Hearing the kettledrum’s stroke, the lotus-face blooms,
Greater ardor flowers, in mind and in the body.
When he wheels the spear, no one can keep composure,
Cowards, seeing him, quake within their hearts.
Shattering, like a moth that falls into the flame,
So they break and fall amid the hosts of chieftains.
Having fought fierce melee, Sundar salutes Shyam,
That very hero-form abides, going on in the fray.
A brave one, spying the foe’s opening, strikes his blow,
He smites, true to the mark, with sword and with arrow.
A saint sits all eight watches, warring with his own mind,
Whose face and brow are not beheld by the body.
A warrior falls to the dust, runs, ranging far,
A saint, with steady heart, takes hold of the Void.
Sundar says: there, no foot can find a foothold,
The saint’s campaign surpasses the bravest warrior’s.
To whom wealth is dust, worldly bliss a crucifying stake,
Who sees Fortune as a thing to forget, befriends the very End.
Power he counts like sin, honor like a serpent,
Even fame a scorpion’s sting, woman a serpentess.
Indra’s heaven he deems as fire, Brahma’s realm as hindrance,
Renown to him is a blot, attainment flicked aside.
In one whose mind forever leaves no craving left,
Sundar says: to him our salutation.
He gives true counsel, gives well-taught learning,
Gives evenness and good sense, and takes away perverse thought.
He shows the road, grants devotion deep in feeling,
Gives the certainty of love, and fills the emptied heart.
He gives knowledge, gives meditation, gives self-inquiry,
Reveals Brahman, and moves within Brahman.
Sundar says: the world’s saints take nothing at all,
Saintly ones, day and night, do only the giving.
Jyoti Se Jyoti Jale #3
Available in:
Read in Original Hindi (मूल हिन्दी)
Sutra (Original)
सुनत नगारै चोट विगसै कंवलमुख,
अधिक उछाह फूल्यौ माइहू न तन मैं।
फिरै जब सांगि तब कोऊ नहिं धीर धरै,
काइर कंपायमान होत देखि मन मैं।।
टूटिकै पतंग जैसे परत पावक मांहिं,
ऐसै टूटि परै बहु सावंत के गन मैं।
मारि घमसांण करि सुंदर जुहारै स्याम,
सोई सूरबीर रुपि रहै जाइ रन मैं।।
सूरबीर रिपु कौ निमूनौ देखि चोट करै,
मारै तब ताकि करि तरवारि तीर सौ।
साधु आठौ जाम बैठौ मन ही सौं युद्ध करै,
जाकै मुंह माथौ नहिं देखिए शरीर सौं।।
सूरबीर भूमि परै दौर करै दूरिलगैं,
साधु शून्य कौं पकरि राखै धरि धीर सौं।
सुंदर कहत, तहां काहू के न पांव टिकैं,
साधु कौ संग्राम है अधिक सूरबीर सौं।।
धूलि जैसो धन जाकैं सूलि से संसार-सुख,
भूलि जैसो भाग देखै अंत की सी यारी है।
पाप जैसी प्रभुताइ सांप जैसो सनमान,
बड़ाई हू बीछनी सी नागिनी सी नारी है।।
अग्नि जैसो इंद्रलोक विघ्न जैसो विधि लोक,
कीरति कलंक जैसी, सिद्धि सींटि डारी है।
वासना न कोऊ बाकी ऐसी मति सदा जाकी,
सुंदर कहत ताहि वंदना हमारी है।।
सांचौ उपदेश देत, भलीभांति सीख देत,
समता सुबुद्धि देत, कुमति हरत है।
मारग दिखाई देत, भावहू भगति देत,
प्रेम की प्रतीति देत, अभरा भरत है।।
ज्ञान देत, ध्यान देत, आत्म-विचार देत,
ब्रह्म कौं बताइ देत, ब्रह्म मैं चरत हैं।
सुंदर कहत जग संत कछु देत नांहिं,
संतजन निसिदिन देबौई करत हैं।।
अधिक उछाह फूल्यौ माइहू न तन मैं।
फिरै जब सांगि तब कोऊ नहिं धीर धरै,
काइर कंपायमान होत देखि मन मैं।।
टूटिकै पतंग जैसे परत पावक मांहिं,
ऐसै टूटि परै बहु सावंत के गन मैं।
मारि घमसांण करि सुंदर जुहारै स्याम,
सोई सूरबीर रुपि रहै जाइ रन मैं।।
सूरबीर रिपु कौ निमूनौ देखि चोट करै,
मारै तब ताकि करि तरवारि तीर सौ।
साधु आठौ जाम बैठौ मन ही सौं युद्ध करै,
जाकै मुंह माथौ नहिं देखिए शरीर सौं।।
सूरबीर भूमि परै दौर करै दूरिलगैं,
साधु शून्य कौं पकरि राखै धरि धीर सौं।
सुंदर कहत, तहां काहू के न पांव टिकैं,
साधु कौ संग्राम है अधिक सूरबीर सौं।।
धूलि जैसो धन जाकैं सूलि से संसार-सुख,
भूलि जैसो भाग देखै अंत की सी यारी है।
पाप जैसी प्रभुताइ सांप जैसो सनमान,
बड़ाई हू बीछनी सी नागिनी सी नारी है।।
अग्नि जैसो इंद्रलोक विघ्न जैसो विधि लोक,
कीरति कलंक जैसी, सिद्धि सींटि डारी है।
वासना न कोऊ बाकी ऐसी मति सदा जाकी,
सुंदर कहत ताहि वंदना हमारी है।।
सांचौ उपदेश देत, भलीभांति सीख देत,
समता सुबुद्धि देत, कुमति हरत है।
मारग दिखाई देत, भावहू भगति देत,
प्रेम की प्रतीति देत, अभरा भरत है।।
ज्ञान देत, ध्यान देत, आत्म-विचार देत,
ब्रह्म कौं बताइ देत, ब्रह्म मैं चरत हैं।
सुंदर कहत जग संत कछु देत नांहिं,
संतजन निसिदिन देबौई करत हैं।।
Transliteration:
sunata nagārai coṭa vigasai kaṃvalamukha,
adhika uchāha phūlyau māihū na tana maiṃ|
phirai jaba sāṃgi taba koū nahiṃ dhīra dharai,
kāira kaṃpāyamāna hota dekhi mana maiṃ||
ṭūṭikai pataṃga jaise parata pāvaka māṃhiṃ,
aisai ṭūṭi parai bahu sāvaṃta ke gana maiṃ|
māri ghamasāṃṇa kari suṃdara juhārai syāma,
soī sūrabīra rupi rahai jāi rana maiṃ||
sūrabīra ripu kau nimūnau dekhi coṭa karai,
mārai taba tāki kari taravāri tīra sau|
sādhu āṭhau jāma baiṭhau mana hī sauṃ yuddha karai,
jākai muṃha māthau nahiṃ dekhie śarīra sauṃ||
sūrabīra bhūmi parai daura karai dūrilagaiṃ,
sādhu śūnya kauṃ pakari rākhai dhari dhīra sauṃ|
suṃdara kahata, tahāṃ kāhū ke na pāṃva ṭikaiṃ,
sādhu kau saṃgrāma hai adhika sūrabīra sauṃ||
dhūli jaiso dhana jākaiṃ sūli se saṃsāra-sukha,
bhūli jaiso bhāga dekhai aṃta kī sī yārī hai|
pāpa jaisī prabhutāi sāṃpa jaiso sanamāna,
bar̤āī hū bīchanī sī nāginī sī nārī hai||
agni jaiso iṃdraloka vighna jaiso vidhi loka,
kīrati kalaṃka jaisī, siddhi sīṃṭi ḍārī hai|
vāsanā na koū bākī aisī mati sadā jākī,
suṃdara kahata tāhi vaṃdanā hamārī hai||
sāṃcau upadeśa deta, bhalībhāṃti sīkha deta,
samatā subuddhi deta, kumati harata hai|
māraga dikhāī deta, bhāvahū bhagati deta,
prema kī pratīti deta, abharā bharata hai||
jñāna deta, dhyāna deta, ātma-vicāra deta,
brahma kauṃ batāi deta, brahma maiṃ carata haiṃ|
suṃdara kahata jaga saṃta kachu deta nāṃhiṃ,
saṃtajana nisidina debauī karata haiṃ||
sunata nagārai coṭa vigasai kaṃvalamukha,
adhika uchāha phūlyau māihū na tana maiṃ|
phirai jaba sāṃgi taba koū nahiṃ dhīra dharai,
kāira kaṃpāyamāna hota dekhi mana maiṃ||
ṭūṭikai pataṃga jaise parata pāvaka māṃhiṃ,
aisai ṭūṭi parai bahu sāvaṃta ke gana maiṃ|
māri ghamasāṃṇa kari suṃdara juhārai syāma,
soī sūrabīra rupi rahai jāi rana maiṃ||
sūrabīra ripu kau nimūnau dekhi coṭa karai,
mārai taba tāki kari taravāri tīra sau|
sādhu āṭhau jāma baiṭhau mana hī sauṃ yuddha karai,
jākai muṃha māthau nahiṃ dekhie śarīra sauṃ||
sūrabīra bhūmi parai daura karai dūrilagaiṃ,
sādhu śūnya kauṃ pakari rākhai dhari dhīra sauṃ|
suṃdara kahata, tahāṃ kāhū ke na pāṃva ṭikaiṃ,
sādhu kau saṃgrāma hai adhika sūrabīra sauṃ||
dhūli jaiso dhana jākaiṃ sūli se saṃsāra-sukha,
bhūli jaiso bhāga dekhai aṃta kī sī yārī hai|
pāpa jaisī prabhutāi sāṃpa jaiso sanamāna,
bar̤āī hū bīchanī sī nāginī sī nārī hai||
agni jaiso iṃdraloka vighna jaiso vidhi loka,
kīrati kalaṃka jaisī, siddhi sīṃṭi ḍārī hai|
vāsanā na koū bākī aisī mati sadā jākī,
suṃdara kahata tāhi vaṃdanā hamārī hai||
sāṃcau upadeśa deta, bhalībhāṃti sīkha deta,
samatā subuddhi deta, kumati harata hai|
māraga dikhāī deta, bhāvahū bhagati deta,
prema kī pratīti deta, abharā bharata hai||
jñāna deta, dhyāna deta, ātma-vicāra deta,
brahma kauṃ batāi deta, brahma maiṃ carata haiṃ|
suṃdara kahata jaga saṃta kachu deta nāṃhiṃ,
saṃtajana nisidina debauī karata haiṃ||
Translation (Meaning)
Questions in this Discourse
Sumitra asked a question yesterday. She said, “My whole life has been nothing but suffering. And both my sons are unhappy too.”
