Kahe Hot Adheer #5

Two eyes weep
Two eyes weep, without the Beloved two eyes weep.
The season shifted, the mustard bloomed—
I went mad, forgot all sense and knowing.
Drizzle-drizzle the clouds keep raining,
The heart grows greedy, thirsts for a glimpse.
Again this sinner lost her mind, again became the flow of the Yamuna—
Two eyes weep,
Without the Beloved
Two eyes weep.
Two eyes weep, without the Beloved two eyes weep.
Clouds thunder, lightning shatters,
The fire of separation blazes within.
The cuckoo coos—kuhu, kuhu—
The body shivers, the life sways.
For a breath the worry-stricken, for a breath the sorrowing separated one—
No peace ever comes,
Without the Beloved—
Two eyes weep.
Two eyes weep, without the Beloved two eyes weep.
His night passed in laughter and songs—
Mine passed in flowing tears.
His was spent sleeping-sleeping—
Mine was spent weeping-weeping.
What of it now, it has passed; it was a night, and the night has passed—
The night has passed,
Without the Beloved—
Two eyes weep.
Two eyes weep, without the Beloved two eyes weep.
Tell me the fault of me, the faultless;
Why are you displeased—help me understand.
Laments burst, breaking through the chest,
Like birds they flew, wings pressed tight.
Let the Beloved come, my love come—
Come, and having come, hear
The lament of this sorrowing one.
Without the Beloved—
Two eyes weep.
Two eyes weep, without the Beloved two eyes weep.
Two eyes weep.

There is a vairagya born of love’s upsurge; and there is a vairagya born of arithmetic. The vairagya born of arithmetic is false; there is cunning in it, there is bookkeeping in it, intellect is there, but no heart, no love, no feeling. The vairagya that arises from calculation is a means; the end is heaven, the pleasures of heaven; liberation, the bliss of liberation. But such vairagya is only a means. And when vairagya is a means it is not true. One does it because it has to be done; one does it out of a sense of duty. There is no warmth of feeling, no heartbeat of the heart, no dance of the life-breath. The tears in the eyes are false—accounting tears. One must weep in prayer—so one weeps; not because the weeping cannot be stopped, not even if one tries to stop it—then the matter is different, then the meaning is different!

There is a vairagya born of the thirst for union with the Lord. The Lord is not present; the Lord is not found; the Lord seems far; the Beloved is so far away. The path is dark, thorn-strewn. Will one ever be able to reach? Is union even possible? In this pain someone weeps; in this viraha someone burns—then vairagya is true. And only then does vairagya carry you across; only then does vairagya become a ladder.

Palatu Das says:
Jani koi hovai bairagi ho, bairag kathin hai.
Rarely does anyone become a true vairagi. Jani koi hovai bairagi ho! Once in a while, one among millions becomes truly renounced. On the surface many appear to be renunciates—ash smeared, sacred fires tended. But behind all this is the greed for heaven. Behind it too is desire. The prayer is on the surface; inside it is only desire. Whether desire is for the world or the otherworld—what difference does it make? Desire is desire. Whether one covets wealth or religion, rupees or heaven, to conquer the world or to conquer heaven—behind every wish is the same ego: May I become great! May my kingdom grow! May my possession be vast!

The worldly man’s greed is small; the greed of the one you call a sadhu is far greater. He is striving so that even the treasures of heaven may become his. The fleeting does not satisfy him; he hankers for the eternal.

Jani koi hovai bairagi...

That is why a true vairagi is found with great difficulty. The true vairagi does not weep because weeping is a method to attain the Divine; he weeps: Where is the Divine? Where shall I search? Where is His door? Where is His path? Tears come from his very life. His blood drips as droplets of tears.

Vairagya is not thinking and consideration; it is the matter of feeling, of the heart. Hence the true vairagi will seem mad. The false vairagi moves with much arithmetic: fast so many days, observe so many vows—and heaven will be gained; so much asana, so much exercise, so much pranayama—and heaven will be gained. On one pan of the scale he keeps vairagya, and hopes that heaven will descend upon the other. The true vairagi does not weep to gain anything. The true vairagi doesn’t speak of gaining at all. The arrow of separation is lodged in his chest; a storm has risen in his very breath. He feels utterly alone and without Paramatma he writhes—Palatu says later: like a fish without water! When you take a fish out of water, the fish does not think: the scriptures say now I should weep; the scriptures say now I should writhe; the scriptures say that when the fish is separated from the water and does not weep or writhe, it does not befit the fish.

When you separate a fish from the ocean it writhes—not from calculation, not from scripture. The writhing is spontaneous, natural, self-sprung. When vairagya too is self-sprung, then it is true. In whom the non-presence of God begins to grate, in whom His absence begins to cut deep—within such a one a true vairagya is born.

Among Jain monks I have never seen vairagya; though in India they appear the greatest renunciates. Hindu sannyasins or Buddhist bhikkhus—if one measures renunciation by arithmetic—fall far behind the Jains. The Jain monk’s renunciation is immense; his scale of renunciation is heavy. But it is all arithmetic. Hence it is all false.

Mahavira’s renunciation was of another flavor. If Mahavira remained without food for many days, it was not because fasting gives heaven. He remained without food for long stretches because in the search for truth hunger did not arise, thirst did not arise, the body was forgotten. This is no ritual. But the Jain monk’s fasting is ritual—running by calculation. He carries a map; he lives by that map.

Intellect makes everything hollow. Depth is not in intellect; nor can it be.

