Kahe Vajid Pukar #1

Wajid—the name has always been dear to me—a simple man’s name, an unlettered man’s name; yet a voice so laden with love as you rarely hear in others. Only a simple heart can carry such love; only a spontaneous heart can utter such a call, such a prayer. The pundit’s tongue is subtle, precise, doctrinal, argumentative—but it is not loving. Love blossoms only in an innocent heart.

Wajid was very simple. A Pathan, a Muslim. He had gone into the forest to hunt. The bow was strung, the arrow drawn; it was just about to fly—had almost flown—when something happened, something extraordinary. At the sight of a fleeing doe he froze; a shock struck his heart, and his life was transformed. He broke the bow and cast it away right there. He had gone to kill—but in that leap of life, in that beautiful doe, he glimpsed a dancing, wakeful, quicksilver vitality—like a lightning-flash of life! He stood stunned. This life is not to be destroyed; this very life holds the hidden God. Life is God’s other name; life is His expression. He broke the bow and arrows; he had set out to kill, but he did not return home—he set out to seek God. A faint glimmer had come; now how to keep it from remaining merely a glimmer? How to bring it to full revelation? The search began.

Such things happen—suddenly! They have happened before. Ashoka too was struck thus. After the slaughter of hundreds of thousands in Kalinga, when he stood upon that field carpeted with corpses, a revolution seized his being. In that ghastly dance of death he remembered his own death. Here, all must die; death is on its way. And Ashoka turned indifferent to the world. He remained in the palace, remained an emperor, but became a fakir. From that day his journey changed. War was dismissed; violence dismissed; love began. That very love bowed him at the feet of the Buddha. Wajid must have been even more sensitive than Ashoka. After butchering multitudes, one’s sensitivity cannot be very deep. Wajid awoke before killing; he had not yet shot—only drawn the bow, the string taut—when the hand went limp.

Life is not to be destroyed; life is sacred, for in life all mystery is concealed. What goes on in temples and mosques is not worship of life. If you worship life, you will bow to trees, rivers, oceans; you will bow to human beings, to life itself, to its infinite expressions. Those are His many faces, His many colors—revelations through different windows.

Ashoka awoke to death—after killing, after bloodshed—and he trembled and was afraid. From that fear his quest began. Wajid seems far more sensitive. He had not even killed, and yet the doe’s leap—as if a curtain suddenly lifted, as if a fog cleared from the eye—pierced his heart like an arrow! That beauty, that vibrant form—and the first glimpse of the Divine.

So it was with Ramakrishna. Passing a pond in the monsoon, black clouds gathered in the sky; a row of white cranes, seated at the water’s edge, rose into flight as he approached. White, like molten silver, against the dark backdrop—and Ramakrishna was overwhelmed. He froze; as if breath stopped, thought stopped, the heart stood still, time halted; he fell right there.

It was the first glimpse of God—the first Samadhi. He was carried home unconscious. People thought he had fainted; Ramakrishna had, for the first time, come to consciousness. There is a swoon that brings awareness; and there is a so-called awareness—which is only another name for sleep. When he returned to our so-called consciousness, he was transformed. The man who had fallen by the pond at the sight of those cranes did not rise again—someone else rose. These eyes were new, this personality new; something within had changed—the vision had changed. In that moment of beauty Ramakrishna had his first glimpse of the Divine.

Beauty is the nearest doorway to God. Those who set out to seek Truth embark on a long journey; it is like reaching your ear by taking your hand all the way around your head. Those who seek Beauty, find directly—for Beauty is here, now: in these green trees, in birdsong, in the koel’s call. Beauty is present. Truth, one must seek. And Truth appears intellectual, not of the heart—truth seems to demand calculation and logic; but Beauty is simply showering. No logic to fix, no sums to do—Beauty is all around. Because religion has leaned too heavily on Truth, it became philosophical, merely thought. Religion is more Beauty. I too would have you begin to taste Beauty. Know Beauty, Music, Poetry as God’s nearest doors.

The leap of the doe… Have you seen a deer leap? There is Beauty in that leap, a rare Beauty, an intense aliveness—rapidity, sharpness—like a flash of living lightning! Wajid’s hands slipped from the bow; is such Beauty to be destroyed? Is such Beauty to be shattered? This Beauty is the true object of worship. He bowed right there, and did not return home. A revolution had happened.

