Kahe Vajid Pukar #3

I nursed the grievance of separation—for it felt so
That passing close by me, he suddenly went by.
So many fair vistas of nature’s loveliness—
I know not why today they weighed heavy on the heart.
My task is only to hedge the garden of the world—
Whether spring arrive or autumn pass, what is that to me!
What beauty is it, that even Love itself remained unaware—
Upon the way of seeking, such trials too we passed.
Ask not of the garden’s desolation in full spring—
God grant such a scene never again pass before these eyes.
None saw them save two hearts alone—
Such dealings passed between us in the in-between.
Sometimes, circling around this very handful of dust,
We passed the seven heavens in tawaf.
Dearest to me is the memory of just those, Jigar—
Those sudden happenings of love that passed unawares.

The path of love is dear, simple and natural—and yet difficult and arduous. Dear it is, because love can only be dear. Love is sweetness, sheer sweetness. But the path of love is also very hard, for there is no way without dissolving oneself. And unless you dissolve, unless you become a ‘no’, no taste of the Divine is possible.

I nursed the grievance of separation—for it felt so
That passing close by me, he suddenly went by.

First you will have to burn in the fire of longing.

I nursed the grievance of separation—for it felt so

In the night of separation, many complaints will arise, many doubts will surge. Time and again the mind will feel like turning back to the world. For the world is slipping from your hands, and of Ram there is no news! You set out seeking light, and the darkness grows more dense!

I nursed the grievance of separation—for it felt so

And then great complaints of separation surge within. But just then, in those last moments, when the fire of longing becomes unbearable…

That passing close by me, he suddenly went by.

Then suddenly, his arrival happens. Only when you are on the very verge of vanishing, only then—suddenly…

So many fair vistas of nature’s loveliness—
I know not why today they weighed heavy on the heart.

And once one glimpse of him is seen, the whole beauty of nature grows pale. There is no light in the sun anymore for the one who has seen his light! Where is fragrance in flowers for the one who has tasted his scent! Then the form of this world, its beauty, its colors—all grow faint, become mere reflections. The finest music of this world becomes no more than an echo.

So many fair vistas of nature’s loveliness—
I know not why today they weighed heavy on the heart.

Then even nature’s great beauty feels like a burden upon the heart to the one who has known his beauty.

My task is only to hedge the garden of the world—
Whether spring arrive or autumn pass, what is that to me!

And one who has seen him, whose eyes have met his—what does it matter then whether spring comes or autumn passes, whether there is blossoming or withering, whether success arrives or failure, pleasure or pain—it makes no difference. This is the supreme taste of detachment.

Yet the devotee’s detachment is very different from the ascetic’s. The ascetic practices detachment—he organizes it, he drills it. The devotee cultivates raga—love for Paramatma—and when the string of love is joined, detachment from the world happens on its own. And detachment born from within is of immeasurable glory. Detachment imposed from the outside is not worth a penny. What is forced remains superficial; what rises from the depths transforms—only that brings revolution.

What beauty is it, that even Love itself remained unaware—
Upon the way of seeking, such trials too we passed.

And when the eyes fill with the beauty of the Supreme Beloved, even the awareness of ‘I am seeing’ slips away. What is happening—who knows!

What beauty is it, that even Love itself remained unaware—

Such a swoon descends, such an ecstasy takes over, the mind is so intoxicated!

What beauty is it, that even Love itself remained unaware—
Upon the way of seeking, such trials too we passed.

Upon the search for the Beloved, on the path to him, such moments come when neither the sense of oneself remains, nor of the other. The very knowing dissolves.

The peak of love is only when knowledge becomes utterly empty—no object remains, no subject remains; no knower, no known. There is union—there the person becomes one with Paramatma. There the drop merges into the ocean. The path of love is very dear indeed, for it is the path of love. Nothing is sweeter in this world, nothing more sapid. Love is the tavern, the intoxication, the honey. But to be prepared to drink love is supremely difficult.

Rahim has said: The path of love is so hard! How so hard? What hardship lies in love’s path? The hardship is this: the lover must vanish—only then the Beloved is found. Once he is found, it is incomparable; but before that, the condition to be fulfilled is arduous indeed.

Today’s sutras of Wajid are sutras of the night of longing. Understand them well, with your whole heart.

The Beloved lives in a far land; I have become a yogini.
I have assumed the unmani mudra; I have taken up the fakir’s way.

I searched the whole world and raised the call of the Unseen.
Ah, Wajid! That face, that Beloved—I found nowhere.

The Beloved dwells in some far land; I have become a yogini.

The Beloved is very far—one does not even know where. The Beloved is very far—one does not even know who. The Beloved is very far—one does not even know his form, his color, his name, his abode. The Beloved is very far—one does not even know whether he is at all.

This is the devotee’s pain! Even the Beloved’s very being is not yet proven. Who can offer proof that there is a lake somewhere, until the lake is found! Yes—others say so: Buddha says, Mahavira says, Mira says, Chaitanya says—others say so. But how to trust others? Who knows—they may be telling lies! Those who speak are few, countable on the fingers. And those who have not found Paramatma are infinite. There is a huge crowd of those who have not found. Those who have found—very few, one here and there, once in a long while. Who knows—they may not be lying, they themselves may be mistaken! They may have taken some dream to be true, got entangled in some mental illusion, fallen prey to some delusion—who knows? How to trust?

One cannot trust another. Only when one’s own experience dawns does shraddha surge. Without one’s own experience, belief is consolation—hollow, superficial, merely to pacify the mind, an acceptance by force. And no journey begins by mere acceptance.

You have heard it said forever—Believe, and then knowledge will come. No greater untruth is possible. When knowing happens, trust happens. Trust does not come first; trust is the fruition, the conclusion. When there is bodha, the flower of shraddha blooms. Shraddha cannot be prior. Somehow you may hammer belief into place—but what value has that? What significance? Inside, doubt will still arise. The question will remain within. Hence you see so many ‘religious’ people on earth—and yet what is there on earth but irreligion!