Jani koi hovai bairagi ho, bairag kathin hai.

And therefore vairagya is difficult—not because of vairagya. Vairagya in itself is simple, spontaneous; it is difficult because of you. For you have sat cross-legged in the head; you have forgotten the heart entirely. From where the spark could arise, that source you have misplaced. Within you there is a heart too, there is another plane of life, another depth, another dimension—you have forgotten it. You live only on the surface. On the surface is thinking; in depth is the non-thought. On the surface is arithmetic, logic; in depth is love.

Those who have begun to live only in the intellect—because they are stuck in the intellect—vairagya has become difficult for them. They do everything, but everything is false. They labor hard, but it goes in vain.

Jesus said: As a man took a handful of seeds and scattered them—some fell on the path, some on rocks, some upon soil, but barren soil—and some upon soil that was fertile. The seeds were alike. Those that fell upon rocks will never sprout. Though they had the capacity to sprout, they fell in the wrong place—upon stone.

So you have fallen upon the skull. The skull is stone. Nothing grows there. Nothing has ever grown there. There is only desert there; no oasis. Where the spring of feeling does not flow, how shall there be an oasis? How will trees be green or flowers burst into color? There will not even be the song of birds. Even the moon and stars will not appear. It is a night of new moon—starless; a dense darkness. The seed that has fallen upon rock—it too had the capacity to become a flower, to become fragrance, to flood the sky with its scent, to sweeten the heavens with its honeyed breath. But no—it will die—because it fell upon stone; because it fell in the wrong place.

Those that fall on the path will also not sprout; though not on stone, yet where people come and go—the traffic of many feet will crush them again and again and destroy them.

In your skull there is not only stone; there is heavy traffic. What a traffic of thoughts! From morning to evening, evening to morning—it goes on. Not one, not two, but hundreds of thousands of thoughts. In your skull the fair of Kumbha is eternally on. First, stone; then the Kumbha fair of thoughts—a crowd of millions! This stream flows incessantly. Not only in the day, at night too. You sleep—still the stream does not stop. It runs twenty-four hours. If by some slip a seed could sprout, it would be trampled and perish in this ceaseless traffic.

And then, Jesus said, some seeds fall upon barren land.

Your skull has a third attribute too—it is utterly barren. Till today no creation has ever arisen from the human brain; no invention has been born there; nothing truly new has arrived from it. You will be astonished: scientists, who do not accept the heart—even their supreme discoveries happen through the heart, not through the brain!

Madame Curie, who won the Nobel Prize, had been trying to solve a mathematical problem for three years and could not. She had exerted all her power. One of the greatest mathematicians of the century—she had exhausted every strength; yet the problem would not yield. She was tired. One evening, utterly spent, she fell asleep. She thought: From tomorrow I must drop this attempt; it will not be solved. Three years are enough for one question. Even patience has a limit. She was no Palatu to say: Why be impatient! In three years anyone would grow impatient. Exhausted, she fell asleep. In the morning when she awoke she was astonished—on the table, the answer she had been seeking was written on a paper! She had locked the door; no one had entered. And even if someone had, if a problem that Madame Curie could not solve—could a servant solve it? A thief? The door had been locked; no one had come in. Then she looked closely—the handwriting was her own. Then she remembered she had risen in the night in a dream. A dream had come that she rose, went to the table, wrote something, and slept again. Slowly the whole memory returned. The answer had come from within her. The brain had been defeated in three years; when it tired, the answer arose from within—from another dimension. It was the heart’s answer.

The great discoveries of science do not happen through intellect; though intellect claims them. The heart makes no claim. The intellect is crafty; that which is born of the heart, it seizes—even declares to the world: I created it!

No supreme poetry of the world is born out of intellect; it is born of the heart. Whether the Upanishads or the Quran—they are the heart’s manifestations. They come from where thoughts cannot reach, but where love moves. Thoughts live a hollow and false life. Thoughts are hypocrites. Logics they arrange—so neat that they seem perfectly right, and yet are utterly wrong.

Mulla Nasruddin bought a bicycle. He said to the shopkeeper: The strongest and most durable bicycle—price is no issue.

The shopkeeper gave the best and said: Nasruddin, within one year there will be no breakage—guaranteed.

Mulla mounted the cycle; Chandulal sat on the carrier; they set out homeward. Fifteen minutes later they were back. Boiling with rage, Mulla yelled at the shopkeeper: This is the limit of dishonesty! A whole year’s guarantee—and within an hour the breaking begins! Take back your bicycle! We don’t want it!

What are you saying! Where did anything break? asked the shopkeeper, amazed.

You can’t see? Are you blind? Mulla shouted. Four of my teeth are broken—and this poor Chandulal’s precious spectacles are broken!

Such is the condition of the intellect. All seems logical there—because it is all verbal. Breakage! The intellect takes the literal meaning elsewhere. The intellect has no knowledge of real meanings—nor can it. It is not of that capacity. We should not even expect that of it; in the expectation lies our mistake. Meanings are experienced in the heart. Words are hollow; without meanings they have no value. And such is the hollowness of that vairagya which is not born out of the heart.

Pandit Matkanath Brahmachari had to buy a buffalo for his ashram. He went to the cattle market. One buffalo pleased him—its body healthy and strong, face radiant, tail long, teeth white, legs shapely, gait proud, and the horns very handsome. She had just borne her first calf. She gave twenty kilos of milk daily. But the price too was not small. The seller was unwilling to take less than five thousand. The Brahmachari moved on.

