Kahe Hot Adheer #1

O Sun!
Wake this man a little!
O Wind!
Shake this man a little!
This man who lies asleep,
unaware of truth,
lost in dreams.
O Birds!
Cry into his ears!
O Sun!
Wake this man a little!
Wake him in time,
otherwise if he wakes out of time,
he will panic and run
to catch up with those
who have gone ahead.
Panicked running is one thing,
swiftness is another.
Swift is he
who is alert at the right moment.

Sun, wake him!
Wind, shake him!
Birds, cry into his ears!
The whole life of the saints is contained in these three: Sun, wake him! Saints are the sun for those who sleep. Wind, shake him! Saints are the wind to stir the sleeping, to awaken them. Birds, cry into his ears! Saints are birds of the beyond — living on earth yet not of earth. Their home is far away, and the remembrance of that home has dawned in them. To those sunk in forgetfulness they sing at the ear; they remind, they bring surati — remembrance — of the real home.
Here there is only a pause of two moments: like a traveler taking shade under a tree, weary from the sun. Then one must move on. Here is no home, here is only a caravanserai.
The entire message of the saints condenses into this small thing: the world is an inn. And for the one who understands this, no time is wasted adorning this inn, polishing it, quarreling, disputing, competing, burning with jealousy and envy. Then all energy spreads its wings for that infinite pilgrimage where the eternal home is.
May Paltu Das’s songs become wind upon your ears, sun upon your eyes, birdsong at your ears — in this hope we shall inquire into them. This is not a scholarly discussion — neither of Paltu’s poetry nor of his language. It is an inquiry into Paltu’s message which is that of all saints; only names differ. Be it Nanak or Kabir, Paltu or Raidas, Raidas or Tulsi — it makes no difference. Names alone differ. The songs are of the one sun. It is the one call of morning. All the birds undertake one and the same enterprise — to remind you, to bring you to remembrance. For you have forgotten who you are and have become what you are not. You have assumed to be that which you are not, and turned your back upon that which you are. In this forgetfulness is suffering. In this forgetfulness is hell. Turn back toward yourself!
He who has known himself has known Paramatma. He who sets out to know Paramatma without knowing himself will know neither Paramatma nor himself. Begin with the alphabet. And the alphabet is you. Within you the lamp must be lit. You yourself must become the lamp, you yourself the oil, you yourself the wick. Yes, the light descends from above, but this much preparation is needed — become a lamp, become oil, become a wick. Light will come — it has always come. The ray will descend. Your wick will catch fire. You will shine. It is your birthright capacity. But this preparation is needed. And the first step in that preparation is to remind you that the way you are, where you are, is not the truth.
Today’s sutras are to awaken that remembrance. They will pierce like arrows in the chest, because it pains to know that one’s life is being wasted. That is why fools never forgive the saints. The wise follow them; the foolish cannot forgive. The wise, hearing them, transform themselves; the foolish set about to destroy the saints — because it hurts. And to make of the hurt a ladder is a great art.
And what are the saints to do? However delicately they strike, however skillfully, a sting there will be. If you wake a sleeping man you must shake him; if you shake him his dreams will be jarred and shattered. And who knows — the dreams may be very beautiful! A palace of gold, perhaps! In the dream the man may be a great emperor! He will be angry with you — you have broken his dream. And in the dream whatever is happening appears utterly real. To the one awake it seems false; false it is. The awakened one knows the dreamer is raving — he is deranged, let me wake him. Compassion arises in him. But the one asleep, seeing a beautiful dream, takes the one who awakens him to be an enemy.
With saints you either become a friend or a foe. Blessed are those who become friends, for they will find their final home. Unfortunate are those who become enemies. The saints will lose nothing if you become their enemy. They have reached where nothing can be lost. Their wealth is eternal — it cannot be snatched, nor burned, nor erased. Not even death can take it; what will you take? If for them even death is no enemy, how will you be an enemy? But yes, in becoming their enemy you will become suicidal; you will chop your own feet.
Have you heard Kalidasa’s tale? A king was distressed. He wished to marry his daughter, but she was very learned. However beautiful a suitor he brought, she would ask such questions that they could not answer. She had sworn: until someone answers my questions I will not marry; I will wed only one superior to me. The father aged, the daughter’s youth passed, his worry grew. In anger he told his ministers: the scholars have failed; bring me a supreme fool. In search of a supreme fool they found Kalidasa, sitting on a branch, sawing off the very branch on which he sat! When the branch fell, not only the branch but Kalidasa too would fall to the ground! Could there be greater folly? They brought him.
Whether the story be true or not, I see every man in the same condition. You are sawing off the very branch upon which you sit.
Those who crucified Jesus — did they not sever the very branch on which they could have sat? From which, spreading their wings, they could have flown to the sky? Which could have become a path to Paramatma? They set fire to the very doorway — the doorway of the temple! Those who gave poison to Socrates must have been far greater fools. Those who hurled stones at Buddha and Mahavira, who persecuted Kabir and Paltu — who were they? What sort of people were they? People just like you. In this world there are only two kinds of people: those who bear the saint’s blow lovingly, with gratitude; and those who, smarting from it, fill with anger. He who fills with anger is Kalidasa — with his own hands he erases the supreme sign, breaks the milestone with the marks for the onward journey, burns the map which could have been the basis to reach Paramatma.
