Ka Sovai Din Rain #1

Rise, that in the night we may seek the beauty of dawn;
let us search for fresh blossoms amid a throng of thorns.
Let us find the glow of moon and stars behind veils of cloud;
let us seek rubies and pearls beneath the mantle of dust.
In the sanctuary of the mind all lamps merely flicker;
come, let us look for the radiance of moon and sun.
Let us pluck an eternal song upon the lute of time;
in death’s domain let us search for Khizr’s immortal spring.
Come again, let us tune the strings of sovereign music;
come again, let us seek the warmth of crown and moon.
In the desolate valleys of fancies, O Shamim,
let us search for a trustworthy heart and a mind afire.

Rise, that in the night we may seek the beauty of dawn—
Awaken! Morning hides within night; seek it.

Let us search for fresh blossoms amid a throng of thorns—
Awaken! In a thicket of thorns a flower is hidden; seek it.

Let us find the glow of moon and stars behind veils of cloud—
In the dark masses of cloud the moon and constellations are concealed. Rise! Seek them.

Let us seek rubies and pearls beneath the mantle of dust—
Diamonds lie buried in the dust. Rise! Seek them.

In the sanctuary of the mind the lamps are all but flickers—
The intellect is a very small lamp. It only trembles and wavers, now lit, now about to go out. Do not rely on it too much. Those who leaned on it alone went astray.

In the sanctuary of the mind the lamps flicker; come, let us seek the radiance of moon and sun—
In this vast Existence sun and moon are hidden. They are for you, their light is for you. They can illumine your path, but only if you search, only if you awaken. The sleeping man lives by the tiny, twinkling light of his little mind. In that light nothing is truly seen; it has no reach. It lights a few steps of life, but it never brings you to Truth. And yet, here moon and sun are concealed.

Within man are hidden possibilities of great light. You come from the source of infinite light. It needs but a slight strike—and fountains will burst forth. It needs but a slight strike—and the veena will begin to resonate, to throb.

Let us pluck an eternal song upon the lute of time—
This instrument of time, this veena of time—strike on it the song of deathlessness.

Here, beneath time itself, immortality is hidden; behind kal, the Timeless abides.

In death’s domain let us search for Khizr’s age—
On this life-path that ends in death, those who search discover the springs of ambrosia.

Rise, that in the night we may seek the beauty of dawn,
let us search for fresh blossoms amid a throng of thorns—
It is a matter of seeking. Only he who wakes, who rises, who shatters sleep, will be able to search. Religion means only this much.

Life is given—as an opportunity, as a challenge. He who accepts the challenge, who uses the opportunity, attains the Supreme Life.

This life is a doorway to that Supreme Life. Do not get stuck at the door. It is the gate to a royal palace. Do not sit forever at the gate, or you will remain beggars. You are born to be emperors; do not settle for less. But to become emperors, much dust and debris must be brushed from the mind. Sleep and dreams must be left behind.

I too ask you to leave something. I do not ask you to leave the world; I ask you to leave dreams. I do ask you to leave something—not wife, children, family. Leave the grime and dust that have gathered upon the mirror of the mind, which gather by nature... We have been on a journey for births upon births, for centuries upon centuries. On a journey, dust will settle on the traveler’s clothes. It is natural. Shake off this dust and debris. You will find the Kohinoor within you. The Master is hidden within you. The one you seek is hidden within you—hidden in the seeker. And yet you keep running away, and have never truly opened your eyes to feel within.

Before you set out to search the world, once at least peep within. Religion is the name of that art of peeping. Therefore religion begins with shraddha—and ends with shraddha.

What is shraddha? Shraddha means the courage to seek what is not yet visible. Shraddha means the courage to sow the seed. The flower is not yet seen in the seed. Shraddha is trust that the seed will break, that the seed is not a pebble. Outwardly, what is the difference between a seed and a pebble? The difference will be decided in the future—the future that has not yet arrived.

When a seed is sown, an announcement of trust is made. Shraddha is signaled. The gesture of shraddha: great trust is needed to plant a seed. Trust that the seed will split, that it is not a stone. Trust that flowers are hidden within the seed, which will manifest. Not visible now—no matter. One day they shall be visible. The invisible will become visible.

Then the gardener waters the seed. Now the seed itself is not seen. The flower is far away; even the seed is gone into the earth and is not visible. Great shraddha is needed. The seed is gone, there is no sign of flowers. He gives water, he gives manure—and he waits, and he prays.

Shraddha means a dialogue with the void. The sky is empty. When the devotee lifts hands toward the sky and prays, he announces shraddha. Will the Void answer? Is there anyone there who will respond? Will an answer ever come? Yet he drops the seed of the question—in the trust that the flower of the answer shall come. If not today, then tomorrow; if not tomorrow, then the day after. There may be delay, there will be no darkness. He will be patient, he will trust. It must come. It has to come.

