Kahe Vajid Pukar #5

Each single word is precious—worthy of being weighed against diamonds!
If love for a sage begins to stir, say yes.
If you must love, then love a sage. If love alone is to happen, let it be for a sage—if you can, love a sage. For all other loves drown you; love for a sage ferries you across. Love for a sage is love for Truth itself.
Sage means—a window through which a glimmer of Truth has flashed. Sage means—like a lightning stroke: the path revealed, the way found. Sage means—we have no eyes of our own, we have no taste of the Divine; but someone has eyes, someone has tasted. If we sit near him, two drops of that rain may also fall upon us! Love for the sage means satsang, communion.
Truth will not come from scripture, for scripture is dead. From scripture you will only read what you already know. In scripture you merely read yourself.
A sage is living. Sage means—the very place where scripture is being born now. Scripture means—once there had been a sage there. The sage has gone, only footprints remain on the sand. The bird has flown, the cage is left behind. Scripture means—memories of sages. Sage means—the source where scripture is being born now, where new shoots are sprouting, new buds are swelling, new flowers are opening. In the word “flower” there is no fragrance; so too, in scripture there is no fragrance, for scripture is only words. And read as much cookery as you like—hunger will not be appeased. Food must be cooked. Only food will sate hunger.
A sage is food. His discourses, his teachings, his guidance, his very presence—everything is nourishment. Jesus said to his disciples: “Eat me.” “Drink me; take me in, digest me.”
He spoke in precisely this sense. Later you will repeat his words. And no matter how much you repeat them, you may stuff your head full of rehearsed phrases, yet your life-breath will remain barren. The sage is a living wave. Music is rising there now. Open your ears now, open your heart now—and the wave will run through you. You too will tremble. You too will dance! Your eyes will moisten. You too will be drenched!
If love for a sage begins to stir, say yes.
If anything is worth making of life, says Wajid—he says it again and again, crying it out—if there is one thing to do, it is this: take a plunge into satsang; befriend a sage; fall in love with a sage.
And indeed it is of the same nature as love. Just as love happens, so is satsang. Love cannot be done; do you think you can do it? You cannot love by command. If someone says, “Love this person,” and the person is as beautiful and as charming as possible—still, how will you love? Love is not an act you can produce!
If you try, it will be acting—a drama. Yes, chests can be pressed together, arms can entwine—yet the hearts will remain miles apart. Bones may meet, but the hidden life-breath will not dance together. To put your arms around a neck is not to embrace. The life-breath will remain far—an infinite distance. Acting will happen. Acting is not love! Hence love is not a deed you can do. Love is an event that happens, descends from the sky, and you are filled—like the coming of rain, clouds gathering in the sky, and pouring!
Yes, it is true: a pot turned upside down will remain empty even in the very moment the clouds burst. A pot set upright will be filled. So at most what is in our hands is this much: keep our pot upright, and when love comes, receive it. Keep our windows and doors open, and when love’s breeze arrives, welcome it with joy, sing a song of benediction. The gust of love’s wind cannot be brought, cannot be summoned, cannot be called—when it comes, it comes.
Understand well this essential point about love. When it happens, it happens; it is beyond man’s hand. And whatsoever lies within the human hand is not in God’s hands. What lies beyond your hand—that alone is in the hands of the Divine. What you can do is of two pennies’ worth. Whatever lies within man’s reach is lower than man. Love is an event larger than you. Love cannot happen within your little self; yes, you can include yourself within love. Therefore—remain open!
Wajid says:
If love for a sage begins to stir, say yes.
When the happening begins, do not hold it back. If it can happen, let it happen. If this love wants to be, let it be—do not obstruct it.
And the mind throws up a thousand obstructions, for mind is utterly against love. Why is mind against love? Because in love the mind must die. Love rises only upon the death of mind. Mind must die; ego must die; the I-sense must dissolve. Love’s foundation is laid upon the ashes of the ego. Hence the ego trembles, the mind is afraid. The mind contrives a thousand escapes, a thousand ways to run.
Bearing this in mind, Wajid says: if it can happen, let it happen—do not stop it.
If love for a sage begins to stir, say yes.
If courage is possible, allow this unparalleled event. When love begins, the mind will argue a hundred thousand reasons. And mind has many arguments. Mind has only arguments—and nothing else. But love is not argument; love is beyond reason.