Receive these sutras with much love, much affection, much feeling. A sting there will be — it is inevitable. The saints do not wish to wound you; they speak from compassion. Yet there are truths which, when spoken, do wound — that cannot be avoided.
Puran Brahm rahai ghat mein, sath, tirath kanan khojan jaai.
Where are you going to seek Paramatma? At the sacred places? Kaba, Kashi, Kailash! Where will you seek? In forests, on mountains, in the Himalayas! You are foolish. For that which you set out to find sits hidden within you — hidden in the seeker himself!
And people are searching. They become wandering mendicants — from village to village, from one tirtha to another, circumambulating the Ganga, going to far, lofty peaks. As if, frightened of you, Paramatma has hidden in Himalayan caves! As if only in the forest can He be found! And if you cannot see Him here, how will you see Him there?
I have heard: the eye of a blind man was to be operated. He asked the surgeon, ‘After the operation will I be able to read and write?’ The doctor said, ‘Certainly. There is a film over your eye; it will be removed. You will surely read and write.’ The man exclaimed, ‘Lord, thank you so much!’ The doctor said, ‘No need to thank God for this; it is natural. When the film is cut, reading and writing will be easy.’ The blind man said, ‘But the thing is, I don’t know how to read and write. When my eyes were fine I could not read or write. So this is a miracle — you will cut the film and I will know how to read and write! What greater miracle could there be!’
If you do not know how to read and write, removing the film will not teach you.
You cannot see Paramatma here; in the forest the same eyes will be yours, you will be the same — exactly the same; not a hair’s difference. Circumstances may change, the mind-state will not. If you cannot see here, how will you see there? If you do not see Him in these trees, how will you see Him in the trees of the jungle? If you do not see Him among people, how will you see Him in stones and mountains?
But man is dishonest. He goes to tirthas not because there Paramatma is found, but because it is the last arrangement to avoid Him, the final cleverness: ‘We are searching, brother, what else can we do! We are laboring so much — if He is not found it must not be in our destiny; perhaps He does not exist; perhaps He does not wish to be found. But we, on our side, have staked everything — left home, left the door, set out in search.’ It is the last trick. Once you searched wealth, and that prevented you from finding Paramatma. Then you searched position, and that prevented you. Now you are searching Paramatma — and this will prevent you — because the mind that searches is driven by desire. And where desire is, prayer is not. As long as there is tension to attain, you will not attain. As long as you run, you will miss. Stop — and receive.
It will feel like a blow. Someone has become a renunciate, leaving home and hearth; one has become a muni, one a monk. Paltu’s words will sting —
Puran Brahm rahai ghat mein, sath, tirath kanan khojan jaai.
And you, dishonest one, go searching in tirthas, jungles, mountains! Turn your eyes within!
If there is any going, it is to go within. And to say ‘go within’ is only a way of speaking. Going within means only this — the going outward stops. There is no ‘place’ inside where you can lift the foot and take steps. You are already within — why go there? You have never moved an inch from there. Therefore when the going outward stops, a man arrives within. Going within means simply this — the rush outward has ceased, and you find yourself within, seated in the lap of the Supreme Beloved.
Nain diye Hari-dekhan ko, Palatu sab mein Prabhu det dikhai.
Eyes were given to see Hari. And those who used the eyes rightly saw Him not only within, but within all. But what do your eyes see? Stones and mountains, money and riches, jewels, people — everything but Paramatma! You have not used your eyes rightly. You have hooked them outward. You have made the eyes extrovert.
Close the eyes and see! With open eyes you have seen much; now close the eyes and see. Seeing with closed eyes is called meditation. And to whomsoever He appears with eyes closed — that is Samadhi. You will see again with open eyes — but first let Him be seen with closed eyes. He who has recognized Him within then recognizes Him in all. Only the first recognition is arduous; the rest is easy, effortless.
Nain diye Hari-dekhan ko, Palatu sab mein Prabhu det dikhai.
But the outer pilgrimage must be dropped; the inner pilgrimage must begin.

Write something before you sleep, read something before you sleep.
Wherever you woke at dawn, sleep beyond that place.
If you lie back as you rose, you fall again upon the same cot —
like a child in love with life’s toys.
Without understanding, without insight, keep on playing;
clutch one stubbornness and push your way through.
Wrong, useless — create something before you sleep, forge something before you sleep.
Wherever you woke at dawn, sleep beyond that place.
All day the scripture of tree, leaf and water;
of shuttered houses and outspread fields;
of wind and rain, of every dry and every moist;
that scripture that passed across your self and others all day —
plate your mind with its golden leaves before you sleep.
Wherever you woke at dawn, sleep beyond that place.
What the sun wrote with the pen of rays,
what the birds called out, taking His name,
what the wind sang, what the rain poured,
what appeared as script, wave-like on the river —
if that scripture has steps, climb them and sleep.
