Kahe Vajid Pukar #10

Dulari! The human being as such is unwell. Those whom we ordinarily call healthy are not really healthy. It is easy for the body to be healthy; for the human being to be healthy is certainly difficult. And even if the body becomes healthy, nothing essential changes; the real wrong is not set right. The wrong is set right only when the human being becomes healthy.

What do I mean by the human being’s illness? As long as a person is cut off from the divine, he is unwell. Like a tree uprooted from the soil—it will be sick. The roots must be in the earth; only then will the current of life’s sap flow through the tree. The human being too is a tree. Until his roots are in God—God meaning this vast existence—he is ill. To live isolated from it is to live unhealthily. To live merged and absorbed in it is to live in health.

Consider the word swasth—healthy. Its meaning is: one who is established in oneself. And one is established in oneself only when one is established in God, for the self and the divine are not two. The idea that the human being is separate is our illusion and the very root of our sorrow. This illusion is what we call ego. “I am separate”—upon this illusion all other illusions are built. “I am separate; therefore I must protect myself. I am separate; therefore I must fight, conquer, prove myself. I must provide proof to the world that I am something—special, unique. I must earn wealth, attain high position; gain fame and renown. Somehow I must prove that I am not ordinary, I am extraordinary—above others, whether through knowledge, renunciation, wealth, or status—but above others.”

Ambition is born out of the disease “I am separate.” And the one possessed by ambition is feverish; his very soul is fevered. It will begin to rot; the worm has entered the soul. Now there will never be peace. Restlessness will be life itself. Anguish and anxiety will only deepen. Day by day life will descend the steps of hell.

The one who has known, “I am one with this world,” drops otherness. In the music of this vastness he becomes a limb, a single note. He keeps no separate rhythm, no separate pace. He drops himself into the ocean! Only such a one becomes healthy. The art of drowning in the ocean—this is what I am teaching here, Dulari!

So if, sitting near me, you taste even a few glimpses of being established in yourself, you are blessed. Then keep deepening those glimpses. Cherish them, nurture them; call them back again and again. The health you taste in my presence, the flavor of the nectar—do not leave it here; take it with you. Let its echo go on resounding within you. Rise in it when you rise, sit in it when you sit. At night, sink into it as you sleep; at dawn, wake in it. Then, however much the distance between you and me, satsang will continue. Physical distance cannot obstruct satsang.

And I know Dulari—she can remain in satsang even while far away. There are a thousand obstacles. It is hard for her even to reach here. Yet somehow she manages to come. There is family, society—each with a thousand hindrances. And even beyond those, her continuous melody remains linked to me.

I have touched the moonlight—ah, what have I done?
Now my purified heart and breath, my heart thrums like a veena.

Once a little taste begins, the heart starts to sing! That very resonance is what we call prayer, worship, adoration.

I have touched the moonlight—ah, what have I done?
Now my purified heart and breath, my heart thrums like a veena.
I have touched the bright edge
of an autumn cloud,
I have touched the flowers of the sky,
as though I have touched the whole world.
Was it a goblet of intoxicating sweetness, or did I drink ambrosia?
I have touched the moonlight—ah, what have I done?
Soft enchantment—my eyes
were helpless before a mute invitation.
I touched the ember—
what can I do now, my heart was helpless.
I am no longer my own—what dream has a ray of light wrought?
I have touched the moonlight—ah, what have I done?
She trembled into silence,
like a bud of white jasmine,
Every thought of my heart turned
into an unknown lane.
In a single instant today I have lived a lifetime—
I have touched the moonlight—ah, what have I done?

The mind will also be very afraid. That is why people are frightened of becoming healthy. They cling to their illness. People do say they want peace, but they do not let go of restlessness! They say they want God, but they do not drop the ego. They say they want love and to give and receive love, but they sit clutching enmity, jealousy, anger, and violence tightly in their bundle! People say one thing and do exactly the opposite!

The day this contradiction becomes visible to you, throw into the ocean the very bundle you have till now guarded as your treasure; a revolution will begin that very instant. There is no need to desire peace—only stop sowing the seeds of restlessness; that is enough. Health happens of its own accord. We have deep investments in being unwell. For a thousand reasons we have wanted to remain unwell; hence we are unwell. In this world, no one is unwell because of someone else; each is unwell because of himself. Our self-interest is bound up with illness. The sick person receives sympathy, sensitivity, care, respect.

You see, if a child at home falls ill, he becomes the center of everyone’s attention. From childhood we teach the wrong lesson. We teach the child the art of being ill. Who does not want everyone to pay attention to him? Who does not want to become the apple of everyone’s eye? And the child learns he becomes the apple of everyone’s eye only when he is unwell—sick, infirm. When he is healthy, he is not the apple of anyone’s eye. In fact, the opposite happens: if the child is healthy, full of energy, he will dance, jump, break things, climb trees—and whoever sees him will scold him. “Don’t do this. Be quiet. Sit still.” Respect and sympathy are far away. Blessings for celebration are far away; in celebration comes condemnation. When he dances, the whole house becomes opposed, the whole family, the whole neighborhood. But if he lies sick, everyone becomes supportive.

We are teaching a wrong language. We are teaching the politics of illness! We are saying: when you are ill, you will deserve all our sympathy. This is a deeply sick process. When the child is happy and dancing, give him sympathy then—he will remain happy and dancing all his life.

But no, that does not happen. For this reason a very shabby event has occurred in human history. What is that event? Understand it well, because it holds great keys for each of you! Every child receives sympathy in sorrow, pain, sickness, trouble; in festival, joy, auspiciousness, dance, and song he meets opposition. Slowly the child begins to feel that there is something wrong in happiness and something right in sorrow. Sorrow is acceptable to all; happiness is acceptable to none.

The final conclusion of this deep logic is that even God cannot accept happiness—he will accept sorrow. Thus your monks and ascetics keep inflicting suffering upon themselves. Their notion is that when the parents of this world sympathized with sorrow, then the Father of all will also sympathize with sorrow. When the parents of this world were upset by happiness—when I leapt, danced, rejoiced, they were opposed—then the Supreme Father too will be opposed to happiness. On this basis the religions of the world have been corrupted. On this basis despondency, gloom, self-torment, self-denial—these became the steps of religion. Torture yourself!

What do you think the man in Kashi lying on a bed of thorns is saying? He is a child. He is foolish. He is no knower—plainly foolish! He is extending the same logic: “Look, I am lying on thorns! Now, O Divine Father, at least now pay attention to me! Come to me! What more do you want?” That Jain monk fasting, withering the body, tormenting himself—what is he saying? “Now existence should sympathize with me! What more do you want? How much more shall I do?” In Christianity there were fakirs who every morning whipped themselves until their bodies were bloody. That was their prayer. And the more one bloodied and bruised his body, the greater a saint he was considered.

Look at these crazed people! Deranged! They have been worshiped for centuries—you too still worship them! The same goes on in this country. This logic is childish and deluded. God is pleased with those who are pleased. God is not a replica of your parents. Your parents were fashioned by their parents, who learned the same net you learned.

