People will not understand; they will call you mad. What is not their experience, they have no way to understand.

In love there comes a time upon a man—
the sparkle of stars hurts the veins of life.

When the heart becomes ready, wounds come from all sides. The starlight is far, but it too wounds. The pied cuckoo calls ‘pi’—and within the devotee the mantra of his beloved repeats. Flowers bloom and the devotee weeps—for when will his flower bloom!

Whom shall I call to? Without you, my Love—

This separation is my only companion; my life is greatly pained.

Love demands patience; desire is impatient.

What shall I do to my heart until the liver bleeds?

Love says: Be patient, wait. Desire says: Meet now, this very moment!

What shall I do to my heart until the liver bleeds?

Before you kill me, drown me in your love—
what shall I make of my heart? To whom to tell? Who will understand? None can understand this sorrow—none this joy. It is both sorrow and joy—a very sweet pain.

Now why not come to the aid of Sundardas?

How much longer will you delay? How much longer make me helpless? How much longer will you make me weep?

Beloved, I have fallen in love only with you.

Now I have left all—the whole flow of love moves toward you. Now I love only you. How long must I still wait?

This sacred house of yours, the tomb of your glory—
whose ill-omened glance made it prey today?

Where are my cherished plans, the dreams of tomorrow?
My garden burned; all my spring was plundered.

In my barbat not a single string remains unbroken;
in my cries no pain remains.

What more shall I do?

In my barbat not a single string remains unbroken;
all the strings of my vina are snapped.

In my cries no pain remains—
I have wept as much as I could; I have called as much as I could.

Now why not come to the aid of Sundardas?

Beloved, I have fallen in love only with you.

But when there is such love, such a call—the clouds come and it rains. Whoever has called so has surely received. When the call is complete, union happens. It is as clear as two and two are four. Without exception it has been so.

Therefore the next pada is prayer, worship. The happening has happened. The Beloved has come! He was called in many ways, with many cries.

When the wounds of your memory begin to heal,
by some pretext we begin to remember you again.

Such states too arrive.

Now even hands do not rise for prayer;
so hopeless I am with the Provider!

At times the devotee is so tired that even hands do not rise. He has wept so much that tears have dried.

Now even hands do not rise for prayer;
so hopeless I am with the Provider!

Such despair comes—cry upon cry—and no sign of union! All hope breaks. But revolution happens exactly then—when all hope breaks. As long as there is hope, there is mind. As long as there is mind, there is ego. When hope goes, mind goes, ego goes. You collapse—like dust falling into dust.

In my barbat not a single string remains unbroken;
in my cries no pain remains.

In that moment—just then—the Infinite descends.

How shall I perform arati, O Master?

He descended! Of him there was no talk. He only spoke of his own calling, his own cry, his whole life’s flame. The rain came.

How shall I perform arati, O Master?

Now you stand before me. Now you stand everywhere! Even if I perform arati—how? Earlier I could not, for I did not know where you are. Now how can I? For you are everywhere!

How shall I perform arati, O Master? You pervade all places.

You are the vessel, the water, you are the Deva—you are named the Unseen, the Unknowable.

You yourself are the arati. You are the worshiped. You are within me; you are outside me. You are the devotee; you are the God.

You are the vessel, the water, you are the Deva—you are named the Unseen, the Unknowable.

You are the lamp, the incense, the incomparable; you are the bell—the very form of sound.

You are the leaf, the flower, the light;

you are the flower, you the petal, you the radiance, you the lamp—you are everything.

You are the Lord; you are the servant.

You are water and earth, fire and wind;

Sundar holds his mouth closed in silence.

Now a great difficulty! Before, the difficulty was you were not seen; the arati was ready. Now the difficulty is: you are seen; but now you are the arati as well. Now I too am you. Now there is no distance between I and you. Who shall perform whose arati—how can there be arati now!

You are the Lord; you are the servant.

You are the Master; you are the slave.

You are water and earth, fire and wind;

now only one thing remains: I should seize my mouth and be silent. That silence alone will be arati. The dumb man’s molasses. Now say nothing. Now you glow everywhere—inside and out there is only light. Whom to speak to? What to say? In what tongue to say? Which words will do? Which vina can reveal you? It is impossible. You are inexpressible, ineffable. You are all-pervading. Only one way remains:

Sundar holds his mouth closed in silence.

Now I fall silent. Now I close my mouth.

When such becomes someone’s experience, even if you sit near him, your extinguished lamps will be lit. One who has reached that silence—knowing God—if his eyes glance into yours, your lamps will be lit!

From one lamp many lamps are kindled;
by one flame many planets glow.

Who could say why the night adorned herself?
Who knows where the flute sounded?

One melody arose; a thousand tones began to dance!

Like Shakuntala, carrying Durvasa’s curse,
a night with free-flowing hair on the path of union—

in one shade many heats melted!

One Formless takes many forms in himself;
one ray becomes the seven-hued rainbow;

in one refuge many deaths dissolve!

From one lamp many lamps are kindled;
by one flame many planets glow.

Who could say why the night adorned herself?
Who knows where the flute sounded?

One melody arose; a thousand tones began to dance!

But a melody rises only when one arrives at that place where there is no way left to speak—where speech falls silent, where tones go quiet—there rises the unstruck sound. Relate yourself to such a one; come near a lit lamp, and your quenched lamp too will ignite. Let flame kindle flame.

Enough for today.