Now he set out to find the Satguru who would enthrone that glimmer forever in his heart. It had flashed like lightning; now a lamp must be kindled—one that burns, day and night, and never goes out, not even for a moment. Lightning brings light, yes—but only for an instant. In lightning’s flash no one can read a book, no one can write a letter. Lightning comes and goes; it cannot be used.

Yet lightning decides one thing: there is a path. You are lost in a forest on a moonless night. Lightning flashes; for a moment you see the path. Darkness closes again and you lose it—but trust arises, faith arises: there is a way. If I walk carefully, I shall reach. I have seen it with my own eyes. Though only for a moment, like a dream—now it is gone, and terrible darkness is all around. But you are no longer the same; before the flash, you were one person; after it, you are another. Before the flash there was only doubt—is there even a way? Now there is no doubt; there is faith. And that is revolution. The instant doubt turns into trust, a revolution happens.

That deer’s leap was a flash of lightning. Until then the man had been as if asleep, moving in sleep, rising in sleep, sitting in sleep. Then—something happened. When God will seize you, no one can say. Therefore be ready in every moment. For God there is neither time nor untimeliness. When He will knock at your door—none can say. Stay awake, wait—sometimes in small events He descends. It was a small event. Millions hunt; millions still hunt; deer leap, but hands do not drop, arrows do not break, the search for the Master does not begin.

Wajid must truly have been sensitive—simple, straight. Pathans are simple and straightforward. He had seen—and now the search began.

The search begins only when a little taste is had. Those who search without any glimpse, search in vain. Whom will you seek? What will you seek? Let there be a little taste—whether through love, through beauty, through music—somewhere, somehow: let it be known that I am not the end; there is one greater, vaster than I. Let it be sensed that as I am, I am only a small drop—a droplet; the Ocean is awaiting. Where I am is darkness—but nearby there is a source of light. Only then begins the quest for a Master.

That glimpse of life carried him in search of the Guru. Who knows how many teachers Wajid visited, sitting with them—but the glimmer he had seen in the doe’s leap did not return. Yet one day it came—overflowing—a cloudburst. At the very sight of Dadu Dayal, in those eyes of Dadu—again that glimmer of life, deeper now, so deep it pierced right through.

Then Wajid stayed—and stayed—at Dadu’s feet, and never left. The beauty he found in Dadu was not of body, nor even of earth. The beauty that shines in the Satguru is beyond this world. Many came to Dadu and went, but what Wajid saw, others did not. One needs the capacity to see, the receptivity; the readiness to be drenched; the courage to drown. Only the one who risks surrender can be joined to the Satguru. As one day he had broken the bow, so today he broke his ego and flung it away. He bowed at the feet—and did not rise. He became one of Dadu’s beloved disciples.

Dadu lit the flame of thousands of lives. He is among those few saints at whose feet many attain. To attain oneself is one thing—most arduous indeed! To know is rare enough; but to give birth to knowing in others is harder still. To drink from God’s cup oneself is one thing; to offer that nectar to others is quite another. In millions, one may find one who attains; in millions of those, one may find one who can also pour for others. Dadu was among those few. Thousands drank from his ghat. Of his hundred and fifty-two disciples who attained Nirvana, Wajid is one. Many lamps were kindled in his presence; Wajid’s too.

And when Wajid’s lamp was lit, poetry burst forth. A simple man—his poetry is simple, rustic; yet it carries the earthy fragrance of the village. As when the first rains fall and the soil releases that sweet scent—just so in Wajid’s song. Little concern for meter and prosody; and none is needed. When beauty is scant, ornaments are needed; when beauty is perfect, neither ornament nor adornment is needed. When beauty is full, ornaments hinder, they jar. Then simplicity is supremely beautiful; in simplicity there is grace, benediction. Those who busy themselves with meter and grammar and language do so because feeling is insufficient; they try to make it up with language. When feeling is abundant, language need not compensate. When feeling floods like a river in spate, any language will do. Do not go by the language—go by the feeling. Poetry overflows. When the inner lamp is lit, its rays begin to spread outward—that is the poetry of saints.

