Kahe Hot Adheer #17

Someone is a dagger, another a naked sword.
One is a soft rustle, another a tempest wind.
Where is the human being? In what corner is he lost?
Here one is Hindu, another Muslim.
When the brow of the vistas glimmers,
certainty of the Creator’s being becomes firm.
Whenever I look at the ruin of man,
my heart begins to ask, Is there God, or not?
If you must live, then die in love with living—
fill the mud-pit of existence by becoming naught, again and again.
If the pain of the new human is alive in your heart,
create what is higher than yourself.
He greatly fears serving the created;
for his own self he dies all eight watches of the day.
Alas, O rigid stone of a man,
you never transgress yourself.
Look at man—as he is, as man has become today—and indeed, trust does not arise that even God could be.
Looking at trees perhaps hope stirs; looking at birds perhaps your own wings flutter; peering into the eyes of animals perhaps a faint gleam of the Divine falls upon you. But man! Man has gone so far; man has turned his back upon God.
Someone is a dagger, another a naked sword.
One is a soft rustle, another a tempest wind.
Where is the human being? In what corner is he lost?
Here one is Hindu, another Muslim.
You will find a Muslim, you will find a Hindu, a Christian, a Jain, a Buddhist; but a man—a man is very hard to find. And one who is truly a man cannot be a Hindu, cannot be a Muslim. Humanity cannot be bound within such small borders. How will you shut the sky inside courtyards? How will you shackle truth in chains of words? How will you manufacture scriptures for the ineffable? How will you understand the heart with the intellect? How will you explain?
All scriptures fall short. All temples and mosques are too small. God is so vast—only a sky-like heart can contain that vastness. And such sky-like hearts can be born; this is our possibility, the seed is within us.
When the brow of the vistas glimmers,
certainty of the Creator’s being becomes firm.
Whenever I look at the ruin of man,
my heart begins to ask, Is there God, or not?
If today doubt has arisen about God, the reason is not that God is not; the reason is that man offers no evidence of God. Looking at man, hope for God’s existence does not arise. Looking at man, whatever hope might have been, is extinguished; if some lamp flickers within, it goes out, and a night of new moon descends.
If you must live, then die in love with living.
There is only one art of being human, and that is love—love for life—so much so that even if one must die for that love, one dies laughing, dies singing, dies dancing.
If you must live, then die in love with living—
and this is also the art of living. It will seem upside-down: the art of living is to die for love of life. The one who clutches at life, loses it. The one who is ready even to renounce life for life—upon him the Vast descends.
If you must live, then die in love with living.
Fill the mud-pit of existence by becoming naught, again and again.
What is your life right now? A mud-pit of existence! A pit, a hollow, an emptiness, a void—where no flowers bloom, no birdsong echoes, no stars glimmer. What is within you now? Only a sadness, a boredom! Somehow you drag your life along—that is another matter. Merely breathing is not living. Until life becomes a dance, a rapture, a festival, a celebration; until life becomes a garland of flowers; until life becomes a Diwali of stars—you have not known life at all. Understand: you have not yet understood life; you have not even entered it—you have been circling outside the temple of life.
If you must live, then die in love with living.
Fill the mud-pit of existence by becoming naught, again and again.
And this pit you experience—this emptiness, this hollowness, this meaninglessness, this void—do you know how it is to be filled? The way is uncanny. That is why the language of the saints sounds strange. Only by erasing yourself again and again can it be filled. And you want to fill it by saving yourself.
Save yourself and you will remain empty—Jesus says—and if you can dissolve, today itself you will be filled.
To dissolving I have given the name sannyas—the art of dissolving, the art of dying. But the art of dying is only a step toward the art of living. The art of dissolving is the formula for the art of being.
If the pain of the new human is alive in your heart,
create what is higher than yourself.
And if truly you want to be human, to give birth within to a human being, to usher in a new man—because the old has rotted away. The lessons taught to you proved useless. The axioms explained to you have not worked. The bridges you trusted became the cause of your drowning. You have ridden paper boats. You have tried to live life through nets of words and knowledge. Therefore life is not in your hands; in the name of life there is a deception, a self-cheating. If you want to live true life, if you want to give birth within to a new man, one thing must be done—
Create what is higher than yourself.
Discover that which is vaster than you. And the vast surrounds you. Its name is Paramatman. Paramatman is not a person. Paramatman is the name of that Vast which encompasses you; which enters you as breath; which flows in you as blood; which is the heartbeat of your heart; the light, the sheen in your eyes; which is your love, your prayer, your poetry, your music; which is your very being; the life of your life; which has encircled you without and within—this Vast is called Paramatman.