This whole society does not honor the happy person. If your house catches fire, the whole village comes to offer sympathy—doesn’t it? Even enemies come. Friends of course, but strangers too. They all come to say, “How terrible.” Even if inwardly they feel a little pleased, still they come to say, “How terrible.” Suddenly you become the center of the whole village’s sympathy.

But build a big, beautiful house in the village and see! The whole village will turn against you. They will become your enemies, for their envy is wounded. Plant a lovely garden; let the flute sound and the veena resonate in your house—then see whether anyone comes to offer sympathy! Even friends will become strangers; enemies will remain enemies, but friends too will become enemies. Envy will burn within them. Hence we cannot honor the happy person. That is why we could not honor Jesus; we could crucify him. We could not honor Mahavira; we could even drive nails into his ears. We could not honor Socrates; we could make him drink poison.

You see, the way this country treats me—the sole reason is that I do not ask for their sympathy. I am not a fit object for their sympathy. Were I to become that, they would be full of respect. But I am joyous, blissful, soaked in nectar. I am adorned with the splendor of God. The difficulty is: I sleep on a bed of flowers, and they are used only to honoring the man who sleeps on a bed of thorns. So their opposition is natural. They themselves are sick. Their entire psyche is burdened with illnesses of thousands of years.

This world has not yet honored the joyous person. It honors only the sorrowful. It calls them renunciates, great souls. Beware of this tendency—it has been planted within you by society. When you become a dry, withered tree, when your leaves have fallen and no flowers bloom in you—then society will honor you.

And I tell you: throw such honor away as not worth a penny. Even if the whole society insults you, be green and verdant; let flowers bloom. The birds will honor you; the moon and stars will honor you; the sun will honor you; the sky will bow before you. Forget the opinion of people—people are ill. This herd of humans is deeply sick—it is not a one-day sickness, but a long illness of thousands of years. Hardly anyone escapes it.

Human beings have tied great self-interest to their sorrow. You have noticed—people tell their tales of pain greatly exaggerated. They magnify their miseries so that others will pat their back and sympathize. People are mad for sympathy. And what does sympathy give? What is the use even if all pay attention to you?

You’ve heard the story: a poor woman somehow saved up by grinding flour and had gold bangles made. She longed for someone to ask, “How much were they? Where did you get them?” But no one asked—no one asks about happiness! She grew anxious, distraught; she jangled them loudly all over the village, but no one asked. Whoever saw the bangles turned their eyes away. At last she set her hut on fire. The whole village gathered. She beat her breast, raised her hands and cried, “I’m ruined! I’m ruined!” From the crowd someone asked, “All right, you’re ruined—but when did you get those gold bangles?” She said, “If you had asked earlier, why would I have been ruined? My hut would have been saved if only you had asked before.”

There is great craving for sympathy—that someone should ask, speak a sweet word. It only reveals your inner poverty, nothing else. It only shows your inner wounds, nothing else. Only a wretched person seeks sympathy. Sympathy is a kind of consolation, a kind of bandage. It does not heal the wound; it only hides it. I am teaching you how to heal the wound.

And the lessons are reaching Dulari. Her question is meaningful. It is less a question and more a statement. She says, “When I came here I was very unwell.”

I am here precisely for those who are unwell—to come. For those who are broken from themselves—to come, so that I may join them back to themselves.

“Now I am leaving having found complete health.”

But remember, health is not honored. So if health does not receive honor, don’t be disturbed. Health is often insulted. Health does not receive a throne—it receives a cross! This is the price of health; only those who are ready to pay it, who are ready to make this bargain, attain health. I am giving you song. I am giving you dance. I am giving you festivity. This festivity will not be honored anywhere. I am giving you a new flame of life. When you return to extinguished lamps, those extinguished lamps will be angry, not pleased. They will not be able to bear that what did not happen to them has happened to you! And when one has even a small taste of health, a deep longing arises to journey to the far shore. If a slight touch brings so much health and joy, then when we are utterly immersed—when we do not hold back even a grain—how much will there be! It is ineffable, inexpressible, indefinable!

Today, a summons comes from across the waves.
A mute surrender of the eyes, in love.
Tonight the full-moon rays spill sandalwood,
a drenched night sings the songs of union,
and beauty doubles itself with adornment.
Today, a summons comes from across the waves.
Who is this deepening within my heart,
like a dream that keeps rippling?
Gratitude has drowned my feeling.
Today, a summons comes from across the waves.
Silken tresses bend a little,
trembling eyelids pause a little,
today emotions dissolve beneath their own weight.
Today, a summons comes from across the waves.
The honeyed month of love sings its song,
on every side the music of love resounds,
even fragrance is beside itself with the tryst.
Today, a summons comes from across the waves.

As the nectar swells, the distant shore will call—“the call,” says Wajid! It is the call of the far shore. I am calling you from the other shore: Dulari, come! Keep coming! Leave this shore. This shore has many securities—you must leave them too. Its comforts and conveniences must be left. And in this world, as I see it, the most difficult thing is to leave your sorrows, your illnesses, your gloom—the most difficult! To accept joy is the most difficult—because since childhood we have agreed to sorrow. We accepted sorrow as the way of life.

But I tell you, sorrow is not the way of life; it is the distortion of life. Sorrow is not life’s naturalness. Sorrow is there because life is not being lived. Sorrow comes from life’s lameness—not from life, but from our crippled way of living. And we have learned that lameness. We have been bound from all sides by petty notions, by useless beliefs.

One useless belief taught to us is that you must be miserable, for you have to suffer the karma of past lives. If this settles in the mind—that I am suffering the deeds of past births—then where is the space for happiness? So many births! Eighty-four million forms! How many sins must have been committed—just reckon! The fruits of all those sins must be suffered—how can happiness be? Sorrow will seem natural. These are inventions to keep a person miserable.

I tell you: you have committed no sins, and there is no fruit of karma to be suffered. You have not yet awakened; you are not yet even there—what sins could you possibly commit! The awakened can commit sin—but the awakened do not commit sin.

Akbar the emperor was passing one day, and a man climbed onto his roof and began to hurl abuses—at the emperor! He was seized at once and brought to court the next day. Akbar asked, “Are you mad? What were you saying? Why?” The man said, “Forgive me, I said nothing. I was drunk. I was unconscious. I was not there! If you punish me, it will not be right—it will be injustice. I had drunk wine.”
Akbar thought and said, “This is right; the fault was the wine’s, not yours. You may go. But do not drink again. The fault of drinking was yours. What came out of your mouth after drinking was not in your hands—that is true.”

Even today the courts release a madman, if madness is proven. Why? Because what responsibility can a madman bear? If a lunatic shoots someone, the court pardons him—if it is proven that he was insane. Why blame a madman? He has no awareness!

Have you lived with awareness? Those eighty-four million forms the scriptures say you have passed through—were you aware in them? Do you remember even one? If you were aware, where is the memory? Do you remember being a tree, a bird, a lion in the forest? Anything? The scriptures say so; you do not remember. And you have passed through eighty-four million wombs.