Ahead, Chandulal stood to sell his sacred, religious, bony buffalo with a broken leg and stiff tail. Her teeth were rotten, and her horns askew. The body was merely a skeleton. Astonished, Pandit Matkanath asked: Arrey, Chandulal! You too are selling a buffalo?

Yes, want to buy? asked Chandulal.

How much milk does she give?

Milk! She has never given milk till today!

And how many calves has she borne?

Chandulal replied: My buffalo has never borne even one calf—and never will.

Who will buy this? asked the Brahmachari. And how much is her price?

Not a penny less than twenty thousand.

Good Lord! Are you in your senses or drunk, Chandulal? Why such a high price?

Where is it high! said Chandulal. You are a Brahmachari and don’t understand the meaning of brahmacharya? The buffalo is a brahmachari—a born celibate. And it is character alone that has price!

Your sadhus, your renouncers, your mahatmas are merely Chandulal’s buffalo. Their character, their vairagya, their vows and fasts, their saintliness—all false; all on the surface; impotent, devoid of vigor; nothing creative ever arises from it.

Real Brahmacharya is creative—something is born of it. If children are not born, Upanishads will be. If children are not born, a Quran will be. If children are not born, some beautiful song, some dance, some veena will sing, some flute will play. But birth there will be. If not on the plane of the body, then on the plane of the soul. From it Buddhahood is born, Jinhood is born. From it true vairagya is born.

But there must be a precise discernment between the real and the counterfeit. Because the counterfeit is easy to obtain, cheap to find. The counterfeit is very convenient. You need not lose anything; nothing needs to be staked. You need not do anything. People are ready to give the fake; you only have to agree to receive it. Even if you do not agree, they will impose it upon you. The counterfeit is a mask.

It was Holi, and villagers caught hold of their leader. All year long there was pent-up anger against him, and Holi is the occasion—to vent fully. They cursed him roundly, abused thoroughly, shook and tossed the leader. Holi is made for this very release—what one could not do all year, there is one day’s freedom. They smeared his face with coal tar so that lifetimes would be required to wash it off. In the evening they went to see how he fared, for the coal tar stuck so deep that skin might well peel off but not the tar. Yet there sat the leader, in crisp white khadi, smiling on the chair! His face was just as it had been—no tar, no stain, no mark. Amazed, they asked: We smeared coal tar in the morning—what happened to it?

The leader said: There it is in the corner! A mask lay there, smeared with tar. Do you think we go into the market with our real faces? The real face we leave at home—we go with a mask. That which you smeared is there—that is not my face.

All people wear masks. All could be forgiven, but those whom you call mahatmas, renouncers, votaries—they too wear masks. They cannot be forgiven. But masks are cheap; available in the bazaar. If you wish to change your true face into God’s face, then labor will be needed; sadhana will be needed. And the first aphorism of labor and sadhana is this: one must come down from the head and dive into the heart. One must drop logic and take up trust.

Jani koi hovai bairagi ho, bairag kathin hai.

Jag ki aasa karai na kabahun, pani pive na mangi ho.

The meaning of vairagya: keep no hope from the world.

Buddha has said: Blessed are those who are totally hopeless.

At first hearing, it surprises. To call the hopeless blessed! We encourage the hopeless: Leave despair, leave dejection! Arrey, rise! If not today, tomorrow it will happen. Keep striving again and again. If you are defeated once, why be shaken! Remember Mahmud of Ghazni—defeated seventeen times, he attacked the eighteenth time and won! Keep hope alive and keep moving.

In America this motto has become America’s: Try again and again!

I have heard: a couple, after years of effort, could not conceive a child. Great pain, great sorrow! Life slipping through their hands—and so they would die barren! At last they placed a notice in the paper: Twenty years of marriage, no child—if anyone has any suggestions, please send.

From every corner of the world, suggestions arrived. Different nations, different ways. Someone from America wrote: Keep trying, try again and again, do not lose! Do not lose courage, do not forget God. If not today then tomorrow, if not tomorrow then the day after—labor’s fruit is assured. Try again and again!

An Indian wrote: Through yoga even the impossible becomes possible. Do shirshasana (headstand). You have spent twenty years standing on your feet—now stand on your head. What does not happen standing on your feet may happen standing on your head.

A Muslim wrote: Offer a votive at the shrine of such-and-such fakir.

Thousands of such suggestions arrived. And a Frenchman wrote: Can I be of any service? Give me the opportunity to serve; what you could not do—perhaps I can.

But Buddha says: Blessed are the hopeless.

His meaning is utterly different; not what you think. Hopelessness is not negative for him. He says: The one who understands that in this world no hope can ever be fulfilled—that one is not saddened; he rejoices: a truth is in the hand. In his hopelessness there are not the thorns of sorrow, but the flowers of bliss. A supreme truth is found—is that a matter for sadness? Dance! Sing! Hence: Blessed are the hopeless.

Someone was trying to extract oil from sand; when it becomes clear that there is no oil in sand, one will dance: The nuisance is dropped—otherwise how long would one keep pressing sand! And oil was never going to come from sand, because there is no oil in sand.

In this world no craving is ever fulfilled, no desire ever completed.

Jag ki aasa karai na kabahun, pani pive na mangi ho.