Raghodas has a well-known kavitt that points to this event in Wajid’s life:

‘Leaving the Pathan clan, he took to chanting Ram’s name;
By the power of bhajan, Wajid has won the wager of life.
At the moment of the deer’s killing, fear seized his heart;
From that fear virtue arose, vice departed.
He broke the bow and arrows, devoted his body to austerity;
Then Dadu Dayal the Guru arose within.
Ragho says: day and night his body and heart are bound to the Master,
He plays with the Creator, as is the way of play.’

In Raghodas’ words there are important things to understand—and some wrong ones too, to be seen and dropped. Raghodas was likely not a realized man. The poem is lovely, yet basically flawed; a glimpse of truth is there, but mixed with darkness. A little moon has risen, but the night is very dark; a patch of pure sky shows, but black clouds gather around it.

‘Leaving the Pathan clan, he took to chanting Ram’s name.’

One need not leave the Pathan clan to chant Ram’s name. Is Ram under Hindu copyright? And Ram here is not Dasharatha’s son. Dasharatha’s son was called ‘Ram’ precisely because the word ‘Ram’ pre-existed him; otherwise how could he have been given that name? The word Ram is older than king Ramachandra—therefore Dasharatha could name him thus. Ram means the Divine—one of His names. There is no necessity of ‘leaving’ one’s clan.

But this is how our deluded minds function. Someone comes to me; if he takes sannyas, the followers of his community say: So, you have left your religion! Religion cannot be left or taken up. Whatever can be left is not religion; that which cannot be left or grasped—that intrinsic nature—is Dharma.

If you ask me, I would say: By bowing at Dadu’s feet, by being filled with remembrance of Ram, Wajid became truly a Muslim—in the right sense. I cannot say he left the Pathan clan; I would say his being Pathan flowered, came to fulfillment.

Truth is one; but Raghodas’ mind seems sectarian. He tastes a certain relish: whenever a person moves from one religion to another, people rejoice in strange ways. Those he leaves call him traitor; those he joins call him enlightened. If a Hindu becomes Christian, Christians say, Ah, he woke up; Hindus say, Traitor! If a Christian becomes Hindu, Hindus rejoice, and Christians feel threatened. Both views are false. Whether a Christian becomes Hindu or a Hindu becomes Christian, nothing significant changes. Moving from mosque to temple—what does it alter? Real revolution is not so small, so cheap.

A revolution happened in Wajid’s life: God’s remembrance arose from the glimpse of life. A tiny particle of beauty filled him with an infinite thirst for beauty. In that moment of the deer’s leap—hand falling, heart halting, thought ceasing—a small taste of Samadhi came. Then he went in search of a Master. Hinduism had nothing to do with it.

Dadu Dayal is no ‘Hindu’. At such heights, no one is Hindu or Muslim. Hindu and Muslim are marketplace matters, lowlands. By accident Dadu was born in a Hindu home—mere accident. Wajid had set out to search; he went to many, saw scholarship, heard talk of knowledge—but saw no living, burning light. Scriptures he heard; Satsang did not happen. He looked into eyes—but found only crowds of thoughts. No silent stillness, no music, no descended Nada. He sat by many—went empty, returned empty. He did not choose Dadu as Guru because Dadu was Hindu; he chose him because he was Guru.

Remember: Wajid did not become a Hindu. Hindu-Muslim is not the point. A sleeping man awoke—what has that to do with sects? A lost man found the path—what has that to do with sects? Hindus are lost, Muslims are lost; Hindus sleep, Muslims sleep. One who wakes belongs to a third kind; you cannot fit him in a sect—he is not sectarian.

Here lies the snag. A Sikh takes sannyas—people of his community begin to harass him: Now you are a sannyasin, you are no longer Sikh! The truth is: for the first time he has become Sikh. Sikh means shishya—a disciple. For the first time, he is disciple; and you say he is no longer Sikh! Until now he was not Sikh—now he is. Until now he had only heard rumors; now he has met the Guru. And the Guru is not bound—Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jain. Nanak is no Sikh, no Hindu, no Muslim—he is awake.

When you are related to an awakened one, you become disciple—and only then are you truly Hindu, truly Muslim. The Satguru joins you to Dharma and frees you from sects.

But Raghodas was sectarian—hence delighted:

‘Leaving the Pathan clan, he took to chanting Ram’s name.’

He relishes that Ram saved him; reciting the Quran did not; repeating ayats did not—now he is saved. Ram is the true savior!