You were unconscious, in a stupor. What value is there to what is done in a stupor? God cannot be unjust. If even the courts of this world do not commit such injustice, then the Divine, the supremely compassionate, the ocean of mercy—how could he? The courts of this world, which we can hardly call oceans of compassion, even they forgive the unconscious.

I keep telling you: awaken—only then can there be an accounting of your actions. This is something unique I am telling you, something you have never been told. I speak from my own experience. I did not have to pay off the sins of eighty-four million births—and I am free of them. You can be too. You need not get entangled in that “settling of accounts.” In truth, you will not be able to settle them—it is only a way to remain miserable, a way to give sorrow a justification, a device to reconcile yourself to sorrow: “What can I do—if there is sorrow, it is because of sins of countless births. When they are expiated, someday happiness will come—someday in the future.”

You thought the same way before; you are thinking the same now; you will think the same tomorrow—next birth too. Think: what difference will it make? In the next birth you will say, “I am suffering the fruits of past lives.” And in the next, the same again. You will always go on saying it; you always have. When will you step out of sorrow? And you do not remember a single birth—not even what you are doing now. Are you even awake now? Do you have the lamp of awareness?

Only an awakened one, if he sins, can be held responsible. But he does not sin—for how can a wakeful person sin? Now understand me: how can a wakeful person sin? And a sleeping person—how, I say, can he perform virtue? As a blind person will grope and stumble, so the unconscious person will err. A blind man will bump into tables and chairs. Before he finds the door, his head will have struck the walls a hundred times. It is natural. Why would a man with eyes collide? He simply finds the door. For him, walls do not come in the way; nor chairs nor tables. He does not grope; he does not ask, “Where is the door?”—he just walks through. Yes, if a man with eyes bangs into a wall, we can blame him: “What are you doing?” But the seeing do not collide. Those we blame are blind.

A blind man, one dark new-moon night, left his friend’s house. As he started, the friend said, “Take a lantern; the night is very dark.”
The blind man laughed: “What a joke! To me, day and night are the same. What will I do with a lantern? Even with it I will not see. If I could see, what need would there be? Are you mocking me—a poor blind man? Have mercy; do not mock.”
But the friend was not mocking. He said, “No, mockery and me? I am saying take the lantern not for your seeing—I know you will not see—but so that others will not bump into you. At least that much will happen. Otherwise someone may run into you in the dark. If you carry a lantern, others will see you. Isn’t that something? Take the lantern.” This reasoning appealed even to the blind man: “True, if I carry a lantern no one will bump into me. That’s something—fifty percent safety!” He went off with it.
But just there the mistake happened—logic’s hidden flaw. Logic often leads to such delusions. A few steps and someone collided with him. The blind man was furious: “Are you blind too? Can’t you see the lantern?” He lifted it up. The man said, “Forgive me, sir—your lantern has gone out.”
If a blind man’s lantern goes out, how will he know? And that is what I say—logic’s great delusion. Had he gone without a lantern, he would have tapped with his stick, made noise, called out, “Brother, I am coming—be careful!” Today, intoxicated by the lantern, he did not tap his stick; he did not call out. He dropped all precautions. “Now that I have a lantern, why tap a stick or call?” He walked with swagger. Earlier he used to thump his stick so people would know a blind man was coming. Today he didn’t. Logic created a great confusion.

Unconscious one—you remember nothing of past births. Leave past births aside—who knows whether they happened or not! Do you remember your mother’s womb? Nine months there—you surely were. No one doubts that—not even an atheist. But do you remember anything? Any hint at all? Leave the womb aside—since you were shut in a little chamber. But after birth you came out. Do you remember the moment of your birth? Your eyes were open then; ears too—you must have seen and heard. Do you remember?

Nothing at all. If you go back in memory, you will reach at most to around age four. Before that it’s all blank. From birth to four—nothing—empty. When this is the state of this very life, what will you remember of past lives!

And how many times have you decided, “Now I will not be angry, whatever happens”? Then someone abuses you and anger flares; you completely forget how many vows you took not to be angry. What reliance is there on your memory? You get angry and then repent.

I know people who every night swear they will rise at Brahmamuhurta. They even set the alarm—and they themselves slam it off with a heavy hand. Then in the morning they repent. At eight o’clock they groan, “Again I slipped! Tomorrow I’ll try again.” They’ve been doing this all their lives. Even that has become a habit—setting the alarm, switching it off, repenting later—this whole routine has become their style. Every night they decide they will rise early…

What kind of awareness is yours? The same man who decides at dusk, “I shall rise at dawn,” says in the morning under the blanket, “Oh, let it be—what’s the hurry? If not today, tomorrow.” Two hours later he laments, “Oh! I’ve made the same mistake again!”

How much awareness do you have? You are utterly unconscious. Try a little—walk down the road and keep the awareness: “I am walking.” Within a minute the awareness will be lost; you will be lost in a thousand other thoughts. Then suddenly you will remember, “Where did I go? What was I thinking?”

Sit for a moment with eyes closed and say, “I will be still; I will not think.” You cannot be without thoughts even for a moment. Such is your mastery over yourself! You cannot stop even your thoughts—how will you change your actions? Thoughts—such insubstantial, trash-like things—you cannot stop even them! If some thought starts circling in your head, try as you might, it does not go. How much power do you have?

In such a powerless state, if your sorrows are coming from past lives, then there will be no remedy for sorrow at all.

I tell you: sorrow has nothing to do with past births. If sorrow arises, it is because you are unconscious right now. Unconsciousness is sorrow. Wake up! And no one is obstructing your awakening except your own habit of unconsciousness and your old attachments to it—there is no other obstacle.

Grooves have formed; you are running in ruts. You have become habituated to sorrow. You have even forgotten how to smile; forgotten how to dance. I only wish to remind you of that much.

Do not bring doctrines in between. Otherwise you will never attain bliss. We have made many doctrines! We say: first we’ll do virtue, then bliss will happen. And I tell you: become blissful—and the acts of virtue will begin to happen in your life. Bliss gives birth to virtue. Bliss is not the result of virtue; virtue is the result of bliss.

So, Dulari, a faint whisper of health has reached your ear—deepen it! The web of sorrow will try to seize you. The old habits of suffering will attack. Guard yourself. Keep yourself awake. If you remain awake, satsang continues. Fall asleep, and satsang is lost.

You say: Since we cannot solve our personal problems ourselves...
You are the one who creates them—how will you solve them? You are the creator—how will you resolve them? You yourself are the problem—who will solve it then? If the self goes, the problems born of the self go. So do not think sannyas is a method for solving problems. We cut the root, not the branches. Why go on snipping leaves! Cut one leaf and three appear. Solve one problem and three are born. That’s the way it goes. You have seen: if a gardener wants a tree to grow dense, he prunes the leaves. Why? Because he knows the tree will take umbrage; cut one leaf and, in reply, the tree produces three. The tree starts trying to defeat the gardener—“What do you think of yourself!” Cut one branch and three sprout. The tree begins to thicken. The tree too answers back; it accepts the challenge.