Shraddha has never gone in vain. And if it did, then know it was impotent; it never truly existed. It must have been mere belief—false, borrowed, hollow. Belief means: you have accepted. Who will bother to argue? People say there is God. Who wants to debate? Who has the time? Who has leisure to waste on such matters? People say there is God—then perhaps there is; we too shall believe. If so many say it, it must be right.

Belief is borrowed, false, dishonest.

Shraddha means: the whole world may say there is no God—that there never was, never will be; that all is false, mere fantasy, an opium-dream, man-made, trickery, deception, hypocrisy—let the whole world say so. Shraddha does not tremble. Shraddha says: I will seek, I will search.

Rise, that in the night we may seek the beauty of dawn—
Night is visible; there is no sign of morning. And have you seen—just as morning approaches, the night grows denser, darker. Just before dawn, night is darkest.

Rise, that in the night we may seek the beauty of dawn;
let us search for fresh blossoms amid a throng of thorns—
If you go to search among thorns, thorns will prick; your hands will bleed. Flowers are not so easily seen nor found. Flowers belong to those who search. Flowers demand a price—and the greatest price is shraddha. Shraddha means: though I do not see it, something within my innermost says, It is; search, and you will find. It must be here—somewhere. It has to be.

Shraddha means: if there is thirst, there must be a stream. If within me is the longing for Paramatma, then Paramatma must be—because without Him, from where would this longing arise?

In Existence it never happens that there is thirst and no water; hunger and no food. Food comes into being before hunger. See—a child enters the mother’s womb, and the breasts fill with milk. The child has not yet come. There is time yet. But the breasts begin to be prepared, to fill with milk. Some mysterious Power, some hidden hand, prepares the breasts—The child will come! The child is not yet here; the question of the child’s hunger has not even arisen. But long before hunger, the stream of milk begins to flow.

Have you seen birds building nests? That is shraddha. The birds have no definite knowledge that the time has come to lay eggs. Yet nests begin to appear. Scientists are amazed, because no one teaches them. They experimented: as soon as a chick hatched from an egg, they separated it from the parents and raised it apart, so there would be no chance to learn. But when the female grew pregnant, in that very instant she began to build a nest. Children will come; a home must be made, a cradle woven. The children have not arrived; whether they will come or not is unknown. Yet the nest begins.

If you observe life attentively, you will find proofs of shraddha everywhere. In the same way there is the thirst for Paramatma in the human heart.

People sometimes ask me: What is the proof of God? I say: if within you there is thirst for God, that is sufficient proof. Thirst is proof. To accept thirst as proof—that is shraddha. The yearning for dawn in the dark night is itself the proof that dawn will come. Let us just seek.

Rise, that in the night we may seek the beauty of dawn;
amid thorns, let us seek fresh blossoms;
behind clouds, the glow of moon and stars;
beneath dust, rubies and pearls—
Here, somewhere, the jewels lie in the dust. If the longing to search for jewels has arisen, then jewels must exist. The name of this trust is shraddha.

All that happens here has an exquisite harmony. There is a vast orchestration. Events are not unrelated. Existence is not incoherent. Within Existence there is a thread, a cadence, a rhythm. It is not anarchy, it is discipline. Seeing this discipline, one senses that there must be unseen hands—hands that color the leaves, fill flowers with nectar and fragrance, pour light into moon and stars.

A child is born—a miracle happens. For a few seconds the mother, father, doctor, midwife are filled with a single longing—that the child cry somehow, for if he cries, breath will begin. Those few moments after birth are the most precious. Upon them depends whether life will begin or not. And nothing is in our hands—we cannot explain to the child, Breathe, fool, do not stop! No device exists. If he takes breath, he takes it; if not, not. And the child has never breathed before. In the mother’s womb the mother was breathing for the child. Now he is separate; the cord is cut. He is utterly independent. He must breathe. No school has taught him. Yet the breath arrives. Who breathes this breath into him?

The Bible says: God made Adam from dust, then breathed into his nostrils the breath of life. The story is true—not as a tale, but existentially true. In every child Someone breathes. Who knows Who! Some great Energy of Life secretly breathes into the child. This miracle happens daily—and still we are blind. We see the breath moving, and do not seek the One who breathed it in.

Look around—how musical all is! And behind this music you think there are no skillful fingers?

To lift the eyes to the sky and converse with the Void—that is prayer. To close the eyes and abide within the inner Void—that is meditation. Yet both begin in shraddha.

