Kahe Vajid Pukar #7

Lo, the sun’s cycles have begun to descend
The sunlight has been left unfinished in the courtyard of age
The yearly embers have grown faint, the year—spent and tired
Some flowers still remain in Time’s trailing hem

Shattered goals cast restless shadows that now stand still
The tireless feet of defeated efforts have grown weary
Even before noon arrived, the light began to yellow
The sunflower-body of youth has started to wilt

That barren fire once lit in every pore
Burned the body of personality to ash by its own flame
The furnace of proud courage that had earlier flared
Turned into a blind fortnight with a pale, sickly moon

Those colored strings of upward-leaning desires
By which new lamps of the sky were hung
Each rising year stretched stormy fingers
And snuffed those half-burnt lamps, one by one

A stubborn night has clung like the body’s own shadow
On the path, only one’s own steps seem to gleam
Like a gold-line left upon the touchstone
In place of gold, only its marks faintly shine

Darknesses approach to fill all with dusky dye
The bright canopy of each lucid instant fades away
The starry emotions keep going out
Each moon of longing turns black

Every work remained half-done, the years were spent in taste
The last bud of youth’s spring is drying up
Falling into storms and whirlpools, no pearls were found
In every shell there was only the barren wail of emptiness

Human life is deathward bound. After birth, nothing is certain except death. As morning happens, the sun rises—then evening is assured; likewise, once birth has happened, death is certain. Death is but the other side of birth. He who does not awaken between birth and death has lived in vain. Even seeing death approach, if one does not wake, how else will he ever wake? Death is a wondrous device. That is why Wajid says: mercy be upon Ram. The Lord’s great compassion is that He has given death. Yet there are such unfortunate and dull-witted people who still do not awaken. If there were no death, then no one would awaken at all! Even with death, people are asleep. Death is coming—this is certain—there is no way to escape, no facility to flee. We fell into the hands of death the very day we were born; without exception, each must die. Yet we do not awaken; still we are so busy in the scramble of life as if death will never be.
Look at people and you would not believe that death exists. They are fighting over trifles, dying over nothing. Over tiny posts, petty wealth, small status, they wave the flags of ego!

We shall fall, we shall fall into dust along with these flags. We know: those who stood right beside us have fallen; our hour must be near. Whenever a bier passes by, remember—the moment of your bier is drawing close. When a funeral pyre blazes, imagine yourself upon that pyre. There is no long delay; whether a year, two, or ten—what difference does it make?

He who begins to think on death, to contemplate it—a revolution happens in his life. Religion would be impossible if death were not. Animals have no religion because they have no sense of death. An animal cannot think that it will die; it lacks such discrimination, such reflection. Those humans who live without thinking of death live like animals; then there is little difference between them and beasts. What difference remains? Only one: the animal cannot conceive of death, the human can. The human who refuses this conception—who suppresses it, avoids it—has resolved to evade being human. He will never become truly human. And he who cannot become human, his path to Paramatma is obstructed.

A human becomes human by accepting death, by seeing it, knowing it, recognizing it, giving it a place in his heart. The moment you recognize your death, you begin to be different.

From the recognition of death, sannyas was born, meditation was born. If death is, some preparation must be made. If we are to vanish—and all we have gathered here will be snatched away, left behind—then we should also gather something that will go with us through death. The companions and relations of here will all stand afar. They will escort you to the cremation ground and return—they still have to live. Many of their tasks are left unfinished yet. One day their tasks will remain unfinished just as yours are left. But they have no awareness, no wakefulness yet. People go even to the cremation ground to burn someone’s pyre, and there too they talk only of the world, of the market; village rumors—they become absorbed in them. Someone’s body is burning over there, and with their backs turned they gossip.

Those gossips are devices—ways to deny the fact of death. They do not want to see that he who was alive till yesterday is not alive today. They do not want to see that one who walked like us, fought like us, was filled with a thousand desires like us, today is becoming ash. They panic, their limbs tremble. They cannot accept this fact: that in just the same way we too will fall and be lost in the dust.

If you accept this fact—and you must, if there is even a little intelligence, a little awareness—with the acceptance of this fact, you begin to be new; because then you must live in a different way. You must live so that before death comes you have something which death cannot snatch—meditation, prayer, a little taste of the Lord, a touch of Samadhi, a fragrance of the Atman! For it is the body that dies; the Atman does not die. The lamp breaks, the flame flies—seeking new lamps. The cage burns, the bird flies away.

But where is this bird recognized? Where is this swan known? You live clinging to the body, so identified that you believe this body is ‘I’, and you remain engaged in arrangements for this body. And I do not tell you to despise the body, nor to dishonor it. That too is a gift of the Lord; respect it, receive it. The body is His temple. But do not get lost in the temple; seek also the idol hidden within the temple.

There are two kinds of people in the world. Those who get lost in the walls of the temple and never reach the idol—these are called worldly. And the others, whom we call ascetics—opposite to the sensualists—become enemies of the temple. They say: we will break the walls of the temple, for it is these walls that lead us astray. Some are erecting walls, some are breaking walls; neither the builders reach the idol, nor the breakers. Both are entangled in the walls.

I want to tell you: there is not the slightest difference between your sensualist and your renunciate. Your sensualist is mad after the body in love; your renunciate is mad against the body in hostility. But both have their eyes stuck on the body. One is gathering ever more delicious foods; another starves, fasts, rots the body, torments it, dries it up. But both remain fixated upon the body. How will you find the idol? Will you remain entangled in the walls? We get entangled with what we love; we get entangled with what we hate.

Therefore I tell my sannyasin: the body is beautiful, the body is dear, a gift of Paramatma. Protect it; neglect it not. But do not get lost in it. And for fear of getting lost, do not begin to fight it—otherwise you will be lost in the fight. Embrace the body. Accept the body. And make the body a staircase to seek That which is hidden within the body but is not the body.

The body will die. The body was born, the body will die; you were not born, you will not die. You are eternal. But a small glimpse of that eternal—then death becomes bliss. Then there is no sorrow in death; death becomes the very door of Paramatma.

But as you are now, as you live now—one day you will regret; when death knocks at the door, you will weep much, you will writhe much!