Problems grow on the tree of ego; leaves of problems sprout on the branches of ego. Solve one problem and three will stand in its place. Find an answer to one question and in that very answer three new questions will arise. This is the entire history of man. The net does not loosen; it keeps spreading.

We cut the root; we cut the source. We say, why get entangled with every leaf? And the funny thing is the root is not visible. That too is the tree’s strategy; if it were visible, someone might cut it. So the tree hides its root, buries it in the earth—hidden in darkness lies the root. It sends the leaves up above—no worry there; even if they’re cut, plundered, birds will take them, animals will graze them, humans will trim them—no concern. If the roots remain, leaves will come again. Leaves are not valuable. Leaves come and go. In autumn they will fall by themselves even if no one plucks them. In spring they will sprout again. Only the roots must remain.

See how the tree hides its roots! It lets no one know. Even if you cut down the whole tree, the tree has no worry. If roots remain, new shoots will come. Such is your situation. The problems are above; the root of the problems is within. The root is—ego.

Sannyas means—the surrender of ego. What else does sannyas mean? Sannyas simply means: I am tired; now I drop my “I.”

And that is exactly where Dr. Desai is stuck. He must be wanting to take sannyas, otherwise the question would not arise. He is a doctor, educated, respected. He is a doctor in Surat, well known there; he must be afraid—that people will see him in ochre robes and say, “A fine fellow has gone mad!” Patients might also become doubtful: “Now to get an operation from him? Who can trust sannyasins! What if, while operating, he starts doing Kundalini meditation! To take medicine from him? Who can trust the mad!” It must be frightening.

I understand Dr. Desai’s difficulty; it must be frightening. The feeling for sannyas has arisen; otherwise the question would not arise. But now he also wants to escape. And he wants to escape in such a way that his respectability remains intact.

So he asks: Since we cannot solve our personal problems ourselves, is the sannyas taken for this reason proper?

Then when will you take sannyas? When you have solved all your personal problems! Then what need will there be for sannyas? It is like a patient going to the doctor only after he has become healthy. Dr. Desai is a doctor, so this example will do. A patient says, “Since I cannot cure my disease myself, would it be proper to go to a doctor?” He will go when the disease is gone. But then what would be the point? What purpose would it serve?

Buddha said, I am a physician. Nanak also said, I am a healer. The truly great knowers of the world are not philosophers; they are physicians. Buddha said: Do not ask me idle questions; tell me your fundamental disease and take the cure. Expose your roots and let me cut them.

I too am a physician. After all, doctors also need a physician! If you come after solving your problems, there will be no need left.

What is the fear? The ego obstructs. The ego says, “Go before someone and disclose your problems? Keep them hidden inside, do not tell anyone. Wear a mask on the outside that you have no problems.” You may deceive others on the surface, but within there are problems and you will burn in their fire, you will writhe in their fire.

And often there are professions—like the doctor’s, the psychologist’s—in which they cannot reveal their problems because they are the ones who solve others’ problems. They are afraid—if we reveal our problems, people will find out that we ourselves are still troubled! If a doctor falls ill, he doesn’t want the news to spread that he has fallen ill. Because if patients come to know that a doctor himself falls ill, some of them may run away. So the doctor has to hide it. If a psychologist suffers from a mental disorder, he cannot tell anyone; he hides it.

You know this: psychologists, more than in any other profession, go mad in double proportion! And, compared to any other profession, they commit suicide in double proportion!

It should not be so. A psychologist is supposed to help resolve others whose minds have become knots. That they themselves commit suicide in double numbers does not appear becoming! That they themselves go mad in double numbers does not seem right.

But there is a reason behind it. The reason is exactly this: the poor psychologist—whom can he tell his sorrow to? Everyone else brings their sorrow to the psychologist and dumps it on his head. He broods on everyone’s anxieties. Who will take his anxieties? And he is also afraid that if I disclose my worries, the result will be bad for my profession. So he keeps a mask on the outside; he keeps smiling. Problems keep piling up within, and he keeps smiling on the surface. He keeps giving advice on how to solve those very problems that he himself has not yet solved.

This is the difference between a psychologist and a true Master (sadguru). A sadguru is one whose problems are finished, who has no problem now. A psychologist is one who has as many problems as his patients, but he has collected borrowed knowledge, borrowed answers. With the support of those answers he assists others. And sometimes even an arrow shot in the dark hits the mark—that is another matter. If it hits, it hits; if it doesn’t, it’s a fluke! Sometimes an arrow shot in the dark also hits.

There was an exhibition; Mulla Nasruddin took his disciples there to see it. There were many stalls. At one stall there was archery: people were shooting arrows and placing bets. You had to stake money, and if the arrow hit, the shopkeeper would pay you five times your stake. If it didn’t, your money was lost. Mulla put down his money, adjusted his cap, drew the bowstring, and said to his disciples: “Watch closely!” All the disciples stood, and the shopkeeper too became curious—what’s the matter? And Mulla looked quite impressive—elderly, with ten or twenty disciples with him—a man of attainment.

He shot with great flourish. And what had to happen happened. The arrow didn’t even reach the target, let alone hit; it fell in the middle. The crowd watching burst into laughter. A big crowd had gathered to see. People laughed heartily—what a fine affair! He came with such grandeur—big cap and all, churidar pajamas, achkan, Gandhi cap—so much style, so many disciples, and the arrow didn’t even reach! People laughed.

Mulla said: “Silence, you ignoramuses!” He said to his disciples: “Listen—did you see? This is the arrow of that archer who has no trust in himself.”

There was a hush—what’s going on? Some teaching is happening here! “This is the arrow of the archer who does not trust himself. He certainly shoots, but it never reaches.” He picked up a second arrow, adjusted his cap again, and shot; this time he put in full force. The arrow went past, over the mark, and crossed beyond—it didn’t hit. People laughed again.

He said: “You ignoramuses, will you keep quiet!” He told his disciples: “Listen—this is the arrow of the archer who is overfilled with self-confidence.”

Now again a hush fell—something deep is being said! This isn’t about mere archery. Mulla picked up a third arrow; by chance it hit. He went to the shopkeeper and said, “Five times the money!” The shopkeeper gave him five times and asked, “But now say something about this third arrow.” He replied, “This is the arrow of Mulla Nasruddin.”

The one that hits is the arrow; the one that doesn’t is a fluke! This is Mulla Nasruddin’s arrow! If this one hadn’t hit, he would have found another excuse. Until it hit, he would have kept finding excuses.

That is what the psychologist is doing. Until it hits, he keeps finding excuses. Hence the process of psychology goes on very long. Psychoanalysis—three years, five years, seven years... And the truth is that psychoanalysis never really comes to an end. Mulla’s arrow at least hit; the psychologist’s arrow never hits. But the patient gets tired and goes from one psychologist to another. When he gets tired there, he goes to a third. In this way life runs out. And yet, though there are millions of psychologists on the whole earth by now, not one person can say that they have solved all his psychological problems. Their own have not been solved!

