Kahe Hot Adheer #3

The rains slip away—where are you hiding in such a time?
The cuckoo calls, the myna chatters;
buds burst, the green is tender;
leaf by leaf the fragrance breathes;
the garden reels like a tavern,
reels and scatters color—where are you hiding in such a time?
The rains slip away—where are you hiding in such a time?

Tresses fall loose, the veil slides;
friends sway, the village well dances;
within, elation turns in its sleep—
far away some dark, mischievous One
sings in a softened tone—where are you hiding in such a time?
The rains slip away—where are you hiding in such a time?

Lightning flashes, clouds roar;
a sharp wind rattles the latch;
my every pore is restless;
my kohl flows as the eyes gaze for you—
let the lamp of love be kindled—where are you hiding in such a time?
The rains slip away—where are you hiding in such a time?

Loneliness performs a tandava;
thirst sways like a she-serpent;
sorrow has staged a separate dance;
breath pants, estranged and anxious;
patience tries to call—where are you hiding in such a time?
The rains slip away—where are you hiding in such a time?

In the search for Paramatma there are two paths: one of those who look upon Paramatma as Truth; and one of those who look upon Him as the Beloved. Both paths are right. Both lead to the same destination. But the ways differ in their manner, their color.

Whoever seeks Paramatma in the language of Truth—their quest will be austere and arid; there the cuckoo will not sing, the myna will not chatter; there no monsoon will arrive, there flowers will not dance, there peacock-feathers will not spread, there will be no rainbows. There will be no song—because there is no love. That way is a dry desert. There will be the silence of the desert. The desert has its own beauty, its own peace, its own stillness. But the chatter of this garden, the birds’ songs—you will not hear even a hint of them there—no rose will bloom there, no champa, no chameli, no bela, no lotus. There will be no colors. There will be no raas. There will be no flute. There will be silence.

For those who see Paramatma as Truth, the way is the path of Jnana. For those who see Paramatma as the Beloved, the way is the path of Bhakti.

Paltu is a traveler on the path of Bhakti; therefore, to understand his language, you must be mindful. Do not take his love to be your love! Your love is momentary, a bubble on water! As Paltu has said: your love is like a sugar-wafer dropped into water—here now, gone now. Like a wave of air—came and vanished. Your love does not endure. Your love is like a dream.

When Paltu speaks of love remember, he is speaking of another love. He must speak your language, but do not impose your meaning into his words. It is precisely by doing so that people miss the saints—understanding something else entirely.

The Saawan of which Paltu speaks is not your monsoon. That Saawan descends when within, the clouds of Samadhi gather. The papiha of which Paltu speaks is not your pied cuckoo. When your very life-breath fills with the cry “Pi—where? Pi—where?”—that is the papiha of which Paltu speaks.

Paltu’s way is the way of the heart—of love, of Bhakti. By nature steeped in rasa, drenched in bliss! If you can walk, ankle-bells will bind themselves to your feet. If you can understand, a flute will arrive upon your lips. If with open eyes and an awakened heart you can drink Paltu in, you have reached the tavern. Then such a filtering, such a filtering—such a divine intoxication arrives that even awareness is not lost—awareness flares up—and yet there is drunkenness! Such a paradox unfolds. In the trance all the world is drowned, and in awareness Paramatma awakens within. In trance all that is futile flows away, and in awareness that which is essential shines forth.

Keep this in mind and take each of Paltu’s words. For Paltu, Paramatma is the Beloved. Paltu speaks the speech of the yearning lover.

Jekare angne naurangiya, so kaise sovai ho.
She in whose courtyard the nine-colored One has entered—how could she sleep?
Whose courtyard—meaning whose very life-breaths—are filled with the intoxication of separation! Our life-breaths are small courtyards. Even in a small courtyard, the sky abides. The same vast sky is there within the walls. This body is our wall; the space brimming inside the body is our courtyard.

Jekare angne naurangiya...
And within whom the remembrance of the Supreme Beloved has filled; of the One who is the owner of all colors; of the One who owns all beauty—his attachment, his longing has arisen—
So kaise sovai ho.
Even if she wishes to sleep, she cannot.

See the distinction here. The jnani must try to awaken himself. Therefore the language of the jnanis is the language of awakening—Wake up! Meditation, mindfulness, awakening—these are their words. Make yourself alert! Be careful! Be aware! Arouse your consciousness!

Buddha says: samma-sati—awaken right mindfulness! Mahavira says: kindle viveka! Krishnamurti speaks of awakening; Gurdjieff, of self-remembering. All mean the same: shake yourself! knock off the dust of sleep! wake up!

The bhakta’s state is altogether different. The bhakta—even if he wants to sleep—cannot. The jnani, even by awakening and awakening himself, finds it difficult to be awake; the bhakta remains awake—sleep does not come. Because when the fire of separation burns, how will sleep come? His remembrance pierces the chest like a spear—how will sleep come? Therefore the bhaktas have not said: Wake up. The bhaktas have said, Allow me a little rest! Let my eyes close for a while! Let me sleep even for a moment! The bhaktas have prayed the opposite.

These paths are very different. The jnani must make himself alert, for the jnani is alone. And the bhakta is alert because the remembrance of Paramatma shakes him awake. The remembrance of Paramatma rises within him like a storm. Where is sleep? Where can sleep survive?