Lo, the springtime of life is passing
The delicate, imagined flowers of sweet memory grow dim
Once the garden laughed in the courtyard of mind—
Now there remains only the memory of life’s mistakes.
A little I recall: in the East there was life’s sun
Shining with splendor upon the eastern horizon
But when I looked upward into the sky now—
I saw the chariot of day is almost complete.
I heard in that dawn the song of free birds,
I had thought life would be filled with auspicious music;
But now that the dark evening hour has come—
I find not a single note emerges from this choked throat.
Unmet, unstilled, confused—these moments of life
Went by without yama, niyama, asana, without pranayama
The breaths were not disciplined, the posture never settled, the sway did not cease
Existence remained without faith, without cessation.
What did I gain? I gained nothing here at all
I had been given one life—and even that I lost.
What a strange play of some great Player—
I was one alone, yet uselessly became two!
What did I gain? I gained nothing here at all—when will you think on this? On the last day? Then no time will remain, no means left to do anything!

What did I gain? I gained nothing here at all,
I had been given one life—and even that I lost.

This life is an opportunity—waste it if you wish, or guard it if you choose. This life is a chance—drown it in futility, or devote it to the search for the essential. If wasted, you will writhe much in death. Death will come like a terrible night of new-moon darkness. But if you employ life in the search for the meaningful, then death comes like a friend, like the night of full-moon—luminous, cool; like an invitation of the Beloved, a call of love.

He who lives life rightly tastes nectar in death. Death is the greatest mystery of this world. If you live rightly—with balance, with awareness, in the spirit of sannyas, like a lotus in water—then death will give you a taste of amrita. Clouds of bliss will rain upon you—of sat-chit-ananda. But if you live wrongly, without awareness, with a restless mind—never still, never steeped in meditation—then when death comes, it will snatch away all that you had gathered. Then you will weep; but nothing can be done then. What will you do, even in regret? Afterwards regret is useless—when the bird has eaten the crop!

But he who becomes alert beforehand, who wakes up before time, who steadies himself before death arrives—doors upon doors of great mysteries open in his life. The man who learns to live rightly, learns to die rightly.

Death is dark only for those who have not learned the art of living; otherwise death is radiant. Otherwise, in truth, there is no death—hence it is radiant. Death is the end of life only for those who have squandered everything on wealth and position. And death is the inauguration of a new life for those who have sought beyond wealth and status—who sought meditation, sought the Lord. For them death is only an abyss—darkness, a chasm in which life will fall and vanish—if they have lived in ego. But for those who have lived in egolessness, who have not squandered their lives in stiff-necked pride—death is life’s highest experience, the Mount Kailash, the summit! So it should be. Why should death be the end of life? Why not its consummation? Why should death be the termination of life instead of the ultimate peak of life’s joy? Why should not life’s flower open in death!

Therefore there are two kinds of people: those who die; and those who do not die, but in death drink the nectar. Become the second—become that second kind.

Who can remove the weariness of life?
The music of love has passed by,
Even the mind’s poetry has sulked.
Sleep fills the flute now,
The evening’s yellow has fallen upon the note.
The last echo is fading—
On this desolate forest path
Autumn’s shadow deepens;
Now only in dreams remain
The recollections of that sandalwood grove.
Night has come, birds have flown home,
All the voices of the path are shy,
The hour of dim lamps—
In the eyes of the tired traveler
Tears come and wither away;
Somewhere far away, drowsy,
The cymbals of worship tinkle.
Who can remove the weariness of life?

No, the bells ringing in distant temples will not remove the weariness of your life. Those bells must ring in the marrow of your very life-breath. What use is worship being performed in far-off temples? What use are the calls to prayer in mosques to you? What use will the music of prayers in churches be to you? Those bells must ring in your innermost heart, those lamps must be lit there, that arati must descend there.

But people have found clever devices. Their shop is outside, their temple is outside; they are lost in the outside. Even if they go from the shop to the temple, nothing changes. Their wealth is outside, their God is outside. They switch from wealth to God—and still nothing changes. When will you go within? Death will happen within you. There the breath will stop; there the heartbeat will fall silent. If you awaken there, if you gain even a little recognition of that within, then even when the breath breaks you will not break; even when the heartbeat ceases you will throb—more greatly, more divinely, on newer heights and in newer skies!

Today Wajid’s words are simple, about death, to warn you—to awaken you!

Wearing a tilted turban, they peeped from the lattice.
People are stiff with arrogance—even their turbans not tied straight!
Wearing a tilted turban, they peeped from the lattice.

When Wajid said this, the days were of the Rajputs, Rajasthan—Rajputs tying their turbans at an angle sat at their jharokhas, peering—stiff with pride and ego. Not the slightest thought that it will all mix in dust. This turban, this stiffness, these latticed windows, these palaces—all will be dust!

Wearing a tilted turban, they peeped from the lattice.
Urging spirited steeds, they galloped in all four directions.

They rode swift horses, saddles cinched tight, roaming the four directions. Great was the swagger, the speed of ego!

The army advances in lines, kettle-drums resound.
They marched ahead—behind them the army, the drums beating.

Wajid, these men have vanished—like a lion’s roar fades.

Those who roared like lions—where have these men gone, says Wajid? Into what soil are they lost? Where are those turbans, those beautiful jharokhas of the palaces, the platforms upon horses, the riders twirling their moustaches, marching to the beat of kettle-drums? Before and behind whom the army moved; who seemed so powerful, whose roar made people’s hearts tremble. But they too vanished! They too were lost in the earth! There is no trace of them now!

Wajid, these men have vanished—like a lion’s roar fades.

Where did they vanish? Think a little—so should you think. Where now is Alexander the Great? Where is Napoleon? Where do emperors disappear?

And yet with so long a past behind us, awareness of death still does not arise. There is a deep delusion: everyone goes on thinking, others die—I will not. You have heard the story from the Mahabharata: the Pandavas are thirsty, wandering in the forest. They come upon a lake. One brother goes to draw water. As he bends to drink and fill his pot, a yaksha calls from a tree: Stop! Either answer my five questions, or if you touch the water, death will happen. First answer my five questions. If your answers are right, well and good; if not, the result will be death.
The first brother fell, unable to answer, yet tried to drink—the thirst was such. The second brother—same. The third—same... In the end Yudhishthira came—where have my four brothers gone? He saw the bodies of all four lying on the bank. All four insisted, could not answer, still tried to drink. Yudhishthira bent, the yaksha spoke again... One question among them is relevant today. All were meaningful, but one was: what is the greatest wonder in the world? Yudhishthira said: the greatest wonder is that we see people dying every day, yet it never enters our hearts that I will die!
This was the right answer. The greatest wonder is not the Taj Mahal, nor Egypt’s pyramids, nor Babylon’s hanging gardens, nor the lighthouse of Alexandria. These are not the great marvels. The most profound wonder is that seeing people die daily, seeing evidence of death every day, still it does not occur that I will die. The question of whether I will die does not even arise; the mind goes on as if always someone else dies, some other.

