Kahe Vajid Pukar #8

Meera! What I am saying is utterly simple, direct. What I am saying is easy, natural. I am not talking about lofty peaks. Even the language of peaks is the language of the ego.

Understand this. The ego always wants to attain height. The ego is ambitious—wants height in the world, height in God as well. The notion of height is the extension of ego. And the ego is deeply attracted to height; otherwise why would people climb Mount Everest? There is nothing of essence in climbing Everest—nothing to gain there. But the very height is enough; it challenges people, arouses the lure to climb.

The harder the task, the more eager the ego becomes. The ego has no interest in the simple. The simple does not appeal to the ego. Hence the ego thinks and schemes in the language of heights. Naturally, when you start thinking in the language of heights, your own smallness will appear. You are not a dwarf—no one is; the ego makes you dwarfed. First the ego erects a peak before you—a great ambition to attain immense height. Then, turning back to yourself, you find: I am so small, my hands so short—how will I grasp this vast sky? Then the torment begins. This is the disease of the ego.

There is no height to be attained at all; God is not high—God is your very intimacy. God is present within you. Drop the language of attaining; it is already attained. This is my proclamation. Even if you want to drop God, you cannot—there is no way to drop him; without him how will you live?

So far you have been told, “Attain God.” I tell you: only remember—don’t talk of attaining. There is nothing to attain; it is already attained. “God” is the very name of our innermost nature. God is included within you; you are included within him. As the ocean is in a drop; understand the mystery of one drop and the mystery of all oceans is understood. As the sun is in every single ray; recognize one ray and all the secrets of light are revealed. Lift the veil from one ray and the veil from the whole sun is lifted. Just so, you are a ray of that sun. You are a drop of that ocean. Everything is hidden in you—utterly, wholly contained!

I am not saying God is far, on some great height, to be found by scaling mountains. I am saying: just close your eyes a little; just stop going, stop running. Sit still—and you meet. Be silent—and you meet. I am not speaking of anything difficult.

But this is the net of ego: it is excited by difficulty, for only in the face of the difficult is there the fun of proving oneself. The greater the difficulty you can overcome, the more the ego is gratified. That is why people are eager to become prime ministers, presidents. It is difficult—a country of six hundred million, and only one can be president. A great difficulty: six hundred million want to be, and only one can. Beyond that, what value does the office have?

And just as Hillary stood like a fool on Everest after reaching the top, so your presidents stand like fools upon the seat—then they don’t know what to do. Only one thing occurs: somehow to remain seated, to cling to the post. Otherwise, there is nothing. If there were no rivals left to struggle, your presidents and prime ministers would look like the most foolish beings on earth. But people remain eager; everyone is involved in the race of ego.

We feed every child, from birth, the poison of ego along with the mother’s milk. The ego says: do what is difficult, do what is most difficult—so that your name remains, so that you can sign your autograph upon the world, so that your marks remain cut in stone, so that you make history. Make history!

The same ego, when bored with the world and interested in God, continues in its old language. It keeps God very far. But God is nearer than the nearest. To call God “near” is not right either, for “near” still implies distance. Even one who sits pressed against you is at a little distance; nearness is also a measure of distance. No, it is not right to say “nearer than near.” You are God. Tat tvam asi—you are that. You are not different even by a grain. This is the Buddha’s teaching. You are to be reminded. You do not have to go to attain God.

I am not speaking of lofty peaks; I am saying that if you drop talking of lofty peaks and enter within yourself, there is the meeting with God. Drop ambition and you meet God. Ambition is the distraction. Fevered ambition drives you farther and farther, never lets you come home, never lets you return to yourself—sometimes into wealth, sometimes status, sometimes fame, sometimes heaven, sometimes even “God” and “liberation”—but always farther away.

When will you return to yourself? For even a single moment, be simply yourself, utterly alone—only you and nothing else. No thought in the mind, no desire, no craving to go anywhere. In this still moment, when time stops and the flow of time halts, there is experience.

I am speaking of that experience which, if you wish, can happen right now. There is not the slightest obstacle—in this very instant. There is no reason to wait even a moment.

The ego first makes things distant; then, looking at its own capacity, panic begins. This is the inner contradiction of ego. It lusts after the difficult; and if something is not difficult, it makes it difficult. The ego does not like catching the ear directly. It prefers to go roundabout to catch it from behind. So first create distance, make God difficult—the peak of Everest! Then, looking at yourself, you find yourself dwarfed. Therefore the ego suffers: in the face of every peak you erect, you become small, poor, crippled.

Meera, you are right: if you see unimaginable peaks, your dwarfish and limping capacity will appear. But I am not talking of any unimaginable peaks. Therefore, those who come to me should not speak of smallness. You and small—impossible! You and tiny, mean, lame, blind—impossible! For if you are blind and lame and dwarfed, then God becomes blind, lame, and dwarfed too. That would be an insult to God.

Understand me carefully! When I say you are not dwarfed, not lame, not mean, do not at once set out on another journey—“I am great, I am vast, look, I sit on Everest!” I am not saying you are great, big, superior.

I am simply saying: the very language of comparison is wrong. Neither are you small nor great; you are just what you are. And that is God—what is. “God” is the name of what is. Ego always creates duality; where there is utter non-duality, it creates a conflict.

Beloved, how vast this space,
how slack my songs!
Beloved, how vast this space...

First the sky is so enormous; then my songs so small; then my wings so small; then my throat so small.

Beloved, how vast this space,
how slack my songs!
In the countless gusts of ages,
what measure are these two breaths?

Yesterday, into these two eyes of mine
I filled dreams of infinity,
and with a heavy gaze
I looked upon the world.
Then, raising my head high,
filled with my arrogant pride,
I cried exultantly,
“I am capable, I am great!”

But today, weary, defeated,
I wander, driven and spent.
Sitting in a small room—
even that refuses to be mine—
its every corner seems to say:
“Many have come and gone,
many more will pass through.”

With lines of sorrow upon my lips,
surrounded by the shadows of the past,
I sit and think:
how low my head,
how high the sky!

Hearing or reading this poem, you will feel—the first statement was wrong, the second true. You will think, when the poet says:

Then, raising my head high,
filled with my arrogant pride,
I cried exultantly,
“I am capable, I am great!”

—you’ll say, “That is ego.” And the second, in old age, worn, when death approaches, the leaf of life yellows, hands tremble, feet falter, the strength to stand is lost; in this despair the poet says:

With lines of sorrow upon my lips,
surrounded by the shadows of the past,
I sit and think:
how low my head,
how high the sky!