What suffering? This is exactly what’s eating at Sumitra—she’s come to me before and said, “My life has been nothing but suffering.” Whose life is sailing along in happiness? Just raise your eyes and look, Sumitra—whose life is going in happiness? One sees one’s own pain and not the other’s; don’t be deluded by that! Whose sons are happy? Who here is happy?
I’ve heard a very old story. A man kept praying to God, over and over, and in his prayer there was only one refrain: “Why have you made me so miserable?” Perhaps he was like Sumitra. “The whole world is living in joy and I alone am miserable! I’m miserable! What is my fault? What mistake did I make?”
Even God must have gotten tired. One day he asked, “Brother, what is it you want?” The man said, “Grant me just this: give me anyone else’s suffering, and give my suffering to someone else. I’m willing to exchange with anybody. I’m not even saying don’t give me suffering—but don’t give me this particular suffering. I’m ready to swap.”
The whole world looks happy. People only look happy. Go to the bazaar—perfumed and anointed, people are walking about. They laugh, they chat. It seems there is enjoyment everywhere, and only we are miserable. And each one of them thinks precisely the same: that everyone else is fine and only I am suffering. Since people everywhere are laughing and appearing cheerful, etiquette dictates: I too should smile, I too should seem cheerful. Who’s going to sit around playing the tune of sorrow? But he doesn’t know this is everyone’s state.
A husband and wife quarrel at home, and as soon as there’s a knock at the door they start smiling. “Come in, please sit.” And they begin to speak in a way that suggests a great romance is unfolding—when just a moment ago they were at each other’s throats, ready to kill. Naturally the guest will think: “A golden-age couple!” He has no idea what was happening. The same thing happens in his home too, but he knows only his own situation.
So God said, “Fine. So be it—tonight it will happen.” That night he slept and dreamt that everyone was tying up their sorrows in little bundles and going to the village square. A loud announcement echoed, “Bring your sorrows tied in your own bundles, and exchange them with whomever you wish.” Everyone is unhappy. Each tied up their own sorrows. Whatever the sorrows, they tied them all up. People were on their way carrying large bundles. He too tied up his sorrows—after all, he had been waiting for this chance his whole life. But when he reached the crossroads, he was shocked. He had imagined people would be carrying little bundles; people were carrying bundles bigger than his. His chest sank. He looked around—who should he exchange with? His own bundle seemed small. He began to worry: “Now will I have to exchange?”
Then came the command: “Everyone put down your bundles.” They were set on the ground. Then another command: “Now choose whichever bundle you like.” The man ran to choose his own, lest someone else pick it up. But he was amazed to see everyone else running toward their own bundle. Nobody chose another’s—each grabbed their own, relieved, grateful, thanking God profusely. They asked one another, “Brother, why did everyone choose their own?” And each replied, “At least our own sorrows are familiar, known. Who knows what snakes and scorpions lurk in someone else’s bundle!”
Sumitra, I say to you—at least your sorrows are known and familiar! Do you want to exchange them? If you wish, tonight we can arrange it—bring your bundle tied up. But be warned: you will regret it bitterly after you exchange! Because you’ll have to learn the ABC all over again—another’s sorrows.
With one’s own sorrows, one gradually makes peace; they become familiar, even friendly. The truth is, if sorrow suddenly leaves you one day, you will feel a great emptiness—as if a close relative has departed.
What is sorrow? You say your sons and daughters are unhappy. Who is happy here? No one can be happy here. In the outward journey there is no happiness. The outward journey equals sorrow; it is sorrow’s very synonym. Forms may differ, styles and colors may vary—but happiness is not found in the outward journey.
Do you think, Sumitra—(you come from Nepal; Buddha too was born in Nepal)—do you think the Buddha’s inner state was better than yours? If it were, would he have left home? His state was like yours, if not worse. At least you have not run away from home yet.
Remember the Buddha. He had a beautiful wife, a beautiful son, a palace—everything—but not happiness. Why did he leave it all? Because happiness is not outside. Happiness is within. And within it arises only when we are free of the mind. The absence of mind is bliss; the presence of mind is sorrow. The density of mind is hell; freedom from mind is heaven.
“The saint sits through all eight watches of the day, waging war with the mind,
whose face and brow cannot be seen as with a body.”
His battle is arduous, because the mind is neither visible, nor has it a face or a brow—yet one must fight it, and one day he cuts down this invisible enemy, shreds it to pieces.
“The brave on the battlefield can charge and chase the foe afar;
the saint must seize the Void and hold it steady with patience.”
A lovely saying! On an outer battlefield there is convenience: you can pursue the enemy—run, catch, strike—there are means. But inside, there is no room to run; you must sit. The saint has only one undertaking, one discipline—sit down. Where to run? Where to go? Inside there is not even direction, no space. There isn’t even an inch to move. The saint simply sits. That sitting is what we call meditation. Utterly still—without the slightest tremor.
And when I say “doesn’t move, doesn’t tremble,” I do not mean your body. Otherwise people get into odd troubles: “Now I’m meditating, my body must not move. An ant is biting—my body must not move.” And then they’re trapped. The ant keeps biting. Ants are fierce enemies of meditators. The mosquitoes too—the old enemies of meditation. Normally they may leave you alone, but sit to meditate and they all show up, tuning their instruments. They’re always playing their music; you’re usually so tangled in thoughts you don’t hear. When you sit quietly, you notice. Ants always climb and descend; they don’t know you’re meditating. If ants understood meditation, they would be of a higher species than you.
When you become still, the tiniest things are noticed. An ant brushes by, a foot goes numb. Don’t get entangled in all that. It is not about the body staying still. The body can even dance—and meditation can still happen. The inner must not shake. No inner craving should quiver, no thought should ripple, no wind of desire should blow. That is the real meaning of sitting, the true siddhāsana.
“The brave on the battlefield can charge and chase the foe afar;
the saint must seize the Void and hold it steady with patience.”
The saint’s whole practice is this alone: to grasp the void and hold it, not let it be broken, not let it be filled even a little—by any thought, any desire, any memory, any imagination. A blank mind, like a blank page, with nothing written upon it. As such emptiness stabilizes, the seeker dissolves. The day the void becomes complete, the seeker is perfected; that day the devotee becomes God.
“Let your desires, in love of the Beloved,
rise higher than desire itself.”
Raise passion so high that passion itself disappears.
Desire is petty; dye it in the color of desirelessness.
“A thousand times your Beauty was present as Beauty,
but we were such that we never could become Love.”
The Divine Beauty is present at every moment; it surrounds us from every side. But we cannot open our eyes to see it. We are so full of ourselves that we cannot catch even a glimpse of that Beauty. His lute is always playing, his flute always sings—but we are crammed with our own commotion.
“A thousand times your Beauty stood revealed as Beauty—
we were the ones who never could become Love.”
The lack is in our love. Our love is not empty, not causeless, not free of lust. The day love becomes free of lust, it becomes prayer.
Even when you pray, you attach desire to it. You go to the temple and “pray”—but the prayer is a pretext for asking: “Let my son get a job; let my daughter be married.”
A young woman, not especially comely—her looks a bit alarming—where else would she go but the temple? She prayed there daily. What could her prayer be but: “Grant me a husband.” A monk who visited the temple often heard her prayer and said, “Listen, in prayer one should not ask for oneself. If you must ask, ask for others—the poor, the hungry, the thirsty, the crippled, the lame. Don’t ask for yourself.”
From the next day she began praying for others. Do you know what she asked? “O God! Give my mother a handsome son-in-law.”
Even prayer turns into desire.
“The brave on the battlefield can charge and chase the foe afar;
the saint must seize the Void and hold it steady with patience.”
Only the Void is the goal: let there be a moment inside when there is no thought—no-thought, no-choice. In that very moment a joining happens, a bridge appears. That void is the doorway to the Whole.
“Beautifully said, but in that place no one’s feet can stand firm;
the saint’s battle is harder than the brave man’s.”
It is very hard to keep your footing in the void. You keep slipping. Thoughts come on their own. Desires swell of themselves. Push them out here, they enter from there. And the more you try to drop them, the harder it seems.
A man pestered a sage for years: “Give me a mantra—some mantra that grants powers; something that makes me prime minister this time.” The sage got tired and said, “Do this: here is a short mantra—five minutes and you’re done. Just one condition: while reciting it, don’t think of a monkey.”
Now a politician—and not think of a monkey! Kindred species. The politician said, “Don’t worry—I never think of monkeys. I think only of Delhi.” He rushed home. Tried to bathe and prepare—but was astonished: while bathing—monkeys! What is this? Why have they latched on? As soon as he sat cross-legged, not one monkey, many. Close his eyes—nothing but monkeys. The five-minute mantra became impossible—five seconds impossible. Monkeys grimacing and clamoring. The night passed, the monkeys didn’t relent for five minutes. In the morning, exhausted, he went raging to the sage: “First you wasted years, then you gave me this nuisance. Had you not said so, I swear to you I would never have thought of monkeys—there are a thousand animals in the world, donkeys, horses—none come to mind. But the whole night, nothing but monkeys! Why did you say it? If that was the condition, you should have kept quiet!”
The sage said, “That’s the difficulty—the condition must be told. I’ve given you the mantra—now you deal with it. The day you recite for five minutes without thinking of monkeys, that day you will attain.”
Imagine the man’s plight. He must have become a monkey himself!
It is hard to plant your feet in emptiness. The more you try, the more you find torrents of thought rushing in—stream upon stream, storms, tempests. Layers of thoughts gathered over lifetimes attack. Thoughts arise you never consciously thought—something heard in childhood twenty years ago, with no reason to surface now. It is as if the entire mind takes up arms, vowing to defeat you.
Patience is needed—endless patience. Keep quietly at the effort. Little by little, it happens.
“The saint must seize the Void and hold it steady with patience.
Beautifully said, but in that place no one’s feet can stand firm;
the saint’s battle is harder than the brave man’s.”
Therefore the outer wars are nothing much. Compared with the inner battle, outer wars are like a game of chess: elephants, horses—all make-believe. So too all outer wars become fake compared to the inner war.