Suppose, those whose hearts have fallen in love with me—if someone asks them why, they cannot answer. No answer can be given. Anyone can call them mad! They will not even be able to defend themselves. They will not argue. Their lips will be sewn shut; not a word will come. And if they force themselves to say something, they themselves will see that this is not what they wanted to say; it is not what has happened. Words are too small—love is vast like the sky. How can you pour it into words? And love is beyond reason, so no one can say why it happened. For love there is no answer to “why.”
Even for ordinary love there is no answer to “why.” You fall in love with a woman, or with a man, or become intimate with someone. Someone asks you—why? You search and search; no answer appears. Whatever answers you give are untrue. You say, “She is beautiful—that is why.” But this woman is beautiful—and yet hundreds of others are not in love with her. And she was beautiful a day ago, and the day before. A day before you fell in love, she may have passed before you—and you did not fall in love. Perhaps she lived in your neighborhood; for years you saw her coming and going. Never did a wave of love arise—and one day it arose, and the event happened. Perhaps you had not even looked at her closely before, had not really seen her face. And now you say, “Because she is beautiful, I fell in love.” She was beautiful yesterday, and always. Why today? Why in this moment?
You are reversing the order. She begins to seem beautiful because love has happened. You say, “Because she is beautiful, love happened.” No—because love happened, she now appears beautiful. Whomever you love looks beautiful. People say, no mother finds her child ugly; no son finds his mother ugly. Wherever love happens, there beauty is seen. The eye of love is the mother of beauty.
So even for ordinary love you are left without answers. At most you can say—“It simply happened; I was helpless; it was not in my hands.” And if this is so of ordinary love—which belongs to your lowest personality, your lowest energy, to lust…
Love has three rungs: kama, prem, bhakti.
Kama is the lowest incident. What you commonly call love is usually lust. Its secrets lie hidden within the physiology of your body, in the drives of sexuality, in hormones and chemistry. Its secret is your unconscious. People call lust “love.” Even for this lowest energy—the first step of life’s ladder—you cannot give an answer; it remains inexplicable.
“Prem,” love, is the step after lust. Love is subtler, more delicate. Think of it this way: lust happens in the chemistry of your body, in physical processes; love happens in the depths of the heart. Love is of mind, lust of body; bhakti is spiritual—it is beyond both body and mind. It is your highest rung, your loftiest flight. That bhakti is what he calls “neh”—hence he has not said prem, he has said neh. If he had said “prem,” you might have misunderstood; you might have mistaken it for ordinary love. Wajid said “neh”—the highest event. And the higher a thing, the more difficult, the more ungraspable, the more mysterious it becomes. Astonishing, wonder-struck! You are taken aback, you are robbed! Dumbfounded, breath suspended, thought stilled! Reason fell far behind—like dust left trailing a caravan, while the caravan has gone far, far ahead.
No, there is no answer. No one can answer. Had you done it, you could answer. You have not done it; grace has showered upon you. God descended and stirred your life-breath. God came and plucked the strings of your heart’s veena. God came and blew one breath into your flute, sounded one call—that call is neh. That very call is bhakti, is prayer.
The love that happens toward a sage is prayer. In it there is no lust; nothing of the body. Nor is it what we ordinarily call love; nothing of the mind either. It is communion of life-breath with life-breath; it is dialogue of soul with soul; it is the meeting of center with center.
Sometimes it happens; when it happens, it is life’s benediction. If it begins to happen, then you are blessed. Do not stop it, do not obstruct it; for many unfortunates block it and hold it back.
And note this too: if you want to do it, you cannot; but if you want to stop it, you can. You cannot invite the inner gust of wind—“Come!” See, the trees stand silent, not a breeze is moving. We may call out a thousand times, “Come, winds, come”—nothing will happen; when the wind comes, it comes. But when the gust does come, you may be sitting inside with doors and windows bolted and locked—then, though the wind comes, you will still be deprived. If the wind does not come, you cannot bring it.
Bear this in mind: in all that is essential in life nothing constructive can be done, but unfortunately much can be done in the negative. For the sky to rain, what can the pot do? Even if the pot cries out, what then? The clouds do not listen to the pot. But when the clouds pour, the pot can be upside down, or run under a roof to hide, or be full of holes—so that though filled, it is immediately emptied.