You will think the second is true. I say: both are wrong. They are two sides of the same coin. If first you think yourself great, one day you will discover your inferiority. I say: neither great nor inferior—just what is, as it is. Here there are not two; with what will you compare? Whom call big, whom small? If there were two, weighing were possible; a balance could be used. Here only the One dwells. The same within and without; the same in me, in you; the same in the trees, in the moon and stars, in the mountains, in the tiniest particle and in the vastest sky—only One is. How will you weigh? With whom will you compare?

But our language is riddled with comparison. A friend told me just yesterday, “I am very dependent; I want to be independent.” Everyone feels bondage; hence the notion of freedom arises. I tell you: bondage is bondage, and freedom is also bondage—because in both you have already assumed the “other.” Bondage means: the other exists. Now you are tied to it and wish to be free. But underneath both notions lies the same error: that there is an other.

Here, there is no other. So I say: neither anyone is dependent nor independent. Bondage and freedom are two sides of the same coin. One man is attached and another says, “I am detached”—two sides of the same coin. What attachment, what detachment? One says, “I am a man of pleasure,” another says, “I am a yogi.” What pleasure, what yoga? Between the hedonist and the yogi there is not a hair’s difference.

Although dictionaries write a difference—and your mind too has it written—centuries of conditioning. You have been told that the hedonist and the yogi are opposites, as hot and cold. But what difference is there between heat and cold? Cold is just one measure of heat, heat another measure of cold.

Do a small experiment: keep a bucket of water. Warm one hand on the fire and cool the other on ice. Make one very cold, the other very hot. Then put both into the same bucket. If I ask: Is the bucket’s water hot or cold? You will be in difficulty—one hand says hot, the other cold. The water is one and the same, one temperature. But the hand that was cold says, “Hot,” the hand that was hot says, “Cold.”

Just as heat and cold are read on the same thermometer, so are your pleasure and yoga, your detachment and attachment, your bondage and freedom, your ego and humility—no difference at all. It is one continuum of duality. But for centuries you have been taught, so conditioning is deep. You say, “Look, how humble that man is, how humble!” But peek within the humble and you will find: the same ego is doing a headstand. The posture makes no difference. First the stiffness was, “I am much, I am all”; now the stiffness is, “I am nothing.” The stiffness remains unchanged. First he drooled over money; now he is so frightened that if money is around, he begins to tremble.

There is a famous Chinese story. A fakir became renowned for fearlessness—the final sign. Another fakir came to see him. The fearless one sat on a rock at dusk; nearby lions were roaring. He sat quiet as if nothing was happening. The visiting fakir, hearing the roars, began to tremble. The fearless one said, “Oh, so you still fear! Then what meditation, what samadhi? If you tremble at the lion’s voice, you have not seen immortality; death still grasps you!” The trembling fakir said, “I’m very thirsty—first water, then talk. My throat is dry.” The fearless one went into his cave to fetch water. Meanwhile the visitor wrote in big letters on the rock: Namo Buddhaya—Homage to the Buddha. The host returned with water; as he set his foot on the rock, he saw his foot fall upon the sacred words—he hesitated a moment. The visitor laughed, “Fear is still in you too. You do not fear the lion, but I wrote one word on a stone—Namo Buddhaya—and your foot trembled to step on it! Fear is there; it has only changed form, gone from the conscious to the unconscious. It has not gone.”

In a “fearless” person, fear does not go; it only takes on a new guise, the robe of fearlessness. One who is truly absorbed knows neither fear nor fearlessness. To be fearless requires fear; otherwise, how would you be fearless? To be detached requires attachment; otherwise, how would you be detached?

Take Vinoba Bhave: bring money before him and he closes his eyes. Why close the eyes? Why turn the face? What is so fearsome in money? You also know people who, seeing money, begin to drool. What difference is there between one who drools at money and one who closes his eyes at the sight of it? Both are under money’s sway; money influences both, makes both do something—one with his tongue, one with his eyes—what difference does it make? Why close the eyes then? Perhaps the fear is: if I look too long, I might begin to drool!

A beautiful woman passes by and you suddenly bow your head. Do you think this is celibacy? If it is, why does the head drop? You don’t bow seeing a rock or a tree; only before a beautiful woman why lower the eyes?

When Gandhi was alive, Vinoba used to read the Ramayana to him. The story says: when Ravana abducted Sita, she dropped her ornaments along the way so that Rama might discover the path. When Rama found the ornaments, he asked Lakshmana, “Can you recognize whether these are Sita’s? I was so in love with her that I never paid attention to her ornaments; my eyes are full of tears, I cannot tell.” Lakshmana replied, “I can recognize only the ornaments of her feet.”

Gandhi asked Vinoba, “Why only those?” In the ashram they debated. Finally Vinoba said, “Because Lakshmana honored Sita like a mother; he never raised his eyes above her feet. He is virtuous; there was no desire in him. Therefore only the ornaments of the feet he could recognize.” Gandhi was very satisfied.

I am astonished—at Gandhi and at Vinoba. If Lakshmana regarded Sita as mother, why fear to look at her face? Who fears to look at a mother’s face? No, a desire must be repressed there. Turn back the pages: when Rama and Lakshmana first saw Sita in the garden before marriage, Lakshmana too was charmed. Later, at the swayamvara, Rama sat in patience, but Lakshmana would jump up again and again, “I’ll break the bow!” He had to be restrained: “Wait; how can you, with your elder brother present?” He sees only Sita’s feet? There must be fear and desire. If Vinoba’s interpretation is right, it is an insult to Lakshmana. He intended to reveal Lakshmana’s celibacy, but one’s interpretation shows one’s own mind. Gandhi accepted it; that shows Gandhi’s mind. I do not accept that Lakshmana feared Sita’s face. He was not that weak. That weakness belongs to Vinoba and Gandhi; it is their interpretation.

When you lower your head before a beautiful woman or look away, it only tells one story: your desire burns bright. The man who runs away from the world only tells that he is deeply attached to it; we call him “detached.” One who abandons wife and children we call “celibate.” Why the need to abandon? To leave is to fear.

I remind you: freedom and bondage are two sides of one coin; detachment and attachment, pleasure and yoga, two sides of one coin. When awakening happens, the whole coin drops. You cannot drop just one side—do you think you can? Either keep the entire coin in hand or drop it entirely; you cannot save half. If you save one side, the other is saved with it. Yes, it may happen that one side remains on top and the other is hidden beneath.