Wherever you woke at dawn, sleep beyond that place.

Do not make life a futile circle. People go round like the ox at the oil-press — waking there, sleeping there; what they did yesterday they will do tomorrow, they do today; if there is a tomorrow, and a day after, they will do the same — the same anger, the same greed, the same lust, the same attachment. When will you wake? When will you change? You are a man, not an ox at the press. Who tied the blindfold on your eyes? Who yoked you to the press? Who is it that is driving you?
The great joke! It is your own doing. You put the blindfold on your own eyes. With your own hands you lifted the press onto your shoulders. You have constructed this circular rut of life. If someone else had done it there would be hope that another day he would remove it, that compassion would arise in him. But it is your own mischief. Until you awaken and come to your senses, no one can snatch away this bondage. No one can erase your world. No one can destroy this dream. It must become your own conclusion.

What the sun writes each morning with the pen of rays —
Do you see what he inscribes in the sky at dawn? He writes the Vedas, the Upanishads, the Quran, the Bible, the Dhammapada. He writes the essence of all scriptures. He writes the meaning of light, the mystery of light. But who looks? Who lifts his eyes toward the sun? You are sunk in your books.
What the sun writes with the pen of rays —
what the birds call out taking His name —
Whom do the birds call at dawn? When the cuckoo coos, for whom? When the papiha cries ‘pi-kahan’ — for whom? When birds begin to sing in the morning, whose prayer is this? Whose remembrance? It is remembrance of that very Lord! The trees stand silent, absorbed in His meditation. The birds sing, absorbed in His remembrance. In the ocean’s waves is His rhythm. In the mountains’ silence is His emptiness. But you have no eyes — so the sun keeps writing, you do not read; the birds keep singing, you do not hear. Clouds thunder in the sky, waves arise in the sea — but you are stone-deaf. Trifles you hear very quickly; you are eager to hear what is useless.
A fakir was passing through a market with a young companion. On a nearby hill the church bells began to ring for evening prayer. The fakir said to the youth, ‘Do you hear? How sweet the tone! What lovely music! Did you hear the sound of the bells from the church on the hill?’ The youth said, ‘In this market’s clamor — what hill, what church, what bells! I hear nothing. There is such a noise here! Evening time — shopkeepers wrapping up, customers making last bargains, sellers keen to sell at whatever price before sunset. Carts being yoked, horses neighing, bulls lowing, people rushing home. What bells? In such a crowd and clamor I hear nothing.’
The fakir took a silver coin from his pocket — an old story — hard cash! He struck it on a stone by the road. The coin rang ‘khanan-khan’. At once a crowd gathered. A hundred, two hundred, ran up: ‘Someone dropped a coin!’ The fakir said to the youth, ‘Do you see? Horses neighing, carts prepared, last buying and selling, evening falling — yet two hundred people heard the chime of a coin! And the church bells resound, but no one hears!’
He whose mind is caught by money hears money. We hear where our mind is fixed. We hum where our desire is. We see what we long for. The road is the same, yet each passerby sees different things. The cobbler sitting by the path does not see your face — he sees your shoes. Faces mean nothing to him; his concern is shoes. People see where their craving is.
Therefore the sun writes the Upanishad each morning, yet you are deprived of those wondrous hymns written in light upon the sky’s emptiness. Each morning the Quran is recited — but you go to the mosque and recite it from a book. You repeat dead verses while the sun writes new verses every dawn — ever-new, living! The Divine has not been defeated. With Mohammed the ilham did not end. Each morning, with the sun, the Divine brings revelation; then He hums in the birds; calls from the papiha; blooms as flowers on the trees.
What the sun writes with the pen of rays,
what the birds call taking His name,
what the wind sang, what the rain poured —
Have you heard the songs the winds sing passing through the trees? Songs that could put Krishna’s flute to shame! And the fine-raining monsoon, the dance of drops upon your thatch — a dance before which Radha’s anklets fade! But how are you? Nothing is visible to you all around. The primal reason is: because within yourself you have not seen. If you have not yet seen the seer, what else will you see? First the recognition of the seer, then the recognition of the seen.
What appeared as script, wave-like, upon the river —
if that scripture has steps, climb them and sleep.
Wherever you woke at dawn, sleep beyond that place.
Let life be a growth — an uprisal, an ascent — not the circuit of the oil-press ox.

Keet patang rahe paripuran, kahun til ek na hot juda hai.
And Paltu says: do not fall into another illusion — that only in you is Paramatma. Otherwise ego is born. The Brahmin thinks, ‘Brahman is in the Brahmin — therefore I am Brahmin; in the Shudra He cannot be.’ Man thinks, ‘Paramatma is in man; in animals and birds He cannot be — they were made for our use, to eat!’ Ask the animals and birds what they think about man — you will be astonished! They think as you think. Only, you are a little cunning; you have set up arrangements and crushed them. But do not fall into the delusion that Paramatma is your patrimony.
Paltu says:
Even in insects and moths He abides perfectly.