But man is enclosed within himself. Man thinks, I am enough. Whoever thinks, I am enough, has dug his grave while alive. His life will be a long process of rotting. Stench will rise from his life, not fragrance. He came like a seed and will rot like a seed. No flowers will bloom, no perfume be released. He will die within the egg, never emerging—never spreading wings, never tasting the freedom of the open sky, never brimming with the longing to touch the moon and the stars, never rising beyond the clouds. For such a one the sun will never rise. His life will remain a night of new moon—without stars; far from stars, not even a flickering lamp.
The discovery of what is vaster than yourself, the search for what is greater than you…
But why does man fear the search for the greater?
Because to seek the greater, one must bow. The art of bowing the head, the art of surrender—only then can the Vast be found.
Today’s sutras of Paltu move wonderfully in that direction. Listen with great love! Take them into your heart with much affection!
He alone is a true warrior—says Paltu—who kills the mind, who knocks the head to the ground. When the mind is erased, when the “I” is erased, when ego is erased—so utterly that the head falls to the earth, that no sense of identity remains. I am—this feeling disappears. And where the mind is erased, the hopes of the body are erased. The mind is the hope for body. This mind has brought you through births upon births. This mind has driven you through 8.4 million wombs. This mind—where has it not dragged you! In birth after birth how many journeys it has made you take—and all in vain. Nothing was gained. The destination never came. You kept walking… tired, bored, yet still walking—because the mind goes on weaving new hopes.
The mind is very skilled at forging hopes. When one hope breaks, it conjures another right away. A thousand times hopes break, yet the mind invents fresh ones. It says, Wait—a little more; tomorrow! What did not happen today will happen tomorrow. What has never happened may also happen. The mind is a politician; it lives on promises. And the wonder is that you go on being deceived by deceptions! When will you awake? When will the hope for the body fall away? When will the urge to take yet another body say farewell?
He who kills the mind, who lets his head fall to the ground, who hopes nothing of the body—that is the warrior. This is the definition of the sannyasin. The sannyasin is the real warrior. The sannyasin is the man.
We think of love as a shoreless sea.
Its shore is known only by those who drown in the whirlpool—
who drown in midstream—who have learned how to drown; whose trust is so deep they know that across death is nectar; who know that if they drown in the mid-current, they will find the shore—even the shore of the shoreless sea! The one who drowns in the midst finds the shore.
How to kill the mind? What does it mean to kill the mind? Where is the sword with which to slay it?
By meditation the mind dies. Meditation is the sword. Meditation means: a witnessing toward thought. The deepening clarity that I am not thought. Watch the stream of thought. Thoughts come and go: as day comes and night comes; as the rains come and the heat comes; as spring arrives and the fall; as flowers bloom and wither—so is the ceaseless stream of thought. You watch. You are only the seer. Become neither the doer nor the enjoyer—just this—and the sword is in your hands that cuts the mind, drops the head, annihilates the ego. You will drown in midstream, and you will find the shore.
I have never done anything, nor can I do anything. My Lord does on my behalf.
He himself does, he makes it all be done—yet people keep shouting, Paltu, Paltu!
Let the feeling of doership go. The Doer is the Master. You are needlessly thinking, I am the doer. The doer is someone else, hidden behind—like puppets dancing while a hand behind the curtain holds the strings. If mind were to arise even in the puppets, they too would think, We are dancing. The dancing puppet would be puffed up with ego. When people clap, the puppet’s chest would swell. Unaware that behind the curtain someone holds the strings, and whenever he wishes he will tug them and the dance will stop.
And you see it daily—today someone’s dance ended, tomorrow another’s—yet you go on believing, I am the doer! The greatest delusion in this world is the feeling that I am the doer. Its other face is I am the enjoyer. Doer and enjoyer are two sides of the same coin. Beyond both is witnessing: I am only the seer, I only watch.
Paltu’s sweet sutra:
I have never done anything, nor can I do anything.
My Lord does on my behalf.
I have seen the strings, seen the hands behind the screen.
Who becomes the witness sees this mystery. Because in witnessing you become one with the Master; you are not—only the Master remains. The moment you are the seer, you are merged with the Divine. As long as you are the doer and enjoyer, you are a puppet. The moment you are the witness, you are no longer a puppet. The puppet remains the body, the mind, and all the rest; you have stepped back. You have found your identity with the Creator.
He himself does, he makes it all be done—yet the noise resounds, Paltu, Paltu!
And one who knows this has entirely new meanings of sadhana in his life. Then sadhana also is no longer an act of doing. He also is doing sadhana, causing it to be done. Then bhajan and kirtan—he does and he causes to be done.
It used to happen to Ramakrishna: walking along the road, a melody would seize him. It was difficult to take him anywhere. Walking, and if anyone said, Victory to Ram!—that was enough. That one sip of wine, Victory to Ram!—and there in the middle of the street he would begin to dance! How accept Ram’s victory without dancing! A spectacle would erupt, a crowd gather, traffic stop. The police would come to clear the way. And the devotees would feel embarrassed—becoming a spectacle with Ramakrishna in the bazaar. They tried much to explain to him, Don’t do this.
