Jyoti Se Jyoti Jale #5

Man is a darkness. Man is the night of no-moon. And no matter how many Diwalis you celebrate outside, the inner darkness is not cut by outer lamps, it will not be cut. However many deceptions you give to yourself, at the end you will repent. You see, we celebrate Diwali on the night of no-moon! It is the tale of our self-deception. The night is new-moon, we light rows of lamps. But the lamps will be outside. Lamps cannot enter within. No ray of outer light can pass inside. The no-moon within remains the no-moon within. However much you create a full-moon outside, you will continue to know within that you are an extinguished lamp. You will keep weeping inside. All your smiles are unable to hide your tears. And even if they hide them, what is the point? They are certainly powerless to erase them.

Drop the deception! Accept this simple truth that you are an extinguished lamp. There is no need to be so. It is not your destiny to remain so. There is no ordinance of fate that it must be thus. By your own doing you are unlit. By your own doing the moon did not rise. By your own doing the inner light did not kindle. Where did the mistake happen? Where did the slip occur?

All our life-energy is traveling outward. In this outward journey we lie in inner darkness. If this energy turns back toward the within, this very energy will become light. This very energy is light.

Your whole radiance is falling outside—upon trees, upon mountains, upon people. But you throw not a single beam upon your own being. You see everyone, and remain blind to yourself. And what will come of seeing all? He who has not seen himself, has seen nothing at all.

Today’s sutras are the keys—how the lamp within you may be lit, how the true Diwali may be born, how you may become the moon within, how moonlight may be born in your depths. Sweet with honey! Sundar has uttered many lovely words, but today’s sutras have no parallel. They are brimming with nectar; drink, and you will come alive. Attend to them, and you will be steadied. Dive into them, and how you are will dissolve; and how you should be will be revealed.

Hai dil mein Dildar.
That which you seek sits within you. You do not find Him precisely because you are seeking. You run and run. You search in all directions, you tire, you fall. Each time life ends in a grave. The meeting with life does not happen. And the Master you set out to seek has made His abode in your own home. The one you went searching for is not a guest, but the host. He is hidden in the seeker himself. The goal is not somewhere far, not somewhere other; the destination is an inner state of the traveler.

Hai dil mein Dildar—sahi ankhiyan ulati kari, tahi chitaiye.
But if you would behold Him, if you would be filled with wakefulness toward Him, then you must learn to reverse the eyes. To turn the eyes around—that alone is meditation. Attention, ordinarily, is tied to the seen. Do not think you have no attention. You have attention—exactly as much as the Buddhas. Not a grain less. Paramatma gives to none more and to none less. His clouds rain equally on all. His sun rises for all. In His eyes none is small and none great. Do not think Krishna was given something extra, that Buddha was given something extra, that Sundardas was surely given more—that they shone, that they sparkled. They did not shine by themselves alone; by their shining, others began to shine. From lamp to lamp the flame passed on. Light lit light! Surely He gave them something extra in secret, and we were not given—what are we to do? No; do not think so.

From the side of Paramatma, each has received equally. Not a grain of difference. Then why are we in darkness? Why does one become a Buddha, and we remain simpletons? What we have received, we have connected wrongly. As a river might lose herself in a desert, though she brought much water from the Himalayas—just so our life-energy is being lost in the desert. Outside is a vast expanse of desert.

You possess as much attention as I. But you have fixed attention upon objects. You have fixed attention upon some thing. Your attention is always snagged on something. Let things fall—let things be removed. Become free of objects, of topics; let mere attention remain, supportless. And the eyes turn within.

Supportless attention is called Samadhi. Attention filled with props is called the world. As long as there is a prop you will go outward, because props are outside. When there is no prop you will come inward. When no resting place remains, you must come in. Attention must come to repose somewhere. If you do not let it rest outside, it returns of itself, easily, simply.

In olden days when people traveled the seas and had no instruments, no maps to know whether land was near, they made an experiment. Every ship kept pigeons. They would release a pigeon. If the pigeon did not return, it meant land was near. He must have found trees, found earth, some support—no need now to return. If the pigeon came back, it meant the shore was not near, land still far. A pigeon must sit somewhere, must find a perch. If a support outside is found, it will forget the ship; surely it got tired perching on the ship, only water and water and water... Perhaps it found greenery and settled there. But if no land is found, what will it do? It must return; it will come back.

Such is our mind. As long as we give it land outside, it does not return within. One mind is stuck in money, another in position, another in prestige, another in things, another in relationships—but as long as the mind is snagged outside, it will not return. Hence all the wise say: drop identification with the outer. Do not tether the mind outside. Cut all bridges outward. Then suddenly a tremendous energy returns toward home; as if the Ganga turns back toward Gangotri, such a revolutionary event occurs. When your own energy returns back upon you, you become luminous. By this very energy other things were seeming luminous.

You saw a flower—how beautiful! You think beauty lies in the flower? No, it lies in your eye. It lies in the light you cast from your eye. You saw the sun arise in the morning, awakening—the morning was beautiful, tender dawn, birds chirping. Is beauty in the sun? Is beauty in the birdsong? No; it is in the energy you pour.

At times the moon rises in the sky, very lovely, yet it does not appear beautiful to you—you are unable to give energy today. Your wife has passed away. Your son is ill. Your mind is entangled elsewhere. Today you cannot place your mind upon the moon. You cannot spread your mind upon the moon. You cannot weave, around the moon, the net of your own radiance. The moon rises, travels the sky, but today it does not appear beautiful! If you are sad, the moon too seems sad—have you not felt this? If you are sad, the birds’ songs too seem mournful, as if they sing laments, elegies. If you are exuberant, the whole world flares with exuberance. If you are bliss-intoxicated, the whole world seems to dance. Even stones and mountains seem to speak when there is a resonance of rasa within you.

What you spread, that you receive. What you cast, that returns. The world is a mirror. When you are beautiful, the world appears beautiful. When you are ugly, the world appears ugly. Hence the wise have said rightly: as one is, so others appear to him. There is truth in this. To a thief, all appear thieves. To a sage, all appear saints. Our vision creates the world. Our vision is highly creative. What we cast, that alone returns.

Therefore flowers do not appear equally beautiful to all—each lays down as much as he has. A poet pours out much. A painter puts his whole soul there, and the flower becomes ensouled. Even stones bloom. It depends on you.