In the renunciate, indulgence hides; in the indulger, renunciation hides. I give you a revolutionary vision: the whole coin is useless. God is not high, and you are not low. Talk of high and low is futile. I am not showing you any Everest.

And the mind is cunning, Meera. By declaring, “These heights are too great, how can I reach them?” you also protect yourself. It becomes an excuse. “How can such heights be perfectly reached? How can such a long journey be managed?” Then, when it does not happen, you feel no guilt—“the task is difficult; where the great ones drown, what of me, a straw?” And then, naturally, your own dwarfness stings—both games you created yourself. First you raised the peaks; then, in proportion, you raised your smallness.

Neither the peaks are true nor your dwarfness. Let the whole coin go. God is not big, you are not small, for God and you are one. Duality is ignorance; non-duality is knowing. Nothing to leave, nothing to renounce, nothing to grasp, none to flee—just awaken. Don’t run—awaken!

Meera asked: You have shown such lofty, unimaginable peaks that my dwarfish and limping capacity has been revealed.

This is upside down, Meera. I wanted your true form to be revealed. I did not want your dwarfishness to be revealed. That is what the pundits and priests have done for centuries: make God very great and make you very small. The greater God becomes, the smaller you appear in proportion.

You know Akbar’s story: he drew a line in court and said, “Make it shorter without touching it.” No one could. How to shorten it without touching? Birbal stood and drew a longer line below it. He did not touch the first line; it became short.

Think: the line remained exactly as it was; neither bigger nor smaller. But below it, another line was drawn, and the first became small.

Pundits and priests have sung God’s glories, praising him high and higher. Naturally, in proportion, you have sunk lower. As God flew into the skies, you burrowed into the earth. As he rose, you crawled. You became worms! And your becoming worms gave the priest a chance to exploit. “You are worms; what can you do? I will mediate. You cannot reach the peak, but I will carry you on my shoulders, fly you on my wings—I will be your vehicle, your instrument.”

And you had become so small that any support would do. You lost your own dignity, your own inner majesty. You became so poor, so self-condemned, so sinful in your own eyes, that you wanted a broker in between. Priests exploited you thus—brokers between you and God. All your organized religions are brokered religions.

I want you to bid the brokers goodbye. You are not small. God is not far. God is your very bones and blood and marrow.

This trick has been used in many ways. That’s why, when a true master is alive, you cannot accept him as a master. Why? Because a living person is as a person must be: he gets hungry, thirsty, grows old, sometimes falls ill, needs medicine. A living master will be just like you. And you, being so self-condemned, cannot accept someone like you as a master. So after he dies, priests paint him in new colors, decorate him with fictions—you accept him then.

When Mahavira is alive, you won’t accept him; now you do, because priests have, over twenty-five centuries, ornamented him. Now when a snake bites him, blood does not flow—milk flows. If a snake bites me, blood will flow—naturally. But from Mahavira, milk? For this, priests worked for two and a half millennia.

I know Mahavira well—blood flowed. From a foot, how can milk flow? You’ve gone mad! Milk could come from a wound only for two reasons: either there is pus, or there is a mammary gland in the foot like a woman’s breast that turns blood into milk. Both are absurd. If Mahavira were filled with milk, it would have curdled by now—he would stink! Or did milk suddenly appear at the sight of a snake?

Scriptures say Mahavira did not perspire. Madness! The body has seventy million pores; through them the body breathes. You do not breathe only through the nose. If tar were applied over your entire skin leaving only the nostrils, you would die within three hours—nose-only breathing cannot sustain life. Through those pores sweat flows; it cleans them, washes away dust. As tears wash the eye when dust enters, so sweat washes the skin. Think: how much dust would Mahavira collect, naked under the blazing sun, on the roads of ancient Bihar? He would be caked in dust. And the scriptures say: no sweat. Is he stone?

Mahavira did sweat, but the scriptural Mahavira does not. He aged, fell ill; he died of dysentery—imagine! One who fasted all his life, dying of dysentery! Six months he suffered and died. But the scriptural Mahavira we have whitewashed—he never hungered, never thirsted, never sweated, never excreted!

Then you feel, “This person has gone above us, far away. His body is no longer ordinary; it has become divine.” The same stories you tell about Buddha, about Jesus. You are skilled at inventing and believing false tales. Priests’ tales are accepted because they make one thing sure: they were not like you. You are condemned, rotten, sinful; they were different. Christians say Jesus was born of a virgin! Madness—are people born of virgins? But the logic is to make him special, not like you. As soon as he is unlike you, your crushed, self-denying mind accepts, “He must be a savior, an avatar.”

A living master is never accepted. A living Jesus you crucify; a living Mahavira you pelt with stones; a living Buddha you insult. After death, priests build the framework, groom the myth, and then the worship of the false image begins. Behind it is this one secret: you have been condemned.

I honor you, because to insult you is to insult the God within you. I do not say you have to become extraordinary. I say: become ordinary—and all is attained. The race to be extraordinary is the race of ego. Who does not want to be extraordinary? I call a sannyasin one who is content to be ordinary.

Zen fakirs say: when hungry, eat; when thirsty, drink; when sleepy, sleep. Become that simple, that straight.

I am not giving you distant goals, Meera. I am reminding you of what you are. I proclaim the godliness of the ordinary human being. Your mind is unwilling to accept: I and God? An ordinary person like me—and God? No! For centuries priests have shouted, “You and God? You will rot in hell, boil in cauldrons; worms will eat your flesh. You and God?” Against that echo of centuries I am saying something new.

And yet it is both new and not new; for this is what the awakened have always said. The Upanishads say it, the Vedas say it, the Bible says it. The essence of all scripture is: God has descended into you—your very consciousness. He sits hidden within. Just search! And the method? Don’t start climbing mountains or going on pilgrimages; take the inner journey. Not to Kashi or to Kaaba—into yourself.

Lofty peaks, imagined heights, grand notions—surely they will dwarf you and reveal limping power. But then you have wronged yourself—self-sabotage!

On one side, you say, there is joy in seeing them; on the other, there is only torment.

Naturally: seeing peaks brings a joy—“One could be so high, extraordinary, unique.” And there is pain: “How will it happen? My wings are small; the sky so vast—how to swim it?” So the pain arises.

But this joy and this pain are two sides of the same coin. Let the whole coin go. Neither enjoy this dream-joy nor suffer this pain. I say: here and now you are God. Just as you are, you are God. Nothing needs to be done. Godliness is your nature. Even if you want to be otherwise, you cannot. When hunger arises in you, it is God who hungers; when thirst arises, God thirsts. In your very ordinariness God is woven and baked. Therefore I say: nothing here is ordinary, for in all that is most ordinary, God casts his shadow, dwells, is present.