Ramakrishna said, You don’t understand.
I have never done anything, nor can I do anything. My Lord does on my behalf.
He himself does, he makes it all be done—yet people keep shouting, Paltu, Paltu!
Do I do anything? he would say. You think I was singing? You think I was dancing? He alone dances—what can I do? Shall I stop God? Such a heinous crime I cannot commit. Whatever will be, will be; whenever it will be, it will be; as he wills, so it will be. I cannot come in between. Who am I? What is my strength? I am only a flute—let him play whatever song he wishes! I am only an instrument—let him evoke whatever raga he wills!
If he himself bestows, even hell becomes paradise.
Salvation that is begged is of no use to me.
Thus a Sufi has said well: if he himself gives, I am ready even to accept hell; hell given by him is heaven.
If he himself bestows, even hell becomes paradise.
Salvation that is begged is of no use to me.
I will not even ask—because in asking, too, the sense of doership arises. And if by asking I even get heaven, it is of no use—worth two pennies. Asking is only for those who do not know that he is ready at every instant to give heaven; it is your asking that holds heaven back. Because by asking you cannot disappear, the mind cannot fall away.
Mind means asking. Mind means desire. Mind means craving: this should be mine, that should be mine! More and more! The sum of these is called mind. Whether you beg for wealth and rank, or beg for heaven and even moksha—it makes no difference. It is the same mind that used to beg for money and position. Begging is the world.
If he himself bestows, even hell becomes paradise.
Salvation that is begged is of no use to me.
Paltu says: If you hear that a harijan has come—a lover of the Lord, go at one leap to meet him. If a harijan comes to your house, then Hari himself has come.
Paltu says: Let some news reach you that a harijan has come—one dear to Hari, one who has known Hari, recognized him, dyed in his color, drowned in him—
To meet a harijan, go in a single leap.
Then leap—don’t go slowly, do not delay. Lest you miss.
To meet a harijan, go in a single leap.
Reach in a single bound. Do not say, We will meet tomorrow, the day after, what is the hurry now?
People are like this. I lived in Bombay for so many years; they did not come to meet me there, they come here to meet me. They say, When you left Bombay then we remembered. Do you see Chaitanya and Chetna? They were in the same building in which I lived, Woodland. But they must have thought, We will meet. He is here, present every day. We will meet tomorrow, the day after. When I left Bombay, then they remembered. And then they came to Poona, but did not go back to Bombay. Then they stayed and stayed. Then I became their home, I became their everything. You can say I had to leave Bombay for Chaitanya and Chetna. In Poona too there will be many—until I leave Poona, we will not meet; what is the hurry, he passes here daily!
Once in London a survey was done. The Tower of London is there, for which people come from far away. Of the ten million who live in London, how many have seen the Tower and how many have not? A million had not seen it! They live in London, pass the Tower daily by bus, car, or train, but have never climbed it. We will see—what is the hurry! And from all over the world people travel thousands of miles to see the Tower. Man is strange!
Once three American tourists went to meet the Pope in the Vatican. The Pope asked, How long will you stay in Italy?
The first said, I plan to stay three months.
The Pope said, You will see a little.
The American was surprised—three months, a short time? An American, moving at American speed, in three months would see the whole world, go to the moon and back! About Americans it is said: a Frenchman told an American, If you want to learn love, learn from the French—we kiss the forehead first, then the eyes, then the lips, then the neck. The American said, Wait, wait—in that much time an American celebrates the wedding night and returns.
Americans go at speed. Three months—Italy so small—and I will see only a little! Is the Pope in his senses? But he said nothing.
He asked the second, How long will you stay?
He said, Only a month.
The Pope said, You will see a lot.
Now things became more puzzling. To the first—three months—you will see a little; to the second—one month—you will see a lot. Before he could speak, he asked the third. The third said, I will stay just one week.
The Pope said, You will miss nothing, you will see the whole of Italy.
The point is important. What is readily available, we think—we will see someday. What is not readily available, not a moment should be lost. And harijans are not readily available.
Mahatma Gandhi spoiled this wonderful word. It is an ancient word. It meant: one who has known Hari. The same meaning as Buddhahood—one who has become Buddha. He spoiled this dear word—tied it to the shudras. Its glory was lost. He dragged a word from the sky into the dust.
Even a brahmin is not a harijan—what to say of a shudra! Is one a harijan by birth? All are shudras by birth. If you understand my arithmetic, all are shudras by birth. There are only two varnas in the world—shudra and harijan. By birth all are shudras. But some, by relentless seeking, by discovery, by seeking what is higher than oneself, by turning the eyes toward the Vast, by killing the mind, by laying down the head—become harijans. A harijan is rare—some Buddha, some Krishna, some Mahavira, some Kabir, some Nanak, some Paltu—rarely someone becomes a harijan. Gandhi corrupted a wondrous word. Its glory vanished. From being the temple’s pinnacle it became a stone lying by the roadside.