As beautiful as you find this outer world, it is your own creation. A young man sees the beauty of the body; the old cannot. As old age approaches, the beauty of the body ceases to be visible. When the sound of death begins to be heard within, outside too the footsteps of death begin to echo. The young mind is still full—of great desires, great longings, vast dreams abide in it. Those desires, those longings, those dreams he spreads around himself. Men get entangled in women, women get entangled in men. But a moment arrives when the life-energy within you begins to recede; when your leaves fall; when wrinkles appear upon your face; when your feet begin to tremble; when death starts knocking—then all around you hear only the knocking of death.

Understand this and you will grasp something central about meditation. By our attention we ourselves fashion the world around us. Our eye not only sees—it fashions, it constructs. Eye differs from eye. Therefore the same thing appears one way to one, another way to another. When this eye ceases to go out at all, when it drops all savor and attachment to the outer, then it turns inward. Then the inner world is born in you. Then blooms the lotus of the soul.

Hai dil mein Dildar—sahi ankhiyan ulati kari, tahi chitaiye.
If you would see the Master, there is no need to go anywhere—neither to Kashi nor to Kaaba, neither to Girnar nor to Bodh Gaya. No need to go anywhere. The Master sits within. Buddha did not find Him in Bodh Gaya; it was mere coincidence that he sat in Bodh Gaya. He was found within. And how strange man is! Buddha found within; Bodh Gaya is incidental—he had to be somewhere; had he not been at Bodh Gaya, he would have been somewhere else, anywhere! But man is mad: people from the entire world go to Bodh Gaya. Buddha found Him within; people go to Bodh Gaya. Here the slip happens.

You too go within. There is Bodh Gaya. There is Kaaba. There is Girnar. There is Kashi.

Hai dil mein Dildar—sahi ankhiyan ulati kari, tahi chitaiye.
And the moment your eyes change, the moment they begin to look within, all the values of life are transformed. What appeared valuable yesterday appears valueless today. What was never noticed yesterday, suddenly becomes most precious. Yesterday you thought wealth is all; now you feel love is all. And remember, wealth and love do not tally. Hence the wealthy man often becomes love-less. It happens—by the very process of accumulating wealth. The alchemy of accumulation is such that one must become loveless. Wealth can be gathered only through great hardness. In that hardness, the heart is lost.

The lover shares. Has wealth ever gathered through sharing? Wealth gathers by hoarding. The arithmetic of wealth and the arithmetic of love are opposite. Their economics differ. Wealth accumulates by gathering; by sharing it lessens. Love grows by sharing; by hoarding it lessens. How will they meet? Their paths are different.

Aish se kyon khush hue, kyon gham se ghabraya kiye
Zindagi kya jaane kya thi, aur kya samajha kiye.
When the eye turns, when the eye flips, you will be greatly startled.
Zindagi kya jaane kya thi, aur kya samajha kiye.
We kept doing one thing for another. With our own hands we sowed seeds of poison. With our own hands we reaped crops of sorrow. We cried and shouted. We blamed the entire world while we ourselves were responsible. We sowed the seeds, we reaped the harvest, we were pierced by thorns, we drowned in poison. And we kept shouting, kept weeping, as if the whole world were tormenting us.

Each person creates his own hell—and his heaven too! Wherever you are, you are so by your own doing. However you are, it is by your own doing. Do not, even by mistake, hand over responsibility to another. The day you give your responsibility to someone else, that very day you cease to be religious! The beginning of being religious is in this truth: I take full responsibility for my life upon myself. If I am miserable, I am responsible.

Therefore I tell you: your so-called sadhus and sannyasins are often not religious. They may be sadhus and sannyasins on the surface, but often they are not religious. If they were religious, there would be no need to run away by leaving husband or wife. When a husband runs away leaving his wife, he is saying that because of her he is bound. He does not say, ‘Because of my own lust I am bound.’ He says, ‘Because of this woman I am bound.’ This is the sign of the irreligious person. He always says, ‘Someone else is responsible.’ And when another is responsible, what can you do? You will remain a slave. You can never be free. Because the others are many. You have made your liberation impossible. ‘When these all change; when no one in the world gives me sorrow, when no one in the world annoys me, when no one in the world fills me with lust, when no one attracts me—only then will I be free.’ Then Moksha is impossible. You have cut the very root of the possibility of liberation. If this entire world changes, perhaps then your Moksha will happen.

This world neither changes nor can it change, nor does the world have any concern with your liberation. Your liberation is your own affair. Women will continue to adorn themselves. Merely because a gentleman has become obsessed with Moksha, women will not stop adorning themselves. The markets will remain crowded. The shops will continue to decorate. New things will be manufactured. New doors of attraction will keep opening. Simply because a gentleman intends to go toward Moksha, the whole arrangement of the world cannot come to a halt. The cuckoo will sing. The papiha will call. All this will go on. It will go on just as it goes on.

Who has anything to do with you!

But you say, ‘Because of woman I am bound.’ Where will you run? Wherever you run, woman is present. The feminine principle is present everywhere. Where will you go? Wherever on this earth you live, you will remain you. Your mind will remain woven with the same webs of desire. You will leave wealth and hold to a loincloth; but you will clutch the loincloth with as much force as others clutch an empire.

You know the story of Janaka, don’t you?
A sannyasin sent his disciple to Janaka. The disciple had long heard news of Janaka while living with his guru. Nothing was happening to him. Finally the master said, ‘Do one thing—go to Janaka, perhaps there it will happen.’ He had heard much, so he thought, let us see. He had no surety of ‘happening’. If it did not happen even with such a true master, a renunciate of all—then Janaka is a bhogi, an enjoyer; what will happen with him? Even so, the guru said, and in his heart he had long heard the tales, and he wished to see the capital, he had not gone to the capital for a long time, to see the grandeur of the palace—so he went. He arrived toward evening. Janaka’s court was adorned, beautiful dancers danced. Wine was being poured. The young sannyasin was stunned. He wanted to turn back on the spot—about-face!

Janaka said, ‘Now that you have come, at least rest for the night, go in the morning.’ He said, ‘No, to stay here even for a moment is sin. I came for Brahma-knowledge, and what I see here... As it is, I am entangled; seeing this, I may be entangled yet more. Wine flowing, dancers dancing... What is all this? And you sit upon a golden throne? How can you know?’

The emperor said, ‘Stay the night; eat, rest, and we will talk in the morning.’

The sannyasin stayed the night, ate, slept. In the morning Janaka took him to bathe in the river behind the palace. While both were bathing, suddenly fierce flames rose from the palace. The palace had caught fire. People came running. The whole palace was ablaze. The sannyasin darted away. Janaka asked, ‘Where are you going?’ He said, ‘My loincloth is in the palace. And what are you doing standing here? The palace is burning.’