If love for a sage begins to stir, say yes.
If this one thing can be, let it be. If it begins to be, let it be; if it is forming, do not obstruct. Mind will raise a thousand obstacles, it will say—“What madness! What madness is this? What are you doing?”
There, before me, I see a friend—Swami Devanand Bharati. An advocate from Patiala. He had come to a camp—perhaps never imagined that sannyas would happen. It happened; he let it happen—he did not obstruct. It may never have occurred to him even in imagination that when I gave him sannyas I would say, “Now why go back to Patiala!” In his wildest dreams! When I said, “Now why go back to Patiala?” he said, “Very well—then I will stay here.” If someone asks him now, what answer will he give? What answer could he give? He allowed it to happen.
Then he thought to go arrange a few things there, return in a fortnight. I said, “Fine, go and take care.” He even took leave of me—but has not gone yet. I asked Laxmi to inquire what happened. She asked him, and he said, “I simply don’t feel like going; I have sent word that whatever needs doing, let them do it there.”
This is letting it happen. Sheer madness! But only with this strength is Truth attained. It is no cheap bargain—Kabir called it the razor’s edge. “Prem-path is so arduous,” he said. Kabir said: Whoever can burn down his house, come with me. When Devanand said, “Very well, I will stay,” I felt—how truly Kabir spoke of such people: who can burn down their homes…
Even if there is loss at home, do not turn back.
Even if there is loss in the house—do not scatter.
Even if all seems to drown—let it drown. Only then can this neh take root. Only then can this love sprout. Only then can this tender plant bear flowers—flowers of gold!
If love for a sage begins to stir, say yes.
If you meet a sage, don’t avert your eyes, don’t look away—look straight. Don’t hide your heart—place it before him. Then something happens, something utterly mysterious—no arithmetic can be made of it; none ever has, none ever will. God’s ways are subtle and unknown.
Just now I said about Devanand that he could not have imagined that coming to Poona would mean he went forever—that Patiala vanished! I too, before giving sannyas, had not thought for even a moment that I would say this to him. I have never told this to anyone—that the very moment of sannyas I would say it. Usually one takes someone’s hand and slowly leads them further. But as soon as I placed the mala around his neck, without knowing him, and he not knowing me, I said—“Now where will you go?” What I saw in his eyes—that very moment, as if one call from my flute reached him!
Even I was startled; this is not according to any rule. It might create trouble; one should not say such a thing to a new person. He may be unable to say “yes” and feel guilty; or he may say “yes” and be unable to fulfill it—again guilt; or he may say “yes,” fulfill it, but some corner of his mind keeps saying “no”—then it becomes a knot, a conflict.
But God’s paths are utterly subtle! He himself made me speak to Devanand; he himself made Devanand speak. Now he is the one not letting him go. Devanand says, “My feet don’t move toward Patiala; I can’t step beyond the door.” He has sent word to his clerk: “Bring a few law books; even here God needs lawyers, so I’ll now get entangled in this court.” Patiala’s work is finished.
Even if there is loss at home, do not turn back.
They entered the gathering—this much Mir saw; after that there was no radiance left in the lamps. When the Beloved arrives, all lamps grow pale.
They entered the gathering—this much Mir saw; only this is seen—that someone has come, come, come… And after that there was no radiance left in the lamps—the lamps faded, they went out! When the hour of love arrives, only One remains visible—all else departs.
Here, for those who love me, none else is seen. I am here, and they are. The crowd sits—but it feels as if others are far, very far, thousands of miles away—on the circumference. At the center, only I and they.
They entered the gathering—this much Mir saw; after that there was no radiance left in the lamps.
So it becomes. Such is love’s madness. “Prem-path is so arduous.” Arduous, because the ego must go; otherwise it is utterly simple, easy, natural. If you have the courage to drop the ego, what is simpler than love? You have nothing to do—everything begins to happen. All is grace; there is no effort at all.
There is an aura of the Beloved’s tresses over life; when I breathe, I catch a hint of the Beloved’s fragrance. The whirl of days stares at my face—and I go on kissing the dust of the Beloved’s lane with my eyes. If this is the state of my heart’s passion, then one day you shall see—even Khizr will ask the madmen for the signpost to the Beloved’s street. Constant stumbling finally learned the way of support—the Beloved’s arms grew unceremoniously toward me.