Lahar-lahar bahu hoy...
Wave upon wave arises...

Wave upon wave arises; hearing the shabd, she weeps.
When satsang is found, when a sadguru is found—when you have a chance to sit with one who has drunk from the ghat of Paramatma—what will you do upon hearing his word but weep? Tears pour and pour; how can the eyes blink? The eyes weep. In weeping, all sleep is washed away. A flood of tears arrives and carries off all the junk of sleep.

The jnani must make great effort to practice meditation; the bhakta is accomplished with ease. Therefore Bhakti is sahaj-yoga. Let love surge, let the seed of love fall into your heart; the rest happens of itself. You need not stand on your head, nor wither the body in fasting, nor lie on a bed of thorns. Even if you lay a bhakta on velvet, he lies as if on thorns. Those waves come rolling; that remembrance keeps striking; that surati rises and rises—what velvet bed? what palace? He has but one single tune. Each breath calls for Paramatma.

Lahar-lahar bahu hoy, shabd suni rovai ho.

And whenever the shabd can be heard… The bhakta calls shabd the sound rising from that source which has known the anahat. The day you know the anahat within, the shabd will rise in you. Or if you sit near those who have known the anahat, hearing their word will awaken waves and surges of love within you.

Jekar piy pardes, neend nahin aavai ho.
She whose Beloved dwells in a distant land—far away—whose address is not found, for whom to write even a letter there is no way; whose direction is unknown, the path to reach him not known—whose Beloved dwells in such a foreign land—
Jekar piy pardes, neend nahin aavai ho.
Even if she tries, how can sleep come? Sleep does not come by calling. The jnani must break sleep, and try as he may, it doesn’t break. The bhakta calls sleep, and try as he may, he cannot bring it.

Keep this secret well in mind. The jnani travels a long road in vain. The bhakta’s path is easy, simple, natural. Love is natural. We do know love. Granted, our love is very muddy; granted, our love has more thorns than flowers; granted, our love is less of morning and more of night. But hidden in the dark night lies the dawn. And however many thorns may be around the flowers, thorns cannot negate the flowers. Even among a thousand thorns, if one flower has bloomed, it is enough to proclaim that Paramatma is. And however dark the night, if even one star has risen, it is enough—it is proof of light. And the darker the night, the closer the morning draws near.

We know love—the momentary love. But even the momentary is part of the eternal. The moment is a fragment of the timeless. We have taken the fragment for the Whole—that is our mistake. But the moment too is a particle of the Eternal. When the mistake is erased, even in the moment the Eternal is seen. In the drop, the ocean is revealed. And a single flower is sufficient proof that Paramatma is. And a single star is enough evidence that light is.

Jekar piy pardes, neend nahin aavai ho.
Let the remembrance of the Beloved who dwells in the far land seize you. The jnani says: awaken self-remembering! The bhakta says: awaken the remembrance of the Beloved! Remembering oneself is very difficult. Remembering Paramatma is easy. For we have always remembered the other. The wife has remembered the husband; the husband the wife; the mother the son; the son the mother; friend has remembered friend. We have remembered the other. We know a few lessons of remembering the other. Granted, our lessons are not Veda; they are the primer of a child—the a-b-c. But from a-b-c all the Vedas arise. From these very letters are born the Vedas, the Upanishads, the Quran. Whoever knows the primer holds the key to all the Vedas. Granted, our love is very small—like a small courtyard. But from the small courtyard a door opens to the sky. This little love can be made great.

Of meditation you have no idea; therefore to awaken meditation is arduous, difficult, rare. Of love—well, not quite correctly—but some knowledge of love we have—even if it be wrong. Even a counterfeit coin carries some glimmer of the genuine, otherwise how would it circulate? It bears some stamp, some seal. False though it be, yet in the false there is a little glimpse of truth—otherwise the false could not pass. The false borrows the feet of truth. The false must walk on truth’s crutches.

A small child was asked by his teacher, Why are you so late?
He said, I fell down—and it struck me.
The teacher said, Forgive me! How was I to know you fell down and it struck you? Where did it strike you? Where did you fall?
He said, Better you don’t ask that. I fell on the bed—and sleep struck me!
So the teacher called him close and gave him a slap. He asked, Why do you hit me?
The teacher said, Without a slap you will not come to your senses, your sleep will not break. You fell down and it struck you? Now when the slap lands, it will open.

For meditation the guru must shake one very hard; many blows must be given.

A drunkard has a twenty-five paisa stamp stuck on his forehead and tries to push his head into the letter-box. A policeman watches for a while, then comes near and asks, Old man, what are you doing?
He says, The wife has gone to her mother’s, and I too am going to fetch her. Can’t you see? I’ve written the address of my wife’s maternal home and stuck the stamp too.
The constable strikes his skull with a baton. A bit of sense returns. The man says, Why do you hit me?
The constable says, I am sealing you. Without a seal, if you go into the letter-box, how will you reach?

For meditation one must take many batons, and even then—if you awaken, it is much. Because meditation, in a sense, is utterly unfamiliar to you. Not even with false meditation are you acquainted—the true is far off. The word meditation is blank to you. But if someone says love, affection—a little surge comes within, a little wave, a little fragrance. Therefore the bhaktas chose the easy and the natural.

Jekar piy pardes, neend nahin aavai ho.