Janaka said, ‘What can I do about that? What have I to do with it? The palace is burning, and I see it. But you have great attachment, great identification with your loincloth! As the loincloth burns, you burn! The palace is burning—so what? Today or tomorrow we too will burn! This palace is no everlasting thing; someday it will fall, someday it will burn. So today it burns. I am watching. I am a witness. I am a seer. But I have no identification with it.’

Janaka told the sannyasin: ‘This is my message. This is my sutra: remain a witness.’

So it may be that one remains a witness in a palace, and another is not a witness in a hut. Therefore huts and palaces make no difference. Transformation of the mind is the point.

Whom do I call religious? I call that person religious who has accepted this hard truth: other than me, no one is responsible for my life. My responsibility is absolute. Therefore if I am miserable, I have sown misery; I reap the crop. If I am happy, I have sown happiness; I reap the crop.

It is not a matter of fleeing, it is a matter of awakening.

Ab kahaan main dhoondhne jaoon sukoon ko, ai Khuda?
In zameenon mein nahin, in aasmanon mein nahin.
Man has searched for peace everywhere—where is it found? Not on earth, not in the skies. Where now to go? Where now to search? But there is one place man does not search: he does not search within. He combs all the earth, he will comb all the sky too.

Ab kahaan main dhoondhne jaoon sukoon, ai Khuda?
In zameenon mein nahin, in aasmanon mein nahin.
Listen to Sundardas:
Hai dil mein Dildar—sahi ankhiyan ulati kari, tahi chitaiye.
Aab mein, khaak mein, baad mein, aatas; jaan mein—Sundar—jaani janaiye.

And it is not that He is only within. But let the revelation happen within first, and then you find Him everywhere without as well. He is outside too—but only when He is known within. If there is no recognition within, there is none outside. You may say a thousand times that the Divine is in the tree—until it is experienced within you, you cannot experience the Divine in the tree. If you must say it, say it. If it pleases you, keep repeating. But one who has not known in himself cannot know anywhere else. The first spark of experience must arise within oneself, for there we are nearest to Paramatma. If He is not found in the nearest, where will He be found in the far? Once He is seen within, then He begins to be seen everywhere. He who found Him in himself, thereafter found Him in all. Then not only in humans does He appear, but also in animals and birds. Not only in animals and birds, but in trees. Even in stones and mountains. As your grasp within deepens, as your reach deepens, just so your eye deepens into the whole of existence. A moment comes when the distinction of outer and inner dissolves. Only He remains. Nothing is outer, nothing inner.

For now, you must go within. The first journey is inward. Then all temples become true. Then all mosques become true. Then all gurdwaras become true. But first the inner door must open. Otherwise go and knock your head in temples, mosques, gurdwaras, Shiva-shrines—your head will wear away, the stone will wear away—and nothing will come of it. Open the door within once; when that temple opens, the fragrance of the temple spreads through the whole world.

Ye tera tasavvur hai ya teri tamannaayein—
In the heart someone, time and again, lights a lamp.
Jis simt na duniya hai, ai dost, na uqba hai,
Us simt mujhe koi kheenche liye jaaye hai.

You must go within. There is neither this world nor that. There is nothing there. There is emptiness. You may feel alarmed, you may feel fear—for you will be utterly alone, utterly solitary. Such solitude is not found even in the densest forest, for there are trees, animals, birds—companions. But when you enter your own within, it is the first time you go into the wilderness. No one at all! And the marvel is: the deeper you descend, the more you see—where are you? Only a void, an immense void!

Ye tera tasavvur hai ya teri tamannaayein?
Who is it that draws me? Is it Your imagination or Your longing?
Ye tera tasavvur hai ya teri tamannaayein—
Dil mein koi rah-rah ke deepak se jalaaye hai.
Jis simt na duniya hai, ai dost, na uqba hai—
Us simt mujhe koi kheenche liye jaaye hai.

There is neither this world nor the next; neither earth nor sky. There is a vast void. When you begin to be pulled that way, know that the touch of religion has come into life; the touch of that Philosopher’s Stone by whose touch even iron becomes gold.

Aab mein, khaak mein, baad mein, aatas; jaan mein—Sundar—jaani janaiye.
Sundardas says: In water, in earth, in air, in fire—He alone! Know Him once in yourself, and then you will know—He alone in all. And it is not only that you will know; the day you know, that day you will make others know as well. Your very presence will make others know. You will become a symbol. You will become a gesture. You will become an attraction for people. Seeing you, people will begin to turn within. Sitting by you, they will become quiet. Sitting by you, within them too lamps will begin to shimmer. ‘In the heart someone, time and again, lights a little lamp.’

Noor mein Noor hai, tez mein tez hai, jyoti mein jyoti—milein, mil jaiye.
Kya kahiye—kahte na banai; kuchh jo kahiye, kahte hi lajaiye.
Such honey-soaked words. ‘In light, Light is...’ Paramatma is the Light in all lights. ‘In radiance, radiance.’ ‘Jyoti in jyoti—let them meet, merge!’ And when within you, the small flame of your attention starts to meet His vast flame, do not fear, do not be frightened, do not hesitate at losing yourself. As a drop falling into the ocean may feel dread, may be afraid. Life must be in great crisis; worry may arise—‘I am lost, I am lost; perhaps I will never again be as I was. My form is gone, my color gone, my circumference gone, my definition gone, my name gone, my abode gone—I am gone!’

Just so when you reach within, when your little energy of attention goes inward and encounters the vast energy, fear arises. Many, frightened, turn back. This happens here daily. First people wait for meditation with great eagerness, great longing, they ask, they crave, they practice; and when the event draws near, suddenly they panic. Suddenly they flee. Daily I see them trembling, frightened. They say, ‘What to do now—will we become deranged? Is this not death?’ It appears like death, it appears like madness.

This path is for the mad. This path is for the courageous. Only those who have the courage to die become worthy to receive the supreme Life.

So when the small flame approaches the vast Flame and longs to merge—do not run away.

Noor mein Noor hai, tez mein tez hai, jyoti mein jyoti—milein, mil jaiye.
Then merge—in a single swoop, a single leap! Do not hesitate even a grain.