There is an aura of the Beloved’s hair over life—come a little closer to love, and you will find the cool shadow of the Beloved’s locks.
When I breathe, I catch a hint of the Beloved’s fragrance—each breath carries the Beloved’s scent.
The whirl of days stares at my face—and I, with my eyes, kiss the dust of the Beloved’s lane. Then no troubles remain, no problems remain.
If this is the state of passion, then one day you shall see—Khizr will ask even such madmen for the sign to the Beloved’s well. Khizr—in Sufi vision, a prophet, invisible, who roams the world for the thirsty, showing the way to those in whom the ray of God has dawned; holding their hands, leading them rightly; giving signals, indications. The name of an unseen guide: Khizr. He guides the lost. And see these delightful words:
If this is the flood of feeling—if such madness rises, if this flood of love keeps coming—then one day you will see, even Khizr will have to ask from such madmen: “Where is the Beloved?”
So let neh arise; let love awaken; let feelings surge.
If love for a sage begins to stir, say yes.
Even if there is loss at home—do not turn back.
Much will be “lost.” It will be “lost” because you are knotted to the false. You have relationships with the futile. The moment you tie a knot with a sage, your knots with the futile will begin to untie—on their own. Make a relationship with light, darkness will fall away. Both cannot remain together. Hold the hand of life—your bond with death is broken. That which is futile will be shed; what comes is full of meaning. But when the shedding happens, the meaningful is not yet visible.
It is like I tell you—let us go to the other shore. Leave this shore. This shore is visible. You have lived on this shore for lifetimes. You have built a home, raised a family. I say—sit in my boat, let us go across. Wajid calls—come, sit in the boat, I will take you across. That far shore is so distant you cannot see it. You have never befriended anyone from that shore. Even whether it exists—how to trust?
And if you sit in my boat, this shore will start receding. In midstream there comes a moment of transition when this shore has been left and the other has not yet appeared. Then panic arises. Then there is a desire to jump back: return! The distance from the shore is increasing; still there is time to return—jump out of the boat and swim back to your side. Many jump and swim back.
When you reach your shore again, naturally people will ask, “What happened? Why did you return?” You will give many arguments to defend yourself—that the boat was wrong, that the boatman was wrong, that there is no other shore. You must save your self-image! You will not say, “I was a coward, that is why I returned. I was afraid.” You will not say, “The other shore was not seen; this one was slipping away. I thought—what madness have I fallen into!” You will not say this to others—perhaps not even to yourself. You will say to yourself, “Good that I returned—there is no other shore. With which madman had I befriended myself! Where was I going! Leaving my good home, good shore, all comforts—where was I going!”
So many chances to jump off appear. Therefore, be alert: Wajid is right—do not jump off! Those who keep going and do not jump—the supreme Light happens one day in their life.
What do you understand, O pious one, of the madness of lovers? Wherever they stand, there God will be. Those in whose life the madness of love descends—everything descends. The key of God comes into their hands!
You renouncers and ascetics—without love’s flavor. You will not sit in the boat of love. You are arranging on your own—with renunciation, with austerities—to capture God.
But God cannot be captured. And whatever “God” we can capture will be smaller than us. Whatever “God” we can obtain will become an ornament of our ego. It will be our acquisition; it will not dissolve our ego. God is not attained; he comes—he descends; it is his avatara.
Renouncers keep thinking lovers are mad: “What has gone wrong with them? Look at Meera, playing her veena, singing, dancing—what can come of that? Fast, perform austerities! What will singing and dancing do? Sleep on thorns—what will playing the veena do?” They do not know lovers have seen something else; another window has opened; another door has been found.
What do you understand, O pious one, of the madness of lovers? Wherever they stand, there God will be.
But there are many stages at which people fall away. Walking along, they run. Courage fails, strength breaks.
Know those who turn back in fear to be fools. Utterly foolish! One madness is of those who set out toward God—they are blessed. Another madness is of those who, out of stupidity, clutch the petty and the futile. Why call them foolish? Because in what you have, you have gained nothing—yet you do not let it go!
Reflect a little: What has your life given you? Fifty years, sixty years—enough to see—what have you found? Your hands are empty. Yes, I do not say you have no bank-balance, no locker—you do. Wealth, status. But has anything arrived in your hands?