But Wajid is not saved by ‘Ram’—he is saved by his relationship with Dadu Dayal. Since Dadu was Hindu and called God ‘Ram’, Wajid too joined to that name. Had Dadu been Muslim, he would still have been saved; had Dadu been Christian, he would still have been saved. All names are His—and none is His.

‘Leaving the Pathan clan, he took to chanting Ram’s name;
By the power of bhajan, Wajid has won the wager of life.’

Some truths have, however, slipped in—he is not wholly wrong. This is true: by the power of bhajan, Wajid won the game. Not by becoming Hindu—but by the grace of devotion, immersion in remembrance; the losing game turned, and he won.

Remember: however much you win in the world, you will remain defeated. Win a little in God—and you have truly won. And the wonder is: before God, the one who utterly loses—wins. That is the majesty of bhajan. He who totally surrenders at the feet of God wins; there, to lose is to win. On the path of love, losing is the method of victory.

‘At the moment of the deer’s killing, fear seized his heart.’

Here he errs again. He says Wajid was afraid while killing the deer. Not true. He was not seized by fear—he was filled with love. In that flame of life, in that wave of vitality, in the deer’s eyes and leap, he saw the form of God; love arose. That is why I say Raghodas is not awakened. He reports what he has heard; some truth slips in, and some untruth joins. A blind man’s hand sometimes meets a doorway—and sometimes collides with a wall. He gropes; he does not see.

I want to make it clear: fear never leads to God; love does. Love is the bridge to God; fear drives us away. How can one relate to what one fears? That is why ‘God-fearing’ is a wrong phrase. The religious man is not God-fearing; if he fears God, how will he love? Fear breeds hatred, not love. Try it: anyone you fear—you cannot love. Outwardly you may flatter, out of fear; within, you plot revenge, and when the chance comes, you will strike.

It happens often. You bully little children, frighten them; when they grow up they bully and frighten you. Old people are puzzled: What happened? Why have our children gone astray? We did so much for them; they do not care for us! But the matter is simple: when they were small and helpless, you could frighten them; every blow left a wound. When they become powerful and you helpless with age, they begin to terrify you. Then you cannot understand what has happened—nothing has happened, only the scales have tipped.

I tell you: the road to God is never fear; it is love. In that instant when the arrow was stayed and the bow broken—it did not happen from fear. It cannot. Weapons are born of fear; they are not broken by fear. We made weapons because we were afraid; man is weak compared to animals. Before a lion, unarmed, what are you? His claws and teeth will shred you. To protect himself, man invented weapons—the knife and sword to compensate for weak nails and teeth; the arrow to strike from afar; then bullets and bombs to strike from the sky. Nations pile weapons—out of fear. Russia fears America; America fears Russia—both afraid, both arming. Seventy percent of humanity’s energy goes into arms; if it stopped, the earth would be prosperous—no one need be poor. Even poor nations make guns before bread: first bullets, then loaves. Those in power preach nonviolence, yet race to amass weapons—fear China! China too fears. All fear.

Weapons are not broken by fear—they are broken by love. Where love is, weapons are pointless.

I have heard: a young Rajput, returning with his newlywed bride, was caught in a fierce storm on a boat. The bride trembled in panic; the groom sat at ease. She said: How can you be so calm? The storm is terrible; the boat may sink any moment. He drew his sword, bared and gleaming, and placed it at her neck. She began to laugh. He said: You do not fear? The blade is touching your throat; a flick, and your head is severed—yet you do not fear? She said: When the sword is in your hand, why fear? Where there is love, where is fear? The youth said: This storm too is in God’s hands. The sword is close to the neck—but if it is in God’s hand, why fear? If beheading is for our good, then only thus will it be; we will die giving thanks. If the storm drowns us, it will drown to deliver us. His hand holds the storm—why fear? My hand holds the sword, and you do not fear; if it were in another’s hand, you would. You are not afraid because of storms; you are afraid because you have no love for God.

Know this: whenever you are afraid, there is only one real reason—there is no love for God. For the one who loves God, all fears disperse.

In that moment, fear did not arise; had it arisen, the arrow would have flown faster. Fear dissolved; love lit—a lamp of love. The heart melted at that glimpse of the Divine—the Divine called out from within the doe, and the call was heard. For when one hunts, the mind must be concentrated, otherwise the arrow misses. To hit a running deer is an art; to aim even at a still target is hard—at a moving one, much harder. One needs an intensely concentrated mind—almost meditative. Perhaps it was because of that concentration that love was born; perhaps the glimpse appeared because the mind had gathered into one point and the weight of thoughts had lifted. The mind must have been utterly one-pointed—only the deer and the arrow; thus the glimpse happened.