There is a famous poem of Rabindranath. He says: ‘I had sought God for lives upon lives, for endless ages. I wandered weeping, I pleaded—Lord, where are You? My eyes were full of tears and my heart of prayers. And in my tear-filled eyes sometimes near some far star I caught a glimpse of Him, and I, mad, would set out toward that star. But by the time I arrived, it had gone further. The meeting never happened. Then one day it happened—the fortunate moment arrived. I reached the door that is His door—the name-plate too was there. There was no limit to my joy. Blessed was I! Here He is! The goal is attained! I climbed the steps dancing. I took the chain in my hand—just as I was about to knock, a question arose in the mind: Think, consider—if the door opens and God meets you, you will be annihilated. Then you will not remain. In His vastness your smallness will dissolve. In His ocean you, a drop, will be lost. In His sun your little ray—where will it be, what refuge? Consider once, before you knock. And think also: if God is found, what will you do? Till now this has been your occupation, your excuse for living. This has been your search. For this search you have lived for lives upon lives. If God is found—what then will you do?’

‘These two questions were so difficult,’ writes Rabindranath, ‘that I gently, quietly, let go the chain—lest it ring. And I took my shoes in my hand, lest descending the steps they make a sound, lest it be known someone was at the door, lest without my knocking the door be opened! And then I ran—and I did not look back. And now again I search, again I ask in temples, mosques, gurdwaras—Where is God? Again I roam door to door, wander among moon and stars. And the oddity is: within, I know where He is. Only that place I avoid; everywhere else I search.’

Remember, this is not merely poetry; it is Rabindranath’s inner experience. This happens to meditators. Such a poem cannot be just a poem. It can well up only in one who has stood at the door of Samadhi, whose drop has reached the shore of the ocean. It is based upon a deep experience.

Therefore Rabindranath is no ordinary poet. He belongs to the lineage of poets whom we call rishis—the rishis of the Upanishads! The rishis of the Vedas—their verses are not poems, they are rics, revelations.

Do not panic, says Sundardas: let jyoti meet jyoti! This alone is the longing of lives upon lives. When that moment comes—‘jyoti mein jyoti—milein, mil jaiye’—then simply merge.

Everywhere it is He. In you He is, outside He is, inside He is. Do not fear. Who is it that dissolves? Who is it that becomes? All becoming is His, all dissolving is His. All are His waves, His ripples.

Raat ko taaron se, din ko zarrahaaye khaak se—
Kaun hai jis se nahin sunte tera afsaana hum?
It is His story, His tale that keeps unfolding. Birds sing His song. In the greenery of trees, it is His greenness. In the ripples of rivers, His ripple. In the dance of the winds, His dance. In the most minuscule He is, and in the most vast, He too is.

Kaun hai jis se nahin sunte tera afsaana hum?
Kya kahiye—kahte na banai...
This difficulty arises when jyoti meets jyoti. Until then, people speak with great ease about God. Ask anyone—even the paan-seller, the grocer—‘Is there God?’ An answer will come. ‘There is’; or ‘there isn’t’. Ask a passer-by; assured answers will arise. Rarely will you find one who says ‘I don’t know.’ Rarely. And only he is honest; all the rest are dishonest. One says, ‘God is,’ and has no inkling. Another says, ‘God is not,’ and has no inkling.

Hence I do not distinguish much between your atheists and theists. They are alike. Two sides of the same coin. Both are deceived, and deceive others. The religious person is something else altogether—neither theist nor atheist; another dimension—of experience. Not belief, not doctrine. Of direct seeing, of encounter. And that encounter happens only when jyoti merges with jyoti.

Kya kahiye—kahte na banai.
Then it is very difficult.
Kya kahiye—kahte na banai; kuchh jo kahiye, kahte hi lajaiye.
It becomes very difficult. You cannot speak; and to remain silent also does not work. One must speak. You cannot hold it in. Within, a profound call arises: speak. Speak, for many have need. Call, for many are thirsty. Pour, for many are parched. Awaken, for many are asleep.

A natural longing arises to share bliss—with immense force, like a storm—uncontainable. Not to speak is impossible, and to speak is impossible too. For whatever you say, in the face of experience, is small. Paltry. Whatsoever you say, beside the experience, appears faded. Whatsoever you say seems false. Where is the experience—and where are words? No accord seems possible. As if one drags an event of the summits down into dark valleys. As if one calls a lotus ‘mud’—such do all words appear.

Kya kahiye—kahte na banai; kuchh jo kahiye, kahte hi lajaiye.
Therefore those who have known have said and felt ashamed. They speak and ask forgiveness—‘Forgive me, for what had to be said could not be said—something else I have said.’

Have you ever seen—go to the riverbank. Dip a straight stick into water. At once it appears crooked. Pull it out—straight as ever. Put it in—crooked. It does not become crooked; it appears so. Just so, the moment truth enters the world of words, it turns crooked. In the realm of experience it is utterly straight and clear; in the realm of words it becomes slanted, askew. What is it? Hard to say. Then whatever you say is only an aspect.

Dekh—shamshir hai, ye saaz hai, ye jaam hai ye.
Tu jo shamshir utha le to bada kaam hai ye.
Very difficult. It is a sword. From one side, truth is a sword. What sword bears such an edge? It cuts the subtlest of the subtle.

Dekh—shamshir hai, ye saaz hai ye...
And if it were only a sword we would say so; but it is also as if someone had played upon the strings of a vina. It is music, it is sound—such a tone as can be heard only in deep silence. It is the sound of no-sound.

...jaam hai ye.
If it were only tone, it would be enough to say, ‘It is the unstruck sound’—but it is also an intoxication—that whoever drinks, never returns to the sobriety of the world; the world is not seen again as before. If it were only this, even then we could manage; Umar Khayyam had said it—that it is wine. But this wine is strange indeed. From one side it brings ecstasy, from another, a great alertness. It is a drunkenness whose center is wakefulness. Difficulty upon difficulty. Whatever you say seems scant.

Dekh—shamshir hai ye, saaz hai ye, jaam hai ye.
Tu jo shamshir utha le to bada kaam hai ye.
But somewhere one must begin. So they say: lift the sword—cut your own head first. Kabir has said: ‘Whoever has left his house, come with me.’ Come—burn down the house! What do we call ‘house’?

The Sufi Bayazid said: ‘If there is fear, there is house. If fear drops, house drops.’ He spoke a profound truth. Why do you build houses? If you search deeply, you will find fear. If there is fear, there is house. Fear gone, house gone. Burn fear to ashes.