Do not ask for anything, not even water! Drop the very gaze of asking. Drop the beggar’s stance. Desire makes you a beggar. However great an emperor you may be—if desire is within, if you still nurse hopes from the world—your hands will carry a begging bowl. You will ask: A little more, a little more! And that bowl is never filled. It remains empty, no matter how much is poured. Akbar’s bowl is not filled, Alexander’s is not filled, Napoleon’s is not filled—how will yours be? No one’s has ever been filled; you are not an exception. It is a rule without exception. The world is only a deception, a mirage. Distant drums sound sweet. From afar the horizon seems here, just here—walk a little and you will arrive. But the distance between you and the horizon remains the same—never an inch less—however fast you run. Because the horizon is not; it only appears.

The world only appears; it is not. Which world am I speaking of—these trees, these mountains? These are. Not that world—the world of your mind. The world of desire, of longing, of hankering. The wise called that Maya. And you began to think these mountains, these stones are Maya. They are not Maya; bang your head and you will know. This wall is not Maya; otherwise you would pass through—no doors would be needed.

This world is real. But there is another world that you have superimposed upon this world. You go to the cinema: the screen is real—a white screen; but the play of light and shadow upon it is false—not real.

This world is the screen—real. Upon it you have spread your dreams. The expansion of your own dreaming is what you see. And how many times have you done it! When will you awaken? For how many births have you been doing this? When will you take care?

The great detective Sherlock Holmes went with his friend Dr. Watson to the cinema. There was a scene of a horse race. Sherlock Holmes said: Watson, look, that yellow horse—he will win the race.

No-no, said Dr. Watson, I think the black horse will win; he is in front.

By the end of the race the yellow horse indeed ran fast, came forward, and won. Dr. Watson—astonished—said: My friend, I am proud of you. Granted you are the world’s finest detective—but how did you know the yellow horse would win when he was the last in the race?

This is no difficult matter, Watson, smiled Sherlock Holmes—I have seen this film many times before.

This world’s film you have seen how many times—and yet you do not know the yellow horse will win! You still keep hope that the black horse will win—because the black horse is ahead. Here, only the yellow horses win.

Jesus has a famous saying: Those that are last shall be first in my Father’s kingdom. It is the talk of the yellow horses—the one who was last. And those who are first here shall be last in my Father’s kingdom.

Who is last here? The one who has dropped all hope from life, has dropped the race itself—who is no longer running. That horse will win. The one who is not running at all—that one is a sannyasi. The one who has left the horse race, who sits by the side and rests—eyes closed, diving within. Whose goal is no longer outside anywhere; whose goal is within. Who has become inward-turned, who has taken a new pilgrimage—the inner pilgrimage. Only that one will win.

Jag ki aasa karai na kabahun, pani pive na mangi ho.

You ask for what not—do not even ask for water to drink! Because in this world thirst never gets quenched. Drink all you may—thirst keeps growing. There is no way here to quench thirst. Thirst is quenched only by drinking the Divine.

And the Divine is not attained by asking—the Divine is attained by dropping all asking. Remember this arithmetic. Ask for nothing—do not even ask for God. Do not ask for liberation. Do not ask at all! The very moment you come to that space, where in your consciousness not even a faint line of asking remains—in that very moment all is given. In that instant your pitcher fills from the ocean.

Bhukh pias chutai jab nindra, jiyat marai tan tyagi ho.

The one who dies while living—we call that one a tyagi, says Palatu. He lives as though he is not. He lives, but desire has died. His living leaves no footprints. As when you draw a line upon water—it does not remain. Or like a bird flying in the sky—no prints of feet are left. So lives the vairagi. In whose living there is no noise; whose living brings no one any dilemma, any conflict, any hurt. Whose living makes it seem as though he is not living at all. Who lives like a gust of wind—comes, and goes. Like a dry leaf—wherever the winds carry it, it goes. No personal will, no personal wish—who has left all to God! Who lets God live within and has ended himself. Who says: I am the puppet in Thy hands; if You make me dance, I dance; if You do not, I do not. If You make me move, I move; if You do not, I do not. If You carry me east, east; if west, west. Thou art my Master!

Bhukh pias chutai jab nindra...

Such a one is free of hunger, thirst and sleep. What does this mean? Do Buddhas not eat? Do Buddhas not drink water? Do Buddhas not rest at night?

They rest at night. They feel hunger. They drink water. And yet at a deeper plane—there is no hunger, no thirst, no sleep. Because while eating, the Buddha remains a witness—not the doer. Food goes into the body; the Buddha only watches—pure seer. Water goes into the body; the Buddha sees. The body lies down, grows tired, falls asleep; the Buddha watches. The Buddha is only a witness. The one who becomes a witness—then neither hunger nor thirst truly touches him.

I have heard an ancient tale from the days of Krishna, recorded in Jain scriptures. Krishna’s cousin Neminath became a Tirthankara of the Jains. Neminath had arrived. The Yamuna was in flood. Out of season the flood had come. Neminath was staying across the river. Krishna said to Rukmini: Go, take food. Serve Neminath a meal. He will not come to this shore. The river is in flood and a Jain muni does not wade in water. Leave the river—he does not even walk in the rains, for a puddle may be on the path, something may be. He does not walk upon wet ground—the talk of puddles aside. Because in damp soil tiny creatures arise; lest they be crushed. He does not walk upon grass, for among grasses small life may be hidden; they may be crushed. So he will not come through water; then you must go.

But she said: How shall we go? The flood is fierce! Even the boatmen refuse to ply the boat.