Shraddha means: that which is not seen, for which there is no cause, no proof—yet it must be. Such a wondrous state of feeling.

You see people die every day. You lift corpses, watch funerals pass. Yet the thought never comes: I will die.

What is the mystery? So many die—but you do not feel that you are mortal. Surely there is a secret. Even the death of so many cannot convince you that you are death-bound. Somewhere within you there is shraddha for immortality.

Each person knows in his innermost that Life is immortal—that it has no end. You do not search, you do not seek, otherwise this shraddha would become your lived experience.

Let us pluck an eternal song upon the lute of time—
He who breathes within these breaths is hidden. In this mortal body, amrita abides.

In death’s domain let us search for Khizr’s age—
This path of life—from birth to bier, from cradle to grave—this path of life is a path of death. But the traveler who walks upon it is immortal. Bodies fall, rise; the traveler goes on. Garments grow worn and are changed, but the One within continues.

Let us pluck an eternal song upon the lute of time;
in death’s domain let us search for Khizr’s age—
For such a quest, one needs the company of a wealthy one. Kabir did well to call his rare disciple Dharamdas ‘Dhani’—The Wealthy. He was wealthy before renunciation; he had much wealth. Upon renouncing, he poured it all away. Until he renounced, Kabir never called him Dhani. The day he scattered all his wealth, Kabir said, Dharamdas! Now you have become truly wealthy. From today I shall call you Dhani Dharamdas. For now you have attained the wealth that no one can snatch. Now you have attained the wealth that, the more you distribute, the more it never diminishes. You have attained the wealth that is eternal.

To awaken, the company of one who is awakened is needed. When you learn music, you learn from a musician. Watching hands that have become skillful, your own hands begin to learn. If you must learn shraddha, learn it in satsang—where someone has attained shraddha; where flowers have bloomed. Even if you do not see the flowers, you will sense the fragrance. Even if nothing is clearly grasped, vaguely the footfall of the Invisible will be heard.

In Dhani Dharamdas’s company we shall travel for some days. Dhani Dharamdas is one among the rare.

Dharamdas has said:

We are traders in Satnam.
Some load brass and copper; some, cloves and betel.
I have loaded the Wealthy One’s Name; my cargo is complete.
Pearls and drops arise within the pot; merit fills the granary.
With the commodity of the Name loaded, Dharamdas the trader moves on.

He traded before as well, yet he traded again. Before, he traded in the small; later, he traded in the vast—in Satnam.

These words will remind you that Dhani Dharamdas poured out with an open heart. You too receive with an open heart—and satsang will flourish. Love will well up. The juice will flow. Night will turn to morning.

The art of transforming death into amrita is religion.

All these words, from different directions, will point toward Dharma.

Lust, anger, pride, greed—cast away all dualities.
How long will you sleep day and night, O love-lorn one, awaken.

How long will you sleep day and night...—
We are asleep. Our sleep is spiritual. Bodily sleep breaks by day; spiritual sleep continues even in daylight. At night your eyes close and you sleep; by day your eyes open and you sleep. But sleep continues. At night you dream; by day you desire. Dreams and desires are the two sides of one coin. Dreams are the desires of sleep; desires are the dreams of your so-called waking.

Desire means: the future; you wander in what is not. To lose yourself in what is not—that is dreaming. Being lost in what is not, you miss what is.

How long will you sleep day and night...
Dharamdas says: How long will you sleep? How much will you sleep? At night you sleep; by day you sleep. Birth after birth has passed in sleep. When will you awaken to see? And what you seek while asleep can be found right now, instantly, here—if you awaken. It will never be found while asleep.

The meeting of the sleeping one with the Divine cannot happen—not because the Divine does not meet the sleeper; He meets even the sleeping. But how will the sleeper recognize? You lie in sleep; someone may come and sit by you—let him sit. From his side the meeting happens; from your side nothing happens.

I stayed once as a guest in a home. There a woman has fallen into a coma—nine months now. The husband still brings flowers and places them on her pillow. The children still press her feet. But she knows nothing. The doctor comes and checks her pulse—but she knows nothing.

Such is your coma. Until God is known, know that you are asleep. One proof of awakening alone exists—the experience of God—and none other. If you have not known God, know that you still sleep. Seek the company of someone awake. Only the awakened can awaken the sleeping.

How long will you sleep day and night...—
Only one awake can tell you, can shake you, can jolt you.

Lust, anger, pride, greed—cast away all dualities—
These are the dualities. Duality is the very base of sleep. We are split into two; hence we have fallen asleep. Our energy is scattered by division. If it gathers, comes to the center, becomes one—awakening happens. We are fragmented. And who has fragmented us? We ourselves. Lust, anger, intoxication, greed—these have filled us with conflict.