This is the distance from Paramatma. Understand the lover’s difficulty—love has arisen toward one who has not been seen; attraction has arisen toward one of whom there is no trace. And even if there were a trace, where is union assured! Majnun knows where Laila is, yet where does he find union!

Majnun’s pain is nothing before the devotee’s pain—for at least he knows; at least he can stand upon the path from which Laila passes. From afar, he can catch a glimpse. Majnun’s pain is nothing compared to the devotee’s. Where is that path on which the devotee can stand? How to stand? Where to stand? By which road does the golden chariot pass? At what hour does it pass? Nothing at all is known.

Yet even toward one of whom nothing is known, love can be born. It takes a broad chest for such love! Even if the food is not known, can hunger not arise? So if the lover is not known, can love not arise? Even if the lake is not known, can thirst not burn? Even if the destination is not known, can not the longing to journey awaken? The devotee sets out upon the search for the Unknown. His courage is indomitable—call it audacity!

We welcome those who go to the moon—they are daring! But there is not such great audacity in going to the moon. The moon is—he can be seen. However far, the distance can be measured. But the distance between Paramatma and man is such that there is no way to measure it. Paramatma is not even visible. To set out upon the pilgrimage to the Invisible—do you see the chest it takes! His courage, the risk he embraces…it is leaping into fire!

So Rahim speaks truly: The path of love is so hard!

The Beloved lives in a far land; I have become a yogini.

Wajid says: Who knows in what foreign land you dwell. How far your house is—nothing is known. Whether you are in that house—even that is not known. Think a little of me! And I have become a yogini for you! I am filled with thirst for you! I am calling you! Every fiber of my being has become a prayer to you! Every heartbeat is filled with you!

This is the devotee’s pain. It is unique—and it is a great good fortune. Only the most blessed find such a moment in life. Those who are drawn by the Invisible, who embark upon the search for the Unmanifest, in whose hearts curiosity for the Unknown awakens—these are the salt of humanity! Because of them, man’s life has a little dignity, a little grandeur. Otherwise, there are seekers of wealth, seekers of position, those traveling to Delhi—this is refuse! Because of them, man is ignoble, inglorious. Because of them, man is fallen and petty.

The Beloved lives in a far land; I have become a yogini.
I have assumed the unmani mudra; I have taken up the fakir’s way.

Unmani mudra—understand this word, for it is the very essence of the devotee’s practice, the secret of secrets, the great mantra, the root seed—the unmani mudra. Unman means what the Zen masters call ‘no-mind’. Unman—where mind is not, beyond mind, transcendental to mind.

I have assumed the unmani mudra; I have taken up the fakir’s way.

Those who have taken up fakiri and have not assumed the unmani mudra—their fakiri is hypocrisy!

So when a sannyasin asks me—what is the rule of our sannyas? There is only one rule: go beyond the mind; meditate; assume the unmani mudra. Wipe the mind clean, dissolve it.

What is mind? A continuous stream of thoughts. Like a road—endlessly passing, passing; a ceaseless traffic. Someone going here, someone there—east, west, south, north! The mind is a crossroads where travelers of thoughts pass, travelers of desires pass, of imaginations and ambitions pass, of memories and schemes pass.

You are not the mind—you are the watcher standing at the crossroads, seeing these travelers come and go. But you have stood at this crossroads so long—for centuries—that you have forgotten yourself. You do not remember yourself at all. You have assumed you are part of the crowd that passes through the mind. You have become identified with mind, you have become one with it. You have drowned yourself in the crowd of the mind, and forgotten yourself. And this very mind deludes you. This mind is what is called the world.

Do not misunderstand ‘world’ to mean these innocent green trees. What have they ever done to you! Sometimes they give shade, sometimes fruit, sometimes shower flowers upon you. What harm have the trees done? What harm have the moon and stars done? They have only given; they have taken nothing from you. Do not take ‘world’ to mean this vastness of existence. What harm can this world do to you? This very world is giving you life.

No—the ‘world’ the devotee says to be free of is the world of your mind, the expanse of mind. The turmoil that goes on in you, the crowd that is perpetually present within, the waves of thought that remain—because of which you are never at peace, because of which you are always entangled in perplexity and paradox; because of which you remain bewildered—What should I do, what not? This or that? And the mind gives you a thousand plans. No plan ever completes, nor can it. The mind shows you green gardens, mirages; gives you pretty dreams and entangles you and deludes you and holds you back. Mind is maya; the world is not maya. Only the world of mind is maya.

Unmani means—wake up! Become the seer of this net of mind; be not the enjoyer, be not the doer. Step a little aside from it; step a little beyond it. In the traffic of the road, do not take yourself to be one of the passersby—stand by the roadside. Stand by the side and watch the road moving, as if you have nothing to do with it—indifferent, impartial, dispassionate, a mere witness—and the state of unmani will ripen. Because the moment you separate from the mind, the mind is dead.

Only with your cooperation do thoughts move. It is your energy that gives them life. They have none of their own; you breathe life into them, you pump breath into them. They live by your breath and beat by your heart. Withdraw your hand, and their support is gone, and they will collapse like a house of cards. It will not take even a moment. They are your guests; you are the host. You have been welcoming them, therefore they have settled in your mind. The day you withdraw your welcome, fold your hands to them and say—Enough!—and drop the welcoming, that very day the guests will begin to depart. And then comes the state of unmani. Slowly, thoughts go farther and farther…

And understand the savor—exactly as thoughts recede, Paramatma approaches. The more thoughts you harbor, the greater the distance from Paramatma. The fewer the thoughts, the lesser the distance. The proportion of thought is the distance from God—exactly that proportion. The day thoughts become utterly zero, there remains no distance. The one process of sannyas is unmani mudra! Hence sannyas is not to be organized from the outside. What to eat, what to drink, how to stand, how to sit—all that is secondary. The real event happens within, in the innermost.