But where should the psychologist go? In the West the phenomenon of the sadguru does not really happen. Therefore the psychologist has to come to the East. You will be surprised to know that among my sannyasins there are thousands of psychologists and psychiatrists. And the total reason for their coming is simply that they are tired; how long to go on solving others’ problems when their own are not solved yet? Now it has begun to rankle them: we ourselves are deluded—whom are we trying to set right?

Dr. Desai, you want to save face—behind a net of fine words: “Would it be proper to take sannyas for this reason?” Then when would it be proper? Right now medicine is needed!

And even now you do not really know what your problem is. The problems are not the problem. Problems are leaves; the problem is hidden within—the ego. And sannyas is the process of cutting that very root.

Sannyas means—surrender, to go and lay oneself at someone’s feet. To one with whom love arises. In whom you begin to hear, just a little, his flute. From whom a faint breeze of him begins to touch you. With whom there is a slight intimation of his beauty. That’s all—leave everything at his feet. In that leaving, a revolution happens. Because in that leaving, for the first time your ego bows. That bowing is the cutting of the root.

Yes, if you do not bow, nothing will happen even through sannyas. Then sannyas remains on the surface. It rains, but you do not get wet. Nothing substantial happens. The bowing must be within! Then the problem of problems, the basic support of all problems dissolves.

Do not be afraid! If the longing for sannyas has arisen, then let the Lord enter within. He must have called—that is why it has arisen, Dr. Desai! Understand his call. Add your call to his call.

Descend, O river-song, to the earth.
O Holy One, give your rays of light
to the fog-dim sky of the human heart.
Flood body and mind with love’s nectar,
awaken the world’s life to alert, fulfilled consciousness,
make feeling sweet in form,
by the footfall of your word reveal your beauty.
Give all creation a stainless vision,
O gracious one, grant rain in its season to the parched;
in the life of every particle,
awaken as tomorrow’s gold, O resplendent one!
Honey of honey, strength of the sun,
voice of monsoon, bright as a snow-smile,
with the experience of ages of becoming,
make the path beautiful, take away the path’s toil.
Equal in quality, harmonious, complete, action-balanced,
one progress of love, the unreachable reached,
move upon the people’s tongue and the earth of the world—
foremost in glory, companion to sorrow.
Descend, O river-song, to the earth.
O Holy One, give your rays of light
to the fog-dim sky of the human heart.

A man’s heart is filled with much darkness. Call upon the light; that very call is sannyas. You will not be able to call directly to God, for you have no experience of him. So connect with such a person who has experience of him. Peek through his window.

A guru is a window. Guru means gurudwara—the doorway. He is the door. Look at the open sky through that door. Your door is closed. Slide into the guru’s presence, come close, closer. The first step of this coming close is sannyas.

Sannyas is initiation into the resolve that now I want to come near; take me nearer, take me nearest.

Descend, O river-song, to the earth.
O Holy One, give your rays of light
to the fog-dim sky of the human heart.

My heart is filled with much darkness, much fog-dimness, many clouds—come, descend. Within me there is only noise and clamor, a crowd—descend as song.

Descend, O river-song!

Listen to this call; do not ignore it. If sannyas can become surrender, it is a great revolution.

I do not solve problems; I cut the root, and problems disappear on their own. Cut the root of a tree; yes, for a few days the leaves will remain green—only for a few days; then they will wither by themselves and fall. No new shoots will come. Soon only the stump will stand. In the same way I cut the root. Who will take the trouble to solve problems one by one? If you try to solve them one by one, when will they ever be solved? How will they be solved? And by the time you solve one, your old mind will have tangled ten new ones. This is the story and the sorrow of your life—one does not get solved and another gets tangled. Often it happens that to avoid solving one problem a person entangles himself in an even bigger problem. Because when big sorrows come, small sorrows are forgotten.

One friend is single. He has the problem of being alone; loneliness bites. Another friend is married. His problem is that when two pots rub, there is clatter, there is hassle. A third friend has had children. First he was alone—there was a problem. People said, “Become two, the problem will be solved.” They became two; the problems doubled! Then people said, “Children should happen; then the problem will be solved.” Now children have come. The problem has not been solved; problems have increased; now there are the children’s problems.

But there is one benefit in this: as the problem grows bigger, as the net of problems gets more tangled, you go on forgetting yourself. You become so busy there is no leisure. People accumulate so many worries that there is not even the leisure to be worried!

Mulla Nasruddin said to me one day, “If some accident happens today, I won’t have time for three weeks; there are already so many pending problems. If an accident happens today, I won’t even be able to pay attention to it for three weeks—after three weeks! Because I’m already queued up for three weeks; who has the time?”

To forget a small problem people create a bigger problem; observe and recognize this trick of the mind. It maintains busyness.

Just think: if all your problems were solved—now, this very moment; a magic wand were waved and all your problems solved—you would stand utterly bewildered. You would say, “Now what shall I do? Where shall I go?” You would say, “Give me back my problems. Return my problems. What will I do now? You have snatched away all my activity. You have snatched away the meaning of my life! Where is the juice of my being now?” You would at once find yourself juiceless! That is why people keep on entangling. They go on forging new problems. They keep crying that the problems are many, and they do not cut the root.

Dr. Desai, if the longing for sannyas and for cutting the root has arisen, do not miss. The mind will propose a thousand tricks. The mind has proposed a very fine trick here: “Why take sannyas now? First solve your problems!” The mind knows perfectly well that the problems will not be solved, and sannyas will also not happen! “First solve the problems”—how reasonable the mind’s suggestion sounds, how neat! Then come to take sannyas with dignity. But then for what? Will you go to the hospital with dignity to get operated on when there is no illness at all! For what? Why?

But such a day will never come either. The mind that is raising this question will keep raising new questions. It is the mind’s nature to raise questions. The mind creates new tangles, bigger tangles. It keeps busy with its tangles. Being busy, it feels as if we are doing something.

If their own problems become small, people also take on others’ problems. They begin to solve the neighbors’. Their own are not solved, and they start solving the whole country’s, the human race’s. Politics is exactly such an arrangement. Those whose own problems are not solved are solving others’ problems! Because of such meddlers, problems get even more tangled; solving them becomes near impossible. If politicians would be silent for a hundred years, ninety-nine percent of problems would be solved at once—because there would be no one to raise them. Just imagine: all the politicians of the world decide to be quiet for a hundred years, not to contest elections—problems will depart on their own. Because it is they who raise them.

The Indian politician raises problems for the Pakistani politician. The Pakistani politician raises problems for the Indian politician. The southern politician raises problems for the northern politician. The northern politician raises problems for the southern one. They are busy raising problems for one another! Look closely at this net. If politicians take leave for a hundred years, ninety-nine percent of problems will fall on their own. And the one percent that remains can be solved. Because of these hundred, even that one is not getting solved.

The human race is well entangled. And the biggest reason for the entanglement is precisely that there are too many problem-solvers who themselves are not solved. But there is a certain relish in it—the relish is that they get involved in others’ big problems and forget their own. Who cares about the small problems at home? When you become Prime Minister, who cares about the small problems of the house? Great problems are in front of you.