You cannot find a place where even a sesame’s worth He is absent. There is nowhere to put a sesame where Paramatma is not. He is in stones, in earth, in sky. But this recognition will come only when first you find Him within. People do not go within.
Dhundhat andh granthan mein…
The blind search in scriptures.
Dhundhat andh granthan mein, likhi kagad mein kahun Ram luka hai.
O crazed ones, is Ram hidden somewhere in letters written by hand, in the ink spread by man upon paper?
Dhundhat andh granthan mein…
The blind are searching in books!
Therefore it is hard to find any more blind than pandits. A ‘mahapandit’ is a ‘maha-andha’ — utterly blind within and without. A mere pandit is blind without.
You search in paper! Remember Kabir:
Kabir says: ‘This is not a matter of writing — it is a matter of seeing.’
It cannot be written. Had it been writable, the matter would be easy. Then there would be no difference between science and religion. Science can be written; religion cannot. It is a matter of direct seeing. Nor will it happen by believing another. If I say ‘God is’, what will happen? It must be for you — your experience — only then something happens. A matter of direct seeing!
Man has a mountain of books — it is said if we lay all books end to end they would circle the earth seven times. Millions upon millions of books! And like termites people are searching in them. Perhaps termites at least find food there; the pandit does not even find that. And whatever your demand, there are authors to manufacture books that suit your taste, what pleases you — for the law of the market is: supply follows demand.
Yes sir, I sell songs,
I sell all kinds of songs,
all varieties of songs!
Please, see the goods, I will tell you the price;
not useless — I will tell you their use.
Some songs I wrote in ecstasy,
some I wrote in depression.
This song will cure a hard headache,
this song will summon your beloved near!
At first I felt shy about this,
but later I grew wise:
people have even sold their faith —
do not be too surprised, sir —
I too, thinking it over,
have begun to sell my songs.
Yes sir, I sell songs,
all kinds of songs,
all varieties of songs!
This one is for the morning — try singing it;
this one is astonishing — try overthrowing with it.
This song was written in a quiet place,
this one in Poona,
this song climbs a mountain,
this song grows if you force it.
This one drives away hunger and thirst,
this one wakes ghosts in the cremation ground.
This song is the breeze of Bhuwali, sir,
this song is a cure for TB, sir.
There are more — I will show them;
if you wish to hear, I will sing.
Choose metered or free verse;
choose immortal songs or those that die at once!
No, do not mind —
I will bring pen and ink now;
if you do not like these, I will write new ones,
if not new, I will rewrite the old!
I sell all kinds,
Yes sir, I sell songs,
I sell all kinds of songs,
all varieties of songs!
Shall I write of birth, shall I write of death?
Shall I write of victory, shall I write of surrender?
This one is silk, this khadi;
this is pitta’s song, this vata’s.
There are other designs — scholastic,
or this new popular movie hit.
This is a song for dying of thinking;
this, for walking from shop to home.
No joke —
I simply keep writing day and night;
so they become all kinds.
Yes, after a great heap has gathered, I clear it;
the customer’s wish — as you please.
Or go within and ask at home.
Of course, selling songs is pure sin —
but what to do — helpless,
tired, I sell songs!
Yes sir, I sell songs,
all varieties!

All kinds of songs are available. All kinds of scriptures are available. The shops are many — their names may be temples, mosques, gurudwaras, churches. They are in the name of religion, in the name of God, in the name of liberation — but whatever song you want, you will find. Yet these are not the songs of Paramatma; these are market songs, filmi songs.
The Divine’s song is sung by the Divine alone. Read it in the rising sun, hear it in the birds’ humming, see it in the dance of wind through trees. Or if you are fortunate and meet a Buddha, sit near him — in his silence, in his speaking, in his rising and sitting. Kabir has said: when I rise or sit, it is His worship; when I walk, it is His circumambulation; when I eat and drink, it is His offering.
If you find such a one — whose life is not his own, who owns nothing of his own, whose life is wholly offered to the Divine, from whom only His melody flows, who has given his life like a flute to His lips —
But all this becomes possible only when you learn the first alphabet: to see yourself with eyes closed. Do not delay, for time gone never returns. And there is no certainty of tomorrow.
Vriddh bhae tan khasaa, ab kab bhajan karhoge?
The young think: we will chant God’s name when we are old. The old are also not certain that departure is near; they too hope to live longer. People weave strange hopes — that in the last moment they will take His name once, and be liberated. If only it were so easy! If only it could be on credit! If only it were so cheap! If you hum all your life, then in the final moment your humming will reach Him. Do not postpone to tomorrow.
Vriddh bhae tan khasaa…
It takes no time — old age comes quickly. Days pass in a blink.
Balapan balak sang beeta…
Childhood passes playing with children. But the wonder is — children being children would be forgivable; here even old men are children! The same play; the dolls have only grown bigger. Small children play with little dolls, big children with big dolls. The toys of small children are small and cheap; those of big children are big and costly. But the story is the same, for the mind does not change. To become mature in this world is very difficult. To grow old is easy; to become ripe is hard. Most people only bleach their hair in the sun.