My message is very plain. Perhaps that is why it seems difficult. If I told you headstands, postures, pranayama, fasting, it wouldn’t feel hard—aligned with what you have heard. But I say you are God already—this seems very difficult. A simple, easy thing appears difficult because it goes against your conditioning.

But your conditioning is false. Let my love melt it, Meera. If my love can melt your conditionings, it is enough. Let the old notions be swept away in this flood. Let me come like a flood and carry away your rubbish. That is what I am doing morning and evening—coming like a flood to wash away your trash. Only do not cling to it—that is all. I will cleanse your mind, because those conditionings are untrue. It is not hard to wash away the untrue. The untrue has no roots; it is a web of imagination.

A love for my words has arisen in you—good. Now do this: when this flood begins to carry away the trash within—the trash of conditioning... And remember, until now you have taken that trash as treasure. Your lofty ideas, high peaks, big spiritual talk—all trash. Until there is experience, all is vain, meaningless. Your knowledge is junk. So the mind will want to hold it tight.

Those who agree to be with me have only one task: do not clutch any notion of the mind; when the flood carries it away, bow to it and let it go in silence. Slowly the mind will grow light, pure. The stamp society has left upon the mind will be erased. The mind will become blank.

In that blank mind, God is experienced. Not through knowledge, but through un-knowing. That is why scripture-knowers miss.

I want to take away your scriptures, your knowledge. You need to become innocent like a small child, so that, wide-eyed and astonished, you can again run after butterflies, gather flowers, collect shells on the seashore. Become like a child, for whom the dew on a blade of grass again looks like a pearl; whose mind does not say, “What’s this? Only a drop of water.” Let a flying butterfly attract you like the Kohinoor; let your so-called knowledge not say, “What’s in it? A butterfly.” Let life’s colors feel like God’s water-sprinkler. This Holi is being played! So many colors of trees, of flowers, rainbows, the differing moods of dawn and dusk—an ongoing festival. If you can again look upon it with wonder and awe, all is attained. Let knowledge go.

This fire of mine would not have blackened within my chest
if only there had been some to warm themselves by it.

There is a wondrous fire in your life; it darkens because there is no satsang, no love, no nearness of a master. I have come to warm your fire; there is no need for it to soot—let it glow, become luminous.

Was this the balm for grief, O eye of grace,
that further shamed the pain of deprivation?
Beauty, self-beholding from eternity, sought someone—
why did life point its finger at me?
A veil ever remained upon the face of beauty, O Mansur—
you made love’s compulsions infamous.

God is eager to reveal his own splendor.

Beauty, self-beholding from eternity, sought someone—
not only you seek God; God too seeks you, longs, “Come, lift my veil.”

Beauty, self-beholding from eternity, sought someone—
he too is in search of a lover.

Why did life point its finger at me?
And Meera, it is your good fortune that life has pointed toward you. This is the very gesture I make to those who are with me: God seeks you. Whom are you going to seek? Stop—let him seek you out!

A veil ever remained upon the face of beauty, O Mansur—
you made love’s compulsions infamous.

Even knowing and knowing, God cannot be known. Even after being found, there remains more to find.

A veil ever remained upon the face of beauty, O Mansur—
lift veil upon veil—more veils, and more veils! Remove curtain upon curtain—behind them, layers of mystery. God’s mystery is endless; no one will ever exhaust it. But for the one who begins to lift the veils, a great festival begins to happen in life—every day, more and more nectar.

The wildness of the heart tore the veils of the world—
but we could not lift even a single veil from the Beloved’s face.

There have been those who ripped off all the garments of nature, exposed its every secret—

The wildness of the heart tore the veils of the world—
but still, the one veil upon the Beloved’s face could not be lifted.

No one ever “knows” him. Yes, you can live him—but you cannot know him. You can drown in him—let him drown in you—but knowing is impossible. Knowing requires duality—knower and known, a distance between. Between God and you there is no distance. He is the knower and the known. He alone plays, dances. All moods are his, all gestures his.

Dust rises, showing the lazy motes their destination;
Spring arrives and turns every fact into a smile.
Where candles failed, where stars made their graves,
from that very darkness the heart’s heat is raising a sun.

Let this feeling of love arise, this heat, this flame blaze up—

Where candles failed, where stars made their graves,
from that very darkness the heart’s heat is raising a sun.

Meera, this warmth of love within you will become a sun.

But a few wrong notions must be dropped. God is not something extraordinary—he is more ordinary than ordinary. He is not some remote, arduous peak. The presence of awareness within you, the witness within you—that is God. Drop the worry of seeking God; begin to live God. Begin to live as the God you are.

At first there will be much difficulty, because you have lived believing, “I am a sinner.” How to live at once believing, “I am God”? But I say: you have lived long enough as a sinner; for a change, taste this too—begin to live as God. Your notions will obstruct you—they have become a noose around your neck.

In small things they will interfere. If I say, “Begin to live as God,” you say, “Fine.” You set out; a beautiful woman appears—you feel attraction. Then you say, “What kind of God am I? It’s all gone wrong. I began to live as God and this happened!” Your notion intrudes.

I say, God is very enchanted by beauty—that is why he creates beauty. Who told you God is against the beautiful? Who makes these lovely flowers? Who fills them with fragrance? Who paints them with such colors? Who creates these sweet rainbows? Who fashions these shimmering stars and shining eyes? This much grace, this much delicacy—who pours it into the world? God is a lover of beauty.

But then a small voice will arise and obstruct—your priests have told you: “You can be God only when all sense of beauty dies in you; when you become a dry, withered stump—no leaf, no flower—then you are God.” Now when a green leaf sprouts in you, you’ll say, “What is this? Why is this leaf growing?”

The same notions, the same worn‑out notions—the same junk is stuffed in your head!
Where am I asking you to give anything up? I am telling you: live as though everything is His. That beautiful woman is also He, and the radiance that has come into your eyes because of that beautiful woman is also He—live like that. Why are you carrying this division? When will you drop it?
You listen to me every day—Chinmay has been listening for years—yet somewhere inside you are preserving the old notions, hugging them to your chest. So you keep measuring by them: “It still hasn’t happened. Dispassion hasn’t arisen yet; passion is still arising.” I tell you: passion too is His. The day you surrender with the understanding that everything is His—that is what I call dispassion. In dispassion, passion will not die; only the ego will no longer be the center of it—God will become the center of passion. Everything is His.