Think again and you will be shocked: in this world, besides failure, nothing comes to hand. Behind success, failure hides. Success too is just the other name of failure, another garment. At last, death arrives—and everything lies scattered.
Therefore Wajid says:
Know those who turn back in fear to be fools.
Those who feared this supreme journey, shrank back, shut their doors quickly—did not let his ray enter, did not let his breeze blow through, plugged their ears, did not hear his call. Those who frighten easily cannot travel this path. Courage is needed; daring is needed; the heart to risk is needed. This path is not walked by calculation.
Had I not taken even your neglect as your grace, again and again my heart would have become suspicious of me. We would have made nests only for poets—if even in thought there had been the dream of a nest.
Often it will feel that God is not visible; there is no sign he will be met.
But the lover is one who takes even his neglect as grace. “I understood—you are ripening me. I understood—you are burning me. You are putting me in the fire. For this is how refining happens.”
The devotee, too, faces moments of separation and neglect. When the old shore is gone and the new is not yet glimpsed; the old house collapses—no rumor of the new; the old life falls into chaos—and no thread of the new in hand. It seems the world is gone—and is there even a God? It feels like neglect.
The devotee calls—and the sky remains silent. He weeps—and no hand comes to wipe his tears. He writhes—and no consolation arrives. He cannot sleep—burning in separation; yet no lullaby is sung. How long can one bear this neglect? Doubts begin to rise.
No—but in the lover’s heart doubts do not rise. Doubts belong to the fearful. People think the atheist is very courageous. No—the atheist is only frightened. He is so frightened that if God exists, he would have to journey. So he says: there is no God. If there is no flute, there will be no flute-song. He denies God so he need not search; no campaign, no adventure.
Do not think your customary theist is much better than the atheist. Your theist, too, accepts God out of fear—“You are. You simply are—what need to seek? Why satsang? You are already there. We will offer a couple of flowers at the temple; at death say ‘Ram, Ram.’ Occasionally have a ritual read; give alms.” He accepts God so he need not seek. The atheist, out of fear, denies God so he need not seek; the theist, out of fear, accepts God so he need not seek. The lover neither denies nor merely accepts—he sets out to seek. In him is thirst, a longing.
And of course, this love cannot be directly with God, for God has no form, no color—whom will you love? This love can only begin with a Sadguru. Then, step by step, the Sadguru loosens you from form and brings you to the formless; frees you from the seen and connects you to the unseen; slowly takes away the gross and gives you the ladders of the subtle.
If love for a sage begins to stir, say yes.
Even if there is loss at home—do not turn back.
Know those who shrink in fear to be fools.
Yes, Wajid—everything is accomplished by grace, if he so wills.
Fall in love with a Sadguru; if his grace descends, all is fulfilled, all is set right.
Do good swiftly; why delay?
Whatever good you can do, do it—do not delay. The mind is perverse: it does the unwholesome instantly; it says of the wholesome, “Tomorrow.” If someone abuses you, you respond right now, you pick up the nearest stone. You do not say, “Come tomorrow; bring a stone; I will answer then.” The wrong is done with great alacrity!
But if a feeling for meditation arises, you think: “I will do it—what is the hurry? Life is long.” I know many who want to meditate, but postpone it to tomorrow. They do the futile today and defer the essential to tomorrow. Many want to take the jump into sannyas—yet keep postponing it.
Once, in Bombay, an elderly woman wished for sannyas. For two or three years she kept coming, saying, “I will take it—but after a few days. My son’s marriage is near. It won’t look good if I stand in ochre robes and mala; guests will come, relatives will gather—let this finish.” Then some other work, and yet another. One day she came again—I said, “Now leave me alone. When your work is finished, then come. If I survive, come—or if you survive, come. I do not think your work will ever finish; before your tasks finish, you will be finished.”
And so it happened. The very day she met me, on the way back a car struck her. By evening her son came running—“Mother is in hospital, unconscious; chances are poor.” She never regained consciousness; after twenty-four hours she died.
Her son said to me, “She very much wished to take sannyas. Please give a mala; we will drape her in ochre and put the mala around her neck.” I said, “As you like. But do sannyas happen for corpses? Alive, your mother could not take sannyas. For three years she came—let all tasks finish. Now all tasks lie unfinished—she herself is finished! You want sannyas for a dead body? I have no objection—if it satisfies you, take the mala. Put the robe and the beads.”