Often one-pointedness brings a glimpse of God. Wherever such a focus arises, do not miss the opportunity. A dancer dances—if the mind becomes one-pointed, do not miss. Someone plays the veena—if your mind becomes one-pointed, do not miss. The moon rides the sky—if the mind becomes one-pointed, do not miss. Wherever it happens, let it happen—there the seed of love cracks and sprouts.

So, not fear.

‘At the moment of the deer’s killing fear arose;
From fear, virtue arose and vice departed.’

No. Virtue does not arise out of fear; virtue is the shadow of love. Sin is the shadow of fear. All the sin in the world happens out of fear. The more fearful you are, the more sinful you will be.

Why does one hoard wealth? Out of fear—thinking money will protect. Why climb to higher posts? Fearing others’ grip—thinking from height one will be safe; others will be in my grip. Thus power—the desire to hold others’ necks so none can hold mine. This is why one longs to be prime minister or president—to grasp necks. In democracies they begin by pressing feet—servants—so they may be allowed to press the neck later. Once your feet are pressed, you are trapped; from feet to neck they move and you do not even notice. When you wake, their hands are on your throat; then it is too late. Hence politicians deceive: outside power they are public servants; once in power they forget service—service was a ladder, power the goal. Remember, these are fearful people; there is no love in their lives.

When someone asks me, Should we serve? How? I say: Do not think of service; I do not want to make you servants—I want to make you lovers. Learn love; then service will come on its own—without danger. If service comes first, love will not; power will—dangerous.

Merit follows love the way fragrance follows a flower; as birds sing when dawn breaks. When you love someone, you cannot sin against them—not lie, not cheat. Those who intend to sin—cheat, lie, be dishonest—do not love; they save themselves from love.

Politicians have no friends; their friendships are formal, on the surface, deception—enmity in disguise. A lover cannot sin—at least not against the one he loves. And one whose love has become universal—toward all existence—how can he sin? His every act is merit. He does not have to calculate virtue and sin. When love comes, light comes; with light, darkness goes. You do not have to expel darkness, plead with it—darkness simply ceases.

Yes, a revolution happened in Wajid’s life—but not from fear, from love.

‘He broke the bow and arrows, devoted his body to austerity;
Then Dadu Dayal the Guru arose within.’

Only one in whom love has arisen can search for the Guru. The greatest love on earth is love for the Guru—the purest form, unconditional. Your love for wife or child is transactional, worldly; love for the Guru is unworldly—there is nothing to get or to give. To sit by the Guru is bliss; there is no question of bargain; the Guru has nothing to give as a thing. Truth cannot be given; it is not an object. Sitting by the Guru, your own Truth begins to surge; he does not give it. Bathed in his rasa, intoxicated by his ecstasy, your Truth sprouts. The Guru is like spring: in his presence, the seed within you, sleeping for lifetimes, suddenly cracks and the shoot rises. He neither gives nor takes; his presence is delight. In that climate, the stream flows.

Therefore only a lover can relate to a Guru—because this is love’s ultimate state.

‘Then Dadu Dayal the Guru arose within.’

When the outer Guru is found, the inner Guru begins to arise; his presence awakens the inner Master. ‘The Guru has dawned within’—this is right.

The last line is very sweet—like a blind man who has found the door:

‘Ragho says: day and night his body and heart are bound to the Master;
He plays with the Creator, as is the way of play.’

Now Wajid is immersed in the Beloved as one remains in the embrace of the lover—twenty-four hours…

‘…day and night in union with the Master.’

Body and soul drowned in God—everything submerged; nothing kept aside; he has leaped in wholly.

‘He plays with the Creator, as is the way of play.’

A lovely line. Sometimes even a blind hand finds a diamond.

He plays with the Supreme as play is played. He is given to His Lila.

Only those who learn the way of play recognize the Master. The world is a play; as long as you take it seriously you will not understand. Existence is Lila—do not take it seriously. Laugh, dance, sing, celebrate…

‘…as is the way of play.’

Know it as play. The Beloved has staged a drama and given you a role—play it fully.