You’re being very amusing! Still protecting your will, are you? Old conditionings obstruct. They agree, “Yes, yes—leave everything to His will.” But then they whisper, “How will we know whether this will is ours or His?”

You are not; only He is. How can there be your will? You don’t understand me because my words have to pass through the nets sitting in your mind, and those nets distort them. I was saying: there is nothing but Him; it is all His will. Now a new question pops up for you: “But how to be certain whether this is His will or mine?” You are not—therefore whatever is, is His will.

Fresh questions will keep arising within you because your preconceived notions are still ready, not gone yet. Then you’ll ask, “What if something bad comes up? What if I feel like stealing—what am I to do?” One who has truly let go leaves even the idea of stealing to Him. He says, “Your will—if You want stealing to happen, let stealing happen.”

This does not mean you won’t be caught. “Since God did it, why was I arrested?” Getting caught is also His will—so you are caught. It does not mean the magistrate will let you off because you say, “I acted by God’s will.” The magistrate, too, is in His will.

A disciple once lived for years with a true Master—must have been a disciple like Yog Chinmay! He kept hearing: God is in all; in every particle He dwells. One day, while begging on the road, a mad elephant came charging at him. He thought, “The Master says He is in every particle—let me experiment today. If He’s in every atom, He must be in this great elephant—surely in vast measure! When a little is in each speck, imagine how much must be in the elephant—brimming over!” He stood his ground. Fear gripped him. Again and again a voice inside said, “Run!” He told himself, “Not today. Today I will not listen to ‘me’. When He is everywhere, let’s test it.” The mahout was shouting too, “Brother, get off the road! Run—the elephant is mad. Save yourself—duck into that shop, hide in that house!” But he said, “Shout all you like! Who cares for the mahout when He is in all?”

And what had to happen, happened. The elephant wrapped him in his trunk and flung him thirty yards. Bones shattered. Lame and broken he dragged himself back to the Master and said, “All Vedanta is useless—sheer nonsense! Not just in every particle—He wasn’t even in that big elephant!”

The Master asked, “But did the mahout say something?”

He said, “Yes, he kept shouting that the elephant was mad.”

“And did anything stir in your heart?”

“Yes, my heart too kept shouting, ‘The elephant is mad—run! He’ll kill you. What Vedanta are you fussing about! Try some other day—why insist today!’ But I said, ‘His will!’”

The Master said, “His will was speaking through the mahout too, and the same He was shouting inside your heart. Had you listened to His will, you would have run. You did not listen to Him. And the elephant was not telling you to stand in the road. The mahout was telling you, ‘Run!’ Your heart was telling you, ‘Run!’ The elephant said nothing. You listened to the dumb elephant that said nothing. The elephant did not say, ‘Brother, stand there—where are you going? I’d like to meet you. Shake hands first; at least say Ram-Ram!’ The elephant said nothing at all. You listened to what wasn’t speaking, while your heart was shouting at the top of its voice.”

He said, “Yes, my heart was shouting very loudly, ‘Move! Run! He’ll take your life. What Vedanta are you stuck with!’ And the mahout was shouting. People on the street were shouting, ‘Brother, why are you standing in the middle—run!’”

The Master said, “The whole world was shouting...!”

The magistrate will punish. But the one who has left everything to Him accepts even the punishment—His punishment. He made the theft happen. The wealth that was stolen was His. He is there in the magistrate too. To leave everything to Him means there is no such thing as “my will” anymore. Now whatever happens, however it happens. This is a very deep state.

You keep calculating: where is my will in this, and where is His? As if there could be two wills. Does a wave have a will of its own? All the will is the ocean’s. For a moment a wave rises, dances, sings, makes a great commotion, then dissolves. But even when the wave soars high, converses with the winds, longs to touch the clouds, it is still only the ocean’s will.

One who knows this becomes thought-free. Then the questions do not arise: Why is this not happening? Why is that not happening? Whatever is happening is His will. If in His mind it is that only pebbles remain in my hand and not diamonds, then pebbles it is. Those pebbles are diamonds—because they are His will. Diamonds are not more precious than His will. If it is by His will, then even death is life. If it is by His will, even poison is nectar.

Let your rubbish go; let My flood come. And soon, as the social conditionings wash away, a lamp will be lit within you.

Friend, from forest to forest the thunderclouds roar!
Ears drowned in sound, the mind bemused—each tiny grain of breath and breeze trembles!
From the sky has come the conch-call of the supremely unknowable Beloved;
Slowly, slowly the lovely imprint of Love’s feet spreads across the heavens.
The sky quivers; wind moving through makes the world lush, alive;
Gentle, gentle tidings of arrival have entered the heart.
In a moment the life-breaths went wild—who now can restrain them?
Friend, from forest to forest the thunderclouds roar!

My sky and my courtyard today shivered and shook;
This joy-ache of mine, friend, has become boundless, measureless.
Those feet will come that have measured the three worlds.
Friend, when have I ever sung such an inviting note?
It feels as though these clouds are set to just this mode!
Friend, from forest to forest the thunderclouds roar!
Ears drowned in sound, the mind bemused—each tiny grain of breath and breeze trembles!
Friend, from forest to forest the thunderclouds roar!

Once, let all the useless trash go. And there will be great rain. Clouds of His bliss will gather. The monsoon of life will arrive. Peacocks will dance. Life’s energy will turn green.

Gently, gently the tidings of arrival have entered the heart.
In a moment the life-breaths went wild—who now can restrain them?

There will be a wild intoxication! A deep ecstasy will descend! An infinite flow of nectar will stream! But once, let go of all the nets and snares of the mind. Nothing is small, nothing is great; nothing is good, nothing is bad. There is only One.

That is why I say: morality is a small thing; religion is far greater—and different, very different. The religious person is beyond morality and immorality. The religious person is beyond all dualities.

Viraha is a very paradoxical state, because the devotee is both miserable and happy—and both at once. In separation he is happy, because the remembrance has begun to arise; the ache of the Beloved has started to soak into his very breath. He is happy because he can hear the call, the cry. He is happy because his feet have begun to fall toward the goal. And he is unhappy: When will the union be? Will it be at all? He is happy that dawn is intimated; and unhappy that the night is still so dark. Who knows how many steps must still be taken? Who knows how long the waiting will be? And “I am unworthy—will I even be able to receive? What is my merit? None. What is my effort? Nothing. Will his grace shower on me or not?”