I said, “Rather than thinking of sannyas for your mother, think of your own.” He said, “Not now—my mother has died; I am entangled. How can I take it now? I will take it.” I said, “The same mistake! Your mother kept saying the same.” From that day the son never came—he must fear if he comes I will ask, “What of sannyas now?” And if his father dies, perhaps he will come: “My father wanted sannyas; he died desiring—give the mala.”
People keep postponing the wholesome. Wajid says: Do good swiftly! If there is merit to do, if there is giving to do—do it fast, do it now. Why delay? Things get spoiled by delay.
Day, hour, and moments slip by—the Messenger is counting.
Death stands counting—one, two, three, four… and gone. Death counts—when the ten will be done, when the “enough” will be said—no one knows. Each moment is being counted, each moment reduced.
Do good swiftly—why delay?
Day, hour, and moment pass—the Messenger is counting.
Death will slap your face—your mouth will be filled with dust.
All will be looted. All that you collected will be lost, left behind. You spent life accumulating, and death will snatch it. Where did you live? You served death! Your life goes into the service of death, because all that you are gathering—death will take. Nothing of it will go with you. And what does not go with you is futile.
Earn something death cannot take. That alone is wealth. The name of that wealth is meditation. Only meditation death cannot snatch; all else she will. The meditator dies attentively, guarding his meditation; he carries it beyond death. Even death cannot burn it. Nainam chhindanti shastrani, nainam dahati pavakah—no sword can cut it, no fire can burn it. Such a thing exists—your very Atman. The way to uncover it is meditation.
Death is a tyrant—O Wajid—none can escape him.
One thing is certain: no matter what you do—the hangman of death, Yama’s noose, will not spare you. The noose is already around your neck, tightening—any moment it can snap shut.
Says Wajid, crying out: Learn one thing—learn the zero. Shunya. Let the mind become thoughtless, empty. Let nothing remain—only awareness, only witnessing.
Says Wajid: learn, crying out, this one thing—shunya.
In this, all is said. Wajid spoke the scripture of scriptures. All Upanishads, the Quran, the Bible, the Vedas, the Dhammapada—are contained in this small word: shunya. Whoever knows shunya knows the Full—for shunya is the door to the Full.
Says Wajid, crying out: learn one thing—shunya.
In the moment of death, only the merit of shunya will stand by you. Only this will come to your aid; nothing else can.
Why spread your belly so wide?
Why make such a big belly! You go on increasing the useless, piling up junk. Nothing of it will be carried. All arrangements will lie where they are when the gypsy packs up. While two days are still in your hands, give away what you can, share what you can—for death will snatch it anyway.
For some, even the expanse of the world is not enough, O moralist; whereas for me a single corner of the wine-house is enough. In these cold times the human breast is chilled, otherwise for living the heart of a moth would be enough. Where can we go from this wilderness of love? For raising a little dust—this desolation is enough.
For some, everything is too little—even if the whole world is theirs. A lovely saying:
The expanse of the world is too small for you, O preacher!
For me, a single nook of the tavern is enough—the tavern of love, the satsang—where wine is distilled, where the drunkards gather, the rinds sit, the wine-lovers abound.
In this age the human heart is cold, without fervor—otherwise, for life, the ardor of a moth’s heart is enough. A moth’s heart suffices—what more is needed? God’s flame burns—and you have a moth’s heart. That is enough—more than enough!
If love for a sage begins to stir, say yes.
Be a moth, a lover! And if somewhere the Divine flame is burning—go, burn in it; for only through that burning is amrit born.
True wealth is what serves the Master.
A sweet, deep definition: wealth is that which points to the Dhani—the Master, the Owner. Meditation alone is wealth; nothing else. All other “wealth” only hides inner poverty. Poverty is not removed by it—only concealed. But death will expose all, bare all wounds. We have arranged so many flowers wherever the wounds are—inside there is pus; above, a rose. We are deluded that roses are blooming on our body. Death will come and snatch the flowers—pus will spill.
True wealth is what serves the Master; all else is the heap of sin.
We have no complaint against priest or mullah—but their unbelief and their Islam are both for self-interest. There is not an ounce of selflessness. They gather this-worldly wealth and dream to gather similar wealth in the other world too.