Man is always running: let me get this, let me get that; let me become this, let me become that. This run is called kama—lust. If anyone obstructs your run, anger arises. You want wealth, and someone competes in the market; you want position, someone stands against you in the election—anger is born. Whoever obstructs what you want becomes an enemy.

Lust is the root of all our sleep. From lust arise many other things. When there is obstruction, anger will arise. And there will be obstruction, for countless others are lustful as you are. They too run for the same things you run for.

Every person wants to become president. Every person wants to become prime minister. In a nation of hundreds of millions, only one will be prime minister. All but one are bound to be unhappy—and will take revenge. Thus the one who attains position is never forgiven by the people. He cannot be. While in power they bend and flatter—out of compulsion. The day the staff is snatched, you will know you have no friend. Those who gave you support yesterday, who raised you to high office—these very people will become your enemies, will abuse you.

Why? The reason is clear. Positions are few. One might ask: Why not create more positions? They can be increased, but then the relish is gone. Announce that everyone is president—and the taste vanishes. The taste lies in their scarcity.

Imagine the Kohinoor scattered along the roads like pebbles—then it would be worthless. No need to set it in a queen’s crown; anyone could pick it up. Why is a pebble of no value? Consider—if there were only one pebble in the world, however ugly, it would be set in a royal diadem. Diamonds too are pebbles; their glory is that they are rare. There is no other difference between gold and brass: brass is abundant, gold is rare. Whatever is rare exhilarates the ego: I have it, others do not! The rarer the thing, the more the ego enjoys. When you reach the last peak where you are utterly alone, the ego tastes its sweetest nectar.

The nectar of ego is lust. Lust has many forms. Do not mistake it as only sex—that is but one form. Lust has endless forms. The vast expansion of life, its conflicts and struggles, violence and upheavals—this is lust. Whoever becomes an obstacle is an enemy; anger arises against him. If you remove all enemies and achieve what you set out to attain—lust fulfilled—then pride is born. The third disturbance begins.

Pride means: lust has succeeded. You wanted to be president, and you became president—pride arises. Pride means: See—no one else could get it; I did! Your chest swells, your gait changes, your ways change.

Successful politicians live longer; failures die sooner. Success adds ten years to their life—a certain intoxication appears. Now living seems to have meaning. Psychological studies show: in different societies different types live long. In Greece, philosophers lived long, for philosophy was highly honored. In India, rishis and munis lived long—not due to some yogic secret, but because of prestige. In America, the businessman lives long; poets and philosophers seldom do. In India, film actors remain youthful long—not because of yoga, but because prestige sustains them.

He who achieves his lust gains pride—an elixir for the ego. Therefore when one attains utter egolessness, his farewell from the body begins. His pride is broken. His ties with the body loosen like a tree uprooted from the earth. He does not return again. To be born again needs intoxication; when there is none, there is no return. Thus a Buddha does not return.

And when pride arises, greed follows. Greed means: what I have must remain with me—and more must be added. The minister wants to become chief minister; the cabinet member wants the higher seat. Two aims hold him now: to cling where he is without falling back—and to push those ahead so a place opens up for him.

Greed means to clutch what is, lest anything slip, and to grasp what is ahead. Greed has no end; imagination knows no fulfillment.

You ask: If someone possessed the greatest wealth in the world—would he not be content?

No. If there were but a single desire, perhaps. But desires are many.

Napoleon’s height was short; five feet two. Great emperor, vast empire—yet this was his torment. A taller man would wound him. He was obsessed. He chose short generals; a tall general beside him was unbearable. His whole life he suffered this wound.

Thus, even with empire and riches, one small thorn can cripple you. Wealth, position, prestige—and a beggar passes with carefree stride, and jealousy arises. Or you see a laborer asleep in deep midday, under his cart, while traffic blares by—he sleeps at ease; and you toss all night on your bed, sleepless. Restlessness arises, jealousy is born.

Do not be surprised—rich men envy the poor; poor men envy the rich. No one is at ease. The villager thinks the city enjoys; the city-dweller dreams of the village’s peace. In the villager’s eyes there is no beauty in his village—only mud, dung, flies, mosquitoes. Yet poets in cities write of villages without mosquitoes, dust, heat, or filth—only flowers groomed like a bride, greenery, serenity.

In this world, no one finds contentment—because whatever you have, much else remains lacking. Truth is, when you pursue one thing, all your energy goes into it; the other limbs of life remain crippled. He who chases wealth is often dull, because all his energy is in money; where is time left to cultivate intelligence? The one who pursues intelligence becomes impractical, for energy went into thought, not into worldly skill.