If there is to be any dignity in life, accept the challenge of the inner battle. Go within. If you are to win, win there. That is why we call Mahavira “the Great Victor.” Many outside may be brave, but not great. “Mahavira” was not his given name—he was Vardhamana. But when the victory within was gained, when the flag of emptiness unfurled inside, we called him Mahavira.
All outer wars are insipid. He who has conquered within has conquered all. To conquer others is no great victory; death will come and wipe it all away. He who conquers himself truly wins, for even death can take nothing from him.
“Where your sword of love will give the world the water of life,
first temper it even more in poison.”
Your sword can shower nectar, but before that it must be dipped well in poison.
From the deep inner struggle, peace is born. Only after plunging into the inner storm does a peace arrive—the kind that comes only after the tempest.
“For whom wealth is like dust, worldly pleasures are like the gallows.”
Sundardas says: wealth is like dust to him.
“For whom wealth is like dust, the pleasures of the world are like crucifixion.”
He who has known inner joy finds outer pleasures like the gallows. He who has known the inner joy finds outer pleasures like sorrow. He who has known inner life finds outer life worse than death. And he who has known the inner light finds all the suns outside to be darkness.
“For whom wealth is like dust, worldly pleasures are like the gallows,
even great good fortune appears like a mistake; worldly ties feel like friendships at the end.”
Even if great fortune comes, it looks like a blunder to him. Buddha had a lucky hour—wealth, kingdom, position, prestige, an only son, a beautiful wife—everything. Yet that “fortune” looked like a mistake. He walked away.
“And worldly relations feel like friendships at the end.”
All ties seem as if they could snap any moment. They have no value. Here today, gone tomorrow. They are momentary. Like someone who is dying and another comes and offers his hand in friendship—what use now? Here we are dying every moment. All friendships here are like friendships at the end. But the mind goes on being deceived.
“Who has ever truly belonged to someone for a whole lifetime—still...
Beauty and love are all deception—still...
A thousand times the world passed by this road—
yet somehow your path seems new—still...”
The mind keeps being duped. The mind says, “Perhaps the saints are right—but not yet.” The mind is cunning; it hides behind ifs and buts.
“Who has ever truly belonged to someone for a whole lifetime—still...
Beauty and love are all deception—still...
A thousand times the world passed by this road—
yet somehow your path seems new—still...”
But the mind says, “Go—see—who knows, what others didn’t get, you will!”
What is the mind’s greatest trick? It can be put in one aphorism: the mind tells you that you are an exception. What has happened to everyone else will not happen to you. All have died—but you won’t. Everyone’s relations have broken—but yours won’t. All have found sorrow outside—but you won’t. All have been defeated outside—but you won’t.
The mind’s greatest trick is to tell you, “You are the exception; the rule that applies to all does not apply to you.”
Beware of this trick. The rule that applies to all applies to you. No one has ever won outside—you won’t either. No one has ever found happiness outside—you won’t either. In the outer world, nothing happens but death—this has always been so and will remain so. And the same will happen to you. But the mind keeps staging its play.
“By our own heat a certain swagger came into love;
by our own heat the idols’ beauty was wounded.”
It is all our own web of imagination—our moods. We ourselves manufacture beauty, we ourselves manufacture love, then we ourselves get troubled and we ourselves weep. We ourselves create expectations, then fill with sorrow. We ourselves set out on journeys of desire, then when they’re not fulfilled, we weep—weep bitterly.
“There were a few signs that we mistook as the world’s decree.
What did we think that familiar glance meant?
Slowly, slowly, the stranger became ours in our own eyes—
Bravo, O folly! We took you for our own.
When have the people of heart ever been granted sobriety?
We took ourselves to be madmen in love.”
It is all a matter of “understanding”—you can interpret anything any way you like. But every such “understanding” leads to sorrow. Drop understanding, drop the mind, drop ratiocination. Seize the void. From that void, a wisdom arises—not yours, but God’s. And that alone liberates.
“Power is like sin; honor is like a snake.”
Sundardas says: all this power, this status and prestige—
“Power is like sin; honor is like a snake.”
Feeding milk to a snake—that is honor; who knows when it will bite.
“Even praise is like a scorpion; ‘woman’ is like a serpent.”
All these praises are like scorpions—keep them on your palm if you like, but don’t trust them.
“Even praise is like a scorpion; ‘woman’ is like a serpent.”
And note, “woman” is a symbol here—Sundardas was speaking to men. Just as woman seems serpent-like to man, so man is snake-like to woman—add that. Otherwise men start thinking, “We are men and woman is serpent!” Don’t fall into that stupidity.
Saints have said “woman is the gate of hell,” and men smugly keep that saying.
A saint once stayed with me. He said, “Woman is the gate of hell.” I said, “That will land you in trouble.” He asked, “What trouble?” I said, “Then no woman will be able to go to hell—only men will. At least create a gate to hell for women too, otherwise you’ll be alone there—your heart will ache.”
Man is also the gate of hell for woman. In truth it isn’t a matter of man or woman—sex-desire is an inner intoxication that blinds the eyes; it makes us see what isn’t there and not see what is. That swoon is its name.
“Even heaven (Indra’s realm) is like fire; the gods’ world is full of obstacles;
fame is like a blemish; siddhis (occult powers) are worthless.”
Everything outside is ultimately just sense-indulgence, even in Indra’s heaven.
“Fame is like a stain.”
The true saint throws away even siddhis—treats them as trash.
In the outer realm there are hazards; in the inner realm there are hazards too—beware of those as well. Just as outside there is politics, wealth, status—so inside are powers of the mind. The mind won’t let you go easily. If you go on working upon it, the mind will start bargaining: “Here—take a power: you can read others’ thoughts; you can see what idea is passing in someone’s mind.” You get entangled. But what substance is there? If you haven’t gained anything by watching your own thoughts, what will you gain by seeing another’s? The same bundle—what’s in it?
A man was once brought to me who was adept at reading others’ thoughts. He would sit, close his eyes, be quiet and concentrated for five minutes, then tell you what was going on inside your mind. He sat before me too. He sat half an hour. I said, “Now speak.” He said, “What can I say? Nothing is going on.” I asked, “How long have you been in this mischief?” He said, “Thirty years.”
“What’s the essence? Even if you read another’s thoughts, what will you get?” Yet he had a great reputation—at least fifty disciples were with him. Telepathy! I said, “What will you get? He himself gets nothing from his thoughts; you’ll read them—what will you get? Why be in this madness? Why waste thirty years? With that much energy one could become thought-free.”
But such phenomena begin to occur in the mind. If you get a glimpse of the future, you become entangled—you forget all about the void. You go around telling people, “You will die in ten years; your business will fail in five.” But what’s the essence? The saint tosses siddhis aside like garbage.
“He in whose mind no desire at all remains—that one, says Sundar, is worthy of our reverence.”
“True instruction he gives, a clear learning he gives,
equanimity and good understanding he gives, and he takes away delusion.”
What is “true instruction”? To speak only what one has known. To say what one has lived. To convey only one’s own experience—without concern for scriptures, systems, or sects. Anything you say beyond your experience is false.
And he gives instruction, not orders. The saint doesn’t command “Do this.” Who is he to command? He offers counsel: “This is what I did; this is what I found—now, as you wish.” He does not order like a general, “Left turn! Right turn!” He does not prescribe disciplines—“Wake at this hour, sleep at that; eat this, don’t eat that; drink this, not that.” These are foolishnesses. The saint has nothing to do with them. He only offers guidance: “This happened to me; I submit it to you. If it resonates, try it. If not, your choice.” If you accept, he is not especially pleased; if you do not, he is not displeased.
“True instruction he gives, a clear learning he gives,
equanimity and good understanding he gives, and he takes away delusion.
He shows the path; he gives devotion to your feeling.”
A beautiful phrase! He points the way, makes a gesture—“There it is.” Then let whoever wishes walk it.
“He shows the path; he gives devotion to your feeling.”
He gives your feeling a taste for devotion—how your feeling can turn into devotion; how your love can become prayer; how the outer journey can transform into the inner journey; how your heart can melt. He beats the drum.
“Hearing the drum’s stroke, the lotus-face blooms,
exultation swells—neither in mother nor in body.”
“He shows the path; he gives devotion to your feeling;
he gives the taste of love; he fills the empty.”
Love is not a doctrine. Sit with one in whose presence you feel the thrill of love; in whose eyes you glimpse the flame of love; whose touch grants the vision and touch of love. This is satsang: where love is in wave after wave, you too sway, you too dance, sing, hum.
“Count as much the treasure you already have within.
Don’t squander yourself aimlessly in the air.
Do not be defeated by your own greed.
Do not disdain your own flower.
Do not go begging at some other springtime’s door.
A single petal of your own flower is the whole spring, O mind.
Within you is the wish-fulfilling jewel;
within you a taut, humming veena.
This jewel and this veena can give you everything—
by their strength alone you can learn to live aright.
What comes from outside is only appearance, O mind.
What you have—don’t make the pure impure;
don’t, for the lure of profit, deplete your capital.
Beware the tug and pull, the merchant’s cunning.
Don’t take this vastness to market and make it small.
All this bustle is nothing but strain, O mind.
Count as much the treasure you already have within!”
In the true master’s company, as you plunge into the taste of love, you begin to feel—you already have everything.
“Do not go begging at some other springtime’s door.”
No need to beg now. Throw away the begging bowl.
“Do not go begging at some other springtime’s door.
A single petal of your own flower is the whole spring.”
If one flower blossoms within you, the whole spring has come!
“Within you is the wish-fulfilling jewel;
within you a taut, humming veena.
This jewel and this veena can give you everything—
by their strength alone you can learn to live aright.
What comes from outside is only appearance, O mind.”
The taste of love will shake awake the sleeping love within you. The jangle of love there will awaken the jangle here. The call of love there will inevitably produce an echo of love within you.
“He shows the path; he gives devotion to your feeling;
he gives the taste of love; he fills the empty.”
If you have the capacity to receive, then be filled. Clouds mass; rain is falling. But some pots sit upside down out of fear—they will remain empty while the rain keeps pouring. Face the sky! Turn your mouth toward the clouds. This turning is what is called sannyas, or discipleship.
“The way the monsoon sings today,
sing that way, my beloved.
