Ka Sovai Din Rain #7

Love is a secret.
That secret—the one that abides in the soul, unveiling itself as Beauty;
A vision whose radiance the eyes can never endure, lifelong;
Higher than mind, higher than awareness—
Love is a secret.

Love is a proud grace.
That grace—which turns life into an everlasting rejoicing;
Which teaches earth-dwellers to nest in the heavens;
Which erases the difference of I-and-thou—
Love is a proud grace.

Love is a dream.
That dream—for whose ecstasy a thousand paradises could be laid down;
For which the pleasures and fables of life could be offered;
Even so-called realities could be offered—
Love is a dream.

Love is a radiant image.
All truth and simplicity, all beauty and sweet heresy,
All tumult and ache—but in the style of endearing play—
Where defeat becomes supremacy—
Love is a radiant image.

Love is a mystery. The greatest mystery—mystery of mysteries!
Existence is woven of love, and by love it is understood. By love we descended into the world, and by the ladder of love alone can we go beyond the world. Whoever understands love understands Paramatma. And whoever remains deprived of love may talk endlessly of Paramatma—it will only be talk; Paramatma will not enter his experience. Love is the doorway to the experience of Paramatma. Love is the eye.

Love is a secret—a hidden key—by which all the locks of existence open.
That secret—that, if love flowers within, the soul becomes illumined.
A light so intense that if the eyes try to behold it, they smart; they cannot endure it; they long to see, yet cannot. In its presence the sun grows pale. Moon and stars are flickering lamps—beside it, in contrast, in comparison.
Whoever knew love knew light for the first time. Whoever did not know love knew only darkness, a night of no-moon—he never met the full moon.

Higher than the mind—
Love is a secret.

Cultures and civilizations are nothing before it. Higher than them all. Religions, creeds, conditionings, rites, traditions—beyond them all. It fits no custom. It is confined by no civilization. Bound by no culture.
Love is freedom—an open sky.
Higher than the mind—
Love is a secret.

Seek that love which is beyond Hindu, beyond Muslim; which rises above the Quran, where from the Gita downward there open dark abysses. Seek those summits. There alone is Paramatma’s abode.

Someone asked me one day: Where should we search for Paramatma? I said: In love. Perhaps he had wished I would say: in the Himalayas; or on the moon and the stars. He wanted to search outside, and Paramatma can only be searched within. And the passage inward—its name is love.

Love is a proud grace—a dignity, a glory. Whoever receives it becomes a sovereign. Whoever lacks it is poor. Only the one without it is the poor one—even if he possesses immense wealth, even if he rules the whole world. Without love the vessel is empty; he is a beggar.

Love is a proud grace—
That grace which grants life a taste of the everlasting.
Love bestows immortality upon life; otherwise life is death-bound. In this life only one experience is not mortal. In this life only one flavor carries a hint of Amrit.

Love is a proud grace—
That grace which lets a death-filled life glimpse Amrit; it dyes it in the color of Amrit. In the hours of love, one cannot trust in death. The lover cannot concede that death can be. Whoever knew love became free of death.
Remember: the less love in a man, the greater his fear of death—precisely in that proportion. This arithmetic never errs. When you see someone terrified of death, know he has not known love. If he had known love, why would he fear death? For love does not know death. Love does not even acknowledge death. For love, death is a lie. For fear, life is a lie. For love, death is a lie. Fear knows only death; love knows only life—eternal life.

That grace which makes life an everlasting joy,
Which teaches earth-dwellers to nest in the heavens—
Love alone is the miracle—the only magic! Those who crawl upon the earth suddenly begin to fly in the sky. Those who did not know they had wings—wings arise. Those whose lives had no direction—direction arrives.

That grace which makes life an everlasting joy,
Which teaches earth-dwellers to nest in the heavens—
Which removes the division of I-and-thou—
Love is a proud grace.

A glory in which all divisions fall away, where the indivisible appears. Where ‘I’ and ‘you’ drop. Where That appears—and its name is Paramatma.

In love there is neither I nor you. Where there is I-and-thou there is no love. This is why we call quarrel ‘you-you, I-I’. Quarrel means: too much you, too much I—tu-tu, main-main. Love means: neither you nor I—both vanish; duality dissolves. What remains—that is Paramatma.

Jesus said it rightly: Love is God. Many have offered definitions of Paramatma, but Jesus surpassed them all.

Love is a dream—
A dream before which all the so-called realities of life grow false. Love is a dream—such a dream before which everything we have called truth pales. Our truths turn false before that dream.
Love is the dream of Truth.
Love is the longing, the yearning for Truth.
Love is the sowing of the seed of Truth in the heart.
Love is revolution—for you begin to rise from the smallness of life toward the vast; from the limited toward the limitless.