Wearing a tilted turban, they peeped from the lattice.

Now turbans are no longer tied, but the tilt is the same! It makes no difference that you wear a Gandhi cap; the Gandhi cap too is worn askew—there too is arrogance! It makes no difference; man remains the same. No one rides horses now—so what? You neither roar like lions nor move with armies before and behind you. But it changes nothing. Modern man has found new kinds of armies, new kinds of turbans, new kinds of horses. But one thing remains certain, unchanged: you live in the delusion that I shall not perish. What can dust do to me! I will defeat death, I will conquer death.

No one has ever conquered death. Yes, there is one thing possible with death—death can be known; it cannot be conquered. And the one who knows is amazed—there is nothing there to conquer; there is no death at all!

So no one can win over death, nor is there any possibility of it. How will you conquer what is not? Death is like darkness—can anyone conquer darkness? Fight it, strike it, collide with it—you will only break, darkness will remain as it is. Yes, there is only one thing to do with darkness—light a lamp, and darkness is not found. When the lamp of meditation is lit, death is not found—even if you search for it. Then you know that even those who die—do not die.

But this first must be revealed within! Do not stiffen over small things; let the stiffness go. It is in stiffness that you waste life! Even at death people are stiff. Age comes, they are tired, yet they keep running.

There is Tolstoy’s famous story. A monk—an itinerant—came as guest to a man. At night they talked. The monk said: what is this small farming you are engaged in! In Siberia, where I wandered, land is so cheap—it is free. Leave this land, sell it, and go to Siberia. There you will get thousands of acres for this much. The soil is very fertile. The people are so simple there, they practically give the land for free.
Desire was stirred in the man. The next day he sold everything and set out for Siberia. Reaching there he found it true. He said, I want to buy land. They said: put down whatever money you have brought to buy land; and we sell land this way—tomorrow at sunrise you set out; by sunset, whatever area you can encircle will be yours. Just keep walking... encircle as much as you can. By the time the sun sets, return exactly to the point where you began—this is the only condition. Whatever land you have covered will be yours.
He did not sleep all night. You wouldn’t either; who sleeps on such a night? He planned how much to encircle. At sunrise he ran. The whole village gathered. The sun rose and he ran. He had taken bread and water with him. He thought: I will eat and drink while walking—no stopping. To walk? No—to run. If I walk, I will manage only half the land; if I run, I can double it. He ran... ran...
He had thought: at exactly twelve I will turn back, so that by sunset I will reach. Twelve arrived; he had gone miles. But does desire have any end? He thought: it is twelve—I should return; but ahead the land is more and more fertile... I will take a little more. I will run faster on the way back—that’s all, it is a matter of one day, I will just run faster. He did not drink water, as that would require stopping. It is only one day; tomorrow I will drink—then for a lifetime I will drink. That day he did not eat either. On the way he threw away the food and the water—they were extra weight, making it hard to run. He took off his coat, his hat—became as light as possible.
One o’clock came, but he did not feel like turning back, for ahead there was always more beautiful land. But at two he had to turn back. Now he panicked. He put in all his strength; but his strength was almost gone. He had been running since morning. He was gasping—will I reach before the sun sets or not? He threw everything into it. He ran like a madman. The sun began to set... Not much distance remained, people were visible. Villagers stood and shouted: come, come! They cheered him: run! Strange simple people, he thought; they should wish that I die, then they would get the money and the land would not go. But they were encouraging him, run!
He used his last breath—ran, ran, ran... The sun was setting; as the sun went down, he fell. Some five or seven yards remained; he began to crawl. The sun’s last edge remained on the horizon—he crawled. And as his hand touched the peg from where he had started—there the sun set. The sun set there; and here the man died. So much exertion! Perhaps a heart attack. And the simple villagers, whom he thought would wish him dead, laughed and spoke to each other: these madmen keep coming! Such madmen keep coming! This is no new event; often people come hearing the news—and die just like this. This is no exception; this is the rule. Until now not a single person has come who managed to encircle and become master of the land.
This story is your story—the story of your life, of everyone’s life. This is exactly what you are doing—running to encircle as much land as possible! Twelve strikes, noon comes, time to return—yet you run a little more! No concern for thirst, for hunger. Where is the time to live? First encircle the land, first fill the safe, first gather money in the bank—then we will live; later we will live, it is only a matter of one day. And no one ever lives. The poor die hungry, the rich die hungry—no one ever lives. To live, a little rest is needed. To live, a little understanding is needed. Life is not given free—awareness is needed.
Only the Buddhas live. In their lives there is a grace, a rhythm, a cadence. They can live because they do not run. They can live because they have stopped. They can live because their mind is no longer restless. What will you do encircling land in this world? All of this will remain here; we bring nothing, we take nothing.
Straighten your turban. Dismount your horses. Salute your armies and retinues! It is time—stop now! Do not say tomorrow, do not say the day after; for tomorrow never comes.

Where one lamp would have sufficed, they lit two in their temples.

Where one lamp would do, they lit two in their palaces.

They would not blink a lid from the love of women.

They would not leave their beloved—not even for the blink of an eye.

Anointed with oils and perfumes upon the skin.

Upon this leather-body they smeared oils and fragrances.

Hari, O Wajid—such men have turned to dust; mercy of Ram!

Ram, what a wonder indeed! What a grace that such men too have mixed with dust. Those who smeared their skins with oils and perfumes! Who adorned the skin with golden ornaments! Where one lamp would suffice, they lit two—a perpetual Diwali in their palaces! Those who would not be parted from their lovers even for a moment—they are gone! Where are they?

Hari, O Wajid—such men have turned to dust; mercy of Ram!

Those great men, valiant, full of life, splendid, proud—all mixed with the soil. In the end You mix everyone into dust!