One day Mulla Nasruddin was walking down the road—dragging his feet, irritable, hurling abuses. I asked, “Nasruddin, what’s the matter?” He said, “Can’t you see? My feet are swelling; these shoes are too small.” I said, “I’ve heard this many times before. It’s the same rigmarole every day. Why don’t you buy another pair of shoes? Why did you buy shoes two sizes too small?” He said, “I will never do that. You don’t understand—these shoes are the only joy of my life. All day I swear at them; it keeps my mind occupied. It gives me something to do. And then there is a great delight: when I return home in the evening, tired, harassed by these shoes, and I take them off and throw them away and lie down on the bed, I say, ‘Oh Lord!’ There is such bliss in taking off these shoes! If I give up these shoes, that bliss will also be gone. That is the only bliss in my life; there is no other.”

What is bliss in your life? Only that the noose of your sorrow slackens for a little while; that’s all the bliss there is. How will you give up sorrow? Because along with that sorrow your bliss will also go. One day the wife does not quarrel—you feel great joy. But note: that joy is there because she quarrels every day. If she stops quarreling altogether, the joy will also go. What joy then? Your joy too comes out of your sorrow; it is the by-product of your sorrow.

Come to me; I will cut your root. That is the work that is going on here. And once your root is cut, once you become aware that you are not, God is—then the solution has come. That is why we call that state samadhi, because that state is the solution.

Achyut Bodhisattva! I am not doing anything that tires me. Do not call it tireless effort. I am not getting tired at all. This is not labor; this is love. In doing this I am not bestowing any favor on you. Swantah sukhaya Raghunath gatha—out of my own joy I sing the song of Raghunath. I sing for my own delight. That you happen to listen is secondary. If you do not come, I will sing to the trees, I will talk with the birds. Your presence is only incidental. I am doing no favor to you. Do not thank me, even by mistake. Never, even by mistake, think of my work as a benediction upon you—there is no need. I am singing in my own ecstasy. If you have listened, that is your grace. If you have received it, then I am indebted to you. There is nothing here like effort. I am making no attempt. It is no striving. I am not serving anyone.

The very word “service” is unclean in my vision. I am lost in my own bliss. I am singing my song. If it pleases you, you come and listen. You sit nearby, you make it convenient for me to sing; for that I am indebted to you. There is no tireless effort going on, because there is no effort at all, and so the question of fatigue does not arise. Tireless effort happens, Achyut, where people serve others out of a sense of duty—“it must be done, service must be rendered.” Why should I serve you? Why should anyone serve you? Let each live in their own joy.

A Christian mother was instructing her child, “Son, one should serve others. God made you for this very purpose—that you may serve others.”
The boy was intelligent—as small children often ask questions that old people cannot answer. The little boy said, “I understand that I have been created to serve others. For what purpose were the others created? I need an answer to that as well.”
The mother must have been in difficulty—what could she say? If she were to say, “The others were created so that you may serve them,” that would be great injustice: I am made to serve, and they are made to be served—this is injustice at the very root! If the mother says, “The others were created to serve you, and you were created to serve them,” the boy will say, “Then let everyone do his own—why raise this useless commotion!”

That is exactly what I am saying. In this world there has been too much of “serving others,” and nothing substantial has come of it. In the name of service many hollow trades have flourished. In the name of service, power-hungry people have exploited the masses. Whoever comes as a servant, today or tomorrow becomes a ruler. The one who begins by pressing your feet will someday press your neck. If someone presses your feet, be warned then and there; otherwise when you realize it later, it is too late—awakening then is of no use. Why should anyone serve you? And if he serves, he will ask for a return; he will want a reward.

My initiation to you is this: live out of your own joy. It is enough that you do not become an obstacle to anyone else’s joy. It is enough that you dance your own dance of delight and sing your own song. Perhaps the wave of your joy will touch others and they too will become joyous. Perhaps a little vermilion will fly from you and they too will turn red; a little color will splash from you and they too will be colored. That is another matter. Do not think, “I have served.”

The cuckoo sings. Do you think she is serving the poets—“Write poems, look, I am singing! Wake up, poets! Lift your pens, write poems! I have come to serve you again.” Does the pied cuckoo call, “Saints, awake! Look, I call to my Beloved—so you too should call. I have come to serve you”? In this world, who is serving whom? The cuckoo sings—out of her own joy. The pied cuckoo calls—immersed in his own nectar. Flowers bloom—out of their own sap. The moon and stars move—out of their own energy. You too, live out of your own being.

I do not want to make you servants. People come to me and say, “Why don’t you tell your sannyasins to serve the public?”
Why should they? Why should anyone serve anyone? And how long have we been serving—thousands of years—and what is the gain? I do not teach service. And this does not mean that service will not happen through you. Understand the point, understand the distinction. Service will happen through you only when you do not do it. When you are absorbed in your own joy. When you awaken and your lamp is lit—then service will happen through you. It will happen without you doing it. It will be free of your striving. It will not be your effort. The divine will flow through you and certain happenings will occur—but you will not be the doer, only the witness.

So I am not serving anyone, nor am I making any tireless effort.
And you say, Achyut, people are asleep; far from living the truth, they are not even ready to listen to the truth.
As they wish. Do not be angry with them either. There must be at least this much freedom—that if someone wants to listen to truth, he may listen; if someone wants to live it, he may live it. Existence has given this much freedom. These are the two sides of freedom. If truth were imposed by force, it would no longer be truth. The dignity of man is that he is free. If you want, remain unconscious, remain asleep—pull the blanket over you. You are your own master. When no one listens to me, do not think I become hurt or sad. I see his dignity, his grandeur, his majesty. Existence has given him the freedom to listen if he wants, and not to listen if he does not. If I have been given the freedom to sing, then at least he has been given the freedom to listen or not to listen. Who am I that my words must be heard? There is no compulsion to listen—and then to accept what I say as well?

But your so-called saints have done exactly this. That is why such ideas arise in you in relation to me as well. Your saints have insisted—“Listen to us, otherwise we will go on fast-unto-death.” It is a strange business! Mahatma Gandhi would go on fasts in the ashram over the smallest of matters.
These fasts are violent; where is nonviolence in them? If a man drinks tea in the ashram, he does not even have that much freedom. And look at the technique: he does not stand over the person with a stick, so no one sees it as violence. But he stands there with a subtle stick, far more harmful, more deadly, more inhuman. He declares a three-day fast. Now he says, “I will kill myself if you do not listen to me.” And he calls that satyagraha!

All insistence belongs to untruth; truth has no insistence at all. Where there is insistence, there is untruth. Why insist? I have said what I have to say. If you wanted to listen, you listened; if you did not, you did not. If you wanted to accept, you accepted; if not, you did not. You are your own master; I am mine. Is it not enough that you were present, that you came? Whether you heard or not, absorbed or not, lived it or not—that is your will. I will not fast. Fasting in this way is violence. I will not coerce you. It is a way of harassing you.