Love is a dream—
A dream whose intoxication is such that a thousand heavens can be sacrificed upon it. Whoever has known love asks not for heaven. Hence the devotees have said: We want not Your Vaikuntha. We want Your feet. We want Your prasad. We want a glance filled with Your love. Keep Your heavens. Give them to the renouncers and ascetics—they need them. Distribute Your heavens to those who desire pleasures.

Why can a devotee say with such courage: we want not Your Vaikuntha, not Your heaven; give us a place in the dust of Your feet, a little rest in Your shade—that is enough. Give us remembrance of You; let Your surati remain; let the recollection not be lost. Why? Because the devotee has known love, and knowing love he has seen that a thousand heavens are pale.

Love is a dream—
A dream whose intoxication calls for the sacrifice of heavens;
For whose sake the comforts of life’s tales can be sacrificed;
Even realities can be laid down.
Such a dream, such a vision—upon which life’s so-called truths may be offered.

Blessed are those who have seen this dream of love—for this dream alone is true. Your so-called truths are false.

Love is a radiant image—
A glimpse of Paramatma, a reflection. Like the moon formed in a lake—reflection. Like a picture appearing in a mirror. Love is a picture of Paramatma. Whoever has not known love cannot recognize Paramatma—for Paramatma has no other face or form. No other shape, hue, or color. Love is His color, His way, His image. Whoever recognizes love begins to see Paramatma everywhere—in flowers and in stones, in moon and stars, in constellations, in people, in animals and birds.

Love is a radiant image—
All truth and simplicity, all beauty and sweet heresy,
All tumult and ache—but in the style of endearing play—
Where to be defeated is to be supreme.
Love is a radiant image.

And the greatest taste of this love is found with the Satguru—only with one who has become love-full, love-drunken, love-suffused—who has become love itself.

In the world what you call love is broken and fragmented, distorted. It is buried under a thousand derangements, covered with a thousand filths, layered with a thousand kinds of dust, caught in a thousand obstacles.

The love by which you love in the world is a prisoner in a jail. The love you see in the Satguru is a bird of the open sky. If love happens with him, you too gather the courage to fly. That is the journey—the inner pilgrimage, the tirtha-yatra.

Come to the shelter of the Satguru...
Dhani Dharamdas says: I came to the refuge of the Satguru—
...then abandon Tamas.

If you would come to the Satguru’s refuge, only one thing needs to be dropped—Tamas: ego, the sense of “I,” asmita. That is the obstacle to love. Money is not the obstacle, position is not the obstacle; your wife or your husband is not the obstacle; your children are not the obstacle. The joke is: people leave wife and children, leave money and shop, leave the marketplace, leave society, sit on mountains—and what should have been left goes along within. Ego goes along.

Have you noticed how dense the ego is in your so-called mahatmas—more grossly displayed than in ordinary folk! This too is natural. Since everything else has been dropped, in others ego was covered by other things; in the mahatma it becomes pure—pure poison! No money, no position, no wife, no children—those things gone; all impediments removed from above the ego. Now the ego remains—neat. Hence in the renouncer the ego grows profound. And on the very first step of Bhakti it must be seen and left.

Come to the shelter of the Satguru, then abandon Tamas.

“I am” is itself the mistake. Yesterday you were not; tomorrow you will not be again—between the two, for a little while this bubble of ‘I’ has arisen, and you trust it so much! Yesterday you were dust; tomorrow you will be dust again. This little wave that has arisen, do not make such a noise about it.

Life is giving me melody,
Dawn and wonder are being given me;
And from very far in the skies,
Death is calling out to me.

Hear the footfall of death at every step of life—they walk together. In every moment of life death is hidden. If you look at death rightly, ego will have no way to form. Ego forms through the illusion that I shall remain forever; through the illusion that, as if, I have always been.

Something within you has always been—but of that you know nothing. And what you take to be your being has not always been. This body was formed only some years ago—and it too has been changing daily, not still; a flowing stream. And this mind is not still; it too changes moment by moment.

When you were a child, what continuity remains between that body and today’s body? Between yesterday’s mind and today’s mind, what link remains? Tomorrow will bring its own mind, its own body. This changing stream you have mistaken for your existence? Because of this mistake, you cannot see that which was before birth and will be after death. You get entangled in the bubble and do not search for the ocean beneath.

Look closely into this ‘I’; dig a little. You will find nothing there to hold on to. Where am “I”? And when thus you see, only then do you bow at the Satguru’s feet. To bow means: the I-sense is no more.

What is the meaning of Satguru?—one in whom the I-sense has disappeared.