The devotee says: let me become only the dust of your feet—that is enough. I want no other paradise. The dust of the Beloved’s lane is my heaven. One ray of your love is enough—I want no greater sun. Give me one small corner of your tavern—and enough.
The house has caught fire—who will douse it now? This world you call riches and wealth—it is fire! You are throwing more fuel upon the fire—desire’s fire, craving’s fire.
O Wajid, who ever crossed sitting in a stone boat?
You are engaged in such stupidity as trying to cross the ocean in a stone boat. You will drown—are drowned—and will drown deeper! There is only one way to be saved:
If love for a sage begins to stir, say yes.
Says Wajid, crying out: learn one thing—shunya.
Only the merit of shunya stands between you and death. Only shunya is beyond death. Only shunya refines you, purifies you, makes you innocent. Only shunya is the doorway to the Divine.
Whatever you have knotted—loosen and give. Do not sit with your fist tied—let there be flow and giving. This body will go, this wealth will go—all will go.
O my God! The clay from which the hearts of tyrants are made—mix into that clay the tears of the helpless. O my God! Do not let these little straws be prevented from floating like boats; do not fill the beggar’s bowl of that river—make that river a shore. O my God! If this darkness cannot become the kohl of someone’s eyes, then let it become a stain on someone’s heart, or a beauty-spot on someone’s face.
The Sadguru does precisely this—becomes the kohl of someone’s eyes. To those who cannot see, he gives sight. To hearts empty of love, he fills again with love’s surge. Do something!
Whatever you have knotted—loosen and give.
God is in all—why keep saying “No” to anyone? Let “Yes” become the style of your life.
Man’s freedom is still the deception of man; the heart of man is still the target of men. I am forced to speak plainly—listen, O promise of the dawn! Over your garden falls still the shadow of prisons. Time and again, love’s broken little boat has made even the rising storms bow their heads.
Even a small, broken boat of love breaks the pride of great tempests. Such is love’s strength. Become love. To become love is to make your life a process of sharing.
God is in all—why say “No” to anyone?
Give what belongs to Him into His hands—and sleep in peace. Why worry with “mine, yours”? To one who sees all as His, all anxiety ends. If it is “mine,” there is fear it may be snatched, it may be lost, it may diminish—thousands of anxieties. While it is not, the worry of how to get it; when it is, the worry of how to keep it. Anxiety upon anxiety. Ego brings nothing but anxiety.
Give what belongs to Him back to Him. You brought nothing; you will take nothing. A brief play—play it. A short role on the stage—perform it. As he makes you play, play; as he keeps you, remain.
Give the Owner what is His—and sleep in bliss.
Yes, in the end one reaps what one sows, says Wajid. Sow such a field as cannot be looted. But you are sowing what will surely be looted. Be a little wise. Love’s madness looks like madness to the world, but to those who know—it is wisdom.
Warriors have died and gone—those who remain are also going. Death spares none.
Day and night you heap wealth—but tell me, who will eat it? Think how much is being lost for it—how much fighting, how many wrongs done, how many hearts hurt, how many lives thrown into danger!
Body and wealth are guests—by Ram’s great grace!
Taste this line—such sweetness will spread in your being. Body and wealth are both guests—they will go. By Ram’s grace! You will wonder—what grace is this? Because if body and wealth did not go, you would be lost in them forever. You would never know the soul. There would be no memory of God. If body were eternal, if wealth never left—how many would pray? Who would worship? Who would seek? Imagine you were given an eternal body and eternal wealth—even if God himself came to your door, you would say, “Move on! For what use?” Therefore he says—by Ram’s grace! You gave a body that is taken away; wealth that comes and goes. Your remembrance cannot be forgotten then. Only fools forget you. Those with a little intelligence remember you. You have arranged remembrance well—death counts: one, two, three… when ten comes, enough. You gave life fleeting; wealth that slips. Your grace is unparalleled—by Ram’s grace!
Therefore, while it is in your hands, spend it, give it. Kabir said: “Pour from both hands—this is the work of the noble.” Share. Celebrate a little while. It will be snatched—taste the flavor of giving before it is.
In giving, something happens within you that will be of use. In sharing, something remains within you. Life’s arithmetic is inverted—those who save, lose; those who give, save.