Balapan balak sang beeta, tarun bhe abhimaana.
And then new tricks are found. Childhood goes in play — that will pass. When young, great pride arises — great ambitions: let me be this, let me be that; let me have this, let me have that! Who does not want to be Alexander? Each brings an Alexander’s urge within. Say it or not, hide it from shame or modesty — within is the thought: I will do something and show them. And people around you urge: leave a name! Let some name remain, do something! Pride swallows youth.
Nakha-sikh seti bhai safedi…
Then, sooner or later, from toe to head all begins to wither, to turn white.
Hari ka maram na jaana.
Then you will regret. You will weep bitterly. Blood will drip as tears. For you did not know Hari’s secret and death has drawn near. And you were absorbed in a meaningless Ramleela. The little ones marry their dolls; you staged the Ramleela. Rama’s wedding procession moves:
Mangtu
for bidi money
has become Ram;
Prabhatu
for tea money, Sita.
Lakshman
under Parashuram’s wrath
steps across Matadin’s line.
Bharat
has no assurance
of fixing a pair of slippers.
Where is greater hardship?
Where is the longer exile?
In the Ramayana — or in life?
Where is the battle being fought?
Who is the enemy, who the Shatrughna?
Why does that one become Ram? For what? Why does that one become Sita? One arranges bidi money, one tea money; Bharat is unsure he can manage slippers. People touch their feet, worship them. Rama’s procession moves!
We go on playing these games — Jain games, Hindu games, Muslim games, all sorts of games. Some carry tazias, some deck Ganesh, some take Rama’s procession, some pour milk on Mahavira’s stone image to bathe him — and these rituals are performed with great seriousness. All life people hoard money — to go on Haj, to bathe once in the Ganga, to attend a Kumbh. And at those places, those you call sadhus — a crowd of riffraff.
Just now in Nasik — you read the news — there was knifing among sadhus! Heads broken. They’re in jail. Spears thrust! These are your sadhus! But you, like blind men, keep going. There are five million Hindu sadhus in India. Among them not even one appears a sadhu. All hollow show.
Be warned of all this. Do not waste time. Soon death will knock at the door — remember Paramatma before it does.

Last year he said,
‘Last year I was underage.’
This year too he says,
‘Last year I was underage.’
Underage every new year,
untaught every new year.
Of every dying one they say —
‘Came of age — and died.’
How much to come of age?
How much must one die?
One must die daily. One must die each moment. He who learns to die to the past, who does not look back, who does not hanker for the future, who lives purely in the present — he is of age. No one comes of age by years — eighteen, twenty-one — these are arbitrary. By what logic is a man of twenty-one adult and one of twenty not? One day short and not adult, one day over and adult! Slept in the night and awoke an adult!
Adult means mature. Maturity has no relation to age; it belongs to inner awakening, to awareness. And the art and alchemy of awareness is one — be free of the past. What is gone is gone; what has not come, has not come. What is now, this moment… imbibe it wholly. Dive wholly into this moment. Without past there is no memory; without future there is no desire. Where memory and desire are not, there is union with the Divine, there is prayer. Die to the past and die to the future — and in the present you will flame into life. To flare up thus is Buddhahood, Samadhi — as if someone lit a torch from both ends!
Tirimiri bahir nasika choovai, saans gare chadhi aayi.
It will not take long before the eyes tire from a little glare; you will not be able to see well. Soon the nose will run. Soon breath will climb and pant.
Sut daara gariyaavan laage, yeh budhwa mar jaayi.
Not long before those you thought your own will begin to say, ‘May we be rid of him now.’
I have heard: in one house an old father — too old — of no ‘use’, a burden. The son kept him in a dirty room behind the house, near the stable. Food and drink were sent there. Who would wash his utensils daily? They had wooden bowls made — no need to clean them. Then the old man died. As he died, the son saw his little boy cleaning those wooden bowls and carefully putting them in a trunk. ‘Why are you keeping them?’ he asked. ‘For your old age,’ the boy said. ‘I saw them used for great-grandfather. You too will be old; why make new ones? I’ll keep them safe. We will need them. That will be your room.’
Your relationships are economic, whatever we may say. Bonds of love happen rarely; very rarely. Kinships are false; not of love, but of utility.
Swabhav wrote me a letter yesterday. I had given Swabhav a task. My father was ill — in hospital five weeks. I entrusted Swabhav with his service. It was an opportunity for his growth. He used it fully, as much as could be used. Yesterday he wrote: ‘For the first time I experienced what a father is — what a father’s love feels like. For the first time I experienced the reverence and service of Shailendra and Amit. For the first time I experienced what depth of bond can be between husband and wife.’
I had placed him there precisely because in childhood he had not received his parents’ love; something was stuck. That stuck place melted. The last knot in Swabhav broke. He is like a new person born — a new birth.