Come, life-bearer—
To make flowers bloom, O Beloved, the dark monsoon has gathered.
In garden, in courtyard, in forest, the blackness spreads.
Bough by bough, swaying, the Malhar is sung—
Come, life-bearer.

On green trees crows make their play;
clouds and sunrays play Holi together.
Only God knows why you are remembered again and again—
Come, life-bearer.

The drizzle has stopped; the rainbow has hung its swings;
leaves have gone beside themselves; flowers have bloomed in joy.
My mind no longer has power over itself—
Come, life-bearer.

The friends dance together; the forest resounds—
Chhum chhana na na chhum chhana na na chhum chhana na na chhan—
How sweet and deep the tinkling of anklets—
Come, life-bearer.

We have all called—the other. In different forms we have called. But we have called! Our gaze naturally falls upon the other. Therefore prayer is easy; meditation is difficult—because prayer includes the acceptance of the other. See: even Patanjali said that Ishvara need not be accepted by the yogi; it is merely one support among many supports—one device. Ishvara is not a goal. Just as there are many means to attain supreme Samadhi, Ishvara is also one of the means. Patanjali is not Ishvara-vadi. The yogi cannot be a theist. Yet Patanjali did not deny the device. He did not flatly deny that Ishvara is not; he said Ishvara too is an alamban, a base. Through this too some have attained Samadhi. But the goal is Samadhi; Ishvara is only a means. This is a denial greater than denial—making Ishvara a means!

Mahavira said clearly that there is no Ishvara. Mahavira is a great yogi. There is no room there to accept Ishvara. Meditation suffices. In truth, to accept Ishvara, in Mahavira’s vision, is a hindrance to meditation. Because one must be free of the other. If one must be free of the other, then one must be free even of Paramatma; Paramatma is also other.

Buddha also denied God.

These three traditions of meditation arose in India—the supreme traditions of meditation! All three denied Ishvara. This denial is not without reason. It is not philosophical. It is essentially a necessary part of the economy of meditation. The meditator must be alone—so alone that there remains not even a Paramatma; so alone that there remains not even the possibility to pray. If there be no other, how can there be prayer? The meditator must be shunya.

The bhakta need not be shunya. The bhakta must be full. The bhakta must fill himself with Paramatma. The bhakta must open all doors and windows and issue an invitation—a love-invitation—Come! O life-bearer, come and merge in me!

Chonki-chonki uthai jaagi, sej nahin bhavai ho.
The bhakta keeps springing awake. As when you await your lover, your beloved—you are startled again and again. A gust rattles the door—you run, open the door and look. Dry leaves skitter down the road—you run, open the door. Someone passes by—the postman, or the constable, or the milkman—you open the door in case it is he! Lest he see the door closed and turn back!

Jesus has said: Do not lock your door at all, for who knows when He will come—in what hour, in what moment! Keep the door open. Keep the buntings hung at the door. Keep the welcome-carpet spread. When He comes, in which instant—no one knows. No prophecy is possible.

So how could he sleep! The bhakta cannot sleep.

Chonki-chonki uthai jaagi, sej nahin bhavai ho.
And without the Beloved, how can the bed please? The bed pricks. With Him, even the cross is a couch; without Him, even the couch is not dear. Meera has said: Upon the cross—Beloved’s bed! On the cross is her couch. The bhakta is ready to be effaced. The bhakta says: erase me—only You remain. The jnani says: let all be erased—let only the Self remain. The bhakta says: let me be erased—let only You remain. Both arrive at the same place. Understand why.

The jnani says: let me remain, may You be erased. But when all of You is gone, the I drops of itself—for I cannot remain without You. The I needs the line of You. The I has no meaning without You.

Therefore there is great logic in Buddha’s word. He denied Paramatma, and then denied Atman as well. In this sense, Buddha is more consistent than Mahavira. Mahavira denied Paramatma but not the Self. Mahavira went only halfway. He said there is no God, there is no Thou; but he could not say there is no I. Buddha took logic to its full coherence: if there is no God, how can there be Self? Only shunya remains.

And the same happens to the bhakta. The bhakta effaces the I. The day the I is utterly erased, where is the Thou? Without I, who will say Thou? The I is required as a reference for the Thou’s existence. Only on the background of I does Thou arise; otherwise Thou too cannot remain.

Just as when the jnani erases the Thou, the I disappears; the bhakta erases the I and the Thou disappears. And that is the moment when both meet: where the bhakta is no longer bhakta, the jnani no longer jnani—where only Truth remains. Truth is neither in I nor in Thou. But to reach Truth, there are two devices: either erase the I, or erase the Thou.

Erasing the I is easy—and free of danger. Erasing the Thou is difficult and fraught with danger. First, to erase the Thou is very hard, because our whole life-current flows toward the Thou. As soon as a child is born he seeks the mother’s breast—the stream flows toward the other. The child clings to the mother and will not leave her garment. Even when he sleeps at night he holds her sari, lest in sleep she slip away.

The life-current is oriented toward the Thou. This is natural. Therefore to leave the Thou is difficult. And even if you leave the Thou there is a great danger: the Thou may be left but the I not erased. Then the Thou is not left, only repressed—pushed into the unconscious. Then the I will appear as great ego.

Therefore those who set out to erase the Thou take the risk of ego. The end result can be terrible; the ego can be so dense as to stand like a Himalaya in the path of Truth.