Remember: the Satguru, too, must use the word ‘I’—language compels it. Even Krishna says to Arjuna: Mamekam sharanam vraja—Come to my refuge! Abandon all dharmas, and come to me.

When one reads it, a doubt arises: what a tremendous ego Krishna seems to have—‘come to my refuge’! Krishna must still use ‘I’—the necessity of language. Otherwise there is no ‘I’ in Krishna. And the wonder is: when Krishna said, “Mamekam sharanam vraja,” there was no ego there. And when you say, “I am but the dust of your feet,” there the ego is enormous. When you say, “I am nothing,” there too the ego hides.

So the question is not whether you will use the word ‘I’—the question is whether you will allow the ‘I’ to be formed within. See the ‘I’ inside—nonexistent, without essence, a bringer of needless anxieties and disturbances; it fills life with quarrel and hell. The one who sees this we call: Satguru. And if you bow down to him, what he has seen will descend into you; sit by him and what has happened to him will begin to happen to you. Your color will change, your way will change. His aura will awaken yours. His call will be heard in you.

I saw in your lane such sights of paradise
That paradise held no sight like your lane.

In whose lane, in whose presence, in whose proximity you behold the first glimpse of heaven—even for a moment, even for the lifting of a veil—that one is the Satguru. When such an event happens, bow there. Then do not worry whether he is Hindu, Muslim, Jain, Christian—do not worry. Do not miss that moment. The essential thing is the art of bowing; whom you bow to is less important than that you bow.

History has events where someone bowed before a person who himself had not yet found; yet the disciple found—because his bowing was total. And it has happened that great Satgurus were surrounded by people who remained filled with their egos—Buddha’s, Christ’s, Nanak’s, Kabir’s companions—many sat there and never bowed, and attained nothing.

It has even happened that one bowed before trees and attained; one bowed before stones and attained—while someone sat near a Buddha, did not bow, and attained not. So remember: the essence is bowing. The Guru is but a pretext; through him, bow. Through him, bowing becomes easy. Take any excuse to bow, but do not miss bowing. That is the work of the wise. Wherever you find a pretext to bow—bow. And if you seek pretexts to bow, there are infinite. Before a beautiful woman, bow—for beauty is His beauty. Seeing a giggling child, bow—for all laughter is His. Seeing a blooming flower, bow—for whenever anything blooms, He alone blooms; there is none besides Him. Bow before the sun—for all light is His.

That is why in this land the sun became a deity, the moon became a deity, the clouds had their deities. When lightning flashed, there too was a deity. There is a great secret behind it: we left no occasion for bowing unused. Lightning flashed in the sky—we did not leave that pretext either; we knelt upon the earth; we entered into prayer. The materialist says: what madness is this—lightning is lightning, why bow before it?

I was a guest in a village home. Now electricity has reached that village. The light was switched on—house-current. The villager himself switched it on and then bowed his head in namaskar. A friend with me—a highly educated doctor—said: what foolishness is this! Now power is in our hands. It is no longer Indra’s bow. Now it is brought by our engineers. You yourself pressed the button and lit it—what are you bowing to?

The villager fell silent; he had no answer. But I said to the doctor: he may have no answer, but his act carries a secret—yours does not. Your argument sounds logical. The question is not where electricity came from. The whole question is: if a pretext to bow appears, do not miss it. The more of life you spend bowing, the more auspicious; prayer is born. And the more you bow, the more Paramatma peeks into you—He peeks only into the bowed!

Come to the shelter of the Satguru, then abandon Tamas.

But the Satguru cannot be an inheritance. Only if you have tasted love... If you were born in a Hindu house, and you go to a Hindu guru because the Shankaracharya of Puri is in the village—you will bow, but formally. You bow as a Hindu, not as a person; not as a conscious soul, but as a Hindu. You bow because your father bowed, and his father did. You bow because from childhood you were taught to bow.

When I was small, my father had the habit: whenever anyone elder came home, he would call us children—bow, touch his feet. I said: I touch the feet, but I do not bow. He said: what do you mean? I said: none can make me bow. This is sheer compulsion—any Tom, Dick, or Harry comes and we are summoned—bow! Then I did not understand his intent; now I do: it was also a device—to teach bowing. But the heart could not be there; no love welled up within, no reverence was born. The body bows.

Let the Shankaracharya come of Puri; you are Hindu—you will bow. Let a mullah come; you are Muslim—you will bow. But does your heart bow? If the heart does not bow, the ritual will do nothing. And there is a danger: you may get entangled in the ritual and miss the real bowing altogether.

I do bow my head to Your command—but
Who will persuade my heart to be pleased and consent?