Tu jo shamshir utha le to bada kaam hai ye.
Yet many things remain unsaid—‘Dekh—shamshir hai ye, saaz hai ye, jaam hai ye.’ And even that is not all; there are a thousand more. Truth is everything, because truth is the center of this whole existence. The whole existence is His expression. Light is He, darkness is He. Near is He, far is He. Man is He, woman is He. Joy is He, sorrow is He. Heaven is He, hell is He. How to speak Him?

Kya kahiye—kahte na banai; kuchh jo kahiye, kahte hi lajaiye.
Jaasun kahoon, ‘sab mein vah ek,’ tau so kahe: ‘kaiso hai, aankh dikhaaiye.’
If I say ‘He alone is in all,’ that the expansion of the One is this all, that the One sits within all—people say, ‘Then show Him—how is He? Show us to the eye.’

Jaasun kahoon, ‘sab mein vah ek,’ tau so kahe: ‘kaiso hai, aankh dikhaaiye.’
People say: ‘Then show with the eyes. If that One sits in all, why this difficulty? Show Him, grant us vision.’

And His vision cannot be granted by another!

Jau kahoon, ‘roop na rekh tisai kachhu,’ tau sab jhooth kai maanai kahaiye.
If I say to people, ‘How can I show? He has no form, no feature,’ they say, ‘You spread false notions! First you say He is in all, that all is He; He alone is, and all else is false—and when we ask, “Show us,” you say He has neither form nor color nor feature—then how did you see Him? You say He is in all forms, and when we ask you to show a form, you say He is formless. All this appears false.’ People say, ‘Why spread false talk?’

Jau kahoon, Sundar, ‘nainani maanjhi,’ tau nainahu bain gaye puni haiye.
And if I say, Sundar, ‘He is not outside the eye, He is within the eye’—then those who have lost their eyes also have Him. Was there anything less in Surdas than in Kabirdas? Just as much. Even with the eyes gone He is found. Even with ears absent He is found. Even with the hand severed He is found. Even when the body falls He is found. Where then to show Him? How to make Him understood?

Kya kahiye—kahte na banai; kuchh jo kahiye, kahte hi lajaiye.
Sundardas says: Hence the trouble. Since jyoti has met jyoti, speech has become difficult. Whatever we say appears wrong. Entanglements arise. And a great modesty arises too—that His grace is so vast, His compassion so immense, and we cannot even speak it! Great shame is felt.

Preeti ki reeti nahin kachhu—raakhat jaati na paanti, nahin kul gaaro.
And the event of love that happens has no reeti, no fixed method. People say, ‘All right, if you cannot tell us of God, at least give us the method that we may know Him—some technique, some device.’

Preeti ki reeti nahin kachhu—raakhat jaati na paanti, nahin kul gaaro.
It is difficult. The pilgrim of love is in even greater difficulty. Because love has no method. Love is free of all methods. And where there is method, love dies. Love is methodless. Love has no code, no arrangement. Love is supreme freedom.

Preeti ki reeti nahin kachhu...
That is why all your prayers have become false—because you have made them a method. You sit before God, and like parrots you repeat memorized sounds. Is this love? Let the feelings of the heart arise. Whatever sprouts today, in this very moment—offer that. Do not follow a fixed rut. You said it yesterday. You said it the day before. There is no meaning left now. You have repeated it so much that you can repeat it even in your sleep. It has become meaningless.

Remember: the more you repeat anything, the more it loses meaning. Therefore I am not much in favor of mantras that people sit and chant ‘Ram Ram, Ram Ram’. Ram is rendered futile. No meaning remains in ‘Ram’. So much jabbering of ‘Ram Ram’ that what meaning can remain? If it be said even once with feeling, it is enough. Repeating without feeling, mechanically—nothing will be solved.

Preeti ki reeti nahin kachhu—raakhat jaati na paanti, nahin kul gaaro.
There is no distinction there as to who will arrive: that Brahmins can arrive and Shudras cannot, that the high-born can, the low-born cannot. There is no distinction that the virtuous can arrive and the unvirtuous cannot. No distinction that the meritorious can reach and sinners cannot. Sinners too have reached. The tribal Balia Bhil reached. He pushed aside the highly virtuous and reached first. And by chanting ‘mara-mara’ he reached. He forgot ‘Rama-Rama’. A simple man. Unlettered. The mantra got jumbled, yet he reached. For mantra has nothing to do with it. This is the meaning of the tale of Balia Bhil: instead of ‘Rama-Rama’ he forgot and chanted ‘mara-mara’, reversed it all, the method inverted, yet he reached. Because methods are not counted—it is a matter of love. Who knows what innocence was in him.

Prem kai nem kahoon nahin deesat; laaj na kaan lagyo—sab kharo.
And no rules of love are seen. Love is beyond propriety. Love is not like Ram; love is like Krishna. Ram is order, decorum, morality. Krishna is freedom from decorum—love, blazing love. No law, no arrangement. Therefore we had the courage—this country alone had the courage—to call Krishna the full incarnation, and Ram a partial. However beautiful the character, however meritorious—if you have not attained the lawless state of love, you have reached only in part, not in full. You have gained a small courtyard, clean and neat—but not the vast sky.

Ram is beautiful. What fault can you find in his conduct? Krishna is all faults to the moralist’s eye. If you look for propriety in him you will be hard pressed. Yet we dared to call Krishna the Purna-Avatara—only for one reason: that love alone brings to fullness. Because love alone gives the courage to let jyoti meet jyoti—mil jaiye.

If Ram were to stand before God he would remember propriety—how to stand, how to sit, what to say, what not to say—what is proper, what improper. Krishna will, dancing, drown; and perhaps Krishna need not stop dancing—God will drown in him; God will have to dissolve into him.

Sundardas says: ‘Laaj na kaan lagyo—sab kharo.’
In the kingdom of love, proprieties are brackish, useless; there is no sweetness in them.

Leen bhayo Hari soun abhi antar, aathau jaam rahai matvaro.
He who is merged in Hari remains, all eight watches, intoxicated. The intoxication of a drinker. The intoxication of a drunk. Hence the Sufis named the Divine prayer ‘wine’. Hence they called their true temples ‘madhushala’—wine-house.

Sehar tak chaand mere saamne rakhta hai aks unka,
Sitaare shab ko mere saath unka naam lete hain.
Yeh sunkar humne maikhane mein apna naam likhvaya,
Jo maikash ladkhadaata hai, vo baazu thaam lete hain.
Hearing this, we registered our name in the tavern—
Whoever staggers in His love, He takes by the arm.

Whoever staggers in His love is supported. The man of propriety and order never staggers; he gives no occasion for God to hold him.