Chuang Tzu—the great Chinese mystic—was passing a cremation ground. A skull lay there. It was dusk; darkness was gathering. His foot struck the skull. He stopped, bowed to it, lifted it and touched it to his head. His disciples said: have you gone mad? What are you doing? He said: fools, you do not know. This is no small people’s cremation ground. Here only great emperors, ministers, wealthy men are burned—this is the cremation ground of the great! This skull belongs to a great man! If he had been alive and my foot had struck his head, I would have been in deep trouble. It is only by chance that he is not present. But the skull belongs to a great man—so I bow, I ask forgiveness.
He is joking. He brought that skull with him. For the rest of his life the skull remained near him. When he sat, he kept it by his side; at night he placed it near his bed. People would come and ask: why keep this skull? He would say: so that I remember and do not forget that one day my skull too will lie in a cremation ground and passing people’s feet will strike it. This skull has taught me great wisdom! One day a man came in anger ready to beat me, shoe in hand. I looked at the skull and laughed. I said: brother, strike me. This beating will go on for centuries as people’s feet strike—I won’t even be able to speak, to make a sound. So you strike today also; what difference does it make? When I shall lie at people’s feet for ages, one more blow will be fine—strike.
Chuang Tzu said: this skull keeps me in remembrance.
No need for you to keep a skull—but keep the remembrance close! Keep the memory near!

Hari, O Wajid—such men have turned to dust; mercy of Ram!

But Wajid’s marvel is this: even such a crisis he calls—mercy of Ram! Ram, Your grace! You have mixed even the proud men into dust!
Why call this the Lord’s grace? Because this is His way to warn you—His device to awaken you. Yet what can one say of fools—they still do not awaken! People are so asleep that even as death dances around them, performing its tandava, they remain without awareness!
Awaken! Death is drawing near; any moment it will seize you, and men will be mixed with dust! Once you accept death as an inevitable limb of life, your life begins to change at once. For then you will rise and sit differently. If someone abuses you, you will not grow angry—what is the point? If you lose, you will not be sad. You will not be mad for victory. Whether success or failure comes, both will seem alike. You will enter into a certain equanimity. The flower of balance will begin to bloom within you. When suffering arises—suffering. When joy comes—joy. You will remain the witness, simply watching.
Where death is sure to come, what difference does it make whether for two days you wore perfumes or not? Whether you wore precious garments or not? Whether you dwelt in palaces or not? What difference? If in palaces—fine. If not—fine. Whether in a palace or a hut—no difference will be to you.
And I do not say: if you live in palaces, leave them and run away. Nor do I say: build huts and live there. I say only this: whether you live in a hut or a palace, remember: death happens in a hut and in a palace; there is no door closed to death. For death, all doors are open.
Therefore even in a palace, live as you would in a wayside inn. And in a hut as in a wayside inn. The art of living in a caravanserai is the art of living in the world.

With long hair upon their heads, they walked with the gait of elephants.

Astonishing men they were—carefree, like royal elephants.

In hands naked swords, shields slanting down.

Swords in their hands, shields upon their arms. But when death attacks, neither swords nor shields avail. And when death strikes, elephants fall like mice. What difference is there? Mice too have stiffness; a mouse has no less conceit than an elephant!
I have heard: a mouse came out of its hole. There stood an elephant. The elephant looked at the mouse and said: who are you? So small, so mean! You fit into this tiny hole! Your being is as good as non-being.
The mouse said: forgive me, the matter is not as it appears. I have been unwell for some days. I am not small at all—I am a little sick, just recovered from illness. Even mice have their conceit! Elephants may have it—but what difference? Before death, mice and elephants are the same. Before death all are equal. Death is the great socialist. Death does not discriminate.
And when death does not discriminate, you too should not discriminate. When death discriminates not, do not make distinctions in life either. From this very moment know yourself as ‘a nobody,’ and death will not be able to hurt you. Know yourself as nothing now—what can death destroy then? Destroy yourself by your own hand!
This is the art of sannyas—to efface oneself, to become a zero.

Says Wajid:
Wajid cries out: learn one thing—learn the Zero.

Learn the One Void. Die before you die. Before death, bid farewell to ego—say, I am not. Then you will be astonished—when death comes, it will find nothing in you to destroy.

With long hair upon their heads, they walked with the gait of elephants.
In hands naked swords, shields slanting down.
Where will such pride find a place to stay?

Says Wajid, so much pride—where will you halt! Where will you stop!
So much pride... It seems you will never stop—you will go on growing. You will conquer the whole world! It seems you will even outstrip death!
So much pride—where will you halt?
Such stiffness? It seems you will make death drink water!

But who has ever made death drink water? Shields, swords—remain lying useless. Death comes—all arrangements of protection lie there, of no use. Before death we are utterly unprotected, helpless, defenseless.
Only one kind of person is not helpless before it—the one who has known: I am not. Who has known the Zero. He laughs before death; he even jokes with death.

A Zen monk was dying. Such a monk can jest even with death. At the time of dying, all his disciples gathered. He opened his eyes and said: may I ask, have you ever heard of anyone who died seated in the lotus posture? One disciple said: why? He said: if none has died sitting in the lotus, then I want to die seated—one thing would remain otherwise. Another said: we have heard that some monks have died seated. He said: have you ever heard of someone dying standing? Then I will die standing.
See the humor, the irony—then we die standing; one unique thing would remain! But someone said: we have heard that once in the past a monk died standing. He said: then only one method remains—we die in a headstand.
And he stood upon his head. His disciples were flustered. Who jokes with death like this! Now is he dead or alive—they could not tell. He remained in headstand; his breath slipped away. Should they take him down from the headstand or not?
They remembered that the monk’s elder sister, a nun, lived nearby. She was also a realized woman. They ran—ask her. She came and said: listen—you have walked crookedly all your life, joking at everything. At least behave with decency and courtesy toward death! Die properly! The monk sprang up and sat. He said: fine—then we die properly. The sister left, and the monk died properly—lay down upon the bed and died as one should.
This sister must have been remarkable too: to say—die properly, is that even a thing to say! As if death were nothing at all—neither to the monk nor to his sister—death is no thing! At least observe decorum.
Even with death one can jest—but only when you have died before death. Dying before death is sannyas. To know before dying that what will die is already dead. To recognize before death that what is perishable will perish; and the immortal never dies. And within me are both. That which is mortal—that which came from earth—will return to earth. And the immortal—where does it die?
I am That—the child of the immortal—amritasya putrah! You are children of the immortal!
Such a recognition is needed. Merely memorizing the words of the Upanishads will not grant the experience. You can sit repeating—amritasya putrah, amritasya putrah! Nothing will happen; when death comes you will forget everything—even the alphabet. You will tremble, clinging to the body. Scriptural study will not do—self-realization is needed.