Where your heart becomes pleased and consenting; where suddenly you find a deep urge to bow—do not obstruct it. Bow causelessly, without pretext. In that bowing the first revolution happens—Tamas falls away.

If someone abuses you—calls you low or high—then, says Dharamdas: do not engage. For you are not! Who is there to be called high or low?

Mark this: “calls you high or low”... we have such words that bear pondering. Someone abuses and we say: he said high-and-low. Low is understandable—but why “high”? The truth is: when someone praises, it too is as empty as when someone abuses. So the full meaning is: whether praise or blame, high or low—remain untouched.

What is the proof you have bowed to the Satguru? This is the proof:
If someone praises or blames—do not get drawn in.
Do not get into arguments. If someone praises you, do not swell with delight; if someone abuses, do not fill with anger or sadness. If there is no ego, what praise, what blame? When you are not, whatever is said about you is pointless. When you are not, all letters that arrive in your name are useless. You are nameless, addressless; so the flattery that arrives, or the insult—all are futile.

If you answer, quarrel answers quarrel...
Then know that you are being pulled into a tug-of-war.
If anger arises in the heart—know the baseness.

Why have all the religions warned against anger? Because anger symbolizes ego. Ego is inside; anger comes out. Without ego, anger cannot be. Anger is the stench of ego. Where ego rots within, the stink of anger comes without.

Be alert. If you have sat at the Guru’s feet, now learn a little gravity, a little grace. These petty waves come and go.

All desires will pass, little by little—
Some as an aching sigh, some as life’s very breath.

Nothing remains here; all is lost. Where all is destined to vanish, what point in quarrel? Where nothing of ‘mine’ will endure—neither name nor trace—where dust is our fate—what to quarrel for?

I could still shake the sky with my laments today—
If I am silent, there is a reason for it.

He who is with the Guru becomes silent. It is not that he has died—
I could still shake the sky with my laments today—
If I am silent, there is a reason.

The reason is simply this: now it is all seen as futile.

Children quarrel over toys; you do not. Children make sand-houses on the riverbank and fight; you do not. And in the evening—you have seen it—those very children who fought all day over those little houses—when the mother calls: come home, it is time to eat—they trample their own palaces, grind them into dust, and run home. Even they have become mature by evening. They fought the whole day for those sand-castles.

Our palaces too are sand! Make them of rock if you wish; rocks too are sand. The rocks of today will be sand tomorrow; and the sand of today was rock yesterday. Nothing remains, all flows away. When this is seen, a silence arises within. Someone abuses—you smile, you are amazed.

Rosary in his hand, scissors in his armpit.

Such a man, still full of anger and ego, has fallen into deep hypocrisy. Better had he not gone to satsang; better had he not come to the temple; better had he not taken the rosary in his hand. He could not purify the rosary; he polluted it.

Rosary in his hand, a knife under his arm—
Ram on the lips, a dagger at the side! Ram is only a pretext; he is looking for a chance to strike.

Be careful. These words are not for someone else; they are for every person—especially for you who come to satsang.

He does not see the fire; it smolders under ash.

Sometimes, outwardly, one does not even show anger—he plasters it over—yet inside the fire burns. Others may be deceived; how will you deceive yourself? The ember within—you will know. Thus every seeker must live in inner self-inspection; keep seeing whether you are inside as you appear outside. If the outer and the inner are not one, you are a hypocrite. You may succeed in deceiving the world; what is gained? You cannot deceive Paramatma—He will know you as you know yourself, for He sits in you, deeper than yourself. Perhaps many things not visible to you are visible to Him.

People make changes on the surface; inside they remain the same.

Why should my heart be hopeless?—
Even a withered flower still holds fragrance.

Even in a withered flower some perfume remains. Even those wearied by life are not free of life; its scent remains. Recognize that scent rightly.

It is easy to become a sadhu in the world; to become a saint is difficult. The difference: the sadhu is outward—he becomes good for others to see. But has he become good within? You may refrain from murder outwardly and dream of it inwardly. Often those who do not murder without are full of murderous dreams within. Those who murder outside perhaps do not dream; what need to dream when it is done?

I spent much time in prisons; bonds formed with inmates. I was astonished to see a simplicity in the eyes of prisoners—murderers, thieves, lifers—not seen in the so-called respectable. A kind of innocence. I asked them often: tell me your dreams. Many said: we do not dream. Some said: seldom.
“What kind?”
I was astonished: criminals often dream they have become sadhus; that they no longer commit crimes. And sadhus often dream of the crimes they did not commit—the thefts they could not do, the pleasures they did not take by day, they take at night. Your dream reports what you did not do, for the dream is compensatory. Fast by day, feast by night in dream. See the neighbor’s wife by day and restrain yourself—“I am a sadhu, such a thought should not arise”—and at night you run away with her. In the morning you laugh—but what happened at night was not meaningless. In dreams you become emperor; you conquer; your fame spreads; you live in palaces of gold.