But bonds of love are rare in this world. Here the ties are of utility, of money. One remains tied to the father only as long as money ties last, as long as something is received. As soon as the receiving ends, the ties loosen. But sometimes love descends on earth; such a glimpse happened to him. And the experience of love is the proof of God. Wherever a glimpse of love is found, there the proof of Paramatma is. For God, no other argument works — only love works.
Swabhav — fundamentally an atheist. When first he came to me, years ago, a pure atheist. His first question: ‘Can you give any proof that God is?’ I may have forgotten — he may have too — that he asked this. I gave him many proofs. This was the last. Now he cannot ask whether God is — because serving near my father he recognized love. He saw my father being lifted from darkness to light. He witnessed the arising of Buddhahood. This witnessing will be a ladder for him — necessary for his Buddhahood. I am happy he gave himself totally — a hundred percent; not even a grain short.
Wherever proof of love is found, there is proof of Paramatma. But proofs of love have withered in this world. The ties and relationships here are makeshift only.
Sut daara gariyaavan laage, yeh budhwa mar jaayi.
Tirath vrat ekau na keenha, nahin sadhu ki seva.
Now what tirtha or vow is Paltu speaking of? For at the start he said:
Puran Brahm rahai ghat mein, sath, tirath kanan khojan jaai…
In the first sutra he rejected the ordinary tirtha — Kashi, Kailash, Kaba. Now this second ‘tirtha’ is not that. This tirtha is: to be near one in whom Buddhahood has descended, where a lamp is lit.
I have heard: Bayazid set out on Haj. A fakir — a poor man — somehow gathered the money. The whole village escorted him to the edge — in those days, such a journey was perilous; one might not return — wild beasts, thieves, murderers — and even if you escaped them, then the pundits and priests! Hence the farewell was like a last goodbye. Just outside the village, under a tree, sat a great carefree fakir. Bayazid bowed.
The fakir asked, ‘Where are you going?’
‘To Haj.’
‘How much money do you have?’
‘Thirty dinars.’ In those days a great sum. ‘Give them to me!’ said the fakir. ‘I am Haj. I am Kaba. Give me the money!’
Such was his strength! Such his light! Such his aura! Bayazid, without hesitation, gave his life’s savings. ‘Go around me three times,’ said the fakir, ‘and go home. Kaba is done. You are a Haji.’
Bayazid circumambulated thrice, bowed, returned. The villagers asked, ‘So soon?’ He said, ‘What could I do? Kaba himself awaited me outside the village!’ A revolution happened in his life — by such a touch! Those three rounds — as if freed from all rounds!
Bayazid became supreme among Sufis. All religion he did was this — three rounds around a fakir. But how great must have been his reverence! When the fakir said ‘Give me the thirty dinars!’ he did not even pause. Had he hesitated, he would have missed. When he said, ‘I am Kaba — go around me,’ he did not question, ‘You and Kaba? You are a man; Kaba is stone!’ When he said, ‘Enough, three rounds, work complete,’ Bayazid went home. Such faith — if that does not bring revolution, what will? And later he helped many others — when anyone went on Haj he would say, ‘Where are you going? I am here — circle me!’
So when Paltu says, ‘Tirtha-vrata you did not do, nor served a sadhu,’ he means: you did not sit in the satsang of a Buddha; you did not bow at the feet of a lit lamp.
Teeniou pan dhokhe hi beete, nahin aise moorakh deva.
Childhood, youth and old age all passed in delusion. Has any divinity been found thus?
Pakari aai kaal ne choti, sir dhuni-dhuni pachhitaata.
Palatudas kou naahin sangi, Yam ke haath bikaata.
And now what? Now regret is useless when the birds have eaten the field.
Time has gripped your topknot — you beat your head and repent.
Now none is companion; death leads you away. Where are friends now? Where are the dear ones? All left behind.
If self-realization does not happen before death, life has been wasted.
I was concerned for my father — as I am concerned for you. Not because he was my father, but because whenever I find one asleep, I am concerned. Would it happen — before death — would he wake?
He was making effort — tireless effort. For the last ten years he rose at three in the morning — regularly. Ill or well — no difference. He would sit in meditation from three — sometimes till six, seven, eight — and not rise! My mother would be afraid: he is not moving for five hours; she would go and see whether breath moves or not. Sometimes he would miss the morning discourse here, because he sat from three till eight, nine. My mother would shake him back from meditation: the time of discourse has come. He complained to me: tell your mother not to pull me from meditation — it jars me badly; I have to descend from great depths.
He labored tirelessly.
I feared — his body was weakening; would that unprecedented event happen before death? The illness was difficult — clots of blood forming in the body; wherever a clot formed, blood-flow stopped. One clot formed in the brain — a part ceased to function; the hand connected with it became useless; the leg connected became useless. A clot formed in that leg. The surgeons advised cutting it off; else it would rot; the rot would spread; then saving him would be hard. I asked: you will cut the leg — but what chance of survival? Not that I desired he live long — of what worth is long life?
They said: the chance is only five percent; ninety-five percent he will die on the table. His body cannot endure chloroform; for such a big operation it must be given; the heart may stop.