And so Wajid remained submerged in that supreme union, that supreme enjoyment—and played the game as God played it; not departing from the way. He became wholly surrendered, a puppet in His hand.

‘Half the Name floated stones; what then of men?
Whoever takes Your Name, in this dark age, will not drown.
Merit and demerit will once for all dissolve.
Yes, Wajid—those astride the Elephant are not bitten by dogs.’

Simple words:

Half of Ram’s Name floated stones—monkeys could utter only half—‘Ra’—yet it sufficed; hints are understood; feeling is what counts. A miracle happened—stones floated; boats of stone!

Whoever holds Your Name in his life will not drown even in Kali Yuga. Drowning seems easy in this age—for snares are everywhere, nets of desire are all around. The crowd runs after craving; a newborn simply imitates. What is Kali Yuga? Where the valueless is valued; the essential is worthless; where saints are ignored and politicians prized; where meditation is worthless and money is prized; where love has no value and cunning, calculation, logic, cleverness are valued; where lovers are looted and tricksters succeed; where honesty becomes death and dishonesty the secret of life; where success measures the degree of cunning; where all run after rubbish; where no one remembers God; where everything is done in life—except God.

Even in such a time, says Wajid, one who joins to Your Name does not drown. The whole world may try to drown him—he crosses. Stones become boats by the miracle of the Name.

Fill with His remembrance and you will be amazed: as soon as His remembrance descends within, the outer nets begin to break; the stupidity of the market becomes visible. Slowly you remain standing in the bazaar yet alone; your bond joins to God, breaks from the crowd. That is deliverance. To leave the world means only to be free of the crowd—its notions, desires, ambitions. Freedom is seeing their futility. But this you will see only when a little rasa of Ram’s Name awakens, a little glimpse of God comes, a little movement toward Him.

‘Whoever takes Your Name, in this age, will not drown.
Merit and demerit will once for all dissolve.’

Take heed—says Wajid—your karmas will dissolve; bad and good alike will vanish once you remember Him. For both good and bad deeds strengthen the ego, the doer; often good strengthens it more—because it tastes better. You do not advertise your sins; you announce your merits. Give two coins in charity and proclaim two lakhs! Steal two lakhs and, if caught, try to make it look like two coins.

A man was caught speeding at eighty miles. Before the magistrate he said, No, no—at most thirty or forty. The magistrate seemed persuaded: To tell the truth, fifteen or twenty. Still persuaded: To tell the truth, I had only just started the car. The magistrate said: Stop now—else you will begin going backward, and will collide with the cars behind.

Another story: An optician instructing his son before a trip said: If the spectacles cost ten rupees, first say ten. If the customer shows no alarm, say—for one lens. If still unshaken: frames extra. If still unshaken: sales tax on top. Keep your eye on the customer; prices depend on the customer—stretch as far as you can. If he keeps believing, you keep advancing.

We hide our bad; we trumpet our good. Fasting a day—we want the whole town to know. A puja—we want it in the papers. Give a poor man two rupees—we want the photographer present! Good deeds swell the ego.

Hence Wajid is right:

‘Merit and demerit will once for all dissolve.’

Good and bad will both go—the very sense of doership will vanish—once His remembrance comes. For He is the Doer; we are not. He does through us; that is the way of play.

‘Yes, Wajid—those astride the Elephant are not bitten by dogs.’

Keep this in mind: he who rides the elephant does not fear the barking of dogs. Dogs cannot bite the one seated on the elephant. Likewise, the one who has mounted the elephant of Ram’s Name is beyond the bite of worldly dogs. Let them bark!

Once you rise to the height of the Name, all the world’s things fall below—like dogs under an elephant. The elephant does not mind their barking; nor his rider. Such is the elephant’s height, such is his majesty.

Leave dogs aside; Aesop tells: One morning the lion thought, It’s been long since anyone affirmed my kingship. He caught a fox: Who is king here? The fox said: Master, you are—who else? He caught a deer—same reply. After several such, he swaggered—then met an elephant. Who is king? The elephant wrapped him in his trunk and flung him so far his bones rattled. Barely standing, dusting himself, the lion said: If you do not know the answer, you could have said so; why throw me like that?

The elephant needs no words; his act is his answer. The one atop the elephant is lifted high. Wajid is a simple man; his symbols are simple—and true. What have dogs’ barks to do with the one astride the elephant? As the saying goes: Dogs bark—the elephant moves on.