Beggars often dream of being emperors. What is not, is dreamed—for the dream is a kind of substitute, a consolation.

Sadhu is one who has become good outside. Saint is one who has become good inside too; whose goodness is equal within and without; whose inner balance has come to rest; in whom even in dreams no evil remains.

He does not see the fire; it smolders under ash.
Amrit is near—but the widow has no taste for it.

Understand “widow.” All who are not wedded to Paramatma are widows. They have not yet found the Beloved. Kabir said: I am the Bride of Ram. Our marriage is done—we are Ram’s brides!

Until Ram is enthroned in your heart, you are a widow—unblessed. And this spiritual widowhood is even more unblessed. It has continued through births—never meeting the Beloved.

Amrit is near—
And the wonder is: the Beloved is so close, closer than yourself. Ask and it will be given. Knock and the doors will open.

Remember Jesus: Knock—and it shall be opened. Ask—and it shall be given. Seek—and you shall find. Only knock.

The Sufi mystic Rabia went a step beyond Jesus. The fakir Hassan prayed daily: “I have been beating at Your door—open! Let me come in! I have pounded my head at Your threshold; see my forehead—marks upon the stone! Open!” He wept and cried. One morning, Rabia stood behind him and said: Hassan, listen—the door is open. Do not bang your head for nothing. If you wish to enter, go in; if not, then don’t—but the door is open. When was it closed?

Rabia—a wondrous woman, of the order of Buddha and Mahavira, Krishna and Christ—was courageous. Hassan broke into sweat when Rabia said: you are beating your head only to avoid going in; the door is open.

Jesus said: knock and it will open. Rabia said: no need to knock—look carefully, the door is open.

Amrit is near—but the widow has no taste for it.
The Beloved is so near; but we are so unfortunate—we do not relish it. We ask: where is Paramatma? We should ask: where is He not? We think He must be in heaven. You have exiled Him from the earth. You do not want Him near, so you placed Him in far heaven—so far that even your spacecraft cannot reach. We have always enjoyed keeping God far. When man could not reach the Himalayas, we seated Him on Kailash. When man reached Kailash, trouble arose—we moved Him to the moon. Now man has reached the moon—we push Him further. We place Him only where we are not; for being near Him is dangerous: your drop must fall into that ocean and vanish.

Amrit is near—but the widow has no taste for it.
A dog’s nature is this: he clings to his own bone.

Our condition has become like a dog’s. Have you seen him sucking a dry bone with no juice in it? A dry bone drives the dog mad; let one dog get a bone and the whole neighborhood’s dogs are ready to fight. Great politics erupts; parties arise. What taste is there in a dry bone? None. Then what happens? A strange event: as the dog gnaws, his gums, tongue, and palate crack from the bone’s sharpness; blood begins to flow. He sucks his own blood and imagines it comes from the bone. His logic seems right—what more can he know? The blood flows down his throat—proof enough that the bone gives it.

Look closely and you will see: what you call happiness in life is just this. From the bone only your own blood flows down. The bone gives nothing—only wounds. But you think great taste is coming. And the bone that gives such taste—how will you let it go? Try to take it away and he is ready to kill and die. Man is in the same plight.

You think happiness comes from money? Then you share the dog’s mistake. Money does not bring joy—but it seems to. Something must be happening: it seems to flow down the throat; the rich look pleased, jaunty; there is spring in their step. See—coins in the pocket keep one warm; even in winter there is heat!

I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin and his son were running through a forest; a lion chased them. They leapt a stream; the son fell in mid-course, but the old Mulla landed across. Later, the son asked: I am young, I leapt with all my might—why did I fall while you crossed? Mulla jingled his pocket—coins clinked. “Wherever I go, I keep money in my pocket; it keeps me warm. Because of these coins I made the jump. Had I no coins, I too would have fallen.”

You see: with money your gait changes; a proud tilt appears; you walk on earth but your feet don’t quite touch it. Without money you shrink; the stride loses life. When in power, you start to fly.

Psychologists say: politicians stay healthy while in office; soon after leaving, sickness begins. As long as they keep winning, they live long; loss brings death nearer. Had China not attacked, Nehru might have lived longer—the blow uprooted prestige; the mind wavered.

A politician in office feels strength; some sap seems to flow. From where? Money gives weight; without it all collapses. Step down and you are like clothes that have lost their starch, like shoes long worn—shabby.