Viraha is a most wondrous state. The devotee weeps, and he laughs. That’s why the devotee often seems mad. He laughs because the note of the flute has begun to be heard; he has come to the bank of the Yamuna, and at the banyan of the flute, the melody is sounding. The urge to go has flared. Feelings are rising. The feet are eager to dance. But a thousand obstacles stand in the way—of one’s own mind, one’s thoughts, one’s imaginations and desires—one thousand obstacles, a thousand mountains. Will I reach or not? Will this journey be completed? From this, the chest tightens.

You are not near; no one is near.
Now I have no more hope of life—
my heart sinks within my breast.

Modesty is gone, the house is gone, affection for all is gone.
O friend, go tell that ruthless one: now let this body too be set free.
Everything else has fallen away; only the body remains to be released.

The devotee writhes and grows restless.

The world is unhappy, yet at least—exhausted—it sleeps.
But in your fate, O heart, why is there neither peace nor rest?

In separation the devotee trembles; he cannot sleep, cannot sit properly, cannot even eat properly. He is ruined—this world of his is ruined. His adjustment with here is broken. His rhythm begins to fit with the Divine. And who knows where the Divine is? Whether he even is—who can say?

For the heart’s throbbing there must be some reason, after all:
either pain has turned over, or you glanced this way.
Who knows what happened in the tumult of ecstasy?
When a little awareness returned, I saw a plundered home.

On the one hand, that glance of his!
For the heart’s throbbing there must be some reason, after all:
either pain has turned over, or you glanced this way.

Surely you did look—otherwise the heart would not have throbbed so. Surely you passed nearby. Your delicate fragrance has filled the breath. You are somewhere close. The sound of your footsteps is heard.

Who knows what happened in the frenzy of passion...
In that madness what passes cannot be told. You looked—and news of great joy arrives. Your love-letter has reached.

When a little awareness returned, I saw a plundered home—
and then, looking back at life—the life I had built till now—I found everything desolate. For there were only dreams there. When morning comes, dreams break. With awakening, dreams shatter. And perhaps I had toiled greatly in those dreams; perhaps the palaces of dreams were raised over many births; who knows how much striving, how much effort, how much life, how many desires and longings lay buried in them—and all those dreams are gone. A single ray of awakening came, and the dreams broke. There is crying on one side—yet even the crying feels sweet, because it, too, lies on his path. Every tear becomes a step of the staircase to him.

Why should I not invite grief into my heart?
There is a savor in taking up sorrow.

And there is delight in it. There is delight even in weeping! For the first time crying does not seem the opposite of joy. This is the secret that unfolds in the state of separation. For the first time one feels a harmony between tears and smiles. Tears themselves seem to smile; tears themselves seem to dance. Ordinarily we have known tears only for sorrow; the devotee comes to know the tears of joy. The pang does sting, yes—but within the pang is a sweetness, a honeyed savor. Call it a sweet pain—honey-drenched, intoxicating. The arrow of separation pierces the heart, and a stream of nectar flows. This happens together.

I have tasted such rapture that even feeling it became difficult;
as your pain kept dwelling in my heart, it itself became my heart.
At first, life in love was impossible;
now the end is such that even dying has become difficult.

A great dilemma, but a most delectable dilemma!

I have tasted such rapture...
Such bliss that even experiencing bliss becomes difficult. There is a limit: when bliss rains beyond the limit, it becomes hard even to contain the experience. Our capacity, the vessel of our heart, is small; when the ocean descends into it, it is hard to hold.

I have tasted such rapture...
as your pain kept dwelling in my heart, it became my heart, my very soul. Then even bidding farewell to that pain becomes painful.

At first, life in love was impossible;
now the end is such that even dying has become difficult.

At first, love made living impossible; now, in the final hour, neither living is possible nor dying is possible. Nothing is possible; all is impossible. In such a moment the devotee is stunned. Silence descends. Emptiness comes down. Nothing occurs to be done. Nothing can be done. All actions become futile. Doing becomes impossible—and where doing is impossible, the doer ends. Where the doer is gone, the ego is gone. Even humility is gone, ego is gone—the whole coin drops!

Why has the heart’s throbbing grown faint?
Why is the heart so desolate today?
Who snapped the unspoken thread of feeling in the eye?
Who broke it—where was the treasure lost?
The simplicity of this blessed paradox, dried and withered—
into which lake did it vanish away?
That cuckoo of this forest—cooing—
in what resonant bamboo-grove did she fall asleep?
There was pleasure only in sobbing;
from that aching, pain-filled sigh
the lotus of us destitute ones kept blooming.
We held pain to the heart with love.
Alas—what became of that pain of mine?
Which heartless one has bound it with a bandage?
O flickering drops from the eyes, where are you now?
Look—this tree is withering. See!
Why has the heart’s throbbing grown faint?
Why is the heart so desolate today?
Who snapped the unspoken thread of feeling in the eye?
Who broke it—where was the treasure lost?

Then even the pain met on the path to God takes on such savor that one cannot leave it. Neither can one live, nor can one die—but the pain is very dear.

In my reply, the eyes bowed to the question—
how much the veiled glance has said.
The whole melody in the instrument is from the mizrab;
the savor of life lies hidden in restlessness.

Mark it well: it is from the mizrab—from that very striking plectrum—that all the melody arises in the instrument. When one plays the sitar, the ring on the finger that plucks the strings strikes them—but it is from that strike that the melodies are born. From that very blow, that very pang, the sitar begins to sing, begins to hum.

The whole melody in the instrument is from the mizrab—
all the rhythm, the beauty, is from that strike, that impact—the plectrum’s blow.
The whole melody in the instrument is from the mizrab—
the savor of life lies hidden in restlessness.

And the whole delight of life lies in the longing for him. Blessed are those who are restless for him. Unfortunate are those in whom no restlessness arises for him; in whom the thirst for the Divine has not awakened, the call has not risen—they are blind and deaf. They do not know how great a gift life longs to bestow. But they have not held out their begging bowl. They have not lifted their hands in prayer.

Why do your feet falter on the path of fidelity?
I have seen your grace even in your rebuke.

There is no need to fear at all. Even the sorrow that comes from the side of the Divine is such bliss. If even his angry glance should fall, such showers of joy descend that what to say, then, of his gracious glance!

Why do your feet falter on the path of fidelity?
I have seen your grace even in your rebuke.

Even in his anger his grace rains. One who has seen those wrath-filled eyes is blessed, because from there the bond of grace is joined.

Blessed by the coquettish glance, I need no goblet;
whence could this ecstasy of beauty come into ordinary wine?

The wine the devotee drinks—the liquor of bliss—cannot be found in your so-called taverns.