The bhakta’s path is easy and safe, for it begins by erasing the I. Then there is no danger of ego at all.

Therefore the ego you see in a Jain muni you will not see in a Sufi faqir. The Jain muni erases the Thou; in erasing the Thou, the I becomes strong. The danger is there. Unless there is extreme care—care beyond care—walking on the razor’s edge—even the slightest slip is peril: on this side the well, on that side the abyss.

The Jain muni’s ego becomes very formidable. If you bow to a Jain muni, he will not fold his hands in namaskar. He cannot! He can only bestow blessings. To fold both hands to you, a householder, a sinner? Impossible! He does not see Paramatma in you, only a sinner.

The Sufi faqir will touch anyone’s feet. Will one keep accounts of worthiness even in touching feet? He will touch the feet of passers-by. The Sufi is a bhakta; he erases the I.

The famous story of Jalaluddin: A lover knocked at his beloved’s door. From within a voice came, Who?
He said, Have you not recognized—my voice, my footfall? It is I, your lover!
From within came the reply: This house of love is very small. Two cannot fit here. Go back, ripen more, be prepared—then return.
Kabir says: The lane of love is extremely narrow—two cannot pass within!
Years later, the lover returned and knocked again. The same question—Who?
He said, Now there is no I. What shall I answer? Now only You are!
And the doors opened.

The bhakta erases the I, and the doors open. For there is no greater obstacle than the I. A true meditator, too, after erasing the Thou, begins to erase the I. If the I is not erased, there is a miss. But true meditators are rare—the path is difficult, full of dangers. Fewer have arrived by Jnana than by Bhajan. Fewer by knowledge, more by love.

Rain-divas marai ban, papiha bolai ho.
Day and night arrows strike, and the papiha calls.

The papiha calls for its pi—water-of-the-cloud; and the bhakta hears in that call the echo of his own heart.

Papiha piya bina tadpaye
Raat kate hai rote jaage
Mujh birahin ki aankh na laage
Sapne nainan se hain bhaage
Kaun mujhe samjhaye—
The papiha makes me ache without the Beloved.
The night passes weeping, wakeful;
my eyes will not sleep;
even dreams have fled my eyes.
Who is there to console me?
The papiha makes me ache without the Beloved.

Bijli chamke, rain andheri—
lightning flashes, the night is dark;
my inner world is seized by sorrow;
The song is mine, the cadence too mine;
from afar—who is it that sings?
The papiha makes me ache without the Beloved.

The papiha sings, yet the bhakta feels—The rhythm is mine, the song is mine; from afar, who is this that has begun to sing? It is the call of his life-breath—Pi—where?

Where is Paramatma? Where shall I search? In which direction shall I go? In which skies shall I seek? In which netherworlds shall I dig? Where is that One who will satisfy my very life-breaths, who will moisten my parched throat, who will carry this wandering stream of life to the ocean?

Piy-piy lavai sor, savati hoi dolai ho.
His name resounds “Beloved, Beloved”—the co-wife (the world) trembles.

Birahin rahai akel, so kaise kai jeevai ho.
She who knows separation lives alone—how could she live otherwise?

The jnani strives—How to be alone? He seeks solitude. The bhakta is amazed—he is alone even amidst the crowd!

Mark this wonder. Clear these distinctions and your choosing will be easy. The jnani goes to the forest to be alone; the bhakta says, Even standing in the market I am alone. For until Paramatma is found, how can there be togetherness? Until then I am alone! The crowd is there, the market goes on, the road flows—fine; but I remain alone. His life-breaths are ever fixed in Paramatma.

Ud jaa pi ke des re panchhi, ud jaa pi ke des—
Fly, O bird, to the Beloved’s land, fly to the Beloved’s land.
The ways of love are forgotten;
sweet dreams and heady nights;
those words that drown the mind—
the world has changed its face, O bird.
Fly to the Beloved’s land...

The temple of the heart is abandoned;
the bonds of love are broken;
relationships with sorrow are forged—
they have gone to dwell in a foreign land, O bird.
Fly to the Beloved’s land...

No raga now, no monsoon rain;
neither those days, nor those nights;
not that old savor—
the homeland too is a foreign land, O bird.
Fly to the Beloved’s land...

Without you, Beloved, there is no peace;
the lamp of love is dying;
remembrance of the Beloved makes the mind writhe—
Carry this message, O bird.
Fly to the Beloved’s land...

Each moment, one ache—How to spread my wings? How to fly to the Beloved’s land! And everything reminds me. Each thing in the world points and gestures toward Him.

Birahin rahai akel, so kaise kai jeevai ho.
She who has known separation from Paramatma, who has called Him with love—she is alone—alone in the crowded bazaar. She does not need to seek aloneness.

Jekare ami ke chaah, jahar kas peevai ho.
Whoever has desired nectar—how will he drink poison?

Whoever desires Paramatma—whoever longs for amrit—this world slips off from him of itself; he does not need to renounce it. The jnani must renounce, must strive. From the bhakta it falls away. For when the remembrance of the Beloved begins to rise, nothing here seems meaningful. If the taste of nectar begins to come, will he drink poison? The swan who remembers Manas Sarovar—will he sit in your village pond in the mud? He will spread his wings and fly to Manas Sarovar. The swan who pecks pearls—will he peck pebbles? Hansa to moti chugai—the swan pecks pearls!