Seeing this, one thinks: surely some nectar flows from wealth and power, otherwise why this madness? From where does it flow? Psychology—and dharma has probed deeper than modern psychology, which is on the way—finds: the taste that comes with wealth does not come from wealth. If it did, it would come to Buddha and Mahavira too. From what then? From ego. Ego feels strengthened—I am something. On the throne you feel: I am something. The joke: ego wounds your soul, fills you with pus; it creates hell. Yet ego is what seems to give taste.

The bone the dog sucks wounds his mouth; but he does not notice. He will see later—if then he can even connect it to the bone. The bone seemed to give juice. Power seems to give joy—actually it feeds ego. Wealth seems to give taste—actually it feeds ego.

Today or tomorrow, that same ego will create hell—anger is born from it, greed from it, envy and jealousy from it. Life becomes struggle. The spread of all hell is from this wound of ego; the pus grows and grows.

The dog surely gets taste—but it is the taste of his own blood, gained by injury, in sheer foolishness. Man does the same.

Amrit is near—but the widow has no taste for it.
A dog’s nature—he clings to his own bone.

What is the use of spinning words if you have no acquaintance with the Beloved?

Says Dhani Dharamdas: Words will not do if there is no meeting with Paramatma. Doctrines, scriptures, philosophies, grand verbosity, great scholarship—
Words will not do.
Your God too is your babble. Your prayer too is babble. You have no experience.

There is no acquaintance with the Beloved.

Searching in books—how will acquaintance happen? Catching words—how will it happen? Your knowledge is borrowed—rubbish. Only self-experience is Truth; otherwise, all is untrue.

With inner foundations awry—what can be built upon the living?

Whatever you do will be wasted, for within the fundamental delusion still stands—
Inner skewness—
Ego still stands. The root remains while you keep cutting leaves; new leaves will sprout.

Hence the wise say: before you do anything else, do this one basic thing—cut the root of ego. That is the meaning of coming to the Satguru’s refuge. Cut the root; do not keep pruning leaves.

People come to me—rarely does anyone say: how shall I be free of ego? They say: much anger—how to be free? Much greed—how to be free? Much attachment—how to be free? These are leaves. Cut them and new ones sprout. In truth, prune one leaf—three appear; that is why we prune to thicken a tree. No one asks about the root. Perhaps you want to cut leaves only so the root becomes stronger. Anger hurts your prestige—people say: he is irascible—your dignity suffers; you want them to say: he is non-angry, a sadhu, a saint. You are ready to give up anger if people call you mahatma; ready to give up greed, attachment—if they call you mahatma. This is the trick: you cut the leaves and compost them to feed the root; the root grows stronger, to send forth new leaves. The tree that did not flower may now flower; the tree that did not fruit may now fruit—in ego.

With inner foundations awry—what can be built?

Whatever you do—nothing will happen. Change the master-knot within.

Says Kabir, calling out—listen, Dharam, O treasure-house.

Dharamdas says: Kabir called to me.

Guru means: a call.

Says Kabir, calling—listen, Dharam, O storehouse.
He told Dharamdas: within you is the mine of all treasures. You are the reservoir—agar, agarā—of Paramatma. You are His dwelling, His temple. Where do you run? In what wealth, what position? What madness is this? Close your eyes and see! Close your eyes and see!

The world is seen with eyes open; Paramatma is seen with eyes closed. The world is far; you travel to reach it. Paramatma is near; to reach Him abandon all travel.

Says Kabir, calling—listen, Dharam, O storehouse.
Take many swans with you—cross the ocean of becoming.

He told Dharamdas: you have found, you have seen; you heard my call.

Once the call is heard, union happens in a moment—because we have never truly lost Paramatma. The fish has never lost the ocean; it has only forgotten. It is in the ocean and has forgotten. The day remembrance dawns—that very moment revolution happens.

Dharamdas heard—and the revolution happened. So in one line: “Says Kabir, calling—listen, Dharam, O storehouse.” In the next: “Take many swans with you—cross the bhav-sagara.”

When it became clear to me, he said: now do not sit idle; do not hoard this wealth. Take many swans with you—awaken others! As I called you, you call others. Let the call spread; let lamps be lit from lamp. Spread this light. With many swans, cross the ocean of becoming. Share what has been given.

If God has given you the nature’s pen,
Bring forth a speech from the silence of the tulip and the rose.
Let your gaze make the garden evergreen;
From each bud’s tongue bring forth a message.

If Paramatma grants treasure, spend everything in scattering it—
From the silence of tulip and rose bring forth utterance;
By your gaze let the gardens grow ever-fresh;
From every bud’s tongue bring a message.