Blessed by the coquettish glance, I need no goblet—
from where would this beauty’s ecstasy enter your wine?

Those who have drunk him can alone be saved from the wines of the world. Those who have not drunk him will remain entangled in one worldly intoxication or another. Some may go to the tavern for drink; others drink the wine of politics, of office, of prestige—that is why we say “the intoxication of position.” Or some drink the wine of wealth—“the drunkenness of riches.” But these are all wines that keep a man forgetful and entangled. Only his wine is such that it makes one unconscious and, at the same time, gives consciousness. His wine is profoundly paradoxical. It brings sorrow and joy; it brings tears and smiles. It leaves one speechless, and from it, too, is born the dance.

But you will know this state of separation only by knowing it. My description will not do. This is not a matter for description, nor for explanation, nor for argument. Why not experience it? Stagger a little. Call out a little. Dance a little. Drink a little of his wine. Laugh a little. Weep a little. Walk a couple of steps—and your life will be forever different. Then you will not be able to be what you have been so far. For the first time your true birth will happen. As yet, where has birth happened? You are still in the womb; you have not yet been born. One is born only when the first glimpse of the Divine begins to come. Open the window—and the window is in your own heart.

Neither merit, nor knowledge, nor heaven—the devotee longs for God. Nothing less than God! And not merely to see God. No—the devotee’s ultimate longing is to dissolve into God, to become God-saturated. The devotee does not want even the slightest distance—not a hair’s breadth. Just as a river slips into the ocean and becomes one with it, so he longs to enter the Divine and be one. He has no other desire.

Saqi, the mind’s sky is thick with swelling, dark-blue monsoon clouds;
Why any delay now? You too, bring brimming cups of your deep wine.

A devotee wants to drink the wine of the Divine, and to fall so utterly drunk that he never rises again.

Saqi, the mind’s sky is thick with swelling, dark-blue monsoon clouds;
Why any delay now? You too, bring brimming cups of your deep wine.

Let every pore of the body thrill, the two eyes flush crimson in wonder;
Let every nerve begin to sing anew, the heart tremble and exult.
We have ached so long—our goblet has lain empty!
Why any delay now? Saqi, fill and refill with your wine!

Do not ask more—just keep giving; grant unasked boons;
Say only this, Saqi: “Drink more—keep drinking more!”
We have come tipsy with awe to see your tavern of nectar.
Why any delay now? Saqi, bring the wine of total absorption!

We are fierce drinkers—mad lovers who have come to your house;
Why be shy or coy? Bring cup upon cup, brim-full!
Today you face thirsts as wild and misshapen as ours.
Why any delay now? Saqi, pour out your own wine!

Let us be drowned in the stupor—let there be no gap in the stupor;
Let the leaves of knowledge, meditation, worship, scripture
be torn to shreds in this divine drunkenness!
Pour such wine that the whole world, just once, goes mad with love!
Saqi, why any delay now? Bring the wine of total absorption!

Spread your intoxicating fragrance; let the world brim and ripple with nectar;
In depths and heights, in the moving and the unmoving,
let the wine shimmer and gleam;
From the heart’s deep well let the stream well up, gurgling and laughing!
Why any delay now? Saqi, pour out your wine!

Two pitchers, two more pitchers—such dribbling will not quench my thirst.
I have no time or habit for “bring, bring” again and again.
Let an unbroken stream flow—who can bear drop by drop?
Let the heart be filled, the soul slip down into it, and the whole world be drowned!
Send such a deep, surging flood of wine—
Saqi, why any delay now? Tilt and pour the wine of absorption!

A devotee does not ask for petty things—merit, knowledge, heaven.

Two pitchers, two more pitchers—such dribbling will not quench my thirst.
I have no time or habit for “bring, bring” again and again.
Let an unbroken stream flow—who can bear drop by drop?
Let the heart be filled, the soul slip down into it, and the whole world be drowned!
Send such a deep, surging flood of wine—
Saqi, why any delay now? Tilt and pour the wine of absorption!

The devotee’s demand is for God. He wants to be utterly immersed. He does not want to be left over even by a grain.

Those who ask for merit are only asking on behalf of their ego—“Adorn my ego with the jewels of virtue.” Those who ask for knowledge are also asking on behalf of the ego—“Adorn my ego with the ornaments of knowing. Let me be the knower, let me be the virtuous—but let me be.” Ignorance hurts the ego—so they ask for knowledge. Sin hurts the ego—so they ask for merit. “Make us saints, make us virtuous; deliver us from sin. Give us the prestige of virtue, the prestige of holiness.” And those who ask for heaven—what do they ask? They ask for the same world, only in the hereafter. Their longings, in truth, are not religious.

The devotee’s desire is only one: “Give me You.” And such a union that “I” is no more, that there is no “I and Thou.” No distance between I and You. Intoxicate me so that I am erased; intoxicate me so that not even a trace of difference remains. Let the devotee become God, and God become the devotee—that is his aspiration. And so it happens. Ask, and it shall be given. Knock, and the door will open.

The monsoon has burst; the hour of love has come.
The lonely wind has risen with a roar,
hearing an invitation no ear had ever heard;
It wavered, restless,
like the heart of an impatient lover;
The songs of rain awoke—the chain of song awoke.
Lightning flashes and crackles—
the horizons are charged with glow;
Cloud-thunder booms and trembles—
the waters sway and dance,
filling the heart’s sadness, startling the bird of imagination.
The blue sky, sunk in meditation,
draped in a shawl of clouds,
offers its reverent libation—
a small pitcher upon the ocean,
water of devotion, the earth soaked with love’s creation.
From sky to earth
I have searched for You, unblinking.
Why have You not been found till now,
O my Unseen-Form?
Mind is smeared, life is amazed, expression stammers—
The rain comes in sheets; the hour of love has come.

The shower sets in, the hour arrives, the time comes. Call—and it will be given. Ask—and it will be given. Knock at the door—He is only waiting. And the door is within your own heart; it opens through your love; it opens through your prayer.

The monsoon has burst; the hour of love has come.
There is no delay—the rain can fall. Any moment it can happen. Do not postpone to tomorrow. Let it happen now, here.

The monsoon has burst; the hour of love has come.
The lonely wind has risen with a roar,
hearing an invitation no ear had ever heard;
It wavered, restless,
like the heart of an impatient lover;
The songs of rain awoke—the chain of song awoke.

Let them awaken, let them surge. Let the buds break forth in the seed of your love. Let the flower of the heart open!