I have assumed the unmani mudra; I have taken up the fakir’s way.

And the one who assumes such a mudra—that alone is the fakir, that alone is the sannyasin.

I searched the whole world and raised the call of the Unseen.

The unmani mudra is assumed. I wander the whole world searching, awakening the call of the Unseen—If you are anywhere, reveal yourself!

I searched the whole world and raised the call of the Unseen.
Ah, Wajid! That face, that Beloved—I found nowhere.

Yet the one seen within—there are many faces without, but the glimpse found within is nowhere seen outside. The Beloved whose slight taste came within in the unmani mudra—who suddenly, like a light, descended, burst into a thousand colors—then, though I awakened the call across the whole world, that hue is found nowhere, that form nowhere, that mode nowhere. The world grows pale—so meaningless that it is not even worth running away from.

Those who run away still give the world meaning—they flee out of fear. That which you fear still has value for you—why else fear! The man who runs seeing a shadow believes the shadow to be real—otherwise he would not run. Therefore those who escape learn nothing.

Sannyas is not escapism. If you flee, you demonstrate only that you still take the shadow for real; you still feel there is something in the world.

The one who has assumed unmani, and has caught even a flicker of the Beloved within—just a little, a mere trace, a single ray, a window opened for a moment and lightning flashed—then the moment of transformation has come, the nuptial night has arrived!

I searched the whole world and raised the call of the Unseen.
Ah, Wajid! That face, that Beloved—I found nowhere.

Neither is that face seen, nor does the Beloved appear anywhere outside. He is hidden in the life of your life. This is the secret: that the one we seek is hidden in the seeker—and perhaps this is why all our searching goes vain. Much running, much fuss—and nowhere do we arrive.

If the breast of the universe be torn open, the secret would be revealed—
Life is pain, and pain is the very song of the ghazal.
If the breast of the universe be torn open…

If the world’s breast were to open—

…the secret would be revealed—

Life is pain, and pain is the very song of the ghazal.

Life is pain, a wound, a ghazal woven of ache, a song filled with yearning, a tragic drama—there is no happiness in it.

The world promises happiness, but gives none. It assures you of joy, but joy never comes to hand. The more you seek it, the farther it runs. Joy cannot be found outside; outside is sorrow. Joy is within. Joy is your nature, your intimacy. Joy is in returning home. Joy is in being free of thoughts. For joy is in peace, and in thought there is restlessness.

Since the gauna was performed, I no longer relish house and home.

Says Wajid: Since the gauna happened…

In village custom, the betrothal happens, then years later the wedding—the groom arrives, the palanquin lifts, the rounds are taken. A beautiful symbol, rustic and tender. As if a girl’s gauna has happened—she now knows the Beloved is somewhere. She now knows for certain there is a husband, and if not today, tomorrow, union will be. But as yet she has not seen his face—who he is, how he is, she knows not.

Since the gauna was performed, I no longer relish house and home.

Wajid says: In the same way, in the unmani state, you gave a glimpse; the gauna has happened! Now nothing in the world pleases. Now your remembrance hurts unbearably. Until the glimpse, remembrance had no force. Now there is shraddha that you are—and now distance cannot be borne; it rankles!

This is my experience with thousands. Until a glimpse of meditation comes, one does make effort—but it will be partial. How can it be total when there has been no taste! But once a glimpse arrives—suddenly, unbidden, the Beloved passes close by; the sound of his feet is heard—then the fire blazes, then the life burns bright!

Wajid has used just the right word; he is a rustic.

Since the gauna was performed, I no longer relish house and home.

Now nothing feels right.

The sun trembles still—
Perchance it came before Thee once.

This very sun still quivers; who knows when it may have come into your presence—that is why it trembles.

The sun trembles still—
Perchance it came before Thee once.

Thus the devotee trembles. Gooseflesh arises. Within, night and day, a single call rises—the drop that has so far touched, now may it become the whole!

O savor of annihilation, let the rest of pleasure be—
Some means is needed to distinguish lover and Beloved.
Can a drunkard’s thirst be quenched in one or two sips?
Every intoxicated glance of the cupbearer must be an ocean.
Desire and longing abound from gathering to gathering—
Now let your radiance be garden upon garden.

Thirst is never quenched by one or two sips; it grows, it flares.

Can a drunkard’s thirst be quenched in one or two sips?
Every intoxicated glance of the cupbearer must be an ocean.

Now let every glance be your glance; let an ocean of your wine flow from every look—then, perhaps, satiation will come.

Can a drunkard’s thirst be quenched in one or two sips?
Every intoxicated glance of the cupbearer must be an ocean.

Desire and longing abound from gathering to gathering—
Now let your theophany be garden upon garden.

Now let every garden, every grove, every trill, every thrill be your radiance, your festival—then something may happen. First man asks: let one drop be given. When that drop is tasted, then he asks: Now nothing less than the ocean will do—come whole, wholly come!

Since the gauna was performed, I no longer relish house and home.
The night has become six months long; sleep no more alights.

My friend, my life dwells only upon you.

Ah, Wajid! What a day that will be when I meet my Beloved!

Now only one string plays, only one raga is struck.

The night has become six months long; sleep no more alights.

What sleep now! The night has become as if six months long! Now the night will not pass.

The ordinary man is not troubled so—he goes on, battered by life, picking up pebbles at the roadside, because pebbles look like jewels to him. There are small successes too—he became a sub-registrar, from sub-registrar an S.D.O., from S.D.O. a collector, from collector a commissioner—small successes. He thinks the destination is near. He walks in intoxication, in the satisfaction of ego. In truth he goes nowhere—he is a bullock of the oil-press, going neither anywhere nor arriving anywhere. The oil-press bullock never arrives, though he walks all day. He too must think—now the goal is near. How will the goal come—he circles on a wheel! Therefore blinders are tied over the bullock’s eyes, lest he see. If he saw, perhaps he would stop.