Note this well. The virtuous man carries an ego. The man of law carries an identity. The man of character bears a very subtle I-ness. He gives no chance to God to support him! He goes carefully on his own. But His beloveds, who trust Him, stagger. They throw away all propriety, all rules, and dive into love.

Hadude koochae Mahboob hai wahin se shuru—
Jahan se padne lage paon dagmagaye hue.
Remember: until your feet begin to wobble in His love, know that you have not yet reached the Lover’s lane.

Hadude koochae Mahboob hai wahin se shuru—
The lane of the Beloved begins where your steps begin to falter—where you are no longer in control. Where you become helpless. Where if He makes you weep, you weep; if He awakens, you awaken; if He lulls, you sleep. Where if He moves you, you move. If He makes you do, you do; if He does not, you don’t. Where all is left to Him—what rule is there, what method, what rite? This is the supreme method of love. This is love’s method beyond methods.

Those who cannot dare this ultimate method—then for them small methods are devised—yoga and so on, tantra-mantra, yantra... many methods devised. But they are for those who cannot bind themselves to the methodless method of love.

Kaun Kausar tak musaafat tai kare—
Maikada firdaus se nazdeek hai.
Who will travel all the way to Kausar, to the heavenly fountain? The tavern is nearer than paradise.

Kaun Kausar tak musaafat tai kare—
Maikada firdaus se nazdeek hai.
Who will be trapped in the babble of heaven! The wine-house is here, near. The wine-house is within you. Stagger a little. You have lived too carefully; now let Him do the caring. Leave it to Him. Surrender is the sutra.

Main maikade ki raah se hokar guzar gaya—
Varna safar-e-hayat ka kaafi taveel tha.
I passed by way of the tavern, else life’s journey would have been too long. For those who drink the intoxication of His love, the path becomes utterly short—becomes zero, becomes nothing, becomes empty, nothing remains. In a single instant it is complete. He who does not sink into the intoxication of His love—their road is very long; yet even then it is doubtful if they will arrive. The lover arrives without walking. The loveless man may walk forever, yet not arrive.

Mujhe uthane ko aaya hai vaaize-waanah—
Jo utha sake to mera saagare-sharaab utha.
Kidhar se barq chamakti hai, dekhen ai vaaiz!
Main apna jaam uthata hoon, tu apni kitaab utha.
The preacher has come to lift me from the tavern. If he can lift anything, let him lift my sea of wine! Before he preaches to me, let him taste a drop. If proof must be asked, let God give the proof.

Let us see from which side lightning flashes, O preacher! I raise my goblet, you raise your book. I call from my intoxication, my love. You recite your memorized texts—and let us see from which side the radiance pours. Always it has come from the side of lovers—those who learned to drink His ecstasy.

Sundardas says well:
Preeti ki reeti nahin kachhu—raakhat jaati na paanti, nahin kul gaaro.
Prem kai nem kahoon nahin deesat; laaj na kaan lagyo—sab kharo.
Leen bhayo Hari soun abhi antar; aathau jaam rahai matvaro.
Sundar kou na jaan sakai—yah ‘Gokul gaav kau paindo hi nyaro’.
This path to Gokul is very unique.

Sundar kou na jaan sakai—yah...
It is not to be known; it is to be lived—that the road to Gokul is very unique. Here there is no rule, no method, no arrangement. Here there is no caste, no Brahmin-Shudra, no sinner-saint.

Sundar kou na jaan sakai—yah ‘Gokul gaav kau paindo hi nyaro’.
This path is unique indeed. It belongs to the intoxicated, the mad.

Samajhna tera koi aasan hai, zalim!
Ye kya kam hai—khud aashna ho gaye hum?
Bhatak kar pade rehjanon ke jo haathon—
Lute is qadar, rahnuma ho gaye hum.
Junoone khudi ka yeh ainaaj dekho—
Ki jab mauj aai, Khuda ho gaye hum.
Mohabbat ne umre-abad humko bakhshi—
Magar sab ye samjhe, fanaa ho gaye hum.
People think the lover is annihilated, perished.

Mohabbat ne umre-abad humko bakhshi—
But love grants immortality. The death of love is the gate of deathlessness.

Mohabbat ne umre-abad humko bakhshi—
Magar sab ye samjhe, fanaa ho gaye hum.
They think we are ruined, mad, deranged. But the lover gains all that is worth gaining. Blessed is the lover. None more blessed.

Dwandva bina bicharai basudha par—jaa ghat Atman-gyan apaaro.
And whom His love touches, all dualities vanish from him.

Dwandva bina bicharai basudha par—jaa ghat Atman-gyan apaaro.
And within him, boundless knowledge of Atman manifests.

He, O Pure One—
You touched me today—
The life-breath became pure.
Stainless words,
Stainless rhythms,
Stainless song—let them remain.
Bestow such a boon
That I never descend
From these peaks—
Make it so!

Once the touch happens, a single call continues.
He, O Pure One—
You touched me today—
The life-breath became pure.
Stainless words,
Stainless rhythms,
Stainless song—let them remain.
Bestow such a boon,
That I never descend
From these peaks—
Make it so!

And so it comes to be. The lover’s every longing is fulfilled.

Kaam na krodh na lobh na moh na raag na dosh—na mharau na tharau.
The knower cannot renounce by renouncing and renouncing; the devotee, it slips away on its own—like when morning sun rises and the dew-drops vanish.

Dwandva bina bicharai basudha par—jaa ghat Atman-gyan apaaro.
Kaam na krodh na lobh na moh na raag na dosh—na mharau na tharau.
Then nothing is ‘mine’, nothing ‘thine’. No lust, no anger, no greed, no delusion. None of these need to be renounced by the devotee. The devotee needs but one courage: let jyoti meet jyoti—mil jaiye! Only this: the capacity to walk upon this unique, rule-less path. The courage to lose oneself. Once this is done, all else happens of itself. Take this distinction to heart. On the path of yoga, one does all this and then God is found. On the path of bhakti, God is found—and all these drop of themselves.

Yog na bhog na tyag na sangrah—deh-dasha dhakyo na ugharo.
For the bhakta, all this happens unbidden. No special sadhana is required.

Yog na bhog na tyag na sangrah—deh-dasha dhakyo na ugharo.
He need impose no special arrangements upon life, no special discipline. He need not live naked.

Sundar kou na jaan sakai—yah ‘Gokul gaav ko paindo hi nyaro’.