Krishna said: This is no obstacle. Go, and say to Yamuna: O Yamuna, if Neminath has fasted all his life, part thy waters and give a path! And I know the Yamuna will give a path. I know Neminath, and I know Yamuna too. Go!

Trust did not arise. But when Krishna says—let us try. And curiosity arose: Who knows, it might happen—what a wonder! Hesitant, skeptical, yet curious, Rukmini and her companions arranged many plates of food and reached the riverbank. It felt quite mad to say to the Yamuna: O Yamuna... Yet she said it, shyly: O Yamuna, if Neminath has fasted all his life, give a path! Eyes wide, they watched: the Yamuna gave a path—split in two, a way formed. Rukmini with her friends crossed carrying the trays. Naked Neminath sat under a tree. Seeing his body, it did not appear he had never eaten—such a healthy body!

Have you seen the images of the Jain Tirthankaras—the statues of Mahavira, Parshvanath, Neminath? Such healthy bodies! They say a body as beautiful as Mahavira’s has perhaps not happened on earth again.

Looking at him, it did not seem he had never eaten, that he had fasted always. But around such people, miracles happen. The Yamuna had just given a path—so who knows... And why else would the Yamuna yield! The impossible had become possible. They had brought many plates—Neminath brushed them all aside with one sweep. Food that could feed a hundred men—he alone consumed.

When he had eaten, Rukmini grew anxious: What will we say now? We never asked Krishna what should be done on the way back! For now we cannot say those words—how could we? And especially now—this man has not eaten a little, he has finished food for a hundred men! And it seems had we brought more, he would have eaten that too. And Neminath, eyes closed, sat again in meditation. Rukmini stood worried at the Yamuna’s bank: With what face shall we speak to Yamuna now! The earlier formula won’t work. Neminath asked: What is the dilemma? Why are you stuck? She said: This is the case. The earlier formula cannot work now. Neminath laughed and said: That formula will always work. Say again: If Neminath has fasted all his life, O Yamuna, give a path!

Earlier she had said it with doubt; now saying it felt like pure madness. But there was no other way. Rukmini said: O Yamuna, give a path if Neminath has fasted all his life. Yamuna gave a path again!

They asked Krishna: The secret is beyond us. Our curiosity for the Yamuna is satisfied; now our curiosity about Neminath is greater—how is he a lifelong faster! Before our eyes he polished off tray upon tray—now no one can deceive us that he is fasting. The Yamuna giving a path seems a small miracle now.

Krishna said: He is a faster, because he is a witness. Neminath did not eat. Neminath only watched. As you watched Neminath taking food, so within Neminath watched from behind—watching Neminath’s body taking food. You were watching; Neminath too was watching. The act of eating was happening in the body.

Remember this, otherwise this formula will put you in danger. Otherwise some foolish ones begin to attempt: Don’t eat, don’t drink, don’t sleep at night. Sleep too, eat too, drink water too—live in the world—but remain a witness.

Bhukh pias chutai jab nindra...

And for the witness all is dropped. All is, and yet all is dropped.

...Jiyat marai tan tyagi ho.

He lives, and yet he has died.

Jake dhar par sis na hovai, rahai prem-lau lagi.

In the life of such a person vairagya happens. There is no head upon his body.

Jake dhar par sis na hovai...

He is headless—meaning he has descended from the skull. He has no logic—this is a way of saying: He has no head. You have a head, not a heart. He has a heart, not a head.

Jake dhar par sis na hovai, rahai prem-lau lagi.

Within him only a flame of love keeps burning. Within him logic has gone. There is no need of logic. Where love’s lamp has been lit, there is light—logic is not needed. Logic is the stick in the blind man’s hand—groping in surmise: where is the path, where the door; where should I go, where not. The blind moves by groping. Logic is groping. One with eyes throws away the stick; no more need to grope. The stick was a poor substitute for the eye. The one with eyes does not need the stick. For whom love’s light has arisen—logic is needless.

Jake dhar par sis na hovai, rahai prem-lau lagi.

Palatu Das—vairag is difficult; one is scarred upon scarred.

Many wounds will have to be borne. The great pain of love will have to be endured. Vairagya is difficult. One must pass through the fire of love. When the fire of love flames fiercely within you, all the rubbish will burn. Rubbish that till yesterday you mistook for diamonds and jewels. Rubbish that till yesterday you called thought and knowledge. Rubbish that you carried upon your head for births upon births, believing it was precious. All will burn. It will be hard; there will be pain. Old beliefs, assumptions, prejudices—all will burn. Love will make you pure gold. But before becoming pure gold, one must pass through fire.

...Daag daag par daagi ho.

With such readiness true vairagya arises. Vairagya arises not by thinking about love, but by living love. The false vairagya is anti-love. True vairagya is the flower of love. Keep this distinction in mind. False vairagya fears love—because if there is love, attachment might arise. True vairagya, where the witness has awakened, no longer fears; it dives wholly into love. As the lotus floats upon the lake and the lake’s water does not touch it, so the lotus of true vairagya floats upon the lake of love and nothing touches it. It remains untouched. Its virginity is eternal.

A gynecologist, a specialist, while examining a much-married lady discovered that she was still a virgin. In astonishment his eyes popped. Biting his finger in amazement, he said: My medical science stands proved wrong and useless! A miracle—that after four marriages you are still a virgin! What is the secret?

No secret at all, doctor! I divorced my first husband because he was impotent. The second I married out of greed for money—an eighty-year-old Marwari. My third husband died of a heart attack on the wedding night. And my present, fourth husband—do not ask—he is an expert in the art of love and a scholar of the philosophy of love. He only talks about what love is; there is no chance to make love. His knowledge of love is so great that he is entangled in it!