I have heard: a philosopher, a logician, a great pundit, went early one morning to the oil-seller’s shop to buy oil. Being a thinker, as the oil was being weighed, a question arose—behind the shop the oil-press bullock was walking, pressing oil—no one was driving him, no one prodding him, then why does the bullock not stop? Why does he keep circling? The thinker asked: Brother, explain this secret. No one goads him, no one is behind him, yet he walks day and night, never stopping!

The oilman said: Look carefully—there is a device; blinders are tied over his eyes.

As on carriage horses, blinders are tied so they see only ahead. If they see sideways, trouble arises—grass at the roadside lures them, they go to graze; if a river flows, they go to drink. He sees nothing anywhere, only the road ahead.

The oil-press bullock has blinders—said the oilman. The thinker said: That I see. It keeps him from knowing he circles.

Just so, man has blinders—of conditioning, of civilization, of sect, of doctrine, of scripture. From childhood we bind blinders. Our education is nothing but a device to fasten blinders—blinders of ambition: become something before you die. As if anyone has ever died having become something! Die a prime minister—does death behave differently then? Will your dust not fall into dust, will it turn to gold? Leave wealth behind—does the one who leaves money enter some heaven? Do something, earn a name. And you—dead—how long will your name remain? How many have come and gone—whose names remain? Footprints upon the sand of time—how long do they last? Winds will come and wipe them. And if winds do not come, others will walk upon the sand—where will their footprints form if yours remain!

So the most famous people, too, fade and are forgotten. All mingle with dust. History’s pages may keep a name in a footnote here and there—what is that worth! History books too are lost, burned, burned away. Man has lived for ages, but we possess history of only two thousand years. And as history grows longer, the older history will shrink—do we remember the new or the old? What value has it? In eternity, what is its worth? Yet blinders are tied. Be first, we tell the child. Poison is poured into him! Politics enters his breath.

The thinker said: I see the blinders, just as they are upon every man. But still I ask: blinders are there, no one prods—why does he walk? Why not stop? And your back is turned to him. The oilman said: Look carefully—I have tied a bell around his neck. As long as it rings, I know the bullock walks. The moment it stops, I leap and prod him. He never discovers whether anyone is behind him or not. Here the bell stops, and I smack him. See this whip—I keep it by my side; even from here, when I crack it, he starts walking.

The thinker said: I understand—indeed a clever trick. But I ask this: he could stand still and shake his neck and make the bell ring! The oilman said: Slowly! Speak softly—lest the bullock hear and I am ruined. Take your oil and go. The bullock must not hear your logic. He is no philosopher; he cannot figure such arithmetic as to stand and shake his neck. Only a cunning man can do that!

The ordinary man is the oil-press bullock—he goes on. Blinders are tied! He does not see he circles—else he would stop. You do the same each morning, noon, evening, night that you have always done. Have you noticed you move in a circle? The same anger, the same lust, the same greed, the same attachment, the same ego. Your pleasures and your sorrows are old. You have done all this many times, and still you ask for them again and again! You spin in a circle and think your life is a journey?

Keep an account of a year—start a diary of what you do daily. In four or six months you will be astonished. This life is the bullock’s life! I do the same day after day—the same quarrel, the same fight, then the same friendship, then the same enmity. Your relationships, your life, your ways are circular. Hence no conclusion will ever come. You will walk and die, then be born in some womb and begin to walk again.

Therefore this circular motion is called samsara. The word means: the wheel, turning like a potter’s wheel. Your life spins like a wheel. So the wise ask: How to be free of this round of becoming? How to leave this wheel?

The trouble begins when a little glimpse of the path comes into your life—the blinders slip a bit, a little awareness enters. For bells are tied around your neck too, and they keep ringing.

You never noticed—bells are tied around your neck as well. Let the bell fall silent for a moment, and someone cracks the whip! Suppose a month passes and on the first you do not bring home your salary—your wife cracks the whip! That bell rings! It is tied to your neck. Why didn’t you ring it—what is the matter? Where is the salary? Where did you squander it? Where were you all month? What did you do? Bells are tied for you. If you go a little astray, do contrary to social notions, someone will crack the whip, someone will put you in trouble.

People come to me saying: There is great eagerness to take sannyas, but if we go to the village in ochre robes, there will be great trouble.

What trouble? People will crack the whip. They will say: What has happened to you! People want you to remain exactly as they are—not even a little different. The moment you differ, they become anxious. Why? Because you are attempting to step out of the circle. We are all oil-press bullocks—and you try to be free? Come back! They cannot tolerate that a man of flesh and bone like them shows such courage. They will make you taste their lesson. They will yoke you back to the press!

Whenever one slave begins to be free, the angriest are the other slaves. When one poor man begins to become rich, those most angry are his fellow poor. For their ego is hurt—they feel pain: We could not, and this man is doing it! We were impotent—this man shows manliness! This cannot be allowed. He must be taught a lesson.

And they are a crowd—they will teach you. They will crack their whips! Your bell must ring! As everyone circles, so must you. Society has arranged every detail—even how your hair must be cut. You are not free even for that! How you must dress—arranged. No freedom even to wear what you like! And still great talk of freedom—this freedom, that freedom. You are slaves twenty-four hours. What freedom! ‘Freedom’ is a hollow word we parrot—and after repeating it so long, we ourselves begin to believe there must be freedom because everyone talks of it. Where is it? Try being a little different!

There will be freedom on earth the day we grant the individual the freedom to be different. If all your companions go to the mosque, try going to a temple.