When in life we choose, the rest that is left out will one day hurt—thus conflict arises. First, no desire is fulfilled fully, something always remains ahead. And even if one desire is fulfilled, countless remain unfulfilled. Fulfilled desires are forgotten; the unfulfilled prick like thorns.

Lust, anger, pride, greed—cast away all dualities.
How long will you sleep day and night, O love-lorn one, awaken.

Dharamdas says: Awake! How long will you bear this conflict? For how long this madness? You are worn and broken by running. How meaningless your life has become! Now awaken.

Let there be at least some episode in the tale of life;
let there be at least some form to events.
Wrongly measured, still—
let there be at least a glance of grace.
If not the revel of life, then at least—
let there be some distinction between death and life.
A being without foundation—surely not nothing;
let there be at least a little being to being.
Nothing but kindness—what is kindness without content?
O Shamsi, you have received the wealth of pain—
let there be at least some fruit of the cosmos.

Here nothing truly comes into your hands. Let there be at least a life-story! A shape to events! Yet here nothing happens—what can happen in dreams? Time is wasted. Your whole life is a barren desert.

Abandon hope in the ocean of becoming; drop every snare.

If you keep hope in this world, you will sleep. Hope is sleep. Hope in the ocean of becoming—here I will get something—here it can be attained! No one ever did. Alexander goes empty-handed. The wealthy die poor. Emperors remain beggars. No one ever got anything here. But a hope burns within: though none got it, perhaps I will.

Abandon hope in the ocean of becoming; drop every snare.

This hope is the noose around the neck, the gallows. He who is free of hope is free of the world.

I do not ask you to run from the world. Drop this hope. Beware of a frequent mistake: people drop hope and pick up despair. Despair is the inverted form of hope; it is hope doing a headstand. If hope truly drops, despair drops with it. They are two sides of one coin. You cannot keep one and lose the other. Either both remain, or both fall. If a so-called religious man seems despairing, know he is not religious; he is worldly. He has not left hope; he has only hidden that side and kept despair uppermost—the coin is merely flipped.

The truly religious man has neither hope nor despair toward the world. Free of hope and despair, he is out of duality. There awakening flowers.

Abandon hope in the ocean of becoming; drop every snare—
Then begin the journey to your own land. The moment hope and despair drop, your roots pull up. Our roots in the world are hopes and despairs. As soon as the roots are uprooted—Then, let us go to our own land... The remembrance of it arises within; viraha is born. Thus Dhani Dharamdas says: O love-lorn one, awaken.

How far I am—
hard pressed by necessity.
From the passion of love—
I am a flame from Sinai.
No veil remains—
yet I am veiled.
I laugh—
yet am drenched in sorrow.
I hold no complaint against You—
I myself am compelled.

By our own hands we have cut our feet, torn our wings. By our own hands we have become helpless, we have become far.

Let hope go. Is it not enough, what you have seen? Every time hope fails—and yet you revive it again. You wanted wealth; you got it—and nothing else. You can see it—nothing else. Then you create a new hope: perhaps position will do it. You get position—again, nothing. Then you think: perhaps fame will do it. Thus you keep changing hopes—changing sides in bed—but hope itself never goes; it survives in some form; you keep pouring oil into it.

Listen, friend, the Beloved’s form—words cannot describe it.
In that country there is no decay, no death; it is an ocean of fragrance.

Let us go to our own land...—
Dhani Dharamdas says: Come! Let us go home. This is not our house. This is not our country. We come from elsewhere. We are swans of the Manasarovar; here we sit in muddy ponds. The swan picks pearls; here we peck at stones. The swan swims in the clear waters of Manasarovar; here we sit in mire; we have settled with cranes.

Listen, friend, the Beloved’s form—
Dhani Dharamdas says: I have seen my own land. I have reached. I want to tell you of the Beloved’s form. In what are you entangled? In what forms are you caught? You do not know what vast Beloved awaits you! You are picking pebbles? The whole empire is yours—and you nurse petty longings. The Vast longs to shower upon you.

Listen, friend, the Beloved’s form—yet words cannot describe it—
I have seen it, I have tasted it; my eyes are full of it—yet description fails. It does not fit in words.

They came into imagination all of a sudden;
the shape of separation changed utterly.

In meditation a glimpse arrives—and where there was hell, there is heaven.

They came into imagination all of a sudden;
the shape of separation changed utterly—
Hell becomes heaven in a flash. But one cannot say it. Our language is of hell. Suddenly there is dawn—and we have only the tongue of night. How to say it? The hungry is fulfilled—how can he say it, who never knew fulfillment before? Our language is of unfulfillment.