So much pride—where will you halt?
Hari, O Wajid, like a hawk that swoops upon a partridge—you will be snatched away.

Simple, straightforward Wajid says: so much pride—where will you halt? And do you know?
Like a hawk that suddenly swoops on a partridge,
So will death come like a hawk, and you will be as the partridge—snatched in its talons. Let go of your pride!

It is a wonder that even while death exists, man remains proud! If there were no death—who can say what would become of this world. If there were no death, what monstrous conceit would rule—hard to imagine. Even with death, there is pride, stiffness. Denying death, forgetting it, man struts about. Just look—just recognize!
Upon the ground where you sit, scientists say, at least eight corpses have become dust beneath. So many have lived upon this ground. There is no place where a cremation ground has not been. Cremation grounds become settlements, settlements become cremation grounds—this alternation keeps happening.
Harappa and Mohenjo-Daro were discovered. In the excavation of Harappa, seven layers were found—meaning the city of Harappa was built and destroyed seven times. Seven layers! Centuries must have passed—thousands of years. It takes long to build and raze a city seven times.
This earth has been settled, has been deserted. People built houses, and there graves were made. Where they stood with pride, there they fell into dust. Once you look back—how many have lived, and gone, upon this earth! How many live now and will go! How many will come and go! If you contemplate this vastness, your conceit will become very small. Man is small—very small. Seventy years of life—like a moment in the vast expanse!
The earth’s age is four billion years; so far it has lived four billion. The sun is thousands of times older than the earth, and our sun itself is very young; there are older suns. Our earth is very new—like a new bride; hence so green. Many worlds exist in the universe that have become desolate—where only ashes remain; no trees grow, no clouds gather, no cuckoos sing, no peacocks dance.
There are infinite earths, scientists say, that have dried up. Once there was life there. This earth too will one day dry up. Everything is born, grows old, dies. This sun too will be spent; each day it is wasting away, its energy diminishing. Rays go out each day and are exhausted. Scientists say that after some tens of thousands of years this sun will grow cold. As it cools, the earth will also cool; for its light, breath, warmth, energy come from it. Heated by it, life moves, flowers bloom, trees are green, we walk, stand, sit.
Our life is seventy years; the earth’s, say, seventy billion. The sun’s, say, seven hundred billion. There are great suns older still. What is the measure of man? And yet in seventy years how stiff we become!
So much pride—where will you halt?
We quarrel, we fight, we abuse, we make friends and enemies, erect the big hassles of me-and-you. Lawsuits in courts, heads broken.
If we recognize death rightly, the very cause of enmity on this earth will vanish. From where we must depart, why create enmity? From where we must go, let us share two moments of love. From where we must say farewell, why not sing a song, why hurl abuse? Those from whom we must part forever—why generate ill-will between us? Why sow thorns? Let us grow some flowers, celebrate a little festival, light a few lamps! This is what I call religion.
In whose life comes the remembrance that death will snatch all—this life of two moments, why not transform it into celebration! Why not make these two moments into prayer and worship! Why not bow—in gratitude, in thankfulness, in appreciation! Why not dance—arm in arm with each other! Dust will return to dust. This brief moment given to us—why not make it fragrant! Why not make it holy like the smoke of incense, so that it rises to the sky—becomes the echo of the Lord!
So much pride—where will you halt?
Hari, O Wajid—like a hawk that swoops upon a partridge, it will snatch you away.

The hawk will certainly come—any time it will swoop. Before the hawk swoops, awaken yourself!

The Maker—what a craftsman, what skill beyond measure!

He placed ten doors and created a city.

This body of yours—He placed ten doors in it and a whole city within. A township lives within you! Scientists say, within each person there are at least seven hundred million living organisms—seven crores! Bombay is a small town then; Calcutta is smaller—Calcutta has ten million people; your body has seven hundred million living cells—so much life! In one sense you are tiny; in another, vast.

The Maker—what a craftsman, what skill beyond measure!
Ten doors He kept and raised this city.

Ten doors of the senses—five organs of action, five of knowledge. Through these doors you relate to life, and through these doors one day death will arrive. Through these same doors you go out—through these eyes you go out, with these hands you touch, with these ears you hear—through these very senses death will enter within.
You will be surprised to know: each person dies through a different sense. If a man dies through the eyes, the eyes remain open—the swan flew out through the eyes. If through the ears—the ears. If through the mouth—the mouth remains open. Most people die through the genitals, for most people have hovered around that sense in their life and have not gone beyond it. From whichever sense you mostly lived, from that sense death will happen. Formally, when we take someone to the cremation ground, we perform the skull-ritual—breaking the head. It is only symbolic. The death of one established in Samadhi happens that way—through the sahasrar.
The genital organ is the lowest door—like going out through the house’s drain. Sahasrar, the crown within your head, is the highest door. The genitals connect to earth; sahasrar to sky. The genitals connect to body; sahasrar to Atman. Those who have become established in Samadhi, who have known meditation, who have attained Buddhahood—their death happens through the sahasrar.
In that symbol we still perform the skull-ritual. When the father dies, the son breaks his skull with a stick. Breaking the skull of a dead man! The life-breath is already gone—why open the door now? There is no one to go out. But symbolically the son hopes the father may pass through sahasrar; yet the father is already dead. This door cannot be opened after death; it must be opened in life. All the yogas and the sciences of Tantra were born seeking this very door. Yoga and Tantra have devised keys to open it. He who has opened this door dies knowing Paramatma—his death becomes Samadhi. Therefore we call an ordinary person’s burial a grave, but that of a fakir a samadhi—the one who died in samadhi.
Each person dies through the sense where he lived. Those mad for form die through the eyes; painters and sculptors die thus—their eyes remain open. All their life they sought themselves in forms and colors. Musicians die through the ears—their life hovered around hearing; their sensitivity gathered there. By seeing death you can say how the person lived. If you know how to read death, it gives the news of the whole life, for death indicates, the essence distilled—where the man lived.

Hari, O Wajid—like a hawk that swoops upon a partridge, it will snatch you away.