Paltu is right:
To meet a harijan, go in a single leap.
If you learn a harijan is present somewhere, then delay not; not even a little. Leave a thousand tasks half done. Even the sentence you are speaking—leave it mid-word. That was his meaning—go in a single leap! In one bound run. For harijans come like the wind and go like the wind. It could be that without seeing a harijan your life passes by.
Why is it so valuable to see a harijan? Because if you could see the lotus blossomed in someone, perhaps you would remember the lotus within you.
People travel thousands of miles to see the Taj Mahal, to see Ajanta–Ellora. The great Western psychologist Carl Gustav Jung came to India; he went to Ajanta, to Ellora, saw the Taj Mahal, Delhi, Bombay, Calcutta. Wherever he went people told him, Do one thing before you leave: in South India at Arunachala, Maharshi Ramana is there—do not leave without seeing him. But Jung did not go. He was proud. He thought he already knew everything about the mind. What will happen by going to Ramana? Perhaps he thought he could tell Ramana a few things he did not know. About the mind, who knows more than I!
About the mind Jung certainly knew much, but he did not know one thing—how to kill the mind. And knowing about the mind is one thing; slaying the mind is another. He did not go to see Ramana. One who comes to India and goes without seeking a harijan—understand, he never came to India. India is not Ajanta, not Ellora, not the Taj Mahal, not Delhi, Bombay, Calcutta. If India lives anywhere, it lives in the heartbeat of some harijan. India is not geography, not history. India is the heartbeat of a harijan. India is spirituality. India is a symbol of the search for what is higher than man. India is not politics. Yet the so-called politicians drag it into political mud.
And you will have to search for a harijan. The thirsty must come to the well. The well cannot come to the thirsty. And even if it does, the thirsty will not drink from a well that came to him. He will spurn it. Only when he himself has sought, traveled long journeys, borne hardships—climbed hills and mountains, reached where reaching is difficult—then thirst kindles! A blazing thirst! Then alone the taste of water and the life hidden in it is known. Then it is a joy to drink.
To meet a harijan, go in a single leap.
If a harijan’s feet step into your home, Hari himself has come.
And remember, if the foot of a harijan steps into your house—within you—then the Divine himself has arrived. For between harijan and Hari there is no difference. In the harijan there is a little more than Hari—you will be startled! Hari is unmanifest. The harijan is both unmanifest and manifest. Hari is invisible; the harijan is invisible and visible. Hari does not speak, he is silent. The harijan is silent and speaks too. So in the harijan there is a certain richness—an addition, not a subtraction.
And do not delay, because the harijan will soon slip and be absorbed into Hari. When this drop will slide off the lotus leaf and vanish in the lake—no one can say. Now it is about to slip, about to slip. It may happen anytime. A slight breeze and the drop is lost. Before the drop dissolves into the lake, see its form! Fill your eyes with its form! See its supreme beauty! Drink its prasada to the full! Spread a carpet of eyelids when you hear of a harijan! Invite him, call him! Pay any price, but let the mark of his feet be imprinted upon your heart.
If a harijan comes into your house, Hari himself has come.
The great tree bears fruit for others—
for crossing the ocean of becoming, saints are ships, says Paltu.
As trees bear fruit not for themselves but for others, so do saints. Their own work is complete. Truly, parārtha happens only when svārtha is fulfilled. One who has known himself, realized the meaning of himself—only from him is it possible that fruits grow for others’ good. One who has attained bliss will be able to share bliss. When the inner veena has begun to play, its notes will travel far—far and wide! Wherever there is a heart even a little alive, waves will arise. These flowers’ fragrance will travel riding the winds, making the winds their steed, to those nostrils that have a little sensitivity to scent. This lamp lit within the saint—this lamp of Hari by which he has become harijan—its light will reach those eyes that are capable of seeing, that have turned inward, that are introvert.
And when fruits begin to grow in someone for others, then understand that being human has succeeded. Beautiful word: successful—safal—one in whom fruit ripens. Fruit always ripens for others. The saint alone is fruitful; the rest are fruitless; barren.
Men are beyond number,
yet we lament a dearth of humanity.
Crowds everywhere, the world crammed—four billion people, growing daily—but where is man! Search and you will scarcely find one. If you do, understand—a harijan has come.
The great tree bears fruit for others—
for crossing this ocean, saints are ships.
If you would cross the ocean of becoming, there is no boat but the saints, no boatman but they. Those who, drowning in midstream, found the shore of the shoreless sea; those who have plunged within and seen the Unseeable—find their support. And for that support, any price is small. Even your life is a small price, for life will go anyway, is going anyway.
Paltu set out for pilgrimage—on the way he met a saint.
Seeking one liberation, he found liberation without end.