Have you noticed? To incite people to strife, language is skillful. To rouse them to surround, to strike, to burn, to destroy—language is adept. People are boiling with hate; any pretext will do. And demagogues think a great revolution is happening. No revolution ever happens—only hate is understood here; speak the language of hate and people follow. Explain meditation to thousands—perhaps one will come. Incite hatred to one—and thousands will gather. Language works for hate; for peace it is impotent; for love it fails completely; for God it does not arrive.

Listen, friend, the Beloved’s form—words cannot describe it.
Yet Dhani Dharamdas says: I shall still say something—a hint at least, a fragrance.

There, no one grows old; there, no death occurs.

Note: we must use negative terms. Great Knowers must speak in negation. We cannot say what God is, but we can say what He is not. Morning has come, the sun has risen. The bat of night, the owl of darkness—what can he report? Only this: there is no night there, no darkness there. Thus scriptures speak in negatives.

Ajara—there is no decay; Amara—there is no death. Negation.

Therefore scriptures always speak in negative language. Ask what God is; they reply what He is not. Why? Because our language is made for the world, by worldly men. It cannot grasp the beyond. It can grasp the small; it loses the Vast. If you force the Vast into it, the Vast becomes a corpse.

There oceans of fragrance abound.

Another way is to magnify what tiny joys are known here. Here fragrance is not oceanic; a drop is a lot. There, oceans are full. Here a little joy comes in sex; there, it is infinite. A little joy in love; there, it is boundless.

A couch of flowers is spread, where the Purusha sits.

Flowers are the most unearthly thing in this world—that is why we offer them in prayer. They seem like a dream made flesh—touch and they wilt. Morning they are here, by evening petals fall. Flowers appear almost like a misfit in this world—stones belong here, not flowers. Flowers feel like strangers from another land—here for a moment, lost again.

A couch of flowers is spread, where the Purusha sits.

There the Master—Purusha, the Divine—sits upon a bed of flowers.

Whisks of the front are waved; the swan rejoices there.

The Hansa returns to Manasarovar. He forgets the sorrowful dreams of ponds, leaves the company of cranes—awakens.

A million suns shine—there is no space for even a hair of darkness.

How to describe that light with this single sun? Either we say, There is no darkness—or we say, Millions of suns burn together.

The moon rises without measure—there the very ground is beauty.

White is that land—
White is the throne—
A white canopy upon the head—
Fearlessness is bestowed there.

White is the symbol of unity, Advaita. The world is seven-colored; there, all colors merge again. In the rains, when sun and showers meet, the rainbow appears—sunlight broken into seven. If you spin a fan of seven colors fast, it becomes white. White is the color of all colors gathered.

Do the ajapa-japa; bring love into the heart.

How to reach that land? How to find the Beloved?

Learn a japa where there are no words. A japa where speech falls asleep. Where speech sleeps, consciousness awakens. Where words are lost, the Void resounds. Prayer becomes perfect when all words dissolve. When prayer becomes empty, it is full. Do not say anything. What is there to say to the One who knows? What to complain of? What to ask? Live what He has given; relish what is given; sing what is given. What is given is already overflowing.

Do not ask, do not speak. Bow in deep silence. In that bowing is ajapa-japa.

Do the ajapa-japa; bring love into the heart—
Let there be no words—let love ring within.

The goal is not far for the one unmindful of self;
but let this world of cleverness be passed beyond.

This arithmetic you keep, this so-called sense and cleverness—let it go. Love means—calculations gone, arguments gone. Love gives; it does not ask. Reason asks; it does not give. Reason is miserly; love is a giver. When you ask God for something, it is not love. Love does not know how to ask.

Do the ajapa-japa; bring love into the heart.

Meet, friend, the True Beloved—and then sing the auspicious song.

Only then is there celebration. Before that all celebrations are false. You beat drums at marriages—what are you doing? Before Him, all other marriages are false. Only with Him the rounds are real. These little festivals are consolations. You light lamps outside—inside is bankruptcy. Whom do you deceive? You celebrate a day or two; the next day the same mourning face returns. Such festivals do not transform you; they are false. But man’s compulsion is understood—without any festival life would be unbearable; so we create false ones.

Dharamdas says:

Do the ajapa-japa; bring love into the heart—
Let love be in the heart and let there be surrender—silent, wordless, without asking.

Meet, friend, the True Beloved—and then sing the auspicious song—
Then celebration is. Then life is a great festival. Then flowers bloom in your being, fragrance spreads, lamps are lit—then comes Diwali. Then play with colors—then it is Holi. Do not be entangled in false Holis and false Diwalis.

Do not deceive yourself. Your life is a desert. All the oases you have imagined are hallucinations. There is only one true oasis—the meeting with the Divine, the union with the Beloved.