Soon the hawk will come; prepare yourself before that. If you reach the sahasrar, the hawk of death cannot snatch you. Then Paramatma comes seeking you. If you die through any other door, you must return to the body; for all other doors belong to the body. Sahasrar is not the body’s door, it is the door of the soul. Sahasrar is the eleventh door; the other ten are of the body. Seek the eleventh door—it is within you, closed.
Even scientists now accept that half the brain lies utterly inactive. They are amazed—why should half the brain be idle, of no use? Nature creates nothing useless; if created, some purpose must be there. Half the brain functions, half lies shut. That half becomes active at the moment of sahasrar. From that half, prayer is born; from that half, meditation arises. That half becomes active only when one attains Buddhahood; until then it remains inactive. Consider it like a door in your house that is closed. You often wonder where this door opens, while you have seen all the other doors—where does this one lead? To what treasure? To what cave? He who searches a little within will soon feel an inquiry at the door of sahasrar.
Science now reaches the conclusion that half the brain is inactive; Yoga has been saying for five thousand years that half the brain is inactive. To activate it, yoga has devised many methods. Many postures have been found to activate that half. The headstand is used to direct the flow of blood to that half and stimulate it. Breathing processes have been developed, for the brain’s food is oxygen—the brain lives on oxygen. The more prana you take, the more active the brain becomes.
Therefore if you do pranayama for fifteen minutes before sleeping, you will not be able to sleep all night—the brain will be activated. Hence never do pranayama at night, nor methods like Vipassana; otherwise sleep will be disturbed. They are morning methods—do them with the rising sun.
As much as you breathe, the brain becomes active. The moment oxygen decreases, the brain begins to die first. Therefore when there is any danger of lack of oxygen, doctors immediately give oxygen; because once the brain is damaged, it cannot be repaired. In six seconds it begins to be destroyed; deprived of oxygen, brain cells begin dying within six seconds—very delicate, subtle fibers.
What is pranayama? It means simply this: ordinarily we take in a certain amount of prana—of breath; in pranayama we take more—filling the lungs completely. There are six thousand pores in the lungs; ordinarily our breath enters only two thousand pores. When we run or swim, three to four thousand pores. Breath reaches all six thousand only in pranayama. When breath reaches all six thousand, your whole brain begins to receive prana. That inactive half too receives the flow and becomes active.
There blooms the lotus of life. Once that door opens—once that lotus opens—then there is no more death; there is nectar. Only then will you know that you are children of the immortal.

The Maker—what a craftsman, what skill beyond measure!
Ten doors He kept and raised this city.
From nail to crest He fashioned a palace and joined a lamp within.

From dust He formed the body from toe to crown, a beautiful statue—and within He joined a lamp, a flame—the jivatma. The Bible says: God made man from dust and then breathed into him. These are symbols. Man is dust; and through breath something moves in him which is not dust. When breath stops, man is gone.

From nail to crest He fashioned a palace and joined a lamp within.
Hari, inside He filled rubbish—over which He painted color.

In this body there is only rubbish within, and over it a lovely paint has been spread—you too are a master craftsman! The body is straw and dust inside, but above it He put a beautiful skin, gave toe-to-crown beauty.
And man gets lost in this beauty. He stands before the mirror, enamored of his own form. And within is only junk, refuse—deception. All beauty is not deeper than skin. Go once and watch a surgery in a hospital. Watch a postmortem. Then you will know what is inside your body. Junk! Wajid is right: useless trash within—but the craftsman is so skilled that plastering the junk he has made it so beautiful that man is deceived—standing before the mirror he thinks: this is me. This is not you. What appears in the mirror is junk. The one who sees is you; what is seen is not you. The seen is not you—the seer is you, the witness is you. Catch hold of that thread of witnessing. Holding that thread you will reach the sahasrar!

Time roams, asking after you, day and night.

People, beware!
Time roams, asking after you, day and night.
Death is circling day and night—seeking you. Run where you want—you will not escape.
I have heard: an emperor dreamt at night that someone placed a hand on his shoulder. Turning, he saw a black, fearsome, terrifying shadow. He asked: who are you? The shadow said: I am Death, and I have come to inform you. Tomorrow at sunset, be ready—I shall come to take you.
He awoke at midnight—who would not? Perhaps it is only a dream; but who knows—sometimes dreams come true. In this world, it is a great mystery. That which appears true often proves a dream; and that which seems dream-like sometimes proves true. There is not much difference between dream and truth here—perhaps two sides of the same coin.
The emperor trembled. In the middle of the night he summoned astrologers—interpreters of dreams. He called the Freud of the time, Jung, Adler—psychologists. Great astrologers and thinkers came with their scriptures; and a great dispute arose—what does it mean? Each had his own meaning; each his own interpretation.
The emperor grew more and more agitated. Already troubled, hearing their meanings and disputes he became more entangled. Scriptures rarely resolve—they entangle. Listening to pundits, people are not relieved; even the relief they had evaporates. In the net of argument there can be no solution.
Great was their dispute; great the pride at play. They had no concern for the emperor. He said again and again: give me some conclusion—the sun is rising. If the sun is rising, how long before it sets? Tell me what I should do. But they were absorbed in debate, giving quotations from their books, proving their points.
At last the emperor’s old servant came and said: this dispute will never end, and evening will soon fall. I know: pundits’ arguments never reach a conclusion. Centuries pass—no conclusion! Jains and Buddhists still argue; Hindus and Jains still argue; Christians and Hindus still argue—arguments go on. The believers and the atheists—arguing. Thousands of years—without one result. Do you think by evening they will conclude? Let them argue. Listen to me—this palace, not even for a moment should you remain here now; flee. Go. You have a swift horse—take it, and go as far from this palace as possible. If Death has given the message in this palace, it is not right to remain here. Let them argue—if you survive, learn their conclusion later.
The emperor too understood—something must be done. What can be done? He took his swift horse and fled. The pundits continued arguing; the emperor fled. By evening he had gone far, hundreds of miles, for his horse was fast. He was happy. In a mango grove, at dusk, he stopped. Tied the horse. Not only had he left the palace—he had left his empire behind. He had entered another kingdom. He tied the horse, patted it, thanked it: you brought me so far! You did not pause even once for breath. I am grateful.
As he said this, and the sun was setting, suddenly he felt a hand on his shoulder—the same hand he had seen in the dream. He turned—Death stood there, laughing. The emperor asked: what is this? Death said: let me thank your horse, if you will not. I was anxious—that is why I came in the dream last night. You were to die in this mango grove, and there were only twenty-four hours and such a distance—would you be able to reach? That worried me. Your death had to happen here. The horse brought you—right on time. What a wondrous horse!
Where will you run? Who knows, where you are running to is the very place where death must happen—in that mango grove. Death must happen. There is no running away. Death searches for you in all four quarters, in all dimensions—day and night.