Paltu says: I had gone on pilgrimage, but by his grace, his compassion, I met a saint on the way—and forgot all about the pilgrimage. Who would go to dead shrines when he has found the living!
Paltu set out for pilgrimage—on the way he met a saint.
Seeking one liberation, he found liberation without end.
We thought one moksha would suffice, one liberation would bless us. But finding the saints, we found infinite liberation.
Let attention be on the essentials!
Let there be some true passion,
some pure intent—
then what do we care to argue whether it is an idol or God?
Let there be a taste of truth, a glimpse of beauty; let truth become embodied—that one is called harijan.
Let there be true passion,
let there be pure intent—
and let love be manifest, luminous. Only those can manifest love whose inner lamp of truth is lit; the rest is talk. Love is true only when truth has entered within. Only when you have known yourself will you be able to give love to others—otherwise not. Otherwise in the name of love it is all exploitation.
Let there be true passion, pure intent—
then what do we care to argue whether it is idol or God?
Then it matters not whether you bent your head before an image or before the formless—no difference. Only that your understanding be clear. Wherever truth is and love is—where love’s waves are stirring, where truth’s rays are glittering—there, bow.
To live and die in your lane is acceptable to me—
but to sift the dust of temples and mosques, I can no longer do.
And once a harijan is found, only one feeling remains—
To live and die in your lane is acceptable to me.
To lie in your alley and die there—joy enough.
To live and die in your lane is acceptable to me—
but to sift the dust of temples and mosques, no more.
Who will go now to mosque and temple, to Kaaba and Kailash, to Kashi and Girnar! Why sift dust! One who has found a harijan has found the gate of God. All pilgrimages are now pallid and dead. All temples empty, all mosques deserted.
Paltu says: If the mind has not died, do not go about renouncing the world. What use washing the outside—inside the stain remains.
Beware: until the mind has died—
If the mind has not died, do not go about renouncing the world—
then do not try to flee. Wherever you go, there the world will be—because your mind is the thread of the world. With this mind you will sit on the Himalayas and the world will form. From mind, only the world can be formed. Wherever you sit, this mind will create its turmoil, spread its wares. This mind is a trader, says Paltu. Beware this merchant.
A man, near death, said to his disciple, Look—do not keep even a cat. At the time of dying! The disciple asked, Master, tell me the meaning of this sutra, too. Whom shall I ask? You know the Vedas, the Upanishads, the Gita. But, Do not keep a cat—what spirituality is this? People will laugh if I ask someone. Tell me the meaning quickly before you go.
The guru said, Now that you ask, I will tell you. When my guru died he told me the same—do not keep a cat. But I did not ask the meaning. You are wiser—you ask. I paid no heed; I thought, He’s gone dotty—too old. Talking of Brahman and now this—do not keep a cat! I forgot it. Then I began meditation in the forest. But daily I had to go to the village for alms. When I went, the mice gnawed my loincloth. While I was there I watched the loincloth with a stick; but I had to go for alms, and the mice gnawed it. Or at night when I slept they gnawed it. I asked the village folk, What to do about these mice?
They said, What’s the problem! Keep a cat.
Unfortunate me—still I didn’t remember that my guru had told me, Do not keep a cat. I took the advice of the villagers. The guru I thought had gone senile, and the villagers wise. A simple matter—keep a cat. So I kept a cat.
The cat ate the mice, but now I had to fetch milk for the cat. If the cat dies, the mice will return.
The villagers tired. They said, Maharaj, do one thing: we’ll gift you a cow. Keep it there; you drink, the cat drinks. Enough of asking for milk daily!
This sounded good. I kept a cow. But then I had to get grass for the cow…
The villagers said, You don’t let us be! So much land lies in the forest—clear it. Sow wheat in some, grow grass in some. The grass will serve the cow, the wheat will serve you. No need to come daily.
That sounded good. Still I didn’t remember: the old guru had said, Do not keep a cat. Now the matter had gone far beyond cats. They cleared the land, I grew grass, wheat, rice, pulses. The sprawl grew—too big to manage alone. Watering, guarding, saving from animals. I told them, Brothers, you have given me a great bother. No time for tapas, meditation. Twenty-four hours I am after the fields.
They said, Do one thing: there’s a widow in the village…
See how far the cat goes! Things proceed like this—cat to widow.
She is virtuous, chaste, strong. Alone. Keep her in your ashram. She knows farming; a farmer’s daughter. She will do the fields, serve you, cook, milk the cow. You do your tapas.
This sounded good. And then what had to happen, happened. Slowly I fell in love with the widow. She massaged my feet, fed me, bathed me. Naturally, love arose. Then children came. What was to happen, happened! See how far the cat went. Then the children needed to be married. The matter went on and on. In this world nothing stops; it goes on and on. Then one thing leads to another.