Meet, friend, the True Beloved—and then sing the auspicious song.

For ages upon ages the bridal blessing abides; that sovereignty is unbroken.

Once joined with Him, the suhag endures forever. What is your suhag here? What difference between a married woman and a widow? One is widow with the husband present, the other is widow with the husband absent. Here friendships are worth two pennies; all relations are false.

For ages upon ages the bridal blessing abides; that sovereignty is unbroken—
Seek that empire which is never divided.

When the Beloved is met, the bliss of love is attained—then you belong to the society of swans. Otherwise you sit among cranes. Living with cranes the swan begins to think itself a crane. You become as those with whom you live.

Have you heard the story? A lioness leapt from a hill; she was pregnant; the cub was born mid-air and fell below. A flock of sheep was passing; the cub joined them. He found himself among sheep from childhood, and knew himself as sheep—how else could he know? In this way you have known yourselves as Hindu, Muslim, Jain—by the herd you fell into. You hold Gita, Quran, Bible—because your herd held them. Your individuality is yet unborn.

That lion-cub remained sheep—bleated like them, walked with them, ran with them. They accepted him; they had no fear—he remained vegetarian! One day an old lion attacked the flock. He was shocked to see a lion running with sheep. He could not believe his eyes. He chased—and caught the young lion, who cried, Bleating—Let me go! My companions are leaving! The old lion dragged him to a river. Fool, look in the water. See my face and see your own. The moment he looked—one roar burst forth. In an instant all changed. The sheep was gone; the lion was what he was.

So are you. You have forgotten who you are. You befriended cranes and built houses of falsehood. As long as these false houses seem like home, the real home will not be sought.

When the Beloved is met, the bliss of love is attained—then you enter another world: the society of swans, the fraternity of the siddhas. Its name is Moksha. The essence of the whole matter: silent love.

There is nothing in life but service;
the passion of heart, the pain of humanity.
Banners and emblems, umbrellas and seals—
all are nothing, all are nothing—except love.

Thrones and flags, canopies of gold, royal seals, crowns—all are petty besides love. If anything is worth understanding, it is love. If anything is worth living, it is love.

Nothing in life but service;
the passion of heart, the pain of humanity.
Banners and emblems, umbrellas and seals—
all are nothing—except love.

Premananda! Let there be love and let there be silence—ajapa-japa. Where love and the still mind meet, ajapa arises. You do not do it; the sound of Om resounds of itself. It is not produced by you. It arises from your very being. You are only the witness. That day you become a member of the society of swans. That day you are no longer of the garbage heap. That day wings are yours.

Kabir cries aloud: Listen, O Dharamdas—
The swan goes to Satlok, close beside the Purusha.

Dharamdas says: In such a moment, when I was silent and full of love, my Master called to me:

Kabir cries aloud: Listen, O Dharamdas—
The swan goes to Satlok, close beside the Purusha.

This very moment is the moment, Dharamdas—do not miss. Come now.

The swan goes to Satlok—
But a rare love is needed; then the Master can say: The time has come—open your eyes!

Lift my instrument of being, lift it up;
for long the world has been waiting.
Now a smile, now tear-filled eyes—
so small is the tale of life.
Without You these painted skies, these lovely seasons are unreal.
In the night of sorrow even the stars begin to fade;
O scars of my heart—raise a flame!
Let someone strike the melodies of love—
the world is listening intently.
Your remembrance alone consoles the heart;
what great grace—that You are remembered at all.

If the Lord is remembered, the bhakta says: It is His grace. Great is Your favor—that You are remembered! Even remembrance is by Your compassion; by our doing, even that would not happen.

You have come to me—thank Him! By His bringing you have come. If you had your way, you would never come to satsang. Those who live by their own way never come. Blessed are those in whom a tidal longing arises and carries them toward satsang. Few awaken, though it is everyone’s birthright. But who accepts their right?

A yogini called Maya stands, bow and arrow in hand—

A thousand temptations wait to hunt you. Be alert!

In a moment they ruin—
There is not an ounce of pity in them.

In a single instant all can be thrown into disorder. Only the ever watchful are saved.

Softly the breeze flows; the wine of love sways—

He who is saved, who shields himself with the only shield—awareness—
Do not sleep day and night, O love-lorn one, awaken—
When someone is awake, thieves do not come. Buddha says: If someone is awake in the house, thieves stay away. If a lamp is lit, thieves stay away. If the watchman is alert, thieves stay away. So too in life—if a little consciousness keeps watch within, neither lust nor anger enters.

People ask: How to conquer lust? You’ve spoiled it already. Conquest means lust has entered and you now try to fight. See how it enters. You were unconscious—so it came. Wake up. As soon as you awaken it vanishes. When the house awakes, thieves flee.