Some Muslim friends here have taken sannyas. They have great trouble. Other Muslims threaten to kill them—they shall not be allowed to live. You have become kafir! They have done nothing wrong—killed no one, stolen nothing, deceived no one. They only took sannyas. And sannyas makes no one a Hindu, a Muslim, a Christian. Sannyas only fixes a resolve within: to assume the unmani mudra, to enter meditation. No one suffers loss by this.

Yet it is strange—steal, and society accepts you, for they all steal. Be dishonest—fine. Lie—fine. But meditation, sannyas—this will not be allowed. Yes—if all go to the mosque, you too. If all go to the gurudwara, you too.

Sikh sannyasins write me from Punjab: We are in great trouble, for other Sikhs cannot tolerate us. We have harmed no one; we are the same as before—better than before. When we go to the gurudwara now, our going is alive; we are uplifted in bliss there. But the ochre robe troubles them. Why the mala? Then you are not a Sikh!

The Hindu has his difficulty, the Jain his. Each crowd will not allow any member to step beyond its grip. The moment you step out, trouble begins. The crowd will surround you: Return. Be as we are. Rules for little things—how much hair, how to cut, how to dress, how to sit and stand. Consider your life—how much freedom do you have? And you will find—negation in the name of freedom; none at all.

We live thus, without even knowing what life was meant to be! What it could be! What fortune it bore within! Only those who begin to get a glimpse come to know. With the glimpse comes a joy of being free—and a hindrance too. Joy comes of approaching the Lord—and great pain arises that now the drop will not do.

Since the gauna was performed, I no longer relish house and home.
The night has become six months long; sleep no more alights.

My friend, my life dwells only upon you.

Now only one concern remains, one continuous stream, one remembrance, one meditation—the Beloved, the Friend.

My friend, my life dwells only upon you.

Only you hold my attention—come, come wholly!

Until not even a single ray of Paramatma touches you, you go on in the new moon night, unaware. When a ray comes—the first light of dawn—then you remember how you have lived in darkness. And a great longing for light arises. This is why people fear satsang. The fear is that some ray may appear, and then how will we live? Then the search for the ray must begin.

Ah, Wajid! What a day that will be when I meet my Beloved!

Now a single resonance rises: what a day that will be—when the meeting will be complete! A slight glimpse was given, a slight window opened, a slight breeze came—and such ecstasy it has brought!

There, behind me, sits a sannyasin, Advocate Gore—a former social worker. He went to meet a minister two days ago, an old friend. The minister asked: What did you get by taking sannyas? And he has received—his life is transformed. He is old, but his joy outshines the youth! He said: I got masti, I got bliss. And what did the minister say? Masti and bliss are fine—but what has that to do with religion? I ask: What did you get from sannyas? Perhaps the minister thinks that if he got a ministry, that would be something; if he became prime minister, that would be something! What did you get? Masti and bliss—this is nothing. As if masti and bliss are not things! Perhaps he wonders: Did you see Ganeshji? Did you get wealth, position, prestige?

People have forgotten that the greatest treasure of life is bliss. And he said: What has bliss to do with religion? What has masti to do with it? Is that religion!

What has religion to do with? Reading the Ramayana? Repeating the Gita?

If reading the Ramayana makes religion, then parrots are religious! Religion is not of the Ramayana. And if ever religion connects with the Ramayana, it does so only when reading it gives someone masti. Tulsidas has said: For the joy of the self, I sang the tale of Raghunath. When a fountain of joy bursts within—svantah sukhaya—masti descends. Every pore is filled with wine; a rapture takes over.

Gore spoke well: masti came. But perhaps the minister thought: Did you have darshan of Ganeshji?

What will happen with darshan of Ganeshji? Even if he meets you, what will you do? Being Maharashtrian, the minister must think of Ganesh—Did you see him? No? Then what kind of religion is this? Did you reserve a seat in heaven? No? Then what is this religion!

Oil-press bullocks! If one is freed, wanders the forest, rejoices in beauty, dances in freedom, then returns to the bullocks—they will ask: What did you get? Do you get grass? Does the bell ring? Did you get a golden bell? Find a good master? What did you get? And if that bull says: I got masti, freedom, bliss—they will say: What does that mean? What will you do with it? Where is the bell of gold? Did you find a master like Ganeshji? What have you obtained?

A blind world of the blind. Even if you find God, they will not be pleased with God. They will ask you about some darkness they call wealth. For this reason, the government of this country is not ready to call me religious, nor what happens here religion. Because masti, bliss—what religion is this! In religion, people lose their masti. They grow morose, withered, dry. Their smile fades. The dance of life leaves them forever. When they sit like corpses, the world calls them religious!

My friend, my life dwells only upon you.

Ah, Wajid! What a day that will be when I meet my Beloved!

That day will be a day of great masti. A day of great bliss. Gore spoke right.

I say and I hear only Ram—and no other thought.

…and nowhere else does my attention go.

Hold steady the meditation on the feet of Hari—every day.

And I say to you too—Wajid says—place your mind only at the feet of Hari…place it there daily.

If I have tarried in the Beloved, let it be by Ram’s grace.

Says Wajid: I have merged in Ram. But this is the devotee’s eternal proclamation—Duhai Ram ki! There is no worthiness of mine in this, no virtue of mine. Duhai Ram ki—by Ram’s compassion! I was unfit, he touched me and made me fit. I was clay—he looked upon me and made me ambrosia. I was iron—he came like the philosopher’s stone, a touch and a glance, and I became gold! Duhai Ram ki! The devotee never for a moment lets the thought arise that by my doing something happens. Whatever happens, happens by his compassion. My unworthiness is vast—his compassion vast. My darkness is dreadful, but his light can break any darkness.

If I have tarried in the Beloved, let it be by Ram’s grace.

If I am immersed in the Beloved, it is by Ram’s grace.