Now think a little: if I begin a fast and say, “You must do this, you must eat that, you must drink this—otherwise I will fast,” then I am placing a stone on your chest. I am saying, “Look, you will not stop smoking and I am ready to die for you—just look at my service! I am giving my life for you and you cannot even give up a cigarette!”
If you have even a little affection, a little love, a little compassion, you will say, “Is it worth someone’s life just for my smoking a cigarette?” You will exert pressure on yourself. You will say, “No, I swear I will never smoke again.” But that is an oath taken under pressure; it is coercion. It becomes a bondage; a chain is put upon you. That is not freedom; that is not the path of liberation.
I simply state what I have to say, and I will go on saying it. Those who want to hear will hear, those who want to drink will drink, those who want to live it will live it—as they please.

Of the sun’s rays,
hundreds of arrow-like shafts,
saffron-yellow,
whose immortal music
is softly resonant
in the blue sky,
eager to scatter,
to burst forth;
as the eastern horizon
blossoms like a lotus,
its rosy petals unfolding;
if then you pull the quilt of mist
over body, mind, and breath, this side,
and sleep—
sleep on.
But will the newborn dawn
halt because of it?
Certainly not;
the dawn will come,
and over this earth,
in frolic and joy,
in the free sky
wandering,
the birds’
chorus will spread.

Morning comes, the sun rises. You may lie asleep with a blanket over you—will the sun stop for that? You may lie buried in your bed—will the birds’ songs stop for that? Will the birds be offended? Will the sun become sad? Will the sun say, “Now I will start a satyagraha! I will fast! I have come, from so far, after a journey through infinity, crossing the night’s darkness, circling the whole earth—and you are sleeping, you sinners! Wake up, otherwise I will turn back; I will withdraw my rays!” The sun says nothing of the kind.

Are you sleeping?
Then sleep on.
But will the newborn dawn
halt because of it?
Certainly not;
the dawn will come,
and over this earth,
in frolic and joy,
in the free sky
wandering,
the birds’
chorus will spread.

That is all my song is—the birds’ song at dawn. That is my way of life—like the rising sun. Whether someone sees it or not makes no difference. I am making no tireless effort, Achyut. I am not serving. I am simply living in my own way. And this is my teaching: you too live wholly in your own way—in your glory, in your freedom. Do not become anyone’s servant, and do not make anyone a servant.
And yes, certainly much light will flow from you, much love will be kindled. Much good will happen to many through you—but do not go to “do good” to anyone. Those who set out to do good have caused great harm.

I have heard: there was a fair in China. A man fell into a well; the well had no parapet. A Buddhist monk came by. The man inside was shouting, “Save me! I will die—save me!” There was much noise—a fair, a market; who hears whom? The Buddhist monk was passing by the well—and he had the habit of meditation, of becoming quiet. He heard the voice. He peered into the well. The drowning man was overjoyed: “You have come, O monk, please save me!” The monk said, “Listen: this world is suffering. Even if you are saved, what will you do? Did not Lord Buddha say—birth is suffering, life is suffering, old age is suffering, death is suffering; all is suffering! What will you do if saved? You will have to die anyway, today or tomorrow—what difference? Besides, you are reaping the fruits of your own karma. Fruits must be suffered, otherwise there is no release. I can only tell you this—die peacefully.”
This is the conclusion of your philosophers—die quietly!

The monk went on his way. And mark this—do not laugh at the monk. What he said is the logical conclusion of your doctrine of karma. After him came a Confucian. Confucius believed in transforming society—order, rules, law. The Confucian heard the cry, looked down. The man said, “Save me, brother; I am dying. I cannot hold on much longer; the cold is intense, my limbs are going numb.” The Confucian said, “Do not panic. The great Confucius has already commanded that every well should have a parapet. This well has none; hence you are dying. Do not worry—we will see to it that every well has a parapet. If we must make a revolution, we will; if we must change laws, we will. Do not be afraid.”
The man said, “That will be fine, but what will happen to me? Save me.” But that man had no concern for a single individual—who bothers about one person? He went and stood on the central platform and began shouting to the crowd: “Listen brothers, see how the words of the great Confucius are proven true.” He made the incident an example: “This is why every well must have a parapet.” He engaged himself in social revolution.

Behind him came a Christian fakir. Quickly he took a rope from his bag, lowered it into the well. The man could hardly speak before the rope reached him. He had been thinking, “Should I call out or not? Is it better to remain silent and die, as the Buddhist monk perhaps rightly said—no one is going to rescue me anyway. That Confucian has gone off to make more noise; even if anyone could hear me, he has made such a racket that now no one can.” While he was still thinking whether to speak or not, the Christian had already lowered the rope, pulled him out, covered him with a cloth. The man said, “Your religion is the true one. You have served.”
The Christian said, “Brother, do not talk of service. We pulled you out because we wish to go to heaven. Jesus has said: he who serves will receive his reward. That is why you see we carry ropes with us—we keep them ready in the bag, in case someone falls in; we look for such opportunities. And this Confucian speaks wrongly: if every well has a parapet, how will people fall? And if people do not fall, how will anyone rescue them? What will happen to those who serve? How will they get their reward? There is no need for parapets on wells. Where they exist, remove them. Service must spread. And instruct your children too to keep falling into such wells, because our children will come and keep pulling them out. Without service, heaven cannot be attained!”

Do not laugh. I have read a book by Swami Karpatri in which he writes: socialism and communism should not come—because if communism comes and wealth is equally distributed, what will become of charity? Neither giver nor receiver will remain. And charity is the religion of religions. Then religion will be destroyed.
See the logic! When I was reading Karpatri Maharaj’s book, that Chinese story came to my mind—I felt he should be added to it. The same logic! And many will find the logic appealing—because many people follow Karpatri. It will seem convincing: “Right—if charity is the essence of religion, its very root, and property is distributed so that no beggar remains, no one is left to ask—then how will charity happen? And if there is no charity, how will religion survive?”

The Christian fakir spoke aptly: “Brother, keep falling—and instruct your children as well, keep falling. Do not build parapets on wells; where they exist, remove them. Our children too must go to heaven, after all. If you keep falling, we will keep serving. You become lepers and we will massage your feet. You fall ill and we will open hospitals. Do not listen to those who teach birth control; you keep producing children so that we may open schools and educate them. Otherwise what will happen to our heaven?”
I do not teach you service. I teach you to live from your joy. Yes, if in the flow of your joy something happens—if you come near a well and see someone fallen in, and your very feeling of joy tells you to pull him out, causelessly—with no desire to go to heaven, no desire to see your name in the newspaper, no desire to receive great medals, decorations, state honors, to be counted as a government saint—no such desire; not a question of that at all. Just on seeing the drowning man, your very life becomes a rope! Your very being becomes eager to save him. Not from the viewpoint of service—not even the slightest—from spontaneity. And after saving him, you go your way. You do not show even the desire to be thanked. Do not say even this much: “Take care, I saved you—do not forget it!” If even that desire arises, you did not save him out of joy. And one who saves out of joy becomes a tool in the hands of the divine.