And for the awakened—soft breezes begin to blow in their life—
Softly the breeze flows; the wine of love sways.

Intoxication of love begins. The tavern of love opens. In sleep you do not even know when heavenly breezes touch you—and pass. God comes and even embraces you, and you do not know.

No news was possible without You;
when did spring come, when did autumn?

You do not know. All happens; man sleeps. Autumn comes, spring comes, cuckoos call, chataks cry—buddha-men walk among you, call you, depart—and you sleep. How long you have slept! How many Krishnas, how many Christs, how many Mohammeds have called and gone! How many Dhani Dharamdas! You slept on.

No news was possible without You;
when did spring come, when did autumn?

Every moment the event is happening. Heaven descends each instant upon earth. God throws His net each moment.

Softly the breeze flows; the wine of love sways—

On the branch of the many-colored tree the cuckoo calls.

He who has tasted a little of heaven’s breeze hears the Beloved’s hint from all sides. When the cuckoo calls, in her note he hears God’s tone. When a flower blooms, he sees the Beloved open in its hue. When the sun rises and dazzles, it is the Beloved who shines. In serene eyes, in tears brimming with love—only His glimpses begin to appear.

Softly the breeze flows; the wine of love sways.
On the branch of the rainbow-tree the cuckoo calls.

Crying Beloved, Beloved—yet the Beloved did not come;
Without the Beloved the temple is empty; crows have begun to speak.

In this world you have cried Beloved, Beloved—but He did not come, for your direction was wrong. The temple remained empty; crows took over and cawed. In your life no cuckoo sang; only crows. Your life was no temple—long ago a ruin.

Change course! Awake a little! Seek a dawn within darkness. Seek flowers among thorns. Seek moon and constellations behind clouds. Flow in the right direction. Flow aright—and here, now—

Softly the breeze flows; the wine of love sways.
On the branch of the many-colored tree the cuckoo calls.

All is happening now. It is not that the Divine used to come to earth and now no longer comes. He always comes—always. Those who awaken recognize; those asleep remain asleep.

O black crow, you have made a partition of the house.

The crows have made it homeless.

The hope of union with the Beloved—let it never be dropped.

This world is like a ruin—where cuckoos have left and crows have taken seat; where the right has been rejected and the wrong enthroned; where Dharma has receded and adharma has become the style of life.

Awaken—and the ruin becomes a temple. Perhaps it was never a ruin—only seemed so. Our eyes were at fault. Perhaps the crows never dwelt there; our ears were sick—cuckoos sounded like crows. With awakening, revolution happens.

Whose tears turned into the laughter of flowers?
Whose heart’s yearning became spring?

Kabir says: When Guru and disciple are together this revolution happens; when their union happens. Not outwardly—outward union is not union.

Mingle and melt in satsang—

The word ‘mingle-melt’ is precious—it means: let the Guru enter into you, and you enter into the Guru.

Mingle and melt in satsang—

If the Guru remains far and you remain far, with distance between, satsang does not happen. In satsang the boundaries fall. There the disciple forgets he is a disciple; the Guru never knows himself as Guru—that is why he is a Guru. When the disciple too forgets he is a disciple, the two mingle and melt; the walls fall; their juices flow into each other.

This is the supreme event of life. No embrace is greater; no union deeper.

Kabir says to Dharamdas: Guru and disciple together—
Mingle and melt in satsang, then cross to the other shore.

When satsang happens, you become the touchstone’s gold. The Guru is available, willing. Plunder as much as you can! But people are so miserly—they are misers not only in giving, but even in receiving; they fear to take lest they must give!

The Guru needs nothing. Take—and the Guru is grateful. When satsang happens, you cross. When satsang happens, spring arrives.

In the garden there is the bridal festival of spring—come!
The wedding song of the waterfall—come!
In every stir of the flower there are a thousand melodies;
every breath of the breeze is spring—come!
Beneath the ecstatic shades of drunken clouds,
the rubies and roses are ablaze—come!
On every path the discourse of ruby and rose is spread;
every bud awaits you—come!
Do you even know—in this very season of spring,
O Shamim—the boatman of sorrow is your prey—come!

The disciple calls. The disciple weeps. The disciple bows. The Guru also calls. The Guru also flows. The Guru also bows. At the hour of Jesus’s farewell, he washed his disciples’ feet. A disciple asked: What are you doing? We may wash your feet—but you ours? Jesus said: So that you remember—when disciple and Guru bow into each other, there is union. There is satsang. Satsang is the boat; it can carry you across.

How long will you sleep day and night, O love-lorn one—awaken.

Enough for today.