The way the clouds have gathered today,
gather that way, my beloved.
Today the peepal leaves sway and sway,
far voices sound as if they were near,
and in the clouds’ lap smiling,
lightning plays and plays.
Shine that way, my beloved.
The way the monsoon sings today,
sing that way, my beloved.”
It is raining—so sing! The trees are turning green—turn green. Flowers have bloomed—bloom. The drum has sounded—don’t keep your lotus hidden and pressed down. Be brave—dare! Accept the challenge!
“He gives the taste of love; he fills the empty.”
“He gives knowledge; he gives meditation; he gives self-inquiry;
he reveals Brahman; he lives in Brahman.”
“He reveals Brahman”—a master does not merely give “Brahman-knowledge”; he reveals Brahman itself. Priests trade in concepts; the master immerses you in Being.
“He gives knowledge”—that is the first step, for those not yet ready for meditation.
I speak to you daily—that is the first step. For those who understand the first, the second: “He gives meditation.” For those who understand the second, the third dawns: “He gives self-inquiry”—self-illumination, self-experience, self-realization. And for those who come to the third, the fourth: “He reveals Brahman.”
And how does he reveal Brahman?
“He lives in Brahman.”
That is the meaning of brahmacharya—not celibacy as mere control of sex, which makes the word small. It is a vast word—sky-like; no word could be greater. Brahmacharya means to conduct oneself in Brahman—to walk in Brahman, to live like the Brahman, to live in the Absolute.
“He reveals Brahman; he lives in Brahman.”
And he does not reveal it from afar—his life itself is the revelation: his getting up, sitting down, speaking, silence—everything is God-filled. Those who have eyes see; those who have hearts do not go away empty—“he fills the empty”—he lives in Brahman!
“Sundar says, the world claims that saints have nothing to give;
but saints are giving, giving, every day and night.”
People say saints have nothing to give—they are empty—what can they give? Sundardas says these are the words of the blind. A saint gives every moment. Giving is as natural to him as light is to the sun, fragrance to the flower, greenery to the earth, stars to the sky.
Yet, in the worldly sense, there is some point—because what the world comes to ask for, the saint does not give. Take Sumitra’s question: she wants me to make her sons happy; that the son and daughter-in-law don’t get along, so make them get along. That I cannot give. First, let the son get along with the son; let the daughter-in-law get along with the daughter-in-law—that I can do. But that the son and daughter-in-law should get along—that’s a tricky business. When did a son ever get along with a daughter-in-law? Marriage is the very name of quarrels—I cannot give that.
You ask for rubbish; when it isn’t given, you think, “What do saints give?” If you have eyes, you will see—saints give Brahman itself; nothing less. Nothing less is worth giving. The only real giving is Brahman. The only real receiving is Brahman. Give Brahman, take Brahman—this alone is the exchange with a saint.
Saints are giving—day and night.
Enough for today.
I’ve heard a very old story. A man kept praying to God, over and over, and in his prayer there was only one refrain: “Why have you made me so miserable?” Perhaps he was like Sumitra. “The whole world is living in joy and I alone am miserable! I’m miserable! What is my fault? What mistake did I make?”
Even God must have gotten tired. One day he asked, “Brother, what is it you want?” The man said, “Grant me just this: give me anyone else’s suffering, and give my suffering to someone else. I’m willing to exchange with anybody. I’m not even saying don’t give me suffering—but don’t give me this particular suffering. I’m ready to swap.”
The whole world looks happy. People only look happy. Go to the bazaar—perfumed and anointed, people are walking about. They laugh, they chat. It seems there is enjoyment everywhere, and only we are miserable. And each one of them thinks precisely the same: that everyone else is fine and only I am suffering. Since people everywhere are laughing and appearing cheerful, etiquette dictates: I too should smile, I too should seem cheerful. Who’s going to sit around playing the tune of sorrow? But he doesn’t know this is everyone’s state.
A husband and wife quarrel at home, and as soon as there’s a knock at the door they start smiling. “Come in, please sit.” And they begin to speak in a way that suggests a great romance is unfolding—when just a moment ago they were at each other’s throats, ready to kill. Naturally the guest will think: “A golden-age couple!” He has no idea what was happening. The same thing happens in his home too, but he knows only his own situation.
So God said, “Fine. So be it—tonight it will happen.” That night he slept and dreamt that everyone was tying up their sorrows in little bundles and going to the village square. A loud announcement echoed, “Bring your sorrows tied in your own bundles, and exchange them with whomever you wish.” Everyone is unhappy. Each tied up their own sorrows. Whatever the sorrows, they tied them all up. People were on their way carrying large bundles. He too tied up his sorrows—after all, he had been waiting for this chance his whole life. But when he reached the crossroads, he was shocked. He had imagined people would be carrying little bundles; people were carrying bundles bigger than his. His chest sank. He looked around—who should he exchange with? His own bundle seemed small. He began to worry: “Now will I have to exchange?”
Then came the command: “Everyone put down your bundles.” They were set on the ground. Then another command: “Now choose whichever bundle you like.” The man ran to choose his own, lest someone else pick it up. But he was amazed to see everyone else running toward their own bundle. Nobody chose another’s—each grabbed their own, relieved, grateful, thanking God profusely. They asked one another, “Brother, why did everyone choose their own?” And each replied, “At least our own sorrows are familiar, known. Who knows what snakes and scorpions lurk in someone else’s bundle!”
Sumitra, I say to you—at least your sorrows are known and familiar! Do you want to exchange them? If you wish, tonight we can arrange it—bring your bundle tied up. But be warned: you will regret it bitterly after you exchange! Because you’ll have to learn the ABC all over again—another’s sorrows.
With one’s own sorrows, one gradually makes peace; they become familiar, even friendly. The truth is, if sorrow suddenly leaves you one day, you will feel a great emptiness—as if a close relative has departed.
What is sorrow? You say your sons and daughters are unhappy. Who is happy here? No one can be happy here. In the outward journey there is no happiness. The outward journey equals sorrow; it is sorrow’s very synonym. Forms may differ, styles and colors may vary—but happiness is not found in the outward journey.
Do you think, Sumitra—(you come from Nepal; Buddha too was born in Nepal)—do you think the Buddha’s inner state was better than yours? If it were, would he have left home? His state was like yours, if not worse. At least you have not run away from home yet.
Remember the Buddha. He had a beautiful wife, a beautiful son, a palace—everything—but not happiness. Why did he leave it all? Because happiness is not outside. Happiness is within. And within it arises only when we are free of the mind. The absence of mind is bliss; the presence of mind is sorrow. The density of mind is hell; freedom from mind is heaven.
“The saint sits through all eight watches of the day, waging war with the mind,
whose face and brow cannot be seen as with a body.”
His battle is arduous, because the mind is neither visible, nor has it a face or a brow—yet one must fight it, and one day he cuts down this invisible enemy, shreds it to pieces.
“The brave on the battlefield can charge and chase the foe afar;
the saint must seize the Void and hold it steady with patience.”
A lovely saying! On an outer battlefield there is convenience: you can pursue the enemy—run, catch, strike—there are means. But inside, there is no room to run; you must sit. The saint has only one undertaking, one discipline—sit down. Where to run? Where to go? Inside there is not even direction, no space. There isn’t even an inch to move. The saint simply sits. That sitting is what we call meditation. Utterly still—without the slightest tremor.
And when I say “doesn’t move, doesn’t tremble,” I do not mean your body. Otherwise people get into odd troubles: “Now I’m meditating, my body must not move. An ant is biting—my body must not move.” And then they’re trapped. The ant keeps biting. Ants are fierce enemies of meditators. The mosquitoes too—the old enemies of meditation. Normally they may leave you alone, but sit to meditate and they all show up, tuning their instruments. They’re always playing their music; you’re usually so tangled in thoughts you don’t hear. When you sit quietly, you notice. Ants always climb and descend; they don’t know you’re meditating. If ants understood meditation, they would be of a higher species than you.
When you become still, the tiniest things are noticed. An ant brushes by, a foot goes numb. Don’t get entangled in all that. It is not about the body staying still. The body can even dance—and meditation can still happen. The inner must not shake. No inner craving should quiver, no thought should ripple, no wind of desire should blow. That is the real meaning of sitting, the true siddhāsana.
“The brave on the battlefield can charge and chase the foe afar;
the saint must seize the Void and hold it steady with patience.”
The saint’s whole practice is this alone: to grasp the void and hold it, not let it be broken, not let it be filled even a little—by any thought, any desire, any memory, any imagination. A blank mind, like a blank page, with nothing written upon it. As such emptiness stabilizes, the seeker dissolves. The day the void becomes complete, the seeker is perfected; that day the devotee becomes God.
“Let your desires, in love of the Beloved,
rise higher than desire itself.”
Raise passion so high that passion itself disappears.
Desire is petty; dye it in the color of desirelessness.
“A thousand times your Beauty was present as Beauty,
but we were such that we never could become Love.”
The Divine Beauty is present at every moment; it surrounds us from every side. But we cannot open our eyes to see it. We are so full of ourselves that we cannot catch even a glimpse of that Beauty. His lute is always playing, his flute always sings—but we are crammed with our own commotion.
“A thousand times your Beauty stood revealed as Beauty—
we were the ones who never could become Love.”
The lack is in our love. Our love is not empty, not causeless, not free of lust. The day love becomes free of lust, it becomes prayer.
Even when you pray, you attach desire to it. You go to the temple and “pray”—but the prayer is a pretext for asking: “Let my son get a job; let my daughter be married.”
A young woman, not especially comely—her looks a bit alarming—where else would she go but the temple? She prayed there daily. What could her prayer be but: “Grant me a husband.” A monk who visited the temple often heard her prayer and said, “Listen, in prayer one should not ask for oneself. If you must ask, ask for others—the poor, the hungry, the thirsty, the crippled, the lame. Don’t ask for yourself.”
From the next day she began praying for others. Do you know what she asked? “O God! Give my mother a handsome son-in-law.”
Even prayer turns into desire.
“The brave on the battlefield can charge and chase the foe afar;
the saint must seize the Void and hold it steady with patience.”
Only the Void is the goal: let there be a moment inside when there is no thought—no-thought, no-choice. In that very moment a joining happens, a bridge appears. That void is the doorway to the Whole.
“Beautifully said, but in that place no one’s feet can stand firm;
the saint’s battle is harder than the brave man’s.”