O youth of the land! If your soul is young—rise!
If your eye is the witness to this new tumult—rise!
If you fear dishonor and worry for life—rise!
If you care for the honor of the world’s Beloved—rise!
Beat the kettledrum of the heavens—rise!
Awaken a sleeping world—rise!
Remove this calamity from man’s head;
Quench hell’s fire and make it heaven.

Whoever has a little strength—first go within, awaken! And upon awakening, awaken others. Buddha said: one who awakens and does not awaken others—his awakening is incomplete. If one is granted dhyana and not karuna—his meditation is incomplete. When the lamp of meditation is lit, the light of compassion spreads.

Had I remained asleep, O friends, my home was poison.
If I had slept on, it was a house of venom. I awoke—and it became Amrit. This is the only difference: awake—Amrit; asleep—poison. Poison becomes Amrit; this is the alchemy, the magic formula.

Had I remained asleep, O friends, my home was poison—
Satguru awakened me; I found the ocean of bliss.

Satguru called and I heard; a miracle happened. Where there was poison, Amrit arose; where there was death, supreme life; where there was darkness, light upon light. Matter vanished—Paramatma alone remained.

When I was in my mother’s womb, I kept my vow.

A lovely saying—hear it awake.

When I was in my mother’s womb, I kept my vow.

Dharamdas says: To be related to the Guru is to enter the womb again; to receive the mother’s womb anew—for the Guru gives a second birth. One birth from the mother—of the body. From the mother, all are born as shudra; in this world no one is born as brahmin. All are born shudra—sleepers. Yet all have the possibility of dying brahmin—knowers of Brahman. Few are fortunate enough to die brahmin.

Amrit is near—but the widow has no taste for it.
A dog’s nature—he clings to his own bone.

The treasure is right at hand. We all can die brahmin—brahma-jnani. Shudra is he who lives identified with the body; those you call shudras are not shudras; those you call brahmins are not brahmins. A brahmin is a Buddha, a Kabir, a Mohammed, a Zarathustra. Shudra is the whole world.

Shudra—one who sleeps.
Brahmin—one who is awake.

One birth comes from the mother—through it all are born shudra. The second birth comes from the Guru; only after that one becomes brahmin. Whoever passes through the Guru’s womb becomes a brahmin.

When I was in my mother’s womb, I kept my vow.

Says Dhani Dharamdas: When you join with the Guru, you enter the womb again; a new birth’s door opens. Now you will know your true nature. Now resurrection happens. Be very careful. For in the mother’s womb the child sleeps—since a shudra is to be born. He sleeps there twenty-four hours. After birth he sleeps twenty-three, then twenty-two, then eighteen, then settles at eight—eight hours with eyes closed, the other sixteen with eyes open—but the sleep continues.

Entering the Guru’s womb means—entering dhyana. Now live awake... “keep your vow.” Guard your resolve.

As long as life remains in the body—I will not forget you.

And as long as breath remains, forget not the Guru; forget not the message; forget not the call. Let remembrance remain bright.

Guru is birth—and death too. Keep the second thing in mind: the birth you got from the mother—of the body—that will die with the Guru. And then the new birth from the Guru. The new can be born only when the old dies. When you know: I am not the body—then you can know who you are. When you see: I am not matter—then you can see: I am Paramatma. Tat tvam asi, Shvetaketu—That thou art! But to know it, this identification with the body must end. That is death.

Where it is razed there the nest will be raised again;
The rose-garden laughs upon the leaping lightnings.

On one side your dwelling will be razed—burned. From that ash the new life will arise.

Thus the Guru will be hard too. He will strike—only then can he awaken you. Beware the Guru who offers only consolation—there no revolution will happen. He sings lullabies; your sleep will deepen. The Guru who wants to wake you will be harsh, will shake you.

At three in the morning the alarm rings—you grow angry; people throw their own clock. You yourself set it at night; in the morning it looks like an enemy. You yourself go to the Guru and pray: awaken me! When he does, the sleep of lifetimes will break—great pain will arise. Only if you remember your vow will you endure; otherwise you will run. One in millions reaches the Guru. Of those who reach, few remain; most run away.

An old Tibetan saying: a thousand are called—ten arrive; of the ten, nine run away; one remains. Blessed is he—he becomes a brahmin.

From a single drop the Master fashioned the temple;
A temple of many crafts—raised without foundation.

Two meanings. One: the “drop” is the seed-drop of virya; Paramatma has done a wonder—from a tiny seed... not even the whole drop, for within one drop are millions of living cells; a single cell suffices to make a body. An invisible speck becomes body and mind. A marvel.