As your height grows, the appetites and ambitions of the world shrink; they can do nothing to you. And only with Ram does height grow; Ram is another name for height—of consciousness, of Chaitanya—of the ascent of awareness.

‘Your grief is my kingdom, my silence is my speech;
This is my soul, my beauty, my garment.
My dwelling, my destination—neither this world nor the next;
Somewhere in Your heart, perhaps, was my homeland.’

Neither this world nor the beyond is my home. If my home is anywhere, if my motherland is anywhere, it is in Your heart, O God—in Your heart.

Therefore one who enters His heart finds his home, his motherland—he returns to the native land. Who can find a place in His heart? The one who first gives Him place in his own. That is the way of play.

‘The loot of Ram’s Name befits the soul.’

Once you taste Him, you begin to loot. Then it is no small task.

‘The loot of Ram’s Name befits the soul.’

If there is anything worth looting, it is the Name of Ram. If there is anything worth enjoying, worth living for, it is the Name. Then you will not be miserly—sipping by the handful—you will want to drink the whole ocean.

‘The loot of Ram’s Name befits the soul.
Day and night, Wajid remembers the Beloved.’

So I drink day and night—I remember You with every breath.

The sweetest flute is the one that carries Your notes;
The sweetest speech is that which conveys Your message.

Slowly Your voice is heard in all. The koel calls—and it is Your voice. The papihā cries—and it is Your call. The wind comes and trees dance—and something within dances. The sun rises, rays scatter—and a light kindles within. Night falls, stars are strewn—and within too a starry sky spreads. From every side Your signs begin to arrive. Once the first sign is read—once connection is made—let but a drop of God enter, and the entire ocean pours.

‘Day and night, Wajid remembers the Beloved.
This very thing all the awakened proclaim.’

This is what is famous among the knowers.

‘Yes—Ajamil, the basest of men, crossed by Narayan’s Name.’

They say in the village: the sinner Ajamil crossed by Your Name—by the mere remembrance of the Name.

‘Carry our salutations to Ram.
My eyes shed tears in the remembrance of Your Name.
The lotus has withered—and the buds too will dry.
Yes, Wajid—this bower will not see the bumblebee return again.’

Wajid says: I will not return again to this world. The lotuses have withered; the buds too are drying. Conscious desires have withered; the unconscious ones are withering. A sweet symbol: when the opened flowers have dried, how long will the buds remain? This bumblebee will not return to this garden; I have found the true lotus—now I come, drawn like iron to a magnet.

‘In Your eyes, this play of lifting and dropping of veils—
As in a tavern, one drunk, staggering;
The wind crazy, the clouds crazy—now sun, now shade—
As if someone lifts a veil from the face, and lets it fall again.’

The veil rises and falls; glimpses come and deepen; the rasa thickens.

‘A bright moonlit night I have spread as my quilt,
In the full moon’s silver—I have made my bed.
In the fullness of Bhadon, the papihā calls.
The koel’s voice recites the Shabad—and I drink Ram-rasa.’

Even the train’s clatter can be heard as you wish it. This world is cooperative; what you wish to hear, you will hear. The one who wants to see work, sees work; the one who wants to see Ram, sees Ram. The koel seems to be singing Veda; as if not ‘koo-hoo’ but the Upanishads are being born from her throat. I drink the rasa of Ram—she too seems to drink it.

‘Yes, Wajid, when the papihā cries—
It is as if salt is sprinkled on a wound.
Night and day the papihā repeats;
The more I hear, the more my heart is pierced.
Food and drink do not please the soul, Wajid;
Yes—even flowers are like thorns without the Beloved.’

Without You, flowers are thorns; with You, thorns are flowers. With You, night is day; without You, day is night. With You, death is life; without You, life is death. With You, success; without You, failure. With You, companionship; without You, even amidst the world, I am alone.

As the papihā keeps calling through the long night, each cry drives an arrow deeper into my heart—my chest is being pierced.

‘It is about to happen, O heart—the completion of love;
Even the feeling ‘I love’ is fading.’

When love nears its completion, everything dissolves—even the sense that I love. The I melts. When the I melts, know: love is nearing perfection.

‘O bird, carry a message to the Beloved;
Tell Him a separated one is undone—her life is leaving.
The waterer is far—the vine has dried into wood.
Yes, Wajid—my very house has turned into a wilderness.’