It is very hard to keep your footing in the void. You keep slipping. Thoughts come on their own. Desires swell of themselves. Push them out here, they enter from there. And the more you try to drop them, the harder it seems.
A man pestered a sage for years: “Give me a mantra—some mantra that grants powers; something that makes me prime minister this time.” The sage got tired and said, “Do this: here is a short mantra—five minutes and you’re done. Just one condition: while reciting it, don’t think of a monkey.”
Now a politician—and not think of a monkey! Kindred species. The politician said, “Don’t worry—I never think of monkeys. I think only of Delhi.” He rushed home. Tried to bathe and prepare—but was astonished: while bathing—monkeys! What is this? Why have they latched on? As soon as he sat cross-legged, not one monkey, many. Close his eyes—nothing but monkeys. The five-minute mantra became impossible—five seconds impossible. Monkeys grimacing and clamoring. The night passed, the monkeys didn’t relent for five minutes. In the morning, exhausted, he went raging to the sage: “First you wasted years, then you gave me this nuisance. Had you not said so, I swear to you I would never have thought of monkeys—there are a thousand animals in the world, donkeys, horses—none come to mind. But the whole night, nothing but monkeys! Why did you say it? If that was the condition, you should have kept quiet!”
The sage said, “That’s the difficulty—the condition must be told. I’ve given you the mantra—now you deal with it. The day you recite for five minutes without thinking of monkeys, that day you will attain.”
Imagine the man’s plight. He must have become a monkey himself!
It is hard to plant your feet in emptiness. The more you try, the more you find torrents of thought rushing in—stream upon stream, storms, tempests. Layers of thoughts gathered over lifetimes attack. Thoughts arise you never consciously thought—something heard in childhood twenty years ago, with no reason to surface now. It is as if the entire mind takes up arms, vowing to defeat you.
Patience is needed—endless patience. Keep quietly at the effort. Little by little, it happens.
“The saint must seize the Void and hold it steady with patience.
Beautifully said, but in that place no one’s feet can stand firm;
the saint’s battle is harder than the brave man’s.”
Therefore the outer wars are nothing much. Compared with the inner battle, outer wars are like a game of chess: elephants, horses—all make-believe. So too all outer wars become fake compared to the inner war.
If there is to be any dignity in life, accept the challenge of the inner battle. Go within. If you are to win, win there. That is why we call Mahavira “the Great Victor.” Many outside may be brave, but not great. “Mahavira” was not his given name—he was Vardhamana. But when the victory within was gained, when the flag of emptiness unfurled inside, we called him Mahavira.
All outer wars are insipid. He who has conquered within has conquered all. To conquer others is no great victory; death will come and wipe it all away. He who conquers himself truly wins, for even death can take nothing from him.
“Where your sword of love will give the world the water of life,
first temper it even more in poison.”
Your sword can shower nectar, but before that it must be dipped well in poison.
From the deep inner struggle, peace is born. Only after plunging into the inner storm does a peace arrive—the kind that comes only after the tempest.
“For whom wealth is like dust, worldly pleasures are like the gallows.”
Sundardas says: wealth is like dust to him.
“For whom wealth is like dust, the pleasures of the world are like crucifixion.”
He who has known inner joy finds outer pleasures like the gallows. He who has known the inner joy finds outer pleasures like sorrow. He who has known inner life finds outer life worse than death. And he who has known the inner light finds all the suns outside to be darkness.
“For whom wealth is like dust, worldly pleasures are like the gallows,
even great good fortune appears like a mistake; worldly ties feel like friendships at the end.”
Even if great fortune comes, it looks like a blunder to him. Buddha had a lucky hour—wealth, kingdom, position, prestige, an only son, a beautiful wife—everything. Yet that “fortune” looked like a mistake. He walked away.
“And worldly relations feel like friendships at the end.”
All ties seem as if they could snap any moment. They have no value. Here today, gone tomorrow. They are momentary. Like someone who is dying and another comes and offers his hand in friendship—what use now? Here we are dying every moment. All friendships here are like friendships at the end. But the mind goes on being deceived.
“Who has ever truly belonged to someone for a whole lifetime—still...
Beauty and love are all deception—still...
A thousand times the world passed by this road—
yet somehow your path seems new—still...”
The mind keeps being duped. The mind says, “Perhaps the saints are right—but not yet.” The mind is cunning; it hides behind ifs and buts.
“Who has ever truly belonged to someone for a whole lifetime—still...
Beauty and love are all deception—still...
A thousand times the world passed by this road—
yet somehow your path seems new—still...”
But the mind says, “Go—see—who knows, what others didn’t get, you will!”
What is the mind’s greatest trick? It can be put in one aphorism: the mind tells you that you are an exception. What has happened to everyone else will not happen to you. All have died—but you won’t. Everyone’s relations have broken—but yours won’t. All have found sorrow outside—but you won’t. All have been defeated outside—but you won’t.
The mind’s greatest trick is to tell you, “You are the exception; the rule that applies to all does not apply to you.”
Beware of this trick. The rule that applies to all applies to you. No one has ever won outside—you won’t either. No one has ever found happiness outside—you won’t either. In the outer world, nothing happens but death—this has always been so and will remain so. And the same will happen to you. But the mind keeps staging its play.
“By our own heat a certain swagger came into love;
by our own heat the idols’ beauty was wounded.”
It is all our own web of imagination—our moods. We ourselves manufacture beauty, we ourselves manufacture love, then we ourselves get troubled and we ourselves weep. We ourselves create expectations, then fill with sorrow. We ourselves set out on journeys of desire, then when they’re not fulfilled, we weep—weep bitterly.
“There were a few signs that we mistook as the world’s decree.
What did we think that familiar glance meant?
Slowly, slowly, the stranger became ours in our own eyes—
Bravo, O folly! We took you for our own.
When have the people of heart ever been granted sobriety?
We took ourselves to be madmen in love.”
It is all a matter of “understanding”—you can interpret anything any way you like. But every such “understanding” leads to sorrow. Drop understanding, drop the mind, drop ratiocination. Seize the void. From that void, a wisdom arises—not yours, but God’s. And that alone liberates.
“Power is like sin; honor is like a snake.”
Sundardas says: all this power, this status and prestige—
“Power is like sin; honor is like a snake.”
Feeding milk to a snake—that is honor; who knows when it will bite.
“Even praise is like a scorpion; ‘woman’ is like a serpent.”
All these praises are like scorpions—keep them on your palm if you like, but don’t trust them.
“Even praise is like a scorpion; ‘woman’ is like a serpent.”
And note, “woman” is a symbol here—Sundardas was speaking to men. Just as woman seems serpent-like to man, so man is snake-like to woman—add that. Otherwise men start thinking, “We are men and woman is serpent!” Don’t fall into that stupidity.
Saints have said “woman is the gate of hell,” and men smugly keep that saying.
A saint once stayed with me. He said, “Woman is the gate of hell.” I said, “That will land you in trouble.” He asked, “What trouble?” I said, “Then no woman will be able to go to hell—only men will. At least create a gate to hell for women too, otherwise you’ll be alone there—your heart will ache.”
Man is also the gate of hell for woman. In truth it isn’t a matter of man or woman—sex-desire is an inner intoxication that blinds the eyes; it makes us see what isn’t there and not see what is. That swoon is its name.
“Even heaven (Indra’s realm) is like fire; the gods’ world is full of obstacles;
fame is like a blemish; siddhis (occult powers) are worthless.”
Everything outside is ultimately just sense-indulgence, even in Indra’s heaven.
“Fame is like a stain.”
The true saint throws away even siddhis—treats them as trash.
In the outer realm there are hazards; in the inner realm there are hazards too—beware of those as well. Just as outside there is politics, wealth, status—so inside are powers of the mind. The mind won’t let you go easily. If you go on working upon it, the mind will start bargaining: “Here—take a power: you can read others’ thoughts; you can see what idea is passing in someone’s mind.” You get entangled. But what substance is there? If you haven’t gained anything by watching your own thoughts, what will you gain by seeing another’s? The same bundle—what’s in it?
A man was once brought to me who was adept at reading others’ thoughts. He would sit, close his eyes, be quiet and concentrated for five minutes, then tell you what was going on inside your mind. He sat before me too. He sat half an hour. I said, “Now speak.” He said, “What can I say? Nothing is going on.” I asked, “How long have you been in this mischief?” He said, “Thirty years.”
“What’s the essence? Even if you read another’s thoughts, what will you get?” Yet he had a great reputation—at least fifty disciples were with him. Telepathy! I said, “What will you get? He himself gets nothing from his thoughts; you’ll read them—what will you get? Why be in this madness? Why waste thirty years? With that much energy one could become thought-free.”
But such phenomena begin to occur in the mind. If you get a glimpse of the future, you become entangled—you forget all about the void. You go around telling people, “You will die in ten years; your business will fail in five.” But what’s the essence? The saint tosses siddhis aside like garbage.
“He in whose mind no desire at all remains—that one, says Sundar, is worthy of our reverence.”
“True instruction he gives, a clear learning he gives,
equanimity and good understanding he gives, and he takes away delusion.”
What is “true instruction”? To speak only what one has known. To say what one has lived. To convey only one’s own experience—without concern for scriptures, systems, or sects. Anything you say beyond your experience is false.
And he gives instruction, not orders. The saint doesn’t command “Do this.” Who is he to command? He offers counsel: “This is what I did; this is what I found—now, as you wish.” He does not order like a general, “Left turn! Right turn!” He does not prescribe disciplines—“Wake at this hour, sleep at that; eat this, don’t eat that; drink this, not that.” These are foolishnesses. The saint has nothing to do with them. He only offers guidance: “This happened to me; I submit it to you. If it resonates, try it. If not, your choice.” If you accept, he is not especially pleased; if you do not, he is not displeased.
“True instruction he gives, a clear learning he gives,
equanimity and good understanding he gives, and he takes away delusion.
He shows the path; he gives devotion to your feeling.”
A beautiful phrase! He points the way, makes a gesture—“There it is.” Then let whoever wishes walk it.
“He shows the path; he gives devotion to your feeling.”
He gives your feeling a taste for devotion—how your feeling can turn into devotion; how your love can become prayer; how the outer journey can transform into the inner journey; how your heart can melt. He beats the drum.
“Hearing the drum’s stroke, the lotus-face blooms,
exultation swells—neither in mother nor in body.”