So, dying, my guru said: Understand. Do not think I am senile. Do not keep even a cat. I made this mistake; the life was wasted. Next life, I will remember not to keep a cat.
If the mind is with you, if you do not keep a cat you will keep a dog. What difference? You will keep something. If the mind is, if you do not farm, you will open a shop—even if the shop is of rituals, yajnas, havans. The mind will make you do something. The mind cannot remain without being a doer. Its very life is in being the doer.
Therefore Paltu is right:
If the mind has not died, do not go about renouncing the world.
What use washing the outside—inside the stain remains.
The real stain is within. The mind distorts life and truth—colors everything in its own mode. If the mind reads the Gita, it does not understand Krishna; it derives its own meanings. The Quran—it derives its own meanings.
Chandulal told Mulla Nasruddin, Mulla, I am a man of very few words.
Nasruddin said, Yes—anyway, I am also married.
What meaning you take depends on you.
In the tavern, Dhabbu told his close friend Chandulal, I have invented a new trick to drink less. I keep a clock on the table and drink only when I look at the clock.
Chandulal said, That is nothing! If I had my way I would keep not a clock but a whole jar and drink looking at that!
Dhabbu’s wife Dhanno had gone to her parents. To pass the time, Dhabbu began to learn music. One morning, absorbed in alapa, not an hour had passed when someone banged the door. He opened it. A police inspector, pistol drawn, snarled, You cannot escape me. The greatest toughs tremble at my name. Don’t try to run. Tell me quickly—where is the corpse? Where have you hidden it? He said all this in one breath.
Stunned, Dhabbu stammered, What is the matter?
The inspector said, Don’t act smart. Your neighbor has just informed me—you have murdered Raga Bageshri.
Poor inspector! And the neighborhood—He’s murdering raga Bageshri, this fellow Dhabbu!
You will understand only what you can. You will do only what you can. First send off the mind—the understander and doer. Let there remain within neither doer nor enjoyer. Then what remains is pure consciousness—clear like a mirror. In it, that which is, reflects as it is. Then a revolution happens in life. When truth reflects in you without the interference of mind, your conduct begins to align with that truth on its own. Meditation first—then knowledge. Meditation first—then saintliness. Meditation first—then conduct. Meditation first—then monkhood.
Bow your head to the saint—that head alone is worthy of being praised. Says Paltu: if a head bows not, better it were a pumpkin.
Now Acharya Tulsi will say, Paltu Das is abusing—saying that the head which does not bow at the saint’s feet is a pumpkin. And if you ask me, I will say a rotten pumpkin—because even a pumpkin is of some use.
Bow your head to the saint—that head alone is worthy of praise.
Paltu says: that alone is a head worthy of being called a head; worthy of singing its glory; upon which pour whatever you can. But only that head—one that bows! Seeing Buddhahood, seeing a lit lamp—bow, and do not rise again.
O healer, the world of the intoxicated is apart from the world.
Come to your senses—where we are, there is no sense left.
There is a kind of awareness where even awareness has no pride. The world of the intoxicated is apart from the world! These intoxicated ones are called saints—the drunkards who have drunk so deeply at the Divine’s ghat that awareness is, yet even awareness is not known.
Those who have not, their life is such—
The melody of life ends on hiccups;
the strings of the instrument are being snapped with jerks.
A life dragged along, carrying a corpse.
The melody of life ends on hiccups—
nothing in the hand, within all blank. Life ends on hiccups—not on Buddhahood.
The melody of life ends on hiccups;
with jolts the strings of the instrument are being snapped.
Death snatches life by force. You clutch the body, you clutch the mind—and death, with jerks, takes you away. The messengers of Yama stand waiting—and take you.
Life either ends like strings being snapped—or it dissolves like fragrance rising into the sky. But one who bows before saints—saints are only a pretext, a device—to teach you the art of bowing.
Bow your head to the saint—that head alone is worthy of praise.
Says Paltu: a head that will not bow—better it were a pumpkin.
And the moment your head bows, a revolution happens—the sky begins to peer within you. You cease to be small; you are joined to the Vast. You are small only as long as you are stiff—as long as you say I, I, I! While this I is, you are petty. The day you can say, I am not—on that day you are vast; boundary and definition fall away.
Today some seven-colored cloud
rises upon the blue emptiness.
In the solitude of the window
the whole sunrise blushes—
as if a story unspoken on lips
has found the eyes.
Sunlight, shy on parapets,
steps slowly down into living.
A whole note of dreams
spreads upon body and soul—
as if the whole season were caressing
a branch unbloomed for lifetimes.
On the shore a distracted bird,
its eagerness nibbling at waves.
Today some seven-colored cloud
rises upon the blue emptiness.
When you bow, you remain only a void. In that void the Full can descend. You vacate the throne; now the Divine can be enthroned.
Listen, Paltu, to this secret—the Lord spoke, laughing:
Within suffering is liberation; in pleasure lies the seed of hell.