Deeply you have buried your gold—but to what use? Wajid was a Rajasthani—he is speaking of the Marwari habit.
Deeply you have buried it—but what for? Do not bury deep—lift upward. Offer it to Ram. Why bury in the earth? Give it to the sky.
Putting fingers in your ears, the servant calls out to you! Wajid says—I have shouted into your ears; later do not say I did not warn you. When death stands at your door, do not say I did not warn you. I have warned you by plugging your ears!
You are like one who buries flowers in the dust—then how will fragrance spread? You bury your wealth in the ground. Share it—then fragrance spreads. Give and receive—then fragrance spreads! Before death comes, let love expand. Before death comes, deepen the inner shunya. If you must bury anything, bury shunya within. If you must spread anything, spread love without. He who does these two is a sannyasin—within, deepen shunya; without, widen love.
And shunya and love are the two faces of one coin. Love—outward, extravert; shunya—inward. Shunya is meditation; love is bhakti. Master these two. If these two wings are yours, you will reach the Beloved’s door—none can stop you.
You granted to hunger its dignity, to thirst the strength of restraint, to impatience the gift of contentment—what greater grace could there be upon your servants! To the preacher’s eye give a little vision; into the rich man’s heart a spark of love; to the sigh of the oppressed a little power—and what more could the poet pray!
God has given so much! To hunger—honor; to thirst—endurance; to impatience—contentment. What greater kindness could there be? Give a little intelligence to your so-called renouncers; give a spark of love to the wealthy; give a little power to the sigh of the afflicted—and what else can the poet ask!
God is eager to meet us. His hands grope for us in the dark. But we run and scatter. And this running has gone on for many lives. How much longer will you run? What have you gained? Poor and destitute! Will you remain so? When will you awaken?
Says Wajid, crying out: learn one thing—shunya.
Learn only shunya—and the pointless world is over. Then you enter the meaningful realm.
True wealth is what serves the Master.
Then you have found wealth that connects you to the Dhani—the Master. A bridge is raised in your life—of meditation, Samadhi, bhakti, love.
In this world, the wise are those who plant shunya in the heart and spread love in life. Let your roots be in shunya, and on your branches let flowers of love bloom. Within—shunya, no-ego, sheer emptiness; without—the aura of love.
Buddha said: wherever Samadhi ripens, compassion spreads around of its own accord. In Buddha’s words: Samadhi—Karuna. In Wajid’s: shunya—love. Toward this shunya the first step is love; otherwise you cannot move toward shunya. You must connect with one who is shunya; the art of connecting is love.
Therefore he says:
If love for a sage begins to stir, say yes.
If you can, fall in love with a sage.
Even if there is loss at home—do not turn back.
Then whatever the cost, pay it. Do not become a coward, do not run away. Whatever love asks—give. Wherever love leads—go. If love burns you—burn. If love kills you—die. The path of love is arduous!
Yet out of that very death the spring of amrit bursts forth. On the very cross to which love will raise you—the throne is built. Whoever is ready to die in love attains an incomparable life in God—eternal life.
The art of dying in love is religion. Whoever is drenched in religion enters into the Infinite, the Eternal, the Immortal. A vast life surrounds you—but you sit shrunken within yourself. Open! Loosen the knots! Break the fixations!
These sutras of Wajid today are precious indeed—simple words of a simple man, yet pointing to the Ultimate. Do only this much. Only a little is to be done.
In these cold times the human breast is chilled—otherwise, for living, the ardor of a moth is enough.
Become moths! And if anywhere a lamp of God is lit—do not delay, do not postpone to tomorrow—take the leap!
The expanse of the world is too small for you, O preacher!
And for me—a single corner of the tavern is enough.
In these cold times the human breast is chilled—otherwise, for living, the ardor of a moth is enough.
If you find the tavern—the home has arrived! Sit even in a small corner—where love of the Lord is spoken, where the wine of the Beloved is poured, where songs of the Beloved are sung, hymns arise, where the joy of the Beloved rains down—if in that tavern you get even a small corner, even the threshold—you are in heaven! Do only this much—only this much:
The expanse of the world is too small for you, O preacher!
And for me—a single corner of the tavern is enough.
In these cold times the human breast is chilled—otherwise, for living, the ardor of a moth is enough.
Enough for today.