“He shows the path; he gives devotion to your feeling;
he gives the taste of love; he fills the empty.”
Love is not a doctrine. Sit with one in whose presence you feel the thrill of love; in whose eyes you glimpse the flame of love; whose touch grants the vision and touch of love. This is satsang: where love is in wave after wave, you too sway, you too dance, sing, hum.
“Count as much the treasure you already have within.
Don’t squander yourself aimlessly in the air.
Do not be defeated by your own greed.
Do not disdain your own flower.
Do not go begging at some other springtime’s door.
A single petal of your own flower is the whole spring, O mind.
Within you is the wish-fulfilling jewel;
within you a taut, humming veena.
This jewel and this veena can give you everything—
by their strength alone you can learn to live aright.
What comes from outside is only appearance, O mind.
What you have—don’t make the pure impure;
don’t, for the lure of profit, deplete your capital.
Beware the tug and pull, the merchant’s cunning.
Don’t take this vastness to market and make it small.
All this bustle is nothing but strain, O mind.
Count as much the treasure you already have within!”
In the true master’s company, as you plunge into the taste of love, you begin to feel—you already have everything.
“Do not go begging at some other springtime’s door.”
No need to beg now. Throw away the begging bowl.
“Do not go begging at some other springtime’s door.
A single petal of your own flower is the whole spring.”
If one flower blossoms within you, the whole spring has come!
“Within you is the wish-fulfilling jewel;
within you a taut, humming veena.
This jewel and this veena can give you everything—
by their strength alone you can learn to live aright.
What comes from outside is only appearance, O mind.”
The taste of love will shake awake the sleeping love within you. The jangle of love there will awaken the jangle here. The call of love there will inevitably produce an echo of love within you.
“He shows the path; he gives devotion to your feeling;
he gives the taste of love; he fills the empty.”
If you have the capacity to receive, then be filled. Clouds mass; rain is falling. But some pots sit upside down out of fear—they will remain empty while the rain keeps pouring. Face the sky! Turn your mouth toward the clouds. This turning is what is called sannyas, or discipleship.
“The way the monsoon sings today,
sing that way, my beloved.
The way the clouds have gathered today,
gather that way, my beloved.
Today the peepal leaves sway and sway,
far voices sound as if they were near,
and in the clouds’ lap smiling,
lightning plays and plays.
Shine that way, my beloved.
The way the monsoon sings today,
sing that way, my beloved.”
It is raining—so sing! The trees are turning green—turn green. Flowers have bloomed—bloom. The drum has sounded—don’t keep your lotus hidden and pressed down. Be brave—dare! Accept the challenge!
“He gives the taste of love; he fills the empty.”
“He gives knowledge; he gives meditation; he gives self-inquiry;
he reveals Brahman; he lives in Brahman.”
“He reveals Brahman”—a master does not merely give “Brahman-knowledge”; he reveals Brahman itself. Priests trade in concepts; the master immerses you in Being.
“He gives knowledge”—that is the first step, for those not yet ready for meditation.
I speak to you daily—that is the first step. For those who understand the first, the second: “He gives meditation.” For those who understand the second, the third dawns: “He gives self-inquiry”—self-illumination, self-experience, self-realization. And for those who come to the third, the fourth: “He reveals Brahman.”
And how does he reveal Brahman?
“He lives in Brahman.”
That is the meaning of brahmacharya—not celibacy as mere control of sex, which makes the word small. It is a vast word—sky-like; no word could be greater. Brahmacharya means to conduct oneself in Brahman—to walk in Brahman, to live like the Brahman, to live in the Absolute.
“He reveals Brahman; he lives in Brahman.”
And he does not reveal it from afar—his life itself is the revelation: his getting up, sitting down, speaking, silence—everything is God-filled. Those who have eyes see; those who have hearts do not go away empty—“he fills the empty”—he lives in Brahman!
“Sundar says, the world claims that saints have nothing to give;
but saints are giving, giving, every day and night.”
People say saints have nothing to give—they are empty—what can they give? Sundardas says these are the words of the blind. A saint gives every moment. Giving is as natural to him as light is to the sun, fragrance to the flower, greenery to the earth, stars to the sky.
Yet, in the worldly sense, there is some point—because what the world comes to ask for, the saint does not give. Take Sumitra’s question: she wants me to make her sons happy; that the son and daughter-in-law don’t get along, so make them get along. That I cannot give. First, let the son get along with the son; let the daughter-in-law get along with the daughter-in-law—that I can do. But that the son and daughter-in-law should get along—that’s a tricky business. When did a son ever get along with a daughter-in-law? Marriage is the very name of quarrels—I cannot give that.
You ask for rubbish; when it isn’t given, you think, “What do saints give?” If you have eyes, you will see—saints give Brahman itself; nothing less. Nothing less is worth giving. The only real giving is Brahman. The only real receiving is Brahman. Give Brahman, take Brahman—this alone is the exchange with a saint.
Saints are giving—day and night.
Enough for today.
Osho's Commentary
wherever you awoke at dawn,
go beyond that place!
As you rose, so you fell back upon the bed;
like a child—this love for the toys of life.
Without understanding, without knowing, keep on playing;
clutching a single obstinacy, keep on shoving it along.
It is wrong, it is futile—something contrived, something fabricated.
Wherever you awoke at dawn, from that place go beyond!
All day the scripture of tree and leaf and water—
of a shuttered house, and fields spread open in green—
of wind and rain, of each dry and each wet—
whatever passed, all day long, in your vicinity and beyond—
with the golden leaf of that scripture, gild your mind and sleep.
Wherever you awoke at dawn, from that place go beyond!
What the sun inscribed, holding the pen of a ray;
what the birds called out, calling each by name;
whatever the wind sang, whatever the rain poured down;
whatever scripture became a wave and drew itself upon the river—
if those very writings are steps, then climb them.
Wherever you awoke at dawn, from that place go beyond!
Life is a ceaseless unfolding—each moment an unbroken stream. As the Ganga flows to the ocean, and finds no rest until it becomes the ocean, so is the restlessness that is needed. Until man attains Paramatma, there can be no repose.
You have heard it said: keep contentment. True—but only half true. And a half-truth can, at times, cost dearer than a lie. Half-truths look like truth; therefore they are more dangerous than lies.
Understand the other side too. When it is said, keep contentment, it is said about the outer. Equally great, indeed greater, is the truth that inwardly there must be a continuous discontent. Content with the world, discontent with oneself—on these two wings the journey proceeds.
But people are reversed. They are content with themselves, discontent with the world. Whatever money they have—let there be a little more. Whatever status—let there be a little more. Whatever prestige—let there be a little more. Such is their discontent. But that the Atman be a little vaster; that this small courtyard become the great sky; that this small brook become the ocean; that this tiny drop become the boundless sea—such discontent they do not have.
Man stands upside down. He has tied discontent to the outer, contentment to the inner. Reverse it. This very reversal will make you religious.
Going to temples and mosques will not make you religious. That deception thousands have been swallowing for thousands of years. Religion is not born so cheaply! The entire scripture of life has to be rewritten. And the first sutra in rewriting is: content without, discontent within. A divine fire of discontent must be lit—that I should not die as I was born, in darkness upon darkness, in new-moon night upon new-moon night. Let me die as a full moon. Before death arrives, the full moon must rise. Before death arrives, I must know who I am, recognize who I am.
And here is the wonder: the one who knows who he is—death never comes to him! The body dies, the form dies, the color fades; but the hidden Master within, he never dies. The one who recognizes himself becomes nectar in that very recognition.
Self-knowledge is the gate to nectar.
But where there is discontent, there is struggle. If you are discontented outwardly, your struggle will be in the outer. You will fight for wealth, you will race for wealth, there will be hustle and bustle. If you become contented outwardly, then there is no struggle outside. Then the journey of struggle begins within. Then you will cleave the darkness, raise the sword; then you will break all that is your stupor. Then you will erase all that has filled your life with rubbish. You will set it on fire, burn it to ashes; whatever is inessential within, you will uproot like weeds. Only then do roses bloom.
As long as your inside is filled with weeds, you are a man only for the saying’s sake, a man in name only; the flower of the soul has not yet blossomed within you. There are only weeds yet. Less a man, more a scarecrow standing in the fields!
Have you seen a scarecrow in a field? They erect it, stuff it with straw; put a khadi kurta over it; and if convenient, even a churidar pajama. A Nehru-cut achkan, a Gandhi cap. And the scarecrow stands! It serves to drive the birds away, to frighten them. But inside the scarecrow there is nothing; it is stuffed with straw. Absolute netajis!
In field after field, scarecrows stand,
wearing clothes made of grass.
Man-sized from without; within,
utterly dwarfed.
Fearless, the young fawns graze the crop.
Fit objects of pity, these stark scarecrows—
or else of derision.
Symbols of fear, reverent and vegetarian in intent,
as helpless as the joblessness of their age.
Blind to the surrounding scene,
unable to see what is near.
When the crop is cut and the beasts launch alert attacks upon them,
in the posture of vigilance they cannot open their mouth.
Those who could not belong to earth—
how will they belong to the sky?
In field after field, scarecrows stand,
wearing clothes made of grass.
Be a man; scarecrows will not do. One who is not yet discontented in the inner world is not a man. One who has not yet begun to forge a blade within is not a man. One who has not yet begun to refine and polish inner consciousness is not a man.
Pile up as much wealth as you like, climb to the highest posts—you are a scarecrow, you will remain a scarecrow! You may become a wealthy scarecrow, but scarecrow-ness will not be erased. Therefore there are so many people in the world, but where is man?
I have heard: Diogenes, a very wondrous Greek philosopher, would go about even in broad daylight with a lit lamp in his hand, and whoever he met, he would examine their face by the lamp. People asked: What is the matter? Is your mind all right? In broad daylight what need is there of a lamp? And why are you lifting the lamp to look at every person’s face?
Diogenes would say: I am in search of a man. Life has gone by, I have yet to find a man—only scarecrows, scarecrows!
When Diogenes was dying, someone asked: Diogenes—the lamp lay by his side—your life is about to end, at least tell us this: the man you searched for your whole life long, carrying a lamp at noon—did you find him or not?
Diogenes opened his eyes and said: That man I did not find, but is it a small thing that my lamp survived! There were many who wished to steal it; they were waiting for a chance to take the lamp away. My lamp survived—what less could I ask? The man I did not find.