Paltu says: When I bowed, since I bowed, the guru’s voice is no longer the guru’s; since then, God himself speaks through the guru.
Listen, Paltu, to this secret—the Lord spoke, laughing:
Within suffering is liberation; in pleasure lies the seed of hell.
This is important—among the deepest sutras of life. Why is there liberation in suffering? Because suffering has two virtues. First, you want to be free of it. Second, you find it hard to identify with it; to be a witness of suffering is easy. Because you want to be free, not bound—you become a witness. Witnessing is the method of release. You cannot identify with suffering—identification is binding.
Within suffering is liberation—
thus the sutra is right: within suffering is liberation, if you understand the secret of suffering. And
In pleasure lies the seed of hell.
Why? Because in pleasure you identify; and you do not want freedom from pleasure—you want to be bound.
Suffering is like an iron chain—heavy, thorny, piercing, wounding—a weight hard to carry; it reminds you again and again you are in prison, a captive; humiliation is felt. Pleasure? Pleasure is like a golden chain studded with gems. You feel like a king. You will protect the golden, gem-studded chains. You will call them ornaments, not chains. Therefore, in pleasure man forgets God; in suffering he remembers. In pleasure—what need!
A child was asked at school, Do you remember God?
He said, Yes—every night. I remember till I fall asleep.
He was asked, Only at night? Never in the day?
He said, Never in the day.
Why at night, not in the day?
He said, At night I feel afraid—by day, I don’t.
In dark nights, when fear arises, you too remember God.
Just now Niranjana returned from Germany. Because the Bombay airport had burned, she had to wait four days in the South. When she finally boarded, a fierce storm—winds, clouds, lightning—and the airplane passing through! She thought it was over—hard to arrive. Lightning cracking all around the plane; thunder; torrents of rain! The plane plunging hundreds of feet up and down. I asked, What did you do?
She said, What else! Quickly I took up the mala, remembered you much—Save me this time; I will never go to Germany again!
In suffering we remember. Perhaps she was in Germany three weeks—not once did she pick up the mala. No need!
Two children were talking. One said, When we sit to eat—in Christianity we pray before eating. Do you pray?
The other said, No. Our mother cooks so well there is no need to pray. Your mother’s cooking I have eaten—no one can eat without praying. Actually, why did your father die? Your mother’s cooking! Anyone would pray upon seeing your mother’s food. When I come to eat at your home, I also pray—O Lord, save me today!
Mulla Nasruddin told Chandulal, Some women wear such clothes that men’s lives are about to leave them.
Chandulal said, Yes—and some women cook in just the same way!
In suffering we remember; in pleasure, we forget.
Within suffering is liberation; in pleasure lies the seed of hell.
Without seeking it is not found, whatever else one may do.
Milk turns to curd by itself; ghee comes only by churning.
Here is an important sutra that may seem contradictory and cause you worry. Many statements of saints are paradoxical—compulsion, because truth is such that without paradox it cannot be expressed. Take these two sutras together.
I have never done anything, nor can I do anything. My Lord does on my behalf.
He himself does, he makes it all be done—yet people keep shouting, Paltu, Paltu!
Now take the other—
Without seeking it is not found, whatever else one may do.
Milk turns to curd by itself; ghee comes only by churning.
Without seeking, it will not be found. Seeking must be done. Milk might become curd by itself if left; but curd will not become ghee on its own.
By churning alone ghee is born.
And until you churn, until you do manthan, the Atman will not be born within, the descent of Paramatman will not happen.
These sutras look opposite. They only look so. Understand them. First: Do as much as you possibly can—utterly. Otherwise your non-doing will only be laziness, not surrender to God. Laziness is not surrender. In the first sutra there is the danger you may become lazy.
I have never done anything, nor can I do anything. My Lord does on my behalf.
You may say, Then why meditate? Why pray? Why search? Why trouble with Vipassana? Why bother? If he is the doer, he will do when he will. His will! This can become laziness. In this way the saying of Maluk became the basis for the lazy. Maluk said—
The python does no service, the bird does no job.
Says the slave Maluk—Ram is the giver of all.
A formula for the lazy! We wrongly interpreted such sutras. To save you from that wrong interpretation, the other must be said. Maluk had more trust in you, so he did not say the other. He thought you would understand.
The bird does no job.
True—no office or factory. But from morning till evening they do work: gathering grain, building nests, laying eggs, bringing food for the young, feeding them—work goes on, all day. No “job,” yet no bird is lazy. I have many birds in my garden—not one lazy! Perhaps no bird has ever read Maluk. Maluk did not consider them—birds do no work! Yet they go on doing.
The python does not serve, this is true—but he slides toward his prey, draws it with his breath. His breath is so strong he pulls the prey into himself. He does not lie under a blanket thinking: When his will is, some bird will wander under my blanket and say, Brother, why are you asleep? His will; he sent me, I came!