Kaif-e-khudi ne mauj ko kashti bana diya—
Fikr-e-Khuda hai, ab na gham-e-naakhuda mujhe.
The ecstasy of self-forgetfulness turned the wave into a boat—no longer the worry for God, nor the sorrow for the boatman. The wave itself becomes the boat—if there is the capacity to forget oneself; if once your soul can be intoxicated.

Kaif-e-khudi ne mauj ko kashti bana diya—
Fikr-e-Khuda hai, ab na gham-e-naakhuda mujhe.
Now no worry remains. No need of a boatman. No need even of God—for He alone is. In the storm’s wave, He alone is. Now no need of the boat. No need to reach the far shore. Wherever He drowns, there is the shore. Only one small thing must the devotee drop—small, yet immense; as if nothing, yet it is all—ego-sense.

Tasavvur aapka, ahsaas apna—hamrahi dil ki—
Mohabbat ki is taqseem ne manzil se bhatkaya.
If even a trace of ‘I’ remains—‘my prayer, my worship, my God’—even a trace is enough to keep the mischief alive. Nothing should remain. The prayer is His. The worship His. The Worshiped is He, the worshiper is He. He sits in the image; He dances in the devotee. Dancing, dancing—Ramakrishna, while offering food to God, would offer it to himself as well. Such intoxication, such oneness! He would forget who is who—who devotee, who God! Where such the Unprecedented happens, Sundardas gives news of the Unprecedented.

Sundar kou na jaan sakai—yah ‘Gokul gaav ko paindo hi nyaro’.

Sundar Sadguru youn kahaya—sakal-shiromani Naam.
Remember Him. Call Him. This alone is the highest peak of sadhana.

Sundar Sadguru youn kahaya—sakal-shiromani Naam.
Call by whatever name, in whatever tongue draws your heart, in whichever direction your head bows—speaking if you will, silent if you will—but remember this one thing: call!

Angaarika aankh ka gulmohar—
The crimson-flame of the eye’s gulmohar—
The furry clutches of shadows—
The helpless dusk of lamp and wick—
Suddenly the lone bird bursts wing—
Where are You?
Where are You?
Ask! Call! Where are You? Where are You? As the papiha calls to its Beloved—‘Pi—where?’—so call. This alone is the method, this the rule.

Taakoun nisdin sumariye—sukhsagar sukh-dham.
Let remembrance of Him become, be woven into each breath, into each heartbeat. Rising, sitting, walking, moving—do not forget Him.

Ram-Naam bin lain kau aur bastu kahi kaun?
Without the Name of Ram what else in this world is there worthy to be gained?

Sundar—jap, tap, daan, vrat—lage khare laun.
All other japa, tapas, vows—taste brackish, like salty brine. There is no sweetness. I too tell you: there is no nectar in your so-called japa, tapas, vows. No honey, no sweetness. All is salty. Why salty? Because of the stiffness of ego—‘I have fasted so much, I have kept such vows.’ Pride arises. What can the bhakta say? He has shed tears—and what else has he done? Nothing special. He has wept—and nothing else. He has called—and nothing else.

From the eyes of the devotee fall such tears that they slowly melt his ego and carry it away. His calling, calling—becomes so dense that it reaches to the innermost of existence, pierces all forms, and reaches the formless! Like an arrow piercing the formed, it reaches the center of the formless.

Ram-Naam piyush taji, vish peeve matiheen.
You are entangled in salty things, in vain things. You drink the poison of ego. Call it practice, call it austerity—but you are drinking ego’s venom.

Ram-Naam piyush taji—
While nectar is available—simple, easy, natural. ‘Sadh, sahaj Samadhi bhali!’

Sundar, dolae bhatakte—jan-jan aage deen.
And for this very reason you wander begging before each and all. If you must stretch a hand, stretch it only before that One Master.

There is a story I relish; I have told it often. The villagers of Farid told him: ‘Pray to Akbar that a madrasah be opened in the village.’ Akbar would visit Farid. Farid was a Sufi fakir. Farid said, ‘All right.’ Farid went to the royal palace. Early morning he arrived; he was taken inside. The emperor was then praying, his hands raised in supplication. So Farid stood behind and listened—what is Akbar praying? Ending his prayer Akbar said, ‘O Lord, O Paramatma, O Provider—enlarge my wealth, increase my riches! Broaden the boundaries of my kingdom!’

Farid turned on his heel. As Akbar completed his prayer and arose, he saw Farid descending the steps. He ran. He had great reverence for Farid. He caught his feet. ‘You came? First time you came—and how are you leaving? What brought you?’

Farid said, ‘A mistake—I came in vain. I thought I was going to the emperor; here too I found a beggar. The people of my village had said: ask for a madrasah for us. I said, “All right.” I came to ask that a madrasah be opened. But now what shall I ask! Your own asking has not been fulfilled yet. This madrasah will only reduce your treasure a bit, your empire a bit. No, I will not do this. This matter ends. Let me go.’

The emperor said, ‘Do not do this; I will open a madrasah, not one but ten.’

But Farid said, ‘Now I shall not ask from you. From whom you were asking—if I must ask, we too shall ask from Him.’

We have stretched our hands everywhere. Stretch them before the One.

Vo khud ata kare to jahannum bhi bahisht—
Maangi hui nijaat mere kaam ki nahin.
And the truth is, the devotee does not even ask from Him. The devotee does not ask. He surrenders himself. Liberation comes. Heaven comes. Upon him showers joy.

Vo khud ata kare to jahannum bhi bahisht—
Maangi hui nijaat mere kaam ki nahin.
And even if you must ask—what will you ask! What is gained by begging! That which comes unasked has value. In begging, the matter ends—you become a mendicant. Unasked, you are an emperor. And God gives—He gives unasked. But lift your eyes toward Him! Walk a little upon His unique road!

Sundar kou na jaan sakai—yah ‘Gokul gaav ko paindo hi nyaro’.

Sundar dolae bhatakte—jan-jan aage deen.

Sundar—surati sameti kai, sumiran so lailiin.
Do not wander begging. Do not roam the world. Gather together your memory, your awareness, your attention.

Sundar—surati sameti kai, sumiran so lailiin.
Collect your whole energy of attention and call that One once. What else is the trouble in the world? The world makes everyone a beggar.

And a beggar must become false, must become a hypocrite.