From a single drop the Master fashioned the temple—
This temple of life arose from one little brick.
A temple raised without foundation—
Astonishing. Yet it is nothing beside the second marvel: from one subtle drop of dhyana the Guru builds another temple—the temple in which Paramatma dwells. One invisible drop slides from the Guru into the disciple who has bowed. Around that drop the temple begins to be built.

Therefore Shraddha is so praised. Only in a moment of Shraddha can the drop flow from Guru to disciple. If the disciple argues or doubts, he protects himself; the drop cannot enter.

As between woman and man there is intercourse in which life-energy passes from man to woman—so, on a far higher plane, between Guru and disciple a supreme communion occurs. Only if the disciple’s Shraddha is complete, bowing total, no doubt—only then. When it happens, the temple begins to form. When did the drop slip? No one knows; it is invisible. Only when the temple stands does one look back and know: surely the drop entered. When was the first brick laid?—unknown. The temple stands without foundation—a miracle.

From a single drop the Master fashioned the temple;
A temple of many crafts—raised without foundation.

A great astonishment.

Here there is no village, no resting-place,
No city, no township—
No road, no traveler, no friend of one’s own.

One enters a realm where there is no village and no place, no limits, no address; where no companion remains, no mine-or-thine. A domain beyond I-and-thou, beyond time and space.

Here there is no village, no resting-place,
No city, no township—
No road, no traveler, no friend of one’s own.

The world is like the silk-cotton tree—its floss flies apart.

Have you seen the semal’s cotton?—so is the world; blown away. We can barely build before it scatters. We keep building—and it scatters. All fall in mid-journey and end. And what do we build?—we tie clouds in our fists; we gather dew.

The world is like the silk-cotton tree—its floss flies apart.
Miss this incomparable, beautiful Bhakti—and you will regret.

Whoever entangles himself here will repent—vastly. For the opportunity was unique—this very chance where the lamp of love could be lit, the flame of love for Paramatma could arise—and we went on hoarding darkness. We tied bundles of darkness. We guarded darkness in our vaults.

Miss this incomparable, beautiful Bhakti—and you will regret.
An unfathomable, boundless river flows—how will you reach the far shore?

This boundless ocean of darkness, of death—how will you cross? Build the boat of love. All other boats will sink—wealth’s boat, position’s boat; only one boat never sinks—the boat of love.

Satguru sits upon my lips—whom should I call to now?

By love this has happened: the Satguru sits upon my lips. Says Dhani Dharamdas: Satguru abides upon my mouth; whom should I call? There is no need even to pray now. What more bhajan or kirtan? Now each breath is steeped in Him. He flows in the blood. He beats in the heart.

Satguru sits upon my lips—whom should I call to now?

Such a moment surely comes if the disciple bows and lets that invisible drop in. As the oyster receives a drop and it becomes a pearl—so when the disciple receives the Guru’s drop, a pearl is formed—the most precious pearl. Such treasure—immeasurable. Such sovereignty—eternal. Then what prayer? What worship? Satsang within is enough; when satsang begins within, outer is no longer needed. Wherever the disciple sits absorbed, there he is joined to the Guru.

Satguru sits upon my lips—whom should I call to now?
Sometimes I sing the virtues of Satnam, and the Sat does not waver.

Whether I sing or not, call or not—within, the Truth has settled and does not move. Still, sometimes in sheer joy I sing—the flood rises of itself; it cannot be stopped.

Satguru sits upon my lips—whom should I call to now?
Whether I am silent or speak, rise or sit, sleep or wake—
The Sat does not waver. When the Sat settles, the world stops; time stops. All disturbances come to rest. That stillness is moksha. Krishna called it sthiradhee, sthitaprajna.

Says Kabir to Dharamdas: you have attained the Immortal Home.

When the Guru sees that Truth has settled in the disciple, he declares it. The disciple does not need to announce; the Guru announces: you have found the deathless dwelling; you have come home. There is nowhere to go.

Then—share what you have received.

Says Kabir, calling—listen, Dharam, O storehouse.
Take many swans with you—cross the ocean of becoming.

When the eyes are drenched with His image, the tongue begins to babble; he does not notice place or propriety. One moment here, the next moment there—these eyes, brimming with His image, are now eager to scatter everywhere; this heart, fragrant with His perfume, longs to pour it out; this inner lamp, aflame with His light, longs to share its radiance.

Says Kabir, calling—listen, Dharam, O storehouse.
Take many swans with you—cross the ocean of becoming.

This I say to you too: if you taste the nectar, share it. If you receive the flame, do not be miserly. If something becomes visible to you, let others know. Do not worry whether they will accept or refuse; do not worry who is worthy or unworthy. Give from your ecstasy; in giving you will receive a thousandfold. Become a flood of delight.

Today, this much.