There is danger you may become lazy. Surrender is not laziness; it is labor, sadhana. Therefore the other sutra—
Without seeking it is not found, whatever else one may do.
You may sit and think a thousand thoughts: It will come without doing; when it has to come, it will; if it is written in fate, it will—no. You must do your utmost. Only by churning yourself much will the ghee be born within. Ghee is the symbol of Atman because beyond it nothing more is made. Milk becomes curd, curd becomes butter, butter becomes ghee—then nothing more. The final state. From animal to man, from man to monk, from monk to saint—the last hour comes. Saintliness—the ghee of your soul. Beyond it nothing.
Do your whole labor—and yet Paltu says—
I have never done anything, nor can I do anything. My Lord does on my behalf.
This is the last word. Only after all doing, all efforts, when you find God—then you discover: Ah, it did not happen through my doing—it happened by his grace! Yet without your doing even his grace cannot happen to you. Your doing does not bring God, but it makes you worthy, a vessel for his grace. He is raining even when you are not worthy, but your vessel is upside down. Rain is falling; the vessel is upside down—it will not fill. Or even if upright, full of holes—it will seem to fill, yet never fill.
Your labor will seal the holes; your labor will keep your vessel upright. Receiving is by his compassion. Both sutras are true together. You labor—and you become eligible for grace. But when you receive, you will see: what we did, and what we received—there is no cause-and-effect between them. What we did was nothing; what we received is all.
One abuse comes from one; if you return it, they will become many.
He who, O Paltu, does not return—one remains one.
In the world of sadhana you will walk, many abuses will come. Do not expect flowers—thorns will come. The world does not want anyone to be free of it. One who is free torments worldly people—arouses jealousy, envy. They will take revenge; they will harass you in every way. Keep only this in mind—
One abuse comes from one; if you return it, they will become many.
If an abuse comes, do not return it—drink it, as Meera drank poison—and drinking, it became nectar. Whether historically true or not, the point stands. If an abuse comes and you drink it, it is no longer abuse; if poison comes and you drink it in ecstasy, it is no longer poison. If you can drink in joy, intoxicated, even poison becomes nectar. If an abuse comes and you drink it in joy, in intoxication—then the abuse becomes welcome; it turns into honor. Even an abuse can become a song, if you have the capacity to drink.
If you return it, trouble begins—because the others are not saints; if you return one, they will arrive with ten.
He who, O Paltu, does not return—one remains one.
They worship water and stone—yet not a single problem is solved.
Much worship of shrines, waters, rivers, mountains, stones—
They worship water and stone—yet not a single problem is solved.
Paltu says: Not one thing is resolved. No fruitfulness, no blessedness.
Make your body the temple; make the mind the saligrama.
So Paltu says: Make your body the shrine, and your consciousness the Lord. Go to no temple, to no mosque.
Make your body the temple—
make it the place of pilgrimage.
Make the mind the saligrama—
and if you erase the mind, the energy released from mind, mentation—that very energy is the saligrama, the symbol of God.
Work ripens slowly—why be impatient?
Do not hurry. Some things cannot be hurried; even if they are, they are not. The Divine is not a seasonal flower. It is a sky-touching tree—it grows slowly. Time is needed; waiting is needed.
Work ripens slowly—why be impatient?
Therefore, do not be impatient.
In season the tree bears fruit—however much you water it.
The season will come, spring will come; the tree will bear fruit and flowers. However much you water, spring will not come before its time. You must wait. At the right moment all happens. There is delay, not darkness—and the delay is needed, for in that duration some things ripen; without it they would remain raw.
This stretch of existence will pass anyway.
For these two days whom shall I ask to ease my difficulty?
Time passes—wait. Do not even ask God to make it easy, to hurry.
This stretch of existence will pass anyway.
For these two days whom shall I ask to ease my difficulty?
Time is needed. The seed will sprout, become a sapling, buds, then flowers.
Come, let me tell you the difference between bud and flower—
one is a spoken word, one unspoken.
What difference between bud and flower?
Come, let me tell you the difference between bud and flower—
one is a spoken word, one unspoken.
Not much difference—the bud becomes the flower. Between you and God the difference is as between bud and bloom. The bud is the unsung song; the flower, the sung. The bud is like a sitar unstruck; the flower, the sitar sounded. But waiting and prayer—loving waiting and loving prayer—are essential. Therefore remember: why be impatient!
See how many gardens of desire are being trampled—
Today, in his stubbornness, the tumultuous One has come.
Let my complaint be, let my censure be—
I am happy that upon his lips my name has come at last.
I had intellect, and eyes, and wings to soar—
Then what possessed me to fall into the net?
At the place where even angels melt, O Josh—
Look, sir, be careful—that station has come at last.
That station comes. It comes—just as it is about to come. Things complete—as they are about to complete. Why be impatient!
Enough for today.