The pundits of love do not know love—they know the scripture of love. From them you can learn the definition of love. They can deliver discourses, write treatises on love, obtain PhDs on love—but they do not know love.

I lived in the university many years. On saints there are more PhDs than on any other topic. I was astonished to see: those who write PhDs on Kabir, on Dadu, on Palatu—neither have they meditated, nor ever loved, nor ever lived vairagya, nor ever tasted witnessing—and yet a PhD on Kabir! They become experts on Kabir!

I spoke on Kabir, and the highest Mahant of the Kabir sect wrote a long letter. He wrote: You have given meanings to Kabir’s sayings that are not scriptural and are against our tradition. Before giving such meanings you should at least have asked us.

I had it written to him: First ask Kabirdas—before writing such sutras he should at least have asked us. For we are of the same tribe. When Kabir did not ask you, should we come to you to ask how to interpret him? And if my meanings oppose your tradition, then your tradition must be wrong. Because I am not speaking about Kabir as scripture. Kabir is my experience. I am not a pundit of Kabir, nor a knower of Kabir’s books. But what is Kabir’s experience—that is also my experience. I know Kabir firsthand. I have met Kabir—directly! There is no need to take a Mahant in between.

If you must change—change your books. The meanings I have to give, I shall give; for those are the meanings—what can I do!

There is the pundit who lives by words, occupied with meanings of words. And there is the knower who does not live in words, who descends into the wordless, who attains experience. These are matters of experience.

Until the flame of love is lit in you, until the lamp of meditation burns within you, your vairagya will remain hollow, superficial. Beware of such vairagya. Be alert to such punditry.

Ab to main bairag bhari, sovat se main jagi pari.

Palatu Das says: The day vairagya filled me, the happening within was this—I awoke from sleep! That is what I am calling the witness. Sleep means doer-hood. Sleep means identification. Sleep means believing: I am the body, I am the mind, I am this, I am that; I am name, caste, creed; I am Hindu, I am Muslim. All this is sleep. All this is dream. Awakening means: I am neither body nor mind, neither Brahmin nor Shudra, neither Hindu nor Muslim; I am pure consciousness—witness alone, sat-chit-ananda! This is called awakening.

Ab to main bairag bhari, sovat se main jagi pari.

And you are in deep, deep sleep.

Sister, why do you look so troubled today?

Last night in a dream I saw my husband making merry with another woman.

So why so much worry about that?

Why not worry! Arrey, if in my dream he can do such things, what all must he be doing in his own dreams!

Here dreams have great value. Here your whole life is dream. You are not living in awareness; circumstances push you along and keep you living. One shove from circumstances and you do something; you think: I did it. Think a little—did you do it? A man abused you and from your mouth abuse came in response—did you do it, or did he make you do it? If this same man had abused Buddha—would Buddha abuse? Buddha would smile and move on. Or perhaps he would place his hand upon the man’s head in blessing. This man could not draw an abuse from Buddha. Why? Because Buddha is awake. But he can extract an abuse from you. You became his slave. He turned you into a button. As with a fan: press the button—fan runs; press again—the fan stops. Someone abused; anger rose, you picked up a stick. Someone came and praised you, buttered you—you puffed up like a balloon!

Judge: Nasruddin, how did you dare beat your wife with a broom?

Mulla: What could I do, sir—the circumstances were such that even you, had you been in my place, would not have missed the chance!

Judge: What do you mean? I don’t understand.

Mulla: Listen in detail. My wife’s back was toward me. A broom with a handle lay right beside me. She had pain in her neck, so she could not turn and look back in an instant. And the back door was open. Now tell me—where is my fault?

If you look at your life, you will find just this: a wave came, pushed—you did something; another wave came, pushed—you did something else. And you still think you are the doer! You still think your acts are karma!

No—these are not karma, but re-actions. They are happening in the jostle of the crowd. You are not your own master. The unawakened cannot be his own master. You are asleep. In this sleep even if you reach heaven—still you will find hell.

It’s a tale of the other world. Yama, the Lord of Death, was in a good mood. Perhaps he had won a lottery or won at gambling the previous night. To a businessman he said: Chandulal, we leave you to your choice. Heaven or hell—wherever you wish, we shall send you.

Chandulal grinned and said: Lord, send me where there is a way to make a few bucks. What difference does heaven or hell make!

Where there is a scheme to make a few bucks—send me there. What difference heaven or hell! Chandulal has been saving pennies all his life. Even if he goes to heaven he will still be saving pennies.

I have heard: a ship was sinking. To lessen the weight they threw cargo overboard. And not only was the ship sinking, a huge shark was following, waiting for it to go down so she might clear off its passengers. She too had to be satisfied somehow. Whatever cargo they had, they flung into her mouth. Food was thrown; the ship was carrying crates of oranges—they threw those too; tables, chairs, whatever came to hand. But after ten minutes the shark would appear again. The ship was about to plunge. At last it came to this: some people must be thrown too. All agreed to throw a Jew—because even on the ship he was fleecing people. What could he do alone! All together they threw him into the shark’s mouth.

But the ship had to sink, and in the end the shark swallowed all the passengers. When the passengers reached the shark’s belly they were amazed. The Jew sat upon a chair, a table before him, oranges arranged upon it—and he was selling, two annas apiece. The earlier passengers whom the shark had eaten were buying from him.