As the bhakta’s love for Paramatma grows dense, the taste of nectar comes. This taste does not come from without. Within your life-breaths the wine is distilled. This intoxication wells up from within. The bhakta begins to sway—sways in ecstasy. His tears quickly turn into song. His melancholy quickly becomes music. His separation swiftly draws near to union. The denser the separation, the sooner union happens. The very moment separation becomes complete—union takes place.

Jekare ami ke chaah, jahar kas peevai ho.
Abharan dehu bahay, basan dhai pharaoh ho.

The renunciate, the jnani—he leaves, but in leaving his ego becomes strong. He keeps accounts within—How many fasts did I do? How much wealth did I leave? Which positions did I abandon? He speaks of it again and again. He does not forget it. Gradually he increases it. Slowly he speaks grandly—I have renounced so much! I am a great renunciate! But the bhakta’s renunciation happens in another way—the right way. His ornaments drop; his adornments fall away; his make-up is undone. For when the Beloved is in a far land—what adornment? what jewels?

Abharan dehu bahay—
He lets his ornaments flow away.
Basan dhai pharaoh ho—
He tears his garments. For whom do we wear garments? Not for ourselves, for others. For whom do we wear jewels? Not for ourselves, for others. When the Beloved is about to come, we dress as a bride. But if the Beloved is far away, no news of Him arrives—the parted woman does not sit adorned; her hair falls, dries out. She knows not when the ornaments slipped from her hands, when they dropped. She does not remember when the clothes were torn. It all happens of itself.

This is the wonder of Bhakti—that what the jnani must do by effort upon effort happens unasked to the bhakta. Paramatma’s grace to the bhakta is abundant. The jnani must do it alone; the bhakta is helped by Paramatma.

Tod do mera jaam—
Break my goblet,
for now I can no longer drink.
If the thirst is quenched I shall no longer live—
break my goblet.

Thirst—the ocean of sweet dreams;
thirst—the brimming pitcher of tearful eyes;
the end of dreams—
for now I can no longer drink.
If the thirst is quenched I shall no longer live—
break my goblet.

Thirst—the night of lovely love;
thirst—the bride of intoxicating form;
waves at every step—
for now I can no longer drink…
Break my goblet.

Lamp, mirror, flower, stars—
leave them, something calls ahead;
life is a battle—
for now I can no longer drink…
Break my goblet.

Thirst—the juicy dream of union;
companion of our childhood;
yt has turned yellow and ill-famed—
for now I can no longer drink…
Break my goblet.

Thirst—the old custom of the world;
the sweet shade of hopes—
let me take some rest—
for now I can no longer drink…
Break my goblet.

Thirst—well-known to me;
thirst—the queen of my heart;
thirst—my reward—
for now I can no longer drink…
Break my goblet.

The bhakta breaks his goblet. He has drunk everything this world had to offer and found it futile. He drank all—and the thirst was not quenched. He drank all—and the thirst only grew.

Thirst—well-known to me;
thirst—the queen of my heart—
Now he is filled with the thirst of Paramatma. Now he says, I will turn this well-known thirst toward Paramatma.

Thirst—well-known to me;
thirst—the queen of my heart;
thirst—my reward—
for now I can no longer drink…
Break my goblet.

Now there is nothing here worthy of drinking. He breaks his goblet in this world—not because the world is sin, not because living in the world is vile. He does not leave poison because it is poison; he leaves poison because within him the longing for nectar has arisen. He leaves thorns not because they are thorns; he leaves them because the hope of flowers—the flowers have come near, his hands are reaching for them; thus the thorns fall away of themselves.

The jnani says: first renunciation—then Paramatma will be found, or knowledge, or truth, or whatever name you prefer—moksha, nirvana. First renunciation! Through renunciation knowledge arises, through renunciation nirvana! But the bhakta says: if the taste of nirvana comes, renunciation happens. Not renunciation first. If the taste of nectar comes, the goblet of poison slips from the hand and shatters.

Piy bin kaun singar, sis dai maarau ho.
Without the Beloved what adornment?—I feel like smashing my head against the wall.

Bhukh na lagai neend, birah hiye karkai ho.
What hunger? What sleep? In the heart there is a pang, a crack; a lightning flashes and flashes—
Birah hiye karkai ho.

Maang sendur masi poch…
Wipe away the vermilion from the parting of the hair;
Nain jal dharkai ho—
wipe away the kohl from the eyes—
if you do not wipe, it will flow anyway. For the monsoon that has begun from the eyes—the tears for Paramatma—the shower has begun—kohl will wash away; better wipe it off.

Kekhain karai singar, so kahin dikhavai ho.
For whom now to adorn yourself? To whom to show it? The one who sees is not in sight. Until His glance falls, until the eye of Paramatma rests upon you—there is no adornment, no hunger, no thirst.

Jekar piy pardes, so kahin rijhavai ho.
Rahai charan chit laai, soyi dhan aagar ho.
Do not waste time in adornment. Do not spend your time in pleasing the world. The one who is intelligent, skillful, wise—he sets his entire effort to a single work.

Rahai charan chit laai, soyi dhan aagar ho.
He alone is blessed, he alone is wise, who places his entire mind at the feet of Paramatma; gathers his energy from everywhere and dedicates it to the One.