Time roams, asking after you, day and night.
Now it counts neither lord nor beggar.

Death cares not whether you are rich or poor, titled or untitled, king or pauper—it counts none.

This world, Wajid, is like grass by the roadside in a bazaar.

Hari—if only the tent be pitched before the rains—how good it is!

Think of it this way: the world is like a crowded marketplace; clouds gather in the sky, and you are setting up your stall. If the canopy is raised before the rain comes—it is well.
Hari—if only the tent be pitched before the rains—how good it is!

Keep in mind: those clouds of death are thickening in the sky; before they burst, pitch your tent—before they pour down! Before death seizes you, taste a little nectar; then your tent is up. Before death comes, know a little of the Divine—then the situation is saved, the broken is mended.
Hari—if only the tent be pitched before the rains—how good it is!

The rains will fall, the clouds are massing, lightning flashes. Hurry—erect your tent; make some preparation. What is here will remain here—no security can be from this; take some thought for the beyond.

Carry the palanquin swiftly, leave your awkward gait behind
Take me to the Beloved’s house, my heart is in turmoil
In the rainy season all my friends returned to their mother’s homes—
Today I leave my father’s house, to my Beloved’s home, abandoning shame
Without His arm about my neck how will these rainy nights be spent?
The ache in the heart won’t ease without the Beloved’s embrace
Bearers of the palanquin, hurry—twilight has come
The afternoon has declined, the rays slant—evening draws near
Still far the long streak of the road can be seen
Before the evening falls today—deliver me to the Beloved’s home
I have told Indra—tonight it will rain
Clouds will thunder, nectar will pour, creation will be blessed
Carry the palanquin quickly—leave your awkward gait
My father’s house is full of love—but holds the thought of duality
In the fresh water of the Beloved’s love is the play of non-duality
Let heart and heart, life and life at last unite overflowing
When beloved and lover are filled with each other—the confusion is dispelled
Remove the awkward tangles of distance on the road
Bearers of the palanquin, hurry—twilight has come

Hurry! Evening has begun to gather!

Carry the palanquin swiftly—leave your awkward gait behind
Take me to the Beloved’s house, my heart is in turmoil

Let there be a little experience of the Lord!

The afternoon has declined, the rays slant—twilight draws near
Still far the long streak of the road can be seen
Before the evening falls today—deliver me to the Beloved’s home

In so many, many births you have traveled, and still you did not reach the Beloved’s home. Evening has fallen many times—and you remained far from the Beloved’s door. In countless bazaars your stall has been looted!

The monsoon came, the clouds poured—and you could not raise your tent. This time do not miss. You have missed again and again—do not miss now. Do something now!

Wajid speaks truly—
This world, Wajid, is like grass by the roadside in a bazaar.
Hari—if only the tent be pitched before the rains—how good it is!

Then life becomes a feast—if the tent is raised before the rain; if the taste of amrita comes before death. When the taste of nectar comes, life becomes something else. Not only life becomes something else—death too becomes something else; the whole flavor changes. When the vision changes, the whole creation changes.

Why did you play the flute? Beloved, I was already coming;
With the thirst of ten thousand births brimming in my eyes, I was already coming.
How to tell when I had heard your call of love?
Ages have passed since I heard that invitation!
Yet my body, mind, and breath still vibrate with those notes;
Why pierce me with new arrows of song when the old ache never stilled?
Beloved, I was already coming.
What can I say of the path, what the state of my feet?
What tale shall I tell of this helpless vessel that is me?
Sweat gleamed upon my brow, under my feet a stream of blood,
Yet at your cruelty I kept smiling,
Beloved, I was already coming.
What to say—when will you gather as dark clouds in my mind’s sky?
When will you as sweet breeze touch my burning body?
Tell me—when as autumn moon will you bloom in my empty mind?
Why did you play the flute? I was about to resolve these questions;
Beloved, I was already coming.
Do you remember: once I kissed your lotus-feet;
My intoxicated bee-eyes once hovered about your lotus-face;
In total acceptance the duality of you-and-I had dissolved.
Separated, still I kept singing the songs of union;
Beloved, I was already coming.
Why did you play the flute? Beloved, I was already coming;
With the thirst of ten thousand births brimming in my eyes, I was already coming.

Then death appears as the call of that Beloved—His flute! As if Krishna has played the flute by the Banyan on the bank of Yamuna, and Radha has begun to run, saying: why did you play the flute? I was already coming. Such does death appear to the one who pitches his tent before the rain.

The Beloved is not far; because of identification with the body, He seems far. Let the identification with body fall, and He is near. The Beloved is not far; it is the wall of the body—thus He is not seen. Rise a little above the body—and there is vision, darshan, touch.

Wander upon the Beloved’s path, dwell in the Beloved’s village;
Sit upon the Beloved’s threshold, chant only the Beloved’s name.
Night is the dark fortnight, the hut is without a lamp;
Come, gather a little lamp, the heart has grown anxious.
Swing laughing upon the branch of my mango of delight,
Coo a little like the cuckoo—let the quarters resound.
We flew in the sky of dispassion for days and nights,
But the mind remained restless, clinging to the color of the Beloved’s feet.
All was futile, all effort of yoga, of discipline—wasted;
Who will gather dust when in the heart rests the jewel of the Beloved?
Is this the ash of the sacred fire, or dust of the Beloved’s feet?
Where is this poor renunciation, where is the melody of love?
Dawn has reddened the night, searching the Beloved’s village;
Where is the Beloved’s path? Where is the Beloved’s abode?

Ask, seek—
Dawn has reddened the night, searching the Beloved’s village;
Where is the Beloved’s path? Where is the Beloved’s abode?

Ask, search; the abode is not far, nor the village. If the feet pause, the village arrives. If the feet stop, the village is here. If the mind ceases to run, ceases to rush—becomes still; the village is here. And if even a little glimpse of the Beloved is obtained, if one lightning flashes—enough. Then the understanding comes that no death has ever been, nor can be.

The merit alone goes with you—what you acquired remains behind.

Your wealth will all lie here; what little good you have done—only that goes with you.
The merit alone goes with you—what you acquired remains behind.

All else will remain—what good you have done, what service, what you have shared in the spirit of joy, what you have given... What you snatched and grabbed—all that will remain behind. What you gave—only that goes with you.
This is a strange, unworldly arithmetic. Jesus says: what you have seized and grabbed will be seized and grabbed from you; what you have given, what you have shared—at the end that alone will be given to you. Share!