Ah yes, Wajid, of what use are happiness and wealth now!

Now there is no value in happiness or property. Now all such happiness and wealth have become blinders for the eyes and bells for the neck! They have no worth.

Beholding you, my eyes have gone mad.

In seeing you and seeing, a sweet madness has descended, a swoon.

Beholding you, my eyes have gone mad.

Until you go mad in beholding Paramatma, do not stop. To go mad is completeness. To be bewitched is the full offering!

They neither understood the secret of sorrow nor recognized the pain of the heart—
How has the world ever recognized the assembly of beauty and love!
Those who remained unfamiliar with the very idea of guides—
It was those love-lost wanderers who recognized the destination.
Who here has the strength to know Truth, O preacher!
Seeing you, we recognized every false fear.
O travelers of the valley of love, recognize us—
For we have recognized the footprints of the perfect guide.

He who has not understood the devotee’s pain, who has not understood the lover’s burning—he has understood nothing.

They neither understood the secret of sorrow nor recognized the pain of the heart—
How has the world ever recognized the assembly of beauty and love!

The devotee’s world is the world of beauty and love—husn, the Beloved’s beauty; ishq, the fire burning in the lover’s heart.

They neither understood the secret of sorrow nor recognized the pain of the heart—
How has the world ever recognized the assembly of beauty and love!

Therefore the world cannot recognize the assembly of husn and ishq. You too sit in such an assembly—the world will not recognize you. Here I am creating madmen; the world will not recognize you.

Those who remained unfamiliar with the very idea of guides—
It was those love-lost wanderers who recognized the destination.

Only those reach the destination who are mad, crazed—so mad they left even scripture and even preceptor. They set off guided by their own flame of love, by their own fire.

Those who remained unfamiliar with the very idea of guides—

Those who did not follow leaders and guides, who remained unacquainted with them—

It was those love-lost wanderers who recognized the destination.

Those very stray lovers, those madmen, have recognized the destination; only they have arrived.

Who here has the strength to know Truth, O preacher!
Seeing you, we recognized every false fear.

And if you look upon the so-called renouncers, sadhus, sannyasins, what will you see at most? Accounting, arithmetic, cleverness, cunning, deal-making, shopkeeping. Those whom you take for renouncers and mahatmas—even if they renounce, it is as a bargain. Something is to be got from God; naturally, they pay the price, make themselves worthy.

Seeing you, we recognized every false fear.

O travelers of the valley of love, recognize us—

Say the lovers: If you wish to recognize, recognize us, look at us.

O travelers of the valley of love, recognize us—
For we have recognized the footprints of the perfect guide.

We have recognized the footprints of Paramatma. But those footprints can be seen only by those capable of madness.

Beholding you, my eyes have gone mad.
I smeared my body with ash; I took the begging bowl; I put wooden sandals on my feet.

I have taken on the ash of your love, the begging bowl of your yearning. I have donned the sandals, staff in hand, to set out in your search.

I smeared my body with ash; I took the begging bowl; I put wooden sandals on my feet.

I will don the guise of a jogan and roam the whole world.

I will roam the whole world as a lover, a woman in longing, a yogini…

I will don the guise of a jogan and roam the whole world.

Wajid, this is my vow: From my mouth I will speak only Ram’s name.

One vow I have taken—to meet you, to speak with you, to face you, to embrace you. One meaning. And another: Wajid—this is my vow—that from my mouth, save your name, nothing else will I speak. I will wander the world, calling only you and you. Beloved—where? Beloved—where? Like the pied cuckoo that cries and calls, mad for the cloud-drop, I will roam calling you.

It became difficult for her to lift the veil—
So crowded were the gazes.

Where is distinction between temple and mosque in the state of seeking—
Where a call was heard, there we made our abode.

O friend! Your waiting turned my evening sun into the lamp of dawn.

It became difficult for her to lift the veil—
So crowded were the gazes.

The devotee becomes all eyes. Eyes sprout all over his body! Such is his eagerness for darshan. A crowd of eyes gathers; his whole life becomes eyes!

It became difficult for her to lift the veil—
So crowded were the gazes.

When so many eyes fall upon the lover and the Beloved, lifting the veil becomes hard.

It became difficult for her to lift the veil—
So crowded were the gazes.

Where is distinction between temple and mosque in the state of seeking—

In the search for the Beloved—who remembers temple or mosque! Kaba and Kailash are forgotten!

Where is distinction between temple and mosque in the state of seeking—
Where a call was heard, there we made our abode.

Wherever his name was called, there we bowed. Wherever remembrance arose, there we bowed—there the sacred place arose, there the Kaba arrived. Where the head touched, there Kaba; where we worshiped, there Kashi.

O friend! Your waiting turned my evening sun into the lamp of dawn.

Let every moment be in his remembrance—and so it becomes. Begin with unmani mudra, with emptying the mind. In that emptiness, his call begins to rise, his sound to resound.

Sun and lotus, Wajid, do not meet even in dreams.
By day I burn; by night I am pressed like oil in a press.

The fault lies in us alone; the fault is not in Shyam.
Ah, Wajid! Bound in high and low—of what use is any of it!

Sun and lotus, Wajid, do not meet even in dreams.

Until the sun meets the lotus, the lotus cannot bloom. But our state, says Wajid, is such that the sun and the lotus do not meet—even in dreams. Therefore we cannot bloom, for your sun sheds no light.

Sun and lotus, Wajid, do not meet even in dreams.

Our state has become such that even in dreams the lotus does not meet the sun. If even in dream you appeared, we would bloom. If even falsely you appeared, we would bloom. But only if you appear do we bloom. Note well: the devotee’s whole existence depends upon his grace—like the lotus that blooms when the sun rises.

By day I burn; by night I am pressed like oil in a press.

Until you come, day and night we burn. Our life is being squeezed, pressed like oil from sesame.