I said: then wait. Do not think of the operation. I do not wish him to live long. My wish is something else. Let him, for ten or twenty days — however many remain — make his last effort to reach within.
I am immensely delighted that a few hours before death he completed the journey. On the eighth, by evening the body fell; but between three and five that morning — around four — his extinguished lamp lit. That evening I went to see him and returned at ease — not that he would live; that had little meaning — but joyous, for what had to happen had happened; he would not have to return again. He went knowing, he went recognizing, he went rejoicing. There will be no coming again. To be free of coming and going — that is the learning of this life. Successful is he who is freed from the wheel.
He did not go alone; Paramatma is with him. For him, death did not remain death; it became the door of the Divine; death became Samadhi. So I told my sannyasins: dance, sing, celebrate! And resolve that you too will go awakened, not asleep. He who dies awakened does not die, for he watches — the body is falling away.
He said to me: for the first time he called me — only to say, ‘What has happened!’ For what happened was unfamiliar and unknown. ‘What has happened! This morning I went so far from the body I felt there is no body. I am elsewhere; the body so far behind I cannot even sense it.’ There was pain in the body — many places ached — to feel no body was difficult — but when the witness is born, this is natural.
Depart in such a way that you go awake. Before death snatches the body, let your awakening be so dense that you yourself stand apart from it.
He sent word to me at two: ‘Come — perhaps this is my last day.’ In meditation it must have become clear — in Samadhi visible — that it is impossible to remain in this body; bonds have broken.
At three he sent word again: ‘Do not come unnecessarily; there is no need for anyone to come.’
I was happier still. You will be surprised — why? Because his last attachment to me also snapped. Even that thin thread could have been a hindrance. His attachment was immeasurable — inexpressible — where has it happened that a father becomes the disciple of his son? Such was his attachment — so complete!
I went, for it was an unprecedented event; I too felt the hour of departure was near — and now his message: no need to come, why suffer — I am perfectly fine — it was only to inform me that the last tie, that last thin thread of attachment, had ended. I saw and returned pleased — he was in a totally different state. Not the man who had gone to hospital four, five weeks earlier.
Often it happens: if the body is very weak it cannot bear the event of Samadhi. Samadhi is a great event — as if the ocean descends into a drop; as if the sun descends into a little lamp! The event is so vast, and his body so worn, it could not contain it. The bliss was so great he could not hold it.
Swabhav is anxious — ‘Did we err?’ Just before he passed, Swabhav may have given him something to drink. His heart burns — perhaps I erred in giving it; should I have given it or not?
No, Swabhav — let there be no worry. Whether you gave or did not give made no difference. What happened in the morning was so vast that such a frail body could not bear it. The cage had become too small; the bird too big. The bird had to fly, to leave the cage. The egg breaks when the bird grows. When the child matures in the mother’s womb, he comes out. This was not death — this was the beginning of great life. So, Swabhav, take no hurt — there was no mistake.

Paati aai more peetam ki, saai turat bulayo ho.
Ik andhiyaari kothari, dooje diya na baati.
Paltu says: do not die in such a way that the Beloved’s letter arrives, His sudden call comes — and your house is a dark cell, with neither lamp nor wick; no meditation, no Samadhi — and the Beloved’s summons!
Baah pakari Jam le chale, koi sang na saathi.
He who is a witness the messengers of death need not drag away. The witness has his own wings; he flies on his own. He who is not a witness clings to the body; he is dragged away. He is torn from it by force. The witness stands ready. Before death comes, he has already spread his wings. Beware — lest you have to say —
Ik andhiyaari kothari, dooje diya na baati.
Saawan ki andhiyaariya, Bhaadon nij raati.
The dark monsoon night!
Chaumukh pavan jhkorahi, dharakai mori chaati.
And I tremble. I fear this endless journey — on a dark monsoon night! No lamp, no wick. No understanding, no awareness. Where am I going? What journey is this? All dear ones left behind, no one my own.
Chaumukh pavan jhkorahi, dharakai mori chaati.
The winds rage on all sides — my heart shakes!
Chalna tau hamein jaroor hai, rehna yah naahin.
We knew this much — we must go; here we cannot remain.
Chalna tau hamein jaroor hai, rehna yah naahin.
Kaa laike milab Huzoor se, ganthi kuchh naahin.
But today there is pain — I must stand before the Lord, and I have nothing to offer. Nothing in my knot. No lamp, no wick. Empty-handed before Him! Not even a single lotus of awareness to place at His feet — that what You sent me into life to learn, that I have brought.
Kaa laike milab Huzoor se, ganthi kuchh naahin.
Palatudas jag aike, nainan bhari roya.
Jeevan janam ganvaay ke, aapai se khoya.
Now there is only weeping — eyes brimming. Life wasted, birth wasted. And lost from oneself! The pain is more acute: none stole it, none robbed it — I lost it myself.
Kai din ka tora jiyana re, nar chetu ganwaar!
Fools, wake up! How many days do you have to live?
Kaachi maati ke ghaila ho, footat naahin der.
You are a pot of raw clay — it will not take long to break. Only he is fired who has ignited the fire of Samadhi within.