The merit alone goes with you—what you acquired remains behind.
Stretching the legs wide, he lay upon the bier.

Now he has gone, lies upon the bier—his legs stretched out. All lies behind—what he had grabbed. Others had grabbed—theirs lay behind. Now you grabbed—yours will lie behind. This land will remain, this wealth will remain—all remains here.
What will you take along? Good feeling, the states of joy in meditation; the love that flowed from you in the ecstasy of meditation. That life-energy which you have shared—that alone you will carry.
This is the reverse law—what you accumulate will be left; what you share will accompany you.

They carry him—set fire, the exile has begun.

Now they have set the bier—soon they will set it aflame. You will lie in the forest of ashes.

Hari, O Wajid, the whole family watches, but one goes alone.

He goes alone—no companion, no friend. The entire family stands watching. Those whom you called your own, whom you thought would accompany you—they are only companions in life; in death, you are alone. In death, none but Paramatma can be with you. So build some connection with Him! Draw some juice from Him! Seek the Beloved’s village, the Beloved’s path!

Seeing the hungry, the weak—do not turn your face away.
If the Lord has given you a whole loaf, at least break half and share.

If the Lord gives the whole, give half.
Give the half of the half...

If you cannot give half, then at least the half of that half. If not even that—at least a mouthful! Share something!
Give the half of the half, a morsel of the half;
Hari, no merit equals food shared with the hungry.

Around you, people are there with many kinds of suffering—bodily, mental, spiritual. Share anything—any suffering you can lighten. If you can lessen someone’s sorrow—do it.
But we do the opposite—we increase the suffering of others, let alone decrease it. In the race of ambition, people’s suffering increases, not decreases.
Share a little of sorrow!
But who can share sorrow? Only one who has the arising of joy within. When you are yourself sorrowful, what will you share?
So I do not tell you: go and engage in serving the people. First I say: awaken yourself. First, that loaf of which Wajid speaks—let it come to your hand within; then share—share half, share whole!
And I tell you—when that bread comes to your hand, who thinks of sharing only half? You share it all! For in sharing, it grows. The more you share, the more the inner wealth increases. The more you pour out, the more streams flow from new springs within.
What diminishes by sharing is not love; what diminishes by sharing is not wealth. But first be. It can be—because what we seek is not outside us.
All was futile—effort of yoga, of discipline—wasted.
Who will gather dust when in the heart rests the jewel of the Beloved?

Within you is the Beloved—the jewel of jewels, the wealth of all wealth. Jesus said: the Kingdom of God is within you. But you stand as beggars, gathering dust; you ask for rubbish, stand with hands outstretched before others. Search within a little.
And once one has looked within, he knows: I am the emperor of emperors. Godliness is my nature. God resides within me. Then the journey of sharing begins; then the joy of giving begins.

Let not the golden wheel of faith in the mind ever stop
May the saffron of life never be exhausted
Let age shimmer
Like the sun’s platter
Upon the stalk of the past
Let the sandalwood future sprout
Red sunlight in the eyes
The imprint of those lips
In whose body hairs
Buds of moonlight are set
May the moons beneath eyelash-shade never tire
May the saffron of life never be exhausted

Faith in the mind
Like fire in the earth
Love hidden
Like perfume in the gaze
Fragrance in water
Wind in the face
Let this seed of thought
Bear harvest again and again
Let the thorn of struggle ache in the mind yet not make it flinch
May the saffron of life never be exhausted

Let the path of the scriptures appear
Rangoli fill with color
Upon saintly destinations
Let lamps of people’s future be set
Upon the jasmine of faith
Let no dust of dusk fall
Let age become a great song
Echoing across centuries
Let man never bow to sin and injustice
May the saffron of life never be exhausted

Share—and you will be amazed.
May the saffron of life never be exhausted
He who shares the saffron of life, finds it grows more and more. Let this small seed fall into your heart—that to share is to receive, to clutch is to lose—and the arithmetic of spirituality is understood.

In economics the arithmetic is one—clutching saves, releasing loses. In spirituality it is the reverse—clutching loses, releasing receives. The Upanishad says: tena tyaktena bhunjithah—through renunciation, enjoy. Those who let go, they receive. Tena tyaktena bhunjithah. The whole mathematics of the spirit is contained in this small sutra.

But before giving, you must have. What will you share otherwise? When your eyes are filled with darkness—when your heart has no sense of inner wealth, no taste of nectar—what will you share! When the taste of nectar comes, sharing begins.

May the saffron of life never be exhausted

Then life is sheer ecstasy. The delight of sharing arrives. Streams of rasa flow.

The mind becomes carefree and sways, birds chirp on every branch
A tender bud is plucked and the garland softly gathered
Whose image shall I place in my heart and perform a new arati trembling?
Upon whose neck shall I place this garland, O friend, tears flowing in streams?
O delicate One, come, bloom a little in the courtyard of this poor woman
Smile, tie the rope of rasa, jingle your bracelets playfully
You forgot to dip yesterday’s pale scarf into the deep dye
Place your hand in mine, walk on, dyed in your own color
Place a garland upon your own neck and bless me, loosen these tired arms
Let your tender eyes shine in my heart, let the arms of sorrow fall away
Remove the noose of breath, friend, let the monsoon of sweetness rain
Let the heart blossom, let the soul be drenched, let the shoots of longing bloom
The mind becomes carefree and sways, birds chirp on every branch
A tender bud is plucked and the garland softly gathered
Whose image shall I place in my heart and perform a new arati trembling?
Upon whose neck shall I place this garland, O friend, tears flowing in streams?

A joy, a blessedness, a good morning descends. The sun rises. The arati begins!
But as long as you gather trash, you will keep crying! You will not be able to throw your arms around the Beloved’s neck. The way to embrace the Beloved too is within you—the path is within.
Life can be a dance, life can be a celebration. It should be! If it cannot be, then you have deceived yourself. It should be! As every seed should become a tree and blossom, so every human should bloom—become God-filled; and until the devotee becomes God, he should not stop—he should keep moving. Until then remember: something is incomplete, something not yet filled, something empty. Until then there is dissatisfaction in life.
The rain of contentment descends as soon as the sky of immortality appears beyond death. That sky is not far. And the door that leads to that sky is within you. That door Wajid calls—shunya. Be free of thought—be thoughtless.

Says Wajid, crying out: learn the One Void.

Enough for today.