Paltu Das ke shabd, birah ke sagar ho.
Paltu says, Do not take offense. My words will give birth to tears within you; they will stir the ocean of separation. In your little pitcher, an ocean of separation can be born.

Paltu Das says, Do not be annoyed at my words. For whoever has not burned in separation will never know the bliss of union. Whoever has not drunk the poison of separation—he has not received the nectar of union.

Separation is preparation. Separation is qualification. When the vessel is ready, only then can Paramatma enter you.

Tumne kyon vah geet sunaya—
Why did you sing that song,
whose cadence held sleeping the melodies of my mind?
A storm rose upon life’s ocean, the foam of sorrow spread;
waves of sorrow rose and washed away joy and peace—
Why did you sing that song?

Dreams left my eyes; a darkness spread;
a terrible anxiety has encircled my mind;
what karma broke, that showed such a day—
Why did you sing that song?

From fog of clouds emerged the moon’s little boat;
slowly, slowly it moves—there is no helmsman;
stars have cast a shimmering net upon the sky—
Why did you sing that song?

Upon waves of peace my life’s boat was floating;
you were the oar, and you the helmsman;
such winds of sorrow arose and flung me into a whirlpool—
Why did you sing that song?

Early morning, the wind caressed the soles of flowers;
those drunk with sleep awoke when the dew washed their mouths;
droplet by droplet, the buds were awakened—
Why did you sing that song?

Flowers had bloomed on every branch—
verdant, crimson, rosy, black, mauve, blue, yellow—
a single lotus of hope—and that too has wilted now—
Why did you sing that song?

The morning star smiled behind a dry twig;
turning on my bed, remembrance of the Beloved made me writhe again and again;
a cloud of sorrow rose in my mind, the eyes rained—
Why did you sing that song?

Listen to the bhaktas, listen to their song, and pain will arise, the fire of separation will blaze. The bhakta pours his words like fuel into you so that a flame rises within you—a flame that no one but Paramatma can quench.

The fire the guru kindles—Paramatma quenches it. The true sadguru is the one who sets you aflame.

But you go to those who, in the name of gurus, give you consolation—not fire; comfort—not truth; lullabies—not wakefulness. They do not remind you of the Beloved dwelling in a foreign land. Your hope from saints is this: go there and receive a little comfort, a little consolation…

A friend’s son died. He came to me and said, I have come for comfort, for consolation; I am greatly pained—my young son has passed away!
I said, Then you have come to the wrong place. You should have gone elsewhere. There is no shortage of sadhus and saints in this country! And I stand apart from that crowd.

The Kumbh Mela was near. I said, Go to the Kumbh. There you will find as much consolation as you want—sadhu-saint, pundit-priest. If you have come to me, I will give you more fire. I will tell you: your son is gone—consider this: when the son has gone, how long can the father remain?
He was annoyed at once: What are you saying? I am perfectly healthy—everything is fine. And you speak such ill-omened words!

People do not wish to hear: you too will not remain. I told him, whether you hear or not, I have said it. It has entered your ear; you will remember it; you cannot forget. You will not remain. No one remains. Your son has reminded you. Why seek consolation now? Seek Paramatma—not consolation. Seek that which never dies. Seek amrit—death has reminded you. The son has died. Was the son not healthier than you?
He said, That is true.
What disease did he have?
None; suddenly his heartbeat stopped.
I said, He was forty-five, and he is gone; you are seventy-five. Do you still hope to live?

But people seek consolation. He was an MP, a member of parliament—the oldest member. They called him the father of parliament; since the British times he had been a member. He had not lost an election in fifty years. He was wealthy, had influence.

He went to Delhi, met Acharya Tulsi. Tulsi closed his eyes and said, No need to worry; your son has been born a deva in the seventh heaven.
His heart blossomed. This is consolation! This is to meet a saint! He remembered me—one who said, You too will not remain. Here, a saint who immediately closed his eyes, traveled to subtle realms, and brought back news—seventh heaven!
When he returned, he told me, This is saintliness! I have great reverence for Acharya Tulsi.
I asked, What happened?
He said, He closed his eyes quickly—astonishing capacity—did not take even a moment—and at once, seventh heaven! He opened his eyes and said, No worry—your son is a deva in the seventh heaven.
I said, I suggest another saint. A faqir I know—his name is Ram. If you go to Allahabad, meet Ram. He is far more advanced. Tulsi goes only to the seventh; Ram travels to seven hundred. Tulsi’s journey is nothing great. To the seventh heaven anyone can go; it is the work of small saints.
He asked, Are there seven hundred heavens?
I said, Seven hundred heavens and seven hundred hells. Ram is skilled in this trade.

In the meantime Ram had visited me; I instructed him what to say. The MP went and met Ram. Ram closed his eyes, swayed, moved hands and feet, stood up. The MP was impressed—Tulsi had only sat and opened his eyes in a minute; this man is surely traveling! He turned, stood, closed his eyes, opened them, looked to the sky, then to the underworld—just as I had asked him to do. Then he said, Forgive me—shall I tell the truth, or consolation?
When someone asks thus, Who dares ask for consolation over truth? So he said, Truth, please.
Ram said, Your son has become a ghost and resides seven miles from your village, in such-and-such a village, in a garden, on a peepal tree.
It was his own garden. I had given Ram all the details—village name, peepal tree. The MP was terrified.
He returned and said to me, Where did you send me! This man has ruined everything. And he seems true, because it is exactly seven miles away; the village name, the garden, the peepal tree—a huge ancient peepal! He says my son has become a ghost on that tree. I cannot go to that village now; I must sell that garden.
He began to fear so much—son a ghost! And what is seven miles for a ghost? In a second he can come! I told him, Whether you go or not, your son can come. Lock your doors tight at night; some night he may arrive and create a scene!

