Jyoti Se Jyoti Jale #7

The city's night—and I, heartsick and good-for-nothing, wander.
On the glittering, wakeful streets I roam, a vagabond.
An alien quarter—how long must I be driven door to door?
O grief of the heart, what shall I do; O desolation of the heart, what shall I do?

Along the path of shimmering lamps, like a chain;
In the hands of night, an enchanting portrait of day;
Yet upon my breast, a sword ablaze—
O grief of the heart, what shall I do; O desolation of the heart, what shall I do?

This silvery shade, this net of stars upon the sky—
Like a Sufi’s tasavvur, like a lover’s thought;
Ah, but who knows, who understands the state within?
O grief of the heart, what shall I do; O desolation of the heart, what shall I do?

The night, laughing, says: come to the tavern;
Then to the abode of some Shahnaz, rose-cheeked;
If that is not possible then, friend, let us go to the wilderness—
O grief of the heart, what shall I do; O desolation of the heart, what shall I do?

It is not my habit to halt for breath upon the way;
It is not my nature to turn back and go home;
Nor is it my fate to find a companion of the same song—
O grief of the heart, what shall I do; O desolation of the heart, what shall I do?

A flame has flared up in the heart—what, after all, shall I do?
My goblet has overflowed—what shall I do?
The wound of my chest has begun to give off fragrance—what shall I do?
O grief of the heart, what shall I do; O desolation of the heart, what shall I do?

Without Paramatma, man is a wanderer upon this earth. Without that Beloved we are strangers here. Then this is not a home, but a wayside inn. Let there be a linking with Him, and a home is born. Let there be union with Him, and a relationship with Existence flowers. Then we are not strangers, not outsiders. Then this whole Existence, all the bliss of this Existence, all the wealth of this Existence—are ours.

And until this happens, the torment of life does not fade. Pile up wealth upon wealth, collect position and prestige by the heap—inside you are empty, and empty you will remain. Only Paramatma can fill a man. My definition of Paramatma is simply this—that which fills you to the brim.

And the definition of the world?—that which promises to fill, yet never fills; that which makes you run much, drives you endlessly, yet never lets you arrive.

Paramatma neither drives nor commands you to march. Let a prayer rise that is brimming with love, and where you are, there the meeting happens. Those who have known have not known it thus—that man goes to meet Paramatma; they have known it thus—that Paramatma comes to meet man. There must be a call, there must be a pang, there must be the blazing fire of viraha. He who has built the funeral pyre of viraha—upon him the rain of Amrit is assured, it is assured. This is without exception; yet right there we become afraid.

Unless the seed breaks in the soil it will not sprout. The seed’s fear is understandable—who knows, if I break, whether I will germinate or not! Unless the drop falls into the ocean it cannot become the ocean. Yet when the drop falls into the ocean, anxiety takes hold; fear arises in the mind—what if I am simply lost? What if nothing comes to hand, and what I had is also gone! This is the worry of all worldly folk. Hence talk of Paramatma goes on, but people do not set out to search. They take His Name upon the lips, but there is no resonance in their life-breath. Then if dust gathers on life, if life grows sad, and life becomes tired, defeated, pauperized—there is nothing surprising in it.

The city's night—and I, heartsick and good-for-nothing, wander.
On the glittering, wakeful streets I roam, a vagabond.
An alien quarter—how long must I be driven door to door?
O grief of the heart, what shall I do; O desolation of the heart, what shall I do?

Until union with Paramatma happens, this settlement is another’s, not ours. It has to become our own dwelling. We must weave a bond with it. Our bonds with it are severed. As when a tree is torn from the earth and its roots are wrenched out, and then the tree begins to wither—is that surprising? Then the greenness leaves the tree—is that surprising? Then buds do not come, and flowers do not set—what is surprising in that? Such is man—uprooted!

Paramatma is our soil. Only when we are set in it, when our roots spread within it, does bliss, festivity, dance and song take birth in our life. Then we are no longer vagabonds. Then this is not another’s settlement. Then this is our home. Then we belong to Paramatma, and Paramatma belongs to us. Then this entire Existence, this whole kingdom, is ours.

The search for Paramatma is not a philosophical inquiry. The search for Paramatma is not doctrinal. It is the call of your very life-breath. As the thirsty writhes for water, such is its throbbing; as the hungry, tormented by hunger, goes toward death, such is the process unto dying.

Reading books and memorizing fine words—you will not reach Paramatma thereby. The price must be paid. And viraha is the price.

Understand Sundardas’s sutra for today:

The woman of longing watches the road, her consciousness turned toward the Beloved.

Once it becomes visible that our roots are torn up, then all other tasks become secondary; then only one work is meaningful—to set our roots once again. He who has understood that he has strayed from his home, his entire search becomes one—how to be rejoined with his home!

As a little child lost in the fair—happily wandering, watching a juggler’s tricks, watching the acrobats—so long he keeps watching as long as he does not realize that his mother’s hand has slipped away. The mother’s hand has slipped; he is alone in the crowd. But still he is entangled in the juggler’s tricks, in the acrobats’ feats, in the thousand variegated colors of the fair—he is enthralled! The moment the memory flashes—Where is Mother? My hand has slipped—then all the magic pales. All the fair’s colors dissolve. His eyes fill with tears; there remains only one cry—Where is Mother? He sets out in search. He will weep, he will call out. The fair has lost all savor.

Such is the state of the devotee. The marketplace is very colorful, agreed; and there much magic is at play, agreed. There is the magic of money. And there are great acrobats who have contrived great entertainments! And the games are captivating. And in the bazaar there is much amusement, and people are deeply entangled, crowds upon crowds. And you too are standing there. Look a little closely: is your hand in Paramatma’s hand or not? If your hand is not in Paramatma’s hand, in that very instant all is futile, all marketplaces are lost, all colorings fade. In that instant you will know you are a vagabond; your roots are torn up; you are a stranger. What are you doing here? How have you wasted so much time? From now on, let your entire life-breath be poured into a single search.

The woman of longing watches the road, her consciousness turned toward the Beloved.

Bhakti arises thus—when it is known that my hand has slipped from Paramatma’s hand. Then a profound yearning is born—to find that hand again; for without that hand there can be no savor in life, no meaning in life.

Without Paramatma, life is a flute that has not been played.
Without Paramatma, life is a seed that has not broken open, has not sprouted.
Without Paramatma, the heart is such that it has no heartbeat.
Without Paramatma, life is a corpse! It is not life—it is a deception of life.

What you call life is not life. If your life is truly life, then what are the lives of Kabir, of Nanak, of Sundardas? Your life is not life. Nowhere do flowers seem to bloom. No dance is felt in your feet, no stream of rasa is seen to be flowing within you.

Think! Search a little! Your roots have been torn from Existence. Those roots must be given soil again. If religion is anything at all, it is the re-seeking of our roots in Paramatma.

We hear that from thorn to flower lie, on the path, deserts by the million—
Yet mad resolve declares: from the wilderness the garden is not far.

If you think with the intellect, it will seem—Where to search? How to search? Where is Paramatma? What is His address? What is His abode? What is His form, what His color? If we go to search, where should we go? If we must ask, whom should we ask? Who is the guide? Who is the Guru? Which shastra can be trusted? Scriptures without end, without end! Which doctrine should we take refuge in? A great entanglement!