Jo dil ka raaz be-aaho-fugaan kehna hi padta hai—
To phir apne kafas ko aashiyaan kehna hi padta hai.
Tujhe ai taair-e-shaakhe-nasheman, kya khabar iski?
Kabhi sayyad ko bhi baghban kehna hi padta hai.
Yeh duniya hai—yahaan har kaam chalta hai salike se—
Yahaan patthar ko bhi laale-giran kehna hi padta hai.
Ba-faize-maslaha aisa bhi hota hai zamane mein—
Ki rahzan ko ameer-e-karvan kehna hi padta hai.
Jabaanon par dilon ki baat jab hum la nahin sakte—
Jafa ko phir wafa ki daastaan kehna hi padta hai.
Na poocho kya guzarti hai dil-e-khuddar par aksar—
Kisi be-mehr ko jab mehrban kehna hi padta hai.
But this is the world. Here one must call a sinner a saint; a miser, generous; the false, true.

Na poocho kya guzarti hai dil-e-khuddar par aksar—
Kisi be-mehr ko jab mehrban kehna hi padta hai.
When those who are hard, without a trace of compassion, must be called ‘greatly compassionate’, what the heart must suffer! Speaking such lies, you too become false. But this is the world’s etiquette, its order, its politics. Whoever goes begging must enter into falsehood and hypocrisy.

Do not beg! Call upon the One Lord. Lay all at His feet. And then see—everything comes, everything arrives, unasked. And when it comes unasked—what a delight! Then it is a gift, not alms. Then it is prasad.

Sundar—surati sameti kai, sumiran so lailiin.
Man, vachan, karam kari hot hai—Hari taake aadhin.
Call Him with mind, with word, with deed—then God becomes subject to you.

Sumiran hi mein sheel hai, sumiran mein santosh.
Sumiran hi tein paiye, Sundar, jeevan-moksh.
In remembrance of Paramatma alone is the entire character hidden. Ponder these words—they are profound. Let them hum within; there is great flavor here. The devotee’s only character is remembrance of God. And from that remembrance the whole transformation of life begins. Even a single ray of His remembrance begins to arrive, and all defilement begins to dissolve. Light is lit—the darkness goes. One does not need to push darkness out by the shoulders.

Sumiran hi mein sheel hai; sumiran mein santosh.
And to one in whose very remembrance of the Name bliss arises, to him then is contentment upon contentment. Nothing anywhere dissatisfies him. He receives so much he cannot hold it. He receives so much he does not deem himself worthy of it. His vessel begins to seem small. Paramatma is a lavish giver.

Sumiran hi tein paiye, Sundar, jeevan-moksh.
And to attain Moksha—no yoga, no renunciation, no austerity, no method, no ritual—only remembrance. This small sutra of remembrance—if a little spark falls into your life, it flares into a vast fire. All that is useless burns away; all that is meaningful appears refined. All the rubbish burns; the gold becomes pure.

Mera jo haal ho so ho—barq-e-nazar giraaye jaa—
Main yoon hi naala-kash rahoon, tu yoon hi muskuraye jaa.
Lahja ba lahja, dam ba dam, jalwa ba jalwa aaye jaa—
Tashna-e-husn-e-zaat hoon—tashna-labi badhaaye jaa.
Jitni bhi aaj pee sakoon—uzr na kar—pilaaye jaa—
Mast nazar ka vaasta—mast-e-nazar banaaye jaa.
Lutf se ho ki qahr se ho—hoga kabhi to ru-ba-ru—
Uska jahan pata chale—shor wahin machaaye jaa.
Call ceaselessly. Wherever His scent is felt, raise your cry. If He appears in the rising of the sun—call. In the coolness of the moon—call. If He smiles in flowers—call. If He waves in the winds—call. If He glimmers in people’s eyes—call. If remembrance wells up within—call.

Lutf se ho ki qahr se ho—hoga kabhi to ru-ba-ru—
Uska jahan pata chale—shor wahin machaaye jaa.
Tashna-e-husn-e-zaat hoon—tashna-labi badhaaye jaa.
Make but one prayer to Him: increase my thirst, inflame my thirst—let me become thirst itself. Ask nothing else.

Jitni bhi aaj pee sakoon—uzr na kar—pilaaye jaa.
Increase the thirst, and pour. And pour in such a way that my thirst grows by Your pouring. When this round of thirst and pouring begins, the devotee thirsts, God pours. Hence the Sufis call God ‘Saaki’—the pourer of wine into your cup. From you only this is needed: become an empty cup, an empty vessel.

Hai dil mein Dildar—sahi ankhiyan ulati kari, tahi chitaiye.
Aab mein, khaak mein, baad mein, aatas; jaan mein—Sundar—jaani janaiye.
Noor mein Noor hai, tez mein tez hai, jyoti mein jyoti—milein, mil jaiye.
Kya kahiye—kahte na banai; kuchh jo kahiye, kahte hi lajaiye.
Jaasun kahoon, ‘sab mein vah ek,’ tau so kahe, ‘kaiso hai—aankh dikhaaiye.’
Jau kahoon, ‘roop na rekh tisai kachhu,’ tau sab jhooth kai maanai kahaiye.
Jau kahoon, Sundar, ‘nainani maanjhi,’ tau nainahu bain gaye puni haiye.
Kya kahiye—kahte na banai; kuchh jo kahiye, kahte hi lajaiye.
Preeti ki reeti nahin kachhu—raakhat jaati na paanti, nahin kul gaaro.
Prem kai nem kahoon nahin deesat; laaj na kaan lagyo—sab kharo.
Leen bhayo Hari soun abhi antar; aathau jaam rahai matvaro.
Sundar kou na jaan sakai—yah ‘Gokul gaav kau paindo hi nyaro’.
Dwandva bina bicharai basudha par—jaa ghat Atman-gyan apaaro.
Kaam na krodh na lobh na moh na raag na dosh—na mharau na tharau.
Yog na bhog na tyag na sangrah—deh-dasha na dhakyo na ugharo.
Sundar kou na jaan sakai—yah ‘Gokul gaav ko paindo hi nyaro’.

It cannot be known by going, but it can be lived. I called you for this very reason—that you may walk this unique road to Gokul. You have come this far—go a little further!

Sundar kou na jaan sakai—yah ‘Gokul gaav ko paindo hi nyaro’.
It cannot be ‘known’—but it can be lived.

And living is knowing. There is no other way to know. Here the wine is being poured. Awaken your thirst. Here His remembrance is resounding. Link your heart’s wave with my heart’s wave. It will happen. You are worthy of it. This is everyone’s birthright. And until you set out toward Gokul’s village, all walking is futile. Walk as much as you will; you will reach nowhere. Hear the call of this unique path! Accept this challenge!

Enough for today.