He asked, Why did you send me to that man? I had completely agreed with Tulsi.
I told him, Neither Tulsi is right, nor is Ram. Ram said what I taught him. Tulsi said what you wanted to hear—what you taught him. The simple truth is: death is unavoidable. You too will die. Prepare! The son has gone; you prepare!

He did not listen. He reduced visiting me. Who goes to such a man who says again and again…? Whenever he came I reminded him—Have you begun your preparation? What are your intentions—will you remain forever?

At last he died. Those with him told me that at the moment of death he remembered me and said, If only I had listened! Instead, I even stopped going to him. Had I listened, I might have taken something with me today. I go empty-handed.

But people want consolation. Therefore Paltu says:

Paltu Das ke shabd, birah ke sagar ho.
Remember—do not be angry. These are oceans of separation. But whoever dives into the ocean of separation attains the ocean of union.

Prem-baan jogi maaral ho, kaskai hiya mor.
Paltu says, I will do to you what my guru did to me.
The yogi shot an arrow of love, tight and true; my heart was pierced through and through. The same will I do to you.

Prem-baan jogi maaral ho, kaskai hiya mor.

Jogia ke laali-laali ankhiyan ho, jas kanwal ke phool.
When I saw my guru, his intoxicated eyes—red-red, like lotuses in bloom—from that day I became his madman. That ecstasy! That wine shrouding his eyes! That intoxication from some other world! That woozy charm! His gait! His sitting, his rising!

Jogia ke laali-laali ankhiyan ho…
His eyes were red—steeped in a color—as if the morning sun rose from his eyes, as if dawn spread on the horizon.

Jas kanwal ke phool—
like red-red lotus flowers—such were his eyes.

The ochre has been chosen as the color of sannyas for this reason: it is the color of ecstasy; the color of spring; the color of the merrily intoxicated; the color of drink; the color of the one who has drunk even a little of Paramatma. Such a one sets his foot somewhere and it lands somewhere else!

Prem-baan jogi maaral ho, kaskai hiya mor.
Jogia ke laali-laali ankhiyan ho, jas kanwal ke phool.
Hamri surukh chunariya ho, doonon bhaye tool.
He shot the love-arrow, and my scarf turned red too—soaked with blood, a fountain burst forth. My crimson scarf and his red lotuses—both became one.

Laali mere laal ki, jit dekhun tit laal;
Laali dekhne main gayi, main bhi ho gayi laal.
The redness of my Red—wherever I look, red.
I went to see his redness—and I too became red.

Jogia ke leun mirg-chhalwa ho, aapan pat cheer;
Doonon ke siyab gudariya ho, hoi jaib faqir.
We stitched his deer-skin and my torn cloth together and made a single patchwork cloak. The disciple and the master became one—no distance, no gap, no difference—doubts and arguments far behind. Only then does the supreme experience happen, and the doors of mystery open.

Gagana mein singiya bajainhi ho, takinhi mori or.
He climbed into the sky and blew the trumpet; from the sky he looked toward me. The whole sky looked at me; the stars of the sky became the eyes of my guru; and the anahat-nada of the sky poured over me.

Gagana mein singiya bajainhi ho, takinhi mori or.
Then for the first time I saw: in whom I had dissolved—he is not only my guru—he is Paramatma.

It is not without reason that disciples have called their guru Paramatma. Not without reason that Kabir said:
Guru Govind dou khade, kake laagun paanv;
Balihaari guru apne, Govind diyo batay.
Guru and Govind both stand—whose feet shall I touch?
Blessed my guru—who showed me Govind.

Chanchal badal jhoom ke chhaye, gaye man matwala;
Pal-pal aanchal ude hawa mein, chalke roop ka pyala;
Meethe-meethe geet sunae yeh nadiya ka shor;
Udta badal dekh-dekh ke nach utha man mor;
Saawan ki albeli rut ne kaisa rang nikala—
Chanchal badal jhoom ke chhaye, gaye man matwala.

So my heady youth looses arrows upon the wind,
as if an unseen dream ripples in the eyes;
How shall I keep love without a mate?—my love is rare.
Chanchal badal jhoom ke chhaye, gaye man matwala.

My love-filled heart longs for an unseen Love;
dark masses have gathered—who knows when they’ll rain?
I think, whom shall I make the keeper of my life?
Chanchal badal jhoom ke chhaye, gaye man matwala.

Soon, weeping turns to song. Soon, from the fire of separation, the lotuses of union bloom. But preparation is needed—the readiness to drown! The readiness to be intoxicated with the guru’s intoxication!

Gagana mein singiya bajainhi ho, takinhi mori or;
Chitvan mein man har liyo ho, jogia bad chor.
He cast that celestial glance—and stole my mind. The yogi is a great thief!