If you but search a little, you will scarcely find a man. And do not go looking outside. What have you to do with the outside? Whether another is a man or a scarecrow, what is that to you? Just peer within yourself: is it only straw that fills you? You came to be jewels and gems—will you remain straw? Will you go as straw? You were born to recognize nectar—yet you met only poison.
You were born to know life—but birth leads only to death. Between birth and death, a few, most blessed, come to know life. And those who come to know life know also that I have always been, and shall always be. I was before birth, I shall be after death.
Do not learn such matters from scriptures; that is the habit of scarecrows! That is how a man remains stuffed with straw—scriptural straw! Lovely words, but not your experience. Beautiful utterances, but where is the fragrance? Fragrance comes from experience.
Truth must be given birth. In birthing truth there is pain to be borne. Courage is needed to give birth to truth!
The first courage is the inward journey. The outer journey is easy. All the senses open outward. Remember Sunderdas: all the senses open outward, therefore the outward journey is easy. If someone says, look outside, no obstacle arises; but when someone says, look within, obstacles begin: how to look within? The eye sees outward. And the eye that sees inward has not yet opened; it is shut. There we are still blind.
The ear hears outer music. And when someone says, listen to the inner Anahad Nada, we stand bewildered: what unstruck sound? The inner ear has not yet awakened.
The outward journey is easy because everyone else is engaged in it too. The crowd goes, and we go along. In the inward journey, one must walk alone. There is no companion there, no friend. Fear seizes. In aloneness, how afraid a man becomes!
On the day you are alone in your own house, fear starts to nibble. When people are around, there is talk, there is noise—everything seems fine. Let silence descend, and fear grips. And this is nothing yet. When you turn inward, then for the first time you will know what silence is! For the outer silence is filled still with some kind of noise. Even in the deepest, silenced night, there are sounds. Even silence is a kind of sound; it is not peace. Perhaps crickets are calling, yet the whole night is filled with a thousand sounds.
When you go within you will, for the first time, find what the void is, what true silence is. You will begin to melt, to dissolve; you will want to flee. You will start to return outward—let me go back, quickly, out into the open. Breath will seem to choke. And the one whose breath chokes is not you; it is your ego. What can live outside dies within—what can live only outside, whose life is in extroversion, and whose death is in introversion. Understand this.
People come and ask me: how to drop the ego? As long as you are on the outer journey, the ego cannot be dropped. Go to Kashi or to Kaaba—it will not help, for the ego is built by the outer journey. That is its very foundation. The ego needs others.
Have you noticed—if you sit utterly alone, who are you? A wise man? For that, some fools are needed. Wealthy? For that, some poor are needed. Beautiful?—then someone ugly is needed. Good or bad—who, what? All coordinates are lost. Someone must say: you are a gentleman. Some opinion is needed.
By collecting others’ opinions we construct our ego. That is why the ego is hurt if someone says a wrong thing. People keep saying: you are very handsome; and one day someone says in anger: go look at your face in the mirror! A wound is made. Why the wound? He toppled the whole statue. Others made it; others can topple it—remember!
He who depends upon others is a slave to others. Your position and prestige depend on others. When they wish, they will pull the ground from under your feet. Whenever they wish!
Your entire sense of yourself is borrowed, hence your eyes are always fixed on others: Who is saying what about me? What is being thought about me? You tremble that someone may pull the ground from under your feet, that someone may topple my grand image! For that grand image is not yours; they made it. You are their slave.
The ego, however much it struts, is a slave to others. It bears others’ fingerprints and signatures upon it. And the ego is not made by one man; it is shaped by a thousand hands. You become a slave to thousands. Naturally, you must flatter them. In this world there runs a commerce of mutual flattery. You call them good, they call you good. You praise them, they praise you.
We weave nets of lies, and in these lies we somehow live, we beguile the mind, that this is life. Then, if the rain of joy does not shower in life, what wonder! How can bliss rain into a false life? Bliss is the fragrance of truth. How will flowers bloom when your inside is stuffed with rotting straw? How will fragrance arise? How will the veena sound? Nothing precious ripens in life; people remain scarecrows!
The outer search feeds the ego—how many more hearts shall I conquer? When you go within, hindrance arises; the ego begins to hang itself. There, no other is found. No one will say: you are beautiful, you are wise, you are holy! No one will say it. No one is met there. The road is silent. There you are alone. Utterly alone.
The deeper you go within, the more alone you will become. The world falls away; people fall away; thoughts fall away; conditioning falls away. In the end, what remains in your hands is a sky, utterly blank. We call that Samadhi. We call it the greatest wealth. But you, as you have known yourself, will not remain. The ego, your notions of ‘I am this, I am that’—all will go, all will be washed away. The flood of Samadhi will come and carry away all the trash. Something will be there that is utterly new, unfamiliar, unknown, something you have never even dreamed of, of which the scriptures have not been able to speak. It cannot be spoken. The knowers have tried to say, but failed; it remains unsaid—unknowable by expression, unexpounded.
So the breath seems to choke in going within. Quickly a man returns outside, resumes the old arrangements.
Who is a religious person?—one who enters this great struggle. Who sacrifices himself, who offers himself. Who says: even if I am effaced, I will no longer be content with rubbish.
And…
The other shore did not appear!
The lattice of sun and shade
kept sliding,
vanished!
Fluid darkness
spread upon the bright page of day.
Lamps burned—
like drops of blood—
and the mind,
like a picture set in a frame,
hung
upon a vacant wall!
Like a lifeless doll,
the sun lifted me in the morning by the hand,
and I set off
upon stony roads—
I walked on,
I walked on—
the other shore did not appear!
In the outward journey the other shore will never be found. The other shore is within. So you go on walking like dolls, mechanically! In the morning the sun lifts you up, you start walking. By evening you are tired and fall down. All day you daydream, at night you dream again—but always outside! Night outside, day outside. When will you come into your own house?
Hear the call! Return toward your home, for there sits the Master of masters, King of kings! There your greatest treasure lies hidden.
You were not born impoverished. You were not born a beggar. Royalty is your nature! You are a portion of God! How can you be beggars?
But the outward journey makes everyone a beggar. With the begging bowl in hand, people keep asking. The bowl never fills, it can never fill. The beggar’s mind is such that there is no way to fill it.
Let this supreme dream awaken within you, let this supreme longing seize you—only then know that you were born, and your birth has found meaning.
I want to sing a song,
I want to journey to a dream with notes.
The moon has yellowed, the moonlight grown thin,
Venus’ pale sheen flickers upon the horizon.
A dream of joy I was holding—till now I slept;
the distance from the dream has become two, four, six breaths only.
Even at the cost of my life,
I want to lessen this distance.
I want to sing a song.
The path to reach the dream is hard—I know it;
and I am not trained for such a path—I admit it.
Yet over the restlessness of the heart,
neither you nor I have power.
This helplessness of this kind—
I recognize as meritorious.
Today I want to celebrate this meritorious festival—
I want to go,
with notes,
up to the supreme dream!
Awaken such a longing!
Today I want to celebrate this meritorious festival—
I want to go,
with notes,
up to the supreme dream!
And that supreme dream is the supreme Truth. For now it is a dream, because it is unfamiliar.
Once acquainted, it will be Truth. Let this restlessness seize you, let this discontent grip you.
Neither you nor I have power over the heart’s unrest—
this kind of unrest I recognize as virtue.
Today I want to celebrate this meritorious festival—
I want to go,
with notes,
up to the supreme dream!
All who have known have said only this: blessed are those who become discontented for the inner world; in whom a fire begins to burn; who say: we will not stop until we arrive within. Until the inner destination is attained, there is no halt, no resting place.
And once this longing takes hold of you, revolution certainly happens. For you have indeed brought the seed; it need only be sown in the soil; spring needs to be awaited. A song will sprout. A thousand songs will sprout, and songs will give birth to songs.
Life can become a festival of bliss. But everything depends on you. The energy and power you invest in making your life sorrowful—by the same energy and power the veena of the heart can be made to resonate. The journeys you undertake outward—by that very energy you can reach your ultimate center. You can touch that summit which, once touched, leaves no coming and going; where, upon arrival, there is supreme fulfilment. But before supreme fulfilment one must pass through the desert of supreme unfulfilment. That is the price the seeker must pay!
Today’s sutras:
Hearing the stroke upon the war-drum, the lotus-face blossoms;
so great an upsurge—
my very body cannot contain it.
What am I doing here? I am beating a drum. What is Sunderdas doing? He is beating a drum. It is the drum of war. It is a summons to the inner war. The drum’s sound will make the coward tremble; but in those who have a little dignity within, a sense of the glory of being human, a slight recognition that to become man has been possible after endless journeys, the lotus within will open. The closed bud within will begin to unfold its petals.
Hearing the stroke upon the war-drum, the lotus-face blossoms—
‘Lotus’ is a beloved symbol for mystics—for many reasons. First, it is born in mud, in dirty mud. It arises from mud where no one would have suspected the possibility. Had we not known, seeing the mud no one could have imagined, dreamed, conceived that a lotus would be born from this! Mud and lotus—there seems no connection. Where the lotus, where the mud! The lotus appears so opposite to this earth—as though it has come from beyond, not of this earth. As though a stranger, descended from the sky. So untouched, so virginal, so beautiful, so delicate—how could it be born of mud! Such virginity belongs to the sky!
Thus, in the lotus there is something of the sky, and something that has come from mud. Therefore it is a most significant symbol.
Man too is mud—a form of clay! Yet the lotus can bloom. Man is part of the earth, but the sky can descend. Man crawls like an insect upon the ground, but wings can sprout. One may take flight into the sky in search of the sun.
As the lotus is a paradox, so is man. Do not remain mud!
Therefore, in this land we have seated the true Masters, the Buddhas, upon the lotus; we have placed Vishnu upon the lotus. It is a symbol that the clay has succeeded; that in the clay the lotus bloomed; that the clay became impregnated by the sky; that the visible met the invisible; that form and formless danced together; that the formless became guest in form. Such a wonder occurred! Therefore the Buddha is placed on the lotus. It is a symbol. Therefore we have called the final expression of human energy the thousand-petaled lotus—the sahasrara.
Kama—the lust-center—is mud. It is the exchange of earth. It is the first center of human energy; and sahasrara is the last. There are seven chakras. The first is the chakra of lust—muladhara. That is earth. And the root must be in earth. Root means that which spreads in the soil. And the final expression is the thousand-petaled lotus—the last height. Roots are in the mud, the lotus is in the sky.