The devotee asks for nothing else. Those who ask for anything else miss God. The devotee asks for nothing else. He asks only for God. And the one who asks only for God, he alone becomes capable of attaining God. Soon a time comes when one can hardly believe that what is happening is actually happening! That this, indeed, can happen!

There comes a time in love
when even the feeling of love weighs heavy on the heart.
What if that too is some sickness—
that in which you had imagined your relief?

It seems the bliss arising within—is it not a dream? Am I being deceived yet again? Is this too only a play of mind?

There comes a time in love
when even the feeling of love weighs heavy on the heart.

The moment of love becomes so deep that even to carry love upon the heart feels heavy. Then nothing remains but to become utterly one with the Beloved.

What if that too is some sickness—
that in which you had imagined your relief?

And the question arises: Could this too be some trick of mind? Can I, so unworthy, receive so much nectar? I have earned no merit. I have done no practice; no yoga, no mantra, no austerity. This hour comes only to the devotee—the hour of astonishment! For the devotee has done nothing else—only asked, only called, only wept. Yet there is nothing in the world greater than love. All fasts are insipid; a single tear of love is enough.

In that tiny tear lived the whole world of love—
Alas, for that tear’s parting from the eye!

One small tear!

In that tiny tear lived the whole world of love.

In one small tear the entire world of love is contained.

Alas, for that tear’s parting from the eye!

Its falling from the eye gives such pain, for in it the whole world of love was housed. Only the devotee knows the value of a tear—only the devotee knows it fully! Lovers get a little hint; the devotee knows through and through. No, the devotee has no use for merit, nor for knowledge, nor for heaven. The devotee asks: Give me weeping. Give me longing. Let me weep for You. Let me ache; give me the pain of separation. Give me thirst. Kindle my thirst. Make me white-hot.

Why am I so enamored of the garden? Listen to me:
Someone’s radiance has come and hidden itself in the rose.
The whole creation has poured into the heart’s reflecting cup;
What grain is there that does not hold what the sun contains?
There was light in the world of faith and trust;
Darkness is all I found in questions and answers.
My devotion seeks quite another destination—
Why drag me into the calculus of sin and virtue?

Why am I so enamored of the garden…

Falling in love with God, the devotee falls in love with all that is.

Why am I so enamored of the garden? Listen to me:
Someone’s radiance has come and hidden itself in the rose.

Even in a small rose bloom he begins to sense the vast energy, beauty, and majesty of the One. Why would he ask for heaven? For him, every flower becomes heaven! Every leaf becomes paradise! In every drop the shimmer of that nectar begins to appear.

The whole creation has poured into the heart’s reflecting cup—

The entire cosmos begins to be reflected within his heart.

What grain is there that does not hold what the sun contains?

He sees in the tiniest speck the same that is in the greatest sun.

What grain is there that does not hold what the sun contains?

There was light in the world of faith and trust—

He finds light in faith and trust.

Darkness is all I found in questions and answers.

Why would he ask for knowledge, for argument, for erudition?

Darkness is all I found in questions and answers.

The more he thought and reasoned, the deeper the darkness. Light came through trust.

There was light in the world of faith and trust;
Darkness is all I found in questions and answers.

Therefore, no more asking for knowledge. Knowledge is darkness.

A devotee asks for guileless feeling—childlike heart—the purity of love. Knowledge is cunning. Knowledge only multiplies darkness. See how very learned the world has become today. It was not so learned in Buddha’s time; certainly not in Krishna’s time. The farther back you go, the simpler, the more innocent people were. Today the world is learned—universal schooling, degrees for all, universities everywhere. Very learned!

And look also—how cunning, how dishonest the world has become! How dark it is! In trust there is a lamp; in trust there is light; in argument there is darkness.

There was light in the world of faith and trust;
Darkness is all I found in questions and answers.

My devotion seeks quite another destination—

The goal of my prayers is different, the destination of my worship is different—not merit, not knowledge, not heaven.

My devotion seeks quite another destination—
Why drag me into the calculus of sin and virtue?

Why drag me into the arithmetic of sin and virtue? I have no worry about them. The One who holds all, let Him hold this too.

My devotion seeks quite another destination—
Why drag me into the calculus of sin and virtue?

I do not want to be a saint; nor do I aspire to be not-a-saint. Saint and sinner, religious and irreligious—what has a devotee to do with these? The devotee says: Only the Divine holds my heart. I want to know That-Which-Is. God means That-Which-Is. Within and without, above and below, manifest and unmanifest, expressed and unexpressed—this whole existence that surrounds you: let there be a merging with it, a rhythmic attunement. The devotee wants simply to be in rhythm with existence. Let my feet not fall out of step with existence. Let there be no desire separate from existence. Let me become the hands of existence. Let me become a puppet in the hands of existence. Let me be wholly, utterly surrendered.

And the surrendered one attains. Ask nothing else of God. If you ask for anything else, your prayer will never reach Him. From God, ask only for God. Anything less is a two-penny bargain. Ask for That alone.

I have heard: An emperor set out to conquer the world. When he was returning, the whole world won, he sent letters to his queens—he had a hundred—“Let each say what she desires, and I will bring it.” Ninety-nine wrote their wishes: diamonds, pearls, ornaments, saris—this and that. Only one queen, the youngest, the least in age, wrote simply: “If you are coming, what else could I need?”

Ninety-nine queens received their jewels and saris; the hundredth received the emperor. And the one who received the emperor—she received everything. Those who only received jewels and garments—what did they receive, really? They missed. They blundered.

Yet the youngest queen was the least “wise,” the least clever—still naïve.

Become naïve. Do not strive to be clever. Become unknowing. Like a small child—Jesus said—only such enter the kingdom of my Father.

Become innocent, and ask only for Him. Let one longing pervade every breath. Let one remembrance—only one—beat in every heartbeat. Live in Him, wake in Him, sleep in Him, rise in Him, sit in Him, walk in Him—and then, one day, the happening happens. It will not stop; it has been happening forever.

The monsoon has burst; the hour of love has come.
The lonely wind has risen with a roar,
hearing an invitation no ear had ever heard;
It wavered, restless,
like the heart of an impatient lover;
The songs of rain awoke—the chain of song awoke.
The blue sky, sunk in meditation,
draped in a shawl of clouds,
offers its reverent libation—
a small pitcher upon the ocean,
water of devotion, the earth soaked with love’s creation.
From sky to earth
I have searched for You, unblinking.
Why have You not been found till now,
O my Unseen-Form?
Mind is smeared, life is amazed, expression stammers—
The rain comes in sheets; the hour of love has come.

Enough for today.