By day I burn; by night I am pressed like oil in a press.

The fault lies in us alone; the fault is not in Shyam.

We know—we do not complain.

The fault lies in us alone…

If there is error, it is ours.

The fault lies in us alone; the fault is not in Shyam.

Yours is no fault. What is ours? Our fault is this—

Ah, Wajid! Bound in high and low—of what use is any of it!

We are bound in the sense of high and low—that is our fault. Here, none is high, none low; no brahmin, no shudra; no Hindu, no Muslim; no man, no woman. These are outer games. No rich, no poor; no success, no failure—outer games. Within, the One alone abides. And within, we are all joined to that One. As many distinctions as we have erected—by those very distinctions, even in dreams union with Paramatma becomes impossible. And until he is met, until his sun rises, our lotus will not bloom.

Mark the difference! The yogi, the ascetic tries to make his thousand-petaled lotus bloom by his own power, by his own resolve. The devotee says: When you rise, when dawn comes, the lotus will bloom—what can my doing do! I am full of faults. The greatest fault is that I am not free of distinction. I go on seeing difference—someone beautiful, someone ugly; someone wise, someone foolish; someone good, someone bad.

Understand, Wajid has caught the fault well. Our lives are filled with distinctions—over and over, layers upon layers! When will you see without distinction? When will you see only That? When will you forget beautiful and ugly, wisdom and lack, and see one consciousness alone—a single spread of life? When will you stop being deceived by the tiny differences among waves and see the one ocean pervading all?

The day this happens—non-difference, advaita—at that very moment the sun will rise. The sun already rises—difference has veiled your eyes. And how many distinctions we have set up! Count them, and you will be astonished.

In this country that harbors the illusion of being religious, there are more distinctions than in any other. If there are so many, it proves you are not religious—difference declares it. While talk of advaita goes on!

In Shankar’s life it is told: One dawn, after bathing, as he climbed the steps at Kashi’s ghat, a shudra touched him. He grew angry: Do you not look? Have you no eyes? You touched me, a brahmin! Now I must bathe again. What the shudra said sounds as if God himself came in that form to awaken Shankar. The shudra said: May I ask one thing? You speak of advaita—only one God, no second. Then you are separate, I am separate?

Shankar must have halted, pierced. He had won great debates, was adept at scriptural disputation, had conquered the land—but here he must lose to a shudra. He would not have imagined it. But the prick was fatal. In that early morning silence, on that lone ghat, it pierced him like a thorn. If only one God is—who is shudra, who brahmin?

Then the shudra said: If my body has touched your body—what difference lies between them? The blood the same, the flesh the same, the bone the same. You are made of dust; I too. You will return to dust; I too. If my body touched yours, what impurity occurred? When dust touches dust, what uncleanness is there? And if you think my Atman touched yours—does Atman become pure or impure?

The tale says Shankar bowed at his feet. Before he could rise, the shudra vanished. He searched, ran along the ghat—but nowhere could he find him. As if God himself had given him bodha: Enough of this chatter of maya and Brahman—when will you awaken? Will you go on talking of non-difference and fostering all difference? Live in difference, and talk of non-difference? All your victories are vain. What you won are defeats; and this defeat by the shudra is the victory. This event transformed his life. He was no longer merely a philosopher, no longer words only—into his life came a new experience: none is other, none can be.

Ah, Wajid! Bound in high and low—of what use is any of it!

We are bound in high and low—therefore your sun does not rise. Bound in difference—how can the sun of non-difference rise? The fault is all ours. If you are found, it will be by Ram’s grace.

You feed the hungry; you clothe the naked.

You alone feed the hungry, clothe the naked.

I eat my master’s salt—where else can I go, father?

I eat only your salt—in every way I live on you. If I leave you, where can I go? Those who imagine they live on their own are mistaken.

You feed the hungry; you clothe the naked.
I eat my master’s salt—where else can I go, father?

Good or bad, Wajid, we shall bear it all.

You alone are the giver—if you give good, we bear it; if bitter, we bear that too.

Ah, at the Lord’s gate, this fakir will remain here.

But your door we will not leave. Push us away as you will, shove us as you like—here we will remain. We will not leave your door. Failure is failure, pain is pain, hard times may come—so be it. But you alone are the giver. Whatever comes from your hand is auspicious for me, good fortune. If you give misfortune, surely some hidden good lies within it.

Even to the last letter of complaint, there was a sweetness—
There was delight even in the act of complaint.
Whether it was the moonlit night or the morning of spring—
It was but the raiment of your tenderness.

Now it is known! While it was not known, there was complaint; now it is known!

Whether it was the moonlit night—

Night spread with moonlight across the sky—or

Whether it was the morning of spring—

The cool breeze of dawn—

It was but the raiment of your tenderness.

All are your garments. You wear the raiment of moonlight at night; you wear the raiment of cool breeze in the morning. Sometimes sorrow, sometimes joy; sometimes spring, sometimes autumn. But you alone are. Now we will not be deceived by your garments. Now we have seen you—come in any guise, we will recognize you.

When Mansur was raised upon the gallows, he laughed. Someone from the crowd asked: Mansur, why do you laugh? He said: I laugh because he has come in the form of the gallows—yet I still recognized him! He has come as death—but he will not deceive me. Mansur laughed, looked to the sky, and said: Do what you will—but now you cannot deceive me! Even in this form, I know you.

Good or bad, Wajid, we shall bear it all.

Ah yes, at the Lord’s gate, this fakir will remain here.

Here we will remain—we have arrived at the station!

The zest of certainty turned disbelief into faith—
Whatever threshold the head bowed at became the Beloved’s door.
Behold the beauty, the purity—even in Adam’s stumble—
The desolation of the world became a rose garden.
What talk of mirrors—by that joyous beauty,
Whatever he glanced upon, he made it astonished.
That secret which could not be hidden in the heart of eternity—
At last he made it the trust of the human heart.