If God is not found, even home is a jungle; if He is found, the jungle becomes a festival. People go to forests—foolish! If you burn in separation, wherever you are is a forest; burn so fiercely that only ash remains—everything erased.

‘It is about to happen, O heart—the completion of love;
Even the feeling ‘I love’ is fading.’

When you feel the lamp’s last moment has come—the oil spent, the wick consumed—now any instant the flame will go out—then know: love is complete. In that great death, in that dissolution of ego, God descends in fullness.

‘The Beloved dwells in a far land; the night is fearsome.
Who sleeps with legs outstretched when the lover is away?
This night passes with greatest difficulty, O soul—
Yes, Wajid—someone wise, go and tell the Beloved.’

Who could sleep with limbs stretched out when the lover is away? One who remembers cannot sleep. Life becomes sadhana—effort toward wakefulness. Call it meditation, prayer—means of awakening.

Time is not fixed—it is elastic. In joy, it flies; in pain, it drags. As Einstein joked: with your beloved, an hour feels like a moment; by a dying friend, a night feels like centuries. The greatest sorrow is separation from God; thus the night is long. Until He is met, it is night. Augustine said: When I saw God, I knew what day is. Sri Aurobindo: Until seeing Him you mistake death for life, night for day, darkness for light. We are in headstand; we see upside down. Stand on your feet and for the first time you will see rightly.

A story: when Nehru was prime minister, a donkey came to see him. The guard dozed; he had orders to stop men, not donkeys. The donkey wandered in. Nehru was doing a headstand in the garden; he saw the donkey—upside down. He said: Brother donkey, why are you standing upside down? The donkey laughed: You are upside down. Surprised that the donkey spoke, Nehru said: You speak? The donkey said: When so many speaking donkeys exist, why not me? And do not be surprised I came to see you—I am not the only one.

One who lives in inversion sees all inverted. What you call life is a headstand. You have gathered pebbles thinking them diamonds. The day you see a diamond, you will drop this bag yourself—no effort needed.

This is a hard night; and when remembrance begins, it grows harder. Those who do not remember sleep; those united in God live in celebration. The difficulty is for the one in between: no union yet, but the call has arisen. Hence the devotee weeps; tears flow; the heart breaks. He knows there is a God; glimpses have begun; now he can neither live in the world nor has he arrived. The devotee’s state is full of pain.

Perhaps this is why many avoid the path of devotion—afraid of misery. But after that misery, fortune arrives—the wedding-night. The price must be paid. Religion is only for the courageous—the daredevils who disturb their sleep, shatter dreams, awaken the inner call, and set out for the lake before they have tasted the water. The lake is there before the thirst; God before the prayer—but this intervening time is painful. Yet it refines—like gold in fire. The devotee places himself in this fire and is purified to fine gold. Thus comes worthiness. Ego dissolves; emptiness arrives. And only in emptiness does the Full enter.

Awaken this love—and welcome this pain.

‘He fulfilled the Divine intent—
The one who bore on his eyes the steps of love.
Love shattered the pride of priest and pundit;
Love ransacks the houses of temple and mosque.
Without love, the tavern of life is dark;
If this flame is not alight—there is nothing.
What purpose of life is there but love?
Who says life is lived without love?
I am a slave of the mercy of love—for without love in the world,
There is no joy truly joy, no sorrow truly sorrow.
Erase love’s design from the world once—
Try a hundred times to remake it—you will fail.’

In this world the path of love is the only path. He who has erased his capacity to love—no matter what he builds, his life will never flower.

‘He fulfilled the Divine intent—
The one who bore on his eyes the steps of love.’

The one who endured love upon his eyes—he fulfilled God’s will. Only love has shattered the pride of priests and pundits. Only love dissolves the quarrels of temple and mosque—therefore love is religion; temples and mosques cause quarrel. Enter the tavern of love—and you pass beyond strife.

Without love, life’s wine-house is dark. If the lamp of love is not lit in your inn, there is nothing—you are in vain; you are not. Your being is false.

Is there any aim of life other than love? None. Love is the beginning and the end. He who understands love, understands God. Wajid’s words are words of love. There is no scholarship here—but there is a flood of love. Dive—and the deeper you go, the more pearls you will find.

Enough for today.