Kaachi maati ke ghaila ho, footat naahin der.
A little water — and you dissolve into pieces.
Paani beech batasaa ho, laagai ghalat na der.
Drop a sugar-sweet into water — in a moment: here it is, here it is — gone! Coming and going take no time.
Dhooa ko dhaurehar ho, baaru ke bheet.
Like a fair white cloud of smoke — or a wall made of sand.
Pavan lage jhari jaibhe ho, trin upar seet.
Like dew on a blade of grass — a small gust and it slips away. Dear metaphors! Simple, clear!
Jas kagad ke kalai ho, paaka phal daar.
Like a paper gilded to look like gold or silver — but paper is paper. Like sitting in a paper boat to cross the ocean. Or like a ripe fruit on the bough — now it is, now it drops.
Sapne ke sukh-sampatti ho, aiso sansar.
This entire world is dreamlike — ties and kinships, wealth and prosperity, fame and respect — all dream. Death comes — all breaks.
Understand the definition of dream and of truth. The sages called dream that which is now and now is not — that which exists for a moment. Truth is that which is eternal — which is now, was before, will be after. That which was before your birth and will remain after your death — recognize that, and you relate with truth. That which arises at birth and vanishes at death — you recognized a sugar-sweet; you made a paper boat; you believed the dewdrop shining in the morning sun would last forever — a butterfly flaps, a leaf trembles — the drop slides.
Ghane baans ka pinjara ho, tehi bich das ho dwar.
Like a thick bamboo cage — such is this body. That is why in our land we carry the bier on bamboo — a sign: above bamboo, below bamboo — what is there in bones, flesh, marrow? When the bird of life flies, there is only bamboo!
Ghane baans ka pinjara ho, tehi bich das ho dwar.
Ten doors — the senses — and a bamboo cage. Such is this body.
Panchhi pavan baseru ho, лаavai udrat na baar.
The bird within is the bird of breath, of wind; who knows at which moment it will fly — it takes no time.
Aatasbaaji yeh tan ho, hathe Kaal ke aag.
This body is fireworks in the hand of Time.
A Zen master died. Before dying he told his disciples: promise me one thing — when I die do not remove my clothes; carry me to the pyre as I am. The custom was to bathe the body, change clothes. He said: do not bother — I am already bathed in God, so do not worry about bathing; clothes will turn to ash anyway. After the bird has flown, whom will you bathe? Promise me you will put me on the pyre as I am. They promised, weeping. When they did, they learned the master’s secret: under his clothes he had hidden sparklers and firecrackers. As soon as the pyre was lit, fireworks burst! He was saying all his life: this body is nothing — mere fireworks. He said it even in the end, by dying — and after death. Dying, he repeated his message, leaving his last imprint.
Aatasbaaji yeh tan ho, hathe Kaal ke aag.
Palatudas udi jaivahu ho, jab deihi daag.
Fly you must — this body will be lit. Why not fly before? Why not spread your wings before? Why not recognize the bird before? Why sit identified with this cage? Break the identification. Drop the tie. Live in the body — but know you are not the body. Live in the mind — but recognize you are not the mind. The day you know ‘I am neither body nor mind’, that very day you will know who you are. If someone asks now, ‘Who are you?’ what will you say? You give a name — Ram, Hari. Are you the name? Did you come with a name? You came nameless — and will go nameless. If someone presses you, it becomes difficult:
I have the task
of speaking simple speech.
Speaking simple speech
is very difficult —
as when someone asks,
‘Speak exactly —
what is your name?’
And if one, without fear,
can speak it —
it is a marvel.
If someone grabs your neck and says, ‘Speak exactly — what is your name?’ You go on telling this and that. He says, ‘Speak exactly — what is your name?’
And if one, without fear,
can speak it —
it is a marvel.
You will be afraid; you will hesitate — for none of the names is yours. And you have no recognition of yourself; what others have labeled you — ‘Hindu, Brahmin, Muslim; Abdullah, Ram, Emerson; this caste, that lineage, this family, this country’ — all instruction from outside. When will you have your own seeing?
Do not postpone! This very moment it can be — now it can be. Learn the art of ‘neti, neti’. Not this mind — neti. Not this body — neti. Not this, not that. Then who am I? Then the question will whirl like a cyclone — ‘Who am I?’ Keep denying each answer the mind gives — ‘This I am not.’ Then at last only the witness remains — clear like a mirror, witnessing — in which all reflects, but whatever reflects, the mirror is not that. The mirror reflects all; yet it is none of the reflections. Such is your witnessing.
And the witness is the bird within you. Recognize it, and then even while living in the body, in the world, you are outside the world. In the body yet beyond the body. Then in your life there will be a light, a celebration — for you will taste the nectar. Then where fear? Where sorrow? Where pain? Where torment?
He who has known himself has known all. He who has missed himself has missed all. He who has known himself has known Paramatma. For going deeper and deeper into self, you will experience the Divine. And once He appears within, then everywhere is His expanse. Not even a sesame’s worth is empty of Him.
Enough for today.