What else would the Jew do! Wherever a chance arises, he will live by old habits.

You sleep. Even if you live in heaven, you will sleep. The truth is—if you can trust me—I tell you: You are in heaven! But because you sleep, you lie in hell. Sleep is hell, awakening is heaven.

Ab to main bairag bhari, sovat se main jagi pari.

Nain bane giri ke jharna jyon, mukh se nikarai Hari-Hari.

Tears flow from the eyes like waterfalls cascading from the hills—of joy—and for the first time Hari-Hari arises from the mouth of its own accord. One is forced—sitting with a rosary, hurriedly repeating Ram-Ram-Ram, glancing with one eye at the clock: How much time remains? Is there a customer at the shop? People sit in the shop and turn their beads. A dog comes—they drive him away. They signal the servant: watch the customer! They are chanting the rosary, chanting Ram-Ram, chanting Hari-Hari. People are so cunning they think they will deceive even God. They deceive people; they deceive themselves; they even wish to deceive the Divine!

The name of Ram is true only when it springs of itself.

Among the Jains there is a loving tale: Mahavira did not speak—speech poured from him. This delights me; it seems true. He did not speak—speech flowed. The difference is great. To speak means intention, effort, striving. To flow—like a leaf dropping from a tree; like rays raining from the sun; like showers fall from clouds. They are clouded with bliss—they pour. They are filled with truth—they pour. Yes, Mahavira did not speak—he flowed. He is a spring without source.

Nain bane giri ke jharna jyon...

From the eyes—tears of joy, of love!

...Mukh se nikarai Hari-Hari.

And from the mouth—Hari-Hari flows; and from the eyes tears drop and drop. This is vairagya—self-sprung.

But yours is all false. You call Rama—false. You weep—false. You have become skilled in acting. Your cleverness is astonishing. You do everything.

Mulla Nasruddin went to a music concert. A woman was singing so rottenly that people were not only bored—their hands itched to throttle her. But because she was a woman, they held back. Had it been a male singer, he would have been beaten that day. Mulla too was very bored. He kept standing and sitting. Many times he raised his stick. He said to the quiet listener next to him: Brother, I feel like vomiting. When will this woman stop singing? Her voice is so rancid and crude—as if someone has put pebbles in a tin of Dalda and shaken it. Does she sing or bray? Where is this singer’s tail from? I have never even heard this lady’s name. And why are you listening so calmly? I am angry at the woman, but the woman is far—my stick might land on your head!

The neighboring listener bowed his head in embarrassment and said: Forgive me—she is my wife. Whether anyone listens or not, I must listen. And daily practice also helps—I must listen daily.

Nasruddin repented. He at once apologized. Forgive me, brother! I meant this: Actually her voice is sweet, melodious; she knows rhythm and tune well. But the song is odd. Neither the words are good, nor the rhymes fit, nor is there any noble expression. She should have chosen a good poet’s song. What a rotten song—what fool wrote this?

The man beside him hung his head and muttered: I wrote it.

The sleeping write songs, the sleeping sing, the sleeping listen. All is rotten, all stinks. Life has not become so ugly for nothing—we have made it so. Together we have made this hell. You think hell is somewhere else? Hell is where you are asleep. And heaven too is not elsewhere; heaven is where you have awakened.

Abharan tori basan dhai pharoun, pani jiv nahi jat mari.

Leun usas sis dai maroun, agini bina main jaun jari.

Palatu says: I snapped off all ornaments, I tore all garments. Now there is no craving to live. Now there is no meaning in living—no meaning in living as I have lived. Yet death does not come.

Leun usas sis dai maroun, agini bina main jaun jari.

There is no fire, yet I am burning. I would smash my head—the long sleep has brought me to this plight. The garments worn in this sleep were fit only to be torn. The ornaments thought to be adornments were fetters. That which was taken as one’s own was a stranger. That which was taken as friend was enemy. That which was thought life was death—and that which was feared as death was the door to nectar.

Nagin virah dasat hai moko, jat na mose dhir dhari.

And now viraha bites like a cobra—the flame of love that rises...

Do you see? Flame always rises towards the sky. Every lamp’s flame ascends. Why? This longing to meet the sun—because every flame is a fragment of the sun and wishes to return to its source. The day you awaken, the inner flame of the Self will also want to fly—will want to leave this lamp—this earthen lamp—and soar into the vast sky—to the sun, to the primal source of light!

Satguru aai kihin baidai...

But by oneself, nothing was possible. I did much—and nothing happened. Tossing and turning, I slept again. But the Satguru was found.

Satguru aai kihin baidai...

The Satguru came—like a vaidya, a physician.

Nanak has said: Nanak is a physician. Buddha too said: I am not a preacher, I am a healer.

Satguru aai kihin baidai...

The Satguru came and performed a treatment—and the blind eyes began to see; the closed ears began to hear; the sleeping heart began to beat.

...Sir par jadu turat kari.

As if he cast a spell! A Satguru is one by whom magic happens. And what is magic? To pull ashes from the hand is not magic. Street jugglers do that. To pull Swiss-made watches from the hand—these are tricks. These are sleights of hand. There is only one magic: that someone awakens you from sleep. Everything else is useless—entertainment.

...Sir par jadu turat kari.

Meet a Satguru and he will perform magic. But only upon the head of the one who places his head at his feet. If you will not offer your head, what can the Satguru do? Offer your head—he will do the magic. The Satguru’s touch can awaken even from sleep.