Between mud and lotus lies the entire growth of man. Unfortunate are those who will die as mud, for they came carrying lotus-seeds and never gave them a chance to flower! In the presence of the true Master the seed of lotus within you begins to stir. Its sleep starts to break. Its dream grows thin, diaphanous. Strokes begin to fall upon it, again and again—that is the meaning of satsang, constant striking. From constant striking, one day with a roar the seed within breaks open. And when the seed breaks, the earth becomes nectar. Then all the possibilities hidden in the soil are revealed. All color, all form, all fragrance expresses through the seed. The earth is absorbed in prayer.
The lotus is the earth’s prayer to the sky.
The lotus is the earth’s possibility, its prayer, its longing, its ultimate fulfilment.
And a second reason: why has the lotus become a symbol? It lives in water and yet remains untouched. This is the supreme notion of sannyas. This is the meaning of supreme non-attachment. Live in the world, let the world not touch you. Sit in the marketplace, and yet not be of the marketplace.
Those who flee the world have not understood the highest notion of renunciation. That is like a lotus running away from the water, frightened that if it stays in water it might be touched by it. Such a lotus has not yet known its own nature. If the lotus knows itself, where is there to run! Let the rains fall, let the clouds pour; what concern has the lotus? Water will fall and flow away; the lotus will remain untouched. Its virginity is not destroyed. Its virginity is eternal.
So: born of the soil, the vast from the petty—this miracle! And then, living in water, yet untouched by water—this is the supreme idea of renunciation.
Sunderdas says:
On hearing the drum’s stroke…
The true Master’s work is to beat the drum, to call those in whom the seed is. To give the call, to raise the summons: How long will you remain mud? It is very late already—now awaken! Dawn has come—now awaken! You have slept long enough—now awaken! He strikes a keen blow—so keen it pierces joint by joint, so keen it goes clean through.
The true Master does not give consolation; he brings revolution. Consolation is rubbish, whitewash. The Master does not console; he shakes you awake; he strikes upon the drum. Cowards run away; the brave stand their ground.
Hearing the drum’s stroke, the lotus-face blossoms;
so great an upsurge—
my very body cannot contain it.
And in those who have even a little edge within, such an upsurge arises that it cannot be contained in the body. On finding the Master there arises such fervor, such enthusiasm, such celebration, such exuberance, such wonder, that it will not fit. Their mind begins to dance; their body begins to dance; a stream of rasa begins to flow outward.
Such exuberance blossoms—
flower upon flower keeps blooming—
my very body cannot contain it.
A disciple cannot contain the Master! In the attempt to contain him, the disciple too becomes vast, becomes infinite. How will a courtyard hold the sky? But if you attempt to hold it, one thing is certain—the courtyard’s walls will fall, and the courtyard itself will become sky. To hold the sky, you must become sky.
Therefore I say to you again and again: if you would understand Krishna, you must become Krishna. If you would understand Buddha, you must become Buddha. Less than this will not do. If you would understand Nanak, being a Sikh will not do; you must become Nanak.
We are very clever people. We say: to understand Buddha, let us become Buddhists. But Buddha was not a Buddhist. And Christ was not a Christian. And Mohammed was not a Muslim. And Nanak was not a Sikh. Whoever becomes a Sikh—let him understand—he will not become Nanak. You must become Nanak—nothing less will do! And the one in whose heart love for Nanak is born, who feels devotion toward him, will not be content with less.
The lover ever longs to become one with the beloved. The beloved longs to become one with the lover, to be absorbed. The disciple is one who longs to become one with the Guru, to be one in essence. Great courage is needed.
Sunderdas, in the words to come, speaks of this courage—keep it in mind. It is not the work of the weak, of those who are busy saving their little huts. It is the work of those who say: very well, let all walls go if they must; but now that I have made friends with the sky, I will not let go.
Such exuberance blossoms—
my very body cannot contain it.
When the spears flash in war, none can keep composure;
seeing them, cowards tremble in their hearts.
And this too is a war—the inner war. It has its own spears. The wars outside are only pale shadows of the war within. One war took place outside—the Mahabharata: ‘in the field of dharma, in Kurukshetra.’ One Kurukshetra was where the battle was fought, and another war ran alongside—within, in the field of dharma. One war outside, one within. The outer is but a symbol of the inner. The inner war is far greater. For to fight another is easy; to fight oneself is difficult. To cut another is easy; to cut oneself is difficult. To kill another is easy; to let oneself die is difficult.
And this is the very meaning of religion: to cut oneself away. To wipe oneself so clean, to efface oneself so utterly, that not even a trace remains. Only when you are not, does God descend within you. As long as you are, recognition will not happen. As long as there is the ‘I-sense’, the ‘He’ will not descend. You are so full of yourself, where is the space? Scarecrows are so stuffed with straw—where is the room? Where the openness? Even if God would enter, where is the door? You must climb down from the throne. You must bid yourself farewell.
The most significant event of spiritual life is this: the devotee and God never meet. If you have heard otherwise, you have heard wrong. The devotee and God never meet, because as long as the devotee is, God is not; and when God is, where is the devotee?
Kabir has said: Seeking and seeking, O friend, Kabir himself was lost. Searching, Kabir vanished—and then union happened. Union happens, but only when the seeker is lost.
When the spears flash in war, none can keep composure;
seeing them, cowards tremble in their hearts.
As a moth, broken, falls into the fire—
so do the noble fall, headlong, into the Lord’s ranks.
But the true warriors—how they hurl themselves into the war, like the moth, maddened, crazed, plunging into the flame or leaping into fire. When the moth leaps upon the crest of flame, when it descends into fire—just such an event occurs when the devotee descends into God. Hence the Sufis have prized the symbol of the moth and the flame. To seek God, in truth, is originally to efface oneself.
As a moth, broken, falls into the fire—
so do the noble fall, headlong, into the Lord’s ranks.
Those who have dignity, grandeur—who sense the meaningfulness of being human; who know not how many crores of lifetimes, how many pilgrimages as beasts and birds and mountains and trees, how many wombs have passed before this capacity to be human was gained—this is not to be squandered. From this, something further must be earned. Let not this ladder be lost; climb above it. The opportunity has come—use it well.
Having slaughtered and crushed, Sunder salutes Shyam—
he alone remains the hero who returns from the field.
And the one who, having won the war, returns in the evening and bows to his Lord—he is the hero.
Having slaughtered and crushed, Sunder salutes Shyam—
he alone remains the hero who returns from the field.
Understand: he alone stood firm in war who returns at dusk, having made a clean sweep, and salutes his Master.
A hero gauges the foe’s measure, and then he strikes;
he kills with a sword or with an arrow—whichever suits the hour.
The warrior sees what challenge is before him and answers accordingly. He accepts the challenge. He sees what kind of enemy is there, how to fight, and summons his energy suitable to the occasion.
A hero gauges the foe’s measure, and then he strikes;
he kills with a sword or with an arrow—whichever suits the hour.
This is talk of the outer war—but it is a symbol for the inner.
The sage, all eight watches, sits and fights with his own mind—
Thus far the outer war; now understand the inner.
The sage, all eight watches, sits and fights with his own mind—
The outside war runs for a little while. It begins at dawn and ends by evening. But the sage’s war, once begun, does not end until the sage himself is ended. Seeking and seeking, O friend, Kabir himself was lost! This war is unbroken, continuous; it runs each moment. There is no rest for even a second. There is no difference of day and night. It runs while waking, it runs while sleeping.
Ananda spent years with Buddha. One thing continually startled him—that the way Buddha lay down at night, he remained all night just so. Where he placed his foot, there was the foot; where he placed his hand, there was the hand; on whichever side he lay, that was his side all night. He would not even turn in his sleep! He would not shift his hands or feet. Ananda asked one day: Bhante! You never change sides. Where you place your hands, there they remain; where you place your feet, there they remain. In the morning they are exactly where they were when you lay down. What is the secret? Do you sleep, or do you not?
Buddha said: What sleeping? When wakefulness is, what sleeping? The body sleeps; I remain awake. All day awake, all night awake.
Krishna told Arjuna: When it is night for all beings, the disciplined one keeps vigil. It does not mean the sage sits up or stands all night. The sage too sleeps, but only the body sleeps. Even in sleep, the sage remains aware—he knows that he is sleeping. The lamp of consciousness remains lit.
The sage, all eight watches, sits and fights with his own mind—
with that which has neither mouth nor brow, nor any body at all.
And the war is such, difficult—because with whom it is fought has no forehead, no mouth, no body. It is fought with the mind. The sword is raised against the mind, against one’s own mind. And there is no way but to cut the mind. Until the state of amani—mindless peace—arrives, there is no other way.
One must go beyond the mind. The world is the mind. The world is not in the bazaar, nor in wife or husband or children, nor in wealth or house or shop. The world is in the mind. The mind is the world. These ceaseless thoughts and desires and dilemmas and memories and fantasies—all this web of the mind, this is the world. This must be cut. This must be ended. This must be burned to ash.
What is there in the realm of beauty and love that,
if forgotten, returns to memory, and when remembered, is forgotten?
Save the heart’s boat, but keep this in mind:
if it sinks, it reaches the far shore—
if it reaches the far shore, it sinks.
One must be effaced!
If it sinks, it reaches the far shore…
In the outer world, if you sink, you sink; if you cross, you cross. The inner devotion is different, the inner accounting and scripture is different. There, if you cross, you sink; if you sink, you cross. There, if the mind survives, you miss; if the mind goes, you are saved.
Jesus said: Blessed are those who will lose, for they are the ones entitled to gain. What is it that is to be lost?
Seeking and seeking, O friend, Kabir himself was lost—
The mind, the I-sense, the ego. And this is the entire obstacle.
‘To be a man is no easy thing, Firaq—
ask whomever you will—of knowledge, of art, of ethics, of religion.’
What is the hindrance? This, and only this: how to kill the mind? It is ours. Not only ours—we have known ourselves so far only as this. Then religion seems like suicide. Therefore the coward runs away. His lotus does not bloom. Even if his lotus had bloomed, it closes. The coward runs away. The coward seeks consolation, not revolution. He says: wipe my tears. He says: tell me something so that the world begins to run smoothly. His whole accounting is wrong.