The zest of certainty turned disbelief into faith—

When shraddha arises, even sin becomes virtue, sorrow becomes joy, death becomes the door to super-life.

The zest of certainty turned disbelief into faith—
Whatever threshold the head bowed at became the Beloved’s door.

Learn to bow your head!

Whatever threshold the head bowed at became the Beloved’s door.

Then wherever the head bows, that is the Beloved’s house. No need to go to temples—temples will stroll with you. Wherever you sit in masti, that place becomes a temple. Wherever the head bows, there a mosque; where you sing, there a tirtha. Wherever your feet fall in masti, in dance, that earth becomes sacred.

Whatever threshold the head bowed at became the Beloved’s door.

Behold the beauty, the purity—even in Adam’s stumble—
The desolation of the world became a rose garden.

Once his glimpse enters the eyes, even autumn is spring!

The desolation of the world became a rose garden.

Then the desert becomes a garden, the wasteland an oasis.

What talk of mirrors—by that joyous beauty,
Whatever he glanced upon, he made it astonished.

Once his eye falls upon your eye—you will be astonished, speechless, filled with wonder. Each moment, every breath will be a breath of wonder.

And only he who lives wonderstruck is a devotee. Wonder is his element. He cannot believe it! Seeing his own unworthiness, he feels: I should be in hell! Seeing Ram’s grace, he is seated in heaven! He cannot believe that upon one so unworthy so much prasad has showered!

That secret which could not be hidden in the heart of eternity—

The secret, the mystery that cannot be hidden in the bosom of the universe—

At last he made it the trust of the human heart.

He placed it within my heart as a trust—made that astonishment my treasure.

Wherever a harijan sits, go there.

Wherever a harijan sits—a dear one of the Lord—where someone sings in his masti, bows in his hymn, dances in his ecstasy…

Wherever a harijan sits, go there.

Miss not that chance—go near him. Breathe his fragrance, drink his light, bathe in his rasa—that is satsang. And satsang is the lake wherein one who takes a dip is bathed in bhakti.

Wherever a harijan sits, go there.

In the heart will arise knowing—sing the virtues of Ram.

Sit near those who have become Hari’s own—and suddenly you will find knowing rising in the heart; Ram’s qualities begin to blossom in you, Ram’s songs begin to awaken within.

Shun that place where there is no devotion of Ram.

Without the devotion of Ram, no one has reached that destination, nor can anyone reach it.

Ah, Wajid—of what use is a bride without her Beloved!

And without the Beloved, what value has the new bride! Without the Beloved, what meaning has the darling!

Ah, Wajid—of what use is a bride without her Beloved!

If your life has no meaning, understand—it is not because you have little wealth; those who have great wealth also lack meaning. Those with high positions are as empty as you. Nothing in this world gives life meaning. What meaning is there if we load the bride with jewels and her Beloved never comes! Seat her upon a throne of gold, and her Beloved never comes—what use! Let there be no jewels, no gold peaks—but if the Beloved arrives—everything is attained. Only with the meeting of God does meaning dawn, dignity, glory. But only upon union with God!

And man lives meaninglessly, striving to somehow wring some meaning—but it will not come. In this century the sense of meaninglessness is greater than ever—because the relation to God has snapped more than ever. Men like Wajid are fewer. These assemblies no longer gather, these satsangs no longer happen. Times have changed.

Mahatma Gandhi called the untouchables ‘harijan’. The very majesty of ‘harijan’ is gone. We used to call those harijan who have found God—who are his. Now upon hearing ‘harijan’ we think of the untouchables.

Untouchability must vanish—but the untouchable is not harijan, I say to you. This is idle chatter. The brahmin thought that he is brahma-jnani and hence brahmin—that was his stupidity. To answer that, Gandhi coined another stupidity—calling the untouchable harijan. Neither is the brahmin brahma-jnani simply because he was born in a brahmin house, nor does one become harijan by being born in a sweeper’s house.

Uddalaka said to his son Svetaketu—when he returned having completed the study of the Vedas—Have you known That One by knowing which all is known? Svetaketu asked: Which One? I have learned the four Vedas, the Upanishads, all the scriptures—of which One do you speak?

Uddalaka grew sad: Son, go back—what you have gained is information. Know that One by knowing which one goes beyond all knowing. And remember—in our line, there have never been brahmins in name only; in our line they have been brahmin in truth. Svetaketu asked: What is a true brahmin? He said: The one who knows Brahman—that is the brahmin.

Buddha said the same: The one who knows Brahman—that is the brahmin.

Mahavira too: The one who knows Brahman—that is the brahmin.

No one becomes a brahmin by birth in a brahmin house. This foolishness goes on—that birth makes one brahmin. Gandhi answered one stupidity with another—calling the untouchable harijan. Birth in a sweeper’s home makes no one a harijan. ‘Harijan’ is a most precious word; do not drag it in the mud. Yes—untouchability must end; but one disease cannot cure another, one exaggeration cannot cancel another. Neither is the brahmin a brahmin, nor the harijan a harijan—both are men. Take away the word ‘brahmin’ from the brahmin, take ‘harijan’ from the harijan—let both remain men. The day they awaken and know God, call them brahmin or harijan—both mean the same.

‘Harijan’ is a lovely word—spoiled now, dragged through the filth of politics.

Wherever a harijan sits, go there.

In the heart will arise knowing—sing the virtues of Ram.

Let go that place where there is no devotion to Ram.

Without this, without satsang, without the company of some harijan, without the awakening of Ram’s devotion—you shall not reach. Nor will your life have any meaning, fragrance, or song.

Ah, Wajid—of what use is a bride without her Beloved!

Until then you are as a beloved without her lover. Your life is a desert. Seek the Beloved! Call the Beloved!

Enough for today.