The dawn will come:
of the sun’s rays,
hundreds of arrow-like shafts,
saffron-yellow,
whose immortal music
is softly resonant
in the blue sky,
eager to scatter,
to burst forth;
as the eastern horizon
blossoms like a lotus,
its rosy petals unfolding;
if then you pull the quilt of mist
over body, mind, and breath, this side,
and sleep—
sleep on.
But will the newborn dawn
halt because of it?
Certainly not;
the dawn will come,
and over this earth,
in frolic and joy,
in the free sky
wandering,
the birds’
chorus will spread.

Belief is a hollow thing, a false thing. A devotee lives by love, not by belief. Belief is needed by those in whose lives love is absent. In a devotee, love wells up on seeing existence. Seeing green trees, the desire to embrace them arises. Hearing music, there is a longing to become musical. Seeing the stars, one feels like dancing with them. In a devotee, love toward existence has awakened. A devotee has no need of belief. In a devotee, trust has arisen.

And there is a great difference between trust and belief. Belief belongs to the head, trust belongs to the heart. Belief is of doctrine. If you are born in a Hindu home, your beliefs are Hindu; that does not make you a devotee. If you are born in a Muslim home, your beliefs are Muslim; that does not make you a devotee. A devotee is neither Hindu, nor Muslim, nor Christian, nor Jain, nor Buddhist—a devotee is simply a devotee; that is enough; without adjectives.

In a devotee, trust flowers in the heart. A devotee is entirely free of beliefs. Beliefs are borrowed, given by others—stale leftovers. Trust is one’s own.

Therefore a devotee asks for experience, seeks experience. Hollow beliefs cannot satisfy a devotee. Your question is right: a devotee cannot live by belief. To a devotee, belief offers no support at all.

You do not give shade—what shall I do with springtime!
You do not give your arms—what shall I do with belief!

My heart’s flower-like tender austerity, shattered and scattered,
dreams have turned false;
the honey-sweet love of the aarti lamp is running out,
the flowers have gone stale.
If you had come to the door, I would have offered my devotion—
now tell me, where should I go?
You do not give fulfillment—what shall I do with this thirst!
You do not give your arms—what shall I do with belief!

Today, from earth to sky, the moments of union are being adorned,
the moonlight is preening;
a flute-like dream is deepening the very core of the heart,
fragrance is taking wing.
In blossoming mango groves, the intoxicated cuckoo calls—
but my lips are sealed.
You do not give song—what shall I do with sighs!
You do not give your arms—what shall I do with belief!

My hope is sinking like the last ray of dusk,
and my life-breath is restless;
in which horizon’s valleys, echoing, have my silent, honey-sweet songs
been lost?
My feet are weary upon the path, the mind is sad and spent—
who, but you, will give support?
You do not give breath—what shall I do with joy!
You do not give your arms—what shall I do with belief!

Devotion is the very peak of love. Just as love does not ask for belief, it asks for arms. The lover wants an embrace, not assurances. Not assurances—give the embrace.

You do not give breath—what shall I do with joy!
You do not give your arms—what shall I do with belief!

As a beloved asks for arms, so the devotee asks for arms. The devotee is not satisfied with words, not satisfied with doctrines, not satisfied with scriptures; the devotee asks for experience. The devotee says: Come before my eyes. Open the doors of my heart. Come, let us be bound in a union. Come, let us bind our love. Come, let us take the nuptial rounds. The devotee will not settle for less than this. One who settles for less will never become a devotee.

A devotee’s longing is for the Ultimate, for the summit, for the absolute. A devotee wants to become God, to be absorbed in God. Therefore the devotee constantly tangles, wrestles, complains, is annoyed, sulks. He speaks with the Divine directly, as a lover speaks with the beloved. That is why the devotee is thought to be mad. Because you do not see God—whom is the devotee talking to? With whom is he struggling? With whom is he sulking?

There were days with Ramakrishna when he would lock the temple. For two, four days he would not go to the temple at all, would not even pray. He would sit with his back toward the temple. His disciples asked, “Paramahansa Deva, when will the prayer be?” “It won’t be,” he said. “When we are not heard, why should we pray? Now I am sulking; when I am coaxed, then.”

And some unknown hand would coax him, some unknown hand would call him. Then sometimes prayer would flow so deeply that whole days would pass. It would begin in the morning and evening would come—devotees would come and go, people would come and go—prayer would not stop; he would be so enraptured! The same man who sometimes locked the doors would sometimes be so rapt! At times he sulked, at times he was coaxed.

A devotee knows love. Love is experience, not belief.

You said you would come, yet you did not come, beloved—
this is not the way, this is not the way.
At whose sound the steps of anklets would halt,
whose jewel-bright eyes would lift, then lower;
on the lakes, boats with sails would ferry dreams,
and without monsoon, dark clouds would gather in the sky.
That which casts a magic over mind and life-breath—
such a song came to these lips, and never came again.
You said you would come, yet you did not come, beloved—
this is not the way, this is not the way.

The buds are fragrant, yet not with that fragrance;
it seems as if there is no kinship with the spring-grove.
Why is the season of honey offended with the mango-orchard?
Why is my own courtyard deprived of the shehnai’s note?
The intoxicated songs of Phalgun my lips have forgotten—
let not even this year’s monsoon pass away like this.
You said you would come, yet you did not come, beloved—
this is not the way, this is not the way.

If you can come, then autumn will turn to spring;
the lines upon the forehead, the laughter upon the lips will be born.
You are the touchstone—if I can touch you, my body becomes gold;
every definition of life becomes new.
You said you would come, yet you did not come, beloved—
this is not the way, this is not the way.

However much I explain to myself, without your shadow
the mirror has not yet fallen in love.
You said you would come, yet you did not come, beloved—
this is not the way, this is not the way.

A devotee grapples, wrestles, casts the cords of love upon the Divine. And answers do come. Only a devotee receives the answers; a knower stays dry and withered, immersed in scriptures. The sweet river of love does not flow; love’s flowers do not bloom; nor do love’s birds sing. The path of the devotee is very sweet, honey-soaked. The devotee drinks his nectar in the tavern.

No, a devotee does not live by belief, nor can he. A devotee asks for experience. The devotee says: Come, be bound in an embrace. And such an event happens—such an unprecedented event happens. A moment comes when the devotee meets God. I am reminding you of those very moments. I do not want to give you belief; I want to give you an embrace.

You do not give shade—what shall I do with springtime!
You do not give your arms—what shall I do with belief!

Do not take belief either; take the embrace, take the shade.

You do not give fulfillment—what shall I do with this thirst!
You do not give your arms—what shall I do with belief!

Do not accept belief. Ask for fulfillment. Do not be satisfied with little. Do not be sated with toys.

You do not give song—what shall I do with sighs!
You do not give your arms—what shall I do with belief!

Ask for song—awake, alive, throbbing, breathing. Ask that your heart become the echo of the Upanishads. Ask that the Kabir hidden within you begin to hum. Ask that within you the cry arise: says Wajid—cry out!

That is all for today.