The song of the soul lies scattered,
The body’s gold is melting.
The flames of beauty have erupted,
The bonds of sense have broken.
All the deer have slipped their noose—
Who will cast the cord of longing?
Who will awaken the one asleep?
Who is this human, who this wanderer,
Bearing upon his shoulders sun and moon?
The world’s story, the heart’s fables—
As many steps, that many ages.
One traveler, a hundred thousand inns—
Ask the road, no road replies.
Who will awaken the one asleep?
What kind of corpse lies upon the dust?
The evening of the poor stands by—
Perhaps it is the honor of the deceased,
Perhaps the life’s faded commotion,
Perhaps the innocent’s life and limb—
Who will lift the fallen tear?
Who will awaken the one asleep?
What kind of light, what kind of smoke—
Whose house is on fire?
The flames of poverty have burst—
Not far, the flames are near.
Let not the flames of despair spread—
Run, O friend, hasten your pace!
Who will awaken the one asleep?

It is difficult—who will awaken the one asleep! The sleep is long, ancient, very ancient—of many births. Who will awaken the one asleep!

Yet upon this earth, somewhere or other, someone is always present to awaken. This much concern does Paramatma take for you: when one awakener departs, elsewhere another is born. The chain does not break. One Buddha goes, another Buddha appears somewhere. The stream flows unbroken. Your difficulty is that you cling to dead Buddhas—and thus you cannot see the living Buddhas.

Buddha left twenty-five centuries ago; someone is still sitting worshiping him. Now the worship is futile. If truly you love Buddha, seek out someone awakened now. Paramatma will be light in some other lamp now. But you sit holding the picture of the old lamp—and so it becomes difficult to look for the new lamp. Even if you meet it, to recognize is difficult—because you compare with the old lamp. And no new lamp will match the old. Paramatma ever creates a new Buddha. New flames descend from the sky. Wherever a heart becomes a void in meditation—there the light of God descends.

But let me tell you: The earth is never empty of God. The unmanifest Divine is everywhere; but somewhere, God becomes manifest too. If your eyes are not loaded with the images of dead Buddhas—you will surely recognize the Satguru—you surely will!

And the Satguru is magic, is enchantment. Only one who is awake can awaken the sleeping. How will one asleep awaken another asleep? Even a thousand sleepers organized together cannot awaken each other. If five hundred people lie down here at night, saying each will awaken the others—five hundred will fall asleep. Who will awaken whom! Only one awake can awaken: he can shake, he can stir, he can sprinkle water upon your eyes. He will find a way. He can call to you. If straight you will not rise—he will pull and tug. He will find some method suited to you. If nothing else works, he will set the house on fire. Seeing the flames rising you will run awake. A Satguru can do anything. For awakening is the supreme wealth—everything may be sacrificed for it. But only the awakened can be a true helper to the asleep.

Satguru aai kihin baidai, sir par jadu turat kari.

And in a moment the event happens. Though you have slept for lifetimes, awakening happens in a single instant.

Palatu Das diya un moko, naam sajivan mul jari.

He awakened me and gave me the remembrance of the Lord! Gave me the memory of my own nature!

Jal au meen saman, guru se preeti jo keejai.

Jal se bichurai tanik ek jo, chhodi deti hai pran.

And for the one who has found the Guru, he is a fish that has found water.

Jal au meen saman...

Therefore the love between disciple and Guru should be like that between water and fish.

Jal au meen saman, guru se preeti jo keejai.

Such love should be that living without the Guru becomes hard even for a moment—becomes impossible. The Guru should become your breath.

Jal au meen saman, guru se preeti jo keejai.

Jal se bichurai tanik ek jo, chhodi deti hai pran.

Separate a fish from water—she gives up her life. The disciple cannot be separated from the Guru. Once he becomes a disciple, once he bows and tastes the nectar of awakening, once he surrenders, once the flame of love arises within and he catches the taste of love—that’s it! He cannot live without the Guru. He lives in the Guru—he lives Guru-suffused.

Meen kahai lai sheer mein rakhe, jal binu hai hairan.

Jo kachhu hai so meen ke jal hai, uhike haath bikan.

The fish says: Without water I am bewildered. For me, whatever life is, my everything, is water. In his hands I am sold! I have been sold into his hands. So says the disciple: The Guru—whatever is—is my all. In his hands I am sold. The relation of Guru and disciple is a relation of mad love—of ecstasy. It is not the affair of the clever; it is the affair of moths; the affair of the intoxicated; the affair of the brave.

Palatu Das preeti karai aisi, preeti soi parman.

Love in such a way that Guru and disciple are no longer two—become one. The day Guru and disciple become one—that day the proof of God arrives; there is no other proof. By logic, by thought, by scripture—no proof of God is found. Where Guru and disciple become one—there the proof of the Divine arrives. In that oneness the awareness of the Supreme Oneness happens. As disciple and Guru have become one—so comes that moment when the individual becomes one with the Whole. The oneness of Guru and disciple is the first step, the first taste of the oneness of the individual and the totality.

As in Ashadha the new clouds gather—so Guru and disciple are the month of Ashadha. Soon the rains come and Sawan arrives! And the gentle rain begins to fall! After the union of Guru and disciple, only one union remains: the union of the individual with the Whole. That union’s very name is God, is liberation.

Live in love. Drown in love. For apart from love there is no proof of God. Love itself is prayer. Love itself is God.

Enough for today.