We even call God a thief. Hari literally means: thief, one who steals. In no language of the world is there such a sweet word for God as in ours—Hari. There is no comparison. The Muslims have a hundred names—beautiful: merciful, compassionate, Rahim, Rahman, just. Lovely words. But none equals Hari; all a hundred fade before it. Thief!

This is the language of love. Those other words are of intellect—just, compassionate, merciful, and so on. The language of the mind. All the fine qualities are attributed to God. But the lover knows one thing: He steals our heart. There is no greater attribute. All else comes afterward. First this happens—He steals our heart. He does not ask—He steals. Without permission. We don’t even notice when the theft occurred! The pocket is picked—and only then we realize. He is a master thief.

And the guru is only His representative. The guru’s art too is theft.

Gang-Jamun ke bichwan ho, bahai jhirhir neer;
Tehin thaiyan joral snehia ho, Hari le gayo peer.
Between Ganga and Yamuna, a fine stream flows. There, in that place, he joined me in love—and Hari stole my pain.

Understand this symbol. We call Prayag the great pilgrimage. The physical Prayag is only a symbol—an expression of a spiritual truth. We say three rivers meet at Prayag—Ganga, Yamuna, and Saraswati. Ganga and Yamuna are visible; Saraswati is unseen. Such is the state of each person. Each person is a Prayag; within him three streams meet. The body is visible; the mind is visible—these are Ganga and Yamuna. Between them, an unseen stream of consciousness trickles—that is not seen; its name is Saraswati. Therefore Saraswati is called the goddess of knowing—of prajna.

The guru gave me recognition. He separated Ganga and Yamuna and showed me the hidden stream between—united me with the witness.

Gang-Jamun ke bichwan ho, bahai jhirhir neer;
Tehin thaiyan joral snehia ho, Hari le gayo peer.
From that place he joined me, to that destination he brought me—the invisible, the unutterable! He called it a place, a resting—thaiyan. Tehin thaiyan joral snehia ho—by love he united me to that place; by love he merged me with the invisible, the indescribable. In love!

Tehin thaiyan joral snehia ho, Hari le gayo peer.
He not only stole my heart. With that theft another theft occurred: all my pain, all my suffering—He stole away. Behind, only an ocean of bliss remained.

Jogia amar marai nahin ho, pujval mori aas;
Karam likha bar paval ho, gavai Paltu Das.
Whoever has known this yoga—this union—yoga means union—whoever has known the union of the self and Paramatma—there is no death for him; he attains amrit.

Jogia amar marai nahin ho, pujval mori aas—
this is my shining hope.
Karam likha bar paval ho—
it is written in your destiny; you shall obtain Him. Paltu Das sings.

Do not be afraid. Even if the path is dark—do not be anxious. Even if it is thorny—do not turn back. Even if the fire of separation torments—do not be disheartened. To meet Paramatma is your birthright. It is your intrinsic right.

Karam likha bar paval ho—
He will be found; it is written. You may delay—by days or by births—that is your freedom. But one day this marriage will happen. Why delay then? Let the marriage be! Let the raas be enacted! Let love awaken! After love awakens, after union happens, for the first time you will know the meaning of life; for the first time, the majesty of life; for the first time, the poetry, the music, the festival of life!

O tambur-bajate rahi, gaate rahi,
jaate rahi—
We must go to the Beloved’s land.

Mandali-mandali, chaukhat-chaukhat—
jha jhin jha jhin dig tat dig tat—
let the mind’s melody fly.
But do not sing the songs of my sorrows, my pains.
O tambur-bajate rahi, gaate rahi,
jaate rahi—
we must go to the Beloved’s land.

Soch bhare mukh, jahar piye man—
bind their hopes;
jhanan jhanan jhan jhanan jhanan jhan—
sing songs of union;
In every lane become the intoxicated wind of the monsoon season.
O tambur-bajate rahi, gaate rahi,
jaate rahi—
we must go to the Beloved’s land.

Let life have one goal only: to go to the Beloved’s land.

O tambur-bajate rahi, gaate rahi,
jaate rahi—
we must go to the Beloved’s land.

Let nothing obstruct this supreme goal—wealth, position, prestige. Let nothing obstruct it—family, the dear ones, friends. Keep remembering: let nothing obstruct this supreme goal.

There are a thousand obstacles, a thousand temptations. Your state is like that of a small child in a fair—shops full of toys. He is pulled to this shop—to buy that toy; to that shop—for another toy. He wants to buy them all. Such is your condition.

The world is a fair, its shops hung with toys—of many kinds, many colors, pleasing to the mind. But all are toys. However many you buy, they will break; all will be left here. And you will have to go empty-handed.

Resolve: I will not go empty-handed.

O tambur-bajate rahi, gaate rahi,
jaate rahi—
we must go to the Beloved’s land.

Mandali-mandali, chaukhat-chaukhat—
jha jhin jha jhin dig tat dig tat—
let the mind’s melody fly;
but do not sing my pains.

O tambur-bajate rahi, gaate rahi,
jaate rahi—
we must go to the Beloved’s land.

Soch bhare mukh, jahar piye man—
bind their hopes;
jhanan jhanan jhan jhanan jhanan jhan—
sing the songs of union;
In every lane become the intoxicated wind of Saawan.

O tambur-bajate rahi, gaate rahi,
jaate rahi—
we must go to the Beloved’s land.

Enough for today.